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Post by Deleted on Aug 24, 2017 13:17:04 GMT -5
i cant believe the first word on page 2 is titties
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Post by carmine. on Aug 25, 2017 11:27:02 GMT -5
i cant believe the first word on page 2 is titties
Shu Chernyaev, Rafael Edkaird, Hart Vikhrov
β β β
"The thing I just love about you Shu is your way with words. You are such a smooth talker."
She couldnβt help it; the corners of her lips curled, just a little. βIβve heard that often, yes.β
"And at least I managed to keep both of my shoes, darling. Though that is a good look for you, you can make it work.β
βPerhaps the look will spread and the people of Barrel will be calling it the Shu-shoe-style.β
From her side, a semblance of a groan was elicited from Zera. βLetβs leave the bad puns and non-sensical jokes to that moronic spider of ours, no? Youβre tired, Cher.β
Well, yes, she wasnβt making sense. But hey, even if she was usually cautious of her own words, when she was plenty consumed as she was now, feeling jaded fatigue drain the last bit of her will to keep standing, she wasn't going to think too much about what she said unless it regarded something important. So, instead, she simply ran her hand through her dark hair. The Squaller was usually strongly against puns (there seemed to be a glimmer of exasperation and amusement in her eyes from time to time after hearing bad humour, though at the same time, her gaze could be quite judgemental and critical when she wanted to be).
Glancing over at Hart, she simply shook her head a little to the side. He was as serene as ever, if one ignored the untamed, dangerous glint in his eyes. "...I do believe congratulations are in order, because the docks have been officially christened. In blood and flash bombs, yes, but they're still ourβs." Those were the words Shu had been waiting to hear, and to this, she felt herself sigh a little in a mixture of relief and a short, subtle way of saying: yes, finally. It became someoneβs norm to see blood and dents in Ketterdamn's serpentine streets; the more the merrier, really. More marks meant that the area was either a well sought after place and one that was (hopefully for the owners) well fought for. These docks were no different, though it truly was a shame to see the amount of lives that had been wasted as a result of the conflict. The man without his leg would -- if he ever came around to waking up β never be able to involve himself in the Barrelβs crooked system. Tonight, he was left subconscious and alive, but heβd lost the last scrap of anything heβd had when heβd still been standing.
It was then two other familiar outlines emerged, and Shu wasn't too bewildered to find Zamir and Rafael standing there, looking somewhat ruffled themselves. Rafaelβs thin scarf was wrapped around his pale throat messily, and she could spot specks of dirt on the light-hued fabric. He mostly wouldnβt have a fun time washing that out. And, she realised with a raise of her eyebrow, his gloves were missing from his hands. He mustβve been in one huge scuffle if his gloves, one of his prized possessions, were missing. Zamir looked like he was a part of the undead. A stylish undead, but still undead nonetheless.
βYou look quite fine tonight,β she heard from her side, only to see the spiderβs orbs glimmering with laughter (as usual), and rested her own eyes in response.
βIβll return those very words to you, Edkaird. You look marvelous.β
βWhy, Iβm pleased to hear that you think so. So,β he then said as he glanced down. βWhat happened to your shoe, Shu?β
He did that on purpose. He definitely did that on purpose. It was visible from the way he spoke with that childish twinkle in his eyes as he walked with his hands in his pockets, the smile dancing across his lips one that could be seen from a large, excited pup bounding around their owners. He didnβt have to ask that question; there really was no need for him to. And yet, he had, and he'd mentioned her given name at the end at that, too. Saints.
βFive kruge says he opens with some kind of clichΓ©."
βFive? Make that ten,β she murmured underneath her breath as she fell behind their second in command with the others who slowly approached Hart, unhurried. As callous and unsympathetic as Vikhrov appeared on the surface, she'd caught glimpses and hints of much considerate gestures and offers from him, and if there was one thing she'd learned about the man, it was that he could be pretty cheesy when he wanted to be. Whether if he did it on purpose or not though, that still remained as a mystery.
Okay, so maybe picturing himself β he wasn't afraid to admit that he was small because as unfortunate as it was, it was true β carrying Zamir and letting the tidemaker's head bounce off the ground from his damned height was a little funny. He wasn't going to admit that out loud. But, well, the small twinkle in his eyes probably said everything, anyway. It was so unfortunate that he was easy to read when it came to see whether if he was amused or not. One time, heβd half-laughed at the sight of Hart accidentally jamming his barefoot against some profoundly painful and solid surfaces. The easy, fluid amusement in his gaze had gotten him in a lot of trouble by their leader that day. Ah, good times.
"You know, I don't think he likes us very much. He might if he got to know us, the real us,β he heard from the side as the wounded White Crows fled with a last, resentful glance over their shoulder. Poor lads, theyβd be winded for a while before they most likely made their recovery.
βPerhaps, dear Lifen,β answered Hart with his nonchalant smile, βbut I doubt it. My real self is still quite the demon, after all.β
βYou mean one hell of a demon,β he chimed in with his hand upon his waist and the curve of his lips lingering. βI don't know who thought calling you the nightingale was a good idea, but they should add something to that."
"Oh? Such as?β
βThe Rotten Nightingale. The Barrelβs very own Demon Nightingale. The Hellbird. Something along those lines.β
βIβm touched,β said Hart with a tone that said he didn't quite feel touched but was amused anyway. βThose are all wonderful names.β
βHow about the toe-stubbing Hellbird?β
He saw Hartβs wolfish smirk. βVery funny, Edkaird.β
βCan we go already? Thereβs a two foot long drinking straw in the Corona with my sorry name on it.β The spider watched as the other man glimpsed over briefly at their one and only actor before nodding his head lightly. "Of course. It won't do us too good to remain out here for too long, anyway, now, would it?β
Ah, yes. In his experience, in his many years of serving Hart as his spider, the first thing Rafael had learned bad been the fact that if you stayed out for too long, you were most likely finished, something to be bereft of life. Or a cadaverous prey hollering at the top of its lungs while battering its eyes attractively: yoohoo, Iβm right here! It didn't matter where you were β as long as you are in the Barrel, there is no such thing as a safe place to rest or a place to overstay your welcome.
It'd been like that for him in his own house, after all, even before heβd indulged himself in the world of corruption and the art of thievery, when heβd sat, curled up, listening to the smallest creaks of the floorboard to try and give an estimated guess to how absurdly and unreasonably displeased his father had been with the worldβs luxurious insensibility.
He felt as if his side would burn and fall off any moment.
Unscathed was a term that didn't exist in Ketterdamn, and especially during or after a brawl. Was it even possible to remain utterly and entirely unscarred when it came to this line of work? Safe and sound were just two words that was most certainly the opposite of what life in the Barrel was like. It was anything but impervious, and it was impossible to remain guarded and impregnable. Lives were lost every day, and if he wasn't careful, Hart was more than aware that he would be the one sprawled across the floor on his own dock with his life seeping out of himself for the whole country to see. He was thankful that, while the moon still hung in the sky like a large background of an amphitheatre, there were shadows to conceal details of his current state. His guts werenβt spilling out onto the cold, uneven floor, but heβd been knocked over like a bowling pin or a glass bottle when he hadn't been able to react, and as a result, he'd slammed his side against the cobblestone.
It didn't feel that great, and it certainly was difficult trying to keep the light and easygoing curl of his lips from faltering, though he put his best professional face up and bit the bullet. It was what Hart usually did when he found himself cornered, and he was a man who was not cornered very often, indeed. So he spoke with the spider and acknowledged Zamirβs words with understanding without so much of a grimace.
It was how heβd survived in his previous line of work amongst the ruthless and callous individuals he had had to work with. Any sign of weakness meant that everything youβd built up till that point was already breached, because someone was going to writhe their way through and tear you down to the core until you were completely stripped from every last thing you possessed.
The streets were silent and he kept his gaze focused on the front, though any small movement out of the corner of his eye did not go uncaught. There were some naive gangs that opened a premature celebration in the midst of the street after a victory β as unbelievable as it was heβd encountered one, actually and had disposed of them β and that was only an invitation for the silhouettes that lurked grotesquely through the narrow alleyways, searching for the smallest hint of a mistake.
βI know things seem a little more light-hearted now than before, but as always, Iβm counting on you to look after our backs," he said without turning around, though by the context of his words, he was surely referring to none other than Killian Manus. And he wasnβt lying when he said this. Sure, he was a liar, and yes, it came to him as easy as did breathing air, but there were certain things he chose not to whimsically conjure, and something regarding their safety was one of them. βThere may be a few unwelcome guests around here, watching us even now.β
Briefly, his thoughts flickered back to the last Grisha of The Styx. Her true identity remained hidden from the rest (see? Lying came so easily), and he'd made sure that it stayed that way for the time being. He wasn't like that man; he wouldnβt dare take away their choice when it came to matters of life and death, especially with their current circumstance of the ongoing Grisha persecution.
When the top of the Iron Signet slowly began to peek above the navy rectangular shapes the city created from his point of view where he stood, he simply closed his admittedly tired eyes. Theyβd made it back as always.
Then, he asked as he looked over at the individual, βDo you plan on joining us, Killian? I could get someone else to guard for you for a while; you deserve to a part of a small celebration, after all.β
βTonight? Now? When we go back?β He heard Zera say with her thick accent and a scrunched face.
βI never said I was planning on letting the lot of you go to sleep so soon just yet.β
βI'm tired.β
βWell, too bad. Youβre having a drink or two before you leave.β
A snort. βFine,β she answered while crossing her arms over her chest. She didnβt seem displeased, though. Of course not β Zeddrid was one of the biggest drinkers here, after all.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 26, 2017 12:49:21 GMT -5
i was thinking that for the background characters, either of us could use them? Even if like, one of us comes up with the name, they're just chilling in the background, so I don't mind sharing them. The Styx just needs members lol.) βΆ Lifen Aakster βΆ
She could've sworn Hart wasn't as well off as he was parading, but she said nothing. Business in the Barrel was half lies, half strategic silence. It wasn't the job of the second in command to go poking holes in her boss's facade in front of the grunts anyway. Plus, on a more personal level, she doubted he would appreciate the open concern.
When they got the go-ahead to head back, she rubbed her heads together, trying to massage the pain out, "Right! Let's get out of these miserable docks before I change my mind about them." She didn't leave with the same elegant gait she'd arrived with, but there was a pride to her limp at a job well done, and the promise of a drink at the end of the journey made the limp worthwhile.
--
The Iron Signet was the first jewel in the Stygian Circle, but The Corona was her baby, and Lifen loved to spend time there moreso then in her own bed (The Nightjar had character but it was still a hole in the wall). Lifen had worked there full time for a long time, behind the bar, or serving tables, or sitting upstairs running numbers, and she loved every minute of it. She could work and still meet new people and take their money, it was the ultimate set-up.
Tonight, it was packed too, she could feel the warmth of bodies and the smell of intoxicated grins from half way down the street. It wasn't just Red Wine night that drove folks here tonight, it was also packed with other various members of the Styx, who would be eagerly awaiting the news from the docks. There were some stationed here, the Nightjar, the Signet, and every other little hold they had. They'd suspected Ambroos of trying something tricky, but so far, no messenger had arrived to tell them if they'd been attacked.
Looks like they gave that man more brains than he was due.
There was a big man, Dael, on bouncer duty, and his job was to stop everyone who came in and check them, and he was halfway to doing that before he figured out exactly who this crowd was. He grinned and stepped back to let them in, taking their own smiles as a good enough to signal.
βI'm tired.β
Lifen turned back before she reached the door, looking stricken, "You'd toss us over, Zera? In favour of a nap? I thought Ravkans were meant to be good drinkers." She teased, stepping out of the way as Zamir pushed past her to get in, "I am hurt, hurt and offended and I almost caught fire tonight." She pressed a hand to her chest forlornly, not about to let anyone forget her near death experience.
When everyone agreed to come in, she pushed the wooden door open herself, and was greeted by a wall of sound and warmth. It was like another world in here, the lights were all lit and the whole place was filled with a healthy orange glow. Compared to the desolation of the streets outside, it looked like the whole barrel was in here, people were sitting on tables and the floor where they'd run out of seats, and they were drinking like it was the end of the world. These were the basis of a great party.
She peeled her blazer off, considered hanging it up on the coat rack with her bag, and then tossed it to the side, mournfully. It was only half a blazer now, why bother keeping it?
She moved further into the room, manoeuvring around everyone milling on the floor, nodding her head and grinning to whatever was said to her.
One of her favourite waitresses, Maryse (Big eyes and even bigger... assets) pushed her way over, looking flushed but excited, "Well, how did it go?" She balanced a tray full of glasses expertly, but Lifen still took it from her and started serving herself (If she stopped moving she was going to die. Like a shark.) Everyone at the table on the left was far too drunk to even know if they'd been given the right drinks or not, so she just guessed .
"Wonderfully, darling," She scooped an olive out of someone's empty glass and popped it in her mouth, "We killed." This seemed good enough for the waitress, who didn't seem at all fazed by the bedraggled state of Lifen. Either she hadn't noticed, or she'd just lived in Ketterdamn long enough to take it in her stride.
"Go socialize," She ordered, tucking the now empty tray under her arm, "I can do this, go do what you do best." Staff at the Signet and the Corona had double purposes; to wait on customers and gradually leak information to them. Maryse was popular to anyone with eyes, and she was pretty good at embellishing things without lying, and getting the story out there. She couldn't tell everyone of the Styx's overwhelming success tonight against a much larger gang if she was serving drinks, could she?
Plus, it was nice to give a very pretty girl the night (morning?) off sandwiched in between a compliment. Who knows where that could lead.
She peeled off around the back of the bar and took a swing from an open bottle before glancing in the mirror. Oh Ghezen, she looked awful. She took another swing. At least she hadn't lost her sense of good humor, even if half her eyebrow may have been tragically lost to the flames. She was going to find out who that Grisha was tomorrow, this isn't over. β¦ Zamir Nejen β¦ When Lifen blocked the door to get in, he didn't even bother waiting. He'd been waiting all day to get drunk out of his face, enough was enough. Time for some personal care.
He shouldered the door open and swung his coat off, momentarily caught between the cold of the great outdoors and the stuffy heat of the bar. It made him feel dizzy, but the moment passed, he shook his hair out brushing it off his face, where it stuck up in the air. He nodded to Rafael when he came in, "Come on, let's go evict some drunks." The table where he usually sat, a plush corner seat that was built for a a few people, was currently occupied, but it wouldn't be for long.
Zamir approached the seat and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, "Scram." The drunk people just looked at him, did they even comprehend words anymore? Trying a different tactic, Zamir waved his arms, "The building's on fire! Run!" This got the more sober (a very generous term) ones up and tugging their friends out too, looking panicked behind their glassy eyes. By the time they were all standing on the floor, they'd forgotten why they were up, and Zamir slid into the plush velvet, sighing as he took his weight off his feet.
His legs felt numb, like they were floating up towards the ceiling without him, and his feet vaguely resembled the texture of cotton. Suddenly his eyes were bone dry and heavy, but determined to have a good time, he rubbed them with the balls of his hands, messing up his eyebrows in the process.
If the others had followed him over and were currently sitting beside him, he was barely aware of it. All he was aware of was someone shooting a bottle across the circular table, and grabbing it. It was that pretty waitress. Matilda? Margot? She had big boobs and a loud but pleasant voice, so there was no doubting that it was Lifen who'd hired her, whatever her name was. Right now, he was pleased with her gift and grabbed the empty glasses on the table and began to fill them up, "Here's to never walking again, for the rest of our miserable lives in this awful city." He toasted, raising his glass carefully so as not to spill anything (He'd filled those glasses up high. Some of them weren't even wine glasses, it looked like they were serving in whatever they had tonight, which included but was not limited to, jam jars and what looked like an old snowglobe.)
Whether or not the wine was good or bad was not the point, it was warm on the way down and made him scrunch up his toes, shooting feeling back into his feet, so he took another drink and sat up a bit straighter, rolling his head on his shoulders until it gave a satisfying crack. "Ugh, that's better." He muttered to no one in particular, taking his third drink. He raised his arm and draped it over the ridge of the seat beside him, hand dangling down. His whole body had been going to sleep, but it was starting to feel a little more alive again, and, dare we say, his mood was lifting slightly. "Did you see the look on Ambroos' rat face when he slunk off at the end?" He snickered, "Why is he so ugly? Like, I've seen a lot of ugly people since I got here, but he looks so bad." Zamir kept laughing, his life may not be perfect, but at least he didn't look inbred. It felt good to laugh anyway, felt freeing, loosened his face up.
