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Dec 20, 2017 8:41:42 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Dec 20, 2017 8:41:42 GMT -5
βΊ Roksana Voronin βΊ
She was torn between pride and practicality; Voronins did not need babysitters but it was a dangerous city in the dark of night and she was defenseless (Well, almost defenseless. She had her little dagger after all. May not do much against the barrel of a gun, but it was comforting to have it's weight.) So she relented, settling for placing her hands on her hips with a little 'humph' so he would know she agreed but that he was lucky she agreed.
When they left the little room and entered into the main hall, the noise and the heat nearly knocked Roksanna to the floor . If she'd been in a better mood, she may even have admitted the atmosphere was a little intoxicating, but she was far too tired to be generous. At least she approved of Hart's choice of escort - Roksana didn't have a very high opinion of most of the Styx's central members (Rafael? A toddler. Zamir? Seedy. Lifen? Unprincipled. Zera? Acerbic. Killian? Utterly Moronic. Even Hart was on thin ice most of the time.) and while Yvette would be a little too chipper at times, she was the lesser evil in a large crate of unsightly individuals. Plus, she had a sword. Even Roksana had to admit that swords were cool. She didn't greet the other girl when she appeared, they weren't that close and Roksana always felt very conspicuous when she left the little backroom with Hart. He was a man people watched, and surely people must wonder. So in defense, she maintained her aloof, detached persona.
As the other girl nipped off to get her things, Roksana rounded on Hart one last time, "Don't forget what I told you." She hissed, poking his chest with a pointed finger, "No. Messing. Around." Each word was accentuated with a harder prod, until she damn near opened a brand new wound in his sternum. She had to stretch to reach the middle of his chest, but she didn't care, nor did she care if the ruthless leader of the Styx was seen in a crowded bar getting nagged by a girl eight inches smaller than him. She kept her voice low enough so that it wasn't common knowledge what she was saying, but it had a second impact of adding a degree of sharpness to her words, "I mean it Hart Vikhrov; Gang leader or no gang leader, I'll kill you myself. Then, maybe, we'd all finally have some peace around here."
As Yvette returned, Roksana stepped back, suddenly composed, wrapping her scarf around her square little shoulders, "Yes, let's go." She nodded, spun on her heel and headed for the door without so much as a 'good night'. For a pair of tiny young women, they made short work of the crowds, the people parted around them like hair through a comb, and in seconds they were out onto the streets. The cold air hit her, tired and still damp from her bath, and she pulled her wrap tighter around her, wishing she had a thicker coat to bring out on such nights. "Thank you for escorting me back." She said, breaking the silence, watching her breath cloud up in the cold air, "I'm sorry you're missing out on the... party. It's well earned." That was the closest anyone was getting to a compliment from the Grisha, but she did feel a little bad. Just because that wasn't her kind of thing didn't mean no one could enjoyed it.
When they left the little room and entered into the main hall, the noise and the heat nearly knocked Roksanna to the floor . If she'd been in a better mood, she may even have admitted the atmosphere was a little intoxicating, but she was far too tired to be generous. At least she approved of Hart's choice of escort - Roksana didn't have a very high opinion of most of the Styx's central members (Rafael? A toddler. Zamir? Seedy. Lifen? Unprincipled. Zera? Acerbic. Killian? Utterly Moronic. Even Hart was on thin ice most of the time.) and while Yvette would be a little too chipper at times, she was the lesser evil in a large crate of unsightly individuals. Plus, she had a sword. Even Roksana had to admit that swords were cool. She didn't greet the other girl when she appeared, they weren't that close and Roksana always felt very conspicuous when she left the little backroom with Hart. He was a man people watched, and surely people must wonder. So in defense, she maintained her aloof, detached persona.
As the other girl nipped off to get her things, Roksana rounded on Hart one last time, "Don't forget what I told you." She hissed, poking his chest with a pointed finger, "No. Messing. Around." Each word was accentuated with a harder prod, until she damn near opened a brand new wound in his sternum. She had to stretch to reach the middle of his chest, but she didn't care, nor did she care if the ruthless leader of the Styx was seen in a crowded bar getting nagged by a girl eight inches smaller than him. She kept her voice low enough so that it wasn't common knowledge what she was saying, but it had a second impact of adding a degree of sharpness to her words, "I mean it Hart Vikhrov; Gang leader or no gang leader, I'll kill you myself. Then, maybe, we'd all finally have some peace around here."
