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Nehekhara Meets Mudd
You have emoted: Galilei takes the moment to scan those gathered, silvery gaze resting a longer moment on Cayn - and narrowing a touch? - before moving on.
-
Cayn's impassive attention is predominantly for Zenobia, awaiting the impending sermon in a mellow stance at the rear of the gathering. Awareness of your brief scrutiny may or may not be betrayed in the idle twiddle of a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Crooning in deep sultry purrs, as tail swishes this way and that tiny bells chiming, Zenobia says, "Well then let's enjoy a bit of a chat of Mother!"
-
"Thanks," Cayn tells Zenobia simply, flicking ash to the chamber floor before turning to go.
Cayn leaves to the up.
- And that would simply not do.
@Cayn, you are amazing. 10/10 would write with you again, thanks for being around.
-
Cayn's impassive attention is predominantly for Zenobia, awaiting the impending sermon in a mellow stance at the rear of the gathering. Awareness of your brief scrutiny may or may not be betrayed in the idle twiddle of a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Crooning in deep sultry purrs, as tail swishes this way and that tiny bells chiming, Zenobia says, "Well then let's enjoy a bit of a chat of Mother!"
-
"Thanks," Cayn tells Zenobia simply, flicking ash to the chamber floor before turning to go.
Cayn leaves to the up.
- And that would simply not do.
A smoke filled lounge.
Petrified wood with amber colored resin make up the walls. Small torch scones placed randomly bring out the amber color to add a reddish glow about the room. The floor is made out of sanguis stone, which the bloody tint within casts a subtle glow from the lava flowing beneath. Cushions and petrified wood chairs are placed here and there for people to relax on. Obsidian benches line a couple of walls that can hold the heaviest of patrons. Small tablets are set aglow by burning amber, which lend to the smokiness of the room. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. Cayn is slumped in one half of a bench on the southern wall, smoking and reading a book. He wields a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end in his left hand.
You see exits leading east and west.
You have emoted: A faint chime of crystal is the only thing that alerts you to Galilei's presence, the lounge dim as it is with Cayn's smoke, and others'.
The clarion shimmer of sound is enough to lure Cayn's cold eye over to the entrance, though its curiosity is flattened by something nearer to suspicion when it alights upon you. It returns to the page of his book within moments. "Pretty dead thing all dressed up in pretty dead things..." he comments to himself, as though the thought had been absently stirred by the content of whatever he's reading.
You have emoted: "Silver is certainly not alive," Galilei's low voice comes a little closer than it had been before. "Neither is crystal, neither is silk, nor satin - they simply are." With a small flick of a wrist the shadows surrounding the Consanguine fall away, revealing her own cool gaze. There is no disdain there, no hostility - simply faint wariness to colour her curiosity.
You emerge from your hiding place.
You say to Cayn, "Your presence I've noticed, nowadays."
Pausing, you say, "I seem to recall something about trousers. And meeting one of my newer guildmates."
Cayn's gaze remains fixed upon the paragraph before him while you frame your response, though the left-to-right motion of the unpartnered ocular has stilled; he's not reading anymore. "Nor cut flowers neither," he agrees in a dismissive mutter. "Like you." He snaps the book closed and lifts a more open attention onto you when you make mention of trousers and guildmates, a flash of recognition chased through his eye. But irritation follows, inspired by the aimlessness of your conversation. "This look like a fucking stage performance to you?" he wonders, brows rising to push vaguely parallel lines onto his forehead. The book gets wafted off towards the exit as he invites, "You want to ogle at ugly shit, you can go find another freakshow."
You have emoted: Galilei's own eyebrows rise, following the book's flapping pages as though just now noticing it. "What was that one about?" she asks.
"Gratuitously graphic and detailed erotic fiction," Cayn tells you in a deadpan so perfect, the sarcasm is in danger of obliteration. The cigarette is drawn up for a long, harsh pull before the smoke exits again in its filtered state, taking the edge of Cayn's irritation out with it. Since the more hostile version of his hint wasn't taken, he elects to undertake a more direct approach, inquiring with a quietly simmering impatience, "What do you want?"
Cayn takes a long drag from a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Cayn exhales a black and grey cloud of smoke, redolent with spiced scents.
You have emoted: "To ask for a copy," Galilei returns, one eyebrow laid flatter than the other. "Get the vampire to blush, and you'll know that's a proper piece of literature." Her expression clears into thoughtfulness now. "I want nothing you can hold, at least not now. Thought I might pass by and see the man in the flesh, since both my close friend and a once-fledgling in my guild seems to have had interesting encounters with you." She pauses, predicting further impatience. "And I find myself even more curious about what you were reading. Trashy novels would not have been my first guess."
Cayn keeps his wintry gaze squarely with you throughout the duration of this response, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The honesty and openness begets an improved reception. He mellows out. "It's just guild shit," he admits, tucking the book away now. "But there's supposedly some raunchy material over at the Fling. I haven't read it; it's probably rubbish." The idea of any form of small notoriety rolls right off him, unbothered by it. But the disadvantage in knowledge makes a frown slot into place on the crude shelf of his brow. It gets pointed out in the form of, "And who're you supposed to be again..?"
You have emoted: "Just Galilei. No need for titles." Galilei waves an airy hand. Unspoken is the thought, 'Don't think they'd mean much with you anyway,' but the faint twinkle passing in her eyes is good-natured and her expression is clearly not miffed. "Go hunting with Ephi often and she may bring me up sometimes. Perhaps she might have, already?"
"I fucking hate titles," Cayn opines without batting his functional eyelid, confirming your unvoiced supposition, blunt as can be. His fleeting struggle to place the second name provided might clue you into his dubious ability to recall the first. "Eph--" is all he has to say for it to click, clearing away the scrunch on his brow. "Oh, yeah. Eff. We hunted once. It was alright. Fucked if I can recall what all nonsense she yammered on about though. Spent most of the time going on about the rabbit, I think." As he grinds the butt of his cigarette out on the vacant section of the bench beside his hip, he introduces himself as, "Mudd."
Then Cayn pushes up to his feet, stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, and jerks his head towards the east. "Let's go, then," he tells you, all expectation.
You have emoted: Galilei tilts her head, but nods and falls into step beside the man.
Cayn pauses to grind the life out of a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end, saving it for later.
Cayn ceases to wield a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end in his left hand.
Cayn drops a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
You have emoted: Quicker than anything, Galilei swoops low to pluck the item off the floor.
You pick up a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
If Cayn is in any way surprised by your blind obedience, it doesn't show. He just lifts his bristly chin and trudges on out upon heavy boot-steps with an air of purpose.
Elegant entry to "The Lovers Fling".
Large chandeliers cast a soft, dim glow on this elegant entry hall to highlight the lavish, plush tapestries hanging from the walls; depicting elegant, beautiful women in full and ornate dress, the hangings coyly tease, with the golden threads outlining the curves of their bodies - in the low lighting, these gilt accents glimmer in subtle, suggestive arcs, giving the teasing illusion of the naked forms beneath the clothing. Lush, ripe flowers frame a reception desk in the center of the entry and doors lead off to the public rooms of the brothel, while a double set of stairs trace out large curves towards the floor - and private chambers - above, the flights shaped in sinuous, sweeping arcs. An elegant, glass-covered notice board hangs here.