Someone in the far corner was roaring away on a piano, giving it all they had, and others got up to dance. They weren't very good, even standing was a tough move for them, but he still watched them with a more gentle gaze then usual. He used to dance for fun, and he missed that.
Damn this wine must be good if it had him this sentimental already. β© Killian Manus β©Killian blinked when Hart spoke and then, after a hesitant silence, "Yes sir." and a little nod of his head. It hadn't occurred to him that the danger may not be over, but now that it was pointed out, it felt blatantly obvious. He wasn't built for this city, he didn't think like these people did. The others were jostling and laughing, but he didn't feel victorious. His arm ached and his head hurt and he felt very, very homesick. His mother would be heartbroken if she knew what he was doing these days, and he didn't like to think about that. He didn't like to think about much these days, so he just kept his eyes peeled on the way back, taking on the rear of the crowd, as per usual.
--
"Do you plan on joining us, Killian?" He'd been so keen on doing as he'd been told, that Killian didn't even notice they'd drawn up at the bar (he knew what it was called, but the sign above the door still looked illegible to him.) He jumped, torn out of his surveillance mode , and just stood there, thinking. He was tired, very tired, and he didn't want to drink. It sounded loud in there tonight, and the big crowds would be a pain. There was never enough space, and people always stared, making him feel doubly awkward. Not everyone there was a member of the Styx, in fact the majority weren't, and they weren't used to him. They would stare and whisper, and be horrible and drunk and far too loud.
But it would also be a pain to go to wherever he was meant to be and stand outside all night until he was as cold and stiff in the morning as a corpse, and his headache had turned biblical. Plus, even if he got work off and went back to the Nightjar, he didn't really want to go there. It was cold, and dark, and it's been empty save a few stragglers. He didn't want to lay in his slightly damp, too small bed and stare up at the greying ceiling. He certainly didn't want to be alone and do it either. If he was alone, he'd go to pieces, leaving his mind to it's own awful devices, and every bad thought he'd ever had in his life would come up at once in a horrible, swirling gale force that would blow him over, (Mother,Father,Ketterdamn,Home,Blood,Bone,Language), and he would cry and sob until he was empty and wake up tomorrow feeling miserable all the same.
Looks like staying was his best option.
"You deserve to a part of a small celebration, after all.β Maybe half his unease was getting a kind favour from Mr Vikhrov, of all people. Killian had no reason to suspect he was excessively cruel, he didn't run any brothels and the Styx didn't have their younger members do dangerous jobs, like other gangs did, but he still didn't trust him. He spoke too smoothly, and he never seemed fazed. Real humans don't act like that. He didn't even seem hurt, after a fight like that. This man was not a regular man.
So Killian just stood there, staring, making eye contact for the first time in a very long time, and some of his shyness had vanished. Yes, he wasn't confident, or fast talking, or the quickest thinker, but he was honest and whole, and he didn't feel like Mr. Vikhrov could say the same thing.
He didn't say any of this, just finally broke off his eye contact and nodded, "Yes, thank you." His quiet voice was almost lost from the din coming through the opened windows, "That would be nice."
He didn't glance at the bouncer at the door, he was a big man too, but still smaller than Killian, and a lot more approachable. In truth, Killian had been told his name five times and always forgot it, so he avoided that man in particular more than anything.
Once in, he just followed his own little crowd, and ended up in a corner table with Zamir, Rafael and the others. He took the glass that was handed to him, but didn't drink from, he just sat there with his hands on the table, fingers intertwined, watching the people dance and laugh. He saw Lifen briefly, once, balancing a few trays and chatting to someone the whole time (Bragging, no doubt) but she was gone as quickly as he'd seen her.
It felt odd to be inside the Corona, he mainly stood at the wooden door like a potted plant. It was nice, in the Ketterdamn sort of way, but it had twenty people too many at the moment and the man on the piano wasn't all that good. He was doing all he could, but he must've been drinking too, because he kept playing the wrong keys. "The ceiling in this place is very low." He commented, under the ramble and tangos, "That is not practical."
βΊ Roksana Voronin βΊ No point going to bed tonight.
She'd headed back to her little apartment, smugly skipping the horrible Nightjar, but only washed and changed. She was tired, yes, it had been warm today and the Merlot Parlor was packed, but she knew there was no point going to bed.
A little later than expected, the gunshots began. She could hear them in the distance from her window seat, with the shutters open. She'd washed her hair and it was hanging limp and dark on her square back. She'd had to wash it, it had been days, and splashing out for the money for warm water wasn't fun, but it had felt good, and it woke her up enough to listen. Undressing at all these days was a luxury, and though it was a little embarrassing, she liked to spend as much time as possible between outfits, letting her skin be touched by gentle air for once instead of rough, scratchy wool. She stayed well and truly ducked down behind the window box though.
It wasn't all gunshots she heard on the docks. Once, there was a brilliant white flash and then, a deep boom. Hopefully she wouldn't be expected to clean that up, but knowing her luck, they'd roll in with half their faces missing and expect to be right as rain by morning. Amateurs.
She headed for the awful bar while the shots still rang out. She didn't want to run into any of them in the streets, that wasn't the deal she'd made. When she got to the bar, she swallowed her disgust and found a seat near the back, a high stool that took her normally short little legs high off the ground. They dangled, her only pair of boots looking ridiculously large on her feet as they hung suspended in midair. She was wearing one of her nicer dresses, and she wasn't sure why. Maybe because this terrible, rotten hole was always full of beautiful people and she was jealous. Or maybe because she was sick of looking frumpy. Maybe it was a power play, to make her feel better.
It was a white thing, sleeveless for once, and with a lower cut then she would've thought was legal back home, but here was notably encouraged. It was cute enough, but the boots kind of ruined it.
Her hair was still a little bit damp when they came in, and there were water droplets on her bare shoulders, soaking the yellowing lace collar and clinging it to her skin.
She knew them by face and name, but most of them wouldn't know her. There was the magpie, that loud mouth second in command who was always so rude to her, the Shu girl with the sword who kept smiling at weird times, the spider who never took anything seriously, the only other Ravkan she knew here who was far too violent, the seedy dancer boy, and the big mountain of a man who was so stupid she wondered how to moved at all. And of course, there was Hart Vikhrov.
This place was packed but people seemed to part around him, and he moved effortlessly. Roksanna hated that. She stayed on her seat, holding a nearly empty glass, waiting for him to look up and spot her. He was hurt. She could tell from here, without speaking or touching. She may have known because it was him, and she knew his body so well by this point, or perhaps all this practise was sharpening her senses. Either way, she wouldn't be sent home early tonight.
When he eventually saw her, she held eye contact for a bit and then dropped off her chair, leaving her glass behind her, and headed for a dark little door down the back.
She didn't know what this room was for originally, and she didn't want to know, but as of now, it had a lock on the inside, a chair, a table, a basin of water, clean towels and a chaise longue. It must be someone who works here's job to fix this room up whenever it's needed, don't they ask questions? Or, like everyone else in this putrid city, would they shut up and do anything for the money?
Like you? A voice whispered to her. The voices in her head could be real jerks. She sat on the chair opposite the chaise longue and waited. Some times he worked the room, made sure everyone had seen his face, sometimes he came straight here. She didn't care. She just studied the round rug on the floor, and the old lampshade that hung above her. At least it was cooler in here then at the bar.
Roksanna sighed and leaned back, tilted her head and neck over the back of her chair, fighting off tiredness. The little dress she was wearing stretched tight around her chest and rode further on her legs, which were covered in stubbly blonde hairs, was she was outgrowing it already? Orrrrr was it so cheap it had shrunk in the one wash she'd given it? She thought of dark thunder and hated this cheap city, from its crooked buildings to its cheap dresses.
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Post by carmine. on Aug 29, 2017 11:24:04 GMT -5
( sounds great! i already like maryse haha by the way i'm super sorry but i'll most likely be absent for three or so days after this because of a group trip so i may only be able to chat if i'm able to sneak on my phone at night without fainting we have to hike for 4hours. someone save all of us we're not used to hiking for that long also i'm sorry for hart's shorter reply; he's the last one i write and it's so late by the time i start his that i'm half asleep ) Rafael Edkaird
The Corona was far from what heβd been used to. Different for certain from the days when heβd eaten his meals out of a silver bowl, something that he, in his mind, had never regarded as something prestigious. It was simply an object, something that could be destroyed in a matter of minutes with a molten pool of sizzling ember. Heβd be woken by the servants before the sun rose, brushed and groomed like a kitty pet (a very sleepy and half-grumpy kitty pet) until he was considered presentable to the many guests and teachers who would visit the following hours.
Straighten your shoulders, balance the book, eat with the right utensils, keep your posture graceful. Rafael had a suspicion that itβd been worse for him specifically because his features possessed something feminine as did his physique, something that his father regarded with a critical and scornful eye. Perhaps youβll do better in a corset, their second eldest brother had said when theyβd been at the ripe age of thirteen. Heβd always been something of aβ¦ well, a jerk, to be put mildly. It was why heβd favoured his other siblings, and theyβd treated him fairly well. Heβd often been dragged off to be βmade overβ by his older and younger sisters, though, as a result of their close companionship. Thatβd been fun.
Parties in their home had flowed with yellow music and huge, vibrant dresses of all kind, and all heβd been able to hear against the smooth, polished floor had been the joyous clicks and clacks of heels from the prancing, colourful silhouettes before his very own eyes.
Socialize, their father had commanded, but heβd pretended not to hear and sat on one of the velvet chairs with his chin propped against his thin and pale hand, his eyebrows lazily raised in boredom. Youβre surely to be happy, heβd heard often. Yes, he should have been happy. Keyword: should. But for some reason he couldnβt fathom, he wasnβt. Why, he could not understand β he had a family, a place to sleep, a roof over his head, a surplus of food, and a warm bath to look forward to. Yet there he usually sat sullenly, eyeing the others with a blank eye.
The colors and the music were both certainly enchanting β he did appreciate every little detail of every corner and the lively atmosphere that others seemed to sink into as if they were intoxicated, but this was, heβd thought to himself at the time, a life that he did not desire. It was so restricted. The walls around his home were just like the unspoken transparent rules that locked him in a small universe that did not forgive outsiders. The world itself was like a house that never let anyone in, but once it did, it never let them go back out. On the surface, they flourished. Internally, they perished. Political ties and entangled relationships and deals were inescapable, and it was a fate that had been pushed on his shoulders the moment his father had suddenly announced his arranged marriage. What an indulgent facade it all was. βTheyβ seethed at each other yet only became one when they regarded the βcommon folkβ as they put it. The paupers and the poor.
Difference, heβd come to realise, was far from what heβd been imagining to be before heβd seen The Corona. It was ruggedly charming with a loudness to it that made his ears and head ring at times, but he paid no attention to it. There was an untamed atmosphere to it and something was unruly yet fashioned about just how wild and free it was. Freedom. Something heβd envied about the doves who flew over their garden, oblivious to the tangled society underneath its little wings.
The spider couldnβt help but grin a little sheepishly and apologetically when the drunk people bumbled away after Zamirβs minuscule outburst about the fire, looking confused at why theyβd ever even stood in the first place. βNice thinking,β he said as he sat on the seat as well, sinking into the velvet with a small appreciative sigh. He wasnβt going to lie, he wasnβt in the greatest shape at the moment (his side still felt as if stones had been rubbed into his skin, which wasnβt all that wrong), and his legs had admittedly been just a little tired from all the running and climbing and jumping. At least now, he was sitting down next to the actor with a drink in his hand. He did dream of moving away and living somewhere tranquil β somewhere open with lots of trees and maybe even near a lake. Tipping his head to the side with his glass raised in the air as well with one leg crossed over the other, the corner of his lips tugged upwards just the slightest bit. βI couldnβt have said it any better.β
God, the atmosphere and the wine felt good. It wasnβt the taste that mattered (heβd hated it when heβd still been living beneath the oppressing rule of his father) but the wholeβ¦ thing. The accomplishment of a mission well done, the realisation that no one had been killed and that they were all alive. Some a little bruised, but still, alive. For some reason, the alcohol seemed to clear his vision better than when he hadnβt touched it before. Resting the back of his head against the top of the couch, the spider let a small laugh escape his lips. βWell, letβs just make sure not to grow up to be that way, hm?β
It was then the music started (ah, the piano. The instrument that had gotten him the scar across his back in the first place, though he did still love the instrument and its lovely sound), and with his head still resting against the top of the plush couch, Rafael closed his eyes. He wasnβt going to deny that he was feeling tired, but he wasnβt going to let that get in the way, either. βIβd ask β... Iβd ask someone to dance, but Iβm dead tired. My feet feel like theyβre about to fall off. What a waste of a good night,β he sighed while looking at the high ceiling, his lips curving subtly. His gaze reflected the warm glowing lights of The Corona. βSitting down and taking a drink while taking some time isnβt all that bad, though. And I agree with you there.β Turning his head around (without lifting himself up because he was a little bit lazy for that), he watched Killian with gentle amusement. βYouβre not going to dance, either?β
Zera Zeddrid
"You'd toss us over, Zera? In favour of a nap? I thought Ravkans were meant to be good drinkers. I am hurt, hurt and offended and I almost caught fire tonight.β Zera almost rolled her eyes. Almost. But, she had to admit that there was some sort of amusement that flashed past her head at her second-in-commandβs response, and she nonchalantly rested her hand on her hip. βNaps are important for me, Lifen,β she simply stated as she made her way through, following the gang in The Corona. βIβm sure youβve seen what happens to those who disturb me from them.β
What? Anyone who disturbed naps were evil, and she had the right to⦠well, never mind. "As for the fire... It hasn't been once or twice that you've almost burnt yourself or Hart or even myself, now, has it?"
The noise was demanding. Not many things bothered Zera (she was barely fazed by anything β at least, she remained composed and stoic during most situations), and noise wasnβt one of them. It was, however, the amount of people gathered together that touched her nerves just a little, though she would never outwardly admit it. No one knew when anyone was holding a gun or a knife β for heavenβs sake there could be a person standing next to you and you wouldnβt see it coming. It was specifically why she preferred staying behind something or standing at a slightly higher level than a crowd β because she could see everything. Perhaps it was the reason for why she was not too fond of standing too close to several individuals all at once.
The overflowing human current was busy as always, washing over The Corona and erasing any specks of its floor, and she could barely see which outline of a silhouette belonged to which figure or face. Rubbing her hand over her face and shaking her head to the side, Zera briskly (as nonchalantly as possible) made her way to the highest area she could manage to find herself in, but only after she caught Shu heading back out. βYouβre leaving so soon?β She followed Shu's gaze, which landed on her barefoot. βRight. You donβt need someone to take you back toβ¦?β
Shuβs lips seemed to curve at this as she raised her hand before she left as a small signal of farewell. βThatβs all right, Zera. Thank you. If I donβt return, it most likely means Iβve passed out.β
There was something else she spotted as she watched the swords woman leave, and she leaned her arms against the desk as she looked down to see Lifen sweeping through the customers and briefly interact with Maryse. βHmm,β she only hummed thoughtfully as she took another drink before sweeping her gaze over to another familiar individual: Roksana.
Following the short femaleβs gaze, she found herself staring at Hart, who seemed to move effortlessly through the crowd as if he were a shark in the midst of a large school of fish. The crowd, no matter what they had been doing previously (ugh, she didnβt even want to think about what some of them were up to in all the hectic franticness of the night), seemed to vaporise the moment Vikhrov took a step forward. Over his face, a professional mask lay, and she saw him leaning down a little to listen to whatever a customer had to say before responding with a smile she'd never seen him wear in front of herself or Lifen or any of those who stuck with him a little closer for that matter. The man knew how to be sweet when he wanted to be, duplicitous dastard. His attention shifted from the customer to a staff member who approached him, and she saw him speak with an expression of calm reassurance before swivelling around, excusing himself with an apologetic arch of his eyebrows.
βIβll be taking this,β she said as she deftly picked up a filled glass that looked untouched from the chaos occurring all around herself. Taking a swing from the glass, she allowed her shoulders to relax and eye the rest of the lively dancing and prancing of the people and staff as they busily moved around. What a night it was.
Shu Hart Vikhrov
The burn only seemed to get worse and worse, though he grit his teeth and pleasantly tipped his head to the side when a few individuals approached him. Oh, that was all fine. He'd dealt with far worse before, and this barely could be considered as an injury; it was more like a little scratch by this point in time. Itβd take a while for him to be completely fazed over a wound.
