Heart fiend verseXamberyn nsfw

[Verse]

Rygaby Choirling was low, on money; in rank; born. but also hairline; on quit; fucks to give. The tall thing sat in the back of Yonder Silver, one of many wateringholes strewn about this here Anglosaxon, barely cobbled district of libations. He was low on drink too, but that's because his blood was high on it. He'd come in here, crimson mud on his reinforced but light boots, bumping into a taller thing with more meat on him. Kind of guy that would be trouble, if you thought trouble was hairy knuckles and a handful of friends. Menfolk liked to assert themselves with their bodies now that the Duelist Economy was in full swing. Everyone thought they were better than the blood that carried on the tradition, made law by some king some generations ago, to reward men that fended off a storming of the castle. That big fellow sure looked like he would hit hard if he got the chance, and that his next fight would be dealt out generously. So Rygaby ate the insults and even the shove, and sat down, away from the bar that the big fellow had pissed out as his own. But, as Rygaby had been lamenting, diving deeper into the glasses, as deep as his latest bounty could buy, big guys being trouble could be fun too, if you knew how to handle them. He thought he'd still give it up, be forgiving, leave vengeance to the god that may wear the crown on that subject. But the Chiorling son realized that he'd been unbuckling and shrugging out of his coat, more and more for every mug of drink. He laughed at himself when he hung his belt on the back of his chair. Sure, there'd been enough death for the night - made a rich widow and some orphans so he could make a pouch of coin - but he had come here to nurse that, and maybe fisticuffs would take up what ale and bourbon put down? Big guy, who'd been called Big Stan on a few occasions throughout the night, got Rygaby's latest mug in the back of his head at some velocity. By happenstance, it had been when Big Stan had been harassing a lady with her cloak drawn. But Rygaby wasn't a hero. Anyone with any part of their mind still working could have smelled the clean on her, and known she'd be a handful, and not of tit or ass. Just upper class headaches. Big Stan was angry to lose the conversation on account of the clanking projectile and turned around, as did his friends. Rygaby was already on the middle on the floor. His black tunic, once blue, was unbuttoned to show most of a scarred sternum and the pectorals lining it. He had those light boots on but the bloody mud had wiped off while he drank. Black leathers, but none of his weapons on him. They had no reason to think he would be long-lived trouble despite broad shoulders on an otherwise slender body. Ladies who took his coin for their beds liked to call it dapper. Big Stans don't like dappers. Big Stan wasn't even first. Some little bloke among them, still a brow taller than Rygaby. What, had their mothers fucked livestock? The short giant came barreling and Rygaby ducked low to a rush in his own head; alcohol has its drawbacks, go figure. They swung at the same time, but Rygaby hit the side of his knee and the bloke hit the air where Rygaby's head had been. A crunch and a displacement of some supporting bones. Bloke wailed but Rygaby had to spin in the momentum to get through and past the next swing from another man who wanted to prove himself to Big Stan. This one had swung with his leg, but Rygaby had darted in close to slacken his jaw with a hard elbow. The two offenders fell at the same time, and Rygaby had a moment to stand up, dastardly, to arbitrarily rolled his sleeves. The other patrons were stopping up for the show and Big Stan was roaring, having forgotten about the belle in her hood. Rygaby pulled at the ribbon holding his black hair back to make it tighter. He had dirt on his face, of course, that's the kind of living he made, but his gothic humor in his noble and graveyard features didn't spark kinship in the other, dirtier giants. For sure they had to be building ships by lugging timber and spitting nails, right? The next one was fast, smallest in the bunch, and about Rygaby's own height. A boxer, by the stance. Should have been easy, the way Rygaby could lean away from his jabs and crosses, but another one, the last one, tackled him from the side. Rygaby was thankful for the sensation of being thrown into a table and lifted up before the splinters could set on the floor. On his way up in, again, ridiculously large arms, the boxer pummeled his side. Rygaby had to take it so he could wrap his hands around a beam in the ceiling. The purchase allowed him to yank free of the hold and make a space large enough for him to get a leg in between himself and the last assailant, giving him a faceful of bloody mud which switched him off nicely. But the boxer punched Rygaby out of his hang, and the dapper landed poorly on one sole and one knee. A spit of blood marked a line that the boxer must not cross, and when he did, Rygaby stood up and brought his fist along with him, gifting a night of sleep and an ungodly headache in the morning to the boxer. After that things quieted down. Big Stan came and Rygaby wiped blood off his lips with a sleeve that was no longer rolled. It had been a refreshing cacophony of violence for the patrons, and infected life into the chatter. He wanted to take a bow but he also wanted to keep his head on his neck, so he didn't look away from Big Stan. "So, you're a duelist?" The big man asked with a big voice, the kind that said there was something oversized somewhere in his throat. "Choirling, sons of Isley." Rygaby said and looked around at the fallen gang. The other drinkers had kabsorbed them. It was either out of the kindness of their hearts or because they wanted to clear space for what was about to happen. Big Stan did take the opportunity to throw a surprisingly quick haymaker. Ill advised, Rygaby came at it, but at an angle where it missed. Close enough, he planted his toes and tossed his own fist right at Big Stan's nose. There was some nice cushioning there and it stopped the giant long enough that Rygaby could cock back his leg and send it into Big Stan's ribs. It did a lot of damage but not so much Big Stan couldn't swipe outward as he collapsed. It caught Rygaby on his temple and he was flung back. The red he saw when he could stand up again had nothing to do with the blood coming off his eyebrow. Big Stan har just gotten big again so the right choice would be to stay low, and maybe break a few more ribs. But Rygaby didn't want to rely on tactics. He wanted to buy something at a great cost. So he ran at his opponent with perhaps an unwell smirk, and thought enough to twitch out of the first punch so he could land his own. And then they were going. The meager 6' dapper blocked to resounding thuds and hit with only a little more flare than Big Stan. Perhaps the duelist's motions were a little wider for more power. The onlookers were unsettled by Rygaby's toothy smile while he took and dealt punishment. Despite the difference in size, Big Stan was dismantled into an average height, on his knees, and then a rather short and flat Stan, on his face, bleeding hard into the puddle he could not get up from. Only then did Rygaby sigh and put his hands on his knees to catch his deathly lost breath. The jumping silverware and glass and screeching chair legs finally quieted from their jigs to the fading rhythm of his intakes. His hair was as wild as his heartbeat, but also that was settling. He looked around as the others lost interest. For a moment Rygaby looked more concerned than he had, even when downing this merry band of giants. He was relieved, the sharpness coming back to his features when he found what he was looking for by the foot of the woman whose towering suitor Rygaby had just felled. The ribbon, discolored from use, with a few threads of its lining lace giving clue to its former glory, was pinned by her toe. He came over and knelt. It felt good to take a knee. He pulled the ribbon, which was of course just a strip of fabric now, out from from her shoe and wrapped it around his hand and started dabbing his brow with it. When he stood he might as well have been one of the blokes he'd beaten -seemingly with his face only- for how much over her he rose. "Enjoy the show, fancy lady? I think they can still scrape some of that man meat up for ya if you're still keen on us here working lads." He said with some bitterness he hadn't even given Big Stan and his friends. Rygaby's day up until now had been lined with rich ilk just like this one. And her clean self was an eyesore worse than the cut that bled into his vision. They might pay him his silvers, but he didn't like them more than men who'd honestly fight him. He was hoping his rudeness would chase her away so this place could be what it was. It'd be his last good deed for the Yonder for tonight, before he attempted to make a dent in their stock and pass out in their closet. He was too punch sober right now.

