- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
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𝔗𝔦𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔢 || ƒᴇʀᴀʟ x ᴀʟᴇxᴀɴᴅʀᴀ①④⓪⑤
- Thread starter ƒeral
- Start date
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Death has no master, not even when one has killed more than the years they have lived.
In the bowels of the obsidian stone citadel, the air was still; scented only by the lingering copper of blood and several burning wicks. The shadows clung to the edge of the narrow room, as if warded off by the warm amber of candlelight and the raging grief of the only living visitor. At the far end of the space sat a dark marble altar; its carved sides decorated in elvish runes. By its base lay several rows of lit, crimson candles. Wax had dribbled down their stems, beginning to pool upon the smooth, slate floor. There was no breeze, no draught, to flicker the myriad of small flames and yet the shadows by the walls still seemed to shift and slither. One tendril of gloom licked at the gold-embossed, cream cloth that hung over the eerily still chest of a young drow female.
Death had turned the soft violet of her skin a dusky shade of grey, leaching the life from her once plump cheeks. The lids of her eyes were closed, though Sinafrey knew that the warm bronze colour beneath them had been bleached in her passing. Instead, the only gold of her sister's body came by way of two engraved coins upon those still eyelids, the dark lashes brushing the tops of her sister's hollow cheeks. She could have been sleeping, with her hands so neatly folded over her abdomen above the cloth, if Sinafrey hadn't seen the jagged wound of her sister's stomach and the twist of pink bowels. The eldest daughter of the Vierenan bloodline had decided to try and best her middle sister in hunting boar.
She had lost.
Sinafrey knelt before her sister, her bloodied knuckles resting atop her knees. The lines of her palms were hidden beneath congealing blood; runes carved into her flesh by her own hand. An iron blade sat proudly beside her knee, glimmering with the tar-black of drow blood, its handle carved from mortal bone. The white of her hair had slipped forward over her shoulders, wisps held away from her face only by the long, pointed violet ears; pierced several times over with garnet and steel. Her cheeks remained dry, what few tears had come to her eyes upon finding her dead sister had long since gone. It was three days after, Vivi's body beginning to wither upon the marble, but Sinafrey wasn't able to let her sister go to the pyre.
To let her go meant accepting that she was gone. In accepting that her sister was dead, in turn, meant accepting what now fell to her. Vivi had always been so full of life, so dutifully accepting of the fate that awaited her in just another day's time. The eldest had been raised to be a wife, a mother, a Queen.
Sinafrey had been raised as a ruthless weapon.
Even though she sent dozens of payments to Death by way of souls, she had not been able to save her sister. Death had taken her swiftly, ignoring Sinafrey's pleas, marking the middle sister for a fate far worse in doing so. Sinafrey was cold-blooded where her sister was kind. She was sly, cunning and selfish where Vivi was passionate, dutiful and brave. As she knelt before her sister's corpse, praying that Death take her too, she supposed she'd always been a coward.
“You must let your sister rest, Sinafrey.”
She bristled, the curve of her spine straightening as she lifted her chin. In her inward, mental reflection she had not heard the footfalls of her mother's approach. The shadow that had slithered over the cream cloth suddenly vanished; like the greedy hand of a child being slapped from the table.
The Queen lingered by the door. “Your sister is dead. Let her be.”
“My sister is dead because I took a male to my bed rather than go with her,” Sinafrey snapped. A breath slipped between deep-purple lips, held within the viscera, before released slowly as she cast ruby-red eyes upward and gazed up at the altar. “Vivi is dead because she had something to prove. If I had just let her win that—”
“Your sister would still be dead.”
“I could have saved her. I would have been there to save her. I could have…” Sinafrey could have done a great deal of many things, but she hadn't because she was a coward. Because she'd much rather tangle legs with a male than see to doing something more befitting to a female of her station. Her sister had only tracked down that boar because Sinafrey had boasted that she had been the best. Vivi had gone alone because Sinafrey hadn't answered her knock upon the bedchamber door. “Vivi is dead because I did not save her.”
“Vivi,” the Queen sighed, drawing into the narrow room to stand behind her daughter, “died because she was prideful. She died because she could not best the boar and would rather hunt alone that request someone else's help.” As Sinafrey took a breath to argue that her sister had asked for help, the Queen threaded her fingers through the snow of her daughter's hair, drawing it back over bare, violet shoulders. “Your sister goes to the pyre tonight before their arrival. You shall be wedded to the Taiguez Khan by next sunset, as is now your duty.”
Her duty. The duty that had once been gleefully accepted by her dead sister.
Sinafrey's mouth was dry as she murmured; “Yes, Mother.”
“Good,” the Queen pet her daughter's shoulder just twice before moving away. “I expect you to greet them by the gates when they arrive.”
Alone, Sinafrey looked to her sister, wishing to trade places with her as the shadows slipped from the edges and crawled over her shins.
Death would be far sweeter than being trapped.
The bitter smell of ash still clung to white wisps of loosely braided hair; the smoke unable to be washed from the strands or over-powered by sweet perfumes. In part, Sinafrey could not have cared less. She had watched her sister burn to ash, the pyre ablaze for three hours before finally falling. She wanted him to know that she was not his intended, that fate had tricked him out of a beneficial marriage when he'd been promised her sister's hand. The Taiguez Khan was being bound to the second choice, the off-cut. Her younger sister would have been a far more suitable match if he sought someone docile and meek. Instead, he was to be married to the drow who'd assassinated several of his fellow beastmen Khans. She'd left him alive, only by instruction of her mother, even though several opportunities had presented themselves. He shall be useful, her mother had promised. Leave him alive.
The outer wall of their city stood high; built from carved pieces of jagged, grey stone. It cast a lean shadow out onto the green fields beyond, the full moon hanging low above the city. The iron gates had opened like a waiting maw at Sinafrey's order, even though she had considered leaving the city barred as a blatant objection to what was to happen by the next eve. This was not of her choosing. This had never been something she'd thought she'd adopt from her sister. Every possibility she had ever imagined always had Vivi alive in them. She had not foreseen the death of her sister and that alone had been foolish.
The noble beside her chortled. “Your mother couldn't shove you into a dress?” His silver eyes slid sideways, the corner of his mouth tilted in a smirk. Jakren's voice had been hushed, his words shared only between them. Sinafrey could count on one hand the amount of times he had been inside of her, in the times before a noble drow female had taken him as a lover. She didn't mind so much that he spoke out of turn.
“The handmaid who attempted,” Sinafrey tossed her bone dagger once more before tucking it into the leather buckled around her left thigh, “lost her finger and will be reporting to my mother. We both know where that leads.” It meant many things, in truth. The girl could have lost her hand by now, or even her head; it varied depending on the Queen's moods. The tight brown of her trousers were far more comfortable, far easier to fight in if it came to it. Sinafrey had been laced into a dress only once as a child, and it had ended in disaster. The black underbust corset that cinched her loose, off-the-shoulder blouse at her waist was about the closest she'd get to looking like a lady. Leaning against the stone wall, one booted foot against a block, she crossed her arms beneath her bust. “He's lucky I can't touch him.”
“Says who?”
“My mother,” Sinafrey scowled, looking out towards the fields. “This beastman is supposed to be the key to uniting the North and potentially creating peace. My mother seems to believe that he'll be successful and that we'll have one less front to worry about.”
Jakren eyed her, curious. “And what do you think?”
“I think he's lucky I left him alive. If I'd known, he'd be six feet under.”
Nothing more passed between them, but the silence that hung over the small welcoming party was loud enough. They watched, instead, as the travelling party grew closer. Sinafrey didn't bother to kick off the wall and greet them. In fact, she'd taken out her knife, held it in one of her bandaged hands and was running it under her nails as they moved beneath the gate and into the city. It was Jakren who spoke first, sweeping into a low bow as he greeted the Taiguez Khan politely.
“Taiguez Khan, it is our honour to receive you.” Jakren held his arm over his stomach, the other out sideways in a theatrical display of submission, his eyes drawn downwards. “I would like to introduce you to—”
“Hello, old friend.” The sing-song of Sinafrey's voice was a chilled purr, as she regarded him from where she leant against the wall. They'd met only once, when Sinafrey hadn't been so light-fingered, but she'd seen him twice more from the shadows when he'd visited her sister. They were, indeed, not old friends.
“Sorry about my sister,” she mentioned aloofly. “You must have been disappointed.” Her red eyes flicked up to meet his then, their gazes catching as she set him with a sharp look. “That makes two of us.”
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OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
The North could never be tamed.
His father had said it, and his father’s father before that. The Great Plains were a rugged place. Lush, to be sure. Ankle-high grass covered the vast majority of the land, providing nourishments to the livestocks of the many beastmen tribes. Riverlets criss-crossed the land, converging into shallow ponds and breathtaking lagoons only to flow freely once more. In the summer seasons, between the groundwater and the frequent monsoon, much of the land was dyed a vibrant shade of green. A hue often captured in songs about life and liveliness, interspersed by stretches of sunburst yellow and unassuming tan for that extra bit of character. As a cub, Karzoc loved the summers, loved running and chasing, racing after a muskrat here only to be sidetracked by a steppe fox there. Loved laying upon his back, his once much smaller hand outstretched, framing the vast kaleidoscope of scintillating stars between his fingers. And he loved his mother’s voice, the gentle melodies she would sing to him, of history, of culture, of the stars that were his ancestors.
But it wasn’t always summer.
He was only eleven when his father died, slain at his own uncle’s claws. It wasn’t right. The strong ruled the North, and while every Khan and Khanum must defend his or her title against those who claimed the right of Rak’gamor, of ritual combat, it was never supposed to end in death. It wasn’t right. He had never seen his father look so weak, so pale and ill. His father was a hulking mass of a beastman, as big as Karzoc was now. Every inch of him was covered in sheets of corded muscle, definition obvious even through a soft blanket of fur. It wasn’t right. He had seen his father fight many times before, with such speed, such ferocity. His tally against that gruff-voiced beastman was 0 to 571 - his father never did like to go easy. But his father was slower that day. Sluggish. Weighted down by something unseen and insidious.
He had kept his eyes open down to the very last moment, down to the poisoned claw tips that plunged into his father’s chest and pierced that once proudly beating heart, down to the splurging blood that painted his uncle's fur and soaked into the well-trodden earth, down to the last shine of life draining from those once fiercely-gleaming eyes, angry and in disbelief to the very last breath. He had kept his eyes open when that imposter roared in triumph, drenched in gore, eyes ablaze with greed, not even bothering to bathe before storming the tent flaps of his mother, who, by tradition, was forbidden from observing Rak'gamor. He would learn later that she was also slain that night, loyal to her mate to the end.
Karzoc was eleven when he fled from his tribe under the covers of midnight, with nothing but the hides on his back.
He returned ten years later. Bigger, stronger, covered in scars that spoke of trials and tribulations, of a life of struggles never recorded in ink. If his eyes had once been bright like the blue summer sky, then upon his return, they were more glacial than the winter storms that covered the plains in snow and ice.
It was a disappointing fight. That bastard had gorged himself on meat and wine with each passing season, such that his belly was rounded and soft, jarring in contrast to Karzoc's physical perfection. His uncle tried to cheat again - of course he did - but life amongst the Furless races had taught Karzoc a cunningness not oft found in the more straightforward beastfolks. Poison. Hidden daggers. Whispers in the dark. Everything his father had frowned upon as unworthy of a Khan, as depraved and shameful to their ancestors. Karzoc learned it all. Not mastered - it was not his way nor preference - but he knew well the taste and smell of Tigersbane.
To date, he still remembered - relished - all too vividly the terror that had blown the mongrel's pupils wide when he realized that as much as Karzoc physically resembled his father, he held only a small fraction of the former Khan's merciful heart.
At twenty-one, just past the height of summer and at the cusp of fall, Karzoc reclaimed his birthright. Khanslayer. The many layered voices accused in hushed whispers. Khan. They proclaimed in the bright of day.
It was just a few fortnights shy of the Fall Equinox, and he was twenty-nine now.
Eight solid years spent strengthening his people weakened by his uncle's tyranny. Cementing his reign and tightening the reins until no dissenting voices remained. At least, none that dared to be spoken aloud. The bloodshed was minimal - the Taiguez rejoiced at the return of the rightful son, and though the mantle did not pass to him as smoothly as it should have, it was a responsibility he wore proudly and readily. There were murmurs at first, doubts and anxiety of whether he would live up to the honorable image of his father, or whether he would stumble into the wicked path of his uncle.
But now, his uncle and father were both just legends and history memorialized in songs. The Taiguez only knew of one name. Karzoc Graymaw. And, soon, if he had anything to say about it, the entire world would revel and fear the same.
“I see.”
Karzoc remained perfectly stoic even as his outrider brought him the dire news - his betrothed, the lovely Vivi Vierenan, gored and slain. “Thank you, Thorghor.” Warmth colored those electric blue eyes, like the silhouette of a campfire reflected in a sheet of ice. “Rest.” At his command, the old taiguez, who projected ferocity despite the grizzle around his temple, thumped his chest once in acknowledgement of the order and retreated into the shadows once more.
He could not say that he loved the fallen princess; his memories of her were too few and too far in between. But she had been...vibrant. Soft and passionate both, though the latter only showed when she introduced him to her hobbies. She had spoken of books she liked - books he initially struggled to read, his people not being one that was fond of the written words - and smiled so brightly when he brought her a flower from the courtyard. She had been appropriately demure in his presence, always looking up at him through her lashes just so, in a way that inspired his instincts to protect, to cherish. She did not have the fierceness that was celebrated in a taiguezess, but she certainly had the nurturing aspect in spades. What a shame. She would have made a fine Khatun.
But there was no point reminiscing in the what-could-have-been. She was lost, but his goals were not. After all, Vivi was not an only child.
The sun had fully set by the time those grey walls came into view, walls that looked almost alabaster basked in moonlight. The time of day suited him just fine. While it was a common misconception that many of the beastfolks were nocturnal, in reality, their natural circadian rhythm varied from species to species. The Taiguez, for example, were most alert at dawn and dusk, but thrived in the night just fine. It perhaps went without saying that his nightvision was impeccable.
He approached the walls astride his immense war kodo, a mammoth beast that was easily three to four times the size of a warhorse. It was covered in war paints, the same shade as those stripes of fiery red that streaked across his biceps and just barely peeked out from beneath his leathers. Beadwork and variously-colored stones decorated its several intimidatingly large horns. A small contingent of his Bloodsworn rode behind him, six warriors armed to the teeth with steel and steely expressions both. Although the Taiguez Tribe was a patriarchal society, the struggles of living on the Great Plains meant that there were no strict gender roles. The females of his race tended toward the more nurturing pursuits, particularly as they began to rear cubs, but there were plenty of warriors too. The Bloodsworns accompanying him were an exact fifty-fifty split male to female, and it was the kind of thing which, to anyone who knew him at all, would recognize as entirely intentional.
Unlike his riders, Karzoc himself rode unarmed, though it was questionable whether he even needed armaments with claws quite so sharp and muscles that looked like they had muscles. Unlike Sinafrey, he had clad himself as appropriately as possible, covering his torso in a gold-embellished leather chest plate, with trousers just a notch darker to match. His arms - arms that were the girth of her thighs and then some - were left on display. Not out of vanity or a show of force, but simply because the taiguez hated the confinement of cloth. Garbed or no, muscular did not even begin to describe his build. And well, though 'fineries' on the Great Plains likely amounted to 'slightly more presentable savagery' in these more civilized parts, fancy robes and all such frivolities were just something smaller men than himself wore to buttress their lacking physiques.
The taiguez smelled the pair of drows before he saw them. Although, at this distance, it was impossible to pick up much of anything beyond the bitter smoke that lingered in the air, a reminder of their mutual loss. As he crossed over through the gate, he leaped off the kodo, landing with nary a sound. He was light on his paws. And they were paws; whereas there was enough structure to his finger-bones to call them hands, his back paws were not dissimilar to his animal cousins. Shoes of any size or shape served no purpose to his people, and therefore, did not exist in his society.
"Thank you." He said, padding up to and addressing the bowing male. The timbre of his voice was guttural but not gruff, a well-supported sound that seemed to come more from his chest than throat. When the female drow interrupted, that pair of alert ears swiveled in her general direction, but he did not turn his gaze to acknowledge her. She would wait while he finished addressing the more diplomatically-inclined male that first greeted him.
"I trust that you would see to it that my mount is watered and my Bloodsworns are lodged." He handed the reins over to Jakren, as if offering, but not really. Karzoc might present as almost unusually polite for a beastman, but there was something inherently commanding about the way that he carried himself and spoke. A certain inborn dominance cemented by his build and by his primal scent, refreshing like rolling grass, rich like sun-soaked leathers, but deeper too. A wildness that could not be put to words.
When he finally turned his attention to Sinafrey though, he smiled. It wasn't a menacing smile. If anything, it was quite gentle, though gentleness was hard to portray when every movement of his maw drew attention to the glint of fangs barely housed within. "Sinafrey, it is good to see you well." He didn't recognize her, not really. The dangerously alluring drow that stood before him today was nothing like the almost gawky teenager that had tried to snatch an ornament made from a dire wolf's fang from his belt. A trophy she did not earn, but that he allowed her to keep. But he knew of her, of her name and reputation both. To say that she was notorious amongst the beastfolks would be the understatement of the century.
His guess was confirmed when she mentioned a sister, and he dipped his head then, just a fraction, tucking his chin toward that noticeable tuft of snowy fur where his neck met his chest. It conveyed sincerity well enough without reducing the distinct difference in their respective height at all. "My condolences." He did not match her purr; his voice was cool and composed whereas hers was unfriendly and chilled. "I was indeed distraught to hear about our shared sorrow." Sinafrey might not be so obvious as to spell it all out on her face, but she still carried the persistent scent of ashes, a testament to just how long she had stood by her sister's pyre. Karzoc never missed these kinds of details.
Naught was said about her clear provocation, not yet. The blue of his eyes neither gleamed nor dulled, cooler and more unflappable than arctic ice. The implication of her words only confirmed what he had already suspected. A near decade spent throwing missives at the Queen until she acknowledged him enough to exchange correspondences had meant that while his crude handwriting only barely improved, his understanding of the drow monarch went leaps and bounds beyond that. The Queen, like him, understood the price of ambition, knew intimately the weight of rulership and the shackles of responsibility. And though he sincerely wondered whether that viper of a woman mourned her child or not, she, like him, was able to see past the fog of whatever grief there might be, to the roads that laid ahead.
Focused. That's how he would describe the Queen if allotted but a single word. There was a glint of that same focus staring up at him in those intense red eyes, a vivid color which he wouldn't sully by comparing to gems of much less worth.
She would find the same focus in his own wintry gaze, but with far more temperance than her own. If Sinafrey might be likened to an unsheathed blade, much like the one she insisted upon toying with - an adorable attempt at intimidation or something along those lines - Karzoc was much, much more reserved.
But ah, there was something about the way she was so insistently trying to goad him that made him want to tease, and though age and experience tempered his mannerisms, he was not devoid of youthful impulses and the desire for repartee. He should have left his responses as they currently stood, detached and appropriately empathetic, but she kept challenging him with those captivating eyes of hers, and he was never one to back down from a fight. He stepped even closer to her, close enough to count the individual strands of her moon-kissed hair, close enough that another female in her place might've rightfully shivered at his looming proximity, and certainly close enough for her to stab him with that knife of hers if she felt so inclined.
"I certainly wouldn't fault you for being presumptuous. Grief affects everyone differently…" There was a lift to his serrated brow then, a glimpse of a mirthful fire dancing within the permafrost of his eyes. "But you are mistaken. Unlike you, I can't wait to take you as my wife." He allowed the words to linger whether she responded or not and gave her the chance to ruminate on exactly what he meant by that. The suggestion was certainly there, but if she searched his gaze at all, she would find nothing more than a glint of amusement nestled in a bed of impenetrable indifference.
"So, my bride-to-be, might I trouble you to show me to my quarters?" After all, there was no doubt in his mind that if Sinafrey was here, then she awaited him upon the Queen's orders. Surely that came with some unspoken demands of courtesy. Ah, he really shouldn't incite her like this. It was too close to the handfasting and she looked like the type capable of rashness. But it had been such a long journey. A long, boring, uneventful journey. Was it really so bad of him to want to have a little fun? Behind him, that lazily swishing duo-toned tail curled with interest.
His father had said it, and his father’s father before that. The Great Plains were a rugged place. Lush, to be sure. Ankle-high grass covered the vast majority of the land, providing nourishments to the livestocks of the many beastmen tribes. Riverlets criss-crossed the land, converging into shallow ponds and breathtaking lagoons only to flow freely once more. In the summer seasons, between the groundwater and the frequent monsoon, much of the land was dyed a vibrant shade of green. A hue often captured in songs about life and liveliness, interspersed by stretches of sunburst yellow and unassuming tan for that extra bit of character. As a cub, Karzoc loved the summers, loved running and chasing, racing after a muskrat here only to be sidetracked by a steppe fox there. Loved laying upon his back, his once much smaller hand outstretched, framing the vast kaleidoscope of scintillating stars between his fingers. And he loved his mother’s voice, the gentle melodies she would sing to him, of history, of culture, of the stars that were his ancestors.
But it wasn’t always summer.
He was only eleven when his father died, slain at his own uncle’s claws. It wasn’t right. The strong ruled the North, and while every Khan and Khanum must defend his or her title against those who claimed the right of Rak’gamor, of ritual combat, it was never supposed to end in death. It wasn’t right. He had never seen his father look so weak, so pale and ill. His father was a hulking mass of a beastman, as big as Karzoc was now. Every inch of him was covered in sheets of corded muscle, definition obvious even through a soft blanket of fur. It wasn’t right. He had seen his father fight many times before, with such speed, such ferocity. His tally against that gruff-voiced beastman was 0 to 571 - his father never did like to go easy. But his father was slower that day. Sluggish. Weighted down by something unseen and insidious.
He had kept his eyes open down to the very last moment, down to the poisoned claw tips that plunged into his father’s chest and pierced that once proudly beating heart, down to the splurging blood that painted his uncle's fur and soaked into the well-trodden earth, down to the last shine of life draining from those once fiercely-gleaming eyes, angry and in disbelief to the very last breath. He had kept his eyes open when that imposter roared in triumph, drenched in gore, eyes ablaze with greed, not even bothering to bathe before storming the tent flaps of his mother, who, by tradition, was forbidden from observing Rak'gamor. He would learn later that she was also slain that night, loyal to her mate to the end.
Karzoc was eleven when he fled from his tribe under the covers of midnight, with nothing but the hides on his back.
He returned ten years later. Bigger, stronger, covered in scars that spoke of trials and tribulations, of a life of struggles never recorded in ink. If his eyes had once been bright like the blue summer sky, then upon his return, they were more glacial than the winter storms that covered the plains in snow and ice.
It was a disappointing fight. That bastard had gorged himself on meat and wine with each passing season, such that his belly was rounded and soft, jarring in contrast to Karzoc's physical perfection. His uncle tried to cheat again - of course he did - but life amongst the Furless races had taught Karzoc a cunningness not oft found in the more straightforward beastfolks. Poison. Hidden daggers. Whispers in the dark. Everything his father had frowned upon as unworthy of a Khan, as depraved and shameful to their ancestors. Karzoc learned it all. Not mastered - it was not his way nor preference - but he knew well the taste and smell of Tigersbane.
To date, he still remembered - relished - all too vividly the terror that had blown the mongrel's pupils wide when he realized that as much as Karzoc physically resembled his father, he held only a small fraction of the former Khan's merciful heart.
At twenty-one, just past the height of summer and at the cusp of fall, Karzoc reclaimed his birthright. Khanslayer. The many layered voices accused in hushed whispers. Khan. They proclaimed in the bright of day.
It was just a few fortnights shy of the Fall Equinox, and he was twenty-nine now.
Eight solid years spent strengthening his people weakened by his uncle's tyranny. Cementing his reign and tightening the reins until no dissenting voices remained. At least, none that dared to be spoken aloud. The bloodshed was minimal - the Taiguez rejoiced at the return of the rightful son, and though the mantle did not pass to him as smoothly as it should have, it was a responsibility he wore proudly and readily. There were murmurs at first, doubts and anxiety of whether he would live up to the honorable image of his father, or whether he would stumble into the wicked path of his uncle.
But now, his uncle and father were both just legends and history memorialized in songs. The Taiguez only knew of one name. Karzoc Graymaw. And, soon, if he had anything to say about it, the entire world would revel and fear the same.
“I see.”
Karzoc remained perfectly stoic even as his outrider brought him the dire news - his betrothed, the lovely Vivi Vierenan, gored and slain. “Thank you, Thorghor.” Warmth colored those electric blue eyes, like the silhouette of a campfire reflected in a sheet of ice. “Rest.” At his command, the old taiguez, who projected ferocity despite the grizzle around his temple, thumped his chest once in acknowledgement of the order and retreated into the shadows once more.