A few seconds before, heβd momentarily sighted Roksana whoβd been sitting on a seat too high for her with a nearly empty glass sitting in her hand. Sheβd disappeared after that, like a tough bird vanishing in the midst of branches and leaves, though he didnβt have to see where she had trailed off to because he already understood where sheβd gone. The short and broad girl was a bit of a mystery for him, though all he could grasp from her persona was the fact that there was an air of defiance to her, and that she was rather no-nonsense. Something about her seemedβ¦ was it wrong if he said she seemed constantly tired? In that perspective, she reminded him of Zera β only the two possessed very, very different vibes and personality characteristics from each other. They were all fighters, all the people in The Styx in their own ways.
βYouβve come such a long way, I see,β he said, half-paying attention to the younger, doe-eyed girl in front of himself and trying to half-ignore the thin, narrow-eyed, older woman standing next to her. If looks could kill, he was certain she wouldβve murdered him for talking with who he could only assume to be her granddaughter or family of some sort. What a place to visit at this hour. βI hope that The Corona may live up to your expectation, love.β A few others surged forward, and he stopped, listening to each of their little stories or their disappointments or surprises.
Oh, you should listen to what Henry did the other day β
βYes, Iβve heard. That mustβve been tough to deal withββ
Have you heard of β
βThe sudden movement of The Red Vipersββ
Do you happen to know of β
Truthfully, while most individuals seemed to jump to the conclusion that he disliked conversing with others from all across the globe, he did. It was strange and even he admitted that it didnβt fit in with his persona as a whole, but it was something that he didnβt mind doing, even if he was a little weary from the dayβs toil. The trait had existed even back then when heβd been involved with the Rivera. Thinking about that group made him almost drop his smile, though he simply remained as he was before, taking the small, surging crowds of people with deft ease and politeness.
βApologies,β he finally said when he managed to enter the room, letting his orbs quickly eye the round rug and the old lampshade that hung above Roksana. βHave you waited for long?β
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Post by Deleted on Sept 2, 2017 10:08:04 GMT -5
it's fine that you're going to be gone, bc so am I lol
school is back and life is awful ;-; I'll try to reply soon!)
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Post by Deleted on Sept 2, 2017 11:42:43 GMT -5
i'll never be over little rafael all done up in skirts and makeup omg boy just keeps getting cuter) β¦Β Zamir NejenΒ β¦ andΒ β© Killian ManusΒ β© "There'll be other nights for dancing, pudding." Zamir promised, lazily tiltingΒ back his head and closing his eyes, lettingΒ his hand flop down onto Rafael's soft hair, "Tonight is for Not Dying, and I think we did pretty well for ourselves." When he opened his eyes again, he glanced around the swirlingΒ chaosΒ of the bar, taking in the swirling dresses of dancing ladies and the drunken singing of anyone who even faintlyΒ recognized the tune of the song being played. Seems like they all knew a different version because very few people were insync, though popular opinion seemed to declareΒ the song was about a very beautiful girl who lived by the sea. Why do all bar songs end up being about a beautiful girl who lived by the sea? Is it the same girl? How beautiful is she? He took another drink and discovered he didn't actually care.
His odd coloured gaze flicked back to the table, somewhere along the way they'd lost more people here than they had at the docks. Zamir let his hand come off Rafael and back onto the seat behind him, tryingΒ to figure out where everyone had gone. He knew Lifen was off getting drunk and serving drunks somewhere, but Shu had vanished and although he thought he saw Zera's pale hair in the crowd, he wasn't sure. As for Hart, he always seemed to peel off after a fight. Zamir didn't know where or why, or if he was just imagining things, so he didn't ask any questions. When you're building an empire, you probably have some things you rather do in private.Β
In short, their own table seemed to be populated by himself, the sleepy Rafael and the big ginger mute. What a party. He took another, longer drink fromΒ his glassΒ and set it down empty. Killian's sat untouched and uncomfortable, so Zamir did the noble thing and relinquished him off it. He watched the dancers on the floor, raising one thing eyebrow in contempt, "Why does everyone here dance like that?" He muttered, gesturing to them with his arm, "That's not dancing, their feet are so loud you can barely hearΒ the music."
He knew eight year olds in travelling circuses who could put these grown ups to shame, though judging by the amountΒ of empty glasses, they may not know what a child was if one approached them. They may just assume it's a goblin.
xx
Rafael's words broughtΒ him back to the present and he blinked, not used to finding himself having two conversations withΒ the same person in one night. Β "Oh, um, no." He shook his head after a pause, "I am not very good at it."
"There's a surprise." He heard Nejen snort Β across the table, as he got stuck into his fresh glass of wine (Killian's glass, but he didn't bother getting angry. He wasn't going to drinkΒ it anyway.)
Killian had danced a few times in the past, but never out of his own free will. Town halls were often done up in festive lightsΒ and banners at the turn of each season back home, and dances would be held for all ages. The ones for preteens was a nightmare.
Sometimes he could wriggle out of them by feigningΒ sickness, or insistingΒ he needed to watch the sheep that night because someone had put a hole in the fence, but most of the time he was stuffed into his 'good' clothes and marched to the hall along with every other poor child on the Wandering Isle. He could've gotten out of it if he'd started crying, but he didn't like manipulating his mother like that, and he certainly didn't like the way her husband rolled his eyes and sneered either. He liked the music, and he liked the free food, but even as an 11 year old Killian had been roughly the size and weight of a young adult cow. He wasn't as toned, so his weight just sort of fell off of him, and although in a few years it'd be a mark of envy, having an afternoon shadow at 11 was humiliating. Needless to say, there was not a line of kids waiting to dance with him.Β
Those things were nothing short of a popularityΒ contest and although he spoke more then then he did now, Killian wasn't winning any gold stars with his peers, and he just watched the people everyone already loved be loved even more. Summoning as much courage as physicallyΒ possible, and not wanting to return home and tell his mother he stood in a corner for four hours, Killian did try to ask a few girls to dance once, as theyΒ were much friendlier then the boys. Β Mostly.
They mainly found polite (or not so polite) reasons to weasel out of it, but one girl had said yes. Juxtaposed to Killian,Β Aoibheann O'Sullivan was born prematurely, and had a similair build to a newly hatched sparrow. She was only four foot one, sat down a lot to catch her breath, and needed very thick glasses. Her whole face lit up when she was asked to dance.Β
For a little while, it went alright. They'd never spoken before so they had a lot to catch up on, and Killian didn't mind having to slightly bend his knees to look her in her magnified eyes. That was as far as Killian's romantic career progressedΒ for a number of years and it ended with him standing on her foot by accident and breaking two of her toes. Looks like her bones were as fragile as the restΒ of her. For a whole year,Β Aoibheann avoided Killian like the plague, and never really got over her limb. He didn't go the dance next time it came around.Β
In the present, he gave a soft defence under his breath to Nejen's scoff, "I'd probablyΒ be better at it if I had to do it for a living." Β He wasn't certain if the other man heard him properly, but the girn on his face vanished into thin air. He opened his mouth to speakΒ and Killian did the dangerous maneuverΒ of cutting him off, addressingΒ Edkaird instead, "Do you dance much?" Something about Rafael suggested he did, he wasn't quite likeΒ the others here, he was sort of softer. It was easy to imagine him in a ballroom, or on a stage. Just something about him.Β She snapped her head forward but didn't sit up when the door opened and His Majesty came in, "No. Just been up all night." Roksana leaned forward in her chair then, tugging the edgeΒ of her dress back down, annoyed with how it was never the right length at either end. "ComeΒ on, shirt off." She instructed, waving a hand at him.Β
At first, she hadn't been too sure of this arrangement, there was no proof to deem Hart trustworthy, but by now it felt likeΒ clockwork. She no longer straed at bullet holes and lacerations like they were aliens, she knew them well, knew how they felt under her fingers, and how they meshed togetherΒ inside the body. If she were the type to look at this positively, she'd at leastΒ say this was good experience.Β
Waiting for Hart to get ready on the long chair, she dipped her hands in the bowlΒ of water, cleaning them off, the permanentΒ polish stains glaring up at her all the same, "Judging by the mood out there," She nodded to the door with her head, "And the fact you all came back, "I'm guessing the evening was a success?" Her tone suggested she found nothing more boring, and was asking out of formalityΒ alone, as there was nothing else she would be willing to talk about to this dual sided man.Β
A burn. Maybe. These days, she liked to try and guess how he'd been injured before she saw it. He was moving stiffly, and seemed tenseΒ aroundΒ his eyes, a burn hurt more then a cut did in the long term.
Sure it helped her 'get ready', but it was also a little test of her own observational skills. The reason Roksanna hid her status as a grisha, whilst others flaunted it, was due to her abilities. She couldn't protect herself like a Tidemaker or a Squaller could. She had a different set of skills. Roksanna crossed the tiny room and slid the bolt across the door to eliminate any unwanted company.Β
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Post by carmine. on Sept 4, 2017 11:03:29 GMT -5
dude ngb take all the time you need! i understand man school is :x i hope that life gets better for you soon
he probably had heels on too haha
it's super late here so i gotta go now but i'll try and get something up as soon as i can ;; super sorry about my slow replies )
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Post by Deleted on Sept 5, 2017 10:34:52 GMT -5
it's fine!! school is back and there is no joy in anything anymore ;-; i understand)
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Post by carmine. on Sept 8, 2017 11:28:43 GMT -5
thank you!! school definitely is a killjoy :/// i'm so sorry for not being able to upload something sooner i'm slowly typing something out bit by bit
hopefully i'll finish typing this up soon i'll try and get it up after i sleep x-x )
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Post by carmine. on Sept 10, 2017 2:09:52 GMT -5
Rafael Edkaird
How long had it been since someone had rested their hand on his head? He supposed itβd been too long - even his family had avoided using the gesture (his sisters had been a special exception) because itβd necessitated consequences of being unprofessional, erratic, and overly casual. And believe it or not, it seemed that most people in the crooked streets of Ketterdamn were a little more hesitant to show affection openly, understandably so. Even Hart, as jocose and relaxed as he could be at times, avoided actual physical contact for most of the time with the rare exceptional circumstances. Rafael didnβt think heβd imagined the quiet light of affection in the externally ruthless nightingale of the Barrel. An idiosyncratic individual, that Vikhrov. Then again, he supposed that all of them were, especially in the eyes of the outliers of Kerch. Or perhaps they were the outliers, in this case.
βYou mean we did well just as usual?β He said as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back in the seat, letting memories of the hectic night wash over. The corners of his lips tugged just a little as he also allowed the yellow music and chaotic noise of the bar burst all around them. He didnβt even have to be watching the crowd to see the lavish dances and costumes and colors that they provided for the eye. He could see the flamboyant swishes of wrists coming from the women who were beckoning their friends or newly made acquaintances over and the rapid rap of fingers against the keyboards. Usually the notes were supposed to be pressed with a certain poise to the hands, held up prim and proper as if to balance an egg precariously, but some rules were meant to be broken in the Iron Signet. Here, no one cared how you played as long as a song was being heard.
Stifling a yawn, the spider did his best to hide the twinge of disappointment he felt when Zamir moved his hand to the seat behind him and stopped himself from rubbing his eyes. He didnβt want to appear to be too weary for the time being, after all. This was a time of small celebration and relaxation, not something that should be driven down by sleep. Gods, he was looking forward to seeing his bed, though. These days, with the amount of toil that was keeping him out of the Nightjar for long periods of time, getting the chance to lie down was one of the best things to look forward to.
Why does everyone here dance like that? He heard from his side and opened his eyes to look at the odd-hued eyes of Zamir. In his (humble) perspective, they appeared to be almost jewelled from the anomalous lights illuminating their surrounding. Surveying the reality illustrated before himself which came in a mixture of vibrant colors and dramatic movements, Rafael couldnβt help but feel his lips form a small smile. He couldnβt exactly deny what Zamir was saying, because half of the orchestrated music did come from the inconsistent and whimsical stomps of the feet. That and his little sister would most likely be able to put these adults in their places, but the way they danced differed from that of his family to the degree he almost couldnβt compare them side by side. βI think itβs fine,β he said with his softened gaze still resting on the flurry of movement all around them. βTheir way of dancing, I mean. I think itβs charming.β
His attention was then pulled away from Zamir and half-focused on (half-focused only because he was rather drowsy and there was so much entropy around them that it was difficult to concentrate on one thing) Killian when the gentle giant spoke. And then Zamirβ¦ Thereβs a surprise. Oh, dear. He didnβt think he was imagining the tension between the two dynamic individuals thatβd existed for some time now; it hadnβt gone unnoticed by him when theyβd all been heading down to the docks to face the White Crows, either. Iβd probably be better at it if I had to do it for a living. Oh, no x2.
In a way, the tension that seemed to dully pulse in the air between the two reminded him of his own family and some of the tangled relationships thatβd blossomed between certain individuals as their gears had clashed against each other, evidently incompatible. The spider was about to say something (he wasnβt sure how, but alleviating the atmosphere was something that he seemed to be able to do by the looks of how things rolled in some circumstances), but Killian beat him to it, and he was left feeling a small twinge of relief at the inquiry, yet something sharply contrasting relief all the same. If there was one thing Rafael didnβt do, it was cutting anyone off in the Barrel after such a bold statement.
βActually, I do,β the spider said with a slow roll of his head (it was scary how loud the bones in his neck popped sometimes) before he rubbed the back of his neck. He grinned a bit sheepishly. βI know I probably donβt look like the kind of person who dances a lot, but when I was still living with my family, learning how to do it accordingly was a requirement.β He decided to leave out the fact that he was able to eloquently dance the part that typically females would play in a dance such as the one heβd been required to learn, courtesy to his older sisters and their mulish mischief. βI prefer this atmosphere, though. Back in that place, it was too uptight. Too many rules and proper steps to memorise.β
He raked his hand through his hair just to try and keep his eyes from dropping, though already his vision was slowly blurring, his world tipping in slow motion. It was as if a weight were pressing down on his eyelids and no matter how much he squinted or blinked to keep them open, they were adamant about closing. So, stretching his arms like a cat with a half-completed yawn, the smaller member of the Styx shifted himself and gently fell back so that he was lying down, supporting the back of his head using Zamir. Looking up at the old ceiling, he exhaled quietly underneath his breath. βSaints, I have so much work to do tomorrow,β he murmured underneath his breath as an image of Hartβs rather malicious face (well, he looked evil at that very moment he was giving him a heap of work, anyway) flickered past his mind. βDid you both say that you have the day off tomorrow?β And then he added non-seriously, not expecting a serious answer to his inquiry: "Anyone want to help me with all the things his highness pushed onto me?"
Hart Vikhrov
Normally, if he were himself, he wouldβve teased Roksana or said some kind of retort that wouldβve bordered on the line of being non-serious, perhaps even casual. But for the time being, with the knowledge that their last agenda had been completed for the day, he was too tired to think - not to mention itβd been a little difficult smiling pleasantly for the people outside whoβd conversed with him before heβd escaped their own little reports about their own days or of the weather. Holding conversations was never too much of an easy thing, especially during the time when all he wanted to do was sit down somewhere and exhale a long, long sigh (maybe add in a little facepalm, too). And besides, if he said something wrong or he slipped over a detail or lost focus of what some of the ladies were saying (or gossiping) they never seemed to let him rest afterward for his forgetfulness, and saints forbid that from happening ever again. It hadnβt been once or twice since Lifen or Shu had had to save him from those conversations back in the day when heβd still been adjusting to a new, less synthetic mask, one that was much more smoother and tolerant and clement than that of his past.
In any case, knowing that everyone was alive - including Voronin, even if she hadnβt been necessarily working alongside them outside on the docks, as long as she was a part of the Styx, there was always the chance that something could happen - was as if a huge weight had been unburdened from his shoulders. Even so, he was more than aware that by the time he opened his eyes and a string of the dawnβs dim, dark blue light would slant through the window to his room, thereβd be something new waiting for him, and itβd be a redundant day all over gain. That and heβd never openly admit that the knowledge of their wellbeing brought a significant amount of relief; he was certain that if someone were to find out, they would understandably scoff in disbelief and brush the notion off. He paused with the tips of his lock pickβs fingers lightly resting on the buttons of his coat, his one hazel brown eye narrowed just the slightest bit.
That was fine with him. The more people believed he was pernicious exactly as the rumours running down the streets of Ketterdamn said, the better. Stripping out of his coat and shirt without seemingly giving a second thought, he tossed the articles of clothing to the side, giving a rather generous (and maybe unfortunate) view of his back. Quite a few scars and closed bullet wounds decorated his skin, some engraved across his shoulder and right flank, but there were two apparent, specific, and deliberately received markings that could be spotted - the Styxsβ tattoo on his shoulder and, far down below it, over his waist, a complex, compacted marking with a circle, two wolves, and a large, coiling serpent. As far as he knew and made certain to keep, Roksana was the first and last individual to have seen them.