As Yvette returned, Roksana stepped back, suddenly composed, wrapping her scarf around her square little shoulders, "Yes, let's go." She nodded, spun on her heel and headed for the door without so much as a 'good night'. For a pair of tiny young women, they made short work of the crowds, the people parted around them like hair through a comb, and in seconds they were out onto the streets. The cold air hit her, tired and still damp from her bath, and she pulled her wrap tighter around her, wishing she had a thicker coat to bring out on such nights. "Thank you for escorting me back." She said, breaking the silence, watching her breath cloud up in the cold air, "I'm sorry you're missing out on the... party. It's well earned." That was the closest anyone was getting to a compliment from the Grisha, but she did feel a little bad. Just because that wasn't her kind of thing didn't mean no one could enjoyed it.
βΆ Lifen Aakster βΆ
βCareful with that leg, Magpie. I doubt Vikhrov will enjoy having his right-hand missing from further sustained injury.β
She scoffed, dismissing Zera's statement with a wave of her hand, "Please. 'Tis but a scratch." Well, it wasn't, it was an injured muscle and it hurt like hell, but Lifen was nothing if not a compulsive liar, "I've had worse. But, I suppose you have a point." She sighed dramatically, shaking her head with rue, "Without me, I don't think you guys would last a day. I'd wake up from my sick bed to find the city in flames. The rocks would melt and the sea would burn. All because I took one day off."
Yvette took her leave, and Lifen mimicked her little salute as she left, watching her pick her way through the crowd as carefully as a cat on a mantelpiece full of little trinkets, "I'm always easy, Yvette." Lifen wouldn't be afraid to admit she envied Yvette her stealth, as she did with Rafael. She'd never been subtle, that wasn't how she did things, though it sure did come in handy ever now and again. Could a demolition expert be covert? It seemed quite paradoxical. Better leave the sleuthing to the spies.
Zera's question didn't exactly catch Lifen off guard - she'd been more then ready to answer it for a long time. It was only a matter of time before someone asked, and she knew very few people who were stupid enough to ask it to Hart, so she had just assumed the question would have to go through her first. That was her job, to act as a filter and envoy. However, the truth in this case was out of the question, she'd been asked to keep a secret by Hart, and if there was one person who could count on her discreetness , it was him. She owed him a lot. So, better to deflect it, "What do you think he does?" She wiggled her eyebrows, "While I'm privy to most of his business, there's some stuff a gentlewoman just doesn't ask about." She pressed a hand flat against her chest, as if the woman with the least morals and tackiest nature in the city could ever be nobility, "What he does behind locked doors after a long day is none of my business. Though I'm always open to speculate, of course."
Hey, her orders were Don't tell anyone she's Grisha, not Completely ignore the fact she exists. Maybe throwing some dirt in the water, a few red herrings, could be beneficial. And maybe they were true. Lifen wasn't a physic. And he wouldn't be the only gang leader in the city to blow off some steam after a big victory. Men like their egos to be flattered, that was an age old truth, and Hart was only a man after all. The only unusual aspect of the story is that, with all the boys and girls of Ketterdamn to choose from, it's a five foot nothing, foul tempered, shoe shiner who looks like she could singlehandledly pull a plough that Hart Vikhrov seems to have selected. "And of course, what's said at this bar," She steepled her fingers against it, "Stays at this bar. I'm an excellent confidant."
She scoffed, dismissing Zera's statement with a wave of her hand, "Please. 'Tis but a scratch." Well, it wasn't, it was an injured muscle and it hurt like hell, but Lifen was nothing if not a compulsive liar, "I've had worse. But, I suppose you have a point." She sighed dramatically, shaking her head with rue, "Without me, I don't think you guys would last a day. I'd wake up from my sick bed to find the city in flames. The rocks would melt and the sea would burn. All because I took one day off."