 

[Amberyn]

Not for the first time, Odessya Harrington wondered what she was doing in this part of the city. Tugging her hood down lower to hide her face, she took a deep breath and tried to marshal her courage. She could do this. She had to do this. Everyone in high society knew about duellists; it was an open secret, and most families had connections, someone to ask, a place to start. Odessya had none of those. What she did have was determination and money. That would have to do. Pep talk complete, she scurried out of the shadows and made her way towards the tavern door. It was clear from the moment she stepped inside that she was well out of her depth, and even in a dark cloak she stood out like a sore thumb. The material of said cloak was of the finest quality, and unlike the tavern’s inhabitants was pristine. She’d been so concerned with everything else it hadn’t occurred to her to borrow something from one of the servants instead. But that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, and the last thing Odessya wanted was her brother knowing she was here. She loved her brother, and he was doing his best. Unfortunately, his best was not enough, not any more. Duke Livingston had been putting the pressure on Daniel since they moved back to the city. Their parents had up and moved the whole family to the country without a word when they were young. As they got older, the Harrington siblings learned that a scandal had sent their parents fleeing, although neither was able to learn more about it. All they knew was that it kept both their parents from returning. Their father had passed some years later, the strain of everything weakening his heart and death had claimed their mother a year ago. After much deliberation, the two of them had decided to return to the city, eager to experience city life for themselves and seek better fortunes. The money their parents inherited had been carefully managed and stretched as far as it went. It was time for the Harringtons to strike out on their own. Things weren’t exactly going to plan. They had reached out to their family, the Harringtons and the Margraves and learned the hard way that family had long memories. When pressed about what had happened with their parents, no one would tell them anything, leaving both siblings feeling uneasy. Society was less bothered by the past, and while there were rumours about their parents, there was nothing concrete. In fact, the Harringtons' profile seemed to benefit from it, and Daniel and Odessya soon found themselves buried in invitations. It didn’t take long for suitors to start popping up. Before she had a chance to consider any of them, Livingston had made his attentions known. One by one they suitors had bowed out, some subtly while others openly admitted the Duke was someone they didn’t want to cross. He had a reputation for getting what he wanted one way or another, and what he wanted was Odessya. The man was repulsive; he had several decades on her, was physically unappealing and then there were the rumours of his previous wives. All young women who had disappeared mysteriously. Whether there was any truth to those rumours, Odessya didn’t care. Yesterday Livingston had sent a threat, and hadn’t even been subtle about it. So here she was, intent on fixing the problem before her brother paid for defying the Duke. She hovered inside the door, jumping when someone pushed in behind her. Tentative steps took her towards the bar, which seemed like the best place to start. She never made it, a large man stepping in front of her. Tilting her head back to see his face, her nose wrinkled at the smell wafting off of him. “Now who might you be?” he asked, leering down at her. “I’m uh…” She didn’t get to finish the sentence. The big man whirled, rubbing his head, and Odessya suddenly found herself in the middle of a brawl. Ducking to one side, she found a wall and stayed there, wide eyes watching the fight. They were fast, and they were loud, and having missed the thrown cup that had started it all, she had absolutely no clue what was going on. She watched as two of them fell, their opponent taking a moment to roll up his sleeves. Wait a minute… There was something familiar about him… The pieces fell into place as she watched him tighten his ponytail, a familiar movement that Odessya knew very well. “Rygga?” she whispered, staring at the fighter. How long had it been? A decade? More? When her parents had whisked them away, there had been one thing about the city that Odessya missed: her friend, Rygga. Suddenly she was much more interested in the fight, alternating between wincing and gasping, a hand clamped over her mouth. At some point Rygga’s hair ribbon was lost in the scuffle, floating to the floor. She lost sight of it until after the fight, a smile curving her lips as she shook her head. It didn’t surprise her that her old friend had triumphed. People started to go back to their drinks and conversations, and she hesitated before stepping forward. She didn’t notice the ribbon until Rygaby reached down to tug it out from under her boot. If anyone else had spoken to her as he did, she would have slapped him in a second; instead, Odessya shook her head in amusement. Tugging her hood back enough for him to make out her features, she tutted and rolled her eyes. “Still causing trouble wherever you go, Rygaby?”