Hopefully, she didnβt mind too much and didnβt take it personally - the fact that he was almost indifferent when he shrugged off his shirt as if he werenβt taking her presence into account, that was. When heβd first heard of her status, heβd been surprised. No, not the fact that she was grisha, necessarily, but rather the fact that sheβd decided to entrust him with the hidden knowledge. He was certain he didnβt exactly come off as one of the most trustworthy individuals of Kerch, so itβd bemused him, no matter what her reason for choosing the decision sheβd made had been. There mustβve been a dire reason for her to have told something as valuable and life-risking as this. So, this whole on his side wasβ¦ well, sort of a secret for a secret (although he also supposed that he didn't really have much of a choice; she was the expert here, and he wasnβt one to go against her words when it came to this part of their arrangement).
βI suppose you could say that,β he said as he loosened his hair from its loose tail, letting his dark locks fall over his face freely. Between those locks that were now scattered across his face, it wasnβt impossible to spot hints and little portions of the ugly, marred scar that ran down his skin that stopped just before its ruined edge could touch his jawline. He smiled just a little upon hearing her tone. βWeβre not dead. Surely that counts as something.β He liked to think he was familiar with her comments and her mannerisms when he was alone with her like this, and for some odd reason the thought amused him to some degree, despite the sharp strain that continued to pull at his side. Saints, had he broken a rib or something? He remembered that one rumour had said that he was immune to pain - a monster with the face of a human and a knife in its wired hand. Oh, and how he wished he was.
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Post by carmine. on Sept 10, 2017 2:13:49 GMT -5
finally done!
man oh man that too way too long to complete
sorry again for how slow that took :// )
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Post by Deleted on Sept 13, 2017 10:27:43 GMT -5
no prob man!! i probs wouldn't be able to get anything posted for another day or two so it's really no big rush ~
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Post by carmine. on Sept 13, 2017 10:35:10 GMT -5
thanks saph ;)
take all the time you need
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Post by Deleted on Sept 18, 2017 11:34:08 GMT -5
β¦ Zamir Nejen β¦ and β© Killian Manus β© Typically, Zamir didn't consider fighting someone much larger than him, it wasn't really his style, but even if Killian was a hundred pounds heavier and a whole foot taller, he'd better watch himself.
The actor sat, hunched and glowering, too tired to start something and too slow to get in before the large ginger lump had managed to maneuver the conversation back to neutral ground. It wasn't the most insulting thing that had ever been said ot him, in fact, it was barely an insult at all, but everyone was exhausted and tense. They may've won their fight, but it didn't come for free.
βI know I probably donβt look like the kind of person who dances a lot,"
Doing his best to simultaneously shot evil glares across the table at Killian whilst also completing ignoring him, Zamir decided instead to listen to what Rafael had to say. The Spider was built for his job alright, lithe and deft, but he could just as easily see him take to the dance floor as he could to the fighting arena.
"Back in that place,"
Zamir didn't pretend to know everything about Rafael's old life, but he did tend to fill in the blanks form what he did know. For instance he knew that Rafael's family was a) Rich and b) Big. He assumed it was a) Not a very happy place and b) The cause of numerous scars on Rafael's being, physical and mental. He could sympathise with a lot of those points. Maybe that was half the reason he felt a bit protective of him, a feeling the self centered lump of vanity was not used to.
The wine in Nejen's glass was swirling in a tight little spiral, mimicking the action he was making with his finger along the rim of it. He watched it go round and round, letting it die, and then picking it up again right before it came to a complete stop.
"It must have been terrible if you prefer this." His nose was wrinkled but his tone partially implied he was joking, "It's like watching foals learn how to walk. How embarrassing." He sighed in a world weary way as some man tried to lift his date for the evening and only ended up dropping them on the floor. Poor thing. "People in this city have no shame, and while I normally advocate that, right now I can see some advantages to the other side." It sounded peculiar to hear him list off long sentences because his voice was slightly slurred. He'd downed his first glass of wine relatively quickly out of relief, and was already half way through his second out of annoyance at the shape of the conversation. Zamir could hold his liquor, make no mistake about that, but tonight was a special occasion. He was already p-ed before he'd even entered the tavern.
xx
He didn't want the wine, but he missed having something to do with his hands. It was at times like this he became ultra aware of how large and awkward they were, though they weren't clumsy, at least. He was a lot of things, but careless was not one of them. Killian clasped and unclasped his hands on the table, rubbing the red marks the bronze knuckles had left gingerly and absentmindedly, listening to Edkaird speak. He had such a pleasant voice. He was Kerch, no doubt about it, but in accent only it seemed. He shared none of Vikhrov's hardness, or even Aakster's crispness, though she was only half Kerch, if his memory served him correctly (It probably didn't.)
Listening to the other man talk about his old life made Killian want to tell him about his own, about those awful dances in damp, too-large halls. The need to speak about his own home ached deeply in his chest, it was a habitual pain but still a poignant one. He opened his mouth to try, but the absolute death vibes he was getting from the other member at the table warned him that anything he said would be torn to shreds, and he closed it, silently mourning the opportunity to connect with someone.
In responce to his question, Killian nodded his head, "I'm not doing nothing." He paused, realizing he'd made some kind of mistake in his syntax, but was unable to identity it. After what felt like an eternity, he simply said instead, "I am free."
At least Nefen was too far into his cups to pick up on his mistake, though that did nothing to help the return of the horrible blush across his face. Abashed, he turned to look back at the dancers, just as someone appeared to have broken their nose from being dropped face first onto the wooden floor boards. Back home, this would be enough to kill the mood, but the nose-breakee was up on their feet in seconds, wiping the blood off with their sleeve. Aakster appeared out of the ether like a phantom and passed a wet compress to the unfortunate, but smiling, dancer. Somewhere along the way, it seemed the demo expert had discarded her destroyed blazer, rolled up her shirt sleeves past her elbows, and gained at least two love bites on her neck. When?? They'd only been here for about twenty minutes.The people here were nuts.
Across the table, Nejen answered the Spider himself, though it looked like the wine was kicking in, "It'd be my greatest pleasure, muffin. But I'm afraid I shan't be up before at least noon." That was a generous statement. Nervously licking his lips a little, feeling the rough bumps on one side where he was slightly scarred, Killian chimed in, "I am free all day." almost cutting Nejen off.
He knew it wasn't clever, to be trying to one-up him when they were all tired and he was drunk, but Killian felt bitterly cheated out of a conversation about his own home life due to the evils Nejen was radiating, and it was honestly a little bit exciting to pull at someone's nerves. He'd been meek and apologetic for a year now. He wasn't even being overtly cheeky, perhaps Nejen hadn't caught it, but this little bit of speaking felt so good, like he was stretching his legs after being cramped into a small box.
Oh, no, Nejen had definitely caught it, because that odd coloured gaze was trained right at him again and it was boiling. It really didn't take much to annoy this guy, did it? Nothing had even happened, the little talking they'd done had been the bare bones of a proper conversation, but the tension was tangible somehow. She huffed, crossing her strong little arms across her chest, waiting for him to get ready as he let his hair down. It needed a good brushing. Her own damp hair looked dark in this light and she felt a bit of a chill, but didn't complain. The Voronins were not whingers.
They also weren't voyeurs, and she turned, flustered, staring at the corner of the room as Hart undressed. It was stupid to get worked up over this for two reasons; One was that she saw a lot of people in some sort of undress, she was a Healer, it was what she did and two, it was just his back, for Saints' sake. She actually knew it quite well by now. A first, the cacophony of scars had been quite alarming, but the months had desensitized her. As far as Ketterdamn standards, he wasn't actually that bad. His face was another matter, but even it being the way it was, it wasn't that bad either. Not that she stared. Because she didn't.
Snapping her thoughts back to the present, "You're going to wish you were dead if you opened that wound in your abdomen." She warned darkly through gritted teeth, forgetting the corner and doing her damndest to glare a hole through the back of his broad shoulders. The last time he'd come to see her he'd basically brought his intestines dragging along behind him. Sealing that up at been a few days work, and it was some of her finest. She felt a tinge of relief and pride when she crossed the room, pushing her foolish self consciousness to the side, and checked to see, only to find the wound in tact, a barely raised white line. Gently, she ran her fingers over it, checking for weaknesses, feeling the blood pump under his skin. It wasn't a fresh wound, and she'd done her best, but it had been a serious injury, the kind that he may be feeling every now and again for a long time. For now, however, it was in good condition. "You're lucky." Roksanna took her hand back, "I wouldn't fix that twice you know. If you ever split the skin there, I'll turn your eyeballs inside out." She said that about everything, but this time it sounded like she meant it.
Suddenly conscious that they were both just standing there, and that she had to tilt her head right back to look at his eye instead of straight into his chest, she pointed at the long chair, "Go on, sit down already. You'll catch your death in the cold in here."
Going by the way he was moving, she'd guess cracked rib. Maybe some bad internal bruising. There was a redness to the skin, almost like he'd been burnt, but working up close and personal with bombs would do that to a person. She followed him over, barely having to bend down at all to get in close.
Running her fingers along his side once again, she did it so lightly this time that she was barely touching him, but her pale eyes were narrowed in concentration, feeling for the problem, "You've hurt the bone somewhere," She murmured, not taking her eyes off a square inch of skin that was slowly getting smaller as she narrowed in on the problem, "May've chipped a rib. Do you remember what happened here in particular?"
Although she thought she was 100% focused on the matter at hand, she must've only been 98% focused on the actual wound, because some part of her mind answered her earlier query as to why she would've felt embarrassed here when she'd seen so many bodies in her own time, and that was because Hart was in really good shape.
Back home, in her little village, she took care of all the ailments she could, from farm hands to retired soldiers, but they were village folk. Typically scrawny, or lean, and normally fairly dirty. Not out of being uncivilized, but because they worked in fields and farms all day, and no one stopped to bathe before running to the medic if they accidently put a nail through their thumb.
Hart was a city businessman in a rough vocation and he presented himself as such. He was clean, firm, and defined. Before Ketterdamn she'd never seen a gun wound before, but she'd also never seen someone in proper shape. FOCUS. She was meant to be a professional herself after all and Hart, for all his waxing and waning, was an injured patient who needed her attention. He was tight around the eye, clearly in some degree of pain from moving alone, "I don't think the rib is cracked, but it took a real blow." |
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Post by carmine. on Sept 21, 2017 12:15:55 GMT -5
Rafael Edkaird
He hadnβt walked back in here expecting an air of thick tension that almost seemed tangible in its current state; heβd been thinking more along the lines of a long drink, lots of dancing, bad jokes, and maybe some air to breathe outside. But it was here, and he found himself sinking down in the couch a little more, though it wasnβt exactly discomfort that flowed over him. This wasnβt the first time the two had been at each other, after all, and heβd often found himself in between the hostile friction of some of his siblings back home, specifically his younger brothers. Rubbing his hand over his face, he looked up at the dark ceiling and found himself silently praying, Dear Lizzy, how do you keep two individuals from tearing each other apart, again? The image of a young woman with ebullient amber-brown eyes and a naturally sanguine face, similar to his own, emerged in his head, and he found the corner of his lip tugging upwards regardless of the situation that was currently occurring. Pulling a portion of his hair behind his head, he raised himself gingerly (he was still a little battered, after all, and he had a sneaking feeling that the bruises heβd earned over the docks wouldnβt disappear any time soon) so that he could tie those locks up while he let the rest of his hair fall just a little past his chin. Sheβd always been the best when it came to alleviating any tension in the air when it came to situations like these as well as Edgar, whoβd been a bit of a flirt. Scratch that, he hadnβt been just any flirt, heβd been a big flirt, and itβd almost gotten him killed all by the hands of three fearsomely strong ladies.
Rubbing the back of his neck, still slouched on the couch, he allowed a small smile to form upon his lips. βIt wasnβt all that bad,β he answered as he took a drink from his own cup, raising his glass and watching the dark substance swirl like a minuscule twister with only one eye, as if squinting would help him find something that he hadnβt been able to realise before. Instead of seeing the resemblance of an answer, however, jarringly pronounced images flashed past his gaze like a clap of thunder. The shadow of a burly hand coming down; the keynotes of a piano; the glowing, glaring golden light of the stage; the two helplessly paralysed hands; the myriad of disapproving eyes; the heat of roiling anger piercing him from behind; the large words and numbers carved on cold stone. It took him a moment to realise that his hand around his glass in the current time had frozen as if it were a sector of a framed photograph, and he soon expeditiously shook his head to the side to clear his head. Holy smokes, that was weird.
βOn second thought,β he said as he gently nudged the eloquent actor, straightening himself once more. He looked like he needed a year of undisturbed hibernation, and it caused a twinge of concern to spark within his chest, albeit the small flicker of amusement that he felt upon hearing his long words slur. While he never quite said it out loud unless it was asked of him, without Zamir, he wouldnβt be here where he was now. βGet plenty of rest tomorrow and donβt worry about what I said tonight. Youβve been exerting yourself a lot lately and itβs worrying, you know. Which means,β leaning his elbow against the seat of the couch and nonchalantly crossing one leg over the other while resting his chin on his propped up hand, he spoke with a twinkle in his eyes, βYouβre coming with me tomorrow, Killian. The job his pampered highness wants completed isnβt all that complex to execute. Youβll be helping me out with a simple task during this, so thereβs no need to worry. After that, though,β he said as his softened gaze danced over to match that of the much taller and gentle fighterβs, βyou should get some rest, too. Everyone here deserves a good break after what happened tonight with the Crows.β
Whoa, whoa, hold on there, Edkaird. Since when did you become royal highness number dos? If Killian changed his mind about joining him tomorrow or didnβt wish to, that was more than all right. The spider was almost always somewhere in some situation to support, not to enforce, and he was aware of this position. Leading and bossing people around - he left those to Vikhrov and Lifen.
Speaking of their snazzy second in command, in the midst of the twirling dancers, he could see the outline of Lifen after sheβd appeared out of the mass like a phantom. She was classy as ever with her rolled up sleeves and her deft movements in between the human current. He was proud to say that their Magpie was as charming as ever. Then again, he reminded himself, in their little formation, who wasnβt? Hart, Lifen, Killian, Rossana, Shu, Zera, and Zamir all seemed to have some charisma that belonged to them, and them only.
When he glanced just a little over to the left, spotted Zera who was coolly brushing off (literally as if to push away a pesky insect) a tipsy man with one deft flick of her wrist. It seemed that sheβd also fine-tuned herself back to how she normally displayed herself, because the blood across her clothing was nowhere to be seen, and she wore a smooth black blazer over a clean white shirt that revealed a bit of her collarbones. Even her hair was slightly pushed back, different from her usual way of keeping her locks organised. Her clean fingernails drummed against the surface of the counter she was leaning against as she watched the familiar fiasco of the Iron Signetβs dance floor before her hawk-like, eyes. He thought that her two slate gray orbs reflected the calm before a storm. If he hadnβt known her, he wouldβve mistaken her for a nobleman. Or royalty. Perhaps a wealthy merchant. In any case, she wasnβt doing her work all that much, though he doubted Hart would reprimand her for it; it seemed that heβd given up on Zera to some degree.
A little to her right, he noticed Shu who was also leaning against the counter with her chin resting on her hand, her dark and short red dress a sharp contrast against her pale skin. Sheβd also been dolled up; her ragged clothes had changed, for one, and her inky hair was swirled up to reveal small silver beads wrapped around her throat. He watched briefly as she soon raised herself to pour an older woman a drink with a small quirk of the eyebrow, and he wondered what had caused her overall reaction. Only a few locks of her hair fell over her golden eyes, which seemed to glow brighter then usual. And this time she had both shoes that had changed from boots greased with rainwater and soot to dainty, sleek heels. He almost wanted to say: Shu, you have your other shoe back, but stopped himself before he could.
How had they changed so quickly, again?
And wait - Saints, were those love bites on Lifenβs neck? The spider felt heat rise to his cheeks upon closer inspection, and he quickly turned his head away to hide the blush that had crept over his features just as Killian had earlier. Okay, so he was going to pretend that he hadnβt seen those. That was one thing he hadnβt become used to seeing, after all. Not to say he was entirely virtuous, but, well, seeing them out in the plain was a bit of a different matter.