You see exits leading north, southeast (open pine door), southwest (open pine door), and up.
Cayn tosses a fistful of sovereigns into the bowl near the entrance and tips his head back to scent the coastal air. Then it's onwards, deeper into the establishment with obvious familiarity.
Cayn drops some gold sovereigns.
You have emoted: Galilei follows Cayn, traipsing through a market scene that is no doubt familiar to her. As the building he has in mind looms ever closer her steps retain their pace, though were he to turn and see he would find a spectacularly unimpressed look adorning her face for a moment.
An intimate smoking lounge.
Wood-paneled walls and heavy velvet curtains create an intimate feel for this lounge, with plush couches, private nooks and the dim, diffused glow of candlelight encouraging quiet exchanges and sly flirtations between patrons and the brothel's workers. Ornate tapestries extend from floor to ceiling, the silken hangings tastefully, elegantly depicting graceful women in teasing states of undress, all artfully covered by folds of fabric to give only hints and suggestions, leaving the details to the mind's eye. Beneath these tapestries, low bookcases ring the room, stocked with a wide range of tomes on a variety of topics, ranging from titillating illustrations to erotic poetry to even reference books, likely used by the newer workers for training. A heavy smoke hangs over the chamber, with carved crystal ash-trays set on low tables beside each couch for the convenience of leisurely holding a cigar or cigarette, while a large billiard's table sits in the center of the room, the costly piece elaborately carved as a functional accent to the intimate, lush lounge. The perfect height to complement a couch, a low wooden table sits here. A soft, crimson velvet couch sits here in the south of the room. Piles of cushions surround a chess set arranged atop a low wooden table, the pieces a rather risque spin on the traditional design. A small sign indicates that LIBRARY CATALOG will list the materials in this library.
You see a single exit leading east.
Being a self-centred arse means that Cayn totally doesn't glance back to check on you at all -- maybe he's forgotten that you are even with him. He passes through into the library, a mercifully safe destination despite its provocative decor. Then he's pacing along the shelves, eye raking over titles on the spines.
You have emoted: Galilei is certainly a foreign presence in this brothel with her distinctively not-revealing clothes and the intricate headdress caging her hair. She is glad to find the books, and joins Cayn in browsing - almost as if to give herself something to do that does not involve attracting attention from the patrons.
Cayn absently runs his tongue overtop his teeth as he peruses, gaze snagging on exceptionally little of what's on offer. Even the risque tapestries and so forth don't receive any real attention. The only signs of interest arrive at a book on midwifery, and then a smaller volume nearby. "You like Horkval?" he asks as he tugs the tome from the shelf and flips it open.
.
You have emoted: "Not in particular," Galilei answers without missing a beat. She steps away from the book for a moment, her eyes having spied an ashtray to at last lay a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end to rest upon.
Cayn hums out a low 'mm' of acknowledgement for your lukewarm answer, flipping through pages. He catches a glimpse of your business with the ashtray and his crushed filter out of the corner of his eye, which lures over a fuller attention shot through with puzzlement. A squint follows. Then it returns to the book. And so begins a thoroughly lacklustre recital: "Behold in the candlelight, your antennae, long and proud, rub against my groin, flaring within me..." He cocks his head, frowning. "...glisten and mirror my arousal..." Then frowning and complaint. "Boring. Where's the crunch? No fucking crunch in here."
You have emoted: "...Antennae." Galilei's arms are crossed, one hand lifted to rub at her pale chin. "I really ought to touch up on anatomy for different races." Cayn's grumblings prompt her to ask, "That wasn't all, was it?"
"Well there's pages and pages of this shit," Cayn shares, fingering through the book to demonstrate. A tip of his hairy head indicates the shelf to his right as he adds, "And there's also this treatise on 'vibrations,' but I'm sure it's not the fun kind." Not bothering to replace the book to the shelf, he just straight-up drops it to the floor, and turns to better address you as he presents his final findings: "So I guess I was right."
You have emoted: Galilei kneels down once more, this time to retrieve a book rather than a callously disposed-of cigarette. Without waiting for Cayn to stop her, her slender fingers flip through a page or two and she begins her own recital, some miracle of willpower transforming the utterly flat tone that marks the title into... something else. "How strong and protruding your mandibles stand! Their points glisten with freshly drawn blood that causes much excitement in me, my love." No emotion of the sort passes the Consanguine's eyes even at the mention of blood, no doubt the breaks in phrase and lack of visible rhymes deterring whatever enjoyment that *could* be gleaned from the work.
Containing one consonant between her lips before declaiming the first adjective, you say, "How *fierce* and masculine your mandibles are!"
Cayn's brows bounce up as you elects to clean up after him yet again, expression registering at first as bemused. That is, until you begins her own colourless recital, which inspires a strange little light to his eye. Arms are comfortably folded as he leans a shoulder against the shelf, settling in to listen. He tongues the inside of his cheek to better obscure the line of his mouth - is that a smile quirked under there? - and otherwise only nods. Slow and sagacious, as though your version of the poem had instilled some great wisdom into his ugly head.
You have emoted: "Truly a sign of your prowess and magnificence..." Galilei's gaze has already left the book, fluttering to the ceiling above with a gesture vaguely reminiscent of one sunny squire but laden with heavier, sultrier intent that is clearly not directed at Cayn. Those eyes flicker back to the book. Blinks. "I know my... eggs will be strong, my love."
A few short syllables of rasping mirth bubble up from Cayn's throat at that last halting sentence like stone grating upon stone as his amusement finally compromises his restraint. This all smooths out again in the moments that follow. "Gal-whatever, right?" At least he tried? He tilts his head, and the fractional adjustment in angle is just enough to transform his gaze upon you from casual to calculating. "You don't ruffle easy," is his observation, voiced low and frank. "I like that. Rare among you snobby vampire fucks. You look like you're about twelve, but who fucking knows with your lot -- you like three hundred or some shit?"
You have emoted: "Twenty-three," Galilei enunciates, slowly putting down the offending material so loftily called poetry. "Relatively recently turned twenty-three, too." She nods earnestly at Cayn. "And I would wager your twenties have passed, quite. It's a good thing. Wisdom comes with age."
Cayn's frown sweeps right back into place at that number, finding it out of alignment with his growing perception of you. A soft and thoughtful 'huh' falls out of his mouth as he recalibrates, followed by an absent, "Small mercies," to the comment about his own second decade. His nose wrinkles some at the platitude about wisdom, then he describes, "They've got a stage over there where they put on overpriced shows that they advertise as being smoking-hot but are actually really bland." A thumb is hiked over his shoulder as he invites, you, "You wanna check it out?"
You have emoted: "By all means, dispel my fantasies. I am old enough to have some broken and walk off unscathed." Galilei smiles, straightening. "Lead on."
"Breaking shit is pretty much my only use," Cayn replies in a diplomatic way as he shoves away from the shelf, as though conceding a point to you. He leads the way out of the library and across the barroom, making for a curtained area.
Cayn tries to buy a ticket for you, but apparently brothels are big fans of the middle man. He tucks a fistful of coins into your palm before moving on.