He could not say that he loved the fallen princess; his memories of her were too few and too far in between. But she had been...vibrant. Soft and passionate both, though the latter only showed when she introduced him to her hobbies. She had spoken of books she liked - books he initially struggled to read, his people not being one that was fond of the written words - and smiled so brightly when he brought her a flower from the courtyard. She had been appropriately demure in his presence, always looking up at him through her lashes just so, in a way that inspired his instincts to protect, to cherish. She did not have the fierceness that was celebrated in a taiguezess, but she certainly had the nurturing aspect in spades. What a shame. She would have made a fine Khatun.
But there was no point reminiscing in the what-could-have-been. She was lost, but his goals were not. After all, Vivi was not an only child.
The sun had fully set by the time those grey walls came into view, walls that looked almost alabaster basked in moonlight. The time of day suited him just fine. While it was a common misconception that many of the beastfolks were nocturnal, in reality, their natural circadian rhythm varied from species to species. The Taiguez, for example, were most alert at dawn and dusk, but thrived in the night just fine. It perhaps went without saying that his nightvision was impeccable.
He approached the walls astride his immense war kodo, a mammoth beast that was easily three to four times the size of a warhorse. It was covered in war paints, the same shade as those stripes of fiery red that streaked across his biceps and just barely peeked out from beneath his leathers. Beadwork and variously-colored stones decorated its several intimidatingly large horns. A small contingent of his Bloodsworn rode behind him, six warriors armed to the teeth with steel and steely expressions both. Although the Taiguez Tribe was a patriarchal society, the struggles of living on the Great Plains meant that there were no strict gender roles. The females of his race tended toward the more nurturing pursuits, particularly as they began to rear cubs, but there were plenty of warriors too. The Bloodsworns accompanying him were an exact fifty-fifty split male to female, and it was the kind of thing which, to anyone who knew him at all, would recognize as entirely intentional.
Unlike his riders, Karzoc himself rode unarmed, though it was questionable whether he even needed armaments with claws quite so sharp and muscles that looked like they had muscles. Unlike Sinafrey, he had clad himself as appropriately as possible, covering his torso in a gold-embellished leather chest plate, with trousers just a notch darker to match. His arms - arms that were the girth of her thighs and then some - were left on display. Not out of vanity or a show of force, but simply because the taiguez hated the confinement of cloth. Garbed or no, muscular did not even begin to describe his build. And well, though 'fineries' on the Great Plains likely amounted to 'slightly more presentable savagery' in these more civilized parts, fancy robes and all such frivolities were just something smaller men than himself wore to buttress their lacking physiques.
The taiguez smelled the pair of drows before he saw them. Although, at this distance, it was impossible to pick up much of anything beyond the bitter smoke that lingered in the air, a reminder of their mutual loss. As he crossed over through the gate, he leaped off the kodo, landing with nary a sound. He was light on his paws. And they were paws; whereas there was enough structure to his finger-bones to call them hands, his back paws were not dissimilar to his animal cousins. Shoes of any size or shape served no purpose to his people, and therefore, did not exist in his society.
"Thank you." He said, padding up to and addressing the bowing male. The timbre of his voice was guttural but not gruff, a well-supported sound that seemed to come more from his chest than throat. When the female drow interrupted, that pair of alert ears swiveled in her general direction, but he did not turn his gaze to acknowledge her. She would wait while he finished addressing the more diplomatically-inclined male that first greeted him.
"I trust that you would see to it that my mount is watered and my Bloodsworns are lodged." He handed the reins over to Jakren, as if offering, but not really. Karzoc might present as almost unusually polite for a beastman, but there was something inherently commanding about the way that he carried himself and spoke. A certain inborn dominance cemented by his build and by his primal scent, refreshing like rolling grass, rich like sun-soaked leathers, but deeper too. A wildness that could not be put to words.
When he finally turned his attention to Sinafrey though, he smiled. It wasn't a menacing smile. If anything, it was quite gentle, though gentleness was hard to portray when every movement of his maw drew attention to the glint of fangs barely housed within. "Sinafrey, it is good to see you well." He didn't recognize her, not really. The dangerously alluring drow that stood before him today was nothing like the almost gawky teenager that had tried to snatch an ornament made from a dire wolf's fang from his belt. A trophy she did not earn, but that he allowed her to keep. But he knew of her, of her name and reputation both. To say that she was notorious amongst the beastfolks would be the understatement of the century.
His guess was confirmed when she mentioned a sister, and he dipped his head then, just a fraction, tucking his chin toward that noticeable tuft of snowy fur where his neck met his chest. It conveyed sincerity well enough without reducing the distinct difference in their respective height at all. "My condolences." He did not match her purr; his voice was cool and composed whereas hers was unfriendly and chilled. "I was indeed distraught to hear about our shared sorrow." Sinafrey might not be so obvious as to spell it all out on her face, but she still carried the persistent scent of ashes, a testament to just how long she had stood by her sister's pyre. Karzoc never missed these kinds of details.
Naught was said about her clear provocation, not yet. The blue of his eyes neither gleamed nor dulled, cooler and more unflappable than arctic ice. The implication of her words only confirmed what he had already suspected. A near decade spent throwing missives at the Queen until she acknowledged him enough to exchange correspondences had meant that while his crude handwriting only barely improved, his understanding of the drow monarch went leaps and bounds beyond that. The Queen, like him, understood the price of ambition, knew intimately the weight of rulership and the shackles of responsibility. And though he sincerely wondered whether that viper of a woman mourned her child or not, she, like him, was able to see past the fog of whatever grief there might be, to the roads that laid ahead.
Focused. That's how he would describe the Queen if allotted but a single word. There was a glint of that same focus staring up at him in those intense red eyes, a vivid color which he wouldn't sully by comparing to gems of much less worth.
She would find the same focus in his own wintry gaze, but with far more temperance than her own. If Sinafrey might be likened to an unsheathed blade, much like the one she insisted upon toying with - an adorable attempt at intimidation or something along those lines - Karzoc was much, much more reserved.
But ah, there was something about the way she was so insistently trying to goad him that made him want to tease, and though age and experience tempered his mannerisms, he was not devoid of youthful impulses and the desire for repartee. He should have left his responses as they currently stood, detached and appropriately empathetic, but she kept challenging him with those captivating eyes of hers, and he was never one to back down from a fight. He stepped even closer to her, close enough to count the individual strands of her moon-kissed hair, close enough that another female in her place might've rightfully shivered at his looming proximity, and certainly close enough for her to stab him with that knife of hers if she felt so inclined.
"I certainly wouldn't fault you for being presumptuous. Grief affects everyone differently…" There was a lift to his serrated brow then, a glimpse of a mirthful fire dancing within the permafrost of his eyes. "But you are mistaken. Unlike you, I can't wait to take you as my wife." He allowed the words to linger whether she responded or not and gave her the chance to ruminate on exactly what he meant by that. The suggestion was certainly there, but if she searched his gaze at all, she would find nothing more than a glint of amusement nestled in a bed of impenetrable indifference.
"So, my bride-to-be, might I trouble you to show me to my quarters?" After all, there was no doubt in his mind that if Sinafrey was here, then she awaited him upon the Queen's orders. Surely that came with some unspoken demands of courtesy. Ah, he really shouldn't incite her like this. It was too close to the handfasting and she looked like the type capable of rashness. But it had been such a long journey. A long, boring, uneventful journey. Was it really so bad of him to want to have a little fun? Behind him, that lazily swishing duo-toned tail curled with interest.
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Jakren looked sidelong at Sinafrey, beginning to straighten assuming he had been dismissed. He did not, however, expect for the Khan before him to continue to ignore Sinafrey; instead keeping those icy blue eyes upon the male drow and addressing him still. Jakren, growing almost uncomfortable with the attention, dipped into a bow far deeper than before. His knees bent, his hand outstretched to receive the reins of the taiguez'a warbeast, and Jakren nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, most certainly. Your…Bloodsworn shall receive the best guest lodgings in the city and I'll personally see to your steed, sir."
Sinafrey rolled those red eyes. You fucking kiss-ass. Jakren, as a male of drow society, instinctively sought to impress. He mattered little in a matriarchal society such as their own, his worth dependent completely upon his breeding prowess and likeliness to sacrifice himself for others. His temperament, while it annoyed her, was simply a construction of his environment. But Jakren was a snake among grass, and just as sly and cunning; if not more so. As good as he'd been in bed those few times, Sinafrey didn't truly trust him.
The bone hilt of the dagger was still held in her bandaged palm; the woven, white cloths speckled with dried black blood. The runes etched into her palms had been soaked in salt water, but they wept still as if they had stolen the tears Sinafrey hadn't cried for her sister. She flexed the fingers of her other hand, the sharp prickle of pain satisfying as it traveled up her arm. Pain meant that she was still alive. Pain gave her something to feel when everything else felt numb. Pain meant that this wasn't a dream, as much as she wanted it to be.
'Sinafrey, it is good to see you well.'
He remembered her name.
Sinafrey had grown still from where she leant against the wall, the sole of her leather boot still against the grey stone and mortar. The muscle at the corner of her sharp jaw pulsed, just once, as she noted his smile. Fanged as it might have been, she could have sworn something akin to pity lay behind it. Sinafrey grit her teeth, the silver-white of her brows pinching together tightly over her nose and ruby eyes. She didn't want his pity. She didn't even want his sympathy. To think that he pitied her made her feel vile. Her eyes darkened, something twisted brewing in the centre of her chest; her grief a catalyst, though her temper always so short. This Taiguez Khan claimed to be distraught. But what did he know of Vivi? What had he known of her personality, her loves, who she had been as a person when all her carefully constructed layers were slowly peeled back? Did he know anything besides her name and the shallow interests her mother had coached her into talking about? Did he know that Vivi despised reading and preferred to embroider, but it was their mother who said Karzoc might enjoy an intelligent, literature-loving wife?
She guessed not, and that made the corner of her lip twitch with a cruel smirk while her brows smoothed. "Distraught enough to miss when she went to the pyre, I see." Sinafrey was petty in her foul-temper. There would be no possible way that he and his Bloodsworn would have made it any sooner, with their travel down from so far North. But her beloved eldest sister was dead, gutted by a boar, and this male before her claimed to be distraught. Their mother hadn't shed a single tear, not even grieved. Their youngest sister had shrugged her shoulder and went back to potting a nephrotoxic plant. No one had been distraught beside Sinafrey, and she was furious at the falsity of his words. "If you and I are ever going to get along, Karzoc, you would do best not to use words you do not mean. You are neither distraught, nor was it a shared sorrow; my sister was simply a means to an end for you. My mother might play games with her words, but I'd rather you and I speak frankly." The look she gave him was as sharp as her dagger.
The two of them now alone as Jakren guided Karzoc's Bloodsworn into the heart of the city towards their lodgings, Sinafrey glanced away. Her gaze was cast sideways, up at the smoke that still lingered, not yet being carried away by the breeze, and she held her breath. Her sister still lingered, her ashes now coating the centre square of the citadel as folk began cleaning up. She'd have little time to go and collect a piece of her sister. Little time to—
Karzoc was suddenly very close, too close, and Sinafrey's eyes snapped back up to meet his. She wasn't short, nearly six foot in height, but still she needed to crane her slender throat and expose it to be able to meet his gaze. The heat throbbing from him was intense, licking like the warmth of flames across the bare skin of her shoulders and collarbones. Alight, the light indigo flesh of her cleavage flushed a shade of grey-purple; a barely noticeable flush for a drow. Her cheeks, however, were unaffected and her breaths remained steady and even. In fact, as unaffected as she appeared, she was angry at his sudden boldness of testing her boundaries.
Fine, Sinafrey thought as she let the back of her head rest against the wall, relaxing casually into the closeness of the Khan as he stood barely a hairbreadth away. Two can play this game.
"Mm," Sinafrey hummed sweetly, those crimson eyes lazily lowering to the curve of his mouth and the dimple of where the sharp point of his fang sat upon the pulp of his lower lip. Her gaze lingered there, before flicking down to his throat where an artery pulsed steadily beside his thick windpipe. The knife she had held as she'd crossed her arms glinted silver in the moonlight as she unwound her arms. "I don't think there will be any taking between you and me." Cool blade pressed to the flesh under his chiselled jaw before slowly, lazily, drawing southward. She did not press hard enough to carve or to split skin, but enough to leave behind a trail of pink beneath his white fur. Suddenly, it arced, the tip of the blade pressed just over his collarbone just offside to his throbbing carotid, biting at the flesh until it dimpled. A little more force and it would pierce his muscle and sinew. A little more pressure and it would glide through skin, pierce viscera and throbbing vessel. Yet, it lingered as her eyes watched his skin begin to split under the blade, a droplet of blood kissing the dagger; a threat. "Unless it is your heart or life."
Blazing red eyes met icy blue, Sinafrey holding Karzoc's gaze for several long seconds before drawing her knife away. The bead of his blood balanced precariously on the edge, threatening to leap and fall to the ground. Yet, as she drew the blade between them, a twist of her fine wrist held the droplet to upon the steel, until she produced the flat of her violet tongue, slipping from the warm cavity of her mouth to draw over her lower lip. The knife smoothed over the muscle, the blood smearing against purple in one, slow sweep before she drew the knife back into its sheathe and her tongue into her mouth.
"It's been a little while since I've tasted beastman blood." Six days and eight hours, exactly. The last she had felled had been a Khan who had shared features with a rhinoceros and had been spouting opinions against the political union. Sinafrey's ruby eyes glimmered as she looked to Karzoc again, lifting her chin and smirking darkly. And, as if nothing had happened, she swept a bandaged hand out to the side, gesturing towards the towering citadel. "Shall we?"
Whether or not Karzoc gave her the space, Sinafrey drew past him. Her hip brushed against his thigh, the body contact not necessarily sought but also not avoided. Moon-white wisps of hair caught in the soft breeze, fluttering about her face before she drew them behind her pointed ear as she started towards the city's centre square. She'd wasted enough time as it was, she wasn't going to let him waste more of it. Sauntering ahead of him and from over her shoulder, Sinafrey called; "I trust you can keep up."
Her pace was quick as they wove between squat buildings and took cobblestone streets. A rabbit warren of a place, it almost seemed like Sinafrey was purposefully taking him many which a way just to confuse him. As the buildings suddenly opened up, five wide streets converging together in a large space, it was clear that she had walked with purpose. With a destination in mind, even.
Within the square, the remnants of fire lay over stones. Ash curled against the cobblestones, pieces fluttering over Karzoc's paws and Sinafrey's boots as the breeze disturbed it. Charred pieces of wood sat in chunks, half devoured by the fire. Several drows milled about, sweeping the dark, charcoal into piles, the soot smeared on their cheeks. Sinafrey had come to a sudden stop several steps into the square, the mischief of before having fallen from her face. Instead, she stood passive and blank as she stared at the ash being swept into piles. At her sister being reduced to nothing but waste.
Sinafrey cleared her throat, though her eyes remained dry. "Excuse me a moment." She paced over to one of the drows, said something quietly, before kneeling down and withdrawing a velvet pouch from the pocket of her trousers. Undoing the draw string, Sinafrey's face became obscured by her hair as she began to take pinches of her sister's ashes between her forefinger and thumb before sprinkling them inside the pouch. A little while ticked by, the drow folk having paused their sweeping to give the Princess some time, and they lingered a little away until they might begin again. Closing the pouch and tucking it back into the same pocket, Sinafrey's chest heaved with the take of a deep, steadying breath before she got to her feet and cut back towards Karzoc.
She said nothing of what she had done, nor did she thank him for waiting. Instead, she began back down the street they had come and simply said, "This way."
When Sinafrey had been a child and her grandmother still lived, she'd learned of the obsidian mountain that had stood watch over these plains. So tall that it pierced the clouds, its tip forever hidden in the heavens, it had cast a shadow almost as large as the continent itself. Forests had not grown in the gloom, the earth barren beneath the shadow. It had not been until their ancestors had crossed the seas and stepped foot upon the continent that it had fallen; the beast of a mountain reduced to rubble by pick axe, explosives and chained dragons. Its obsidian had been carved into bricks, used to form the spires of the citadel Sinafrey and Karzoc were currently within, climbing the spiralling staircase.
Sinafrey lead from above, several steps ahead of Karzoc as she climbed the tight, spiral staircase of the spire in silence. The pouch in her pocket felt as heavy as lead, her soul growing restless with the unease of having it on her person. Blood had begun to seep again through the bandages, something her old nurse would have said was a bad omen, but she hid them now in closed fists. It wasn't until they were halfway that she felt light-headed, the staircase beginning to spin about her and she flung a hand out to catch and press into the wall. Sinafrey steadied herself, her breaths slow and even still, before she continued on.
But the blood from the bandage smeared over the black stone, not entirely visible, but glimmering wet.
"The chamber that you are to stay in for the duration of your visit," Sinafrey glanced to Karzoc from over a narrow, bare shoulder, "is conveniently next to mine. My mother thought it wise we remain in close quarters in the hope, I assume, that I come to my senses." The poison in her voice, how she spoke so vehemently of his proximity, foretold of how she would, most certainly, not come to accept her duty as easily as her sister had. "If you take a woman to bed, do yourself a favour and keep her quiet." Sinafrey shot a daring smirk back at him before continuing upwards. "I would hate to get into a competition with you, for I fear I'd win and you'd lose poorly."
Finally, that tight staircase opened to a smooth granite floor. Candelabras with dark, dripping wax swung softly on a gentle draught, their flames flickering and making the shadows shift. Moonlight streamed in from the end of the wide hallway, painted red and green and yellow by stained glass panes. Oak doors sat closed at well-spaced intervals, their handles bronze and polished. Sinafrey moved to one, clasped the handle and pressed the door inward and open. In a half-hearted attempt at a bow, a clear mockery of Jakren, Sinafrey said rather flatly; "Your temporary residence, sir." She straightened immediately, the earlier wicked smirk gone from her face as she regarded Karzoc with cold, emotionless eyes. "Get your beauty sleep, Khan. We have a tournament in the morning and we acknowledge no handicaps for being tired."
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OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Rashness, indeed.
Karzoc was unmoved even as Sinafrey brandished her knife the same as her words. He remained perfectly still, a marble statue beneath the sculptor's chisel as she mapped the contour of his muscular neck. Neither of them could miss the powerful flex of his carotid beneath her weapon, a weapon that had slain so many beastmen before him. But, if his heart rate sped up at all, it was not due to fear. Such aggression. His nostrils flared as he took in her scent the same as he beheld those furious reds. How...enticing. His smile only deepened - the line of his maw curling in a way that emphasized his fangs - grinning even as she pressed hard enough to cut.
She had intended a threat, that much was obvious, but her method of delivering the same fell far short of the mark. Scoring his skin and supping upon his blood? This was foreplay to him. Each of the beastmen tribes was different in this regard. There were the acid-spitting lizards, the rhinos with their tough-hides (or not so tough, based on the intel he was provided), and so on and so forth.
For the Taiguez, impressive musculature and natural weapons aside, their schtick, so to speak, was their incredibly potent regeneration. The small incision had already sealed by the time that knife left his hide. Sinafrey could have gouged deep into his carotid, bathed herself in his blood, and he would still be standing before her, grinning. It was perhaps not unexpected then, that for his species, walking away from mating without one or both participants covered in marks, bloodied or not, meant that the sex was thoroughly uninspired.
A part of him wanted to return the favor, to slam her into the walls as she brushed past him and teach her the consequences of playing with fire. But the greater, more rational side won out. He has had his fun, and what fun it was - Sinafrey was proving far more amusing than Vivi already. However, a Khan was allowed only so many indiscretions in a day, and so, he reined in his more imprudent impulses and allowed her to pass unimpeded. Not without a parting shot, of course. "You really should ask first if you wanted to taste me, but luckily for you, I'm in a forgiving mood. Lead the way."
Following her was no trouble. He couldn't profess familiarity with this city, but he was bigger than she was, his stride longer. It helped that the city-dwellers gave him such a wide berth. Sinafrey might not be intimidated by his looming presence, but her people certainly were. When she stopped, he stopped also. It wasn't difficult to deduce what he was looking at, and it evoked little sentiments from him beyond that minutia of melancholy. It was such a terrible waste. Having said that, death was not something that often moved him. Death was natural. Life went on.
When she came back to him, he was silent still, simply inclining his head in acknowledgment before falling a few steps behind her again. It had been her moment, and only her moment. Sinafrey had made it abundantly clear that she did not tolerate lukewarm compassion from him. Or from the world in general, he suspected.
Even as they walked, he mused, his gaze burning into her backside. Because she was right - Vivi had been a means to an end for him, much as Sinafrey was now the same. His bargain with the drow Queen was clear. He would take one of her daughters as his mate, name her as his Khatun and accord her all the courtesy demanded by that position. And, when that time might come in the far, distant future, after he had realized his ambitions and time had greyed his mane, it would be a dual-blooded child that would inherit his title. For however long his bloodline would reign over the Great Plains, there would be peace. Blood was ever the greatest unifier of divergent interests.
While it was true that Vivi's passing had thrown a wrench into his plans, they were not unsalvageable. Sinafrey had proven herself quick to anger, but her devotion to her departed sibling suggested more nuances beyond that deadly exterior. Loyalty to one's blood was a highly desired trait in nearly all beastmen races. But was it all for show? His mind turned even as his acute senses picked up the unmistakable scent of her blood. Displaying vulnerability like that...she certainly wouldn't be the first female to attempt such a ploy in his presence.
He did not forget just who birthed these daughters. It was hard to forget, when the drow Queen's legendary cruelty was the kind of thing that inspired awe even amongst the Northern 'savages' like himself. But for every ounce of diplomacy Vivi had demonstrated, Sinafrey now embodied the opposite. Either this drow was the best actress he had ever met, or all that reluctance and barely shrouded sorrow were entirely genuine.
Karzoc did not fancy himself the gambling type, but he liked his chances. And so, by the time she was done with her affected display of mockery and antagonism both, he only sighed.
He really wasn't the type that liked to meddle, to soothe bristled furs and cajole frightened cubs, but if Sinafrey were to be his mate, then all of this overt hostility would only end badly for the both of them.
"Wait." He said, his gaze impassive but thoughtful in the flickering light. "I've listened while you said your piece. Now, the least you could do is grant me the courtesy of the same." His brows wrinkled. Threatening was easy, and diplomatic wasn't so hard either, but he hated being sensitive, of all things. We will be wed before tomorrow's sunset, he reminded himself. Show her the consideration that merits.
"In my culture," he spoke carefully, cool but not cold, "we mourn those who pass with stories and songs of fond remembrance." A huff now. This was more difficult than he liked. "Come with me to the roof, or wherever these stairs lead to." He gentled his gaze as much as he could, which was not saying much but he hoped that she could at least recognize his effort. "Because you are right, Sinafrey. I did not love your sister." His voice was hushed. It was the sort of admission that should never be spoken aloud, but it was honest, as she had demanded. "But you are also wrong. I am saddened by her passing, because she seemed like someone worth knowing. I had intended to know her, as I intend to know you now. Just because our union will be a political one does not mean it cannot at least be civil." It was killing him to put himself out like this, but whether for his ambitions or simply to be the male his mother had raised him to be, he had to try.
Karzoc was unmoved even as Sinafrey brandished her knife the same as her words. He remained perfectly still, a marble statue beneath the sculptor's chisel as she mapped the contour of his muscular neck. Neither of them could miss the powerful flex of his carotid beneath her weapon, a weapon that had slain so many beastmen before him. But, if his heart rate sped up at all, it was not due to fear. Such aggression. His nostrils flared as he took in her scent the same as he beheld those furious reds. How...enticing. His smile only deepened - the line of his maw curling in a way that emphasized his fangs - grinning even as she pressed hard enough to cut.
She had intended a threat, that much was obvious, but her method of delivering the same fell far short of the mark. Scoring his skin and supping upon his blood? This was foreplay to him. Each of the beastmen tribes was different in this regard. There were the acid-spitting lizards, the rhinos with their tough-hides (or not so tough, based on the intel he was provided), and so on and so forth.
For the Taiguez, impressive musculature and natural weapons aside, their schtick, so to speak, was their incredibly potent regeneration. The small incision had already sealed by the time that knife left his hide. Sinafrey could have gouged deep into his carotid, bathed herself in his blood, and he would still be standing before her, grinning. It was perhaps not unexpected then, that for his species, walking away from mating without one or both participants covered in marks, bloodied or not, meant that the sex was thoroughly uninspired.
A part of him wanted to return the favor, to slam her into the walls as she brushed past him and teach her the consequences of playing with fire. But the greater, more rational side won out. He has had his fun, and what fun it was - Sinafrey was proving far more amusing than Vivi already. However, a Khan was allowed only so many indiscretions in a day, and so, he reined in his more imprudent impulses and allowed her to pass unimpeded. Not without a parting shot, of course. "You really should ask first if you wanted to taste me, but luckily for you, I'm in a forgiving mood. Lead the way."
Following her was no trouble. He couldn't profess familiarity with this city, but he was bigger than she was, his stride longer. It helped that the city-dwellers gave him such a wide berth. Sinafrey might not be intimidated by his looming presence, but her people certainly were. When she stopped, he stopped also. It wasn't difficult to deduce what he was looking at, and it evoked little sentiments from him beyond that minutia of melancholy. It was such a terrible waste. Having said that, death was not something that often moved him. Death was natural. Life went on.
