(flashback) a meeting of like minds (cy and clem)

[Clement Reijnder]

Date: 19th Day of Summer, 508 AV
Location: The Pillars of Dust

The morning heat had turned into something nearly unbearable by the twelfth chime of the day. The Dusk Eaters were leaning against columns. The Larks fanned themselves with their feathers. Some of the Scorpions scurried back and forth in the shade, feeling restless with nothing to do. Clement, however, had decided quite some time ago he wasn’t about to sit around after having his hand at whatever Lark he’d fancied that day.

He carefully studied the men milling about, sizing each of them up in his quiet way. Typically a person would shy away from the largest man they could find, but the man watching didn’t consider himself typical.

The fellow singled out was practically a giant, though his mass left something to be desired. Clement knew that looks could easily deceive. He stalked through the crowd all the same, pushing past a tiny Lark who he thought he might come back to later.

Stepping up to the man, he looked him up and down before turning his head to spit. He puffed up like a cat trying to seem bigger than he actually was before exclaiming, “What the petch do you think you’re doing?”

The giant turned his attention then to Clement, growling back, “None of your filthy business.”

And so it went. After a few moments of the men going on at each other over nothing at all, Clement took a wild swing. It was only then did everyone scatter. He had a bit of a reputation growing, and the story was that he wasn’t afraid to injure any other person that got in the way of whatever fight he’d decided to pick.

It didn’t take long for the two to end up towards the back of the shade. He was a little disappointed, because he’d discovered that the man didn’t really know enough about fighting to be worth his time. Therefore he was quick to get the man down, hands wrapping about his neck.

The look on his face was bordering on pure joy as he strangled the man, shaking him violently and working to beat his head into the sand as he did so.

[Cyrah]

The jackal was slinking in and out of the shadows between the crumbling pillars, skirting the darkness beneath eaves of staggered sand; the broken columns tilted, sinking here and there, like the jagged teeth of an ancient, gape-mawed giant after too many sniffs at the dusk-bowl. Delicate paws made not a sound as she crept around the edges of the Pillars of Dust, long, narrow nose lowered, sharply pointed ears flat on the hunt. Silverine eyes watched the sad array of people as they stumbled about this open-air tomb, the scantily-clad larks with their voices all but scraping sand, and the empty-eyed dusk eaters that sprawled, sometimes dead and sometimes not, against the stones. She passed a near-unconscious addict pressing his cheek to the column, moaning, gripping it in the throes of ecstasy; he saw nothing but what the mirage wanted him to see. A thread of smell skirted her nose, and she turned, following it. The target was nearby. A dusker in unwashed leather and poorly patched wool. Ink on his fingertips, blood beneath his nails. Not his blood. A lingering dose of henna in his hair and the smudged, days-old attempt at kohl smeared across his eyes. Like he could've been important; he could have been of a class higher than he was, he wanted to be noble but simply wasn't. It was important, in a city like Ahnatep, to know one's place. There were fair few ladders fit for climbing. And when you tried, as you fought for footing on one of those steep, rickety rungs, if your heel slipped but a fraction of an inch, you might find yourself fallen to the sand. And then buried in it. For Salin-Jar, reputed Dusker with greedy dreams, the sand was widening to swallow him whole. Or else nobody would have summoned the jackal. She waited patiently, let evening bleed into full night, watched the Pillars of Dust turn from lazy lost and found to full carnival of delights. A fight broke out somewhere nearby; she could scent the blood-splatter. Salin-Jar tore himself away from a desperate customer to go see what the commotion was about, and the jackal followed him, ever an innocuous addition to his already-sprawling shadow. He stayed back from the fight, interested only in watching. When it toppled into the shadows, and everyone's eyes were on that gloaming darkness, the jackal struck. A snap of her teeth severed the dusker's hamstring and he dropped to a knee, too startled at first to make even a sound – and just that loss of height was all she needed. Before he could scream above the fight, and as the fight itself ended, the gold-dusted canine launched herself at Salin-Jar and sank her fangs into the soft flesh of his throat. A sharp jerk of her head twisted his neck away from the rest of his body, and a quiet snap sent his limbs limp, and lifeless. A voice in the back of her mind hissed: that was too easy. Why was that so easy? She dragged the corpse back into the darkness. Hungry, she was hungry, but the corpse was still warm. Disgusting. She hated it warm; couldn't taste a thing. So she prowled around the body, waiting for it to cool off, so intent on her supper that she didn't notice until it was too late the human who came toppling into her patch of shade with his opponent. As Clement throttled the life out of his adversary, the jackal stood, and watched, blood-stained maw lowered defensively over her prize.