 

[Verse]

He should have known her by the scent. Under the grass and rain where the countryside touched the city lines, and mortar of the Harrington estate, there had always been the familiar oils of the house's daughter. He encountered them when he threw rocks at her window, and she ran out to play with him. When they collided in reality over made-up stories in their minds. Her hair whipped his face back then. He thought it was some beginning stretches of destiny, like in the stories in her books, but a dark gold with the smell of her scalp, which smelled like her pillow the times when they got to have pillow fights. But now Rygaby knew he had just angled himself the right way; it was his face that had found her hair, rather than the opposite. Those pretty memories turned bitter when her family moved away. They took a future without a sword away from the boy he'd been. That's why he had less wits about him now, when a beautiful face was unveiled, than when he'd been tasked with putting his fist in a handful of ugly ones, just now. But if training endlessly - collecting bruises and fractures and wounds, trading them for strength and experience and tricks - had taught him anything, it was to pivot when circumstances threw surprises as you. The Choirling doctrine dictated that you find a way to strike back. How would he do that when her womanly details shrunk his heart to the size it had been, when they jumped stone walls and she laughed when he had to carry her home because of her rolled ankle? How could she smile now? He opened his mouth after he had arbitrarily wiped it of blood, since there was plenty left. He pulled the strap of the former ribbon tighter. But instead of saying anything on level with her nicety, she shrugged. He held his arms out, strap dangling from his right hand, his punching extremity. It could have been a bid for embrace if his shoulders didn't lift in another shrug, soon. His wingspan was grand, as his hips were narrow. They showed a bit over the waist of his pants when the tunic lifted, untucked as it became from the fisticuffs. Pale skin and one scar, running perpendicular to the belt. And of course, the shadows of the long muscles he'd earned, while she'd surely earned coin. "Look around you, miss." he said and looked at her, in turn. His eyes were red now, because there was a rush in his blood. On her estate they'd been brown. But most people saw them as black. His features were sharp, they were both young, after all, so his skin was slightly softened by that. But not his expression. It suggested with its hardness that he'd told her this many times already. Maybe he had, in his memories. He would have thought that her dismissal of him had made her ugly. Exactly the opposite was true. She reminded of her mother, from what he could remember, when he stood behind his father and she paid them for protecting the estate. But Odessya looked like the little girl she'd been too. "Trouble was already here. Trouble's all there is on this side of the stone wall." He stepped back a bit, arms down, to see her fully. She was shorter than he remembered her. Of course then she'd been bolstered by all his hopes for the future. If they'd stayed, he could have read at one of the universities, they'd promised. He had his eyes on a path in trade, like the boats dad had sent him on to learn new techniques for exotic swords, but owning, instead of faring. "You here to find some rugged fun for the night, Odette?" he asked, his nickname for her, from one of the books she'd read to him. It wasn't unusual that soft things from rich homes ventured out to try their hearts against the scruff of the more-- rustic districts. Somehow that bit into his heart. His jaw hardened about it but his thoughts were on how she'd be, if she was looking for skinship. It occupied him completely for a moment but he woke up from it quickly, because he had to, like a kick to the head. He tossed his chin over his shoulder. "I can give you a few recommendations if you have silver in that pretty cloak of yours." It was unforgivably rude, of course. But he thought it was all called for. He could see the life she'd led, and he could feel what he'd had, in its place. But her laughter when he carried her back to the house over their manicured lawn glittered through his temples, still.

 

[Amberyn]

Odessya had made a grave mistake. She knew the moment he shrugged, but something made her dismiss it and see his open arms as an open offer to embrace. The second shrug derailed that thought, and she nearly stepped back, unsure of what to think. Miss, he called her, and she frowned, wondering if he didn’t recognise her. With a tilt of her head, she regarded him, eyes widening a little at the sight of his eyes. Had they always been that red, or was she misremembering? Rygaby continued, unhelpfully pointing out that trouble was already there. This side of the wall. She flinched; she couldn’t help it. Was that all she was to him now? A pretty head from the other side of town? Pain was etched into her features, and she smoothed it away, realising what that mysterious feeling had been. Hope. She had seen someone she recognised and foolishly hoped this would be easy, that he would save the day. Just because he was brawling in a tavern didn’t mean he was a duelist; he could be a thug. Saddened, she was about to give her apologies and turn away when he spoke again, her head jerking up hard enough to knock the hood of her cloak back. Golden hair tumbled out, fanning out over her cloak. Beneath the dark material was a dress of blue silk, exquisite despite its simplicity. Even her less extravagant gowns cost more than the tavern’s inhabitants made in a week. Staring at him, she hadn’t quite realised what he was saying, too focused on that name. If only she could turn into a swan and fly away like the princess in the story. He remembered her, remembered enough to call her that, and yet here he was suggesting she was… She flushed, pulling a face and glaring at him. Childhood memories were the only thing that stopped her from slapping him; that, and she didn't want to draw more attention to herself. Rygaby was doing that was enough for her, and if word got back to the Duke that she was here, things would escalate. In her peripheral vision, she could see a few patrons looking their way, and the leer in their eyes made her shiver. This had been a mistake; she needed to get out of here. Grabbing her cloak, she pulled it tighter around her, although she didn’t reach for her hood just yet. “I came in search of a duelist!” she informed him hauntingly, drawing herself up to her full height. “And I thought I’d found one, but apparently you’re just another thug who picks fights in taverns instead of making an honest living!” Odessya yanked her hood up and turned away, muttering under her breath as she went, “What happened to you, Rygaby?” She shook her head and had the sense not to say her next thought out loud. Your father would be ashamed of what you've become.