Cayn slips some coins to a pair of guards at the back of the bar and they flash him a broad smile and a wink, pulling aside the curtains to reveal a narrow flight of stairs. Vanishing into the shadows, Cayn descends the steps and the curtain falls closed behind him.
You slip some coins to the guards and they flash you a broad smile and a wink, pulling aside the curtains to reveal a narrow flight of stairs. You descend these steps past walls plastered with playbills and posters featuring rather tantalizing illustrations of half-dressed dancers, and emerge into a lush, intimate theater.
A lavish burlesque theater.
Designed for an intimate, memorable performance, this theater is elegant and lavish, with plush
velvet seats arrayed around intimate clusters of tables to face an elevated stage, each one dimly-lit by flickering candles. Heavy crimson curtains drape along each wall in heavy folds, pulling closed over tall windows to easily dull the lighting to a low, smouldering glow, with a series of shuttered candles arranged along the foot of the stage itself, backed with mirrors to focus illumination up onto the dancers. A small dance floor - barely large enough for two or three couples to sway in rather sensuously close company - fills the space before a small orchestra pit, recessed down below the stage itself, with a slender music stand equipped with a small lantern set beside each musician's seat. The stage itself stands at the far wall of the room, the lounge's lines subtle angled to emphasize and highlight its presence: elegant carvings of cloth-draped ladies face the platform, as if watching in enthralled interest, while the theater's sloping ceiling melds design with form, magnifying acoustics and directing attention towards the performers. To either side of the stage, hints of the backstage wings can be glimpsed from behind long drapes, giving tantalizing glimpses of the bustle and work behind the scenes. A large, candle-lit stage rises above the seats of the theater. Cayn is here.
You see exits leading west and in.
Naos' obnoxiously loud voice drones forth, "Hello, Drystin, why won't you talk to me? Don't you want to be friends?"
You have emoted: Galilei's lip curls briefly at the noise.
Cayn weaves his way through the tables with steps angled towards one spot in particular, perhaps a favoured seat from past visits. A chair gets kicked out for... himself - what did you expect? - and he drops into it with a creak of protest for his armed and armoured weight. An impatient wave of his arm beckons you to join him. The shouting elicits no reaction whatsoever for his part.
You have emoted: Galilei walks in, apparently deliberately tailoring her walk to appear prim and proper before settling, almost butterfly-like, upon the seat beside Cayn. When quiet returns her expression loses some of her disdain and a faint, if intrigued smile settles on her lips.
Cayn reaches up to scratch at his bristly jaw as you take your seat, observing you with an unreadable look until some activity over at the stage draws his attention that way instead. It doesn't take long for him to start digging around in his pockets in search of something, perhaps a touch restless.
An expectant hush falls upon the audience as the velvet curtains obscuring the stage slowly part,signifying the start of a performance.
The curtains part, slowly drawing up to reveal the silhouette of a Rajamala woman, posed in place. The outline of her is clear, a generous buxom set of breasts, paired with long athletic legs. There is a *snap* and a fan opens in the woman's outstretched arm, followed by a second sound to open the second fan in the opposite hand.
Can't very well offer him a used cigarette.
Backstage, music begins to play. A single instrument, plucking notes to a staccato melody. With each note, the woman moves, fans splaying out in intricate poses. The spin of long luscious hair, is outlined behind the thin curtain in front of the woman.
As the music starts to increase in tempo, so does the silhouette. The fans snap close, open at just the right moment, in sync with the melody. Faster turns, long locks flying, until the music reaches a crescendo. Suddenly, silence falls. The curtain drops, revealing Zenobia, paws with fans held covering her torso to upper thighs.
You blink.
Long beautiful and ample crimson hair unrestrained falls freely about the feline woman. Still as she is, no intimate nude parts of the petite body can be seen above the upper thighs, fans large enough to prove a deterrent in showing the naked form behind them.
The curtain is discreetly pulled away, allowing Zenobia to move once more. The music begins again, the soft melody starting anew. She moves, with grace and poise, the fans only drawing attention to the way her body moves, the strength needed to hold the poses that she is managing.
When the music begins to quicken, the movement of the dancer with the fans causes her tail to move and shift, down across her legs as well as teasing at the fans. Each spin gives a reveal of bare legs beneath the teasing instruments hiding Zenobia's naked form.
Cayn eventually comes up with an ironwood smoke box flipping it open to extract yet another stick of vice. The butt is jammed between his lips before he digs up a tinderbox and lights up. "Right?" he states in flat agreement with your reaction, cigarette bouncing with the syllable.
The music slowly dies down, the note trailing off. Zenobia stands, partially bowed, towards her audience, fans open and pressed against her sides, breathing heavy.
As the show concludes, a set of magnificent velvet curtains slowly close and the house lights
brighten.
Cayn carefully lights a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
You have emoted: Galilei's expression appears quite blank. She isn't blinking, either. "Well. Er. I certainly wasn't expecting to see the Overlord."
Cayn's face is equally impassive, though it's more through boredom than anything else. He pushes the smokebox towards you in offer as he shares dryly, "It becomes a whole lot less surprising after you've been invited to her fancy richfolk mansion in the Bloodwood."
You have emoted: Galilei shakes her head at the offered box, holding up an amiable hand. "I wonder who else would surprise us on that stage?" she muses. "Well, surprise me, to be exact."
Cayn flips the lid shut and tucks the thing away again without fuss, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out beneath the table, occupying much more than his fair share of the space. "I forget, honestly," he confesses to you, no shame in it. "Not a whole lot was memorable here." A pause. As the space begins darkening again, he amends for the sake of honesty, syllables framed in smoke, "Except the dealer in the gambling den. I like her. I like her hands."
An expectant hush falls upon the audience as the velvet curtains obscuring the stage slowly part, signifying the start of a performance.
The curtains part, slowing drawing up to reveal Eolo, taking a deep, shuddering breath before tucking his violin under his chin. Long fingers delicately grip the fingerboard while the pad of his thumb presses into the neck.
You have emoted: Galilei raises her eyebrows, as though filing away that information for future
scrutiny.
Eolo exhales slowly and smoothly as he lifts the bow in his other hand, a swift and intentional motion that pauses at the end of his breath.
Standing still like this for a moment, Eolo gathers everything in himself before setting the bow to the strings.
Eolo parts his lips, breathing evenly as he pulls the bow through the first quivering notes, hand shivering against the fingers pressed into the strings like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings as it settles on a petal.
Holding his breath, as though careful not to provoke the flight of his still-quivering hand, Eolo bows a peaceful progression of flowing tones.
Cayn takes a long drag from a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Cayn exhales a black and grey cloud of smoke, redolent with spiced scents.
Eolo lets out his breath, then opens his eyes in surprise as wide-palmed hand and steady bow lifting entirely from the instrument for a moment, giving the simple violin the appearance of a bare branch in the silence if only for an instant before fingers and bow alight on it once more.
Eolo smiles and closes his eyes once more as the return of quivering notes mark the return and settling of wings. Long, smooth, patient notes paired with equally patient pauses illustrate the slower, trusting flex of beautiful delicate wings warming in the sun.
Pursing his lips in concentration as the melody broadens, Eolo adds bright notes of colour laced with a lazy swaying breeze of bow-strokes.
