Betrayal [Ifran; Laszlo]

[Abalia]

Winter 7, 511 AV OOCAll privileges taken with Ifran in this post are both with his permission and after lengthy discussion. It had been dry when Abalia had lost Roxanne. She might not have remembered that so explicitly, if it hadn't been for Laszlo. The ethaefal had been the one to unwittingly pick up the pieces when the world crumbled around her, and though she'd repeatedly vowed that she didn't trust him, some part of her had chosen to nonetheless. And, when that kindness had become an even deeper intimacy, only to be shattered, it had rained. Or, rather, Ionu had changed the streets to water and it was impossible to exist in Alvadas that day without being drenched to the bone. And so she had been wet when she'd stalked away from the Sun and Stars, fury coating the more fragile hurt she nursed inside. For several days she didn't see him. She avoided that place, and Alvadas seemed to be on her side. Twisting, manipulative streets did not dump her out on his doorstep for those brooding hours, during which she revisited every moment of their acquaintance and tried to decide at which point she'd given way to idiocy and started to actually care. Eventually it wasn't enough, this solitary wandering. That something else, however, didn't begin with the intention of going anywhere near Laszlo or his stupid tavern. No, those ideas would come later. The conception of it was as simple as an evening spent in enjoyment despite the stinging tendrils of rejection, betrayal, jealousy, and anger that were buried like burs in her breast. It was easy enough to pluck a miza or three from a heavy pocket, simpler still to dress in something pretty, to find her way to the playhouse. The company was always a mixed bag, but Abalia enjoyed the diversion. The show was about a great war. Or, at least, that is how her simple and distracted mind perceived it. There was fury and destruction and she savored every drop of it, the seeds of covetous desire sewn in her heart when Ivak was at last revealed. He had too many arms for a god, of course, but the costumer had created a living flame out of the beautiful Eypharian. He was clad in so very little, but the flesh that was exposed was so thoroughly painted and adorned that Abalia could only guess at the actual tone of that smooth skin. Reds and oranges and golds swirled together to create anger and fire on his skin, kohl-rimmed eyes also circled with hues of color that made it seem as if flames lived in that gaze. The rest of the players were paltry in comparison, they faded into mediocrity the moment he stepped onto the stage. Abalia hung onto his every word. His voice was compelling, almost musical, and he delivered every line effortlessly and with enough conviction to make Abalia feel as if all of Mizahar might crumble again around her. More than once she felt like those dark blue eyes had caught her own, so wide and fixed upon his movement across the stage. For those brief moments he was a god and, best of all, a distraction. All too soon the show ended, and the jostle of the crowd leaving broke her reverie. As she stood to join the sideways shuffle down a row of seats, her gaze drifted across the crowd. The curve of a horn caught her eye, and though its hue was all wrong, its shape quite backwards, it was like a tiny ice pick chipping at her heart, leaving shards of sharp, aching pieces. Abalia hated him because she hurt, the damned ethaefal who had never promised her anything, except to be there. "S'cuse me," she murmured, parting ways with the majority of the crowd in the street. It was cold enough that she could see her breath in little puffs of mist, and dark enough that it didn't matter. Recalling Laszlo had only hardened her resolve. She'd have peace, one way or another. It wasn't difficult for the native from Alvadas to find the stage door, as it were, and she waited with resigned patience as the actors playing the lesser roles filed out. She toyed with a satiny ribbon that held the bodice of her shirt together as she waited, imagining the effort it must be taking to get all of that paint off of him. It wasn't a bad way to pass time, even if she did have to intentionally