 

[Verse]

He had thwarted pretty things before. He was expected to. He lent his strength to abhorrent endeavors, sometimes. He liked to say it was because of the silver, but then, why did his soul sing in delighted arias that could cut through the open of the moors and shake the leaves of the forest down to the earth? Odessya's flavor was different. It was only beginning when she saw the start of his aged ire, but because he had built a library of memories of her, he knew how this particular expression differed. He felt a dark pride at having upended her expectations. People come to duelists out of desperation. You buy swords to protect yourself. The hurt she showed, the hurt she gave, was lovely. It was her first down payment, he supposed. And what a lovely package she had wrapped it all in. Of course The Harrington daughter had grown pretty, after all these years. He had only glimpsed her, whisking by in even better fabrics, but this close she was stunning - perfect. He wanted to ruin it. Wouldn't that look better? So when her crest fell, he was famished for it. He did not look away from her face when she submitted all these morsels for his sore sense of worth. Maybe he did owe her something for everything she'd given so far. Hah. When she went to leave, it insulted him. He reached for his sword on his belt. But it laid carelessly sleeping without its master over the chair he'd been warming before Big Steve and his band had offered sport. His anger was obliterated when her hair came out, and the blue of her dress lit the blue of her eyes. So she did remember some things, deep enough to anchor her to their childhoods together. How dare she look at him as though that memory was a blemish on his honor? It was she that had failed the whimsy of that tale, even though she'd read it, even though she'd sang it as he looked at his dirty, calloused fingers against the lace of her window pillows. A Duelist, she said. His jaw quaked. It was all he could do not to shatter his teeth with how hard he was biting down. She was giving him more internal bleeding than the lads who'd pummeled him just now. But he stood there for as long as she may look back. The boy who'd been sent away when there was no more dreams in her house. For the last toss of her head, that may try to see him, he'd be gone. Only other ruffians left in this tavern. She wouldn't know, but the coat and the belt on the faraway chair by the table with too many bottles and only one glass, were also gone. She passed by the closet he had marked for his own on her way out. Out of the opposite corner a ramrod came, colliding with her and stealing her into the hidden, tight space. He was behind her, hand over her mouth when the closest door closed. Even to the fighters at the bar, she would have just been there and then not, magicked away. He was behind her, an arm around her to secure her and all her wealth in beautiful tailoring. His other hand over her mouth. His cheek was against hers, like when they tumbled down hills together, and his jaws weren't made out of granite yet. "Do you think duelists make an honest living, Madame?" his voice in her ear, bourbon and wine. His crossing arm lifted her tits as it squeezed her harder. Her feet were off the floor. He nuzzled her like a wolf nuzzles the ribs away to get to the organs. He sighed into her golden hair. "What happened to me?" he hissed. Spit on her ear shell. His fingers curled against her cheek, palm pressing harder on her insulting lips. "You left. I had to become what I am." he explained. It hurt his throat to regurgitate the words that were threaded with the memories of hard earned skills and the death of his family. "And now that I've matured, or rotted into the right vintage, you come to collect me, again." he accused. She was just a silly girl after all. He had put her on too high a pedestal. Underneath this cloak and dress there was only libations for him, nothing else. No decency. No emotion. "But you finer folk never know what you're asking. What you're paying for. What duelists do." he flipped her in the air, letting go and then holding on again. Her back against the wall instead, and yes, her legs around him. But this time there was a dagger, long and purposeful, with its tip against the wall and its edge courting her throat, now that her hood had been nuzzled down and her hair was out again. "Would you like a sample, Madame?" he asked and corrected her position by pushing her further up the wall with his hips. "They call me Chanteur." A nod to his family name, but also to the music his weapons made on other men's skeletons. She would have heard the name, the blood soaked legend, if her sources knew the top Duelists here. Disgraced as he may be, he was the best. He had paid everything to be the best.

 

[Amberyn]

