Wolves Hunting Wolves~ Sir Broken && Evette

[Evette]

The crooked cobble stone streets and the tired walkers that traversed upon them were wrought with the season’s first kiss of snow. Laughter and joviality peppered the atmosphere of the warm inns, taverns and shops that lined the main road of the small village. ‘Twas early for such a visit from frosty Grandfather Winter, but it was welcomed. The summer had been hot, humid and bloody, and it was only when Fall swept the lands with golds and yellows did the war between the South and North Kingdoms finally extinguish.

Lady Summer’s danced, this time, for four years; the Children of Fall had played for three and now Grandfather Winter’s time– only the prophets knew. The long winter that was to be expected was one of peace and recovery. The Northern Kingdom of Marian was rich with the spoils of the Southern crops, farmlands, silks, cotton and stones- and of course, to mention – the castle. What was once the Kingdom of Lavare was now Marian, the two crowns one– and now the Pyralis family reigned over all. No more war was ever to come again, as the last great enemy slained. The coming of snow washed away all the death; the innocence of the white blanket of cold redeeming the land again.

The King was old, loved and dying – on his death bed, everyone heralded King Jovwen as a hero and an honorable man; Jovwen The Uniter, they called him, and soon his son, Avix was to take his place. Honor replacing honor, the great Prince was seen upon with much optimism; his young sister and wife – Attika, were the new guardians of the land of peace, their names on the lips of many toasts, and written on the hearts of the land.

“Long live the fires of Pyralis!” “To the King and Queen of new!”

A young gypsy played her song in the corner of the Olde Dragoon Tavern, a curtain of crimson locks shadowed her face as she played the sitar with delicate finger tips. The song dancing through the room like a pleasant wind, hardly noticed by those with warmed bellies of Shindenfer ale and sweet, Lavarian wines. Another round of steins was passed around by the old Tavern Keeper, Lady Denrie, the tavern particularly filled this night with the likes of anybody wanting a taste of the new shipments. The abundance of the men were in good spirits, lifting the old fat woman’s skirts playfully, tipping fatly, and telling war stories. Not even old strong Lady Denrie could kick out the drunkards to the road, too busy entertaining the habits of Sir Venn and his knights tonight, the men like her long lost children, they demanded her motherly attention on the far side of the room.

The tavern keeper too busy to notice anything more, the girl she had hired last week had stopped her sitar playing and instead propped it up to lean upon. She listened with small ears to the feelings of the few that stood out in the crowd, her intelligent eyes lazily pouring over the men in rags and mail alike. The keen girl made note that not everyone in the room was drinking for peace tonight.

Her name was Ambrosia, and she had the cleanest hair of any peasant seen on this side of Pyra Road. Her eyes were that of summer green, and she was young and alone, once only with the company of astrayed gypsies down the road, she abandoned them for the shelter of Lady Denrie and her fire. Her hood covered the shock of long, red curls that poured from her shoulders and would have otherwise heralded the attention of any dark-haired Marian that she entangled with. Her heart shaped face was thinned with grim and shadowed in poor lantern light, a cold and lusty ambition lit her green irises as she waited and watched the scene quietly. It had been a month for her to get used to the dirt, another few weeks to get used to the fleas, but within the week, she had learned to count her blessings. Gods be with her if she had to leave this place without help, done with the attention of the Pyra male gypsies and their wagon, done with the followings of cravens and the thirsts of bandits.

Licking her pale lips, she let her tongue taste her teeth as she searched for the man that would leave this place as her sword. No, she would not be stupid again. Ladies did not wander alone in Marian, that she knew, but it was harder than she thought to employ good help anymore. Men were animals, and she had been too innocent, too trusting, and all ready within the month she had been penniless and sore. Power was hard to find when one did not have it to begin with. What did the castle kennelmaster always say to her? It took wolves to hunt wolves.

And she smiled a wicked smile, one that reminisced of a royal’s pride. Tilting her small head back lazily, her hood fell to her shoulders, getting a better view of that which she craved – eyes cross haired upon the silhouette of something delicious. It was a man in front on the east side of the bar, Ambrosia’s vision lacing his broad shoulders and mail, the weapon he held and the utter loneliness that impregnated his atmosphere.