drive the more willowy body of a certain someone from her mind's eye more than once. Eventually, he did come out. It seemed as if the task of sloughing off the disguise had been too much for one night. It was cold, and he flipped his hood up as soon as the onslaught of that wintry bite hit him head on. Before he did, though, Abalia could see that the column of his throat was a clean ivory. His hands, too, seemed to be that same color - pleasant in moonlight. Around his eyes, however, there lingered dark kohl and a shadow of the burning suns that had been painted there before. Abalia nearly missed his passing, but for her focus on it. "You were wonderful," she piped from the shadows, enough to give him pause. When he glanced back, she slipped into the warmth of lamplight and fixed him with a most approving smile. Young, pretty, harmless. And who doesn't like compliments? Abalia convinced him to share a drink with her, and it was not until he suggested the Sun & Stars himself that she decided to turn a night of indulgent distraction into a pointed display. "Sounds perfect," she all but purred, allowing him to lead the way as if she hadn't spent hours upon hours there in the weeks that had passed. As they traveled, she was the perfect balance of flattering and thoughtful. She told him the vague outline of her simple life in Alvadas, inquired about his exotic homeland. They knew little of importance about one another by the time they arrived, but it was enough to foster a false sense of intimacy. She'd even slipped her small hand into his by the time they pushed the heavy door open. There was Ned, dozing at his table. And there was Laszlo, wiping mugs behind the bar. For a breath her honeyed gaze met his and she might have dropped Ifran's hand. She might have ran back into the cold night and went elsewhere to lick her wounds; to nurse her bruised pride, to tend to emotions she knew she ought not feel anyway. But then, in her minds eye, she saw them together and the anger that had propelled her to this point steadied her, fixed her resolve. She glanced away as effortlessly as if he were a stranger, and returned laughing attentions to the charming Eypharian. "Want to sit near the fire?" He didn't like the cold, and he hadn't needed to tell Abalia that for her to notice. Poor desert dweller. Ah, but he was beautiful in the firelight, which danced along the pigments that had stained his skin, forcing him to be Ivak for the duration of this night. In outright rebellion against the maelstrom of emotions Laszlo had given her, Abalia was more than pleased to worship the actor instead. Seven appeared with a mug of beer, and Abalia ignored him too, even if Ifran greeted him politely and familiarly. She'd rather talk to the Eypharian. What was life like in Ahnatep? Did he like Alvadas very much? What could he do with those extra arms? Whether the burning stare she felt was her imagination or actually Laszlo, it didn't matter. It only spurred her on, and soon enough she'd convinced the beautiful man to share his drink. Only, she didn't want it from his glass. Her light frame fit easily enough in his lap, and those arms were quite adept at holding a woman it seemed. As she brushed his hood back and splayed her long fingers against his strong jawline, all six of them wound around her and tucked her into his chest, with one hand tangling loosely in the blanket of her silken hair. Her quiet laugh was stifled against his lips as she dipped her head to taste them, and the flavor of the alcohol upon them. It was the same drink Laszlo had given her, once. She'd turned her nose up at it then. Now, when she leaned back, she sealed her approval with a sultry smile followed by an amused decree. "Delicious." Ifran couldn't possibly know that half of this was about the show, now. Abalia didn't know if Laszlo gave a damn. She doubted it, after his display with the whore the other night. But if she could cause him even the smallest sliver of hurt, she wanted to do it. But it wasn't hard to pretend to be interested, not when the object of her attentions was, in fact, incredibly stunning. Maybe that'd make it worse for Laszlo, how beautiful Ifran was. Abalia hoped so.