Eolo stands still for a long moment, bow hovering silent and motionless before he opens his eyes and holds the neck of the violin once more. He lifts his chin and allows the bow and violin to come to rest at his sides.
"This your first time in a brothel?" Cayn wonders to you in what almost passes for conversational tones, rudely talking over the end of the performance.
As the show concludes, a set of magnificent velvet curtains slowly close and the house lights brighten.
You have emoted: "Yes, actually," Galilei replies, glancing between the performer and her curious, uncouth companion before choosing the latter with no doubt a mental sigh. She is attentive, however. "What gave me away?"
A practiced motion of Cayn's thumb sends the column of ash developing on the end of his cigarette scattering. A few flecks land on your slippers. "Just the way you're taking it all in," he replies with a slide of a shrewd look onto you. There's a long pause and an air of mild preoccupation here, then he offers, "Wanna come see a way more entertaining show?" It's just invitation after invitation this week, apparently.
You have emoted: Galilei wiggles that slippered foot, discreetly shaking the dust from its silk. "If you'll agree not to drop used cigarettes everywhere," she counters cordially. "That thing could very well start fires, and I'd hate for you to have to pay for repairs."
'Cordial' is about the farthest thing from what Cayn sends back to you for those stated terms. His expression darkens, jaw clenching and lip curling with naked disgust. "I'll agree to no such fucking thing," he informs you in a dangerous calm. "I'll start whatever fires I want and I won't pay a single sovereign for nothing." Then he draws the cigarette up, sucks in an overlarge lungful, and pitches the remaining half at the nearest artfully draped curtain. In something of an anti-climax to his act of defiance, it doesn't dramatically burst into leaping flames.
Cayn takes a long drag from a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Cayn exhales a black and grey cloud of smoke, redolent with spiced scents.
Cayn drops a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
You have emoted: Galilei turns her head to watch the cigarette fly. Then turns it back to look at Cayn. "No fire, which was what I'd been aiming for. Let's go, then."
Might as well. Got to learn to deal with difficult types.
Cayn levels an unpleasant squint at you when you provide no further fuel for his own internal fire. So it fizzles out instead. The brute pushes up to his feet and marches out, leading the way to whatever mystery destination next awaits the unlikely pair.
Bloodloch West Gate.
Cai says to Cayn, "You're late."
Cai says to Taj, "Not for the first part. But find me for the others."
You have emoted: Galilei gives Cayn a questioning look before offering a smile more akin to a grin to the two familiar humans.
Keeping his gaze on the path the now cripple took away from the gate, Taj says to Cai, "...Yeah."
Cayn trudges on down the tunnel with you of all people sharing his unpleasant company. "Am not, fuck you," he tells Cai without missing a beat, maybe just on the grounds of being contrary. To Taj, he cuts an upnod and asks, "What's the go? You feeling all Alpha as fuck now?"
Naos yells, "And if you want some company while he finishes that hunt, you know where my bunk is!"
Naos arrives from the west.
He is followed by a midnight black stallion, a peppery warhound, a sandy warhound, and a white warhound.
You gag a bit as Naos's stink wafts over you.
Naos leaves to the east.
He is followed by a midnight black stallion, a peppery warhound, a sandy warhound, and a white warhound.
"He wasn't the daisy he thought he was," Taj replies and seems to give no further thought to the bout of fisticuffs. "Lagerthi, Arsene, Mack." The Idreth gives a sharp whistle as he turns toward the west, the agitation rippling across his features in a sneer as he stares at Cai for one long moment then turns toward Mudd, "That would imply I felt threatened."
You have emoted: Galilei's features briefly darken.
Evilo arrives from the east.
Evilo creases his brow in a frown.
Cai picks at her nail, her gaze fixated on her project though the small grin still lingers on her lips. She pulls up, pale eyes taking in Cayn and Taj and then you.
Comprehension flashes across Evilo's face.
Cayn's cold eye houses a fleeting glitter as he points out in airy tones, "I didn't say so, but *gosh* it sure is telling that that's what you heard." Turning his attention back onto you, he shrugs and says, "We missed the show, I guess. That's my bad." It wasn't exactly the most contrite apology.
You have emoted: "No recompense for a girl's dashed hopes?" Galilei asks innocently, lifting an arched eyebrow.
Taj gives a tilt of his head to the others gathered as he moves to leave, his frame flanked by the three large hounds. "Going to go back to beating shit to death now." As he passes Cai, he stills for a moment, "We are talking later," And then shifts off to the west, battered armor clanking loudly.
Taj leaves to the west.
Evilo grows still and his lips begin to move silently.
Evilo inclines his head politely to those around him.
Evilo is enveloped in translucent fire for a moment and is gone, his soul safe until he returns to Aetolia.
Cayn blinks. For once, you just caught him off-guard. An ineloquent little 'uh...' falls out of his mouth. He appears to be suffering from a sincere deficiency of smart-aleck responses. His eye tracks the other Carnifex's departure before sliding back to offer up, "Maybe we can get a seat at their domestic dispute?" with a wiggle of one gauntleted finger towards Cai and the Squire who just left.
You have emoted: Galilei appears thrown off-guard by Cayn's thrown-off guard. "You can get access to *that?*" she asks doubtfully, looking to Cai.
You say to Cayn, "You must be a privileged Squire, then."
Cai's gaze follows Taj, her expression unmoving at his words. She clicks her tongue and turns back to Cayn and you with a shrug of a shoulder."Jealous men," she says, though amusement flickers in her eyes now as she pushes off from the wall.
Cayn's face screws up like 'privilege' is the filthiest swear he's heard all day, all affront and lemon-sour, broad shoulders bunching. "I'll leave that hoity-toity horseshit to the vampires," is his dismissal of choice, all recovered now from that prior hiccup. Cai's comment draws his eye back over to her, and his posture sheds some of its tension through the jerk of a shrug. "Better than not jealous, right?" he prompts.
You have emoted: Galilei exhales through her nose, the gesture distinctly living, and looks to Cai, apparently having little better to do.
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cai's mind, "I can offer you privacy if needed. I can tell the subject may be sensitive."
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cai's mind, "Well. Personal, at the very least."
(Tells): Cai tells you, "Not in the slightest."
Cai shoves her hands into the pockets of her long coat, a thoughtful look given to Cayn. "Truth." She pauses, a slow smile taking over her lips again. "It’s very hot."
Cayn bobs a mild nod, reaching up to tend to an itch on his jaw as he casually over-shares, "Gets my wife going without fail." Then he steps nearer to Cai and indicates you with a motion of his head. "Here. This is Gal. She's alright. I'm done pretending like I know how to be good company, so you do it. You want a good time, get her to read you some poems." As though he had just officially handed over custody of someone in his care, he then turns and goes without so much as a word of farewell.
Squire Cayn Mudd has lost you.
Cayn leaves to the east.
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cayn's mind, "Thank you for the tour, Mudd." The exasperation before has thawed somewhat over the aethers. "Looks like I've had an interesting encounter of my own this week."
(Tells): Cayn tells you, "I guess if you can call a visit to the tamest whorehouse on Sapience interesting..."
(Tells): Cayn tells you, "I'll take you to the good one next time."
