Mid-day snack

Moirean

Iron Hill Armoury. (Isle of Delos.)
Its many straps coiled in a pile, a gray leather belt is here. Havothi garb slightly smudged with soot, Kovarek Ikram Sovar works here. Aisling is here. You see a sign here instructing you that WARES is the command to see what is for sale.

Aisling:
She is a muscular Yeleni of a tall, willowy stature at five feet and ten inches. Feminine traits are visible in the modest curves of her toned, taut form, with skin of a pretty blue color. Wavy off-white hair flows down to mid-back and frames her face, ruffled here and there with curls. Her eyes are white, the black outline of her irises shrouded beneath what seems to be frost. From the mass of hair stick out a pair of long, pointed ears, set at the sides of her head, a delicate curve to them lending to an air of elegance. Protruding from her back are twin, massive wings, the feathers translucent, patterned by frost. Standing out amidst the blue of her skin, a triangle, inked in black, reaches from her neck, to clavicle, to shoulder-blade. A deep chill surrounds her, remnant of the tundra and just as unpleasant to the touch. She walks with the blessing of Dhar. She walks with the blessing of Auresae. She walks with the blessing of Slyphe.

(blousing over tucked-in boots) : a soldier's high-waisted breeches
(buttoned to the throat) : a high-collared, sleeveless shirt
(securely buckled) : a soldier's knee-length black boots

Moirean:
She is a typical Azudim vampire and is tall and slender, with the toned muscles and lean figure of a fighter. Dark auburn hair tumbles down her back in curled waves, held back by a pair of crimson horns twisting up from her brow, while a whip-thin, spade-tipped tail flows behind her. Immense bronze-hued leathery wings, akin to those of a gargoyle, unfold from her back, a seamed scar running jaggedly across their span. High cheekbones frame pure black eyes, highlighting the angular, cold set of her features - while there is beauty to her form, it is an alien and disconcerting sort, her feminine traits tempered by the sorts of lines more at home in a demon from the Chaos plane than in a woman. Her left arm is a forged creation of steel and soulstone, the silvery metal crawling with inky black lines. She walks with the boon of Iosyne.

(jangling from the belt) : a brass keyring
(set at a rakish cant) : a pair of Impish horns
(woven through her hair) : a blood-speckled white rose
(tight-cut for battle) : shadowy leather trousers
(worn at the hip) : a macabre Tarot deck
(at the back of the neck) : a black-inked tattoo of a pair of crossed fists
(worn on the belt) : a battered iron flask
(tight-fitting) : a black leather corset
(molded to the left arm) : a steel arm webbed in living soulstone
(sturdy and utilitarian) : a pair of boots
(hanging from a chain around the neck) : a ring engraved with the Seirath crest

You have emoted: Moirean enters silently, leaning quietly against the doorframe of the armory. She keeps to the shadows, remaining quiet, and merely watches you.

Aisling looks over the armor sets in display, distracted enough that she doesn't notice your presence for now.

(Tells|Ishin): From an unseen place, Ishin communicates to you, "You should be welcome to join us if you'd like, Chairwoman."

You have emoted: Moirean seems content to study you in silence. Her eyes narrow, as if appraising a horse for sale, or a haunch of meat at a butcher's, and her lips tighten, slowly pursing as they run over a petite pair of fangs. She sniffs at the air, the noise soft, but noticeable in the quiet shop.

(Tells|Ishin): You tell Ishin, "I decided to find...dinner."

(Tells|Ishin): From an unseen place, Ishin communicates to you, "Ah."

(Tells|Ishin): From an unseen place, Ishin communicates to you, "Well, I hope it's more enjoyable than two fine lookin' fellows."

(Tells|Ishin): You tell Ishin, "I doubt you two would appreciate assisting me in finding food."

Aisling's ears give the slightest twitch, and her head snaps towards the sound, her gaze not quite visible under the frost, but the tension now on her shoulders betrays her noticing of you, "... Looking for armor, Commander? Or weapons?" She asks, lips twitching in a polite smile and tone nothing but distant friendliness.

(Tells|Ishin): From an unseen place, Ishin communicates to you, "Prolly not."