When she came back to him, he was silent still, simply inclining his head in acknowledgment before falling a few steps behind her again. It had been her moment, and only her moment. Sinafrey had made it abundantly clear that she did not tolerate lukewarm compassion from him. Or from the world in general, he suspected.
Even as they walked, he mused, his gaze burning into her backside. Because she was right - Vivi had been a means to an end for him, much as Sinafrey was now the same. His bargain with the drow Queen was clear. He would take one of her daughters as his mate, name her as his Khatun and accord her all the courtesy demanded by that position. And, when that time might come in the far, distant future, after he had realized his ambitions and time had greyed his mane, it would be a dual-blooded child that would inherit his title. For however long his bloodline would reign over the Great Plains, there would be peace. Blood was ever the greatest unifier of divergent interests.
While it was true that Vivi's passing had thrown a wrench into his plans, they were not unsalvageable. Sinafrey had proven herself quick to anger, but her devotion to her departed sibling suggested more nuances beyond that deadly exterior. Loyalty to one's blood was a highly desired trait in nearly all beastmen races. But was it all for show? His mind turned even as his acute senses picked up the unmistakable scent of her blood. Displaying vulnerability like that...she certainly wouldn't be the first female to attempt such a ploy in his presence.
He did not forget just who birthed these daughters. It was hard to forget, when the drow Queen's legendary cruelty was the kind of thing that inspired awe even amongst the Northern 'savages' like himself. But for every ounce of diplomacy Vivi had demonstrated, Sinafrey now embodied the opposite. Either this drow was the best actress he had ever met, or all that reluctance and barely shrouded sorrow were entirely genuine.
Karzoc did not fancy himself the gambling type, but he liked his chances. And so, by the time she was done with her affected display of mockery and antagonism both, he only sighed.
He really wasn't the type that liked to meddle, to soothe bristled furs and cajole frightened cubs, but if Sinafrey were to be his mate, then all of this overt hostility would only end badly for the both of them.
"Wait." He said, his gaze impassive but thoughtful in the flickering light. "I've listened while you said your piece. Now, the least you could do is grant me the courtesy of the same." His brows wrinkled. Threatening was easy, and diplomatic wasn't so hard either, but he hated being sensitive, of all things. We will be wed before tomorrow's sunset, he reminded himself. Show her the consideration that merits.
"In my culture," he spoke carefully, cool but not cold, "we mourn those who pass with stories and songs of fond remembrance." A huff now. This was more difficult than he liked. "Come with me to the roof, or wherever these stairs lead to." He gentled his gaze as much as he could, which was not saying much but he hoped that she could at least recognize his effort. "Because you are right, Sinafrey. I did not love your sister." His voice was hushed. It was the sort of admission that should never be spoken aloud, but it was honest, as she had demanded. "But you are also wrong. I am saddened by her passing, because she seemed like someone worth knowing. I had intended to know her, as I intend to know you now. Just because our union will be a political one does not mean it cannot at least be civil." It was killing him to put himself out like this, but whether for his ambitions or simply to be the male his mother had raised him to be, he had to try.
"So, I will ask again. Let's climb up high, where the stars are closer. To vent. To talk. To honor your sister's memory by remembrance. As our shamans like to say, the spirits of the deceased rest easier when the living speak fondly of them."
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MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
'Your sister is dead. Vivi was foolish, and ultimately took her own life. I raised her better than such recklessness; she knew of her worth. What's done is done, you need to move on.' The Queen had offered little by way of condolences. As a mother, she was not moved by her eldest daughter's death but instead disappointed. As a Queen, she was angry that her initial political plan and ploy had gone afoul. Vivi's death was an unfortunate accident, but a severe inconvenience. Vivi had known of her worth, had been raised to understand that she was worth more than her sisters because of the advantage of marrying her for political gain. When the Queen had spied the lone tear that had slipped free and rolled slowly over Sinafrey's cheek those three days ago, she did not deliver kindness nor compassion; but rather an open-handed strike against her daughter's damp skin. ‘Do not be so weak. You should be used to death. You live it, breathe it, and deliver it. Are you so weak that you cry for your sister now You're pathetic.'
So, when Karzoc instructed her to wait, Sinafrey had tensed; her spine suddenly rigid and her gaze shifted sideways, as she waited for the verbal berating from the male before her. Would he scorn her for showing emotion when she had delivered so much death herself? Would he mock her for being moved by something she has a reputation for? Would he berate her like her mother had for being weak and pathetic and not good enough? Her red eyes left his face, the plush flesh of her lips pressing into a thin line as she set her jaw, her fingers beginning to fidget with the stained cotton of the bandages. Would he raise a hand and strike her for not being worthy of him?
But the strike never came, nor did the words, and Sinafrey wasn't sure what was worse. Being verbally beaten for showing emotion, or being offered kindness from a near-stranger. Was it worse that her mother had struck her and this male was offering her gentle compassion? Or was it that vile pity that guided his offer disguised as gentleness? If Karzoc had've voiced it as a question to join him, she would have immediately declined. Instead, careful with his words, it was an instruction that disguised her still having the option to refuse. Slowly, ever-so-slightly, Sinafrey began to unwind before him; her fidgeting fingers growing still, and her ruby eyes slowly rising to meet his brilliant blue. What motivates him? What does he want? She wondered. Does he even care or is this again for show?
Sinafrey could not say yes; her pride too resounding to allow her. Instead, as she searched those ocean-blue eyes, she said a little flatly; "So keen to spend more time with me that you can't leave me in peace." Her tone wasn't cold as it had been before, but somber. Her voice wasn't cruel as it had been when she'd been antagonising him, but hollow. It was as much of a 'yes' that Sinafrey would give him, whether Karzoc interpreted it as such or not. Just as much as she wouldn't outrightly accept his offer or thank him for waiting while she'd collected her sister's ashes, she wouldn't ask Karzoc for help either. The warmth of her bandages was slowly spreading, the carved runes on her palms opening from how tightly she'd squeezed them into fists and dug her nails into her skin in order to feel something, anything, other than emptiness. She needed to change them.
"I stole blood from you," Sinafrey turned in place, slipping away from Karzoc and heading to the door just a few feet away from his own as she spoke to him from over her shoulder. "'Tis only fair you get the chance to have mine."
Bloodied hand clasping the bronze handle, she pressed inward into her room. The door was left wide open, a silent invitation for Karzoc to follow her if he wished; where he'd find a space barely furnished at all. A mattress lay on the floor, no frame or base. A chest sat beneath a stained-glass window and a wooden stool in the corner that held a single unlit candle. Besides that, the room was bare. One wouldn't even think that someone would reside in a space so empty, a tussle of blankets upon the mattress and a single pillow, lest of all the Queen's second daughter. Vivi's rooms had been grand, cream and gold tapestries and velvet love seats. Their youngest sister, Rexoline, also had a room just as grand. Both were loved by their mother, cherished. Sinafrey was simply a tool. Why would the Queen bother to furnish the room of her Kingdom's assassin when she spent most of her time in other territories? Why waste the coin and effort when Sinafrey wasn't worth it?
Beside the stool's short legs sat a bronze bowl, filled with what smelt like salt water. Several rolls of cotton bandages were set beside, a brown jar of ointment amongst them. Sinafrey knelt before it, drawing the candle down onto the floor, leaving the stool bare as she scooted it out and set it towards Karzoc. Another silent invitation, but this time to sit. Slowly, she began to unwind the first bandage of her hand, revealing the angry indigo flesh of her palm. Within the indigo of her skin lay an intricate pattern of carved swirls, pricked dots and sliced lines. The rune upon her bare left hand, while smeared with obsidian blood, was easily distinguishable as a peace rune. With aching fingers, Sinafrey unwrapped the other much the same, revealing a second rune with more lines than swirls; one tied to strength despite grief, or being worthy of love. It was a dual sigil, its two meanings intended.
"Do your shamans also speak of…of what happens to the soul?" Sinafrey's voice was quiet, her question uncharacteristically innocent and almost child-like. Considering her talent with killing, it was almost macabrely ironic that she cared. She held out her hands, her dark blood sticky and warm against her skin, in odd offering to Karzoc, looking up at him if he’d dared to take her offer of the stool and have joined her. "What do you believe? Or are you going to leave that story for the roof?”
A very subtle, very gentle thing easily translated as; ‘I will join you.’
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
The room was unexpected.
Karzoc’s surprise was evident in his raised brow even as he surveyed the open space. There was spartan, then there was whatever this was. His people was not one that was accustomed to luxuries, but even the poorest of his tribe lived in a tent more furnished than this. It wasn’t just the lack of furniture, that he could chalk up to personal preference, but the room was cold, devoid of traces of its inhabitant’s personality and the expected coziness of one’s home. There were no paintings, not even a bauble to garnish the empty obsidian walls. The place exuded bleakness, only colder.
He said nothing of his thoughts though. Smoothed out his brows and padded in, silent as a shadow, and closed the door behind himself. At the offering, he paced closer, murmured a quiet “thank you" under his breath, and dropped to one knee instead of sitting. The stool wasn’t that flimsy looking, but also did not look sturdy enough to support his weight.
For a moment, he was content to watch, to observe. He had meant his words about his intentions to learn of Sinafrey, and though this was less efficient than open conversation, there was plenty to be gleaned here as well. Something flickered across his gaze as those bandages were peeled away, not the pity she feared, nor compassion. It was something darker, closer to ire, and it was gone as soon as it appeared. Those runes, elven or something else, meant nothing to him, but he had gotten into enough fights in his life to recognize a self-inflicted wound. Scoring the body of the living to mourn the dead was not a concept unfamiliar to his tribe, but it was always done on the fleshier parts. Never the hands. Never somewhere so unprotected and covered with so many nerves and tendons. One mistake, and the injury would cripple a lifetime. It was reckless. Foolish. And it pissed him off.
And so, when Sinafrey offered him her hands, he did not accept them with any degree of gallantry. Instead, he retracted his claws and seized her wrists with his much larger hands, bringing them closer to his muzzle to inspect the wounds more clearly. He didn’t lecture her though, disliking futile efforts, only murmured muffled and low. “Alright, blood for blood it is.” This wasn’t about her blood, though it was a convenient enough justification that he thought she would accept enough to not resist the sting of his rough tongue scraping across one palm and then the other. If she tried to ball her fists, he would shift his grip higher, seizing around her fingers and refusing the same.
Much like his animal cousin, his tongue was barbed, rough as sandpaper, and, though those small papillae were not sharp enough to lacerate unperforated skin, he couldn’t imagine that they would be much too pleasant on an open wound. But this wasn’t about punishment either. As familiar with death and injury as Sinafrey was, he had no doubt that she would recognize almost immediately his purpose. His saliva was not as potent as his natural regeneration, but it was absolutely one of the best coagulating agents that could be found, in nature or manmade. Already, after a mere few passes, the lesion was already sealing. Not enough to fully heal, but certainly enough to stop the bleeding.
When he was satisfied that he had done as much as he could, he pulled away and let her hands fall from his grip, before almost immediately rising to his full height and backing up a step. Tasting her so casually like this was too much. It wasn’t so much the intimacy as what blood did to his people, and drow blood was… He swallowed the urge to growl, putting some distance between Sinafrey and himself. Were he just a few years younger, he wouldn’t be so sure that he could keep his rising want out of his gaze, but there was a time and place for everything, and Karzoc did not get to where he was today indulging every desire.
“It appears we are even now.”
That grin again, diffusing the tension as though it had been just one-upmanship all along. He stretched, almost lazily, shaking the rigidity out of his shoulders and padding close to that stained glass window before pushing it open and bathing the room in cold night air.
“As for your question about the soul…” His smile curled even wider in challenge as he threw a look over his shoulder, his fur resplendent under the argent moon. “I’ll tell you. If you beat me to the top.”
And then, like a trigger was pulled, he was off in a blur of black and white, throwing himself out of the window and latching onto the decorative ledges of the obsidian cathedral with an agility that would make the tribe often compared to monkeys proud. For all of his muscle mass, he was startlingly fast, the explosive power of his physique more than adequate for augmenting speed as he practically launched himself up the near-vertical incline.
Karzoc’s surprise was evident in his raised brow even as he surveyed the open space. There was spartan, then there was whatever this was. His people was not one that was accustomed to luxuries, but even the poorest of his tribe lived in a tent more furnished than this. It wasn’t just the lack of furniture, that he could chalk up to personal preference, but the room was cold, devoid of traces of its inhabitant’s personality and the expected coziness of one’s home. There were no paintings, not even a bauble to garnish the empty obsidian walls. The place exuded bleakness, only colder.
He said nothing of his thoughts though. Smoothed out his brows and padded in, silent as a shadow, and closed the door behind himself. At the offering, he paced closer, murmured a quiet “thank you" under his breath, and dropped to one knee instead of sitting. The stool wasn’t that flimsy looking, but also did not look sturdy enough to support his weight.
For a moment, he was content to watch, to observe. He had meant his words about his intentions to learn of Sinafrey, and though this was less efficient than open conversation, there was plenty to be gleaned here as well. Something flickered across his gaze as those bandages were peeled away, not the pity she feared, nor compassion. It was something darker, closer to ire, and it was gone as soon as it appeared. Those runes, elven or something else, meant nothing to him, but he had gotten into enough fights in his life to recognize a self-inflicted wound. Scoring the body of the living to mourn the dead was not a concept unfamiliar to his tribe, but it was always done on the fleshier parts. Never the hands. Never somewhere so unprotected and covered with so many nerves and tendons. One mistake, and the injury would cripple a lifetime. It was reckless. Foolish. And it pissed him off.
And so, when Sinafrey offered him her hands, he did not accept them with any degree of gallantry. Instead, he retracted his claws and seized her wrists with his much larger hands, bringing them closer to his muzzle to inspect the wounds more clearly. He didn’t lecture her though, disliking futile efforts, only murmured muffled and low. “Alright, blood for blood it is.” This wasn’t about her blood, though it was a convenient enough justification that he thought she would accept enough to not resist the sting of his rough tongue scraping across one palm and then the other. If she tried to ball her fists, he would shift his grip higher, seizing around her fingers and refusing the same.
Much like his animal cousin, his tongue was barbed, rough as sandpaper, and, though those small papillae were not sharp enough to lacerate unperforated skin, he couldn’t imagine that they would be much too pleasant on an open wound. But this wasn’t about punishment either. As familiar with death and injury as Sinafrey was, he had no doubt that she would recognize almost immediately his purpose. His saliva was not as potent as his natural regeneration, but it was absolutely one of the best coagulating agents that could be found, in nature or manmade. Already, after a mere few passes, the lesion was already sealing. Not enough to fully heal, but certainly enough to stop the bleeding.
When he was satisfied that he had done as much as he could, he pulled away and let her hands fall from his grip, before almost immediately rising to his full height and backing up a step. Tasting her so casually like this was too much. It wasn’t so much the intimacy as what blood did to his people, and drow blood was… He swallowed the urge to growl, putting some distance between Sinafrey and himself. Were he just a few years younger, he wouldn’t be so sure that he could keep his rising want out of his gaze, but there was a time and place for everything, and Karzoc did not get to where he was today indulging every desire.
“It appears we are even now.”
That grin again, diffusing the tension as though it had been just one-upmanship all along. He stretched, almost lazily, shaking the rigidity out of his shoulders and padding close to that stained glass window before pushing it open and bathing the room in cold night air.
“As for your question about the soul…” His smile curled even wider in challenge as he threw a look over his shoulder, his fur resplendent under the argent moon. “I’ll tell you. If you beat me to the top.”
And then, like a trigger was pulled, he was off in a blur of black and white, throwing himself out of the window and latching onto the decorative ledges of the obsidian cathedral with an agility that would make the tribe often compared to monkeys proud. For all of his muscle mass, he was startlingly fast, the explosive power of his physique more than adequate for augmenting speed as he practically launched himself up the near-vertical incline.
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MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
The rough grip of his hands on the fine bones of her wrist made Sinafrey still. It wasn't unkind, the way he handled her, or particularly cruel. It seemed simply matter-of-fact, Karzoc unwilling to decorate his intentions with frivolity. She noted, though, the retraction of his claws before he caught her wrists. Sinafrey was a woman of pain, either delivering it or having it delivered upon her, and she found herself wondering what it would have felt like to have the sharp tips of those claws dimple her skin as the rough texture of his tongue drew over her palms. Though, as his hot breath licked at her skin, the rough muscle of his tongue lapping at the wounds and smears of obsidian blood, Sinafrey was suddenly very thankful that the pain of his claws were absent when such a moment grew hotly intimate.
Her ruby eyes dropped to his maw, the shine of his fangs bright in the light of the stained glass window, as her knees pressed tightly together. Dislike him, she might. Hate her position, she did. Still, though, her body reacted to whatever it wanted and the slow throb of heat low in her belly threatened to overrule her mind. The breath she next took hitched in her throat, her chest holding still as her heart thundered rapidly. She hoped he didn't feel the throbbing pulse at her wrist beneath his fingers, the only thing that perhaps would give away the slow flush of warmth in her.
And then Karzoc was done, rising and stepping away and Sinafrey was uncharacteristically thankful. Thankful at the space he now gave her to remember how to breathe. Thankful to give her a moment to quieten her heart and recollect her thoughts. Thankful at how the carved runes on her palms knitted together with the mix of his saliva, just enough that the bleeding wouldn't continue. It did not come by way of verbal thanks but, rather, a lingering look at her hands that one might dare to liken to appreciation before it was concealed, once again, behind her usual cold exterior.
As Sinafrey began to bandage her hands back up in cotton, there was a small pull at the corner of her violet lips as she looked to Karzoc from beneath dark lashes; "It appears we are." But they weren't, really, were they? She'd drawn blood in order to antagonise, to incite, but Karzoc had tasted blood and helped to heal. Sinafrey hated being in debt, and was glad that he seemed to believe they were even. She didn't argue that they were not.
Securing each bandage in place, her gaze having drifted away from him, Sinafrey straightened and bristled at his mention of the soul. So eager was she to know. So desperate was she to learn. But, it seemed, she would have to wait.
Off her feet in a split second, Sinafrey didn't bother following him out the window. Her fingers wouldn't be able to grip the ledges as his claws did and, though muscles were toned and lean, she didn't quite have the strength to keep herself from falling to her death. Besides, she smirked as she burst from her room at full speed, making for the spiralling staircase that continued upward to the roof, there was a quicker way.
Taking the stairs one at a time would give her a loss, Sinafrey knew. Instead, she took three in stride and climbed. By the time she broke out onto the roof, wisps of snow hair were caught in a bead of sweat by her temple. As her breath evened, Sinafrey closing her eyes for several seconds as the cool air of midnight licked at her skin, she opened them again as she moved to sit over the sharp edge of an obsidian block. Tossing lean legs down and over, her feet meeting nothing but air, she leaned back on her palms as she splayed her fingers wide.
A second more and Karzoc drew himself upwards onto the roof, the corded muscles of his arms and chest swollen with blood from the rush. Sinafrey eyed him lazily, crimson orbs drawing over the black stripes of his fur and the red slashes of what she presumed to be either ink or paint. The thick ropes of muscle flexed and strained as he rose to stand; Sinafrey silently appreciating them. They disappeared beneath the gold of his chest plate.
"You can take that off," Sinafrey said smugly. "I won't kill you tonight." Karzoc was gifted with, perhaps, the first ever genuine smile from Sinafrey. A quiver, a brief pull of both corners of her mouth. It didn't matter that her eyes sparkled with mischief, or how quickly it disappeared again. The smile was something very few, if any, were given and was wholly genuine.
"I expect a male of your caliber would keep his word." Sinafrey finally drew her eyes away to look out at the soft glow of the city and the dark hills beyond. Her voice, still silken as always, was quieter when she spoke next. Quiet enough that Karzoc would have to draw close to hear her admission. "I've cleaved too many souls from bodies to count anymore and it's never bothered me. I've never cared. But the death of my sister…it's the first time I've felt anything in a long time. Feeling bothers me and I wonder if knowing will make it go away." Sinafrey's shoulders rose and fell in time with one deep breath that was soon released as a sigh. "I'd much rather feel nothing at all, like before, than all of this."
Because it makes me weak. Because it has me opening up to you, a male who doesn't deserve to know my truths. Because it has me feeling like a person and I've never truly felt like one before and it bothers me. Because it's overwhelming to feel all these things but not know their names. Because I fear my mother is right and it's making me pathetic.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
“Now now, Sinafrey, no need to make up excuses if you want a spoiler to the wedding night.” There was a short-winded quality to Karzoc’s voice, doubtlessly from the strain of his impressive physical endeavor, one that combined in an entirely appealing way with his naturally low vocal range. He met the smile with a wicked grin, altogether too pleased despite having technically lost. Truth be told, he wasn’t expecting to win anyway. He’d been itching to try and climb to the top of this particular citadel, and there was nothing like a race to make it more interesting.
He did as he was asked though, unlacing the leather straps on each side that held the cuirass together, before yanking the whole thing overhead and setting it down on the ground. That done, he breathed a sigh of relief. Clothing was just awful and always rubbed against his fur the wrong way. Even as he padded closer, he stretched lazily, rotating his shoulders and taking the time to loosen his muscles from the short but intense climb. It was mostly a matter of practicality, but if it had the added benefits of showcasing just how cut his abdominals were, all eight individual slabs standing out in high relief, he was fairly certain that his companion wasn’t one to complain.
At this proximity, if Sinafrey were so inclined to look, it wouldn’t be hard to tell just what the red streaks were. What were just stripes of fiery red at first glance were more complicated than that with a more nuanced study. The areas where the tattoos laid were uneven, the dyed fur shorter, rougher, like they never quite grew back right. Given the natural regeneration he had demonstrated, it almost made it more baffling just what could have inflicted such permanent injuries, injuries that he traced and memorialized with ink.
He leaned his weight against one of those protruding obsidian blocks, not quite touching Sinafrey, but not too far away either. A wise Khan always listened before speaking. His father liked to say, and it was clear that Sinafrey had a lot on her mind. And so, Karzoc listened, waited, and only when her words trailed off and hung in the air, did he finally break the silence.
“Afraid I can’t help you with numbing feelings,” he shrugged, but not dismissively, more as a matter-of-fact. “Sorrow at a loved one’s passing is natural, and frankly, important.” He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort, almost comical with just how very large his hand was, big enough to grasp her entire shoulder if he fanned his fingers out all the way. His touch was not so possessive though. There was a certain watchfulness in the way he approached their interactions, not quite treating the drow like she was made of glass, but not roughly either. Respectful, perhaps.
“Feeling is not weakness,” he added, “what of the men and women that drown their feelings with liquor and more questionable substances, are they stronger for it?” The question was rhetorical, and he let it hang. Allowed the implication to sink in. But he was not here to wax philosophical. Sinafrey had asked him a pointed question, and he intended to offer a straightforward answer. He squeezed her shoulder and lifted his hand, pointing, directing her gaze up from the city lights and towards the constellation above.
“Our shamans say that the stars are our ancestors,” he offered, before continuing. “The more well-lived the life, the brighter the star, but even the most mundane of lives become a star nevertheless.” He huffed, and, in a quieter voice, added. “I like to think that each night, those we have lost watch over us from the sky above, lighting the path forward.”
He did as he was asked though, unlacing the leather straps on each side that held the cuirass together, before yanking the whole thing overhead and setting it down on the ground. That done, he breathed a sigh of relief. Clothing was just awful and always rubbed against his fur the wrong way. Even as he padded closer, he stretched lazily, rotating his shoulders and taking the time to loosen his muscles from the short but intense climb. It was mostly a matter of practicality, but if it had the added benefits of showcasing just how cut his abdominals were, all eight individual slabs standing out in high relief, he was fairly certain that his companion wasn’t one to complain.
At this proximity, if Sinafrey were so inclined to look, it wouldn’t be hard to tell just what the red streaks were. What were just stripes of fiery red at first glance were more complicated than that with a more nuanced study. The areas where the tattoos laid were uneven, the dyed fur shorter, rougher, like they never quite grew back right. Given the natural regeneration he had demonstrated, it almost made it more baffling just what could have inflicted such permanent injuries, injuries that he traced and memorialized with ink.
He leaned his weight against one of those protruding obsidian blocks, not quite touching Sinafrey, but not too far away either. A wise Khan always listened before speaking. His father liked to say, and it was clear that Sinafrey had a lot on her mind. And so, Karzoc listened, waited, and only when her words trailed off and hung in the air, did he finally break the silence.
“Afraid I can’t help you with numbing feelings,” he shrugged, but not dismissively, more as a matter-of-fact. “Sorrow at a loved one’s passing is natural, and frankly, important.” He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort, almost comical with just how very large his hand was, big enough to grasp her entire shoulder if he fanned his fingers out all the way. His touch was not so possessive though. There was a certain watchfulness in the way he approached their interactions, not quite treating the drow like she was made of glass, but not roughly either. Respectful, perhaps.