βSay, I know this steering away a little from what weβve been talking about, but do any of you have a song you like in particular? Or would like to listen to, perhaps?β He hadnβt even realised that heβd asked the question out loud Mainly because itβd been one in his head), though upon noticing that he had, he turned his affectionate gaze in their direction. βYou know - something not too somber or slow but a little on the faster and brighter side.β
Hart Vikhrov
He was about to move over to where the chair was, though he found himself glancing over his shoulder as he heard a deadly: βYou're going to wish you were dead if you opened that wound in your abdomenβ through what sounded like gritted teeth. He had a feeling of dΓ©jΓ vu here, most likely because this hadnβt been the first time he'd heard her voice tighten along with the severity of her threats. Perhaps it was a figment of his weary imagination, but he could even feel the heat of her glare penetrating his back. Was it strange of he said that he could just see her standing there with a glint in her eyes, too? If looks could kill, he imagined he would have been long dead.
But nonetheless, her warning elicited a small smile from him, and he deftly brushed a few locks of his hair over his shoulder as he said, βRoksana, love, I have a million or so wounds here. Youβd better be a little more specifi-β But stopped midway sentence when he felt her fingers gently run over the white line streaked across his skin and tensed, as if heβd been taken aback and had been knocked into a segment of his past. The tension stringing his muscles disappeared, however, just as soon as itβd been apparent, and he relaxed his shoulders upon sighting the frizzy, blonde top of Roksanaβs head. His deep-set eye then danced over to follow the exact point she was resting her fingertips against and found the raised white line. Ah, this fellow.
There were certain points in time when his memories overwhelmed him to the point he felt as if someone had pushed him back in time and he were reliving the moment. Truly reliving the moment. This white line, he knew, was one of the remnants of a job well done yet gone wrong all the same (because while the job overall had been successfully executed, he had nearly been killed and itβd been uncertain whether if heβd live to see another day or wither away like most of the Barrelβs inhabitants), and the memories of these specific events ambushed him during the times he least expected them. He could still feel the frightening pain thatβd coursed through his body because the only knowledge he could obtain at the time had been the fact that some mortal injury was being inflicted on him. To that end, the only other feeling thatβd been with him had been the silent fear that his spine would snap in half from the gaping opening in his side as everything had simultaneously felt exacerbated and numb. Above his head, dim sources of lights had flickered and fizzled out, but only after he was able to take a glimpse of a pair of intense, sunken eyes. See? Just like that, he was taken back without even realising it himself. How such large events could be shrunken to a forgotten white line was such a mystery for him. That applied to all plights and circumstances.
Prying himself away from the image that lingered before his gaze, he shifted his watchful orb back over at Rossanaβs features. She had a strong nose with her chin usually defiantly raised; there was a sort of rugged attraction she held, one he found to be much more genuine and even something he preferred over the fancily dressed ladies who seemed to love flaunting their jewelry and expensive goods. That aside, he hadnβt forgotten that if it hadnβt been for the Healer, he would be one of the many corpses rotting away somewhere in the forgotten, covert corners of the alleyways. And with that said, she was probably the only individual whom he, without question, owed his life to. Sometime, somehow, he would find a way to repay her; simply offering shelter and protection didnβt seem to seal the deal from his perspective. Besides, he didnβt like having debts stack up, and it seemed that his debt towards Roksana was one too many.
Drawing in a small breath, he blinked a few times and raked his hand through his hair, sharply pulled back to the present from Roksanaβs next statement. βIf you ever split the skin there, I'll turn your eyeballs inside out.β
βI think youβve made your point very clear a little while ago,β he answered with a tired, but genuine, crooked smile, βbut Iβll still make sure to keep it in mind.β He wasnβt about to test whether if Roksana Voronin meant her words or not; in the back of his mind, he had a sneaking suspicion that it wasnβt impossible, and he needed the last bit of his sight for the years to come.
It hadnβt exactly registered in his head earlier, but it was then he realised that this was a very dimly lit room and that the only individuals who were here consisted of himself and the Healer, and that he was there, without a shirt. Two of them, alone, no shirt. Right, that seemed like a completely normal afternoon (coincidentally it actually was when a scuffle resulted in his near-demise).
All that aside, sitting down felt blissful for his back and his feet; Saints, he hadnβt realised how much heβd missed simply sitting down (though the days he was stuck behind the door of his βofficeβ with heaps of paper, all he wanted to do was get up and cause a riot himself). Sinking down a little, he let his gaze gauge the window for no particular reason as Roksana closed the gap again without bending down too much to reach his side. βWonderful,β he muttered underneath his breath when he heard her speak. No wonder the pain felt so concentrated, though he did admit it was much better than the time heβd nearly been dragging in his intestines behind himself. That, he almost hadnβt even been awake to feel, but itβd still been terrible.
βI suppose someone did knock me down a little roughly against the street,β he said as he gingerly straightened his back once more to the best of his current ability. Lightly resting his own hand over his bruised side, he spoke a little more quietly, βThank you for doing this every time, Voronin. Doing this - it hasnβt been causing any strains or problems for you, has it?β
Who knew what repercussions there could be? Certainly thereβd been none known to exist and thereβd been no sign of any appearing with Roksana here (otherwise he imagined he would have most likely ceased her or any of the others from continuing manipulating their strength), but still. With abilities that were not widely knowledgeably informed of across all of Kerch or many areas across the whole globe for that matter (not to mention shied away from by many individuals), he imagined there wasnβt too much information regarding whatever consequences existed, if they even did. Contrary to what some people seemed to believe, heβd grown up solely from the alleyways and eventually the Iron Signet and Nightjar; he was just an ordinary man trying to survive, so he wasnβt going to pretend and say he knew everything there was to understand. The lives of his own people came first and foremost before any staggering display of power, and if there were any signs that hinted a negative reactionβ¦ well. He rested his head against his hand. If things went there, heβd think then. No point in worrying now.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 23, 2017 13:37:14 GMT -5
me, half awake, so tired i can smell colors; gemma ΒΏ
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Post by Deleted on Sept 23, 2017 15:18:35 GMT -5
β¦Β Zamir NejenΒ β¦ andΒ β© Killian ManusΒ β© He should've been happy of being relieved of having to go out to work tomorrow, but he wasn't. TraipsingΒ around this loud, stinking city with a too bright sun bouncing off the wet pavement didn't sound so bad if he got to spend to day backing-and-forthing with Rafael.Β
Considering this was Zamir, world's laziest man, talking that was no smell feat of wonder. He was so miffed he barely even noted how cute Rafael looked withΒ his hair done up like that, the little wispy bits hanging down lookedΒ very tempting to fiddle with, though he appeared to still be sober enough to deflect the urge to reach over.
He put down feeling brushed off to the wine.Β
A long time ago, someone had helpfully, but patronisingly, explained to him the difference between envy and jealousy. Due to the condescending tone he'd been told it in, Zamir had filed this informationΒ under 'who even cares' and never returned to it. Now, however, he found himself turning over the facts inΒ his head.Β Envy was wanting something someoneΒ else had, whereas jealousy was being scared someone was trying to take something you had. Β So he was drunk, not jealous. You can't be jealous over something that isn't yours.
He didn't even drink the rest of the wine in his glass, just kept swirling it around and around withΒ one long finger, watching it almost hypnotically. He could do this in his sleep by this point, it was one of his most frequently usedΒ tricks in the fortune telling gig.Β
'Tricks'
It sounded cheap, but that's what he was.
Something about the others around him suggested they weren't; a certainΒ level of intelligence, or moral code, or a general gentle optimism about the people they met. He knew that everyone in their little gang would be viewed by upper crusts as little more thanΒ cutthroatsΒ and thieves, and yes, they were cutthroatsΒ and thieves, butΒ that's not it. That's not all there is to them. Even a short conversationΒ withΒ any one of them would tell anyone with half a brain otherwise. Zamir just wasn't sure it applied to him.Β
There were several cruel phrases used against Suli people, ranging from childish to damning, but the only one he really hated, the one that cut the deepest, was a Ravkan jeer that didn't translate fully into Kerch. Essentially, it meant 'gutter trash'.Β
After so many long, exhaustingΒ years of hearing it, Β it should've faded into the numbness all the other slurs had vanished into, but it didn't. Maybe because he felt like it actually applied to him. Zamir was a dancer and a drinker, he sold out his own culture, a cultureΒ he never even felt that strongly attached to in the first place, to earn a cheap living in a city where your heritage had no value. And that was all there was to him.Β
"If you say so, princess." He teased, doingΒ what he did best to uneasy feelings that made your throatΒ close up and your eyes sting. He buried those pesky emotions with a lazy smile, propping his face up with one hand as his elbow balanced off the table top. "I mean, if you're going to force me to stay stay in bed, I really can't fight back." Zamir shrugged and nudged his almost-empty glass awayΒ fromΒ him. Β Any more booze and he wasn going to start saying things he'd regret in the morning.Β
xx
βYouβre coming with me tomorrow, Killian."
It was a small victory but it felt GOOD.
Killian smiled gently in responseΒ to Edkaird's instructions, nodding his head, "Ok, sounds good." He leaned back in his chair a bit, but it moaned dangerously under him and he quickly moved back to his original position, casting a guilty look over one shoulder. This chair was a booth seat, he was probablyΒ being ridiculous and imaginingΒ things, but, all the same, he wasn't risking breaking it in half and ending up on the floor surroundedΒ by chips of wood.Β
Maybe even going out withΒ Edkaird would be fun? Sure, tomorrowΒ he'd be stressed and dying because he'll have to spend the whole day with a person who talks, Β but it would make a nice change. The monotony of his current life was killing him, standing in front of a door all day, especiallyΒ during quiet hours, was mind numbing. He couldn't bring something to do, because that looked unprofessional and sloppy. If Aakster found him daydreamingΒ she'd kill him and roll his corpse into a canal. If MisterΒ Vikhrov found him slacking... he didn't want to know what he'd do to him. But he'd probablyΒ be begging for the canal by the end of it.Β
In contrast to his own boring lag,Β Edkaird's little world sounded positively exciting. Out and about all day, doing whatever it is he did. There were whole sections of Ketterdamn Killian still didn't know very well, either a) because it was outside the StygianΒ Circle and he was never posted there, or  because he was too scared. The West Stave, for instance. He never knew where to look when it came to pleasure houses, even if it was just theirΒ innuendoic brick fronts. Or there was one long street with a battered sign that simply said '5th' that he never went down purelyΒ on his gut feeling. Β The water lapped right up to the pavement there, because the stone fell away into a gradual slope. That's how the mermen got you.Β
"But do any of you have a song you like in particular? Or would like to listen to, perhaps?β
The three of them had fallen into silence some way or another; Nejen staring deepΒ intoΒ his wine, the Spider frozen in time, lost in thought suddenly, and Killian himself, too scared to push his luck tonight and startΒ a conversation himself. That's why when Edkaird snapped out of it and struck up the conversation again, he jumped a little in surprise. He could've sworn he'd seen Edkaird blush just there, and something inside him warmed at the thought. People here didn't blush much, there was little to no shame, and seeingΒ another human being share in an emotion he experienced almostΒ daily firmly put Edkaird into Killian's favour.Β
"Oh, um, all my songs are Kaelish." He admitted, shruggingΒ his big shoulders, "Either no words or very sad." There were upbeat Kaelish songs, of course,Β but most of the ones Killian had ever heard had been incredibly rude and he wasn't about to suggestΒ them to good company.
Nejen tilted his head further, "I've always been fond of Ivy Glass."Β he mused, "It's one of the few good Kerch songs, I will admit. It has a nice tune." He whistledΒ a tiny bit of it then, and Killian actually recognized it, having it heard it from outside windows and doors. Though he'd had no clue it had a name.
When she focused like this, sometimes she didn't hear people talking to her.Β
Her own body synced perfectly with Hart's, taking no time at all to find the rhythmΒ after being with him before, her own heartbeat slowly down a fraction. The deep black echoing drum pounded in her ears until it was all she could hear.
Hart's voice sounded far away and thick, like she was underwater and he yelling something down to her, "Hm?"
In her mind's eye, she found the issue. She didn't see it, that was the wrong word, but it came to her, in the same way when you forget what you were going to say it all comes rushing back five minutes later.
The rib bone, somewhere deep underneath her fingertips, was missing something just big enough to cause this much pain.Β "DefinitelyΒ chippedΒ bone." Her voice was on the verge of sounding drugged, or mesmerized, and she wasn't quiteΒ talkingΒ to Hart, Β "I can fix this. Gonna take five minutes though. Get comfy." Even in her far-away voice, and the way she seemed to straight straight throughΒ the skin, not even flickingΒ up to his face once, her usual brusque tone shone through. For the resident doctor, she didn't have an awfully good bedsideΒ manner.Β
She moved, impossibly, even closer to the wound then before, her face was less than inches away and her neck already ached from bending over this far. Letting her right hand focus over the injury, Roksanna raised her left hand slightly to Hart's side, where she cupped his waist lightly. This served no practicalΒ purpose, it was a support, for both of them. Β If it wasn't Roksanna, even the word 'gentle' might've been thrown around, Β but she didn't do things 'gently'. Β
Hart's earlierΒ question, "It hasnβt been causing any strains or problems for you, has it?"Β found her through the fog of her work. She actually snorted when he thanked her, scoffing at his honest gratitude, "'S good practise. Using my abilities," so enthralledΒ in her work, she lost her words and lifted her hand from Hart's side brieflyΒ to flex her fingers, indicating she was searching for the right phrase, "'S like training for a race. Tiring, but feels good. Makes me healthier."
She returned her left hand to it's seemingly rightful place on Hart's body and reminded herself to blink. It felt sore, which meant she'd stopped doing it for a while, so she did it again, hard, three times in a row, and then returned to the problem with slightlyΒ blurred vision.Β
"If Grisha don't practise, they get sick. Happens in different ways, but it always happens. I look tired a lot because I have insomnia, because sometimes I go long stretchesΒ withoutΒ seeing you. Β Get all pent up. Need to stretch." It actually felt nice to talkΒ about it, in a weird way. She hid it so frequentlyΒ that acknowledging it now felt like a guilty pleasure, and she didn't want to stop, "The Suli man, your actor? Gets migraines when he doesn't practise hard enough. Loses a lot of weight in a short amount of time. I can tell when the circus is on by how gaunt he looks."
Did he even know? Roksanna only knew because she'd read it in a book, if you didn't live in Ravka, or you didn't go to the Little Palace, what were the odds you'd know these things? Surely if he did know, he'd give himselfΒ somethingΒ to doΒ in the stretchesΒ whereΒ he was free from work. It wasn't like thisΒ city didn't have any water.
"There's another Grisha, Ravkan. Gun girl." Her name escaped her, but that wasn't vital to Roksanna, "I don't know what her vice is, but she has one. Either she gets enough exercise- Hold your breathΒ this is going to hurt-" She warned suddenly, twisting her right hand clockwise as the shard of bone somewhere insideΒ of Hart's body fixed itself back into place, "Or she's good at hiding it."
Letting out a longΒ breath, Roksanna peeled herself away like skin coming off fruit and took a few steps back. Her hands were shaking slightly, her legs felt light, her eyes were bone dry and there was a faint sheen of sweat over her face, but she was was positively glowing. Intense work like that felt great, it was like your first full inhale of freezingΒ winter air.Β
Her pupils were huge, as diluted as a cat's, as she dragged the back of her head across her forehead, "There. That should fix itself now over time. But be careful, until the bone heals fully it's going to be weak. I'll have to bind it for now, but you can take these off this time tomorrow." She reached into her apron and pulled out a roll of medicinal cotton bandages. Taking a glass off the table, she passed it to him to drink, "Here, you'll feel better if you get this into you." It was just water, but nothing was better when you felt like hell.Β
She went over again, not as close this time, and much more like herself, as her pupils slowly shrank back to their original size and the glow faded. Roksanna could've bandaged him in a few seconds normally, but she worked a little slower today, herΒ fingers felt too round and clumsy after using her abilities, but that was always the way. Ths shaking didn't help either.
The glow around her faded a bit, and she felt better overall herself, pining the wrap in place, "But I mean it; don't take this off until morning in two days at the earliest. Hope you weren't planning on taking Β a bath when you got home."Β
βΆΒ Β Lifen AaksterΒ βΆ
As traumatic as her dance with near death had been, she'd all but forgotten it by now. The Corona had such a vibe to it tonight, the tension at a certain nearby table would've been unthinkable to the Magpie.Β
She well and truly got her second wind, bouncing from person to person with an unmatched enthusiasm. She'd barely had anything to drink herself, it was tempting but she was actually having too much fun working at the moment to get directed with the prospect of being drunk. Β Maryse popped by her once or twice to drop off information (who was taking to the news that the docks had new owners and who was not) and the once or twice again for a completely different matter.Β
Lifen didn't like being ordered around normally, anyone who knew her would tell you that, but she was hardly going to dig her heels in when a pretty girl pulled her by the collars out the backdoor for a few minutes to celebrate the victory. Normally she was careful not to let her ego be stroked too much but Maryse could be persuasive when she wanted to be. Until her big ugly boyfriend showed up. He wasn't quite as much fun.Β
Anyhow, right now she was inside behind the bar again. Was she showing off her love bites? Yes, yes she was. So far, she only had two, and, like all great events, these things typically came in threes. May as well hold out until the end of the night, see what happens.