You have emoted: Moirean blinks slowly, attention fully fixed on you. There's a glint to her stare, something sharp and hard there, as she slowly swallows, pushing away from the wall to take a slight step closer. "Dinner," she answers, brow furrowing in a frown. Her voice is soft, the word little more than a whisper, but it is a heavy one - there's a limp sort of menace to the tone, almost as if by rote, but beneath it...oddly, almost reluctance, or regret, the syllable fading away to lilt upwards. The final sounds soften into a question, an offer, and you can sense a slightly melodic force to her voice, tugging the sound towards something almost alluring.

Aisling seems to shrink under the intense stare, the word making her wings twitch, her eyebrows rise in surprise. "Moirean." She calls, taking a step back even as one hand reaches for the hilt of the sword at her hip, "Stay back." It's not so much a warning as much as a request, as if the Templar is fully aware that a fight won't be in her favor, ".. What is wrong with you?"

You have emoted: Moirean's tone is an odd mix of apologetic and cold, her lips pulling into a frown to slightly expose her teeth. "I'm hungr-" She shakes her head, swallowing again. Her eyes remain fixed on you, unblinking, as her stare slowly slides away from your face - over, and down a fraction - to your neck. "I need it," she corrects herself. Slowly, almost gently, as if approaching a lost puppy she's afraid might flee, she takes another step closer. Her tone is low, and that melodic lilt is stronger, weaving through her words in a soothing, almost-hypnotic twine. "It doesn't have to hurt, or harm. It can be pleasant..."

Aisling isn't far from a puppy in the way she takes another step back, grip on the hilt of her sword tight, as if baring teeth, the surroundings growing colder as the frost around her features seems to spread, "Find a guildmate. Find one of yours, I'm not- I'm not risking my place for some hungry Consanguine who cannot hunt for herself." She manages, voice wavering, "Don't do this, Moirean."

You have emoted: Moirean takes another slow step forward - she has no weapons bared, nor is she blocking the way, but something about her movements are encroaching, and her gaze lifts, eyes locking on yours, her stare sharpening in a way that almost mesmerizes you. "It can be pleasant," she repeats, her voice still low, soft, soothing, hypnotic. Soporifically, she continues, "Like the warmth from whisky, the easy rush from love-making, it can be intoxicating..." Close enough, now, to touch you, she lifts one hand, gently, slowly, as if to caress your cheek.

You conjure up the illusion: The words are sing-song, blurring at your wits and dulling your reactions.

Aisling seems to allow it, body slowly relaxing, less at ease and more defeated slumping, even as her frost continues to build in a telltale sign of her anxiousness, "I..." She starts, takes a breath, closing her eyes tightly, the struggle clear as she releases the hilt, all but brushing your touch away, "I know this too well, Moirean." She manages, making to move, to leave, "Find someone else."

You have emoted: Moirean's body blurs - supernaturally swift, she's beside you, suddenly, quicker than your eye can blink, and then her hand slides slowly, but firmly, along your neck, gently cupping your cheek, her touch as cold as the frost liming your features. There is no threat, no violence, merely that piercing, unblinking stare, her eyes locked on yours. "Just a moment, a sweet surrender," she whispers, lips close to your ear. Her breath is chilly, and too sweet. "Just a moment, and then your worries will vanish..." Her voice trails off, words hanging there like an invitation.

Aisling falters, as she has been since the beginning of this game, and though the touches are gentle, she reacts violently then, reaching for the sword and attempting to slam the hilt against your stomach, wings closed tightly at her back as she scrambles for the exit, for the sunlight.

You have emoted: Moirean lets out a sharp grunt, the sound bordering on a howl, as you break to flee. The hilt slams into her stomach, bending her double, but one hand lashes out with a swift, striking celerity, fingers circling tight around your wrist before you can recover from the attack. With preternatural strength, her grip tightens, pinioning you in place. The calm mask cracks, as her stare sharpens and she bares her teeth, face contorted into a hungry, cold mask. Desperation laces through her tone as she hisses, "I *need* this!"

Aisling struggles, though her strength is useless under that of a Consanguine, more of an annoyance than a true chance at her escaping. It is then that her breath catches, her voice cracks, "Then hunt. Kill." She manages, nearly a whine, "Please, f-find someone else, please.." She pleads, begs even, eyes tightly closed still, body tense and struggling still, uselessly.