“Feeling is not weakness,” he added, “what of the men and women that drown their feelings with liquor and more questionable substances, are they stronger for it?” The question was rhetorical, and he let it hang. Allowed the implication to sink in. But he was not here to wax philosophical. Sinafrey had asked him a pointed question, and he intended to offer a straightforward answer. He squeezed her shoulder and lifted his hand, pointing, directing her gaze up from the city lights and towards the constellation above.
“Our shamans say that the stars are our ancestors,” he offered, before continuing. “The more well-lived the life, the brighter the star, but even the most mundane of lives become a star nevertheless.” He huffed, and, in a quieter voice, added. “I like to think that each night, those we have lost watch over us from the sky above, lighting the path forward.”
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
The cool evening wind tossed a white strand of hair over the bare indigo of Sinafrey's shoulder. It curled over the sweep of her collarbone, reaching down over the crest of her heavy left breast. The corset remained cinched at her waist, the lacing at the back double knotted for security, but the off-the-shoulder white sleeve of the blouse beneath had fallen lower on her upper arm. She didn't move to lift it, Sinafrey the furthest thing from prudish. Instead, still leaning back on both of her palms, she rolled those crimson eyes. "Your ego is appalling." But her voice wasn't bitter, instead laced with good-humoured amusement. "There's nothing you have that I haven't had before." Sinafrey wasn't all too sure her claim was true, for she bet Karzoc had a lot more than what she'd previously had from lovers.
Karzoc settled beside her, and Sinafrey was suspicious for how she felt…almost grateful for the proximity. Was this part of the grief? Was this another demoralising weakness that found her needing to be close to another? Sighing through her nose, Sinafrey dropped down onto her elbows one by one until she was lounging backwards; seemingly casually. Karzoc spoke of sorrow being important, but Sinafrey uncharacteristically held her tongue. She didn't correct him and say that it might be important for a person, but she hasn't been that for more than two decades. Nor did she correct him and say there were other ways to numb feelings than simply listening to well-intended advice. "Liquor," Sinafrey said a little flatly, "and questionable substances sound fine to me right now. In fact, if you’re after some, I know where to find both." Perhaps the only thing from keeping her sober, suffering through such pathetic emotions, was her need to compete and win in this tournament of theirs tomorrow morning.
Further still, Sinafrey reclined, until she was laying directly on her back with her arms crossed over her belly. Her hands lay atop one another, though her fingers didn't knit together, as she took a slow, deep breath from between parted, purple lips. His suggestion that she was being watched was, perhaps, meant as reassurance but it unnerved her instead. She grit her teeth, her eyes scanning the darkness above them and the glittering, silver stars before settling on a constellation that looked like a bear. "That's sweet," Sinafrey murmured. But it doesn't help me much when I'm not something worthy of watching over.
White hair shifted over the dark obsidian they rested upon, Sinafrey turning her head to the side as she narrowed her eyes at Karzoc. She searched his face, the sharp lines of his features and the nuances of his emotions. Her eyes were drawn downwards, over the body she'd made a point to ignore as he'd removed the cuirass; lingering on the blood-swollen muscles of his chest and carved grooves of his abdomen. Her fingers twitched on her belly, suddenly itching to brush over the short fur of his chest and stomach. Was it as soft as it looked? Her gaze lingered several seconds longer than she'd anticipated, tracking over the red lines worn into his otherwise monotone coat of fur. Her eyes narrowed that little bit sharper as she looked back up to his face.
"Why are you here?" Her question was vague, as she lay one arm out straight by her side, between them, as the other shifted to fold beneath her head. "Why are you here with me on this roof?" The unspoken question she didn't voice was; why did you care enough to offer your presence?
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Since Sinafrey was none too shy about checking him out, Karzoc didn’t bother holding back from doing the same. His gaze followed that strand of hair along the arc of her shoulder, over the definition of collar, and dropping briefly upon the generous curves beneath before flickering up once more to meet that searching look. Although the drow was hardly frail, her lithe frame was so massively dwarfed by the taiguez’s towering build that it would have been easy to forget just how lethal she could be. Easy to instead focus on the vulnerability of her posturing, the way that she had draped herself upon the ancient edifice and all but offered her throat to him. An easy mistake to make, had Sinafrey not pinned him with the cutting edge of that near-glare.
She certainly didn’t mince words.
Karzoc could only smile. Sinafrey was so straight-forward. He hadn’t expected quite how different she would be from her lost sibling and especially from her mother. But her bluntness was refreshing in a way. There was a lot he could have said, and he had already said some of it. His goal, above all else, was to foster some level of civility between the two of them. But, well, he didn’t need to be a drow to appreciate her beauty, and though he never fancied himself a ladies’ man, he couldn’t see the harm in flirting with his betrothed.
“I must be losing my touch.” His grin was brash as he brushed his knuckles over her arm, nothing more than a gentle touch. “I would think that it’s obvious, Sinafrey.” He let the words linger, giving her a chance to reflect, before pulling away and bending down to fetch his lonesome armor from the ground.
“Anyway, it’s getting late. Get some sleep.” He waved a hand in the air, as if in adieus, before turning to walk toward the stairs, the tip of his tail held high in a clear indication of his good mood. It wouldn’t be until after he took his first few steps down that he added, his tone equal parts challenging and equal parts self-satisfied, having already made his way to the escape route before lobbing the jest her way.
She certainly didn’t mince words.
Karzoc could only smile. Sinafrey was so straight-forward. He hadn’t expected quite how different she would be from her lost sibling and especially from her mother. But her bluntness was refreshing in a way. There was a lot he could have said, and he had already said some of it. His goal, above all else, was to foster some level of civility between the two of them. But, well, he didn’t need to be a drow to appreciate her beauty, and though he never fancied himself a ladies’ man, he couldn’t see the harm in flirting with his betrothed.
“I must be losing my touch.” His grin was brash as he brushed his knuckles over her arm, nothing more than a gentle touch. “I would think that it’s obvious, Sinafrey.” He let the words linger, giving her a chance to reflect, before pulling away and bending down to fetch his lonesome armor from the ground.
“Anyway, it’s getting late. Get some sleep.” He waved a hand in the air, as if in adieus, before turning to walk toward the stairs, the tip of his tail held high in a clear indication of his good mood. It wouldn’t be until after he took his first few steps down that he added, his tone equal parts challenging and equal parts self-satisfied, having already made his way to the escape route before lobbing the jest her way.
“You’ll need it. I won’t be going easy on your tomorrow just because I’m courting you.”
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Perhaps it was simple enough that most would understand his motive, but Sinafrey was not usual. What may have been obvious to others was less so to her. In her world, no one did anything without at least three other meanings or motives. Nothing was ever genuine, and everything was always called into question. No one could be trusted, and their motives less so. Although it had been Vivi who had joined their mother in court when it gathered, and Sinafrey had watched from the shadowed corners of the room as a silent witness, Sinafrey knew the lies, political traps and sabotage that went on. She much preferred the honesty of violence and war; where she knew who her enemies were and there were no grey areas or lines. She'd much prefer to know someone wanted her dead, than to be left wondering if a courtier's words had a double or triple meaning and what it was they wished to get out of being in her presence. Her childhood had bred distrust and the trauma of her training had fostered paranoia.
Her eyes narrowed at Karzoc as she watched him stand, gathering his armour from the ground before moving towards the door. The crimson gems of her eyes slid back towards the night sky, cast over the glimmering stars that were soon swallowed by rolling, dark clouds. A bitterness settled in the centre of her chest at how quick she realised he was to leave. He'd baited her up here with a challenge, she'd even divulged how the death of her sister had her feeling feelings—something, alone, she wouldn't dare to admit to anyone—and then left her with little advice. She felt pathetic, childish even, in how she had hoped to spend another hour in his company, explaining away all these emotions that had risen to the surface and perhaps even explored what it was their hand-fasting tomorrow would entail for them. Her white brows were drawn together in a scowl. I should not have said anything. Word will get back to my mother and I will be punished for lack of self control. I should not have come here with him, nor told him what I have.
Her distrust in Karzoc was not personal. When an animal is struck roughly by a hand, they expect every other hand presented to it to do the same. Sinafrey was not much different, though she lacked the emotional intelligence to recognise such.
Karzoc's quip had her rolling ruby eyes. She expected nothing less from the Khan and, in fact, hoped he'd throw everything her way. The fight wouldn't be fair, but Sinafrey had her plans.
When Karzoc would wake in the morning, he'd find a slender drow female by the set of ornate drawers beside the door. She slid a silver tray onto the mahogany top; a saucer and teacup, several plates with an assortment of food, a steaming carafe of tea clinked. Awaiting him for breakfast was spiced fruit toast, eggs three ways beside a thick slather of crisp bacon, and a small bowl of berries. The drow female, her hair a wheat yellow and eyes a bright pink, dipped her head when she spied Karzoc's lounging form. "My apologies in waking you, Sir," she curtsied deeply. "But the tournament starts shortly and the kitchen asked me to deliver your plates. Shall I pour you some tea, Sir?"
Regardless of his answer, the handmaid spun in place and poured the steaming, dark tea into a cup before setting the carafe back beside the plate of eggs. She curtsied again, drawing her skirts in a fan sideways, before slipping from his room and closing the door behind her. The tea she had poured smelt of cloves and honey, spiced and sweet. Two cubes of sugar sat on the saucer, though it was likely already sweetened, and beside them a thin slice of lemon. Hidden beneath the spiced cloves and sickeningly sweet scent was an aroma-less toxin; but one that was neither degenerative or harmful. Sinafrey had taken a chance, lacing his tea with a powerful aphrodisiac that she'd stolen from the market down by the city's wall. Against his brute strength, she knew she didn't have a chance to win. But if Karzoc's attention was focussed less on the tournament and more on her body…? Sinafrey was partially counting on lust clouding his ability to perform in the arena.
Karzoc was left alone to his own devices, the only drows he'd run into being those who lingered within the citadel as he'd eventually be guided toward the arena.
The large structure was housed inside the city's circular wall, towering a third of the citadel's height. The lower portion was fashioned from granite, the foundations both chunky and sturdy over the brown gravel. Thick wooden ribs curved upward, the rest of its height coming from horizontal oak slats nailed together; grey after weathering several dozen storms. They pierced the skyline with sharp tips, like whalebones protruding from a carcass. Several layers of seating ringed the inside, the archways in the stone leading to the bowels beneath where creatures and beasts and weapons of war lay hidden. A box stood within the second ring—high enough to oversee the entire oval shape of the gravel arena floor, but low enough to see blood splatter—and within it sat three velvet chairs. The Queen was already seated, her youngest daughter settled beside her with her hands in her lap and head bowed. The other, the one traditionally filled by Vivi, remained empty. Even if Sinafrey didn't stand before the gathered crowd, she wouldn't have been invited to sit in that seat.
She wasn't worthy.
Instead, she'd already spent the last hour performing alongside the others of the tournament; weeding the weak from the strong. Targets stood at one edge, pierced by several arrows or some even empty. The centre of Sinafrey's target was riddled with closely gathered arrows; one's shaft even split down the middle by another. Javelins lay across the gravel, most jutting at an angle. Sinafrey's had not been the furthest thrown, strength and power not in her favour, though it lay nestled beside the fourth furthest, its tip buried in dirt. The morning had been several rather slow shows of skills and she'd hated it all. So much ceremony and show when she was restless to get to the real fight. They'd paired off the competitors, by how they'd ranked in the severs small competitions prior, but also based on challenge. It didn't matter where she placed, nor did it matter for Karzoc; for the two were already assigned.
If he’d tasted the tea, even just a mouthful before he’d left his chambers earlier in the morning, it would have flooded his system as the competition dragged on. Eyeing him from where she stood, Sinafrey wondered if his blood was hot, if his loins ached, and if he could still think clearly. She smirked then.
As two female drows battled each other to the ground, Sinafrey cut through the gathered group of competitors and came to lean against the stone by Karzoc. Her red eyes were pinned on the tangled forms between them, her face expressionless. Her voice, however, was sultry and low as she crossed her arms under her bust; the dark fabric of her shirt shifting. "You and I will be tangled like that soon enough. Don't let it get to your head."
The slighter female, who had chosen a silver-tipped whip, had managed to pin the other drow beneath her; the shoulders and arms of her component flayed. Her victory was called by a white-haired male who'd stepped forward from the shadow cast from the royal box. He announced loudly, his arms held wide, that the next fight was what they had all been waiting for.
But, before Sinafrey pushed from the wall, she spun in place, pressing the plushness of her front to Karzoc's side as she rose onto the tips of her toes; the pebbles of her nipples dragging over his arm from beneath cotton shirt. "Don't go easy on me, Khan. I like a challenge."
She peeled away from him, her steps light as she crossed into the midday sun; the white braid of her hair gleaming. The weapon she'd chosen at snugly against her outer thigh, strapped with leather and freshly sharpened. It was light enough to meet its mark should she throw it, and heavy enough to pierce muscle from a distance. The fine blade would shred through flesh if she wished it. Her eyes sparkled, a wicked delight held within them, as she held out her hands in a "Well?" gesture.
The fight was on.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Do any drows knock?
Karzoc woke with the faint creak of the door, his years on the streets of the various Furless cities having trained him into an exceedingly light sleeper. The sheets had pooled around his waist in his slumber, and he pulled it a little higher, inhaling deep in the alluring aroma of breakfast even as he peered at the curtsying female through narrowed eyes. Urg, it was so bright. Normally, he woke with the first rays of the sun, but judging from the amount of light pouring into the room, it was definitely no longer dawn. The long travel must have worn him down more than he thought.
He couldn’t find it in himself to be too grumpy though. It was not the servant’s fault, however strange their customs may be. The drows were so rigidly hierarchical that he had no doubt that the wheat-haired drow simply did as she was told. It made him wonder though. Did all the servants come and go so freely, slipping in and out of closed doors like whispering shadows, or was this treatment unique to him? He wouldn’t even be surprised if it was just a reminder that he was always being watched. Politics and double-speak were not unfamiliar to him, but the drows, in his honest opinion, took it way too far.
“Thanks,” he offered, waving a hand dismissively, “You can set the tray on the dresser and see yourself out.” He wasn’t in the mood for conversation so soon after rousing, knowing well that the day would be an incredibly long one, and wanting a few moments of peace and quietude to himself.
First order of business though --
After the servant had left, he rolled off the bed, buck-naked and landing his weight upon a single palm. The other was braced behind his back, his form picture-perfect as he straightened his forearm, before lowering himself, and repeating the same until he could feel the delicious burn from muscles well-exercised. And then, the other arm. Next, the quads. And next…
It would not be for another hour until he was content that he had sufficiently warmed up, a stickler for routine and, frankly, to get the blood flowing. His fur concealed any obvious signs of perspiration, but he certainly smelled like it, the tang of fresh sweat clinging to him like a second skin. Getting dressed took not long. His riders had sent up some of his belongings the night before, and he kept it simple. The same cuirass, a fresh set of pants, and some hide loosely thrown about his waist in an half-assed attempt at adornment. He ran his fingers through that tousled shock of fur, smoothing the sides toward the center before calling it a day.
He debated with ceremonial paints. A tournament was not war, and did not call for the same display of savagery, but there were certain expectations that came with his position. Victory, of course, was required, but that was the absolute minimum. While the drows have undoubtedly heard of his reputation, they had never seen him fight. Well, almost never, he wouldn’t put it past their Queen and her network of spies to be among the exceptions. No, more than victory was needed. He couldn’t let such a perfect opportunity go to waste. The nobles and commoners alike needed to be shown the might of the Taiguez Tribe, and a tournament was the perfect vehicle for a little shock and awe. He grinned. They doubtlessly expected him to be little more than a beast, and Karzoc could see the advantage in playing into that misconception.
His appearance was impeccable by the time he made it to the arena, flanked by his Bloodsworns on each side. At his command, they had taken the time to assist with the ceremonial paints. Whereas war paints were often crude, nothing more than paw prints and smears of black and red, like a somber tune of death and gore, a coating fit for a Khan was a little more deliberate. Crimson covered the ridge of his nose, streaking up into three distinctive arrows. Thick fang-like dabs ran from his jawline over his cheeks, matching the smaller, more decorative paints upon his chin. His eyes were entirely framed in red, accentuating his already intense gaze, which, in the bright of day, was truly fearsome as a result of his pupils being little more than slits.
Around his shoulders, a heavy pale white cape draped, weighted down by spiked pauldrons. The massive mantle augmented his already immense size. He was heads and shoulders above all of the drows in attendance, something he played up with the way he rolled his shoulders back and held his chin high.
Perhaps the most notable part of his ensemble were those blackened chains wrapped around his shoulders, looped around his arms thrice over, and still long enough to chink against the ground. The ends were thicker, heavier, designed for throwing and lashing. At first glance, they looked almost unassuming beyond how very long they were, but appearances were deceiving. Each link was forged from darksteel. Tough, incredibly dense, and nearly indestructible without the application of great heat. The chains were blunt, but piercing was an unnecessary quality when he could easily crash bones and bash skulls in with a direct hit.
Originally, he hadn’t planned on using them. While he didn’t plan on going easy, he had simply planned to brawl with Sinafrey. He had worn the chains mostly for intimidation, for a visceral demonstration of his physical prowess. But, well, he was adaptable. Like any good general, he adjusted his plans as situations called for, and his current situation certainly called for a more heavy handed approach.
It started around the time he had arrived and settled himself into the spectator’s stand, and that must have been more than an hour ago. A certain…abnormal impetus stirred his blood, heat coursing through him and pushing his naturally high body temperature a few degrees higher. He said nothing of it though, simply adjusted the pelt about his waist to more fully drape over the front of his pants, his arms flexing and displaying the outline of tendons even through the thick of his fur. It was the wrong season for his rut, though this certainly felt similar. Different, too, an unnaturalness about it that made him narrow his eyes and peel back his lips in the beginnings of a snarl - he caught himself, and smoothed over his face once more.
Who dared.
It wasn’t poison. Not really. He was familiar with the immediate effects of most common toxins, and some of the more uncommon ones too. Not to mention that he certainly took precautions against the same. No, this was… He licked at his fangs, restless, grinding the upper against the lower hard enough for his jawline to flex. But what in the Sky Father’s name was the point of this.
It felt incredibly juvenile. Almost like an adolescent prank. He ran through the names of drows he knew in his mind, a task made more difficult by his growing distraction. Sweat beaded at his temples and along his neck, matting his fur unpleasantly. Whoever wanted to fuck with him certainly didn’t hold back on the dosage.
Time slowed to a crawl as he found himself barely paying attention to the series of fights. He dismissed the concerned rumblings of his Bloodsworns, assured them that everything was quite alright, and counted the time with the number of grooves he clawed into the fencing in front of him. It was almost time for his fight, and he was rearing for violence.
Was it her?
He thought, even as he made his way to the base level, unsurprised at Sinafrey’s approach. Her expression betrayed nothing, but her voice was almost…smug. But maybe he was reading into it. He had found the tenor of her voice to be pleasant a night before, but now, that suggestive pitch was making him narrow his slitted pupils further at her, the bright blue nearly entirely eclipsing the black. Her words too, deliberate, like she was trying to provoke him. She would find him uncharacteristically quiet, letting her taunts bounce off of him as he simply stared. He was tense, coiled, focused in a way that could easily be attributed to a determination to win. But if she paid less attention to his carefully neutral expression and more attention to other parts of him, she would find his ears just a tad too upright, alert and twitching at the slightest sound. His tail, low to the ground, beating a fast, staccato rhythm that divulged his mental state far more accurately than his face ever will.
She pressed into him, and he flexed hard at the feel of her against his fur. The implication was not lost upon him and it was then that he finally dignified her attention with a response. “You are playing with fire, Sinafrey.” His voice was lower, raspier, with an edge to it that he didn’t bother masking. A gesture, and his Bloodsworns eased the heavy cape and pauldrons from his shoulders. Karzoc stepped into the ring.
The ringing of the gong was still echoing through the arena when he had already lashed out. The chain shot from him as though with a mind of its own, faster and more lethal than any viper’s snap, battering the ground where Sinafrey once stood. The impact was loud. A ringing clang that reverberated despite the straw-covered ground. A cacophony of sounds that never stopped as each link clinked against the next, whistling a deadly song through the air as if reminding Sinafrey that chains were not a projectile.
Before she could fully regain her footing, it was already moving, lashing at her calves before snapping up not unlike a whip, only heavier, deadlier. Karzoc was almost deceptively calm through it all, his jaw tight and his eyes hard as he demonstrated impeccable control over his weapon of choice. His shoulders and arms flexed with power as he hurled the heavy metal at her, again, and again, strike after strike, reading her movements and beating the ground in front of her instead of chasing after her shadow. It was clear just how practiced he was in this, exerting strength from the rippling muscles of his back and core instead of relying on arm strength alone.
Faster. Faster. Ramping up the pacing as Sinafrey demonstrated her aptitude for evasion. Despite the furious pace of his attacks, he never eased up on the sheer force behind each strike. Whether an upward jab or a sideway sweep, the chains sliced the air with each motion, cutting with deadly intent and refusing even the notion of parrying. An experienced combatant like Sinafrey would have surely picked up by now just how heavy these chains were. If she sought to match him brawn for brawn, the results would have been obvious.
Wearing him out was also out of the question though. Despite his aggressive pacing, Karzoc did not even appear winded. Violence incited his already roaring blood, and his eyes nearly gleamed despite the bright of day. No, she would tire before him. Deadly as a drow could be, drows have never been known for their physical prowess. It was always the other things. The backstabbing. The sinister machinations and insidious poisons. Their sheer number and the cutting edge of their superior weaponry. She would not wear him out, and that only left her so many options.
And, knowing Sinafrey, she would rather angle for a decisive strike than chance a mishap. He could help with that. Karzoc smiled a smile that was all fangs, beating the ground at her heels now and trying to drive her closer to himself.
Karzoc woke with the faint creak of the door, his years on the streets of the various Furless cities having trained him into an exceedingly light sleeper. The sheets had pooled around his waist in his slumber, and he pulled it a little higher, inhaling deep in the alluring aroma of breakfast even as he peered at the curtsying female through narrowed eyes. Urg, it was so bright. Normally, he woke with the first rays of the sun, but judging from the amount of light pouring into the room, it was definitely no longer dawn. The long travel must have worn him down more than he thought.
He couldn’t find it in himself to be too grumpy though. It was not the servant’s fault, however strange their customs may be. The drows were so rigidly hierarchical that he had no doubt that the wheat-haired drow simply did as she was told. It made him wonder though. Did all the servants come and go so freely, slipping in and out of closed doors like whispering shadows, or was this treatment unique to him? He wouldn’t even be surprised if it was just a reminder that he was always being watched. Politics and double-speak were not unfamiliar to him, but the drows, in his honest opinion, took it way too far.
“Thanks,” he offered, waving a hand dismissively, “You can set the tray on the dresser and see yourself out.” He wasn’t in the mood for conversation so soon after rousing, knowing well that the day would be an incredibly long one, and wanting a few moments of peace and quietude to himself.
First order of business though --
After the servant had left, he rolled off the bed, buck-naked and landing his weight upon a single palm. The other was braced behind his back, his form picture-perfect as he straightened his forearm, before lowering himself, and repeating the same until he could feel the delicious burn from muscles well-exercised. And then, the other arm. Next, the quads. And next…
It would not be for another hour until he was content that he had sufficiently warmed up, a stickler for routine and, frankly, to get the blood flowing. His fur concealed any obvious signs of perspiration, but he certainly smelled like it, the tang of fresh sweat clinging to him like a second skin. Getting dressed took not long. His riders had sent up some of his belongings the night before, and he kept it simple. The same cuirass, a fresh set of pants, and some hide loosely thrown about his waist in an half-assed attempt at adornment. He ran his fingers through that tousled shock of fur, smoothing the sides toward the center before calling it a day.
He debated with ceremonial paints. A tournament was not war, and did not call for the same display of savagery, but there were certain expectations that came with his position. Victory, of course, was required, but that was the absolute minimum. While the drows have undoubtedly heard of his reputation, they had never seen him fight. Well, almost never, he wouldn’t put it past their Queen and her network of spies to be among the exceptions. No, more than victory was needed. He couldn’t let such a perfect opportunity go to waste. The nobles and commoners alike needed to be shown the might of the Taiguez Tribe, and a tournament was the perfect vehicle for a little shock and awe. He grinned. They doubtlessly expected him to be little more than a beast, and Karzoc could see the advantage in playing into that misconception.
His appearance was impeccable by the time he made it to the arena, flanked by his Bloodsworns on each side. At his command, they had taken the time to assist with the ceremonial paints. Whereas war paints were often crude, nothing more than paw prints and smears of black and red, like a somber tune of death and gore, a coating fit for a Khan was a little more deliberate. Crimson covered the ridge of his nose, streaking up into three distinctive arrows. Thick fang-like dabs ran from his jawline over his cheeks, matching the smaller, more decorative paints upon his chin. His eyes were entirely framed in red, accentuating his already intense gaze, which, in the bright of day, was truly fearsome as a result of his pupils being little more than slits.