[Laszlo]

With his moods now calm, Laszlo had been feeling more or less back to normal. This game with Victor had exhausted him, his injuries were aching (but healing), and Siofra's memory was fading as quickly as Roxanne's, but at the very least, Laszlo wasn't losing his temper at the drop of a hat. Tonight was busy to boot, so his mind had been far from its usual meanderings and aimless musing, focused more on the exchange of coin and refilling beer mugs. As days go, this one was pretty average, and Laszlo was content with that. Until they walked in. The Ethaefal had instantly recognized Ifran, being the only Eypharian in the city that he was aware of, and offered a pleased, if tired smile. The girl took another moment to recognize, as she was one of hundreds of humans in the city, but the flow of her hair and the delicate shape of her face struck him quickly. It had been a short while since Laszlo had last seen Abalia, but it had given him room to think and sort out his guilt. He knew that the more time the spent apart, after the way they'd separated last time, would add to the awkwardness between them once they met up again, but Laszlo assumed that could be easily dealt with. He didn't know that Abalia and Ifran knew each other. Honestly though, it wasn't all that surprising. They crossed eyes for half an instant, then Abalia glanced away politely as if they had never met. Laszlo narrowed his eyes, continuing to clean his mug as he watched them find a table. That was odd. Was she put off from the night they shared a week ago? Perhaps she was feeling timid—but she had barely looked at him! Abalia was hanging all over the Eypharian, not so unlike the way Abalia had been with Laszlo in the recent past. Ifran and Abalia were evidently friends, and at first Laszlo had assumed they had come to the tavern to visit him, but it wasn't looking that way anymore. She appeared to be more interested in the six-armed Eypharian, and hadn't once looked at Laszlo again. Seven had served them while Laszlo had been busy with another customer. But even as he returned to the bar to tend to a spent wineglass, his violet eyes remained on the pair. What was she doing? Shouldn't they be talking? Catching up on the last days' happenings? She kissed the Eypharian then. A lover's kiss. Laszlo's lips parted. He could almost feel her, the way her tongue swept over and then under his, making a game of it. She was playing it with Ifran now. What? But… I thought… An unfamiliar sting pierced his heart then, jealousy or rejection, he wasn't sure which, but he wasn't accustomed to it. And he didn't like it. No, something was off here. Laszlo was not staying silent. He would— "Watch it!" Laszlo pulled the pitcher away frantically, but he'd already poured a red violet puddle over the bar top. The patron who'd asked for it cursed in frustration and said something about his mother, but Laszlo wasn't listening. He threw a damp cloth over the spill, then left it as he crossed the tavern and approached the table closest to the fireplace. "Evening," he greeted them tersely, his voice a little strained and his features forcibly calm. Even though he tried to tame the whirlwind in his heart and still the hundred questions on his tongue, he couldn't stop his amethyst eyes from betraying all of it. "It's good to see you, Ifran. Abalia. I didn't know you two knew each other." His confusion shaped into something a little more hardened and angry, and thin, silvery eyebrow fell over one eye. "Or that she did this with everyone."

[Ifran]

The show never really ended. While attendants helped him remove the body paint, he flexed his arms. Only two of them had been arms during the performance, the others undulating like fire to catch the light on fiery sequins and metallic paint. He went from Ivak to being Ifran, walked out the door with only taunting vestiges of divinity about him. But the Ifran he was playing was just another role, and he took the pretty woman in hand, though it was not until they reached the Sun and Stars that her determination developed context. He greeted Laszlo, and then noticed the tension between him and the woman, Abalia. Even Seven, later, seemed a bit put off. He played along, though, waiting, watching, and apparently wetting Abalia, but he did have mischievous hands and her reaction was only natural. "Hello, Laszlo," he said calmly. "I did not realize you were acquainted."

[Abalia]

Whatever Abalia imagined might happen with this little game of hers, she hadn't really expected Laszlo to just walk over and confront her. The first expression to cross her face when his graceful, willowy form materialized just feet away was surprise. Really? Was he really coming over to confront her with those words? It immediately softened, though. Abalia wasn't in a troupe, but she should have been, so convincing could she be with false expressions. Her fingers curled into the fabric that was Ifran's cloak, and she squirmed closer as if Laszlo frightened her, or upset her at the least. The wounded, hesitant expression on her face was a stark contrast to the scarcely concealed anger on Laszlo's, making her seem the injured party. With a tremulous sigh, she shrugged slight shoulders and angled herself closer to Ifran still, were it possible. As if his strong, handsome body might be a shield from her. As if she thought she might need protection. When she spoke, her voice was for the Eypharian only. A lovers murmur, speaking of an intimacy that existed between them that did not between she and Laszlo, the outsider. "Oh," she said softly, almost sadly. "Laszlo was a friend of mine once. He... helped me through a hard time. We were close, you know? Together, I thought. 'till I caught him rutting with some other whore." Those big brown eyes still had yet to turn back to Laszlo. They were fixed upon the dark blue of the actors eyes, but then they dropped almost demurely to his lips. "Silly me," she continued faintly. "Anyway, that is it. No big deal really. Did you need another drink?" she asked, turning in his arms. Those hands splayed against her human flesh protected her balance, and she found his glass half full still. She brought it between them, and lifted it as if she might press it to his lips. "We have plenty. Let the barkeep return to his work, Ifran. I'd very much like another taste." Pinkened tongue darted out to trace her full lower lip, and she fixed him with a hopeful smile. Really, she needed Laszlo to go away, because the whole of her wanted to spring from the warm lap she was settled into and claw his Symenestra eyes out.