[Clement Reijnder]

He had spent quite a few years perfecting the next steps he performed. He went about it with a sort of raw grace that only time could give a man. Just as the victim’s clawing hands were releasing their grip on Clement’s now bloodied wrists, he was given a moment to take a breath if his body so allowed it. And, bent on survival, of course it did.

A slow smile crept up over the man on top’s lips as if he’d just discovered a treasure or witnessed some grand miracle. He actually let out a small snorting chuckle as the man attempted to start to fight again. He commenced once again in strangling the life out of him while beating the back of his head against the ground.

This ritual happened again and again until he’d finally knocked the man’s head about enough that a bloom of blood began to leak into the sand. His eyes, one swollen, rolled upwards into oblivion. Clement felt that last strangle breath unmoving under his palms, sensing the incessant beat of the heart cease.

By this time no one was paying attention anymore. They’d gone back to their business, and he was glad for it. He didn’t much care for an audience, preferring to enjoy the intimacy of death on his own. He thought he was unwatched.

He pushed himself off the ground, rolling his shoulders back, and wincing at the pain that he was now experiencing from the clawed wrists.

“Son of a…” He growled and viciously kicked the dead man’s head with the toe of his boot.

Still he thought he was unwatched.

After a moment of catching his breath, allowing the high of it all to wear off of him just a touch, he undid his leather pants. He began to relieve himself on his victim, eyes glazed and relaxed on distant nothingness.

It was mid-stream that he felt that uncanny sensation in the pit of a human’s stomach that said there were eyes on him. At first he looked over his shoulder, noting that he saw no one staring in his direction. He thought he was imagining things, but then something caught his eye as he turned back around.

She caught his eye. His cold blue eyes landed directly on her, sizing up the situation quickly. He had heard the rumors, listened to the trill of terror in other’s voices. He’d thought perhaps, just perhaps, it was a story. Just some fable the Eypharians told to get away with more than they already did. But there she was. Caught in the act.

Most people, most sane people at least, would have found themselves frozen. They would have trembled in fear. But not Clement. He simply tucked himself away as a slow smirk, something proud, crept up onto the corner of his mouth.

[Cyrah]

The pungent scent of the man's urine was like a smack to the jackal's delicate nose, and she backed up a step, but didn't otherwise abandon the dusker's cadaver. Humans. They were no better or worse than any other race; people were all the same, no matter how many arms they had, or shapes they took, or what magic might have been at their disposal. She saw in this human precisely what was revolting about every last individual on this godforsaken planet: a disregard for the ritual of things, a blatant condescension when it came to death and the art of dying. When he finally noticed her, the long, narrow flutes of her ears flattened against her skull, lips peeling back to reveal shimmering, ivory canines. A low growl of warning issued from her throat: stay back, or you're next. The pride on his mouth surprised her; most people shifted hurriedly away when they saw her, especially crouched low over a cooling corpse. Whether they believed her to be Before or After, or some combination of both – whether they truly thought her one of Dira's harbingers, it didn't matter; there was a natural instinct to make oneself scarce in the presence of a gold-lustred jackal ready to feed. Not a large canid by any means, there remained a ferocity to her that served well enough, usually, to speed interlopers on their way. But not this one. She snapped her teeth at him for further inspiration and then, unwilling to wait any longer for the dusker's body to chill, she ripped into his already gaping throat, gnawing down through skin and sinew and muscle, lapping at the tepid blood and gorging herself on the mealy flesh. Her eyes, like twin moons reflecting through darkness, stayed on the human, though once she started eating it was hard to stop. Hard to pay attention to anything else. Freshly unliving meat and thickening blood, a sense of strength began to thread itself through her. She hadn't realized before how hungry she was, but that was how it happened: she could go for days, half-starved without noticing. A scavenger's diet. And then a taste struck her, and she paused. Ears spiked upward sharply, and swiveled. Confusion. Something wasn't right; something tasted wrong. The jackal took a step back from the corpse, and her long, tapering limbs trembled. Mirage. The dusker was also a dusk eater. Her tawny-frosted tail swept between her legs and she let out a disconcerted whine, backing away from both the human and the corpse, towards the retreating shadows.

[Clement Reijnder]

Beautiful. Absolutely stunning. A thousand and one praises crossed his mind as he stood there smirking down at the creature. While she put on a warning show, he did genuinely feel a trickle of fear run through him. There wasn’t much to grab and use as a weapon if the jackal decided to take to attacking him. The fear didn’t show on his face, but he wondered if maybe she could smell the change about him. Could she smell the fear? And could she feel the rush of facing it causing his heart to beat wildly about in his chest?