Around his shoulders, a heavy pale white cape draped, weighted down by spiked pauldrons. The massive mantle augmented his already immense size. He was heads and shoulders above all of the drows in attendance, something he played up with the way he rolled his shoulders back and held his chin high.
Perhaps the most notable part of his ensemble were those blackened chains wrapped around his shoulders, looped around his arms thrice over, and still long enough to chink against the ground. The ends were thicker, heavier, designed for throwing and lashing. At first glance, they looked almost unassuming beyond how very long they were, but appearances were deceiving. Each link was forged from darksteel. Tough, incredibly dense, and nearly indestructible without the application of great heat. The chains were blunt, but piercing was an unnecessary quality when he could easily crash bones and bash skulls in with a direct hit.
Originally, he hadn’t planned on using them. While he didn’t plan on going easy, he had simply planned to brawl with Sinafrey. He had worn the chains mostly for intimidation, for a visceral demonstration of his physical prowess. But, well, he was adaptable. Like any good general, he adjusted his plans as situations called for, and his current situation certainly called for a more heavy handed approach.
It started around the time he had arrived and settled himself into the spectator’s stand, and that must have been more than an hour ago. A certain…abnormal impetus stirred his blood, heat coursing through him and pushing his naturally high body temperature a few degrees higher. He said nothing of it though, simply adjusted the pelt about his waist to more fully drape over the front of his pants, his arms flexing and displaying the outline of tendons even through the thick of his fur. It was the wrong season for his rut, though this certainly felt similar. Different, too, an unnaturalness about it that made him narrow his eyes and peel back his lips in the beginnings of a snarl - he caught himself, and smoothed over his face once more.
Who dared.
It wasn’t poison. Not really. He was familiar with the immediate effects of most common toxins, and some of the more uncommon ones too. Not to mention that he certainly took precautions against the same. No, this was… He licked at his fangs, restless, grinding the upper against the lower hard enough for his jawline to flex. But what in the Sky Father’s name was the point of this.
It felt incredibly juvenile. Almost like an adolescent prank. He ran through the names of drows he knew in his mind, a task made more difficult by his growing distraction. Sweat beaded at his temples and along his neck, matting his fur unpleasantly. Whoever wanted to fuck with him certainly didn’t hold back on the dosage.
Time slowed to a crawl as he found himself barely paying attention to the series of fights. He dismissed the concerned rumblings of his Bloodsworns, assured them that everything was quite alright, and counted the time with the number of grooves he clawed into the fencing in front of him. It was almost time for his fight, and he was rearing for violence.
Was it her?
He thought, even as he made his way to the base level, unsurprised at Sinafrey’s approach. Her expression betrayed nothing, but her voice was almost…smug. But maybe he was reading into it. He had found the tenor of her voice to be pleasant a night before, but now, that suggestive pitch was making him narrow his slitted pupils further at her, the bright blue nearly entirely eclipsing the black. Her words too, deliberate, like she was trying to provoke him. She would find him uncharacteristically quiet, letting her taunts bounce off of him as he simply stared. He was tense, coiled, focused in a way that could easily be attributed to a determination to win. But if she paid less attention to his carefully neutral expression and more attention to other parts of him, she would find his ears just a tad too upright, alert and twitching at the slightest sound. His tail, low to the ground, beating a fast, staccato rhythm that divulged his mental state far more accurately than his face ever will.
She pressed into him, and he flexed hard at the feel of her against his fur. The implication was not lost upon him and it was then that he finally dignified her attention with a response. “You are playing with fire, Sinafrey.” His voice was lower, raspier, with an edge to it that he didn’t bother masking. A gesture, and his Bloodsworns eased the heavy cape and pauldrons from his shoulders. Karzoc stepped into the ring.
“Let me remind you that fire does not play.”
The ringing of the gong was still echoing through the arena when he had already lashed out. The chain shot from him as though with a mind of its own, faster and more lethal than any viper’s snap, battering the ground where Sinafrey once stood. The impact was loud. A ringing clang that reverberated despite the straw-covered ground. A cacophony of sounds that never stopped as each link clinked against the next, whistling a deadly song through the air as if reminding Sinafrey that chains were not a projectile.
Before she could fully regain her footing, it was already moving, lashing at her calves before snapping up not unlike a whip, only heavier, deadlier. Karzoc was almost deceptively calm through it all, his jaw tight and his eyes hard as he demonstrated impeccable control over his weapon of choice. His shoulders and arms flexed with power as he hurled the heavy metal at her, again, and again, strike after strike, reading her movements and beating the ground in front of her instead of chasing after her shadow. It was clear just how practiced he was in this, exerting strength from the rippling muscles of his back and core instead of relying on arm strength alone.
Faster. Faster. Ramping up the pacing as Sinafrey demonstrated her aptitude for evasion. Despite the furious pace of his attacks, he never eased up on the sheer force behind each strike. Whether an upward jab or a sideway sweep, the chains sliced the air with each motion, cutting with deadly intent and refusing even the notion of parrying. An experienced combatant like Sinafrey would have surely picked up by now just how heavy these chains were. If she sought to match him brawn for brawn, the results would have been obvious.
Wearing him out was also out of the question though. Despite his aggressive pacing, Karzoc did not even appear winded. Violence incited his already roaring blood, and his eyes nearly gleamed despite the bright of day. No, she would tire before him. Deadly as a drow could be, drows have never been known for their physical prowess. It was always the other things. The backstabbing. The sinister machinations and insidious poisons. Their sheer number and the cutting edge of their superior weaponry. She would not wear him out, and that only left her so many options.
And, knowing Sinafrey, she would rather angle for a decisive strike than chance a mishap. He could help with that. Karzoc smiled a smile that was all fangs, beating the ground at her heels now and trying to drive her closer to himself.
“I thought you were going to fight me. Are you only good at running?”
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Sinafrey had counted on Karzoc being too proud to bring a weapon into the arena. The two of them had been set to battle regardless of their positioning amongst the other contestants. The others were simply their for entertainment, for show, when the real purpose of this tournament was to watch the couple fight immediately before their hand-fasting. The Queen remained stoic as ever within her seat, her hand atop her youngest daughter's knee. It was Sinafrey's younger sibling who had shifted forward in her carved oak chair as she'd spied the Khan's choice of weapons—deadly, thick chains that would break Sinafrey in two if they caught her. Yet, the snow-haired drow who taunted him deeper into the arena simply smirked smugly even as she skirted around them as they thwacked into the gravel by her toes. Karzoc was beating the air by her, missing her only by a millimetre—not intentional, she bet—and his sudden need for violence made her snicker.
Last night he hadn't seemed the kind to wish her intentional, bone-crushing harm; not after he'd offered her advice and tried to comfort her by reassuring that her deceased sister was watching her from above. While Sinafrey that his company last night was surely laced with an ulterior motive, a part of her believes his wish in comforting her with company had been somewhat genuine. Or, at least, about as genuine as to ex-political enemies could be. The male last night had seemed thoughtful, his farce nearly convincing, but the one whom lashed at her now with darksteel seemed wholly different. Was Karzoc simply reacting with violence to the need brewing, surging through his system from drinking the aphrodisiac tea? Or had he gone without it this morning, and this rage with which he flung the chains at her was how he truly felt?
Light on her feet, Sinafrey was able to dance away as the metal snapped past her face, catching a wisp of white hair on its way past to slam into the ground. Her crimson eyes drew narrow. Was he trying to kill her because he couldn't stand her that much? Was he hoping to murder the Queen's second child under the guise of tournament so that he could marry the softer-willed, demure Rexoline? That just wouldn't do.
But Sinafrey had very few options. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mouth dry and breaths shallow as her forehead grew slick with perspiration. Karzoc watched her with his feline pupils, already anticipating which way she would move a split second after she'd tensed her muscles to leap. There would be no getting the upper hand against him when she was kept at a distance like this, driven away with only one blade to throw at him. She could land every mark, but Karzoc was faster and, as he'd told her the night before, it wouldn't even slow him a second. She needed to get closer if she wished to win. As Sinafrey ducked under another chain sent her way, she considered her options and there were really not many. She could pull the dagger from its strap on her thigh, but it's likely only annoy him should she throw it. She could sacrifice a wrist and try to catch a chain, but he'd likely use it to pull her in and force her to yield.
What had been the rules of the tournament? One weapon only.
Sinafrey had chosen her knife, but she had something else up her sleeve. Her crimson eyes skirted sideways to glance at the overcast shadow from the arena. From the age of three, she had been able to manipulate the darkness as if it were a tangible being. Her power over the shadow was an extension of herself, what kept her hidden when she was spying and what helped her escape when she was killing. It wasn't a weapon, not in the traditional sense, and was much a part of her as her left hand. If she could just get Karzoc to move and she'd made it to the shadows, Sinafrey could…
Karzoc, it seemed, had other plans.
The ground before her feet were suddenly swapped for the ground at her heels, his chains lashing a handful of inches forward each time, forcing her in towards him. Close enough to him, and she'd have a fair enough chance, but she had another idea.
Feigning to the right, Sinafrey sprinted. The chains whizzed past her pointed ear, close enough that it caught cartilage and made her hiss with the sting, as she ducked under another. It wasn't until she was several strides in front of him that she corrected her course, diving with her one leg stretched before her, kicking up the gravel into his eyes, as the other kept bent at the knee and under her. One hand slammed into the ground, her fingers dragging through the dirt, as the other snatched for her dagger. It was torn from its sheathe, the blade glinting in the light of the sun, as Sinafrey drew it up in a graceful arc as she skidded under his arm. The blade drew over his flank, through fur and skin, but only shallow. Her intention wasn't to kill him—not quite and not yet—but she flipped herself over once she was at his back.
"I'm good for more than just running, you and I both know that." Her eyes sparkled with mischief; the smirk that darkened one that was suggestive. The red of those glimmering jewels spoke volumes of what was left unsaid; I’m good for running and for fucking.
She'd pay for drawing blood, Sinafrey knew, and she grinned wolfishly as she launched herself at him. Karzoc was fast, he'd easily turn and meet her head on, but that's what she was hoping for. Those chains might break a bone of hers, but they could easily tangle and trap.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Whatever Sinafrey might have been thinking as those darksteel chains thrashed the ground in her vicinity, Karzoc wasn't privy to it. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that he wasn't privy to much of anything beyond the clamorous rattles of chains drowning out sound, beyond the insuppressible lust that erupted in a deluge of violence. It was not that he was particularly undisciplined. In fact, the opposite might well have been true. But this, this mounting tension thrumming down his spine, lancing down his abs and making him strain against the hide he wore was wearing on him. It was hard to think. Hard to remember everything and anything he had planned, hard to focus on anything beyond the roar of want boiling his blood, invading every thought, and slowly driving him into a frenzy.
He was vaguely aware that his speed was ramping, that he had gone from merely testing Sinafrey to an unthrottled assault, but the consequences of a potential slip-up was harder and harder to grasp. He wanted to maim, or perhaps to fuck, to bury his fangs in and rend them out gleaming with blood. Violence and lust were hard to distinguish when he was like this, his mind barraged by a hundred impure thoughts, by fury and passion both. It felt good to put his muscles to use, to vent his frustration onto the innocent gravel, and so he continued to thrash, accuracy imparted by muscle memory alone. What remained of his more rational mind dimly registered that he had succeeded in his initial plan of driving Sinafrey closer to himself, but he was too far gone to remember what was supposed to have followed.
Instead, he roared with indignation, a hand covering his eyes as his assault halted from the temporary blindness. That fucking hurt. His eyes were burning more than the shallow cut in his flank, and he rubbed his eyes roughly, the bite of pain bringing back some semblance of lucidity. But before he could even consider his next move, she had already flung herself at his back. His vision was blurry from the gravel, but he didn't need to see. She was all he could smell and, the scent of her clouded his already muddied thoughts even further.
Unfortunately for Sinafrey though, Karzoc's disoriented state only made it hard for him to hold back. Reacting more from instincts than anything else, he rotated on a dime. His arms were braced defensively, the chains serving not to attack, but simply to defend, limiting her angles of attacks and protecting his vitals. Only he didn't stop, not even slow, simply hunched low and barreled straight at Sinafrey as she came at him. She was fast, already changing course as she noticed his path, and to her credit, she managed to dance out of the way to evade his ramming attack, but he was already too close.
Before she could even shift her footwork and dodge again, the chains that trailed him as he rushed past her whacked into her sides with a calculated jolt of his arm. From their proximity and from this angle, there was much less force than before, enough for a bruise at most, but all he needed was to stagger her. Already he was twisting, turning, his prowess in close combat becoming readily apparent and he pressed his advantage. Sinafrey was swift, but the height disadvantage would prove her undoing. Her weapon was short and he simply had more reach. In a rapid series of moves that only spanned a few seconds in actuality, he had managed to secure a hold on her forearm. And from there, pinning her was inevitable. Both of their footwork were precise but he was much, much stronger. Her balance broken, he should have simply forced her into any classic submission hold, earned himself a clean victory from the ref, but he wasn't thinking.
Blood battered at his temple and all he could focus on was her scent, her proximity, her warmth and the way her soft skin dimpled beneath his claws. Instead, he allowed her to struggle, to strain against his unyielding musculature as he maneuvered her unnecessarily into a much more embarrassing pin. Her arms were twisted roughly behind her back, held together at the wrists, the knife long knocked aside during their tussle. His other arm was wrapped around her throat, tightening and threatening a chokehold but not quite applying enough pressure to cut off airflow yet. This was not the most efficient of pins by any means, but it got him what he wanted, which was to force her down, trapped on her front.
And more importantly, it allowed him to drop his weight down, pinning her legs and grinding the heft of himself through hide and clothing against her rear. There were too many layers in the way for her to get an accurate gauge of anything, but his arousal was unmistakable, as if in answer to her questions of whether he consumed the tea or not. And that felt so delicious he couldn't help but repeat the same motion, driving himself roughly against her ass as if he intended to mount her here and then.
"I should just fuck you like this," he growled out, his voice guttural and rough with desire, "put on a real show for all these spectators." His forearm flexed, cutting off an inhale before he leaned in closer and added, quietly and for her ears alone. "But I think you would like that too much, I can smell you you know." He dragged that rough tongue of his along the shell of a tapering ear for good measure, the kind of thing that would not be missed by a particularly keen gaze.
From the sidelines, that same white-haired male inched forward, ready to call the match.
He was vaguely aware that his speed was ramping, that he had gone from merely testing Sinafrey to an unthrottled assault, but the consequences of a potential slip-up was harder and harder to grasp. He wanted to maim, or perhaps to fuck, to bury his fangs in and rend them out gleaming with blood. Violence and lust were hard to distinguish when he was like this, his mind barraged by a hundred impure thoughts, by fury and passion both. It felt good to put his muscles to use, to vent his frustration onto the innocent gravel, and so he continued to thrash, accuracy imparted by muscle memory alone. What remained of his more rational mind dimly registered that he had succeeded in his initial plan of driving Sinafrey closer to himself, but he was too far gone to remember what was supposed to have followed.
Instead, he roared with indignation, a hand covering his eyes as his assault halted from the temporary blindness. That fucking hurt. His eyes were burning more than the shallow cut in his flank, and he rubbed his eyes roughly, the bite of pain bringing back some semblance of lucidity. But before he could even consider his next move, she had already flung herself at his back. His vision was blurry from the gravel, but he didn't need to see. She was all he could smell and, the scent of her clouded his already muddied thoughts even further.
Unfortunately for Sinafrey though, Karzoc's disoriented state only made it hard for him to hold back. Reacting more from instincts than anything else, he rotated on a dime. His arms were braced defensively, the chains serving not to attack, but simply to defend, limiting her angles of attacks and protecting his vitals. Only he didn't stop, not even slow, simply hunched low and barreled straight at Sinafrey as she came at him. She was fast, already changing course as she noticed his path, and to her credit, she managed to dance out of the way to evade his ramming attack, but he was already too close.
Before she could even shift her footwork and dodge again, the chains that trailed him as he rushed past her whacked into her sides with a calculated jolt of his arm. From their proximity and from this angle, there was much less force than before, enough for a bruise at most, but all he needed was to stagger her. Already he was twisting, turning, his prowess in close combat becoming readily apparent and he pressed his advantage. Sinafrey was swift, but the height disadvantage would prove her undoing. Her weapon was short and he simply had more reach. In a rapid series of moves that only spanned a few seconds in actuality, he had managed to secure a hold on her forearm. And from there, pinning her was inevitable. Both of their footwork were precise but he was much, much stronger. Her balance broken, he should have simply forced her into any classic submission hold, earned himself a clean victory from the ref, but he wasn't thinking.
Blood battered at his temple and all he could focus on was her scent, her proximity, her warmth and the way her soft skin dimpled beneath his claws. Instead, he allowed her to struggle, to strain against his unyielding musculature as he maneuvered her unnecessarily into a much more embarrassing pin. Her arms were twisted roughly behind her back, held together at the wrists, the knife long knocked aside during their tussle. His other arm was wrapped around her throat, tightening and threatening a chokehold but not quite applying enough pressure to cut off airflow yet. This was not the most efficient of pins by any means, but it got him what he wanted, which was to force her down, trapped on her front.
And more importantly, it allowed him to drop his weight down, pinning her legs and grinding the heft of himself through hide and clothing against her rear. There were too many layers in the way for her to get an accurate gauge of anything, but his arousal was unmistakable, as if in answer to her questions of whether he consumed the tea or not. And that felt so delicious he couldn't help but repeat the same motion, driving himself roughly against her ass as if he intended to mount her here and then.
"I should just fuck you like this," he growled out, his voice guttural and rough with desire, "put on a real show for all these spectators." His forearm flexed, cutting off an inhale before he leaned in closer and added, quietly and for her ears alone. "But I think you would like that too much, I can smell you you know." He dragged that rough tongue of his along the shell of a tapering ear for good measure, the kind of thing that would not be missed by a particularly keen gaze.
From the sidelines, that same white-haired male inched forward, ready to call the match.
Last edited:
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Even blinded, Karzoc was relentless. The gravel was clawed from his eyes as Sinafrey flipped over, her stance one with her toes digging into the ground and one hand holding her balance. She'd counted on being faster. She'd counted on being far more nimble, graceful, lithe. None of it mattered—not the years she'd spent training as a child, not the years she had under her belt stalking and killing beastmen of his size or larger—when she'd made the mistake of lacing his tea with aphrodisiac. Sinafrey might have counted on her skill as an assassin, but she'd also counted on Karzoc becoming clumsy in his herb-induced lust. What she had not anticipated was the ruthless rage that would fuel him, making him an even more dangerous opponent within the arena.
As she launched herself at his back, the dagger held high and its aim upon the thick meat of his shoulder, she watched as the taiguez turned. His paws dug into the gravel, fine dust kicked up in his wake as Karzoc thrust himself at her. Sinafrey had little time to correct, dancing out of the way at the last second, but she had not seen the whip of the chain. Darksteel collected her flank, and her breath left her lungs. Winded, Sinafrey stumbled, losing her footing as she tried to spin on Karzoc. The two were dancing a near-deadly battle, skirting around one another. But it was Karzoc who finally brought the pretence to an end.
The catch of her forearm by sharp claws had Sinafrey twisting her arm. The socket of her shoulder blazed sharply in warning as she tried to wrench herself free. The knife dragged over the flesh of his forearm, shearing into white fur and thick flesh. It wasn't even enough to make him bleed, Karzoc's natural healing speeds already having the wound knitting over by the time her arm spasmed, her fingers instinctively opened and the dagger clattered to the ground. "Fuck!"
Her heart was hammering, beating wildly against her ribs, as panic dilated her pupils. To lose in front of her mother was to be punished, to be humiliated and tormented. To lose in front of her mother, was the bring the Queen shame and she never reacted kindly to such. To lose in front of her mother was to give her yet another reason why she was never truly recognised as a Queen's daughter. The day was still young, the hours between the tournament and the impending wedding were many. Plenty of time, Sinafrey knew, for her mother to steal her away from prying eyes and deliver careful, cruel punishment.
The realisation was Sinafrey's second wind, twisting again within Karzoc's hands. Her arm was shot with the pinch of a nerve, Sinafrey nearly wrenching the bones of her arm from the socket of her shoulder. She writhed as they fell to the ground, Karzoc shifting his weight above her as her knees struck gravel first. She tried to shake him off, like a wild animal trapped within a cage, to buck him off, anything. The ligaments of her shoulder stretched and snapped with her desperate fight to be free. In a long string of elvish, Sinafrey swore, her teeth grit and the colour leaving her face as she was forced down onto the ground on her front. She twisted her neck before gravel met her nose, her cheek instead laying within the harsh bite of the ground as she still struggled beneath him. Karzoc might have had her hands, one of which was effectively useless now, but Sinafrey still wriggled beneath him. Her rear ground up against his hips, her feet kicking in the dirt as she tried to thrust her hips upwards.
She didn't still until she felt scorching hot fingers curl over her windpipe and, like a kitten caught by its scruff, Sinafrey suddenly grew very still.
The humidity of his breath at the back of her neck, the white braid of her hair having fallen over one shoulder, made her shiver. From spine to toes, Sinafrey convulsed beneath him; a delicate quiver of muscles that occurred again when Karzoc ground his hips forward against the supple muscles of her rear. Her breaths were coming in pants, short and sharp and ragged, and her pulse beat wildly against his fingers as he held the front of her throat. With her legs caught beneath him, she pressed her knees together tightly. Maybe it was the droplet of sweat that fell from his shoulder onto the flesh of her neck, seeping into her skin, that made her mind cloudy. Maybe she hadn't washed her hands properly after handling the herbs in the morning. Maybe Sinafrey had accidentally dosed herself because there was no chance that her body was reacting as it did purely because of his words. The liquid heat that pooled low in her belly, the syrup she felt smear between her folds as she squeezed her legs closed, suggested otherwise. But Sinafrey was too proud to admit, even though her pulse lurched as Karzoc purred of how he could smell her.
"Maybe you should," Sinafrey hissed between her teeth from over her shoulder; breathless even as she smirked devilishly. "It's the least I can do after I made you feel this way." That was as much an answer Karzoc would receive to his question of who would dare lace his tea. Bold as ever, the drow smoothed her hips upwards, a circular motion grinding the orbs of her ass over the hardness of him.
The white-haired male stepped forward, unsure of where to place his gaze, holding up an azure blue flag as he called the winner of the match. One match down, two to go; as Sinafrey had believed. Drow tournaments were never one-offs, but rather a series that ended with all competitors aching in exhaustion or being carried out of the arena with wounds. The arena was quiet for several seconds, unsure of how to respond as the air grew tense. A drow had just fallen to a Beastman; ungraciously and rather unceremoniously, and remained pinned beneath him even after the match had been called. Whomever started the cheer was brave, the rest of the audience falling in to applaud with them, for the Queen was no longer in her box.
Instead, the matriarch had made her way down to the arena floor when her second daughter had begun to lose; when she'd been driven closer to Karzoc by the beat of his chains. She stood before them now, regal and lithe, the willowy shape of her so unlike Sinafrey's figure that she appeared like she could be blown over with little more than a gust of wind. Her dress was obsidian, matching the dark of her eyes as it swept over the gravel like a pool of shadow. Her wheat-blonde hair was coiled high on her head, the silver and ruby crown an extravagant accessory for the watching of a tournament. Her red-painted lips were pressed thinly together, her eyes narrowed down at the pair by her feet.
"Your prowess is promising, Khan," the Queen coolly addressed the taiguez. "You've assured me of why I approached you in the first place." Dark eyes swept beneath Karzoc, befalling the stilled form of her daughter. "Sinafrey, on the other hand, leaves much to be desired. Up." She clicked her fingers, like one would summon a hound. "I have grown bored of these games. You won, Khan, I trust that you will take the story of that back to your people. No further matches will be held. You will have to excuse me, for Sinafrey and I have much to discuss."
Beneath him, Sinafrey tensed. Her spine grew rigid, her muscles bunching anxiously as she made no move to crawl out from beneath him. It seemed that she was happy to remain where she was, pinned beneath the hulking male and held to the gravel. But the order of the Queen was one that could not be refused, not even when one carried the same blood within purple veins. She'd wait for Karzoc to move before she would slowly climb to her feet, casting a blank look to Karzoc before following after her mother.
As both women disappeared into the shadow that skirted the outer edge of the arena, Sinafrey's left shoulder hung a little lower than the other.
Karzoc would have been gifted peace until an hour before the ceremony was due to begin. Not once would Sinafrey have stumbled into his path, nor would he have heard the opening or closing of her door if he had decided to return to his chambers. She'd vanished with the Queen and hadn't been sighted since. He'd been left to his own devices—be it to explore the city with his Bloodsworn, to visit the tavern two cobble-streets down or even to lay with one of the silver-haired whores on the corner—and he hadn't been summoned until now.