“A knight..?” she breathed, raising a delicate brow. But Sir Venn took no notice to the man (which was even better, more attention for her); radius of empty space surrounding the figure like death, and she wondered if perhaps he was feared? I hope so she thought as she stood with fervor. Her sandals were light upon the aged wooden floors, her skirts dragging behind her silently as she approached; the transient walked with the posture of someone that knew exactly what she wanted, and where she was going to get it.

Destination: the stool beside him; she sat her sitar by her feet and touched her chin to a small palm nonchalantly. A curtain of crimson hid all of her profile aside from the tip of her small nose, and the fullness of lips. She could not quite see him, nor did she want to yet, wanting to savor the taste of company first. Perhaps she didn’t even want him, after all..

Ambrosia began with a small, sheepish smile to one in particular, though she was obviously talking to him. Her voice was quiet and playful, and she looked longingly at the Lavarian rose wine within arms reach.

“Busy night.. I am tempted to reach around the bar and favor m’self a glass. I love the old hag, but attention is due on cold nights, I think.. leaving girls to their playthings,” she said in gesture to the instrument at her ankles,”..even they can grow thirsty.” The last word like a food she could taste upon her lips, it lingered in the air for moment before she went on.

She tilted her head, tucking her hair behind her ears, Ambrosia walked her eyes across the bar counter over the features of his arms resting atop. “What do you say, sir? Would you like one?”

 

[Broken Knight]

It was neither the world, nor the time that one could simply be happy and about his own way. For as long as beings could stand on their own legs, they'd fight for whatever they felt belonged to them. Many things could 'belong' to someone as well. Religion, wealth, even other beings could be owned, should society deem it appropriate. So, beings fought, bled and killed for what 'belonged' to one another. It wouldn't be such a problem if they didn't drag others into it. Kings and Queens would always drag their subjects into their own conflicts, families drag their brethren, the list is as long as one's tongue.

How he got dragged into war, Rio wasn't entirely ever sure. Sometimes it was money, sometimes it was virtue, sometimes it was just sheer stupidity. It didn't matter much to him, he always came out alive, and that's all that was important to him any more. Money helped keep him fed, watered and sheltered. Fighting kept him alive in most cases. As wars raged on, his kind dwindled further and further.

His kind. Wolves, big, ferocious and dominating on the battlefield. He alone was 6'1" and 200lbs of sheer muscle mass. He carried a long, thin sword that looked well worn even from the hilt. It wasn't oft that he pulled the blade from its scabbard any longer, mostly relying on fangs and claws to do the work for him. A lot of regular, untrained humans would seize up in fear in sight of the wolf charging them down. Blood was a flavor that he often tasted. Wolves were so rare those days that he rarely met another on the field, either on his side- or the enemy.

He wore chain mail over his upper body, arms and upper legs, mostly to protect him from stray arrows or a deft blade that got behind him or past his own. Although on that night, his weapon of choice was the hard liquor in his paw. His fingers curled the wood carved glass, a large jar of the strong ale near him on the counter, it took quite a bit more for him to enjoy the comforts of alcohol than it did the equivalent human.

That was not his issue at the moment, however. The young human female sitting on his right was. The first thought that popped into his mind was simple; Another human, what could this one possibly want? A shilling says I can guess. He thought to himself. Wolves were only good for one thing, so a human cozying up to him must've wanted that one thing out of him.

"Ah don't drink, darlin'." The wolf said with a thick accent. That, in and of its self, was a dirty lie. He was obviously drinking, and quite a bit at that. It was like a very obvious passive aggressive way of saying 'Leave me alone.' For some reason, he didn't think it would work terribly well with this female. His tail flicked a little with his annoyance, but he hadn't yet told her to piss off. Maybe it was because he was bored, maybe it was because he found her cute for a human. Either way, sometimes persistence paid off, although the wolf didn't seem to much enjoy small talk.