Shu was sitting not too far from her, lookingΒ resplendent in red. She was sitting with an older woman, one Lifen didn't recognise so she didn't approach them, though she did do best best to momentarily catch Shu's eyes and quirk an eyebrow up, a small gesture meant to say 1) You look to die for, 2) Mystery woman??? Didn't know you liked them older and 3) Can't believeΒ you'reΒ having a drink withoutΒ me all in a fraction of a second. It was a skill.Β
Zera looked pretty swell herself, as clean cut as a knife and just as untouchable. She didn't seem too deep into a conversation (surprise surprise), so Lifen tried her luck with her instead, "You certainly clean up nicely. Not used to seeing you without a whole arsenal hanging off your back. Can you even walk properly withoutΒ all those guns?" Lifen had no doubt in her heart Zera was still heavily armed, but at least she'd found the decorum to hide her small artillery. Β
Zera certainly had her own look, that was for sure. Short hair, dark eyes, keen collarbones. It was a change from the other woman in here, as beautiful as they all were, in lacy gowns and jewelry. Β If that's how all the women in Ravka looked, Lifen may or may not have to find herself a reason to visit one day.Β
"Enjoying Red Wine night?"Β She has to ask, her role as a manage coming creeping back in, "You're standing in the midst of Ketterdamn's finest evenings, you know." |
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Post by carmine. on Sept 26, 2017 12:25:59 GMT -5
( hey saph, i may have to go rn but i'll try and get a reply up as soon as i can
thanks for being patient with me
and i'm sorry to hear that;; i think i know too well about how it feels to be half awake it's over 2am over here too so i'm w you on that one
yup i changed my profile a bit haha )
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Post by Deleted on Sept 27, 2017 10:16:35 GMT -5
it's fine!!
no need to thank me or anything, i get how busy things can be 00:
i like the new look though!! that's a nice aesthetic u got there)
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Post by carmine. on Oct 1, 2017 10:33:21 GMT -5
it's fine!! no need to thank me or anything, i get how busy things can be 00: i like the new look though!! that's a nice aesthetic u got there) thank you i appreciate that i'll try to get a reply up for rafael and hart tomorrow i'm a little too tired rn to post something haha ;; and thank you!! i like ur new profile pic 00: it looks v serene |
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Post by Deleted on Oct 5, 2017 10:31:59 GMT -5
thanks!!
i'm just going to wait until you reply with everyone, if that's ok 00: im a little bit busy rn )
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Post by carmine. on Oct 7, 2017 13:18:41 GMT -5
( that's totally okay, i'm so sorry that my responses are v slow )x i like the pumpkin you've added to your sn btw! )
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Post by Deleted on Oct 15, 2017 8:54:50 GMT -5
Haha thanks!! Itβs time to get SPOOKY =β’.β’=
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Post by carmine. on Dec 17, 2017 9:17:48 GMT -5
Characters
Hart Vikhrov | Kerch | 19 | Bisexual
Standing around 5β10β is the lean and lithe leader of the Styx, a young man in possession of a pair of deep-set eyes that seem to invite someone to a world of secrets or something utterly forbidden. A faint musk of smoke and wood veils him, mostly due to the locations of his work such as his own office and the serpentine streets of Ketterdamn.
The most noticeable feature about Hart may just be the way how his skin is disrupted by the by the ugly, marred scar over the left side of his face. He conceals this scar behind locks of his hair as best as possible (though a full coverage isnβt guaranteed, especially when heβs engaged in a rough scuffle), and itβs best not to probe him about its origins. The man does go notably silent when any inquires are thrown in his direction regarding it, though he does usually tend to brush it off lightly by saying that it was derived from βan unfortunate accident.β
Because of his inability to use his left eye, heβs especially wary of his left side in general. Underneath canopies of long, dark lashes remains his one good eye - a lustrous hue of dark hazel, sharp and fox-like, retaining a light of cunning intelligence. A small, impassive smile can usually be seen dancing across this young manβs lips, and itβs a puzzle to see what truly lies in his mind.
Perhaps a nightingale is too sweet of an animal for Hart to be referred as throughout the street. With its melodic voice and small body, it seems to hold no parallels to Hartβs character, as it installs no fear. However, a bird that charms others with its beautiful song and leads someone to their death is nothing to scoff at - and thatβs exactly what Hart can and will do, if he finds that it will benefit his crew.
Hart is quite the mystery. According to many individuals who see him from afar and encircle his everyday life, the leader of the Styx only cares about himself and oftentimes has underlying motives behind his every action. It doesnβt seem that he has any qualms or remorse about manipulating people on the palm of his hand with his silvery words, either. And yet, at the same time, anyone who has been with him for a long time has at least seen him once or twice offering his hand to others in need when he thinks that no one is watching, helping them to the best of his capability in that circumstance (if they allow him, of course).
Itβs bemusing, trying to pinpoint which side of this young man is genuine and which is not. Is the pragmatic, impassive, and secretive young man the true Hart, or the rarely seen but surely existent kind-hearted individual an accurate representation of who he is? Unbeknownst to a myriad of individuals, however, because Vikhrov has a difficult time trusting others, he is able to appreciate a balanced relationship when it forms.
While Hart does have major downfalls to his personality, the prideful, courageous, and somewhat theatrical leader also has a soft side to his personality, which is usually revealed in a subtle manner, and his lips are tightly sealed when the secret of someone he cares for are entrusted with him. Itβs a different story for the secrets of those he couldnβt care less about, though. In other words, for those who share a mutual trust with him, he's strongly reliable and dependable.
One thingβs certain about Vikhrov even with the various masks he manages to utilize: heβs steadfastly loyal to his crew, and heβs not letting anyone off easily if they happen to the the reason for the damage of their wellbeing.
tl;dr: flamboyant, calculating, versatile, distrustful, steadfast, secretive
Hart still remembers that night. The flies that crawled over his glazed, blue eyes; the blood that had slid past his long fingers; the silhouette of another man against the tall, crooked walls of the abandoned house. It was the βaccidentβ that had broken what little motivation he had left, and it was the βaccidentβ that had taken away his brightest, most treasured light.
Hart doesn't remember anything else before he was brought into the looming walls of a gang - The Rivera - and was raised by Edsel, the boss who had built a fearsome reputation for himself in Kerch. Living in a gang and being personally raised by Edsel had steeled Hart to face betrayal from a young age, as it became something regularly committed, though they were also known for their unusual sense of loyalty to each other. As he grew older, he was able to shape a fortune for himself while building connections for the gang, and before he knew it, heβd climbed into the seat of Edselβs right hand, even becoming the youngest one to date in their own line of history. Every strategy he created was executed brutally, and methodically, and every trap he created was guaranteed to bring back a rat in hiding. As a proficient planner who excelled at subduing his enemies, he became a man many wanted dead. And that soon went for Edsel, as well.
Hart has made many mistakes throughout his life. Heβs done things that have followed him to no end, and heβs done things that he wishes that he can take back, but nothing can compare to the most fatal decision heβs made of letting himself befriend someone - someone one could even say he'd loved - whose life had faded right before his eyes from a plan he had not suspected. It'd been a single mistake - a sole misstep, and yet, that small mistake had cost him everything.
As expected, understanding that Edsel had been the one behind the murder had lead to Hartβs decision of leaving The Rivera, and it has labeled him as a traitor. There are still those in the Rivera who seem to respect him while resenting him all the same, and he isn't eager to meet any of them, especially their boss who still lies on the same streets, waiting for the right excuse at the right time to finally put an end to his life.
Extra:
His Hogwarts House would most likely be Gryffindor
He most values: loyalty
It seems that he discreetly has a hard time pushing members out of the casino, even when they cause a scene
Heβs highly prideful, but he isnβt arrogant (at least, not overly, anyway). If thereβs something he doesnβt know or lacks, heβll suppress his own pride for a good measure
He was and still is unexpectedly idealistic
Isnβt easily offended. Throw him a joke or a cuss and heβll most likely shake his head. Catch him off guard with a pun and someone will be able to see a speechless Hart (for once)
He seems to adore sweet things, though heβll never admit it until itβs in front of his eyes
His former significant otherβs name was Joseph Senea
Rafael Edkaird | Kerch | 17 | Pansexual
If there's one thing someone can say about Rafael upon first glimpse, it's that heβs pretty. Yes, pretty. And small. Rafaelβs small stature (he stands just a little above 5β3β) is both a personal curse and a blessing. While his slender physique makes him adequate for squeezing through tight spaces, it gives him a large disadvantage during fights against bigger opponents. This forces him to rely on his speed and his wits. (That and heβs noticed that it's a little more difficult to impress most ladies with his stature.)
Rafael possesses pale, silky hair, a heart-shaped face, and a naturally sanguine expression. Everything about his slender visage is gentle, apart from his mischievous amber-brown eyes. While they carry an affable light, it's no lie that theyβre additionally sharp and perceptive. Sometimes, theyβre even cat-like, especially when heβs focused on something.
Working in The Corona as one of its staff members means that you have to look nice, especially when youβre there as one of the faces of The Styx. If you donβt, you may as well jump off a cliff before you face none other than Hart Vikhrov. It shows in Rafael's attire, which is actually quite modest, that he's taken some time to think about how to present himself. In the bar, a long, unbuttoned black coat is swung over his shoulders, which reveals a deep, dark red shirt thatβs rolled up to his sleeves. He also wears a pair of dark pants and sleek brown boots, but the thin black gloves he wears remains with him at all times, even out of the bar. Sometimes, a black hat can be spotted on his head as well, but this is usually for when he carries out minor work for the Styx as a messenger.
Underneath his clothing - across his back and down to his waist - lies a large gash mark that heβs earned when he was little. While he doesn't mind if someone accidentally spots this, it does seem to make him temporarily insecure (even shy) which is very different from his normal persona, indeed.
Rafael is a mischievous (sometimes devious) schemer whose sleeves are never left empty. Small plots or tactics always seem to be ready at his disposal whenever he's in need of them. As his wicked and relaxed smile subtly implies, Edkaird is a guy who finds life in anything and makes damn well certain that he appreciates every bit of it, no matter how idle something may seem. Since heβs content over little things, especially when it comes to gifts or simply living his life, itβs a mystery for why heβs chosen a job like this, but hey, thatβs just how life flows. Heβs also someone who falls in love easily. Call him a hopeless romantic with a dream of moving somewhere peaceful to live, if you will; itβs always been his ideal to move out of the Ketterdamn streets to somewhere far more quiet with a partner. Traveling is his other dream.
Most individuals donβt understand Rafaelβs sheer affection for trivial matters and people, especially given the immediate environment heβs grown up in. What they donβt realize is that the lack of understanding they face when regarding Rafael works in his favour, because he oftentimes has underhanded intentions behind his behaviour (albeit they are mostly meant to be good) and is much more grounded than what most would give him credit for. Rafaelβs guise as a tactless, air-headed individual obscures a perceptive, collected, and down-to-earth strategist who rarely surfaces unless needed otherwise. So in that sense, on the flip side of his usual personality, heβs serious, stern, reserved, and even imperturbable.
With all this in mind, for Rafael Edkaird, the safety of his crew come before his pride.
tl;dr: jocose, magnanimous, gentle, lax, insightful, down-to-earth
Rafael was the eighth son of a wealthy family and had a relatively easy - almost static - life until he threw all that out the window when someone waltzed into his life: Zamir Nejen. Because of the status he was born to, he had the privilege of picking up different assets (reading, writing, music, language). This may be the reason for why he seems to have a keen eye in any form of art and a highly trained ear for music notes. Even now, given the chance, he's able to effortlessly play a song just after listening to it once.
However, while his past life sounded like an easy one to have, his mother and father were polar opposites, and the status they held at the time had greatly restricted Rafaelβs freedom. His mother, a thin, ill young woman with a patient smile was a sharp contrast to his callous father who was intent on selling off his children for profit and beneficial social connections.
Rafael earned the long scar across his back in a significantly important concert when he failed to strike the correct note on one of the many instruments he'd been juggling from his father, whoβd regarded the single mistake as a streak of rebellion and utter shame for his family. While he may not admit it openly, the humiliation, disappointment, and fear that heβd felt that night in his home had cut deep in the young boyβs weary heart. Zamir seems to have emerged in his life just around the time when it was announced that he would have his own arranged marriage to a stranger.
Cutting ties with his family would not be an easy task, especially with how adamant his father was about regarding his own children as a profitable possession. Running would result in a flood of guards and soldiers, and as an inexperienced boy on the streets, he understood that he would be hunted down in a matter of days. In order to avoid this and to join Zamir, whoβd appeared as a miraculous second chance for Rafael, he did possibly the one most wildest things in his life: he faked his own death, changed his surname, and stepped into a completely different world that offered him more freedom than he couldβve ever imagined obtaining.
The only individual who still knew of his existence when he left was his mother, and the last time Rafael had discreetly visited her, she'd become nothing but a name carved in old stone.
Extra:
His Hogwarts House would most likely be Hufflepuff
He most values: kindness
His fatherβs name is Olimar Edkaird. His motherβs name was Darline Edkaird
When he was much younger, he used to be the model his older and younger sisters used to play dress-up. Yes, that means he was coerced into wearing frills for the sake of his sistersβ entertainment in the past, curse his soft visage
Zera Zeddrid | Ravkan | 19 | Demisexual
Itβs Zeraβs dark and weary eyes (the color of bitter, insipid coffee) that usually warns strangers before they think twice about approaching her casually. Her eyes are like those of a hawk on a hunt, which easily gives off a cold impression. Framed by dark lashes, her orbs rest beneath her low brows, and it's this that gives her a look of nonchalance (one that seems to be stuck in between a slight scowl and a look of complete impassiveness). Additionally, perhaps it may depend on oneβs imagination, but something about her gaze seems to tell a long, long story.
Standing a little shorter than 5β5β with an imposing demeanor that makes her seem taller than she really is, Zera is lean and surprisingly muscular underneath her attire, indicating a trained fighter who is familiar with brawls and scuffles on the streets of Ketterdamn. One may describe her to be made of both angular and rugged lines, though strangely enough, her deceptively youthful face and button-like nose can appear to be soft more than anything.
Itβs notable that her short, feathery, black hair is trimmed a little on the side while the rest fall over her eyes and trail down to her nape. A scar runs up a little from her right chin, though itβs barely noticeable upon first inspection. It definitely hasnβt been the first time Zera's been mistaken for a young, ruggedly handsome boy. And in all honesty, she doesnβt particular care about being mistaken for one.
She mainly dresses in dark clothing, making it easy for her to camouflage amongst a crowd of people. Zera has two thin, silver rings: one around her thumb and one around her index finger. Theyβre rarely seen off, as she strongly refuses to place them elsewhere. When they are gone from her hands, however, it usually means there's business to be carried out. During her work, she usually has a pair of black gloves with her.
As a guarded young woman, nobody knows much about Zera, or how those gears in her head churn. Her ideals and thought processes remain shrouded with mystery, which may precisely be the reason for the rumours that peskily buzz around her like curious flies. They always return to whisper in her ears, because she couldnβt care less about swatting them away or putting them to their merciful end. But if thereβs one thing certain about Zera Zeddrid thatβs been confirmed in the midst of all these rumours, itβs that understanding and forgiveness are not two traits that come familiarly to this young woman. If you cross her once, be prepared to face the wrong end of a pistol.
The way Zera phrases her coarse words tend to be blunt, condescending, and even insulting, especially towards those who have managed to earn her disdain (and itβs even worse when it comes to officials or those with high status). This small lingering resentment might have come from her previous and current occupation, both which require remaining uncaught and discreet. As for fights, Zera may just be the first to provoke one with her nonchalant yet sharpened tongue. It may not seem like it, but she does enjoy a good fight once in awhile, and when sheβs engaged in one, it's easy to see just how relentless she can be. You could even say sheβs like a vicious wolf that's been trapped behind bars for too long.