Another lithe, little drow had appeared by him and, much like the other that morning, had failed to announce herself. "The Queen requests your presence in the East Chapel," the young elf announced rather suddenly, having crept up on him like a wraith. "Her Highness requested that I escort you, Sir, and your Bloodsworn in a timely manner. The Queen wishes for the ceremony to be complete before nightfall, and her Highness made it clear that she would not take to tardiness lightly." The veiled threat rolled off the drow's tongue in the sweet accent, her words otherwise nearly placid. The elf turned on heal, expecting Karzoc and his company to follow her through the citadel's grounds.
Much like the spire of obsidian Karzoc had climbed the night before, the East Chapel was a spike of dark stone. Piercing the darkening sky, its façade was interlaced with glimmering blocks of white moonstone. They caught the light of the low sun, the sky above painted in deep orange and pinks which reflected off the pale, carved stones. An archway curved high above, the party having to take several steep steps to stand before the door. The coolness of the space beyond licked at their skin, leaking from the darkness inside like a coiling tendril. Once the threshold was crossed, however, the shadowy space was revealed to be far livelier than first perceived.
Woven, ruby rugs lay over rich blue throws, creating a mismatched pattern of soft carpet underfoot. Pillows with gold trim were of the same rich colours, heaped and stacked along a bare strip of floor. Short, velvet stools were set off to the side, their legs made of turned oak. The ceiling above was high and arching, the stones above carved into a smooth sky of black. It appeared like inky liquid as the candelabras swung softly on the gentle breeze, the shadows of the drow nobles cast long over the floor. The Queen regally upon an oak chair, the peaks of the back like thorned branches and horns. Dressed still in her dark gown, it tumbled down over her crossed legs and pooled over the dais. Sinafrey was knelt before her, at a three-quarter-turn, with her hands folded docilely within her lap. Her trousers and shirt had been swapped for a sweeping gown of black organza that did little to hide the plushness of her figure. Heavy breasts pressed against the sheer fabric, the pebbles of her nipples pert beneath, the black stripes of lace of her thong hugging the flesh of her hips. Her snow-white hair was loose in curls that fell to her waist, pieces braided away from her temples and pinned with gold. The velvet and bejewelled hand of the Queen lay over her left shoulder and, while it might have seemed an act of maternal reassurance, her black-painted nails dug into the indigo flesh of her kneeling daughter with a firm enough pressure that Sinafrey was clearly gritting her teeth. The Queen squeezed the meat of injured shoulder when she spied Karzoc under the archway.
Upon Karzoc's entry, crimson eyes would slowly lift to meet his, the look upon her face emotionless and unreadable. The pulse at the corner of her jaw, the way she sat so perfectly folded by her mother's feet, and how only one hand had tensed into a fist in her lap spoke louder than any words.
"Welcome, Taiguez Khan of the North, to your wedding."
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Oh, that scent again. Stronger. Thicker. Enticing his instincts and steering his ordinarily sharp mind down one track only. The distinct tang of her rousing excitement was honestly doing more for him than anything else. The knowledge that this - pinned by his weight, her throat gripped tight between his fingers, the curvature of her feminine form arcing up and ripe for his taking - was somehow doing it for Sinafrey was just so fucking erotic that he mirrored her hiss with a far rougher sound. Not quite a growl, more like a continuous rumble that vibrated his chest against her back, quaking the both of them as he nipped at her ear in punishment at her impudent words.
But of course, there was no ignoring that plush rear either. He ground down against her even as she bucked up into him, offering heat and pressure and a tantalizing glimpse of the what-could-have-beens. A preview, perhaps, of how their wedding night played out in his mind. She was ever so bold, taunting him even now, even as she doubtlessly realized just what her little stunt did to his mental state, but Karzoc was not so content to give her the last word.
"Don't worry," he husked, retracing the same length of her ear until his breath once again washed over her nape, "you'll be doing a lot more than just this." A threat and promise both.
And he might well have taken it further - his unruly arousal tainted his judgement and made him enjoy the thought of so publicly claiming her a little too much - had he not jolted from the voice that suddenly boomed. Not loud, never loud, but chilling in a way that was like a bucket of ice poured onto the flames of his libido.
Shit. When had she gotten so close? Have I been that unaware of my surroundings? He chided himself, realizing that if the drow Queen were here, then she might well have overheard the filth he had uttered. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. A certain level of exhibitionism was nothing that would raise a brow amongst the Taiguez, but he would hate to strain the soon-to-be alliance of theirs for something as reckless as his own untamed lust.
"I recall it being quite the opposite," he offered in response, shifting his weight to his knees now as he relinquished the chokehold in favor of pushing himself up. The contour of Sinafrey's rear was sorely missed, but he was far too cunning a politician to forget himself fully in the throes of wild passion. His eyes were remarkably clear all things considered when he leveled his gaze to the Queen's, staring down at her as height dictated. "But I am glad to hear that I have met your expectations." It was the same tone he always took with the Queen. Polite, but never subservient. Humble, but only so much so. It was an off-handed reminder that while these might have been her lands, she was not his sovereign. She had to ask for his leave as much as he had to grant her the courtesy of the same.
As for Sinafrey, the parting look he gave her said all that needed to be said.
Run along, we both have a part to play still. But make no mistake, I am not done with you.
But of course, there was no ignoring that plush rear either. He ground down against her even as she bucked up into him, offering heat and pressure and a tantalizing glimpse of the what-could-have-beens. A preview, perhaps, of how their wedding night played out in his mind. She was ever so bold, taunting him even now, even as she doubtlessly realized just what her little stunt did to his mental state, but Karzoc was not so content to give her the last word.
"Don't worry," he husked, retracing the same length of her ear until his breath once again washed over her nape, "you'll be doing a lot more than just this." A threat and promise both.
And he might well have taken it further - his unruly arousal tainted his judgement and made him enjoy the thought of so publicly claiming her a little too much - had he not jolted from the voice that suddenly boomed. Not loud, never loud, but chilling in a way that was like a bucket of ice poured onto the flames of his libido.
Shit. When had she gotten so close? Have I been that unaware of my surroundings? He chided himself, realizing that if the drow Queen were here, then she might well have overheard the filth he had uttered. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. A certain level of exhibitionism was nothing that would raise a brow amongst the Taiguez, but he would hate to strain the soon-to-be alliance of theirs for something as reckless as his own untamed lust.
"I recall it being quite the opposite," he offered in response, shifting his weight to his knees now as he relinquished the chokehold in favor of pushing himself up. The contour of Sinafrey's rear was sorely missed, but he was far too cunning a politician to forget himself fully in the throes of wild passion. His eyes were remarkably clear all things considered when he leveled his gaze to the Queen's, staring down at her as height dictated. "But I am glad to hear that I have met your expectations." It was the same tone he always took with the Queen. Polite, but never subservient. Humble, but only so much so. It was an off-handed reminder that while these might have been her lands, she was not his sovereign. She had to ask for his leave as much as he had to grant her the courtesy of the same.
As for Sinafrey, the parting look he gave her said all that needed to be said.
Run along, we both have a part to play still. But make no mistake, I am not done with you.
"Hey, what gives-"
The silver-haired drow groused at the door that was all but slammed in her face, her dress half-torn and the pale indigo of her thighs darkened at various points with evidence of rough handling. In spite of the same, she looked otherwise unharmed. Untouched, even.
"What is wrong with you savag-" Before she could get another word out though, the menacing guard by Karzoc's door had leveled her a sharp look, the meaning the same as his words. "Silence, whore, for your sake, do not finish that sentence."
She swallowed, freezing, dropping her head demurely in a way that the males of her society were more wont to do.
"Not a word about this, am I understood?" He dropped a few gold pieces in her palm, scoffing at the way she eyed the gold with greed, and pulled a cloak over her whether she cooperated or not. Personally, Melgaar never saw the appeal in any of the Furless ones, much preferring his own race, but it didn't take a genius to figure out why his Khan had picked out this one instead of seeking the company of his Sworns. The resemblance in the hair and eye color was passable, but beyond that…
He shook his head even as the female scampered off, away from the tavern door and doubtlessly back to the rabble she belonged to. Perhaps to entice a more cooperative customer. He didn't care, much like he didn't care to second-guess Karzoc. It was not his place to speculate as to why the same whore was out of Karzoc's doors a mere five minutes after she first went in. He leaned back against the door. His job was guarding. He could do that. He hummed a jaunty tune and waited.
Karzoc was in a foul mood by the time he returned to the obsidian citadel. The brunt of his unnatural lust had subsided after he begrudgingly took matters into his own hands - quite literally at that - but it was not entirely gone, much as his fury had cooled, but not faded. It was annoying enough to have his prize snatched from him, but what irked him more was how much he cared. After he left the arena, he was more hormones than good sense, and it should have been easy for him to find satisfaction with practically just about anything or anyone. Only it wasn't.
He had thrown the whore he paid for onto the rickety tavern bed, careless in his haste as he flung off his armor to follow. She was soft, willing, cooing at his casual display of strength even as she draped herself invitingly onto the threadbare sheets. But she was wrong. Smelled entirely wrong even as his rough hands pulled her legs apart, on the verge of pulling his pants down and rushing to the main act. It wasn't just the smell either, though that jumped out above all else. Even with her face buried into the sheets, the resemblance was paper thin. Her voice was off too even as she encouraged him, too needily and without any sort of an edge. Her back was pliant, pleasantly arched and entirely lacking in muscle tone. Karzoc was not unused to the company of females, drows or not, and he had never particularly tied himself to one flavor or another, but at present, he could not shake the images in his head. This whore was too poor a substitute to satisfy his blood that roared for one scent and one scent alone, and so, with an aggravated sigh, he pulled himself off of her back and banished her out of his sight.
He thought of her irritatingly smug smirk when he finally wound himself down.
Karzoc was freshly bathed by the time the summons came, dressed in a way that would doubtlessly soon raise a few brows. He had gone completely traditional in his approach, and for the Taiguez, that meant as close to au naturel as possible. Much like earlier, he had covered himself in paint, though this time the patterns were far more elaborate and far less aggressive. Red decorated nearly every inch of him, in lines, spirals, shapes and dots, encircling the bulk of his arms and legs, upon his chest, stomach, and the broad of his back. Even his tail was not spared. There were stories in the symbols. Of history. Lineage. Battles won and enemies slain. But it was not the sort of thing any attending drows would understand. As far as they were concerned, all of it was a proclamation of raw savagery, something further highlighted by the bone-tooth necklace around his neck. Around his waist draped several layers of fur and hide, roughly fashioned into what might be considered a loincloth. And over that, crisscrossing leathery straps and cords, with decorative beads and stones woven upon the strings. Charms, fertility blessings, that sort of thing. Karzoc did not much care for most of the pagan traditions of the Taiguez, but as Khan, it was his duty to play along.
He followed the servant and crossed into the threshold of the East Chapel, followed by his Sworns that were similarly painted, but in simpler designs of muted, earthy hues. Only the height of his tail gave away just how amused he was at the almost outraged look that flashed across the faces of several drow nobles, though they did their part to keep their heads low. After all, even at the tournament, Karzoc had been fully dressed. That he was now so prominently displaying his bestial nature was proclamation and affront both. If any drows held any lingering misconceptions about just who would be assimilated into whose culture, his unspoken statement would have dispelled the same.
Unlike Sinafrey, he wore a broad smile even as he approached, crossing the length of those carpets without the slightest hesitation. There was a murmur then, as he did not stop at the threshold of the archway, but rather marched straight up to the far end of the chapel, stopping only when his paws were inches away from the base of Sinafrey's gown. She was ravishing as always, though he doubted that she wore such a decidedly feminine number by choice. His gaze swept over her form, appreciating, before lingering upon the Queen's hand upon Sinafrey's bared shoulder. Something dark and stormy flashed across his eyes, too quick to be pinpointed.
"Verona," he rumbled, his voice strong and projecting in the relatively confined space. There was a collective gasp then, a few nobles less good at keeping up appearances looking on the verge of fainting as the taiguez so casually breathed a name that none of them would have dare uttered. Karzoc only grinned and grinned. "No need to be so formal," he dipped his head, as if in deference, but it wouldn't feel that way as he towered over Sinafrey and her mother both. "Please call me Karzoc, we will be family soon, after all."
"But first," he swept his arm to the side, and the first of the Sworns trailing him dropped to her knee, both hands outstretched to present a polished walnut box. He flicked it open, revealing a brilliant pendant upon a thin platinum chain nestled within velvet. The design was incredibly simple, primitive, even, wires crisscrossing over the stone in a bareboned but artistic design. The minimalism only drew emphasis to the unusual stone. It was not sapphire, nor lapis lazuli, nor any gems or jewels a drow might be able to name.
The blue within seemed to swirl with the gaze, as if ink, or shadow, but blink, and it was like it never moved at all.
"A present." He plucked the pendant up delicately between claw tips, a meaningful look at Sinafrey now. "Fashioned from the frozen heart of a frost giant, from the farthest reaches of the known world, a trophy from the exploits of my youth." He paused, his smile curling lopsidedly. "I offer it as a testament for my appreciation of my bride's loveliness." The loveliness of your posterior, which we are revisiting later. His gaze added.
His eyes dropped meaningfully to the hand that rested upon Sinafrey's shoulder still, before snapping his gaze up to reason coolly with the Queen. "At your leave, I would like to adorn her with my present myself." The message was clear. Sinafrey would have to be allowed to stand for the same to occur, and despite his overt politeness, Karzoc was not asking.
It was a very good thing for all parties involved that the Queen obliged with nothing more than a squeeze to Sinafrey's wounded shoulder before bidding her to stand.
"A beautiful gem for something so rough." Her voice was wintry as always, derisive if not in tone, then certainly in intent. "Very well. Be my guest, Khan."
If Karzoc misliked the way Sinafrey rose to obey, he said nothing of it. She was too silent, too blank, as well behaved as a porcelain doll, so devoid of personality that it angered him. He didn't fault her though. Much like a dog beaten one too many times might learn to cower at the mere sight of the cane, it was obvious to him that her issues with her mother ran deep.
She stood, and he stepped closer, his towering build shielding her from the many pairs of prying eyes that followed their every movement. He wrapped his present about her throat, demonstrating an almost surprising deftness in the way he fastened it around her neck. But when he was done, instead of relinquishing his hold as one might expect, he closed the gap even further. An arm wrapped about her front in a way that could easily be mistook for possessiveness, his unclawed hand upon her injured shoulder and his other seizing around her right wrist in a way that might seem familiar. "Brace," he breathed under his breath, a split second warning before his arm flexed and he forced the dislocated shoulder back into the socket in one clean snap. His fingers were gentle as they massaged that doubtlessly burning shoulder, almost apologetically. He didn't linger though, aware that they had appearances to keep up, and transitioned easily by spinning her to face him. An arm around her lower back now, his gaze unreadable as he shifted the hand upon her wrist to interlace with her fingers, his much larger digits spearing through hers.
He half-raised, half-guided her likely still sore arm to extend, careful to keep his arm taut enough to support the both of their weight. The injury called for ice, or perhaps for heat, for rest and recuperation that would not take place until they were done with this farce. To say that he was disappointed that the drow Queen had allowed her petty punishment to spill into his time with Sinafrey was an understatement. But still, much as he knew it probably hurt still, this would have been infinitely better in his experience than if he moved her dislodged arm around like a ragdoll.
He didn't bother concealing his smirk as he pulled Sinafrey close to himself, his gaze locked onto the royal who did not seem all too pleased at her interrupted punishment. "Queen-Mother," he obliged, his words not obviously snarky but the intent certainly there, "I profess that I am quite tired after such an eventful day. Perhaps it is time that we moved on with the ceremony?" Get on with it. She's mine now, are we clear?
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MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Verona.
No title. No formality. Just her name.
Sinafrey looked down at her lap, trying to school her sharp features back into neutrality lest one of the snivelling nobles catch the brief flicker of a smirk that pulled at her lips. That, Sinafrey mused, ought to take her mother down a peg. She kept still, however, the bow of her head seemingly submissive as the Taiguez Khan stood over her. Karzoc would know that Sinafrey would show no such submission, that the act had another, self-preserving reason. It wasn't until she was sure the curve of her mouth had thinned back into a line, that she dared lift her chin and look up at him. Towering over her, backlit by the softly swinging candelabras, Karzoc cast her in his shadow. So tall was the beastman before her, that the slender of her throat was bared as she lifted her chin to spy his face. Her own was expressionless, blank even, but a fire had been stoked in those crimson orbs of her eyes; outlined with a dark shade of kohl. As she met his eyes, the emotion was named.
Amusement.
Karzoc had baited her mother, their wordplay otherwise something that wouldn't garner such a reaction from her. But he wasn't afraid of her mother's moods, nor was he afraid of the pure callousness she was known for. A guest within this Kingdom, he might have been, but Karzoc knew that Verona needed him as much as he needed her. Despite how she perched on the throne, the black organza draped over shapely, violet legs, the Queen was not above him. In fact, Sinafrey noted as she tried to keep the smirk from her lips again, one might even argue that Karzoc was above her; with his ability to decline the offer of Sinafrey's hand and, instead, demand the more demure daughter.
The sudden tightening upon her dislocated shoulder had all manner of amusement evaporating from her eyes. She'd been refused healers even when her mother's lover had begged; citing that it would put them in poor favour with the Taiguez Khan to deliver him a wounded bride. Her mother had never listened to advice and, since her wayward daughter never listened to words, the Queen knew that it was only pain that would have Sinafrey leashed. Her arm hung limply from its socket, the sharp spasms of pain keeping her uncharacteristically silent. The gripping talons of her mother dug into the already spasming, tight tendons with enough force that Sinafrey's vision peppered. A punishment for her loss in the arena that doubled as a way to control her usually wild tongue through the ceremony.
The flash of pain had Sinafrey lowering her eyes from Karzoc's face; her forehead beading with perspiration as she grit her teeth. It was his fault that she'd lost. He'd been the one to pin her down in the arena and make a show of her. He had won and now she was paying for it. The seed of misplaced anger smouldered in the centre of her chest, the next look she shot Karzoc one of barely contained rage.
The Queen, as blood-thirsty and as cruel as she was, was known to have a thing for objects that sparkled. Entertained by torture, death and all things macabre, Verona could still be bought with gold and rare gems. Still, though, she didn't shift forward in her throne. Instead, her gaze flickered to the blue stone within the velvet-lined casing, her lips pressing into a thin line. "A beautiful gem," the Queen said coldly, pressing the heel of her palm down into the socket of Sinafrey's shoulder, "for something so rough." The smile the Queen gave Karzoc from over her daughter's white hair was slow; like how a cobra would slowly rear before making its final strike. "Very well. Be my guest, Khan." But she did not release Sinafrey's shoulder immediately. "In the future, you'd do best not to waste such pretty things on something so undeserving."
Something, not someone. Never someone.
The squeeze and sudden release of Sinafrey's shoulder had her taking a breath she hadn't realised she'd held. The cool air rushed into her lungs, licking the burning viscera, as the blackness at the edge of her vision was finally abated. Her mother's intentions were clear, her instructions silent but understood. Slowly, Sinafrey unfolded herself from the docile kneel she'd been held in by her mother's bare feet. The sheer, dark fabric of her dress glistened, tiny silver beads intricately stitched into the slip-gown. The plunging neckline carved down between the heavy, indigo orbs of her unsupported breasts; the rounded flesh perky beneath the obsidian organza. Deep violet nipples stood pebbled against the sheer fabric, one glinting beneath the amber torchlight, pierced with a silver bar; the barbell lacking any jewelled decoration while it kept one nipple erect under the dress. The deep V carved its way low to her navel, the smooth plane of her toned stomach visible. The skirt fluttered as she rose to stand, the hem pooling over her bare feet.
Sinafrey didn't look away from him, her crimson eyes fixed on Karzoc as she released the wrist of her left shoulder and began to sweep up the white curls of her hair with her right hand. She drew the silken tendrils up, lifting them away from the curve of her throat as she set Karzoc with a sharp glare. The look lasted seconds, so brief in nature, before her face grew expertly blank once more as she turned in place to give the Khan her back.
The plunging neckline was nothing in comparison to how the dress cleaved down her back. Obsidian gathered over her shoulders, falling linearly down her back and over the narrow of her waist. It gathered together then, just beneath the dimples of her back just slightly above her pelvis, leaving the indigo flesh bare under his view. It was then that Karzoc would spy another decoration, though this one less glossy than the steel at her nipple. In crisp, black ink, several runes were printed over the notches of her spine. Runes that the drow never bothered to learn, that the elvish races didn't practice. They were rustic, primitive even, like the stone that would come to settle at the hollow of her throat, but they had meaning. If Karzoc had been schooled in the ancient history of their continent, Sinafrey wouldn't be surprised if he recognised that the pattern running from the base of her skull down beneath the black of the gown was a story.
A retelling in runes of how the world had been birthed from love and death. The story of the two lovers, the entities whom ruled the sky before life, itself, existed. The Sun and the Moon, destined forever to never share the skies, to never touch, but rather, at best, simply bask in the glow of the other's face. Ironic, she thought, considering Karzoc and herself were as opposite as the solar orb and the lunar globe. Ironic, more-so, that someone so tainted with death had chosen to be inked with the story of cursed love.
Sinafrey held still as Karzoc secured the clasp at the back of her neck, a split second later allowing the snow of her hair to tumble over her shoulders between them. She began to turn, her knees beginning to bend as she intended to kneel once more, like what was expected of her, but the heat of his arm snared her. The bulk of him wrapped around her chest, pressing her back to his front as he clasped the wrist of her injured arm. Her breath whistled through her grit teeth in a hiss, the intake sharp as she held her breath in her lungs. This time, Sinafrey obeyed him, bracing for the pull. She opened her mouth to swear in elvish, the pain shooting with the sudden flex of his arm, but the burning relief that engulfed her as the head of bone slipped back into socket had her leaning back against him. Her breath left her in a content sigh.
Her gratefulness was about the only thing that had Sinafrey turning in his arms as he guided her in a spin, her feet between the instep of his own as she watched him carefully draw her arm over his shoulder. Red eyes glanced between the azure blue of his own. Karzoc had risked the wrath of her mother by disturbing her punishment and Sinafrey could not foretell how the Queen would wish to deal with him for doing so. Her white brows drew together slightly, the drow deep in thought, as she searched the Khan's face. This is twice now that he has done something seemingly thoughtful. What on earth is it that he wants?
Verona gripped the carved edge of their throne, her knuckles paling a dusky purple-grey. The curve of her mouth was set into a firm line, those burning bronze eyes boring into the couple before her. She vibrated with displeasure, the air about her seeming to chill several degrees. Sinafrey didn't dare look over her shoulder at the Queen, feeling the rising storm at her back that made her tighten her grip upon Karzoc's fingers. But the Queen didn't rise to the bait.
"Of course," Verona said flatly, her voice dripping with venom. "Your display in the arena made it quite clear you prefer not to wait." Violet fingers raised and snapped, a short drow female slipping from the shadows at the side of the dais; dressed in white temple robes. "Who am I to deny you?"
The priestess's forehead glistened with the circlet made from silver and ruby, as she gestured to the space at their feet. Her voice was soft, her head bowed, as she spoke; "Please kneel."
Sinafrey was slow to do so, drawing her body away from the heat of Karzoc as she gracefully settled in the same kneel as before; three-quarters turned towards the archway, her knees pointed at her betrothed. The room was silent, no one seeming to breathe, as they waited for Karzoc to also kneel. He'd need to do so for the hand-fasting ceremony, the intricate drow ritual of blood-letting and sharing requiring too many bowls and objects to be done standing. The Queen bristled, waiting for Karzoc to refuse. But as he dropped to a single knee, she pressed her back against the wood just as Sinafrey arched a brow. Clever, she thought. Not submitting before the Queen but still being respectful enough. Her betrothed was a cut-throat in these games, Sinafrey was beginning to learn.
The priestess brought before them a bronze bowl, the demure female kneeling on both knees by the couple and facing the Queen. A white ribbon lay coiled by the bowl, a ceremonial knife beside that, and a smaller bowl of herbs, petals and small stones on the other side of the priestess' knees. As the female began to tip the smaller bowl into the larger, she sung loudly so that her voice echoed; "As we have gathered here today—"
Sinafrey was searching Karzoc's face; the look she shared with him private. With her eyes alone, she seemed to say; "You surprise me, Khan. You are not at all like I imagined." She held their hands together, their palms pressed against the lines of the other's, their fingers curled over each other's wrists. She squeezed twice, unsure, herself, if it meant to be reassuring or teasing. Her head cocked to the side a little, a wisp of snow hair falling into her face to lay against her cheek as she eyes him curiously. Her eyes glimmered; "You are nothing at all like they said."
"—Will you, Princess Sinafrey, speak your vows and bear the Khan's mark?"
Between them, the ceremonial knife glinted. It was carved from sharpened bone, it's blade a thin razor as it was held out to Karzoc. Presented to him upon both hands of the priestess, it waited for him to grasp it. Sinafrey began to unwind her left hand from his grasp, turning it over to produce the lines of her palm. It was clear, then, what was expected of him. If Karzoc wasn't already aware of the intricacies of drow tradition, the small nod from Sinafrey was assurance enough. To unify them, to bond them together in the sanctity of marriage, they needed to offer blood for the bowl and to smear their palms together.