You have emoted: Moirean straightens from the blow, pulling herself and you closer together. Her expression softens, as she lifts her other hand to gently - almost tenderly - brush back a stray lock of you wavy white hair, fingers skimming your temple, cheek, jaw in a chilly caress. "It's not the same," she murmurs. Her tone is almost sad, apologetic, even as her movements are deliberate, her grip bending your arm behind your back to draw you closer to her. Her eyes search your face, that same intent, mesmerizing stare trying to catch your gaze again.

Aisling whimpers, an odd hint of terror behind it all, especially considering the lack of violence so far, of true harm. She seems to give, her arm shifting with your movement, not with ease, but definitely with more of a tremble than a proper struggle by now. She keeps her eyes closed tightly, mumbling, begging under her breath still.

You have emoted: Moirean's grip supports you tight, while her other arm, the forged one, lightly strokes at your face again, steel fingertips skimming across your skin, as she murmurs soft, soothing shushing noises. "It's just a moment," she whispers. "Just a moment of pain, and then your worries will melt away..." As she speaks, her head bends closer, lips to your ear, and then down to your neck, as she breathes across your skin. Her tone is that same melodic sing-song, like a nursery rhyme, or a lullaby.

Aisling's breath is rapid, heart beating fast and loud in her panic, seemingly paralyzed for the most part. The closeness triggers it, most of all, lips at her ear making her nearly sob, begging turning to apologies clearly not meant for you, "Finish this. I-I can't get loose, just, just get this over with, Moirean." She says, voice a few pitches higher, cracking, her crying clear even in the absence of tears.

You have emoted: At that, Moirean's teeth skim across your skin. It's soft, at first, like a teasing nibble from a lover's kiss, before the sharper pinch of pain comes - anticipating that harder edge to the bite, the piercing of the fangs, the woman twists her hand where it cups your cheek, cold steel shifting away until the soulstone itself presses flush to your skin, and with that comes a jarring, shocking sense of something FOREIGN and dizzying, as if you were watching yourself from someone else's body. The pain recedes, in that moment, the worst of the sting absorbed by the detachment. It lasts only a moment, a heartbeat's pulse before your blood hits her lips, but in that second of connection, you sense her as well, a desperate, painful hunger, skin-crawling and tormenting, and see the bleak, black addiction driving her...and then her fingers shift, leaving merely steel against your skin again, and the growing sense of warmth and euphoric peace that comes with the feeding.

Aisling flinches at the first hint of teeth, mouth opening in a soundless scream when the bite comes, and the subsequent feeling, of depersonalization, twofold in coming from herself in the moment of terror and from you, leave her a tense, weak form to the Consanguine's use. The hunger makes her shift, breath catching before she manages a whine, and her shaking, her fear, doesn't seem to subside by much with the feeding, even if her body struggles to react as much, heartbeat slowing, breath, hyperventilating before, now easing.

You have emoted: Moirean's gentleness and slow advances quicken now, discarded once you are clearly her victim. She feeds in long, hungry pulls, any subtlety or tact abandoned - your blood smears her mouth and pools in your clavicle, eagerly savored and spilling over in a messy, crimson cascade. You can hear her moan, faintly, mindlessly, as her iron-strong grip holds you tight against her. Finally, the feeding slows until, sated, she pulls away, grip relaxing, and a touch of softness returns to her as she gently releases you, supporting you in case you fall. Her face is blood-stained, red running down her chin, neck, chest, but her features are perfectly at peace, beatific and calm.

Barely a whisper, you say, "Thank you."

Aisling's knees are weak, her weight nearly fully on you, the euphoria from the bite fading as the Yeleni comes back to some semblance of proper conscience, "L-let me go." She manages, voice shaky, weak, as she reaches to press a hand against the wound at her neck, blood as warm as one would expect, despite her cold exterior, "Leave. Please."

You have emoted: Moirean helps ease you to the ground. Her hand - the forged one - hovers for a moment, uncertain, beside your cheek. She almost pulls away but, then, quickly, she lightly lays the soulstone-webbed palm against your skin in a fleeting, momentary touch. Once more, you feel that disconcerting lurch, and a rush of emotion courses through you, blissfully flooding your senses: peaceful, soothing nothing. Freedom. The contact breaks, and, in a blur, the woman is gone.

You fade away to the south.

Trager

10/10 spr hawt.

Ishin

#rekt