These were the sort of moments he lived for. Brilliant, unique and terrible experiences. That’s all he’d ever wanted. So while he was in fact afraid, he was relishing in it. The arrogance didn’t fade away, because said arrogance wasn’t an act of his.

He knelt down into a crouch, showing that his hands were empty. His eyes didn’t leave her. They watched her carefully, calculating her movements, trying to sense what was coming next and failing miserably at it.

“Shh,” he coaxed, voice rumbling deeply in his throat. It was strangely gentle for a man that had just pissed on a man he’d strangled to death minutes before. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even going to try to touch you or take him away from you…”

He licked the corner of his mouth, trying to take in the corpse on the ground as she began to feed on it.

“I’m just going to sit here and watch…”

The smirk rolled into a blatant grin, but it didn’t last long. She’d yelped. She was clearly distressed. Concern flooded over his face as he watched her start to retreat, but he knew better than to try to get more involved than he already was.

Instead he continued to watch, to wait, to see if maybe somehow he could help if it the chance came to be.

[Cyrah]

She didn't care if the human watched, so long as he didn't interrupt. And so he'd received a snort here and there as she'd gone on eating, but little more than that to suggest that she was other than precisely what she looked like: a hungry jackal. Even as he sank into a crouch across from her, the canine's only response was a swish of her tail as she continued eating. When she recognized the mirage, though, her entire demeanor shifted. She'd scented it on him, but Salin-Jar was a dusker, and she hadn't thought he'd be stupid enough to partake of his own stock. That seemed idiotic; but then, here he was dead, and someone had probably wanted him that way because he was an idiot. She hadn't ever ingested any of the stuff before; smelled plenty of it, but kept it at a distance because drugs had no real appeal for her. Now she cursed herself for catching it too late, and could already feel a sort of delightful numbness spreading through her. She staggered, as she backed up. The human was staying put; that was a good sign. A puff of air through her nose; her ears flattened again, and she dropped to her haunches. The drug was overtaking her much faster than she could keep up with. The sand felt so...nice. She started to lie down, wanted to feel the sand more completely, so she rolled onto her side and squirmed against it for a minute. It bristled through the black sheen of her fur, unsatisfying. She let out a discontented growl, panting. A whirl of darkling lights overtook her, flickering and popping around the prone figure of the jackal, and when it winked out there lay a girl in the canine's place. Young, barely thirteen, and naked, though ink riddled the planes of her warmly bronzed skin, every inch of which was now completely bare. Blood smeared her lips; eyes clenched tightly shut. She let out a frustrated groan and lashed her limbs against the sand, flailing half in agony at her own stupidity, and half in ecstasy thanks to the mirage working its way through her blood.

[Clement Reijnder]

Oh. Petch. It was a petching Kelvic. A petching… Girl. His eyes widened. For a moment he stood there just watching, wondering in the back of his mind if that Lark he’d taken earlier had maybe slipped him something through her kisses. It would be the last time he ever kissed a whore on the mouth, for that he was certain.

He glanced at the corpse then at the girl. Then back and forth, back and forth, as his mind tried to come up with the explanation. Suddenly it hit him. He was watching Mirage take its effects. Her victim must have been seeing things.

His hand lifted up to rub at his mouth as he froze otherwise in a moment of thought. There was a glance out to the people milling about and not noticing what was going on. Then back to the girl.

“Somehow,” he said smoothly, “I get the feeling you should have known better.”

He sighed heavily as if this was wearing him down. Quickly he pulled off his shirt over his head.

“I swear to everything that if you bite me, I will knock your teeth out so quickly that no man will ever love you.” But then he approached her, slowly crouching once again. “I really do mean it, too.”

He wondered what was wrong with him - Why he cared that this girl was clearly having problems. He didn’t know her. He should have just walked away. Left her sorry Kelvic butt to the mercy of whomever came across her next.

Bending down, he slid his arm underneath her nude form. There was a clear wince from him as sand ground into his open wounds. His other hand smoothed her hair off of her forehead tenderly.

“I’m going to put my shirt on you,” he explained.