While they waited for Karzoc to take the knife, Sinafrey squared her shoulders.
"I, Sinafrey Vierenan, do take you, Karzoc Graymaw of Taiguez, in hand-fast this night. I shall protect you from fire, even if the sun should fall." Sinafrey wouldn't wince as the blade would drag over her skin, instead her eyes sparkled as she watched Karzoc's face; wondering what he was thinking. "I shall protect you from water, even if the sea shall rage."
Once cut, Sinafrey would take the ceremonial knife from his grasp and slice his palm; quick and painless. She turned her palm over and squeezed their hands together, her fingers sliding over the inside of his wrist as their blood smeared the lines of their palms. The crimson dropped into the bowl below, striking the herbs and petals. "I shall protect you from earth, even if it should shake in tumult. I will protect you from wind, even if the Four Winds shall howl."
The priestess' hand dipped down to clasp the white ribbon, beginning to carefully bind their bleeding palms together.
"And I will honour your name as if it were my own." Sinafrey glanced sideways at nobles gathered about them, wondering if she had enough time to remember each of their faces for when she'd return.
The ribbon lay wrapped about their palms, his skin hot against her own with the blood slicking their flesh. She held him tightly, instinctively seeking the warmth of him, before Sinafrey glanced upwards with mischievous, red eyes and smirked until that shallow dimple appeared. "And you, dear Karzoc?"
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
“But what is a diamond if not something rough re-forged through the crucible of heat and pressure?” His voice was even, his eyes temperate, even as he pulled Sinafrey closer to himself, leveling his gaze at the seated Queen just behind. If Sinafrey paid attention, she would have noticed how he tensed just a tad when her mother spoke, like he was offended.
He shouldn’t argue with Verona, and they were absolutely arguing, even if it was coated in layers and layers of honey and double-speak. All of this, this marriage, these ceremonies, all of this was just politics. He needed Verona’s provisions and armaments and she needed peace at the northern borders. Politics. He reminded himself. But it didn’t feel like just politics when she insisted upon lacing her words with such venom.
The insults to his own person did not sting; those rolled off of him as fruitlessly as waves might lap at the unmoving mountain. But somehow, her continued insistence on belittling her own daughter was getting to him. Perhaps it was because familial kinship was deeply valued in his culture, or perhaps it was because of something else. His arm tightened. Perhaps it were the lingering drugs still coloring his judgment, but he felt awfully possessive about the lithe drow he’d pulled close and held. She would soon be his wife, and he would stand for nobody to condescend toward what is his.
When the ceremony began, he knelt, dropping smoothly to one knee without the slightest disturbance to his expression. Carefully neutral, even, the smile dropping from his visage and replaced by cool sincerity. His gaze was fixed upon Sinafrey, uninterested in the rest of the world even as the priestess began to officiate.
Unlike her, he did not try to communicate with his eyes, but simply held her gaze. Evaluative but sure. Like he saw her. There was no judgment nor uncertainty. He knew well what he was looking at, and unlike her mother, he could see Sinafrey’s worth. My wife. He thought, tasting the epithet, and found that he quite liked how it sounded.
There was no flourish when he retrieved the knife, loosening their interlaced fingers to grasp at her wrist. There was no violence in his motions, only a steadiness there to keep her still if she squirmed. She didn’t, and so he loosened his grasp even more, careful with the incision he made with a clean slice of the blade. Naught was said as she repeated the same to him. He considered all of this barbaric, and he was the barbarian here, but this was her tradition, and so, he would honor it the same as he would her.
His gaze lingered on their wrists, on the tar black intermixing with crimson, smearing and congealing and dripping together as one. Unity indeed. Not just the two of them in the sanctity of marriage. No, this was more. This was grander. This was the beginning of an alliance that would last for eons to come -- he would make it so.
It was only when she smirked at him that he allowed the first hints of emotion to disturb the serenity of his expression once more, narrowing his eyes in a way that conveyed candor and resolve both. He squeezed her hands.
“I, Karzoc Graymaw,” he mirrored her words, “do take you, Sinafrey Vierenan, in hand-fast this night.” The deep timbre of his rumbling voice was not loud, but austere and meaningful as it filled the silence of the room, as it settled the hearts of the many pairs of eyes fixed upon the two of them. He paused, mulling over her words and the implications of the same. She had chosen the role of the protector in her vows, a role commonly reserved for the male of the pair. He wondered if that was traditional, or if entirely of her own design. He could have well mirrored the same, raised his voice in even loftier promises, promised her the corpses of dragons and the eradicated remains of nations, but no.
She seemed to appreciate being surprised.
He smiled.
“I shall honor you as my wife, my mate, from this day onwards until the last of my days.” That was in keeping with his tradition, and he breathed it as both a solemn promise and as assurances to all the surrounding ears. And it was then that his words turned softer.
“I shall cherish every moment we might spend, every memory we might forge.” There was a faint murmur. There was nothing wrong with what he said per se, but it lacked the vehemence and red-bloodedness of a male befitting of his station. He should have promised her fire, steel, force and might and virility.
But while he had no doubt that Sinafrey liked all of those things, those were easy for him to pledge. Vows were not meant to be easy promises to keep.
“I shall support you in your endeavors, in whatever undertaking you might aspire for, be the wind beneath your wings, gentler but more sure than the Four Winds you speak of.” His smile widened, evidently amused by her reaction. There was no mockery in his gaze, but he enjoyed surprising her.
“And,” a more serious tone now, and though his gaze remained fixed on Sinafrey, he buttressed his voice with more force this time around. Louder, more declarative, a rumbling growl that far eclipsed anything a drow might be capable of. “I shall never cause you to be brought low, by words or actions both, and I shall never allow anyone to do the same in my presence.”
“You are mine, Sinafrey,” a declaration to the room. He stood then, pulling her up with him, closer to himself once more, whether that was how the ceremony should have unfolded or not. And, leaning in, for her ears alone, “and I, if you so desire, am yours.”
He shouldn’t argue with Verona, and they were absolutely arguing, even if it was coated in layers and layers of honey and double-speak. All of this, this marriage, these ceremonies, all of this was just politics. He needed Verona’s provisions and armaments and she needed peace at the northern borders. Politics. He reminded himself. But it didn’t feel like just politics when she insisted upon lacing her words with such venom.
The insults to his own person did not sting; those rolled off of him as fruitlessly as waves might lap at the unmoving mountain. But somehow, her continued insistence on belittling her own daughter was getting to him. Perhaps it was because familial kinship was deeply valued in his culture, or perhaps it was because of something else. His arm tightened. Perhaps it were the lingering drugs still coloring his judgment, but he felt awfully possessive about the lithe drow he’d pulled close and held. She would soon be his wife, and he would stand for nobody to condescend toward what is his.
When the ceremony began, he knelt, dropping smoothly to one knee without the slightest disturbance to his expression. Carefully neutral, even, the smile dropping from his visage and replaced by cool sincerity. His gaze was fixed upon Sinafrey, uninterested in the rest of the world even as the priestess began to officiate.
Unlike her, he did not try to communicate with his eyes, but simply held her gaze. Evaluative but sure. Like he saw her. There was no judgment nor uncertainty. He knew well what he was looking at, and unlike her mother, he could see Sinafrey’s worth. My wife. He thought, tasting the epithet, and found that he quite liked how it sounded.
There was no flourish when he retrieved the knife, loosening their interlaced fingers to grasp at her wrist. There was no violence in his motions, only a steadiness there to keep her still if she squirmed. She didn’t, and so he loosened his grasp even more, careful with the incision he made with a clean slice of the blade. Naught was said as she repeated the same to him. He considered all of this barbaric, and he was the barbarian here, but this was her tradition, and so, he would honor it the same as he would her.
His gaze lingered on their wrists, on the tar black intermixing with crimson, smearing and congealing and dripping together as one. Unity indeed. Not just the two of them in the sanctity of marriage. No, this was more. This was grander. This was the beginning of an alliance that would last for eons to come -- he would make it so.
It was only when she smirked at him that he allowed the first hints of emotion to disturb the serenity of his expression once more, narrowing his eyes in a way that conveyed candor and resolve both. He squeezed her hands.
“I, Karzoc Graymaw,” he mirrored her words, “do take you, Sinafrey Vierenan, in hand-fast this night.” The deep timbre of his rumbling voice was not loud, but austere and meaningful as it filled the silence of the room, as it settled the hearts of the many pairs of eyes fixed upon the two of them. He paused, mulling over her words and the implications of the same. She had chosen the role of the protector in her vows, a role commonly reserved for the male of the pair. He wondered if that was traditional, or if entirely of her own design. He could have well mirrored the same, raised his voice in even loftier promises, promised her the corpses of dragons and the eradicated remains of nations, but no.
She seemed to appreciate being surprised.
He smiled.
“I shall honor you as my wife, my mate, from this day onwards until the last of my days.” That was in keeping with his tradition, and he breathed it as both a solemn promise and as assurances to all the surrounding ears. And it was then that his words turned softer.
“I shall cherish every moment we might spend, every memory we might forge.” There was a faint murmur. There was nothing wrong with what he said per se, but it lacked the vehemence and red-bloodedness of a male befitting of his station. He should have promised her fire, steel, force and might and virility.
But while he had no doubt that Sinafrey liked all of those things, those were easy for him to pledge. Vows were not meant to be easy promises to keep.
“I shall support you in your endeavors, in whatever undertaking you might aspire for, be the wind beneath your wings, gentler but more sure than the Four Winds you speak of.” His smile widened, evidently amused by her reaction. There was no mockery in his gaze, but he enjoyed surprising her.
“And,” a more serious tone now, and though his gaze remained fixed on Sinafrey, he buttressed his voice with more force this time around. Louder, more declarative, a rumbling growl that far eclipsed anything a drow might be capable of. “I shall never cause you to be brought low, by words or actions both, and I shall never allow anyone to do the same in my presence.”
“You are mine, Sinafrey,” a declaration to the room. He stood then, pulling her up with him, closer to himself once more, whether that was how the ceremony should have unfolded or not. And, leaning in, for her ears alone, “and I, if you so desire, am yours.”
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MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
In truth, Sinafrey's vows were the same as every over drow hand-fast; scripted, expected and impersonal. This marriage that they were entering, that her life was being conscripted to, was not one of love or even admiration. It politically suited Karzoc to have the support of the drow Queen and her substantial army, and it politically suited her mother if peace was finally brought to the North under one leader and name. Nothing would come of this marriage, she was simply a means to an end and being so didn't deserve anything personal or heart-felt. The drow audience about the room, seated regally upon cushions, would have known that it was plain and lacking all thought. Sinafrey couldn't have cared less. She was doing her duty, as her mother had said, but she didn't have to fake love in order to do so. It was much easier to promise to protect another than it was to promise honour, to cherish, and support.
At the beginning of Karzoc's vows, he was gifted only the bemused arch of her pale eyebrow. That brow settled back down as she listened, wondering if he was merely mocking how she'd given him scripted lines. But as he promised that he would not allow her to be brought down by any in his presence, her breath caught in her throat and she grew still. A jab at her mother, she knew, and a deep line drawn in the sand. Sinafrey didn't move, didn't breathe, her sharp features schooled into a look of calm despite how her thoughts raced. It was almost as if she were frightened to move, to draw her mother's attention down to her after what had been said.
The Queen's hands tightened on the carved arms of her throne, her knuckles paling as her painted nails dug into the oak. Verona had bristled at the challenge, aware that Karzoc was now drawing boundaries. In law, her middle child was now no longer her own. By way of the hand-fast, Sinafrey belonged as much to Karzoc as he did to her; by name, by title, by honour and by law. Sinafrey, the rebellious daughter who never listened and could only be controlled by pain, now had no obligation to her mother. As if Verona had not considered this before, she set her jaw tightly enough that the muscle at the corner of the fine bone began to twitch. She said nothing, however, but simply set Karzoc with a firm stare that promised that had been a mistake.
Her mother's silence had Sinafrey warily drawing in a breath between parted lips. Was her heart hammering against its cage of ribs because her mother was likely scheming some way to prove Karzoc's promise faulty? Or was it how the Khan's face didn't have an ounce of smugness nor maliciousness drawn into his features? The priestess was speaking, declaring them husband and wife, a couple whom now shared bonded destiny, but Sinafrey couldn't hear her. The wild throb of her pulse was deafening as Karzoc squeezed at her palm, their blood having mixed together into the bowl of herbs, spices and gems.
Sinafrey's legs were under her in a second, though she struggled to catch her balance as Karzoc, her husband, drew her forward into his chest suddenly. Her palm found his abdomen, the heel laying over his navel as her fingers splayed, and she rocked forward onto the balls of her feet as he wound an arm about her smaller frame. The dark organza of her dress fluttered like a shadow about their feet, licking his paws as it settled against him. Sinafrey smirked as she nudged her bare feet inside of his paws, pressing her forehead against the centre of his sternum. A deep inhale through her nose and Karzoc filled her lungs. He smelt of the sea, the Wilds, his scent so akin to musky petrichor that Sinafrey pressed her nose a little firmer to his chest and took another breath. Karzoc stained the viscera of her lungs, burning into her memory, as she stole a second's reprieve in his warmth.
Then, slowly drawing her face away from his fur, she craned her neck and smirked at him. "Husband," she purred smugly, "you bait her." Her fingers coasted sideways, drawing over the flare of his ribs, the snow of his fur running between her slender digits. Idly, her hand drew over him; down his side, over her waist, around over his flank, and up to his chest. It lay over his heart, finding temporary rest there, as Sinafrey's crimson eyes flickered between Karzoc's azure blue.
"Sinafrey Graymaw," the priestess had moved behind them, drawn to stand beside the Queen as she clasped her hands together.
Against Karzoc, Sinafrey bristled at the new name. Her fingers digging into the fur at his chest as she turned just slightly against him, peering to the dais from over her shoulder.
"As wife of the Taiguez Khan, you forfeit your title and right to the Vierenan Crown. By the Queen's word, you, Sinafrey Graymaw, are welcome to remain within Laderia for three moons. By the rise of the fourth, you must no longer be on Laderian soil." The Queen said nothing, her face blank, but the bronze of her eyes sparkled. She was driving her wayward daughter out, cutting off any possibility of the couple scheming against her. The youngest daughter of the Vierenan bloodline didn't react as she stood just off left from their mother. She knew it was coming; that she would be inheriting the Crown. The priestess continued. "By law of the hand-fast, you must consummate this bond by morning."
"But—"
"My word is final," the Queen snapped. The ebony of her gown shifted as she pressed herself up to stand, the obsidian crown within her hair glinting under the low light of the room. She set the couple before her with a glare as she spoke to the silent nobles. "Let us celebrate this union while the couple retires to consummate their new bond." Nobles began to rise from their cushions, smoothing down their silken and organza clothes as Verona said a little quieter; "Leave now. I expect seed-stained sheets by morning."
The palm against Karzoc's chest pushed firmly. "Let's go," Sinafrey hissed between grit teeth. "I'll be glad to be out of here, I don't need another invitation to leave. Do you?" But before she turned to leave, Sinafrey bent at the waist and scooped up the bowl containing the acrid mix. Her hand slid from where it had planted on his sternum, capturing the thick fingers and palm as she began to draw him back down the aisle. Sinafrey's pace was brisk, hurried even, as if she were fleeing. She drew him onwards, beneath the high arch of the East Chapel and down the steps to the cobblestones. The black sheer of her dress grazed over the ground, plucking up an autumn leaf. She imagined his Bloodsworn would follow them, also glad to be excused from the ceremony.
It wasn't until they were several streets over that Sinafrey spun on him. She turned suddenly, spinning to face him with such abruptness he could have collided with her. Still, she didn't let his hand go.
"I think we all deserve a break from ceremony and expectations." Her red eyes glimmered with mischief as she searched Karzoc's face. "What would your Bloodsworn say if I invited them to join us for a bonfire by the West Wall? Fucking me can wait. What do you say to some liquor, fire and revelry?"
A heat began to fizzle within her blood, flushing her skin warm. Sinafrey passed it off as the sudden rush of fleeing her mother's presence, unaware that something a little more sinister lingered in her blood stream.
Sinafrey smirked wickedly up at Karzoc. "What do you say, dear husband? Shall we have some fun?"
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Was this about love?
Certainly not. Love was not a word Karzoc uttered lightly. That said, he was certainly more open-minded than Sinafrey. Less guarded. Doubtlessly, they had each experienced a different set of trials and tribulations, but much as hers had shaped her worldview, Karzoc was a man molded by his experiences. Only the ordeals he had undergone taught him that life was short, fleeting and precious, blink-and-you-miss-it. His had taught him the value of doing right by those who were worthy, of holding fast to his values but compromising where needed. And, most importantly of all, to never allow himself to be blinded by something as foolhardy as pride or honor. He had both aplenty of course, his father’s son down to the marrow, but he was not his father, and he would not meet his end the same way.
And so, when Sinafrey put words to his actions, he did not engage, only pulled her closer, almost as if attempting to muffle her voice into his fur. Some things did not need to be said aloud, particularly in such a setting. He longed to wrap his powerful arms around her waist, behind her back, to memorize the shape of her body against him at this moment. Unfortunately, their bound hands made that difficult, and even with the little he knew of drow culture, he understood that shredding those ribbons here and then was probably a bad idea. Whether drows felt the same or not, marriages were big deals in his culture. So yes, while this was absolutely about politics, he also fully intended on carrying out all that he promised.
“Wife, I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean.” He finally offered, a smile tugging at his lips, though with the way she insisted on nuzzling into his chest, he doubted that she would see it. He raised a hand up higher, made awkward by their interlocked hands, but persisted until he could brush the back of his hand along her hairline. A gentle touch, admiration for the silken texture spoken through gestures instead of words. She was being awfully touchy-feely though, and though that did not bother him whatsoever, it did surprise. Karzoc was fairly certain that Sinafrey found the whole thing repugnant, and half-wondered if she was doing it entirely to spite their current audience. She was a hard one to figure out. One moment, she was glaring bloody murder at him, and the next, she was resting against his heartbeat, purring and ruffling his fur.
But then again, their fates were interwoven now, so it was not like he would be lacking time to unravel the enigma that was Sinafrey Graymaw.
That, spoken from the priestess’ lips, made him smirk, particularly when Sinafrey tensed.
Naught was said as the priestess droned on and on. It was expected, and, frankly, in his favor. Such a misplay, really, to hand the greatest assassin Laderian had ever known over to him in marriage like this. It was such an atypical move for Verona Vierenan, from what he had gleaned of her over the years. He knew not to underestimate her. She was fearsome, powerful, cruel, and, despite being haughty to a fault, an accomplished politician in her own right.
Her eyes reminded him of the little memories he had of his uncle before that fateful night. Hungry & entirely insatiable. It was not clear to him why she singled out Sinafrey so specifically, disregarding her worth enough to error so severely and keep the demure child instead of the death personified by his side. It should be clear to anyone with eyes - and he had eyes aplenty - that Sinafrey was sharper than any weapon worthy of a name, a pointed and lethal blade that begged for gentler handling. And oh, he very much intended on handling her.
As for this strange estrangement from mother-to-daughter, he had dug into it, but so far, his spies have not returned with anything concrete. Of course, Karzoc would not be Karzoc if he didn’t already have his own suspicions and theories. His much more temperate gaze studied the cool fury in those polished bronzes. Vivi - bless her soul - had eyes of a similar shade as well. Warmer than her mother’s but not too different in hue. Roxanne, too, along the same line. Only Sinafrey had those striking blood-red eyes of hers. He wondered if that was considered a bad omen in drow culture, or, worse, perhaps all of that toxicity was just impotent rage at whoever sired her.
That might prove a useful chess piece, if he could unravel that particular mystery. But ah, he was getting ahead of himself. These lines he had drawn in the sand were too jagged, too provocative, and he had other battles to fight before this one. And so, he smiled that smile that needed no practicing, his eyes friendly and warm as he regarded the Queen that he stole Sinafrey from. “Of course, by your leave, Queen Vierenan.” Polite, so polite - he had already gotten what he wanted, and there was no reason to vilify himself to her further.
“Pyra,” he directed, and one of the beastwoman behind him snapped to attention. “I shall be retiring with my wife. In my stead, present to her radiant highness my thanks for her daughter’s hand in marriage.” Karzoc wondered if his sudden change in tone would irk Sinafrey, or if she would understand the game he was playing. He did not linger to study his future opponent further though. Pyra was reliable for this sort of occasion. She was his most diplomatic Sworn by far, and it helped that he had spared no expenses in fashioning fitting gifts for his new mother-in-law. All of it was expensive. Lavish. Shiny and beautiful and far more refined than the blue crystal he had adorned Sinafrey with. But none of them he fetched with his own hands, clawed out of the chest of his enemy and re-forged into something dazzling just for his now-wife. Not that the Queen would know the distinction there.
Once they were both well out of sight, he flexed those claws of his, severing the ribbons that bound them still. Sinafrey seemed content to hold his hand though, and he was content to indulge her in continuing doing so. When she spun to face him, he stilled, reading her body language with ease. The three Sworns that followed stilled also, the two other ones having remained behind with Pyra to deliver the many presents he had prepared.
“You are in a good mood all of a sudden.” He chuckled, studying her. “I won’t say no to liquor, fire, and revelry, but,” a meaningful wave of his hand, and his Sworns saluted with that traditional chest-tap of theirs, before making themselves scarce, “let them rest and seek their own kind of fun.” It was just the two of them now, the moon having just begun to rise and basked his fur in an entirely eye-catching shade. His words were light, easy, but his eyes were dark, just a tad more narrow than usual, promising something darker still. “If my wife wishes to frequent the West Wall, then let it be so.” He said nothing about her other comment though, the one about fucking her, but perhaps she would have opportunity yet to find out what his intentional silence had meant.
Certainly not. Love was not a word Karzoc uttered lightly. That said, he was certainly more open-minded than Sinafrey. Less guarded. Doubtlessly, they had each experienced a different set of trials and tribulations, but much as hers had shaped her worldview, Karzoc was a man molded by his experiences. Only the ordeals he had undergone taught him that life was short, fleeting and precious, blink-and-you-miss-it. His had taught him the value of doing right by those who were worthy, of holding fast to his values but compromising where needed. And, most importantly of all, to never allow himself to be blinded by something as foolhardy as pride or honor. He had both aplenty of course, his father’s son down to the marrow, but he was not his father, and he would not meet his end the same way.
And so, when Sinafrey put words to his actions, he did not engage, only pulled her closer, almost as if attempting to muffle her voice into his fur. Some things did not need to be said aloud, particularly in such a setting. He longed to wrap his powerful arms around her waist, behind her back, to memorize the shape of her body against him at this moment. Unfortunately, their bound hands made that difficult, and even with the little he knew of drow culture, he understood that shredding those ribbons here and then was probably a bad idea. Whether drows felt the same or not, marriages were big deals in his culture. So yes, while this was absolutely about politics, he also fully intended on carrying out all that he promised.
“Wife, I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean.” He finally offered, a smile tugging at his lips, though with the way she insisted on nuzzling into his chest, he doubted that she would see it. He raised a hand up higher, made awkward by their interlocked hands, but persisted until he could brush the back of his hand along her hairline. A gentle touch, admiration for the silken texture spoken through gestures instead of words. She was being awfully touchy-feely though, and though that did not bother him whatsoever, it did surprise. Karzoc was fairly certain that Sinafrey found the whole thing repugnant, and half-wondered if she was doing it entirely to spite their current audience. She was a hard one to figure out. One moment, she was glaring bloody murder at him, and the next, she was resting against his heartbeat, purring and ruffling his fur.
But then again, their fates were interwoven now, so it was not like he would be lacking time to unravel the enigma that was Sinafrey Graymaw.
That, spoken from the priestess’ lips, made him smirk, particularly when Sinafrey tensed.
Naught was said as the priestess droned on and on. It was expected, and, frankly, in his favor. Such a misplay, really, to hand the greatest assassin Laderian had ever known over to him in marriage like this. It was such an atypical move for Verona Vierenan, from what he had gleaned of her over the years. He knew not to underestimate her. She was fearsome, powerful, cruel, and, despite being haughty to a fault, an accomplished politician in her own right.
Her eyes reminded him of the little memories he had of his uncle before that fateful night. Hungry & entirely insatiable. It was not clear to him why she singled out Sinafrey so specifically, disregarding her worth enough to error so severely and keep the demure child instead of the death personified by his side. It should be clear to anyone with eyes - and he had eyes aplenty - that Sinafrey was sharper than any weapon worthy of a name, a pointed and lethal blade that begged for gentler handling. And oh, he very much intended on handling her.
As for this strange estrangement from mother-to-daughter, he had dug into it, but so far, his spies have not returned with anything concrete. Of course, Karzoc would not be Karzoc if he didn’t already have his own suspicions and theories. His much more temperate gaze studied the cool fury in those polished bronzes. Vivi - bless her soul - had eyes of a similar shade as well. Warmer than her mother’s but not too different in hue. Roxanne, too, along the same line. Only Sinafrey had those striking blood-red eyes of hers. He wondered if that was considered a bad omen in drow culture, or, worse, perhaps all of that toxicity was just impotent rage at whoever sired her.