Every step was agony, a sharp pain in her chest that she hadn't felt since she was a child. She felt small, like one, clutching her cloak around her and adjusting her hood to hide her features in shadows. Foolish girl. Her problems were not so easily fixed. What did she know about duelling? Other than a handful of memories of her mother dealing with Rygaby's father. Had that been the root of the scandal that had her parents fleeing to the country? No, that didn't make sense. Whatever it was, she was not closer to uncovering it. Her mind was occupied by that mystery and the devastating effects it had on her family, turning childhood friends into enemies. Her mother had told her to forget about her friend, first kindly and then with a harshness that left her sobbing. Odeyssa had tried to run to her father; he always bent when her mother refused her something. It was the first time he refused, shocking the young Odeyssa. Their relationship recovered, but it was changed, and until now she hadn't recalled what it was like before that. There was no doubt in her mind that she had been an absolute brat and her parents, desperate to keep their children safe, had considered a broken heart the lesser of two evils. At some point, the young Odessya had moved on, as children often did. A fact that dismayed adult Odessya. How had she forgotten him?! Not forgotten, no, never that, but she had moved on, and he became a part of her past. Now here he was in the flesh and angry with her. She couldn't really blame him, but she was angry too. It wasn't her fault, and it hadn't been her choice! Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn't realise the danger until it was too late. One minute she was in the tavern, and the next a door was closing in front of her as someone dragged her into some sort of tight space. Her delayed scream was silenced by a mouth over her hand, another arm tight around her body. A cheek touched hers, her wide eyes dragging sideways in horror. It took her a moment to recognise the voice, her breath coming out in a squeak from the sudden tightening of his arm. An arm that was extremely close to her breasts. He lifted her off the floor, holding her against him, and Odessya kept still, not sure what to do. Was he nuzzling her?! A sigh, then a hissed response to her question, one that made her pale. Confused, she didn't understand at first, until a flicker of memory came to life. Something about schooling, her mother's voice… Rygaby filled in the rest, his voice harsh in her ear, fingers digging into her cheeks as he held her captive. Her eyes closed, tears forming behind her lids, her heart aching for him. Until he threw that barb and her eyes opened in shock. Is that what he thought she had done? She spluttered an argument, growling in frustration when his hand kept her from explaining. Odeyssa jerked an arm, attempting to lift it from where he held it trapped at her side. Suddenly she was dropping back to the floor, released by him only to be twisted around to face him and once more lifted off her feet. She did so with a gasp, the press of a knife at her throat, her legs lifted to frame his waist in an obscene position that coloured her creamy skin. Opening her mouth to speak, to explain, she was pushed further up the wall, keeping her from gaining a foothold. Before she could speak, he dropped another bombshell, and if she had been standing, Odessya was fairly sure her legs would have given out. The Chanteur. He was… on the one hand, he was the best, exactly what she needed. On the other… she was fairly sure he hated her. “I…I didn’t have a choice,” she told him quickly, trying not to think about the blade kissing her throat. “My parents took us away, didn’t tell us anything… I tried to come back…” Eyes glassy with tears, she blinked them back, knowing that her former friend would have no use for them. Odessya didn’t want him to think she was manipulating him, not when she so desperately needed his help.

 

[Verse]

She was a rewarding weight for only being a feather, when he stole her into the closet. The small amount of air in here, when he locked it in with the closing of the door, was filled with her confusion. Pretty things are lovelier when they don't know what to do with themselves. The dark parts of him, the ones that father told him to use but never lose to, delighted in the bewildered eyes of widows he'd made, before desperation set in. People guarded their fortunes so their Duelists could only win the bounty of the duel, or even just whatever their employer paid, but they could not guard their hearts from the outcome. And there had only ever been one outcome for the Choirling son, after he entered the path, ushered in by his father. Those triumphs had only cost him everything. And he won now, too. Odessya was not so formidable in physical altercations. He played with her easily, danced with her well. Yes, as a feather, she followed the winds of his hands, first turned away and gagged, and then turned around and against him. What a luxury it was to play with her like this. Her legs parted well, and he pushed himself against her womanhood. It was electric to the touch, the way his body recognized that it was indeed this girl that he was molesting, barely even in secret. He pushed her up the wall like they were fucking. So much emotion in her blue eyes, still precious stones, trying to light this private darkness. His chest filled with pride, it diluted his anger, when she knew who he was, among the other men who spilled blood for coin. Her ilk liked to talk about reputation, how a man may build himself. Make a name. To them, the Chiorlings had been helpers, keepers of the perimeter of their home; something of high quality but no grand heritage. But now their daughter knew his toil, the things he did, and did well, after they had left him. He didn't know what answer he wanted while he stood, steady for them both. She looked good with a knife at her throat. She did not scream when she could. Her explanation was paltry, but her expression gave him more. He was an obelisk of determination, propping her up between himself and the fate he would have for her. Society ladies knew how to lie. In his mind, he had dubbed the girl he knew a liar, but now it felt like an after construction. A false memory of the dead. "Didn't try very hard though, did you, Madame?" he accused bitterly. The knife lifted but only to cross its broad side over her lips, taking on the fog from the nostrils. He saw himself in that steel. "This is not a place for you, Odette." His swan that flew. "And you would not have come unless you needed something." his voice was colder, settling into the truth he was speaking. "I meet women like you all the time." he lamented and drew the weapon away from her face. "They're desperate. It makes them taste better." he said and directed the tip of the blade between her lips, having her open them or be cut. He would place the flat of the metal to depress her tongue. He wanted her entirely compromised. The tip moved closer to the back of her mouth. His hips stayed tight to hers, keeping her thighs parted. He got to guess on her intimate anatomy. And then he retracted the knife once again, letting her breathe, letting her speak. "Tell me. What brought you down here, from your beautiful estate and polished floors?" he asked as he kept her eyes in his, and slid the blade over his own tongue, so as to not waste her spit.

 

[Amberyn]

Some of Rygaby’s suggestive remarks were not entirely wrong. Odessya was no pure flower, a fact that might have saved her from Livingston if admitting such a thing wasn’t abhorrent. In another lifetime, it might have been the scoundrel currently pinning her to a wall who might have been her first lover. However, life was rarely that kind, and it had been another young man who had filled that role for her. All this meant that she knew exactly what position she was in, and what was pressing against her core. She wished she could have said that she had imagined this scenario, and again, if events had played out differently, then she might have done. Instead, by the time that such thoughts had entered Odessya’s head, she had put away childish things… one of which was the boy in front of her. The boy who was most definitely now a man, and one whose closeness made her blush. And he saw through the charade of polite words and apologies. He demanded the truth, and she gave it in the way she averted her gaze, unable to meet his stare. The knife slid from her throat only to appear at her mouth, and with a tremble she forced herself to peer at him from beneath golden lashes. Hope bloomed in her chest, her head tilting ever so carefully in a nod. Yes, she needed help. She needed him. Or was that something else? Refusing to give a name to that feeling, she stuffed the rebellious thought to the back of her mind. Rygaby kept talking, and the knife moved again, and the golden-haired swan started to relax. She didn't care about the other women; she wanted to tell him, ignoring the insidious voice that called her a liar. “I do-” the knife silenced her, her wide eyes nearly crossing as he pushed the tip against her mouth. Her lips parted at the threat of bloodshed, and he continued until it pressed against her tongue, forcing it to lie still. A tremble threatened to break out, and Odessya locked her muscles in an effort to keep from slicing her tongue open. The blade edged towards the back of her throat in a perverse act that terrified her. Aqua eyes beseeched him to stop, tears spilling out to flow down her cheeks. The pressure on her tongue vanished, the knife disappearing, and the lady would have collapsed if it weren’t for Rygaby holding her. Her hands fell against his chest as she caught her breath, and when she realised what she was doing, she snatched them back, holding them to her chest. Shakily, she watched him… was he licking the taste of her off the knife? She felt bile burn the back of her throat and coughed gently, one palm splaying at her throat. “There is a Duke..” she began, her throat hoarse, and she coughed delicately again, “Livingston. He wants my hand in marriage…” Anger rose in her, mixing with an older fear, one that had nothing to do with the duelist before her. There was disgust too, and her tone turned acid as she continued. “He is older, much older, and his young wives have a tendency to die or disappear. I don’t want to - I will not - be his next victim, but he will not be persuaded from his course.” Odessya met his gaze. “I need a duelist,” she repeated.