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cayn's mind, "I'll be looking forward to it." She is sincere. "Until then."
Cai watches the older man, eyes rolling in a typical teenage fashion before she turns a gaze onto you, "poems, huh?"
(Tells): Cayn tells you, "See you."
You have emoted: Galilei lowers her voice as though to impart some great secret. "Horkvali."
Petrified wood with amber colored resin make up the walls. Small torch scones placed randomly bring out the amber color to add a reddish glow about the room. The floor is made out of sanguis stone, which the bloody tint within casts a subtle glow from the lava flowing beneath. Cushions and petrified wood chairs are placed here and there for people to relax on. Obsidian benches line a couple of walls that can hold the heaviest of patrons. Small tablets are set aglow by burning amber, which lend to the smokiness of the room. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. Cayn is slumped in one half of a bench on the southern wall, smoking and reading a book. He wields a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end in his left hand.
You see exits leading east and west.
You have emoted: A faint chime of crystal is the only thing that alerts you to Galilei's presence, the lounge dim as it is with Cayn's smoke, and others'.
The clarion shimmer of sound is enough to lure Cayn's cold eye over to the entrance, though its curiosity is flattened by something nearer to suspicion when it alights upon you. It returns to the page of his book within moments. "Pretty dead thing all dressed up in pretty dead things..." he comments to himself, as though the thought had been absently stirred by the content of whatever he's reading.
You have emoted: "Silver is certainly not alive," Galilei's low voice comes a little closer than it had been before. "Neither is crystal, neither is silk, nor satin - they simply are." With a small flick of a wrist the shadows surrounding the Consanguine fall away, revealing her own cool gaze. There is no disdain there, no hostility - simply faint wariness to colour her curiosity.
You emerge from your hiding place.
You say to Cayn, "Your presence I've noticed, nowadays."
Pausing, you say, "I seem to recall something about trousers. And meeting one of my newer guildmates."
Cayn's gaze remains fixed upon the paragraph before him while you frame your response, though the left-to-right motion of the unpartnered ocular has stilled; he's not reading anymore. "Nor cut flowers neither," he agrees in a dismissive mutter. "Like you." He snaps the book closed and lifts a more open attention onto you when you make mention of trousers and guildmates, a flash of recognition chased through his eye. But irritation follows, inspired by the aimlessness of your conversation. "This look like a fucking stage performance to you?" he wonders, brows rising to push vaguely parallel lines onto his forehead. The book gets wafted off towards the exit as he invites, "You want to ogle at ugly shit, you can go find another freakshow."
You have emoted: Galilei's own eyebrows rise, following the book's flapping pages as though just now noticing it. "What was that one about?" she asks.
"Gratuitously graphic and detailed erotic fiction," Cayn tells you in a deadpan so perfect, the sarcasm is in danger of obliteration. The cigarette is drawn up for a long, harsh pull before the smoke exits again in its filtered state, taking the edge of Cayn's irritation out with it. Since the more hostile version of his hint wasn't taken, he elects to undertake a more direct approach, inquiring with a quietly simmering impatience, "What do you want?"
Cayn takes a long drag from a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Cayn exhales a black and grey cloud of smoke, redolent with spiced scents.
You have emoted: "To ask for a copy," Galilei returns, one eyebrow laid flatter than the other. "Get the vampire to blush, and you'll know that's a proper piece of literature." Her expression clears into thoughtfulness now. "I want nothing you can hold, at least not now. Thought I might pass by and see the man in the flesh, since both my close friend and a once-fledgling in my guild seems to have had interesting encounters with you." She pauses, predicting further impatience. "And I find myself even more curious about what you were reading. Trashy novels would not have been my first guess."
Cayn keeps his wintry gaze squarely with you throughout the duration of this response, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The honesty and openness begets an improved reception. He mellows out. "It's just guild shit," he admits, tucking the book away now. "But there's supposedly some raunchy material over at the Fling. I haven't read it; it's probably rubbish." The idea of any form of small notoriety rolls right off him, unbothered by it. But the disadvantage in knowledge makes a frown slot into place on the crude shelf of his brow. It gets pointed out in the form of, "And who're you supposed to be again..?"
You have emoted: "Just Galilei. No need for titles." Galilei waves an airy hand. Unspoken is the thought, 'Don't think they'd mean much with you anyway,' but the faint twinkle passing in her eyes is good-natured and her expression is clearly not miffed. "Go hunting with Ephi often and she may bring me up sometimes. Perhaps she might have, already?"
"I fucking hate titles," Cayn opines without batting his functional eyelid, confirming your unvoiced supposition, blunt as can be. His fleeting struggle to place the second name provided might clue you into his dubious ability to recall the first. "Eph--" is all he has to say for it to click, clearing away the scrunch on his brow. "Oh, yeah. Eff. We hunted once. It was alright. Fucked if I can recall what all nonsense she yammered on about though. Spent most of the time going on about the rabbit, I think." As he grinds the butt of his cigarette out on the vacant section of the bench beside his hip, he introduces himself as, "Mudd."
Then Cayn pushes up to his feet, stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, and jerks his head towards the east. "Let's go, then," he tells you, all expectation.
You have emoted: Galilei tilts her head, but nods and falls into step beside the man.
Cayn pauses to grind the life out of a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end, saving it for later.
Cayn ceases to wield a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end in his left hand.
Cayn drops a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
You have emoted: Quicker than anything, Galilei swoops low to pluck the item off the floor.
You pick up a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
If Cayn is in any way surprised by your blind obedience, it doesn't show. He just lifts his bristly chin and trudges on out upon heavy boot-steps with an air of purpose.
Elegant entry to "The Lovers Fling".
Large chandeliers cast a soft, dim glow on this elegant entry hall to highlight the lavish, plush tapestries hanging from the walls; depicting elegant, beautiful women in full and ornate dress, the hangings coyly tease, with the golden threads outlining the curves of their bodies - in the low lighting, these gilt accents glimmer in subtle, suggestive arcs, giving the teasing illusion of the naked forms beneath the clothing. Lush, ripe flowers frame a reception desk in the center of the entry and doors lead off to the public rooms of the brothel, while a double set of stairs trace out large curves towards the floor - and private chambers - above, the flights shaped in sinuous, sweeping arcs. An elegant, glass-covered notice board hangs here.
You see exits leading north, southeast (open pine door), southwest (open pine door), and up.
Cayn tosses a fistful of sovereigns into the bowl near the entrance and tips his head back to scent the coastal air. Then it's onwards, deeper into the establishment with obvious familiarity.
Cayn drops some gold sovereigns.
You have emoted: Galilei follows Cayn, traipsing through a market scene that is no doubt familiar to her. As the building he has in mind looms ever closer her steps retain their pace, though were he to turn and see he would find a spectacularly unimpressed look adorning her face for a moment.
An intimate smoking lounge.