[Laszlo]

For a moment Laszlo was paralyzed, at a complete loss for how to react. His brow wrinkled and his lips parted, though he could think of nothing to say. The spite burning in Abalia's large brown eyes was almost frightening. Laszlo could see that she intended to hurt him, but the pout in her lip revealed how difficult it was for the human to even look at him. Ifran's own twin sapphires were calm and collected, perhaps even amused at this game he had likely already figured out. His face was oddly patterned in what Laszlo belatedly realized was remnants of theater makeup. Although Abalia was seated merrily in Ifran's lap and not all of his hands were kept to himself, Laszlo couldn't hold much of a grudge against the Eypharian. He was too fond of the many-limbed desert creature and paid him too much respect to believe he'd knowingly involve himself in anything this petty and childish. The confusion written across his features was warm and curious. Abalia was another matter, brimming behind her decidedly venomous words. Laszlo had no idea what to say to her. On the one hand, the Ethaefal was absolutely disgusted by this attempt to spurn him, particularly with this cowardly and indirect approach. On the other, Laszlo did still vividly remember the tattooed woman from several nights before. Had that been why Abalia had kept away? It didn’t seem to make much sense—one woman had little to do with the other. And yet, a quiet pang of guilt nagging at the back of his mind hinted that perhaps he should have expected something like this to happen eventually. Beyond all of this, which was so trivial and childish that it made his teeth ache, there was something more dire to be concerned about. Not days ago, Victor had made a threat on Abaila's wellbeing. The fear was fresh in the Ethaefal's mind, and he didn't have time to sort through this paltry affair. He needed to warn her. Protect her. "Abalia, why are you doing this?" Even though he tried to remain focused on what was important, the hurt in his voice was more candid than he had expected. "How did you even find out, we didn't even… Ugh, never mind. It hardly matters." A slender hand slipped into his silver strands, brushing them back behind one ashen ear. His violet eyes altered their direction. It was really comical that Abalia had chosen Ifran to fawn over, considering that he had he shared intimate history with the Eypharian as well. Laszlo doubted she realized that, and he considered telling her. "Ifran, you don't deserve to be part of this. I'm sorry. I didn't realize this human was so petty." Violet rings changed course. "I don't even know why you think that woman had anything to do with our friendship, Abalia. If you and I were together, then you were the only one aware of it." The urgency settled at the pit of Laszlo's stomach was becoming harder to ignore. Victor's stolen dagger was hidden away in his room, waiting for the Ethaefal to have a use for it. The Ravokian would find it, eventually. All this was so very confusing, too much for him to process. Feeling helpless, Laszlo could barely think of what he should do. Wait. What if… what if he did let Abalia spurn him? What if the barkeep did return to his work? That would leave the mischievous Alvad in the many capable arms of Ifran. That might protect her more than any stolen knife would. "I'm disappointed in you, Abalia," Laszlo sighed, his posture losing some of its rigidity. "I thought you were different, but clearly I was mistaken. Keep her, Ifran. Enjoy her. If I'm envious of one of you, it's her." A dark, silvery eyebrow lifted in Abalia's direction. "Count yourself lucky. Ifran's quite good with all of his hands." His mouth pressed into a line briefly. "However, Ifran, if I could speak with you privately for a moment?" Laszlo leaned his head to the side, indicating a far, unoccupied corner.

[Ifran]

The woman Abalia certainly had a flair for the dramatic, although the structure of her story had glaring errors, such as how her current behavior gave her much moral high ground upon which to stand, but she was talking to a prince of the desert who could have and had had any pretty young thing that caught his fancy, save Izdihar, but she was a jewel of a different sort; the sort one such as him might join for mutual advancement. He allowed her to feed him alcohol, though he was an old hand at monitoring his relative state of inebriation; so far, he was hardly even tipsy. She would have made a good slave if properly broken, and perhaps he would be the one to break her to servitude. Beautiful things were meant to be kept by the powerful, especially those who could appreciate their beauty. One hand, more mischievous than the rest, threatened an intimacy perhaps unsuitable for public. "Of course, Laszlo," he said amiably, deftly settling Abalia on the tabletop where her legs would dangle girlishly. He kissed her once on the forehead, again on the corner of her mouth, and one more time at that most sensitive part of the neck. One admonishing finger held before her face, he said, "Be a good girl and stay put." Then he turned with his vaguely bemused smile and indicated with a flourish of yet another hand that Laszlo should lead him to that corner to say what must be said out of earshot. These Alvads were ham-handed about their intrigues, but Ifran missed them and would take what he could get. "Lead on, goat-head."