 

[Verse]

She had all those pretty mysteries on her face when he pelted her with accusation. He knew this allure. It was part innocent, because she couldn't know all of what it did to men. But she knew part of it, too. His beloved little childhood memory had grown up into a gorgeous, corseted beast, just like the others. Like the daughters of houses that brought down other houses. Like the jilted mistresses that offered him their sorely earned jewelry to humiliate their lovers, who hadn't given them more. He looked at her with an animal's eyes. Taking her in, studying her liked the enemy, or his next meal. Where were the lovely giggles when he made homely jokes about scrubbing his knees, because she only knew the pricking of her fingers with her embroidery needles to compare? She was this, now. Lovely enough to make a knot in his stomach, jolting desire through his manhood. Perhaps she had shaped his tastes because her certainly saw the likeness between her and the women he paid for. His preference. Golden hair and lashes. But he got to silence her silver tongue when those eyes glimmered with hope. Her misery was delicious. This was something he enjoyed crushing. Pretty tears down her cheeks to her jaw when she realized things weren't going to be as easy as that. Her breath fogged up his blade as he inserted in into her. If he wanted, he could take her now, see her die for something as simple and deft as this weapon. With his cock holding her up between their layers of clothing. She was a bit savvy with her legs, wasn't she? Not a harlot but nothing too inexperienced either. That brought about a twinge that felt a lot like bloodlust, to him. She had always been mischievous for a child. They had both been. Her for being with him, playing rough. And him with her, for reading, and touching silk. And now she was in the lower district, fraternizing. Hah. Some things never changed. But he had learned from that, hadn't he? She breathed like he'd fucked her when he took the blade back. Maybe she felt herself rise a little against the wall for how much it made his manhood swell to support her. He watched her while his tongue was out to clean his blade. So, she could be appalled, still? It made him smile around his swallowing of her saliva. He listened casually when she spilled herself on the matter. He put the blade away. Her hand at her throat drew his eyes lower. "So, the ordeal with Livingston is you?" he asked. It would have been monotone if not for the spikes of amusement. He searched her face for lies, but saw the logic in believing her. He let her down. It was abrupt and sudden enough that he might be able to see any of her assets jiggle for him. He stood at what little distance he could, for their breaths still to reach the other. He corrected himself like he was about to leave. It was purely theatrical, since when does riffraff care about the set of their collar when exiting closets from lovely belles? Her scents had filled this place up. He could stay and satisfy himself, and be happy. "I'll tell you this for free." said and looked at her. "Duke Livingston is a fair fighter himself. He has interest in Dueling like he does in hunting. It's not that uncommon in my neck of the woods." Men for sport. What was Dueling if not that? But mostly human hearts guard themselves from venturing too far into it. Duke hearts are not as disciplined. Life in opulence fosters poor restraint. "He employs the Tennant's." he said. "Big Duelist collective." They hid under one name, but would name members for their skill, they were more like a syndicate that operated under Duelist banner. "They have great fighters and they have great numbers." he said like she should care. "You will not find a good, sane Duelist who will fight one of them, for fear of all of them. And you cannot find enough of us to fight all of them." he said. What was this flash of images, of him going through their ranks, looking for weaknesses? Why was he trying to make it make sense now? The Tennants were an army, and up until now, beyond even his own hubris. He turned to her fully after having looked at their tight surroundings like they were more interesting. She was shorter now that he didn't hold her up. Just a little thing in a world that was vaster than her parlors and restaurants. How lovely she was, like a sad, fading violin stroke. "You could find a madman to soothe your hope or to believe you fulfilled some sisterly duty." he offered, pandering. "But the result will be the same. Tennant can be dealt with for individual dusts depending on the member. But your Duke has all of them under his coin." It was true. It was universal fact among Duelists. Then why was Rygaby Chiorling wondering what his weapons would look like, going through their numbers? And what his childhood friend, grown and lovely, would look like, begging for him to do it?