Yvette took her leave, and Lifen mimicked her little salute as she left, watching her pick her way through the crowd as carefully as a cat on a mantelpiece full of little trinkets, "I'm always easy, Yvette." Lifen wouldn't be afraid to admit she envied Yvette her stealth, as she did with Rafael. She'd never been subtle, that wasn't how she did things, though it sure did come in handy ever now and again. Could a demolition expert be covert? It seemed quite paradoxical. Better leave the sleuthing to the spies.
Zera's question didn't exactly catch Lifen off guard - she'd been more then ready to answer it for a long time. It was only a matter of time before someone asked, and she knew very few people who were stupid enough to ask it to Hart, so she had just assumed the question would have to go through her first. That was her job, to act as a filter and envoy. However, the truth in this case was out of the question, she'd been asked to keep a secret by Hart, and if there was one person who could count on her discreetness , it was him. She owed him a lot. So, better to deflect it, "What do you think he does?" She wiggled her eyebrows, "While I'm privy to most of his business, there's some stuff a gentlewoman just doesn't ask about." She pressed a hand flat against her chest, as if the woman with the least morals and tackiest nature in the city could ever be nobility, "What he does behind locked doors after a long day is none of my business. Though I'm always open to speculate, of course."
Hey, her orders were Don't tell anyone she's Grisha, not Completely ignore the fact she exists. Maybe throwing some dirt in the water, a few red herrings, could be beneficial. And maybe they were true. Lifen wasn't a physic. And he wouldn't be the only gang leader in the city to blow off some steam after a big victory. Men like their egos to be flattered, that was an age old truth, and Hart was only a man after all. The only unusual aspect of the story is that, with all the boys and girls of Ketterdamn to choose from, it's a five foot nothing, foul tempered, shoe shiner who looks like she could singlehandledly pull a plough that Hart Vikhrov seems to have selected. "And of course, what's said at this bar," She steepled her fingers against it, "Stays at this bar. I'm an excellent confidant."
β¦ Zamir Nejen β¦
Was he blushing?
It was hard to tell in this light, and Zamir couldn't make it obvious he was trying to see, all he could afford were quick glances from the side. Maybe. He smiled to himself, a little smugly, feeling miles better already. He could live with the uncertainty. It was hard to fight the feeling to lean back in again, closer this time, and seal the distance between them, but he managed to fend it off. He felt too good to risk ruining the atmosphere.
Zamir watched Rafael's hands move across the keys, enjoying it way more then he ever thought was possible to enjoy watching someone's fingers. He didn't understand, but he nodded his head all the same, "Yep. Got it." He attempted to recreate the sounds Rafael had made effortlessly, less then two seconds ago, and failed. He tried it again, getting it closer to the sound, and by a third time, it was passable. Looking immensely proud of him, he gently shoulder charged the boy beside him, nodding to the keys, "I'm a natural. Praise me."
He started repeating the notes over and over again, and when Rafael added his vastly superior notes to the mix, the crowd recognized what song was being played and a cheer went up. Partners were grabbed and someone began clapping along. The mood was infectious and he felt himself grinning even harder, laughing at his own terrible piano playing ability.
He saw Rafael glance over his shoulder and did the same without thinking. Manus had vanished, which was no small feat. He found it hard to be worried about him, however, and turned his attention back to the instrument, plonking down on the keys with no delicacy. "You're so good at this," He had to raise his voice to be heard, "The piano. You should play it more."
It was hard to tell in this light, and Zamir couldn't make it obvious he was trying to see, all he could afford were quick glances from the side. Maybe. He smiled to himself, a little smugly, feeling miles better already. He could live with the uncertainty. It was hard to fight the feeling to lean back in again, closer this time, and seal the distance between them, but he managed to fend it off. He felt too good to risk ruining the atmosphere.
Zamir watched Rafael's hands move across the keys, enjoying it way more then he ever thought was possible to enjoy watching someone's fingers. He didn't understand, but he nodded his head all the same, "Yep. Got it." He attempted to recreate the sounds Rafael had made effortlessly, less then two seconds ago, and failed. He tried it again, getting it closer to the sound, and by a third time, it was passable. Looking immensely proud of him, he gently shoulder charged the boy beside him, nodding to the keys, "I'm a natural. Praise me."