[Laszlo]

They didn't have to walk far. They couldn't have, the tavern was only a modest size to begin with. Fortunately, Abalia had chosen the table near the hearth, so the corner Laszlo chose for he and Ifran to speak in was far enough away that he was confident she couldn't overhear. Passing tables and ignorant patrons, the Ethaefal tried not to remember the way the Eypharian had been unabashedly handling the human girl. The actor did not seem to mind occasional (or perhaps frequent) decadence. As he halted, a pair of fingers caught a lock of hair and pushed it behind his ear. His amethyst eyes were trained on the floor. "Get her out of here," he said quickly, finding the words harder to push past his lips than he expected. Once they were gone, he nearly regretted doing so. "I know she's playing a game, but right now I can't be worried about her trifling grudges. She isn't safe here." The Ethaefal turned and shot a look over at Abalia, waiting impatiently back at her table. "You recall Victor Lark, my associate?" 'Friend' hardly seemed like a fitting term, considering the consequences. "He and I are having a, uh… disagreement." Laszlo lifted his left hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the splint and bandage along his middle finger. Something warm simmered at the base of his chest as he glared at the injury, but he dropped his hand before he grew too angry. "He… can be… unscrupulous. I think he plans to harm her in an attempt to annoy me. If I could ask you, as a friend, to keep her from this place until I can settle this on my own…?" Another troubled look went to Abalia. "Perhaps keep her company if it's not too much trouble for you. She does seem fond of you."

[Abalia]

Everything crumbled into tiny little pieces and those pieces slipped like grains of sand through Abalia's fingers. All she really wanted, at the core of it all, was to be wound up in those spidery arms and to have her face pressed to the line of his throat. She wanted his lips on her, she wanted him to only want her. She, of course, didn't know all of this. Not that clearly anyway. She was still awash in hurt and a million other things, a snowball of emotion that had started with losing Roxanne and never really stopped. And so when Ifran treated her with such sweet condescension, it was at last the final straw. She could only gape at them for a long moment as they walked away, her legs dangling from the table as if she were the child Ifran treated her as. Ned snorted just several tables over, and she glanced his way. With the trance broken, Abalia slid from the table. Seven was wiping a table in the opposite corner of Ifran and Laszlo, but it suited her just as well. He was out of the way, anyway. With tunnel vision and only anger to feed her, Abalia wound through the clustered tables without another glance at the two men who had offended her so, one far more than the other. It wasn't until the clatter of glass on the floor began and then repeated in disturbingly stubborn consistency that anyone would probably notice her petite little frame, behind the bar, where she certainly didn't belong. Moving with quick, frantic hands, Abalia set out to destroy as much as she could reach. She knew it wouldn't be long before stronger arms wrestled her away from this paltry, pathetic revenge. She knew it wouldn't really help, not once this rush of adrenaline and emotion faded away. But with the smell of alcohol stinging her nostrils, and shattered glass all around, every new crash felt satisfying. And maybe, with salty tears threatening to spill over dark lashes, feeling was all she had left.