Itβs also no lie that her obedience is strictly limited to certain individuals. Because she is fiercely independent, anyone who tries to boss her around can expect her full disengagement. However, while it is rare, unexpected, and kept tightly pushed behind her indifferent mask, Zera can be quite compassionate, especially towards those who have earned her trust, and this aspect of the Styxβs Sniper can be seen through the actions she displays. Sheβs always been more of an action over words person, anyway. Ignore the harshness that seems to emanate from her, and youβll find a rather sympathetic young woman who cares about her gang underneath. In fact, Zeddrid is willing to go far in order to secure the gangβs wellbeing and possesses a strong distaste for unnecessary casualties, even though she wonβt hesitate to take a swing when she finds someone to be distinguishably irking.
tl;dr: dauntless, efficient, ruthless, intelligent, blunt, abrasive
As a sniper, her eyes are extremely keen, which may be the reason for why she has an inhumanely acute reflex. While Zera is more than capable of hand-to-hand combat (her strength allows her to match any larger or more muscular individuals) sheβs notably far more skilled at what sheβs been trained to do: shooting things down. Give her a gun, and youβll have opponents, both near and far, gone in no time.
It may not seem like Zera works, because itβs easy to spot her with a drink in her hand, but she works as a supervisor in any of the areas that require her aid, keeping an eye out for any trouble that may occur. Her respect is limited, but itβs there for the current members of the Styx, so she may be willing to tolerate one or two occasions of being bossed around.
Her history is unknown.
Extra:
Her Hogwarts House would most likely be Ravenclaw
She most values: intelligence
She is a Squaller
She seems to be an only child. Back in the day, she also seems to have lived solely with her grandmother. It may be the reason for why a bit of her soft side emerges when sheβs speaking with elders. Itβs quite noticeable, actually
She wonβt tolerate screaming children in her perimeter and will avoid toddlers at any cost
It isnβt unusual to see her behaving sweetly to horses, much to the befuddlement of many
Yvette Greshnev | Ravkan | 19 | Pansexual
Careful about this one; sheβs a tiger disguised as a daydream. While Yvette is more than capable of carrying herself with the stoic grace of an officer, sheβs also able to stomp down the stairs of the Corona (especially when sheβs both angry and worried for someone) with more ferocity than that of an untamed bear.
Yvette stands a little above 5β2β while possessing an overall gentle visage, slender build, and feminine waist. Her honey-brown eyes are both perceptive and warm, and itβs noticeable that she carries herself with an amiable atmosphere (even during times of distress). Locks of her dark, mocha hair usually cascade down her shoulders in soft waves, though they can be pulled together in a tight tail from time to time for the sake of efficiency. Her skin is sun-kissed as a result of the various work she carries out throughout the day, and two moles can be spotted over her throat. She is, however, surprisingly muscular underneath her clothing. Her hands, while seemingly delicate, are rough and calloused from gripping the hilt of a sword for so long.
One of the greatest charms this young woman displays is the wealth of facial expressions she creates that express her heartfelt emotions. True, there are times when sheβll put up a mask in order to overwhelm her opponents under specific circumstances, but for the most part, the emotions in her eyes are written out like an open book for the world to see. Perhaps it is this genuine and honest touch to her character that makes her such a reliable and trustworthy individual.
Itβs impossible to associate the words βcoldβ and βimpassiveβ with Yvette, though βfieryβ doesnβt impeccably resonate with her personality, either. Sheβs more of a glowing hearth providing warmth rather than an inferno relishing in destruction and a drop of golden light that offers guidance rather than a harsh streak of white that blinds the eye. While it is true that Yvette can be stingy and bossy, sheβs deeply compassionate, making her an individual who will dedicate her life to searching for a cure for those she loves, should they ever be cursed. In fact, itβs her soft-heartedness - the notion of being susceptible to compassion - that oftentimes goes against her in the harsh streets of Ketterdamn, as she seeks for the hint of good in even the worst of people.
While Yvette remains as a perceptive, serious, and resourceful member of the Styx, itβs easy to realize that sheβs a loyal individual, especially when sheβs in the company of the people sheβs come to trust. Conscientious and hardworking are two words that suit her without a shadow of a doubt. Furthermore, she harbors a deep sense of honor, making her one of the most least likely individuals who will go back on their word and (literally) stab someone in the back. Forbearing, affectionate, easily moved, and easily embarrassed, sheβs far from being a hostile addition to the crew. Itβs her resolve, cleverness, and astute eye that makes her an enemy to be wary of, counterbalancing the heavy damage sheβs potentially vulnerable to as her empathy strongly enforces.
Greshnev can be competitive, especially when it comes down to facing herself, since she determinedly challenges her own abilities and perceptions without hesitance, though itβs her good sportsmanship that ultimately enables her to genuinely applaud others for their achievements, even if it means her own downfall. Stoic, loyal, and committed, sheβll see through any task thatβs given to her on time, though she isnβt afraid to reasonably speak against something that goes against the fairness she believes in. Overall, Yvette is warmhearted, passionate, and merciful; her kindness remains unyielded to the brutality of the streets. If someone wishes to bring misfortune to The Styx, however, theyβd better be prepared to face a cutthroat who knows exactly how to get what she wants with the end of her blade.
tl;dr: affectionate, loyal, perceptive, determined, stubborn, hardworking
Her history is unknown.
Extra:
Her Hogwarts House would most likely be Hufflepuff
She most values: hard work
She is a Heartrender
Her accent occasionally slips out when sheβs angry or excited
She is able to take care of children and enjoys doing so
She shares a mutual fondness with animals, particularly dogs
Side Characters (anyone can rp them)
LΓ‘n | Shu Han | 16 | Gay - Exuberant, affable, and friendly, heβs constantly enveloped in warmth but is stubborn as an ox. While he may not be the most intellectual individual around, heβs got a big heart and a toothy smile that may be able to brighten just about anyoneβs day. His insane level of perseverance is his one of his many strengths. He arrived at The Styx with Fang. His real name is unknown. He most values: resilience. He is an Inferni.
Fang | Shu Han | 18 | Bisexual - Perpetually sullen, sharp-tongued, and quick-tempered, itβs easy to stamp him as an overbearing perfectionist who only cares about completing certain objectives in a timely manner. However, unbeknownst to most individuals, underneath his apathetic personality, he is greatly sweet, warm, loving, and protective. He arrived at The Styx with LΓ‘n. His real name is unknown. He most values: dependability.
Ian Galatea | Novyi Zem/Kerch | 19 | Heterosexual - Extremely tall, he towers over most individuals. Itβs notable that he doesnβt speak much (unless heβs openly provoking certain individuals) and is blunt, nonchalant, and clever. However, itβs known that heβs surprisingly soft-hearted and is quite loyal. Persistence and time are two necessary aspects of understanding this talented young man. He most values: experience.
Afia Furaha | Novyi Zem | 15 | Lesbian - As a tall, young woman, she looms over quite a few individuals. Shy, reserved, and timid, she isnβt one to speak very often and prefers to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible. She looks up to people often and oftentimes will wish to speak with them, though her nature holds her back from doing so. She doesnβt like seeing blood, so sheβs usually spotted running errands for The Styx. She most values: justice.
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Post by carmine. on Dec 17, 2017 9:41:10 GMT -5
Hart Vikhrov
This wasnβt the first time heβd seen Roksanaβs eyes glaze over, almost as if she were lost in something. By what, he couldnβt say (perhaps his good looks? Hey, look, Vikhrov had thrown in a joke), but he didnβt need to look at her face to know that she wasnβt blinking. While her tone maintained a familiar brusqueness, it didnβt sound like she was even speaking to him when she said:
βDefinitely chipped bone. I can fix this. Gonna take five minutes though. Get comfy.β
Deciding that it was best to remain silent as Voroninβs concentration took ahold of her, the Nightingale relented. He felt her hand cup his waist to steady the both of them, and he allowed his gaze to slide over to rest on the small window that yielded a small streak of blue light. There wasnβt really anything to look at, necessarily, but even he - as practical and collected as he was on a normal basis - felt a little awkward to a certain degree. Though he hadnβt turned his head back to face that of Roksanaβs, he listened to her speak without interrupting, letting her words sink in.
Her warning, however, came a little too suddenly, and he bit back a curse. Instead, he emitted a small hiss through his grit teeth. There were quite a few individuals who would be surprised to know that even he (regrettably) wasnβt immune to pain. If he was being frank about it, itβd felt as if his bone had snapped again, though he was aware that itβd placed itself back together. Letting his abrupt grasp loosen around his own leg after recovering, he nodded his head just a little at her words, in a mixture of understanding. His mind, however, was still focused on what sheβd said; he had a feeling that they wouldnβt be leaving his head shortly. βThank you,β he said as she passed him the glass, with the shadow of smile dancing across his lips. It was odd how a simple glass of water seemed to be able to assist someone so much.
When she warned him again. this time regarding the bandage, he tipped his head to the side while gingerly rising to his feet. Already, he could feel his usual demeanor veiling him, masking his controlled expression and eyes as usual. βI wouldnβt concern myself over it too much, if I were you; Iβm a little more inclined to listen to what youβve said.β And he was. He had a small feeling that if he ignored her advice, he was either going to suffer from brittle bones, or from her sharp words. Either way, he wasnβt willing to test his theory out. In the meantime, heβd find a different way to keep himself presentable.
Tossing his shirt over his torso and shrugging his jacket on once more, he raked his hand through his hair before he glanced over his shoulder, in her direction. He would most likely return to his office where heβd bury himself in documents and books (after all, heβd gotten a new task to look into), if he could first manage to push through the usual individuals who eagerly greeted him. Butβ¦ βWhat will you be doing now, Roksana?β
Zera Zeddrid && Yvette Greshnev
"You certainly clean up nicely. Not used to seeing you without a whole arsenal hanging off your back. Can you even walk properly without all those guns?"
Tipping her head to the side upon hearing an all-too-familiar voice, Zera found her gray eyes glancing over at the suave second-in-command. βVery funny. Well, dear Magpie, Iβm walking now. That should let you know whether if Iβm gunless or not, yes?β She answered with her thick accent and stoic gaze, though the small glimmer in her eyes undoubtedly indicated subtle amusement. Perhaps the glimmer there was simply the light that was being reflected off of her orbs, though.
Emotions never seemed to be clearly expressed or illustrated on Zera's features easily, unless there was an event that elicited distinguishable ire within her disguised through a guttural laugh. To that end, it was usually onerous to know whether if the sniper was being serious or not, and it was this ambiguity that usually drove most individuals away from her side. After all, it wasn't strange to find her looking oddly calm when in fact, she was ready to possibly murder every breathing thing in her perimeter.
It had happened before, when her nap had been unfortunately disturbed by a ruckus that didn't belong in the place that it'd occurred, and she'd looked pleasantly serene enough before she'd whipped out her gun from her long, inky coat. Had Yvette not been there, Rafael would've most likely ended up dead (even though he hadn't really been the one who'd aroused the scandal, he'd simply been standing on the wrong spot at the wrong time, the unfortunate thing).
"Finest evenings?" She repeated leisurely as she leaned both of her elbows against the counter. She set her drink down on the table, letting the liquid within swirl around and around before finally coming to a stop. βHm. I donβt know, Aakster,β she said with the ghost of a devious smile. βIt isn't a good night without a broken nose and some chaos, wouldnβt you say?β
It was true. At least, for Zera it was, anyway. After all, the bars sheβd lingered in back in Ravka had been quite and adventure on their own. It had been a strange time back then, but one that she'd found herself in the midst of eventually becoming familiar with. She still remembered the hues of the lights, the hearty laughs, and the little grins that were openly passed around. She still remembered lying down on one of the tables and staring up at the old ceiling with her arms supporting her head as a makeshift pillow.
In any case, this, she thought as her sharp eyes swept over the view that was being offered with the swirl of colors, wasn't too bad despite her earlier words to the second-in-command. Tilting her drink to the side, her sharp eyes rested on those of the Magpie's. Lifen was dressed nicely tonight. Actually, it wasn't uncommon to see Lifen cleanly dressed and groomed. She was stylish, after all. "Would you like some?β She inquired, indicating her own glass with a brief flicker of her eyes. βYou've been working for quite a while."
Her gray eyes traveled back to the crowd, and she blinked upon seeing the rest of her companions dispatched in different areas. Were Hart and Roksana still behind doors? Well, it wasn't her business to know what was going on. Ignoring the notion, she returned her attention back to the individuals who were within her sight. It was the sound of the different tune that resonated through the Signet that caught her attention, however, and she blinked once at the sudden change of technique that was being orchestrated. Was this Edkaird? It had to be; there was no one else who was capable of playing so light-heartedly, as if they were effortlessly toying with the instrument.
βHm? Liften,β a voice called.
The amicability in it could only belong to one individual. Just as expected, Zera looked up to see Yvette Greshnev with a hand delicately propped on her waist. The lights within the Signet only seemed to enhance the warm glow in the swordswomanβs bright honey-brown eyes as she smiled quite mischievously. βI thought I recognized your brooding form, Zera.β
Rolling her eyes (in the best way possible), the sniper uttered a small: βQuiet, Greshnev.β
βNo can do. Itβll take at least a hundred more drinks to silence me tonight,β the girl solemnly stated as she hoisted herself on the edge of the counter while she indicated the dance floor with a small jut of her chin. βAre the both of you not dancing? A few individuals are seeking for you, you know,β she then said, regarding the both of them while attempting a (failed) wiggle of her eyebrows. As her words stated, over to all of their right, a few people seemed to be gingerly nudging each other in the distance, as if they were probing each other to take a step forward and approach the two infamous members of The Styx.
Rafael Edkaird
βWell, I think that settles it, then,β he said as he sprung to his feet and stretched his arms over his head with the nonchalance of a stray cat. Resting his pale hand on his waist and letting his gaze rest on Zamir, Rafael lightly indicated the dance floor with a tilt of his head. No lights were needed to elicit the twinkle in his eyes. βMay I escort you through the chaos, lord Nejen?β
Of course, none of them were lords; none of them even came close to the foreign position. Even so, the spider couldnβt shake off the notion that some of them meant far more - quite frankly - than any values the title of a lord could ever yield. And Zamir Nejen was one of those individuals for a myriad of reasons.
His gaze travelled over to meet those of Killianβs briefly, and in that span of time, he offered the man the smallest hint of a smile. You should come too, if youβd like, it said, clear as day. After gently taking Zamirβs hand, the spider was already maneuvering their way through the crowd. Though his grasp was light, it was surprisingly firm, as if he was determined to not lose Zamir in the swarm of people.
It was true; Rafael was aware that it was easy to point humor in his direction, especially when he would oftentimes allow his actions to be a little more theatrical or exaggerated than they needed to be for the sake of providing a lighter atmosphere, or the room to smile, even if it was a small one. But he was no fool (or at least, he liked to think that he wasnβt one). He was aware of the tension that seemed to encircle Zamir, and he had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that itβd been because of what heβd said.
The rational side of his mind told him that separating the two boys would be for their sakes, but at the same time, he didnβt want to leave behind Killian in the bustling house alone, where most individuals remained as foreign strangers. Saints, human emotions could be messy when they wanted to be.
So, at the moment, he was improvising. Somehow, he was determined to work things out; he was just hoping that he was doing the right thing.
The moment the current pianist recognized him, she shuffled away (hopefully she would have some well-deserved fun with the group of partiers who were beckoning her over), and he lead the actor to the small seat before sitting next to the young man. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, and they were pressed together so that his own left hand and that of Zamirβs right were immobilized, but this would work for what he was about to do. Leaning back, while he rolled up his sleeves and tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear to clear his gaze, he spoke: βHave you ever played the piano before, Zamir?β
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Post by Deleted on Dec 18, 2017 9:27:18 GMT -5
:3c good to be back here!! Your formatting is so nice :00
Iβll try to get something up ASAP !! Just gotta read through everything )
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Post by carmine. on Dec 18, 2017 10:10:31 GMT -5
( agreed!! it's good to be back here cx
thank!!! no worries take all the time you need )
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Post by Deleted on Dec 18, 2017 15:38:30 GMT -5
βΊ Roksana Voronin βΊ
As Hart reassembled his outfit , she took the time to check herself as well. Patting down her hair, smoothing out the wrinkles her ugly little dress had received from bending over, and shaking out her hands to loosen them up again. Her wrists cracked in a satisfying way and she moaned a little in time with them, feeling herself unwind a bit. Another benefit of stretching her powers - the cool-down afterwards. It had the same kind of feeling as pulling a thorn from your side, or gently coming to a rest after a heavy cry. Catharsis. A purging of negative emotion and physical tenseness. She felt like she could slip off into a dedicated slumber right there and then.