Wood-paneled walls and heavy velvet curtains create an intimate feel for this lounge, with plush couches, private nooks and the dim, diffused glow of candlelight encouraging quiet exchanges and sly flirtations between patrons and the brothel's workers. Ornate tapestries extend from floor to ceiling, the silken hangings tastefully, elegantly depicting graceful women in teasing states of undress, all artfully covered by folds of fabric to give only hints and suggestions, leaving the details to the mind's eye. Beneath these tapestries, low bookcases ring the room, stocked with a wide range of tomes on a variety of topics, ranging from titillating illustrations to erotic poetry to even reference books, likely used by the newer workers for training. A heavy smoke hangs over the chamber, with carved crystal ash-trays set on low tables beside each couch for the convenience of leisurely holding a cigar or cigarette, while a large billiard's table sits in the center of the room, the costly piece elaborately carved as a functional accent to the intimate, lush lounge. The perfect height to complement a couch, a low wooden table sits here. A soft, crimson velvet couch sits here in the south of the room. Piles of cushions surround a chess set arranged atop a low wooden table, the pieces a rather risque spin on the traditional design. A small sign indicates that LIBRARY CATALOG will list the materials in this library.
You see a single exit leading east.
Being a self-centred arse means that Cayn totally doesn't glance back to check on you at all -- maybe he's forgotten that you are even with him. He passes through into the library, a mercifully safe destination despite its provocative decor. Then he's pacing along the shelves, eye raking over titles on the spines.
You have emoted: Galilei is certainly a foreign presence in this brothel with her distinctively not-revealing clothes and the intricate headdress caging her hair. She is glad to find the books, and joins Cayn in browsing - almost as if to give herself something to do that does not involve attracting attention from the patrons.
Cayn absently runs his tongue overtop his teeth as he peruses, gaze snagging on exceptionally little of what's on offer. Even the risque tapestries and so forth don't receive any real attention. The only signs of interest arrive at a book on midwifery, and then a smaller volume nearby. "You like Horkval?" he asks as he tugs the tome from the shelf and flips it open.
.
You have emoted: "Not in particular," Galilei answers without missing a beat. She steps away from the book for a moment, her eyes having spied an ashtray to at last lay a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end to rest upon.
Cayn hums out a low 'mm' of acknowledgement for your lukewarm answer, flipping through pages. He catches a glimpse of your business with the ashtray and his crushed filter out of the corner of his eye, which lures over a fuller attention shot through with puzzlement. A squint follows. Then it returns to the book. And so begins a thoroughly lacklustre recital: "Behold in the candlelight, your antennae, long and proud, rub against my groin, flaring within me..." He cocks his head, frowning. "...glisten and mirror my arousal..." Then frowning and complaint. "Boring. Where's the crunch? No fucking crunch in here."
You have emoted: "...Antennae." Galilei's arms are crossed, one hand lifted to rub at her pale chin. "I really ought to touch up on anatomy for different races." Cayn's grumblings prompt her to ask, "That wasn't all, was it?"
"Well there's pages and pages of this shit," Cayn shares, fingering through the book to demonstrate. A tip of his hairy head indicates the shelf to his right as he adds, "And there's also this treatise on 'vibrations,' but I'm sure it's not the fun kind." Not bothering to replace the book to the shelf, he just straight-up drops it to the floor, and turns to better address you as he presents his final findings: "So I guess I was right."
You have emoted: Galilei kneels down once more, this time to retrieve a book rather than a callously disposed-of cigarette. Without waiting for Cayn to stop her, her slender fingers flip through a page or two and she begins her own recital, some miracle of willpower transforming the utterly flat tone that marks the title into... something else. "How strong and protruding your mandibles stand! Their points glisten with freshly drawn blood that causes much excitement in me, my love." No emotion of the sort passes the Consanguine's eyes even at the mention of blood, no doubt the breaks in phrase and lack of visible rhymes deterring whatever enjoyment that *could* be gleaned from the work.
Containing one consonant between her lips before declaiming the first adjective, you say, "How *fierce* and masculine your mandibles are!"
Cayn's brows bounce up as you elects to clean up after him yet again, expression registering at first as bemused. That is, until you begins her own colourless recital, which inspires a strange little light to his eye. Arms are comfortably folded as he leans a shoulder against the shelf, settling in to listen. He tongues the inside of his cheek to better obscure the line of his mouth - is that a smile quirked under there? - and otherwise only nods. Slow and sagacious, as though your version of the poem had instilled some great wisdom into his ugly head.
You have emoted: "Truly a sign of your prowess and magnificence..." Galilei's gaze has already left the book, fluttering to the ceiling above with a gesture vaguely reminiscent of one sunny squire but laden with heavier, sultrier intent that is clearly not directed at Cayn. Those eyes flicker back to the book. Blinks. "I know my... eggs will be strong, my love."
A few short syllables of rasping mirth bubble up from Cayn's throat at that last halting sentence like stone grating upon stone as his amusement finally compromises his restraint. This all smooths out again in the moments that follow. "Gal-whatever, right?" At least he tried? He tilts his head, and the fractional adjustment in angle is just enough to transform his gaze upon you from casual to calculating. "You don't ruffle easy," is his observation, voiced low and frank. "I like that. Rare among you snobby vampire fucks. You look like you're about twelve, but who fucking knows with your lot -- you like three hundred or some shit?"
You have emoted: "Twenty-three," Galilei enunciates, slowly putting down the offending material so loftily called poetry. "Relatively recently turned twenty-three, too." She nods earnestly at Cayn. "And I would wager your twenties have passed, quite. It's a good thing. Wisdom comes with age."
Cayn's frown sweeps right back into place at that number, finding it out of alignment with his growing perception of you. A soft and thoughtful 'huh' falls out of his mouth as he recalibrates, followed by an absent, "Small mercies," to the comment about his own second decade. His nose wrinkles some at the platitude about wisdom, then he describes, "They've got a stage over there where they put on overpriced shows that they advertise as being smoking-hot but are actually really bland." A thumb is hiked over his shoulder as he invites, you, "You wanna check it out?"
You have emoted: "By all means, dispel my fantasies. I am old enough to have some broken and walk off unscathed." Galilei smiles, straightening. "Lead on."
"Breaking shit is pretty much my only use," Cayn replies in a diplomatic way as he shoves away from the shelf, as though conceding a point to you. He leads the way out of the library and across the barroom, making for a curtained area.
Cayn tries to buy a ticket for you, but apparently brothels are big fans of the middle man. He tucks a fistful of coins into your palm before moving on.
Cayn slips some coins to a pair of guards at the back of the bar and they flash him a broad smile and a wink, pulling aside the curtains to reveal a narrow flight of stairs. Vanishing into the shadows, Cayn descends the steps and the curtain falls closed behind him.
You slip some coins to the guards and they flash you a broad smile and a wink, pulling aside the curtains to reveal a narrow flight of stairs. You descend these steps past walls plastered with playbills and posters featuring rather tantalizing illustrations of half-dressed dancers, and emerge into a lush, intimate theater.
A lavish burlesque theater.