[Cyrah]

Of course she should have known better; she did know better, but she'd been hungry and too proud of herself, too willing to believe that it would be that easy. Young as she was, though, it couldn't have been too surprising that she was still prone to making mistakes. She still growled at him when he pointed them out, however; a little girl's growl, not nearly as menacing as the jackal's, but it carried the same kind of sound. A moan escaped her lips when he slipped his arm beneath her; the feeling was delicious. She arched as though to rub herself against him, but managed to scrape together what was left of her composure before her spine finished curving. Couldn't stop herself from nuzzling her cheek into his hand as he brushed the dark hair from her face. Her breath quickened, and she gulped for air. “Just g-give me the shirt,” she managed to grind between her teeth, reaching a hand up to snatch the garment away from him. Except once she had the fabric in her claws, it was hard to pay attention to anything other than how it felt sluicing between her fingertips. Another frustrated noise lodged in her throat. “Won't bite. You probably taste as bad as you smell.” But he felt exquisite, and so she couldn't bring herself to shove him away. She hated humans, hated people; she hated how weak they were, how cruel they could be, and she'd already seen this one kill without meaning, without caring. She hated him immediately, wanted to gnaw on his bones, but he felt superb and all she wanted to do was crush herself against him and let it all carry her away. Let herself float. Her eyes finally opened, pale slits of bright mercury, and then promptly rolled up into her head as a wave of beautiful euphoria swept her limbs to trembling. “Oh,” she sighed, relenting to it at last. “Please don't stop.”

[Clement Reijnder]

“Yes, yes, you’re very intimidating,” he nearly cooed in response, his hand slicking back her hair once again.

He didn’t make a habit of partaking in Mirage, but he did know what it did to a person. He knew the sensations it caused. He knew what was coming for her, and part of him might have been a touch jealous of it. The ecstasy. The release.

It was the same feeling he got from killing, though it was a thousand times more powerful. The first time he’d sampled Mirage it had terrified him. He didn’t touch the stuff again for quite a few seasons. He found himself wondering if this was her first time, and if it was… What would happen to her?

He wasn’t sure he cared very much for the worry he was experiencing.

The quirking grin returned to the corner of his mouth as she took the shirt. Had she just nuzzled him? And then… Insulted him? He choked back a little laugh, shaking his head. “Yes, I’m sure I do smell absolutely hideous. Really, though, let me help you put that on. You’re going to love it.”

And he was going to feel like a filthy, filthy old man despite the fact that for once his intentions were good.

Anything to keep her from fighting… He looked over her face carefully, moving to stroke her cheek; his palm moved to her ear, running a thumb over the lobe. After that moment he was content to hoist her up, pulling her to him so he could more easily manipulate her in an attempt to get the shirt on over her head.

[Cyrah]

Good intentions or not, Clement suddenly had a naked little girl shuddering under the feel of his hands. She let the shirt drop, utterly uninterested in it the minute his fingertips skimmed the skin of her face. Her eyes pinned shut once more, breath hitching and pooling in her lungs. Never had she experienced anything as simultaneously marvelous and terrifying as this. Fortunate enough to have avoided the slave trade, and young enough that no man had yet touched her, this was her first brush with a physical sensation so powerful that it overwhelmed all else. Pain, she knew, but not the numbing kind, not the sort that stole the feelings from one's limbs and heart. And pleasure was simply too costly now that she was on her own. Helplessness, like what she felt in that moment, came with pleasure. She wondered if it felt like this every time; it must, or else the duskers wouldn't be as popular as they were. Abruptly, she understood the dusk-eaters who did nothing all day but lie about, either riding a dose or waiting for more; she could see herself writhing across the sand forever, begging for this feeling, dying if it never came. She wanted to wrap herself around the human trying to help her, just to press as much of her skin to his as was possible. Another desperate moan as he lifted her, and she struggled to get herself under control, digging her fingers into the sand, and came up with handfuls that scattered against the wind as he hoisted her against himself. Her whole body stiffened as she fought to maintain some semblance of composure. She didn't fight him off, or push to be closer against him, only let herself be malleable so that he could get the shirt over her head, her arms through its sleeves. Gods, but it did feel divine as the fabric skated over her flesh. Gooseflesh rose across her skin. She nuzzled him again quite in spite of herself, rubbing her face against the soft skin of his throat, where it curved to meet his shoulder. “Hungry,” she whimpered. “I'm hungry. Need to eat. S-s-starving.” She'd been hungry before, but then the drug kicked in and she'd shifted, and now she was even hungrier, and the only available food was poisoned. Food would help push the mirage through her system, and she let herself hope that this bad-smelling, spectacular-feeling human might be kind enough to feed her before he hurt her. And she was pretty sure that he was going to hurt her; she just couldn't do a damned thing about it, because it felt too good to stop.