"So, if'n yah might get to what yah've come over 'ere for, we can get your 'ittle arse on over to some boyo with the boiler lit for yah." Rio says to her, still not having once directly looked at the girl. He didn't seem much interested in her physical appearance. There was no need to be, humans always had one reason for him, and left in two ways. Paying him in heaps of money, or leaving angry. He didn't care either way. Of course, there was those few times where they'd try to force him to do what they wanted. Rio enjoyed those moments, they came so rarely, and it was obvious how they ended- he was still free. It all brought him to the wonder of how this girl would leave. She didn't seem like she had a terrible amount of money to her...

 

[Evette]

Her heavily lashed eyes drank in the sight of claws and fur wrapped tenderly around a glass jar of strong dark ale. The dying embers of the firepit emitted a flush of orange that entangled the fur, looking more unreal than real, and Ambrosia felt her breathe hitch in her chest; for a moment no air escaped her lips. Fear whispered a cold chill upon her neck, and an inkling of excitement touched the beating of her heart.

It is moments such as these that test the blood what we are made of, isn’t it, dear? She though laughably to herself, trying to comb through the unease that threatened to botch her plans. Ambrosia was no warrior, but that just meant her weapons weren’t a sword or steel. She was not one to scared away or intimidated by just anything. Courage could come in many forms: stupidity, mischief or even, at times, boldness, and Ambrosia galvanized her feelings, taking in the wholeness of his forearm, following her eyes up his bicep, armored shoulder and finally, a glance at his face. Peering over her clothed shoulder, she flickered her eyes over his, mustering all of her fear and turning it into something else, something more dangerous. This wolf was her challenge, and in this instance, her eyes revealed no fear. Instead, a playful smile touched her lips.

Ambrosia was not new to the taste of mischief, never really doing as she was told in her previous life, and getting used to the new skin in brightly colored skirts, scabbed knees and dirt-beneath-the-fingernails was nothing she couldn’t handle. Not to mention, being unlady like enough to sit on a bar counter, was something she could get away with as Ambrosia the transient, not Ambrosia the lady.

Smiling at his obvious lamentable attempt to divert her attentions, she did just that. Turning herself around, she pushed herself up onto the wooden bar top, facing him now with crossed legs and exposed knees. Peacock green and caramel brown skirts lifted to just above her shins, naked ankles and sandaled feet.

“You must be mad, then,” she said, amused, reaching back she deftly grabbed a bottle of Marian Ale; the gypsy’s back arched against a red corset as she leaned back deftly, revealing her wears of a loose chocolate dress and baggy sleeves. Her skin wholly clothed saved for the naked skin of her legs, she turned to face him completely, knowing now that she could take in his full appearance.

She played along with his sobriety then, drawing her eyes from his to the glass in his fingers, Ambrosia carefully reached down to place her hand over his, tilting the large glass to an angle so that she may refill it. “..As you see..” she began, “only mad men can turn away a lovely kiss of ale on this ‘ere Winter’s Eve. Perhaps you are in no need of warmth, then? When the cold comes, love, it ain’t that lovely coat that will keep you warm when it grows dark an’ fires die.”

Again, she smiled, pulling her own glass from behind the counter and pouring herself a second. She placed her chin on her palm, delicate fingers over her lips as she turned her attentions back to the warrior-beast. A heart beat of silence as she drank in his appearance again, though with a friendliness, she tapped her mug to his, the head spilling slightly as she did so.

“I am not interested in boyos, stranger,” a flash of white teeth crept her mouth as amusement laced her dried petal-like lips. “Pardon me, for I never learned to make introductions save after a drink to make a stranger no longer a stranger. Sparked my curiosity, you did.” She then turned her head to one side and lifted the glass, taking a large sip, wiping the frothy head from her chin. The gypsy turned her sights upon him again, the fire light hitting the soft contours of her face, the olive-tone of her skin and the green of her eyes and spark that lit them. “The name is Ambrosia, sir, that is ahm-bro-zuh, and I am not from around here much.” She leaned back slightly, tilting her head to one side, waves of red hair falling around her face.

His face was shadowed in a silhouette, leaving her in a deep wonder. The mystery made her afraid, though Ambrosia wore the fear like armor, loaded her arsenal with it and made the fear the give power to her crouch to have him for herself. Fear could be useful, and it made the prize more desirable.

“The question is, where did you come from?” she challenged audaciously, wondering the nature of whom she knew was not just a man.