[Ifran]

Abalia really had no reason to be upset at the way he treated her, as he could distinctly remember their walk to the bar and her relating certain salacious stories about her tongue-kissing practice with female friends from school when Nikali first woke a need between their legs. But Laszlo was, he supposed, something like a friend and he was obviously concerned. He was injured. And as he spilled out a few paltry details for Ifran, the Eypharian wanted more. There was hardly enough intrigue in Alvadas to keep an old hand like him entertained. But he schooled his face to seriousness for Laszlo's sake and, if he was correct in his assertions about Master Lark, for the sake of the manipulative and lovely Abalia. "I think," he said softly, slowly, "that she might admire me, but that I am merely a tool to use against you. Should you wish this to go to your advantage, I would suggest you act insanely jealous and threaten my life. Then I can flee with her and..." Of course, were he merely there to amuse himself, he might have kissed Laszlo just to see how Abalia responded. Perhaps all three of them would have run up to the Ethaefal's hovel of a room. But, of course, this whole friend experiment involved thinking of someone else from time to time, and anyway, the sound of shattering glass interrupted their little tête-à-tête. He whirled about and wondered whether he should intervene or let Laszlo. He had so little to work on!

[Laszlo]

There was an earnestness in Ifran's tone that beckoned Laszlo to listen exactly to what he was saying, a certain light in his eyes that made the Ethaefal intrigued. The Eypharian spoke as though he were offering strategy, but Laszlo couldn't quite understand it. "Jealous? Threaten your life? But I don't—" Like so many other heads in the room, Laszlo's turned with a start at the sound of shattering glass, as well as the clatter of about a dozen wooden mugs tumbling across the floor. Abalia's deceptively diminutive frame was behind the bar, emptying shelves at an alarming rate with the excited sweep of her arms. What petching now?! Arduous seconds passed as Laszlo groped for ideas as to what he should do about this. His amethyst eyes first sought Seven's scarlet, but the halfblood looked as helpless as Laszlo felt. He glanced at Ifran next, who appeared to be hesitating. A growing fear of monetary damage and a desperate urge to see resolution brought speed to his steps as he dashed forward, his long limbs carrying him swiftly across the narrow room. Nearing the back of the room, he grabbed the bar with one hand and slid across the floor to pivot quickly on his heel, darting toward her with outstretched hands. Clawed fingers missed the first time, grazing her skin. The second attempt landed him purchase, and her tiny arm was captured by his bony fingers. Grabbing a hold of her slender wrist, he yanked her back toward him, hard enough to steal away her balance. Without catching her, Laszlo stepped aside and allowed her to stumble backward into the bar. He placed himself in front of her then, each of her shoulders fitting into his palms as he pushed them back against the shelving. His broken finger ached madly, but he was too angry to care. "Stop!" Laszlo bellowed at her, pushing bitter tasting djed into his voice. He hadn't intended to magick her aggression away, but out of his panic it had seemed the best route. Be still! was the message he forced into her head. The tips of his claws dug into her soft skin, and while he noticed it, he didn't loosen his grip. "Are you insane? What's the matter with you?!" What had gotten into her?! Laszlo's thin, silvery eyebrows twitched as he tried to remember what Ifran had told him. Act insanely jealous? What would that accomplish? "I don't get you! What am I doing wrong?" Why did it seem like every woman lost her wits around him? Sometimes he couldn't blame the Symenestra for their harvest of breathing women. Really though, it couldn't simply be that they were all insane. It must have been something Laszlo was doing. He really didn't understand women at all. "Do you want me to be angry that someone else was holding you like that?" Laszlo hissed, a little quieter, if only to bring his personal drama within a more comfortable radius. The patrons could go back to their petching drinks. "Do you want me to be jealous? Are you really so petty?" With a parting shove, Laszlo pushed Abalia harder into the bar before stepping back. The Ethaefal's head dropped down to survey the damage on the floor, and with a sigh, he nudged the shattered remains of a wine bottle with his booted toe. "Of course it pained me to watch that. I couldn't take my eyes off the two of you. The way he was touching you—" Threaten his life, right? "—he's lucky I didn't throw a mug across his head." Close enough. It was as far as he could venture without actually being dishonest. "He's supposed to be a friend of mine." Laszlo shook his head. He hadn't lifted his eyes from the floor, and he wasn't even sure he could look at Abalia anymore. This was more difficult than he'd imagined. "Just leave. I don't want to play games with you, Abalia. I don't want to kill you, or fuck you, I just wanted to know you. If this is how it's going to be then just… get out." Violet eyes shot across the room at Ifran. His hand was throbbing in pain, and the healing gash across his side was complaining as well. This, all this, was just misery. Welcome to your new life, Laszlo. "Do you hear me?! Get out! And take this harlot with you!"