Designed for an intimate, memorable performance, this theater is elegant and lavish, with plush
velvet seats arrayed around intimate clusters of tables to face an elevated stage, each one dimly-lit by flickering candles. Heavy crimson curtains drape along each wall in heavy folds, pulling closed over tall windows to easily dull the lighting to a low, smouldering glow, with a series of shuttered candles arranged along the foot of the stage itself, backed with mirrors to focus illumination up onto the dancers. A small dance floor - barely large enough for two or three couples to sway in rather sensuously close company - fills the space before a small orchestra pit, recessed down below the stage itself, with a slender music stand equipped with a small lantern set beside each musician's seat. The stage itself stands at the far wall of the room, the lounge's lines subtle angled to emphasize and highlight its presence: elegant carvings of cloth-draped ladies face the platform, as if watching in enthralled interest, while the theater's sloping ceiling melds design with form, magnifying acoustics and directing attention towards the performers. To either side of the stage, hints of the backstage wings can be glimpsed from behind long drapes, giving tantalizing glimpses of the bustle and work behind the scenes. A large, candle-lit stage rises above the seats of the theater. Cayn is here.
You see exits leading west and in.
Naos' obnoxiously loud voice drones forth, "Hello, Drystin, why won't you talk to me? Don't you want to be friends?"
You have emoted: Galilei's lip curls briefly at the noise.
Cayn weaves his way through the tables with steps angled towards one spot in particular, perhaps a favoured seat from past visits. A chair gets kicked out for... himself - what did you expect? - and he drops into it with a creak of protest for his armed and armoured weight. An impatient wave of his arm beckons you to join him. The shouting elicits no reaction whatsoever for his part.
You have emoted: Galilei walks in, apparently deliberately tailoring her walk to appear prim and proper before settling, almost butterfly-like, upon the seat beside Cayn. When quiet returns her expression loses some of her disdain and a faint, if intrigued smile settles on her lips.
Cayn reaches up to scratch at his bristly jaw as you take your seat, observing you with an unreadable look until some activity over at the stage draws his attention that way instead. It doesn't take long for him to start digging around in his pockets in search of something, perhaps a touch restless.
An expectant hush falls upon the audience as the velvet curtains obscuring the stage slowly part,signifying the start of a performance.
The curtains part, slowly drawing up to reveal the silhouette of a Rajamala woman, posed in place. The outline of her is clear, a generous buxom set of breasts, paired with long athletic legs. There is a *snap* and a fan opens in the woman's outstretched arm, followed by a second sound to open the second fan in the opposite hand.
Can't very well offer him a used cigarette.
Backstage, music begins to play. A single instrument, plucking notes to a staccato melody. With each note, the woman moves, fans splaying out in intricate poses. The spin of long luscious hair, is outlined behind the thin curtain in front of the woman.
As the music starts to increase in tempo, so does the silhouette. The fans snap close, open at just the right moment, in sync with the melody. Faster turns, long locks flying, until the music reaches a crescendo. Suddenly, silence falls. The curtain drops, revealing Zenobia, paws with fans held covering her torso to upper thighs.
You blink.
Long beautiful and ample crimson hair unrestrained falls freely about the feline woman. Still as she is, no intimate nude parts of the petite body can be seen above the upper thighs, fans large enough to prove a deterrent in showing the naked form behind them.
The curtain is discreetly pulled away, allowing Zenobia to move once more. The music begins again, the soft melody starting anew. She moves, with grace and poise, the fans only drawing attention to the way her body moves, the strength needed to hold the poses that she is managing.
When the music begins to quicken, the movement of the dancer with the fans causes her tail to move and shift, down across her legs as well as teasing at the fans. Each spin gives a reveal of bare legs beneath the teasing instruments hiding Zenobia's naked form.
Cayn eventually comes up with an ironwood smoke box flipping it open to extract yet another stick of vice. The butt is jammed between his lips before he digs up a tinderbox and lights up. "Right?" he states in flat agreement with your reaction, cigarette bouncing with the syllable.
The music slowly dies down, the note trailing off. Zenobia stands, partially bowed, towards her audience, fans open and pressed against her sides, breathing heavy.
As the show concludes, a set of magnificent velvet curtains slowly close and the house lights
brighten.
Cayn carefully lights a faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
You have emoted: Galilei's expression appears quite blank. She isn't blinking, either. "Well. Er. I certainly wasn't expecting to see the Overlord."
Cayn's face is equally impassive, though it's more through boredom than anything else. He pushes the smokebox towards you in offer as he shares dryly, "It becomes a whole lot less surprising after you've been invited to her fancy richfolk mansion in the Bloodwood."
You have emoted: Galilei shakes her head at the offered box, holding up an amiable hand. "I wonder who else would surprise us on that stage?" she muses. "Well, surprise me, to be exact."
Cayn flips the lid shut and tucks the thing away again without fuss, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out beneath the table, occupying much more than his fair share of the space. "I forget, honestly," he confesses to you, no shame in it. "Not a whole lot was memorable here." A pause. As the space begins darkening again, he amends for the sake of honesty, syllables framed in smoke, "Except the dealer in the gambling den. I like her. I like her hands."
An expectant hush falls upon the audience as the velvet curtains obscuring the stage slowly part, signifying the start of a performance.
The curtains part, slowing drawing up to reveal Eolo, taking a deep, shuddering breath before tucking his violin under his chin. Long fingers delicately grip the fingerboard while the pad of his thumb presses into the neck.
You have emoted: Galilei raises her eyebrows, as though filing away that information for future
scrutiny.
Eolo exhales slowly and smoothly as he lifts the bow in his other hand, a swift and intentional motion that pauses at the end of his breath.
Standing still like this for a moment, Eolo gathers everything in himself before setting the bow to the strings.
Eolo parts his lips, breathing evenly as he pulls the bow through the first quivering notes, hand shivering against the fingers pressed into the strings like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings as it settles on a petal.
Holding his breath, as though careful not to provoke the flight of his still-quivering hand, Eolo bows a peaceful progression of flowing tones.
Cayn takes a long drag from a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Cayn exhales a black and grey cloud of smoke, redolent with spiced scents.
Eolo lets out his breath, then opens his eyes in surprise as wide-palmed hand and steady bow lifting entirely from the instrument for a moment, giving the simple violin the appearance of a bare branch in the silence if only for an instant before fingers and bow alight on it once more.
Eolo smiles and closes his eyes once more as the return of quivering notes mark the return and settling of wings. Long, smooth, patient notes paired with equally patient pauses illustrate the slower, trusting flex of beautiful delicate wings warming in the sun.
Pursing his lips in concentration as the melody broadens, Eolo adds bright notes of colour laced with a lazy swaying breeze of bow-strokes.
Eolo stands still for a long moment, bow hovering silent and motionless before he opens his eyes and holds the neck of the violin once more. He lifts his chin and allows the bow and violin to come to rest at his sides.
"This your first time in a brothel?" Cayn wonders to you in what almost passes for conversational tones, rudely talking over the end of the performance.
As the show concludes, a set of magnificent velvet curtains slowly close and the house lights brighten.
You have emoted: "Yes, actually," Galilei replies, glancing between the performer and her curious, uncouth companion before choosing the latter with no doubt a mental sigh. She is attentive, however. "What gave me away?"
A practiced motion of Cayn's thumb sends the column of ash developing on the end of his cigarette scattering. A few flecks land on your slippers. "Just the way you're taking it all in," he replies with a slide of a shrewd look onto you. There's a long pause and an air of mild preoccupation here, then he offers, "Wanna come see a way more entertaining show?" It's just invitation after invitation this week, apparently.
You have emoted: Galilei wiggles that slippered foot, discreetly shaking the dust from its silk. "If you'll agree not to drop used cigarettes everywhere," she counters cordially. "That thing could very well start fires, and I'd hate for you to have to pay for repairs."