Hart's question brought her back to reality,"Hm?" For a second, caught off guard, sleepy and relaxed, she looked totally different. In the soft half light of the room, she looked a lot younger, much closer to her actual age, and cool. Then, she shook her head, closing her eyes (they were still too dry), "Oh, I'm going back home. You think I'd stay here, on tonight of all nights?" Her skepticism came back in an instant, as did her disdain, "No thank you. It was traumatic enough getting in here, hanging around the bar to catch fifteen different diseases doesn't sound too tempting."
She washed her hands in the basin of water, they weren't dirty but she hated the feeling of sweat, and you could never be too careful when it came to dealing with injuries. "There's a wooden crib and woolen blanket with my name on it." She told him, thinking of her own little bed in her own little apartment. It wasn't always ideal, but she was infinitely glad she didn't live in the Nightjar, and payed for her own small space, away from all.... this.
"Did it go well then?" She asked, out of politeness of genuine curiosity? That was neither here nor there, "The fight for the docks. I didn't see any body bags out there."
"I do my best to never pass judgments on you, Zera. You're an enigma wrapped in the barrel of a gun." Lifen told her, whilst pouring out a glass of whiskey for the gentleman who really shouldn't be drinking much more, but was marching on all the same.
"Chaos? You want more chaos?" She asked, incredulous and scandalized, "Do you not see this black eye? The burns across the docks? The fact that I got a perfectly good suit ruined?" She tutted, turning away in mock disgust, "Be careful what you wish for, Zera. Nothing's sadder than watching a friend bite off more then she can chew. Yes, yes, I'm coming." Lifen directed her attention to the rowdy couple at the end of the bar who were getting very distressed at their lack of refills. She saw to them as quickly as she could and then returned, a little out of breath from limping back and forth. She'd be fine in the morning, nothing she hadn't had before, but hitting the ground one too many times had left her left hip in a nasty way. Still, it was nothing compared to the challenge of keeping eye contact with Zera. It was hypnotic, but intimidating, and Lifen was not easily intimidated. "Don't need drink to get drunk." She boasted, propping her chin up on one hand and leaning right down against the bar, "There's plenty of intoxicating material. If you know where to look." Truth be told, if Lifen got smashed while she was on duty, she'd be in hot water. Better to play it safe tonight. But it was still fun to tease.
When Yvette appeared, a brilliant little trill of warmth, Lifen eased back form the bar, straightening up again (and now her arms were sticky. Ew. This bar needed a good wash.) and Lifen greeted her with a tilt of the head, "And good evening to you M'am Greshnev." She drummed her fingers along the bar, "They would do better then to hold their breaths. There'll be no dancing from me tonight." She shook her head with rue, she was just too beat up for all that. The dance floor could be a rough area, and although Hart didn't have an issue sneaking off to see Roksana (he's be gone a while now, she noted, flicking her eyes to the backdoor), Lifen found the healer to be less than pleasant to be around, and would greatly prefer to avoid her company. "Even if our party hadn't dissolved like a napkin in a puddle, and I still had big strong people around me to keep me safe," She joshed, humming and haing, "I'm afraid my legs may just fall off. What about you, Zera? You look like a regular dancer. Like you belong in the ballet."
β¦ Zamir Nejen β¦ and β© Killian Manus β©
As the spider jumped up, Zamir glanced up from his grumpy, wine (whine?) induced frown. Suddenly all of his petty emotions seemed very.... stupid. Staring up at Rafael (for once), he felt like a real ass. He'd been acting miserable. That wasn't fair.
The grin that appeared next was genuine, and it split his face in two, "It'd be my pleasure." He rose out of his seat and took Rafael's warm hand, not looking back at Killian, and even abandoning his wine glass unfinished on the table. He was still grinning like an idiot as he let himself be led through the throng of bodies, all sweat and heat and bright colours as flashes of material swarmed by. He was pushed and shoved, and someone stood on his foot, but it didn't matter, and he was almost giggling by the time they reached the piano. Though he was tired, and aching, it felt good to get up on his feet. He felt better already, and he didn't even need to get off his face to do so. Almost as if.... alcohol... couldn't solve his problems... an interesting theory...
As he squeezed onto the tiny seat, he found himself glad it was so small, glad of the proximity it resulted in, "Never." He admitted, shaking his head full of curls before leaning in close to Rafael's ear as if whispering something sordid, "But I don't think is anyone here for the fine notes, sunshine."
All the same, he flexed his long fingers as if warming up, like he'd graduated from some high rise school dedicated only to piano playing, "I can do my best. How hard could it be?" He asked, clicking one of the lower keys down with curiosity.
xx
One second they were there, and then they were gone. Rafael made brief, lovely eye contact with Killian (the small man was the only person in this city capable of looking kind), and then he was gone like a will-o'-the-wisp, swallowed up into the violent mash of bodies on the floor. And Killian was left on his own, surrounded by empty glasses and empty seats.
The thing is, he's a bit of a hypocrite. He longed to be alone all day, and then when he is left alone, like so, he felt hurt. Left out. Like a child once again, unable to connect with the other kids,unable to make friends. Only this time, there's no big white barn to retreat to, no dark pine forests to hide in, and no understanding mother to bake bread with. Only this cramped, sweaty bar full of ugly loud noises.
He sat there a bit longer, legs pressed together, hands on his lap as fists, staring into the grain of the table, waiting for this night to end. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a red faced, tipsy woman tapped him on the shoulder. She said something to him in Kerch he didn't understand, due to both her thick accent and the noise of the room, though she was smiling winningly, her eyes a little glazed from the drink. "Pardon?" He raised his own voice, leaning closer. She repeated herself, but to no avail. Killian frowned and leaned in even closer to her, turning his ear to her face, hoping she understood he wasn't trying to be rude. He fully expected her to repeat herself for a third time, but leaning in had communicated the wrong idea, because instead of speaking, she bit his ear. Not harshly, as he was strangely used to (there were no rules in street fights), but frighteningly aphrodisiacly. There were a lot of things Killian didn't understand, but he understood that perfectly clearly.
He shot about a foot in the air and brushed past the woman, who he nearly shoved to the ground in an effort to get away from her. "Sorry, s- sorry-" He said to no one in particular as he hurried away, bright red and heart pounding. That wasn't in the job description.
It was time to go home. Embarrassed and scared, he started cutting his way through the numerous people to the door. He'd done his bit in the fight, and it was time to go bed. Maybe take a cold shower. He heard the piano start up again, undoubtedly Zamir and Rafael, and he felt a deep pang, a sort of homesickness for a place he didn't know. As he glanced back, he saw Zera, Yvette, and Lifen by the bar, laughing about something, and he couldn't have felt further removed from the group as a whole.
sorry these are kind of short :00 I'm still getting back into the swing of these characters) |
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Post by carmine. on Dec 19, 2017 5:15:01 GMT -5
( no need to apologize!! i'm still getting back into roleplaying these characters, too
i'll start typing up a response right now c: )
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Post by carmine. on Dec 19, 2017 9:06:32 GMT -5
Hart Vikhrov
"Oh, I'm going back home. You think I'd stay here, on tonight of all nights?"
βOh, I donβt know, Voronin; I never wouldβve guessed,β said Hart with a slightly quirked brow, though the tone he used eluded snarky malice. In fact, his eyes had lit up (perhaps it was an effect of the warm, blue moonlight that streamed in), and for the first time in a long while, the faint ghost of a genuine smile had touched his lips. It was curious how the expression and voice of an individual could easily dictate the subtext of a delivered dialogue.
Leaning his weight on his right foot, the leader of the Styx then listened to her while simultaneously straightening out his wrinkled jacket. The ends had been burned off, and he suspected that itβd been the young Inferniβs doing at the docks. Her fire had permeated throughout the air quickly, after all. Had she been a little more experienced, he was certain she wouldβve been a tad bit troublesome to deal with. (Or perhaps it was a result of Lifenβs explosions? He had full confidence that she was far more capable of any damage an experienced Inferni could cause.)
In any case, if he could, he wouldβve left his jacket the way it was. Regrettably, the prying eyes of other gangs didnβt allow him to miss a beat. The people of Ketterdamn werenβt kind with their judgements whether it came to reputation or appearance, and a moment of weakness in their world meant potential fatality. In that vein, that undeserved demise, he knew, would not stop with him.
Roksanaβs words woke him from his daze, and he tipped his head to the side as she spoke while washing her hands. βNo bodybags,β he agreed as he headed over towards the door. βIt went well. Aaksterβs proclivity for bombs managed toβ¦ Actually, never mind, that isnβt too important. With tonightβs events, there may be some unfortunate fellows still wandering close around the Coronaβs perimeter. Iβll have someone go with you,β he finished as he opened the locked door without glancing over in the healerβs direction. βAnd I wonβt take no for an answer.β He wouldβve required the same for anyone at a time like this, no matter what the distance.
He didnβt need to look to know that when he took a step outside the door, a few curious gazes were already waiting for him. One of those included that of Yvetteβs, and he beckoned her over with a small tip of his head. The minuscule movement didnβt go by unnoticed by the clear-eyed fighter, and she gave the loose imitation of a salute to the Magpie and the sniper in temporary farewell before heading over to where he stood. Good, sheβd only changed into a clean pair of black pants and shirt for the small occasion.
βIβll be busy, so I wonβt be able to go. Escort Voronin safely back to her apartment.β
βAye aye. Hang on, let me go and grab a few things,β she said before she swiveled around and disappeared into the crowd. Moments later, she was back with a scarf wrapped around her throat, and a familiar sheath leaned against her leg. Resting her hands on the heavy hilt of her sword in a way that appeared to be naturally habitual, she glanced over at Roksana with a small twinkle in her eyes. Even with the sanguine demeanor she held, there was something that made her seem quite calm. Sharp, even. βReady?β
Zera Zeddrid
βAn enigma wrapped in the barrel of a gun?β Repeated Zera with a slight tip of the head. That wasnβt bad sounding. Currently, she was apathetic to the other guests who encircled them, but she did give a little nod in the direction of those who met eyes with her. Had she been a few years younger with her perpetual frown and constant hawk-like gaze, she was certain she would have paid them no attention at all.
While raking her hand through her hair, Zera glanced over in the Magpieβs direction with her expression unchanging. βChaos in the bar, my friend, is one that I welcome, regardless of whatβs happened before,β she answered simply while taking another swing from her glass, though there was the smallest hint of a smile that grazed past her lips. Her gaze then briefly landed on the hobble Lifen now possessed as an aftermath from the violent scuffle. βCareful with that leg, Magpie. I doubt Vikhrov will enjoy having his right-hand missing from further sustained injury.β Or was it left-hand in his case, because that flank of his was vulnerable, and it was the side he most seemed to depend on the Magpie for her astute eye? Either way, it didnβt matter.
"There's plenty of intoxicating material. If you know where to look."
Hm, was there? She surveyed the Corona. All she could see were guests and strangers sprawled out over the couch or wobbling on their feet on the dance floor. Some of the people who were less intoxicated seemed to be conversing mundanely. There was a whirl of colors, and⦠well, all seemed normal in her perspective. Nothing outstanding, but nothing too undervalued, either. Everything was just enough to set an atmosphere and just enough to bring about a different mood across the members of the Styx. Of course, this was coming from the side of a sniper who was impossible to fully impress.
βWhat about you, Zera? You look like a regular dancer. Like you belong in the ballet.β
The inquiry brought the young woman back to reality, and she glanced over at her two companions with a blank blink. After she quickly pieced the puzzles together, she raised an eyebrow in their direction, albeit not unkindly. βDo I look like a regular dancer? I donβt think Iβve heard that before.β Leaning back while setting her drink down, she shook her head to the side as well. βStill, Iβll have to pass. Dancing is not my forte.β Watching others move about in their heels and suits was fine and dandy, but participating in them was off-putting. Too much twirling and spinning gave her a headache; she much rather preferred to take a long, long nap.
The backdoor opened, and she saw none other than Hart emerge with his jacket shrugged over his shoulders and his gaze scanning the entirety of Corona. There was something unreadable to the dual-sided Nightingale as always, and the razor-keen look in his gaze remained steady; it seemed impossible to dampen with water.
An impassive flick of his wrist called Yvette over before she could say anything any further, and Zera managed to muster a casual wave of her hand in response to her loose salute. Before the swordswoman completely vanished, however, she seemed to hesitate a little before her brown eyes rested on those of the Magpieβs. βTake it easy, tonight, okay?β Zera recognized that Yvette was referring to Lifenβs condition overall, though the young woman didnβt glance back to see if their second-in-command had responded. In no less than a few, fleeting seconds, the sniper watched as she spoke with their leader alone before she was out of sight once more from the wave of the crowd.
"Must be sending her somewhere." Straightening herself from the bar with her eyes still glued on Hart, she spoke. βAnyway, Magpie, what do you reckon he does in there with the other girl?β
Rafael Edkaird
Oh, boy. That was close.
It wasnβt the close proximity the chair enforced (not that he was against it in the least) that made color leap to his face, but rather the fact that heβd felt Zamirβs warm breath against his ear when he spoke. Oh, Saints, he had not been prepared for that at all. Hopefully, his hair was enough to conceal his burning face. If the actor had leaned in any closer, he was certain he wouldβve felt Zamirβs lips brush against his skin. The thought alone nearly made him hop impossibly far out of the seat.
What was going on with him? If he was his usual self, he was certain he wouldβve light-heartedly quipped back. Now, he found himself speechless. The great, wordy spider, speechless. That wasnβt something that occurred very often, was it?
Coughing lightly as he shook his head once (because that surely helped his hair cover his cheeks) to the side in the most natural way possible, he then proceeded to force his mind to focus on the notes of the song. It momentarily distanced him from their immediate surrounding, allowing him to regain his composure. It had always been able to, when heβd most needed it back in the day before heβd started playing in front of an audience.
Relax. R e l a x. The lights are dim enough.
"I can do my best. How hard could it be?"
βYouβd be surprised,β he answered just in time after heβd calmed down (though he took one last breath) with a small, familiar smile dancing across his lips. βHere,β he said as he extended his pale hand and played a few notes altogether. βCould you try playing this?β He demonstrated a few more notes slowly, giving time for Zamir to absorb the necessary flat chords before flexing his own fingers. βIf you play those continuously, Iβll match what you do with my right hand, and voilΓ . Weβll be playing Ivy Glass.β
He glanced around, turning his head away from that of Zamir's in the process to keep his expression hidden, and his brows knitted together the slightest bit in concern when he realized that Killian was nowhere to be found. Had he lost the guy? Was he all right? I should've offered my hand to the both of them, he scolded himself internally. If Manus was hurt or lost because of him, he wasn't going to let himself off the hook easily.
~
It'd been a bit of an eventful night, considering how much consecutive bantering LΓ‘n had endured the past hour or so. Gods, Fang was so insistent on winning even the smallest argument there was. Well, he wasn't too different, either, but still. The man had height, looks, and the capability of excelling in academics far more than himself (it was probably the only thing he could do though, ha, take that Fang). Sometimes, he was curious on why the guy seemed so hung up on having the last say, though it was mostly due to their peculiar friendship. It was built on insults and curses, and yet it seemed to work out somehow relatively all right.
Luckily, much to his relief, Galatea seemed to be caught up with a few other guests. Had he been free, there was no doubt the night would've been filled with the sound of the three boys bickering, even though they all seemed to share a good rapport with each other, much to the curiosity of a few individuals.
"Hey," he heard behind him. When he turned around, he saw Fang standing there with a drink in his hand and his dark, dark eyes resting on something in the midst of the crowd. "Isn't that Killian?"
"I'd agree or disagree with you, but I'm too short to se-" Before he could finish his sentence, he was completely caught off guard when he felt himself rising off the floor, and was even more baffled to understand that it'd been Fang who'd picked him up. He was about to ask what the heck he was doing, until he heard the much taller individual say: "Well? Do you see him now?"
Squinting his eyes to focus, LΓ‘n nodded his head. It didn't take too long to find the gentle giant, and he tapped his friend's hand to put him down. Instead of gracefully being placed back on the ground, he was almost completely dropped. "Sorry, my hand slipped."
All right, that actually seemed genuine enough. "Come on, let's check on him. I'm a little worried; he looks really bothered," he said over his shoulder before he shot into the crowd.
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because he was too scared. The West Stave, for instance. He never knew where to look when it came to pleasure houses, even if it was just theirΒ innuendoic brick fronts. Or there was one long street with a battered sign that simply said '5th' that he never went down purelyΒ on his gut feeling. Β The water lapped right up to the pavement there, because the stone fell away into a gradual slope. That's how the mermen got you.Β 