 

[Amberyn]

Odessya had just spilt her heart out, and he had the nerve to respond with amusement. The ordeal he called it, as if it was some elaborate scheme she had devised for attention. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance, only to widen in surprise as he released her abruptly. She fell back against the wall, breathing heavily, hands at her sides, braced against the wall. Eyes flicking to the door, she felt an overwhelming need to leave and put some distance between her and her former friend. But she was too unsteady on her feet to move. He offered her advice, for free, he said, and with every word her heart sank. No, this wasn’t right. A duelist was supposed to fix everything; it was her way out. Odessya’s expression grew more horrified the more Rygaby told her, to the point that she almost begged him to stop. No wonder her other suitors had backed off. She knew the Duke was politically savvy, but to know he was so immersed in the world of duelists…. “St-stop,” she whispered, sliding down the wall until she met the floor, head in her hands. There was enough gold to pay for one duelist, for one, maybe two jobs if she was careful. A whole group? Out of the question. If anyone would go against these Tennants that Rygaby was talking about.From what he was saying, no one would, not even him, the fabled ‘Chanteur’. Her head shot up at the mention of sisterly duty. Is that what he thought this was? Did he not understand that she didn’t want this? That she had made no overtures at all, done nothing to catch the Duke’s attention apart from existing?! Breaking his gaze, Odessya stared past him, eyes heavy with tears. She realised at that moment she’d been expecting him to offer to help her, to save the day and make everything fine. Like Rygaby had done when they were children, showing her the unpolished, street-wise solution. That was then, and the renewed agony of the loss of him compounded her despair. He wasn’t on her side anymore, and that weighed her down just as much as the hard truths he had shared. Dragging herself to her feet, she swayed, one hand braced on the wall behind her and the other lifting as if to grab hold of him for support. She pulled up just shy of touching him, letting her hand drop away. Odessya straightened, forcing herself to blink back tears and lifted her chin. There were other options; there had to be. She would go to her brother, and they would work something out. Maybe there was another option, another city, or something. “I won’t waste any more of your time then, Mister Choirling,” she told him, her tone cool, her eyes lingering on his dagger for a split second. No, she wouldn’t go there, not yet. Not until she had no choice… because one thing Odessya Harrington was quite certain of was that death by choice was better than losing her life to a man like Livingston.

 

[Verse]

He got to cut men down. It was a dark pleasure his training and suffering afforded him, sometimes it cost him part of the lining that protected his soul from his afterlife, but he always made it through. A delicious danger, with a regrettable but very real and addictive rush. Seeing her disintegrate from just his words was lovely, new. This was how her caste fought. How they spilled blood without getting their silk gloves dirty. But it was the truth too. He let her down, feet on the floor, but she crumpled further. She was about the same height as when he'd known her, last. He had dreamed of the woman she'd become, brought this low. It tasted much better than he thought it would. Look at her breathing, like she was drowning. There were things her money couldn't buy. Rygaby watched her fall apart, sans her legs. Cutting her down was good, too. The Tennants were legion. The Duke tried to be absolute. This, here, was the best they'd ever brought Rygaby; Odessya below him. He had felt this crushed when her family left him. He had prayed feverishly to have this revenge, when he could have nothing else, when he had to fight other little boys and then grown men before it was his time, so he could be forged into this killer. In the depths of his heart he wondered if it might have been worth it, to build this desire, and to have it satisfied in a tavern closet. This was the closest he'd ever been to forgiving his circumstances. And all he had to do to see it done was nothing at all; leave her to it. A true privilege. The wine fumes that Big Stan's punches hadn't chased away carried that pleasurable feeling in Rygaby's blood. He let it flit through him, and he thought what other celebrations his old friend would be good for. She got up like a revenant. But she inflated on the way. They were bad, lacking breaths, but they got her up. He had a wretched song going through his nerves when she reached for him, and he would have reached back if he had the strength for it, to tear through the curtain of his own stubbornness. There was still honey to be scooped out of the carcass of he life, now. When she stood, and thought he could leaver her to look forward to the misery of trying and failing in other places, but he knew he wouldn't let her go. He had dealt with this kind of desperation before. It had bought him his arsenal and many nights of stupor. This kind of desperation was why there was a house in his name. She buckled under more of his words and then she thought she'd leave. But he saw the way she eyed the dagger. He nodded with wolves teeth behind his poor gentleman act. "Interested, madame?" he asked and got it closer to her, turning the pommel for her to hold the handle, he pinched it by the guard so she could take it if she wanted. His arm barred her from going to the door, hand on the wall that had supported her. He still thought of the images that flashed when she was sat on the floor. He knew what he wanted. "Might as well take it, use it. Because that's all that's out there for you, Odette." he said and nuzzled her cheek violently, to pin her head between his arm and his face. "Do you know the royal army? Because short of that, there is only obliteration for you and your brother." he went on. It was easy because it was all there was, indeed. "Despite all of this, you did the right thing, coming to me." he said and wrapped his hand around the back of her head, cradling her skull like he was finally comforting her. It could have been sweet and firm, like a man should be for a beautiful woman like her, if the dagger's handle wasn't caught between his palm and her hair. "I'll be death for you, the way they like to talk about me in the alleys. When wronged, poor people cuss at their offenders." he said. He had always wanted to be that god of death that they had spun him as. "I slayed those goblins for you in our clearing, didn't I?" a game he liked to play, and they liked to referenced every time he got to be gallant. "But in return..." his fingers dug harder into her skull, pressing the details of the handle as though to imprint them on her scalp. "You will be mine. Your gold and silver and jewels. But your body too. Your darling brother will be safe, and I'll deal out my brand of friendliness to whichever Tannants may come, and eventually the Duke himself. But for that, you must pay with everything." he said and finally let her go, to look at her face. "The Choirling boy, to your rescue again, Madame. Isn't that fair?" And his face was cured of his liquid sins and hard-knuckle transgressions. There was only dirt and a shadow of a beard left on his features, along with the deeds that he had done to stay alive, and stand before her now. A dapper Rothbart, in the business of acquiring a good, desperate swan.