He started repeating the notes over and over again, and when Rafael added his vastly superior notes to the mix, the crowd recognized what song was being played and a cheer went up. Partners were grabbed and someone began clapping along. The mood was infectious and he felt himself grinning even harder, laughing at his own terrible piano playing ability.
He saw Rafael glance over his shoulder and did the same without thinking. Manus had vanished, which was no small feat. He found it hard to be worried about him, however, and turned his attention back to the instrument, plonking down on the keys with no delicacy. "You're so good at this," He had to raise his voice to be heard, "The piano. You should play it more."
β© Killian Manus β©
It wasn't unusual for Killian to be afraid of something he wasn't very well practiced in. He feared the unknown, most Kaelish people did, their superstitions were generally unpleasant. And women were vastly unknown to him. So were men, in an intimate sense, but he'd grown up around boys. He'd gone to an all boys' school, with its sister school next door, the only female interaction he'd had on a regular basis was his mother. To put it shortly, girls kind of scared him. He thought he sort of understood them a bit before he came to Ketterdamn, but since then everything he thought he knew had been blown out of the water, and he'd been left stranded. Guys kind of scared him too, everything scared him. Violent people, confident people, promiscuous people - he just couldn't understand them.
Plus, the whole notion of 'romance' seemed otherworldly to him. He wanted it, everyone wanted it a little bit, right? But so far his life had not gone exactly according to plan, and romance had taken a back seat to basic survival. Weren't there rules? Dos and Don'ts? He'd never been taught them, but he was vaguely aware of their existence (something to do with flowers.) The people of Ketterdamn didn't have any rules like the ones they had on The Wandering Isle. The only rule was the rule of the street, and that was survival of the fittest.
He'd reach the front wall, so close to the door and yet so far, when he spotted three familiar faces who looked like they'd been trying to catch his eye. Galatea, Fang, and LΓ‘n (he was 80% sure that those were their names. At least 80.) all members of the Styx, all reasonable enough men. Fang could be a bit of a handful, but the three of them together made for a decent team. There was a certain solidarity between Killian and Galatea, the kind found between two very tall people. Tis a difficult life they lead.
As nice as these guys were, Killian had a sneaky feeling that if he revealed to them why he looked flustered, he may never hear the end of it. Conquests were a common bragging topic among the members of the Styx, and probably most gangs. In a city where small is precious, people have to make do, and being shy about it wasn't looked on with kindness. Thankfully they took Killian's silence on the subject to simply be part-and-parcel to his silence on every topic. So, he attempted to reconfigure himself, trying to apply the poker face he'd seen so many other of his peers pull off effortlessly, "Good evening." He sounded way too formal, but most of his colleagues were used to his odd syntax by this point.
Plus, the whole notion of 'romance' seemed otherworldly to him. He wanted it, everyone wanted it a little bit, right? But so far his life had not gone exactly according to plan, and romance had taken a back seat to basic survival. Weren't there rules? Dos and Don'ts? He'd never been taught them, but he was vaguely aware of their existence (something to do with flowers.) The people of Ketterdamn didn't have any rules like the ones they had on The Wandering Isle. The only rule was the rule of the street, and that was survival of the fittest.
He'd reach the front wall, so close to the door and yet so far, when he spotted three familiar faces who looked like they'd been trying to catch his eye. Galatea, Fang, and LΓ‘n (he was 80% sure that those were their names. At least 80.) all members of the Styx, all reasonable enough men. Fang could be a bit of a handful, but the three of them together made for a decent team. There was a certain solidarity between Killian and Galatea, the kind found between two very tall people. Tis a difficult life they lead.
As nice as these guys were, Killian had a sneaky feeling that if he revealed to them why he looked flustered, he may never hear the end of it. Conquests were a common bragging topic among the members of the Styx, and probably most gangs. In a city where small is precious, people have to make do, and being shy about it wasn't looked on with kindness. Thankfully they took Killian's silence on the subject to simply be part-and-parcel to his silence on every topic. So, he attempted to reconfigure himself, trying to apply the poker face he'd seen so many other of his peers pull off effortlessly, "Good evening." He sounded way too formal, but most of his colleagues were used to his odd syntax by this point.