That might prove a useful chess piece, if he could unravel that particular mystery. But ah, he was getting ahead of himself. These lines he had drawn in the sand were too jagged, too provocative, and he had other battles to fight before this one. And so, he smiled that smile that needed no practicing, his eyes friendly and warm as he regarded the Queen that he stole Sinafrey from. “Of course, by your leave, Queen Vierenan.” Polite, so polite - he had already gotten what he wanted, and there was no reason to vilify himself to her further.
“Pyra,” he directed, and one of the beastwoman behind him snapped to attention. “I shall be retiring with my wife. In my stead, present to her radiant highness my thanks for her daughter’s hand in marriage.” Karzoc wondered if his sudden change in tone would irk Sinafrey, or if she would understand the game he was playing. He did not linger to study his future opponent further though. Pyra was reliable for this sort of occasion. She was his most diplomatic Sworn by far, and it helped that he had spared no expenses in fashioning fitting gifts for his new mother-in-law. All of it was expensive. Lavish. Shiny and beautiful and far more refined than the blue crystal he had adorned Sinafrey with. But none of them he fetched with his own hands, clawed out of the chest of his enemy and re-forged into something dazzling just for his now-wife. Not that the Queen would know the distinction there.
Once they were both well out of sight, he flexed those claws of his, severing the ribbons that bound them still. Sinafrey seemed content to hold his hand though, and he was content to indulge her in continuing doing so. When she spun to face him, he stilled, reading her body language with ease. The three Sworns that followed stilled also, the two other ones having remained behind with Pyra to deliver the many presents he had prepared.
“You are in a good mood all of a sudden.” He chuckled, studying her. “I won’t say no to liquor, fire, and revelry, but,” a meaningful wave of his hand, and his Sworns saluted with that traditional chest-tap of theirs, before making themselves scarce, “let them rest and seek their own kind of fun.” It was just the two of them now, the moon having just begun to rise and basked his fur in an entirely eye-catching shade. His words were light, easy, but his eyes were dark, just a tad more narrow than usual, promising something darker still. “If my wife wishes to frequent the West Wall, then let it be so.” He said nothing about her other comment though, the one about fucking her, but perhaps she would have opportunity yet to find out what his intentional silence had meant.
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
When Karzoc flexed the thick digits of his fingers, his sharp claws easily carving through the satin ribbon, it was caught by Sinafrey's free hand when she twisted. The white was pristine over the knot and the fraying ends, but the wind over their palms was a mix of deep red and dark silver; the lively blood of a Beastman and the shadowy blood of a Drow. Sinafrey fisted the ribbon, scrunching it until their mixed blood smeared her fingers as she stuffed it into a hidden, in-sewn pocket of her sheer gown. Perhaps Karzoc didn't know, perhaps it was never something he had to consider in a place far away from the vengeful, malicious magic of the drow. If they had left it to flutter against the cobblestones, left for anyone to acquire, the mix of their blood could be used in numerous nefarious spells. She'd rather burn it in the bonfire.
Sinafrey shrugged one indigo shoulder, the organza of the midnight gown shifting over her chest with the brief motion. Crimson eyes, cast upwards at the markings of his face, were bright as she smirked. "I have good moods sometimes, don't be surprised."
In truth, her sudden, unexpected exile posed her a grand benefit. No longer would she be under her mother's thumb, exploited for her carefully honed and murderous skill. She had never considered inheriting the crown, and despised the thought of it when Vivi passed. Sinafrey had been raised to remain in the shadows, to not be seen, but the crown would demand attention, spotlight and numerous other things Sinafrey was certainly not good at. Politics and veiled threats, being two. Her new name gave her a new freedom, extricating her from her mother's grasp. But the new chapter that awaited was unknown, as she would plunge into a world she'd been taught to tear apart since the age of eight. How welcoming would the Beastmen clans be once they realised Karzoc's dear new wife was the very same assassin who had killed their family?
But that was a thought for later. Right now, she was thankful for their leave from her mother's company and the boring theatrics of the celebration. It made her smile that little bit brighter.
Her eyes flickered to the Sworn, Sinafrey having to lean to the side to spy them, as she watched them turn and depart. Her offer had been extended to them, in part because she had hoped to learn a little more about their loyalty and dynamics with their Khan, but also because she didn't want herself left alone with the male before her. The heat in her veins was near-boiling and the thoughts filling her head were now becoming salacious. Left alone, she wasn't sure she could trust herself.
"The West Wall," her voice was a low velvet as she straightened again and looked off to the side, seemingly distracted, "it is then. Shall I trust you to keep up, or shall I keep towing you?"
The firm grasp of her hand suggested she wasn't quite willing to let go or not, at least, until Karzoc flexed his fingers and initiated the separation. The heat of his fur against her skin was soothing against her palm, the slender of her indigo fingers still tightly threaded through his own. She tugged at him then, turning in place and drawing them down the wide streets, lantern-lit avenues and moss-slicked alleyways.
It was within one alleyway that her steps began to slow, the darkness about her seeming to stimulate those salacious ponderings into something more solid. Sinafrey, as she had guided Karzoc further away from the city's centre, had become all too aware of where he was in respect to herself. The soft brush of his shorter fur between her fingers was pleasantly ticklish, her grasp tightening even still. The soft graze of his claws over the back of her hand was electrifying. As she drew to a slow stop, her back still to him, she felt the heat of his body radiate and lick at her skin; the sheer of her dress doing very little to shield her from the warmth. But his eyes were what she felt lingering, as if Karzoc's gaze was a touch itself; palpable. Still, she kept her back to him, not quite brave enough to risk what might happen should she turn to face him.
He'd promised to fuck me. To take me like he'd pinned me in the arena. Against the ground. On my belly. My body caught under his and legs spread by his own. Sinafrey drew her thighs together tightly, feeling the slow weep of honey from her core as she remembered the rough grind of Karzoc's hips over the globes of her ass. Would that be so bad?
That heat intensified, rolling like molten lava in the low of her belly until a shiver ran the length of her spine and she snagged the pulp of her lower lip between her teeth. Her breath was held in her lungs, until the pink viscera burned. The stale air was released then, sighing softly through parted lips before Sinafrey steeled herself and continued on. If I fucked him, she rationalised, he'd never let me live it down. The truth was, Sinafrey wasn't sure she'd ever be able to just forget it and move on like she had all her other lovers and that, she knew, spelt trouble.
"Come on," she grumbled. "Stop lagging." Her apparent good mood had been traded for something stormier, more so towards herself than the towering male at her back.
Further, Sinafrey lead Karzoc until the streets became less windy and less cobbled; the stones underfoot giving way to crunching gravel. The lavish, brick-walled and ceramic-roofed terrace houses by the centre had dwindled, the structures about them thatch-roofed and wooden-boarded. The lanterns here were scarce, hanging empty from every sixth house and many left unlit. It was quieter here, the lights of the homes warming windows in amber glow as families nestled together over a meal. Only the nobility had been welcomed in the celebration of the hand-fasting, her mother a life-long elitist.
The Wall was much the same here as it had been at the Gate. Towering blocks of rough granite appeared silver beneath the waning moon, stretching high into the midnight sky. Here, the air seemed crisper, cooler even, as a gentle breeze swept over them as Sinafrey led Karzoc further still. Cutting through another alleyway, her pace becoming brisker to avoid another linger in the shadows, she drew them towards a wide, open space by the foot of the Wall.
Several tents had been erected; their legs of smooth pine, their roofs of varied hues of cloth, their walls left open to the night air. Cushions, threadbare blankets, wooden stools and battered lounges sat chaotically beneath, some even out under direct moonlight; each stolen or saved from the garbage heap. Drows of all colourings, genders and sizes were sprawled in one graceful way or another, most with an iron tankard of ale in their hand. A huge wooden barrel sat off to the side, its tap currently being flicked open by a female drow who barely stood straight as she poured herself another ale.
Jakren lay stretched by a lounge, one leg folded beneath him upon the gravel as the other stretched straight over the ground. The male had found purchase by the tattered, red chaise that held an inebriated female who’d sunk her plump fingers into his hair. He eyed the couple approaching, his gaze lingering on Sinafrey before it flickered to Karzoc and narrowed. The male didn’t move to approach. Sinafrey was blissfully unaware of her ex-lover’s presence.
It was the fire that had Sinafrey eagerly, with child-like enthusiasm, rushing forward into the revelry. It wasn't the company that had drawn her here, though the rabble of drow outcasts welcomed her by name. It was the crackle of burning logs, the spit of raging fire, the bonfire so carefully constructed that it reached a third of the way up the West Wall. The heat, the glow, had Sinafrey drawn in like a moth.
Only once she'd drawn them to stand before the fire, her bare toes digging into the gravel, did she turn to Karzoc. The pale indigo of her face was cast in a golden glow, shadows flickering over her features to accentuate the sharp of her nose and the plush of her lips. The valley of her cleavage, deep already, appeared deeper still as the sheer of her dress slipped slightly over supple flesh; the hard pebble of a pierced, violet nipple dangerously close to the edge of organza.
It seemed almost absent-minded, how she still clung to Karzoc's hand when, in fact, Sinafrey was keenly aware of every place they touched.
A white lock of hair fell over her shoulder, curling over her collarbone as it slid down across the slope of her breast. "Do you want a drink?" Crimson eyes curiously searched the azure blue of her…of her husband's. "Because I sure as hell could use one."
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Sinafrey was right, but also wrong.
There was absolutely going to be fucking this night, on her terms or not on her terms. She had practically carved that inevitability into obsidian the second she dared to spike Karzoc’s tea.
But it was never so simple.
The Khan was not a simple man. Not a man at all, some would say. Beneath that ferocious and foreboding exterior, there were layers and layers of complexity. Intelligence. Machinations. All of that politics and elaborate schemes Sinafrey despised, Karzoc had plenty. And he was absolutely the vengeful sort, though in this context, it would perhaps pan in a direction she might enjoy.
Or not. The night was young, and what shall transpire remained to be seen.
“Ale is fine,” Karzoc remarked, decidedly casual. There was a lightheartedness in his eyes, a warmth that mirrored the firelight. If Sinafrey dug through, she wouldn’t get much of anything. One does not become Khan at the age of twenty-nine without perfecting the art of keeping a poker-face. “I’ll plush these cushions for you if you would get us drinks, Wife.”
It was an innocent request, nothing to read into, and it made perfect sense for Sinafrey to be agreeable with the same. Karzoc did as he promised, gathered some of those blankets and cushions within an unoccupied tent, causally piling them into a comfortable pile. Enough for the two of them to lounge in when Sinafrey would return with drinks in tow.
He sat with one-leg bent and one-leg spread, deliberately opening up one side of his body to her in invitation. If she chose to lounge against him, she would find him solid and warm, his fur soft against her skin, offering contrast and delighting the senses when compared against his sturdy, oak-like frame. Accepting the drink with one hand, he wrapped the other around her waist. Loosely, just draping across the small of her back as he pulled her closer, allowing her to rest her weight partially against his front as the both of them watched the dancing fire.
“I can see why you like it here,” he offered, pulling one of those blankets half over their legs. Innocently. “It’s relaxing.”
That relaxation would not last, as they were already noticed. Jakren made his way over, limber and only barely buzzed, a drink in hand and a smile on his visage. “My congratulations to the happy couple,” he grinned a grin that might have been attractive to a female drow. “Never thought you would be the first amongst us to get hitched, Sin, but I will drink to that.”
“My thanks,” Karzoc responded, even, cool, raising his own mug and swallowing a big gulp of the mediocre ale. His expression never waivered. Not even a hint of what he got up to beneath the blanket. Even with both of his hands accounted for, Sinafrey would do well to remember that just what it was that she was now propped up against. That innocently trailing tail had remained entirely still at Jakren’s approach, but, as he drew closer, it trailed along the outside of Sinafrey’s thigh. The softly furred tip caressed the senses and demanded attention as it easily flickered the silk to the wayside. A seemingly innocuous touch, but that did not last.
“Jakren, if I recall?” It seemed that Karzoc was determined to engage the male in conversation. “It seems like you know my Wife quite well, perhaps you have a story or two that you might care to share?” He gestured with a hand at some of the piled cushions, inviting the male to sit. The tail never hesitated. It caressed over the curve of a knee and traced along the inside of Sinafrey’s thigh, bold and daring. Incredibly dexterous, that tail of his. Even if she were to squeeze her thighs and catch the bulk of it, he could wield just the tip with ease.
“More than a few, my Khan.” Jakren played along. Of course he did. Not only did he have no idea the happenings beneath those blankets, he was quite the politically minded drow. Words had already reached him just how much riches Karzoc so casually bestowed upon the Queen. It was clear that the taiguez took his marriage to Sinafrey seriously, and, if he could earn even a fraction of the Khan’s favor, surely there would be something in it for him.
“I’m glad to hear. Please, take a seat.” He was all smiles. Maintaining composure and dignity even as he wasted no time at all. His tail seared more surely than bonfire as it mapped the insides of Sinafrey’s thigh, higher, higher, an almost coy brush against the juncture where her legs met. His arm that was still wrapped around Sinafrey squeezed.
“You are uncharacteristically quiet, Wife, are you feeling alright?” Those azures of his portrayed nothing but sincerity, the portrait of a devoted spouse. Not even a hint of just what he was getting up to as he meaningfully flattened the tip against that flimsy thong, dragging along the soaked fabric. Up. Down, and up again.
There was absolutely going to be fucking this night, on her terms or not on her terms. She had practically carved that inevitability into obsidian the second she dared to spike Karzoc’s tea.
But it was never so simple.
The Khan was not a simple man. Not a man at all, some would say. Beneath that ferocious and foreboding exterior, there were layers and layers of complexity. Intelligence. Machinations. All of that politics and elaborate schemes Sinafrey despised, Karzoc had plenty. And he was absolutely the vengeful sort, though in this context, it would perhaps pan in a direction she might enjoy.
Or not. The night was young, and what shall transpire remained to be seen.
“Ale is fine,” Karzoc remarked, decidedly casual. There was a lightheartedness in his eyes, a warmth that mirrored the firelight. If Sinafrey dug through, she wouldn’t get much of anything. One does not become Khan at the age of twenty-nine without perfecting the art of keeping a poker-face. “I’ll plush these cushions for you if you would get us drinks, Wife.”
It was an innocent request, nothing to read into, and it made perfect sense for Sinafrey to be agreeable with the same. Karzoc did as he promised, gathered some of those blankets and cushions within an unoccupied tent, causally piling them into a comfortable pile. Enough for the two of them to lounge in when Sinafrey would return with drinks in tow.
He sat with one-leg bent and one-leg spread, deliberately opening up one side of his body to her in invitation. If she chose to lounge against him, she would find him solid and warm, his fur soft against her skin, offering contrast and delighting the senses when compared against his sturdy, oak-like frame. Accepting the drink with one hand, he wrapped the other around her waist. Loosely, just draping across the small of her back as he pulled her closer, allowing her to rest her weight partially against his front as the both of them watched the dancing fire.
“I can see why you like it here,” he offered, pulling one of those blankets half over their legs. Innocently. “It’s relaxing.”
That relaxation would not last, as they were already noticed. Jakren made his way over, limber and only barely buzzed, a drink in hand and a smile on his visage. “My congratulations to the happy couple,” he grinned a grin that might have been attractive to a female drow. “Never thought you would be the first amongst us to get hitched, Sin, but I will drink to that.”
“My thanks,” Karzoc responded, even, cool, raising his own mug and swallowing a big gulp of the mediocre ale. His expression never waivered. Not even a hint of what he got up to beneath the blanket. Even with both of his hands accounted for, Sinafrey would do well to remember that just what it was that she was now propped up against. That innocently trailing tail had remained entirely still at Jakren’s approach, but, as he drew closer, it trailed along the outside of Sinafrey’s thigh. The softly furred tip caressed the senses and demanded attention as it easily flickered the silk to the wayside. A seemingly innocuous touch, but that did not last.
“Jakren, if I recall?” It seemed that Karzoc was determined to engage the male in conversation. “It seems like you know my Wife quite well, perhaps you have a story or two that you might care to share?” He gestured with a hand at some of the piled cushions, inviting the male to sit. The tail never hesitated. It caressed over the curve of a knee and traced along the inside of Sinafrey’s thigh, bold and daring. Incredibly dexterous, that tail of his. Even if she were to squeeze her thighs and catch the bulk of it, he could wield just the tip with ease.
“More than a few, my Khan.” Jakren played along. Of course he did. Not only did he have no idea the happenings beneath those blankets, he was quite the politically minded drow. Words had already reached him just how much riches Karzoc so casually bestowed upon the Queen. It was clear that the taiguez took his marriage to Sinafrey seriously, and, if he could earn even a fraction of the Khan’s favor, surely there would be something in it for him.
“I’m glad to hear. Please, take a seat.” He was all smiles. Maintaining composure and dignity even as he wasted no time at all. His tail seared more surely than bonfire as it mapped the insides of Sinafrey’s thigh, higher, higher, an almost coy brush against the juncture where her legs met. His arm that was still wrapped around Sinafrey squeezed.
“You are uncharacteristically quiet, Wife, are you feeling alright?” Those azures of his portrayed nothing but sincerity, the portrait of a devoted spouse. Not even a hint of just what he was getting up to as he meaningfully flattened the tip against that flimsy thong, dragging along the soaked fabric. Up. Down, and up again.
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MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Wife.
There it was. That deliciously aggravating word that rolled from his tongue in such velvet perfection. Her bare toes dug into the soft gravel, the grains slipping between the digits as she buried them. Sinafrey took a shaky breath through her slightly parted lips, catching in her throat. The motion itself, how her body seemed to respond to the word alone and how her breath became shaky, wouldn't have been subtle but Sinafrey didn't care. She was using every last ounce of self-control to school her features into something that could, perhaps, only barely pass as nonplussed. How could a word, a title, she believed to be antonymous with her own name illicit such a reaction from her?
Sinafrey's words had uncharacteristically left her, her mind instead whirling as her gaze settled upon his mouth. She nodded, just once, before turning on her heel and cutting her way over to the large barrel. Not once did she look back, too frightened to spy the smug look that Karzoc was surely brandishing, and, instead, kept her gaze down at her hands as she poured him a large bronze tankard. Her husband might have been happy with just ale, but the amber liquor wouldn't be enough for her. In the years she'd spent behind enemy lines, Sinafrey had developed an appetite for heavier, harsher brews. She strolled casually into a tent, leaning down to swipe a corked, black glass bottle of whiskey sitting beside an occupied chaise. No one spoke of the theft, only glancing in the direction of the newly exiled drow, as Sinafrey straightened and stalked back towards Karzoc.
Holding out the tankard of ale in silent offering, she waited until his white fingers curled about the bronze before she drew the corked bottle up to her mouth. Her red-painted lips curled back, revealing the sharpened drow canines, as she sank one into the cork and plucked it from the bottle's stem. She punched the cork between her forefinger and them, withdrawing it from her mouth and tossing it down beside the nest Karzoc had drawn together for them.
Sinafrey's descent down against his side was unceremonious and far from graceful. To say the least, she plonked down beside him, the black organza of her gown fluttering upwards like a disturbed mist before settling, parted, over his legs. She didn't shy from the arm that curled about her middle, guiding her closer than she should have been, though perhaps it would have been wiser to deny him the pull. Wiser, perhaps, Sinafrey thought. But what fun has ever come from being wise?
The satin curls of snow hair fell to lay over Karzoc's chest, caught between them momentarily before Sinafrey leant forward for a split second and swept her hair over her shoulder. Only then did she truly settle against him. The back of her head came to rest over a pectoral, her neck arched and exposed to the night air as she stared out at the flames licking the night sky. One bold, bare leg, the dress having parted at the front and slipped over her skin, bent at the knee and lay over his own; the soft muscle of her calf stretched over his shin as her foot brushed the inside of his other leg.
She should have bristled against his touch. She should have stiffened as he'd drawn her too close. Instead, Sinafrey had melted like butter left out during a hot summer's day; pooling in his lap and languidly drawing herself over his bare chest without shame. They were married now, weren't they? His body belonged now as much to her as her's did to Karzoc.
The heat of him alone had her drawing her eyes closed; her face blissful and calm. That crease between her brows, those lines of white seeming to forever be drawn together in thought or calculation, had eased. Her limbs felt heavy, so slow to move, and as she drew the neck of the bottle back up to her lips for a quick swallow of whiskey, she had to fight the relaxed muscles in order for her arm to obey. The liquor pooled over her tongue, swirling within her mouth before she swallowed once and then again, setting the bottle just off to the side, still held in her hand. A pearl of deep amber glistened at the corner of her mouth, lingering there until the pink of her tongue swept to capture the bead and draw it between her lips.
“I come here for the fire,” Sinafrey admitted; her voice silken and low. Her eyes didn't open, though, instead finding peace in how closely her body sat snuggled against his own, how the bare flesh of her calf lay over his soft fur, and how easily she seemed to fold into him. All thoughts she knew she shouldn't have been entertaining. “But the company tonight isn't half bad.”
The company, it soon seemed, wasn't always welcome.
Crimson eyes snapped open at the sound of the approach. Boots over gravel, the particular steady gait, the space between steps. She knew it was Jakren before her red eyes had found his face, by ears alone. Only then did Sinafrey begin to stiffen against Karzoc's larger frame, her muscles beginning to bundle and tense beneath lush indigo skin. All she had wanted was to enjoy her night, and Jakren was an unwelcome visitor.
“Jakren.” It was all she said, but it was enough to convey more than greeting. Annoyance at his sudden attention. A warning at his approach. Frustration at his interruption. A veiled threat if he chose to meddle. It was all that she would say, still laying draped over her husband's front as she dipped a hand beneath the blanket and found the hard, corded muscle of his thigh. Why she held Karzoc, she wasn't sure, but as her fingers threaded through his fur and she gripped firmly at his leg; she found him grounding. Grounding, perhaps, but not something that would last.
Sinafrey's breaths grew shallow as she dug her fingers into the meat of Karzoc's leg. The soft, languid trace of his tail over the inside of her thigh had her nails biting at his flesh. She held her breath as her husband, from behind her, so easily baited the otherwise unwelcome drow male into engaging in conversation. But not once did her legs draw together. Nor did she withdraw her leg from where it lay draped over Karzoc's own. Instead, her thighs remained parted for him, a slow roll of her hips tilting down against the flick of his tail as he drew it over the wet juncture. The sudden, though brief, pressure had Sinafrey releasing that breath in a soft, barely audible, whimper.
Her body had betrayed her before, in how easily it had wept for him as she'd lingered within the shadows of that alleyway. The liquid had smeared the insides of her thighs as she'd stubbornly walked ahead. But now? Now the syrup wept from the violet folds of her cunt, pooling upon the blankets beneath them as her hips rolled again; so eager and so desperate for more friction. The sharp nails of her fingers dug deeper into Karzoc's thigh.
Dear gods, I'm going to kill him.
Kill Karzoc for what? Touching her exactly how she wished; playful, teasing, sensual? Kill him for playing her body like the tightly wound instrument it was? How long had it been since she'd had a man? Three weeks? Six? More? Sinafrey shivered then, making her turn her face away from Jakren as she snagged the pulp of her lower lip between her teeth. Her brows were pinched together, but arched beautifully in pleasure. Definitely more than six.
Only when Sinafrey was sure she could smooth out her features and try to portray something sane, did she turn back to Jakren and smile brightly up at Karzoc. She looked to him from under her lashes, her head tilted back and the curve of her throat bared so vulnerably, as she purred. “I'm fine, dear husband. I wouldn't dream of interrupting your important conversation.”
The sparkle in those red jewels was brilliant; her eyes lustrous and wicked. The corner of her mouth pulled, the beginning of a smug little smirk, before she bit the flesh of her lower lip again and her breath hitched. The tip of his tail toyed over her soaked underwear; the satin thong doing very little to hide how her pussy wept for him. Karzoc would have felt it, she knew, but it didn't bother her as it had earlier in the day. Instead, the leg draped over him hitched a little higher over his lap; spreading her thighs so eagerly for him. “I want you,” Sinafrey murmured, her eyes flickering between the blue azure of his own before falling upon his mouth. The pause amidst her sentence could have been admission, but it was simply a wielded tease. “I want you not to stop...” Sinafrey purred. “I want you not to stop talking.”
Jakren simply glanced between the couple. “What kind of story would you like to hear, my Khan? Perhaps one of adventure and victory? Or one of scandal?” Scandal, the male drow thought smugly, like how loud your beautiful wife gets when she's put on her hands and knees. “I have tales aplenty if it is stories of our dear Sin you wish to hear. She and I spent a great portion of our adolescence together; growing and learning.” Learning each other's bodies. Learning how to fuck. Learning how to make her cum. “It pains me to think that in three days she'll be gone; taken with you halfway across the continent.”