'Cordial' is about the farthest thing from what Cayn sends back to you for those stated terms. His expression darkens, jaw clenching and lip curling with naked disgust. "I'll agree to no such fucking thing," he informs you in a dangerous calm. "I'll start whatever fires I want and I won't pay a single sovereign for nothing." Then he draws the cigarette up, sucks in an overlarge lungful, and pitches the remaining half at the nearest artfully draped curtain. In something of an anti-climax to his act of defiance, it doesn't dramatically burst into leaping flames.
Cayn takes a long drag from a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
Cayn exhales a black and grey cloud of smoke, redolent with spiced scents.
Cayn drops a lit faded, pitch-black cigarette clawed at its end.
You have emoted: Galilei turns her head to watch the cigarette fly. Then turns it back to look at Cayn. "No fire, which was what I'd been aiming for. Let's go, then."
Might as well. Got to learn to deal with difficult types.
Cayn levels an unpleasant squint at you when you provide no further fuel for his own internal fire. So it fizzles out instead. The brute pushes up to his feet and marches out, leading the way to whatever mystery destination next awaits the unlikely pair.
Bloodloch West Gate.
Cai says to Cayn, "You're late."
Cai says to Taj, "Not for the first part. But find me for the others."
You have emoted: Galilei gives Cayn a questioning look before offering a smile more akin to a grin to the two familiar humans.
Keeping his gaze on the path the now cripple took away from the gate, Taj says to Cai, "...Yeah."
Cayn trudges on down the tunnel with you of all people sharing his unpleasant company. "Am not, fuck you," he tells Cai without missing a beat, maybe just on the grounds of being contrary. To Taj, he cuts an upnod and asks, "What's the go? You feeling all Alpha as fuck now?"
Naos yells, "And if you want some company while he finishes that hunt, you know where my bunk is!"
Naos arrives from the west.
He is followed by a midnight black stallion, a peppery warhound, a sandy warhound, and a white warhound.
You gag a bit as Naos's stink wafts over you.
Naos leaves to the east.
He is followed by a midnight black stallion, a peppery warhound, a sandy warhound, and a white warhound.
"He wasn't the daisy he thought he was," Taj replies and seems to give no further thought to the bout of fisticuffs. "Lagerthi, Arsene, Mack." The Idreth gives a sharp whistle as he turns toward the west, the agitation rippling across his features in a sneer as he stares at Cai for one long moment then turns toward Mudd, "That would imply I felt threatened."
You have emoted: Galilei's features briefly darken.
Evilo arrives from the east.
Evilo creases his brow in a frown.
Cai picks at her nail, her gaze fixated on her project though the small grin still lingers on her lips. She pulls up, pale eyes taking in Cayn and Taj and then you.
Comprehension flashes across Evilo's face.
Cayn's cold eye houses a fleeting glitter as he points out in airy tones, "I didn't say so, but *gosh* it sure is telling that that's what you heard." Turning his attention back onto you, he shrugs and says, "We missed the show, I guess. That's my bad." It wasn't exactly the most contrite apology.
You have emoted: "No recompense for a girl's dashed hopes?" Galilei asks innocently, lifting an arched eyebrow.
Taj gives a tilt of his head to the others gathered as he moves to leave, his frame flanked by the three large hounds. "Going to go back to beating shit to death now." As he passes Cai, he stills for a moment, "We are talking later," And then shifts off to the west, battered armor clanking loudly.
Taj leaves to the west.
Evilo grows still and his lips begin to move silently.
Evilo inclines his head politely to those around him.
Evilo is enveloped in translucent fire for a moment and is gone, his soul safe until he returns to Aetolia.
Cayn blinks. For once, you just caught him off-guard. An ineloquent little 'uh...' falls out of his mouth. He appears to be suffering from a sincere deficiency of smart-aleck responses. His eye tracks the other Carnifex's departure before sliding back to offer up, "Maybe we can get a seat at their domestic dispute?" with a wiggle of one gauntleted finger towards Cai and the Squire who just left.
You have emoted: Galilei appears thrown off-guard by Cayn's thrown-off guard. "You can get access to *that?*" she asks doubtfully, looking to Cai.
You say to Cayn, "You must be a privileged Squire, then."
Cai's gaze follows Taj, her expression unmoving at his words. She clicks her tongue and turns back to Cayn and you with a shrug of a shoulder."Jealous men," she says, though amusement flickers in her eyes now as she pushes off from the wall.
Cayn's face screws up like 'privilege' is the filthiest swear he's heard all day, all affront and lemon-sour, broad shoulders bunching. "I'll leave that hoity-toity horseshit to the vampires," is his dismissal of choice, all recovered now from that prior hiccup. Cai's comment draws his eye back over to her, and his posture sheds some of its tension through the jerk of a shrug. "Better than not jealous, right?" he prompts.
You have emoted: Galilei exhales through her nose, the gesture distinctly living, and looks to Cai, apparently having little better to do.
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cai's mind, "I can offer you privacy if needed. I can tell the subject may be sensitive."
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cai's mind, "Well. Personal, at the very least."
(Tells): Cai tells you, "Not in the slightest."
Cai shoves her hands into the pockets of her long coat, a thoughtful look given to Cayn. "Truth." She pauses, a slow smile taking over her lips again. "It’s very hot."
Cayn bobs a mild nod, reaching up to tend to an itch on his jaw as he casually over-shares, "Gets my wife going without fail." Then he steps nearer to Cai and indicates you with a motion of his head. "Here. This is Gal. She's alright. I'm done pretending like I know how to be good company, so you do it. You want a good time, get her to read you some poems." As though he had just officially handed over custody of someone in his care, he then turns and goes without so much as a word of farewell.
Squire Cayn Mudd has lost you.
Cayn leaves to the east.
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cayn's mind, "Thank you for the tour, Mudd." The exasperation before has thawed somewhat over the aethers. "Looks like I've had an interesting encounter of my own this week."
(Tells): Cayn tells you, "I guess if you can call a visit to the tamest whorehouse on Sapience interesting..."
(Tells): Cayn tells you, "I'll take you to the good one next time."
(Tells): You whisper psychically into Cayn's mind, "I'll be looking forward to it." She is sincere. "Until then."
Cai watches the older man, eyes rolling in a typical teenage fashion before she turns a gaze onto you, "poems, huh?"
(Tells): Cayn tells you, "See you."
You have emoted: Galilei lowers her voice as though to impart some great secret. "Horkvali."
@Cayn, you are amazing. 10/10 would write with you again, thanks for being around.
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Comments
I think what I love most is that both of you seem to excel at painting that portrait of your character in more subtle ways through reinforced mannerisms; Galilei is more proper and elegant, but nothing you wrote was "Galilei elegantly sits" - the butterfly comparison, for instance, is just so illustrative.
Same with Cayn, there's so much going on that's illustrated with actions and mannerisms instead of a point-blank "rahh I'm gruff and huffy" and I'm here for it.
I would read one of these a day if I could. 10/10 y'all rock.
That said, I would absolutely love to improve, and I fully support any activity that results in Cayn getting a thrashing. Let's Sect!