 

[Amberyn]

Odessya should not have been surprised that Rygaby noticed her eyeing his weapon. He had always been an attentive child, noticing things that others did not. Offering it to her, she stared at the shiny surface of the blade as if she could use it to divine an answer to this mess. Did he know the thoughts that ran through her head were of self-harm, or did he think she wanted to pierce the heart of the Duke? Fury seized her, and she considered it, albeit for a moment. The idea gripped her hard enough that her hand rose unbidden as if to accept the proffered weapon. She drew her hand back quickly to her side in astonishment, dismay staining her features. His words pricked her like a knife, and once more she moved to leave only to find his arm barring the way. Suddenly he was close again; when had that happened? Odessya breathed him in, caught in the corner of his arm and cheek, his face rubbing against hers. It would have been sweet if not for the violence of his words, each one driving home the truth of his statement. Take it, use it… all that’s out there for you. Her head twisted in his grip to tilt curiously up at him, a wariness lingering in her eyes. She hadn’t come for him, per se, but if it helped her cause for him to believe that, then she was not going to dissuade him of the notion. With dagger still in hand, he held her head, too close for Odessya to hide her shock at his proclamation. The way he spoke, so different from the boy she once knew, did little to settle her emotions. The mention of their childhood game sent a jolt through her. Oh, how innocent they had been, playing at life and death without understanding the reality of it. The memory of him gallantly defending her was at odds with the stranger standing improperly close. Rygaby’s fingers tightened on the back of her head, driving the handle of his dagger into her skin, embedding its outline on her skin. It drew a pained gasp from her, and her eyelids lowered, lashes fluttering. She tried to wrestle her pounding heart back under control, and utterly failed as Rygaby delivered his demands. Gold and silver and jewels, he named, and she almost laughed, swallowing the bitter sound. There was none, not in the way he seemed to think. Her mouth opened to say as much, but he wasn’t done. Staring at him with round-saucer eyes, her jaw snapped closed. He finished his list, promising to save both her and her brother… all she had to do was pay him. With her body. “You… you wish to bed me?” she asked, her voice tainted with incredulity, not at the thought of lying with a man of his standing. No, it was that he wanted to have her in that way that startled her. “I’m not sure the Duke cares if I am… damaged goods or not,” she added. “He has not questioned my purity, not once.” Livingston had insisted that he knew everything about her and Daniel, his tone insinuating that he knew she was not a virgin. It was a clever idea, and with most men it would have stopped them in their tracks. Because that was what Rygaby meant, wasn’t it? Why else would he bring it up? Livingston was not a usual man, even more so than Odessya had suspected. This meeting with Rygaby had been most illuminating. “I can pay you,” she forged on, “There isn’t much left, not like when we lived in the city. I will give you what I can.”

 

[Verse]

When she looked at the dagger there was kinship between them. A connection that hadn't been there for years. They had been bound by games and familiarity, and, as it is with children, an amount of mischief. This was that. But as adults there were other taboo things than throwing rocks and leaving marks on pristine structures on her estate. Adults think and play with life itself. This dagger was such a toy. He saw contemplation in her blue eyes, cut through with the shining shape of the blade. It was turned inward, that desire, wasn't it? How strangely satisfying to have her take it, to have her accept it. Why was it erotic to him, having coaxed her to reach, to wrap her fingers around the handle - was she part of him now, the bloodied parts? But before she could sign the deed, before she was of it, she retreated. He reacted because he had to. He wanted it now. She needed to plunge her heart into his world. What if he could corrupt her like that? There was so much white snow in her that he needed to put his print in, and to speckle with red. Some death, any death, her own especially. So he cut her off from her possible escape, and held her in a very possessive grasp. She didn't thrash. She just listened to him. Finally. He held her head to him. It could have been tender if it wasn't lecherous. Here was his price, after he had told her he was the only possible thing between her and the duke and the Tennants. She looked at him like he was a new religion, and whether she had the choice to convert or not. The knife at the back of her head should confirm the gravity of her refusal, as though there wasn't one already chasing her here, to the Yonder Silver tavern, to begin. He was teaching her of her own desperation, wasn't he? For women, in these times, it usually came down to this. At least he'd bid a good price for hers. A twinge in his own eyes when she answered like she did. He thought it was bravery at first. But then he realized it was something else. Suddenly it was within his grasp. Some kind of satisfaction, the need for which had been growing in him. He already knew her societal secret by the way she'd shifted on him, when he lifted her against the wall. A secret held by hidden lips. This was not what he'd meant. Her lighthearted attitude toward it, her acceptance; had he wanted her to be miserable? Appalled? So, there would be some sweet to this bitter. He thought about it for a moment. Suddenly there was some lightness between them, a heartbeat where he could think and retract his weapons. She was open to anything. Wasn't that just typical, now that she was the one who needed help? Now everything would do. He suppose he could accept. He would live like a king compared to now, even with the diminished riches of her estate. "Then, pay me." He said and softened his hold on her, a bit reluctantly, a bit expectantly. The dagger slid from her skull, through her tresses. She stood on her own once more. He brought the tip to the outer edge of her jaw, under her ear, and then he let the tip drop down to follow the valley between her windpipe and the collum of blood. All the way to where she'd tied her cloak. Any attempt at speech until then would be shut down with a click of his tongue. He looked her over meanwhile, considering his price, as though he didn't already know what he'd have her pay. Her face was so beautiful he almost forgot how she left him behind. Almost. "Everything you have on your person right now will do, for a start." And if her sheltered life prevented her from understanding, she might fathom what he wanted when he sliced through the knot and her cloak fell away. He looked her up and down, now that her full dress was uncovered. He tested the tip of the dagger against the end of his eyebrow. What kind of body had she grown into? "Let's see this swan without her feather shroud." He said and drew a circle in the air with the dagger, a deft duelist wrist, meaning for her to strip.