[Exalted] The Dragon's Spite
- Thread starter EarthScorpion
- Start date
- Mature Fantasy
I'm not disagreeing with you, and although the completionist in me would want to bag the real culprit, Rena's objective is remaining secure (and comfy, and pampered, and surrounded with docile, devoted pretty boys...) while recovering and building up her power back. Settling that matter is more important than solving the case.
XXX. Violence and Sex
XXX. Violence & Sex
Look, the title is pretty clear. There's graphic sex in this chapter, under the spoiler blocks. Also bloody violence, though somewhat less graphic and not in the same section.
Would you believe me if I claim I didn't deliberately pace the arc so chapter 30 could have this warning?
This time, you are the one stepping into the duelling circle in the temple. The jansi are here, packed into this room that stinks of burnt meat. The great statue of the ak-Kinzira god wafts smoke from his nostrils; his belly glows cherry-red. You can feel the heat from here. The light only touches the gloomy corners of the room enough to cast long shadows, which dance as the crowd moves.
The air is stifling hot, the Cahzori warmth taken to a dry roast by the temple and its sacrifices. But the stone under foot is cold; as cold as the grave.
And people fall silent as you enter. It's not like the last duel. That was sport. People were tipsy and joking around and laying bets on the outcome. If they've been doing that, it's already occurred. Or maybe it's not something that'll happen for this one. Maybe it's even in bad taste.
Because you can feel it in the air. Everyone here knows that they are going to see a death tonight. There's this hunger. The hunger of a cat that's seen something small and chirping out in the gardens. The jansi can smell the fore-echoes of blood, and it's whetted their appetites.
What do they see when they look at you? What do they think of you? You meet Inaam ak-Kas's eyes, and she at least has the guts to not look away. There's no guilt in her eyes; only a sort of dark glee. She thinks she's killed you. Killed you without getting her hands dirty. Just like one of those desert beasts that flock to a carcass to get the food without risking anything on the chase and the hunt.
Yes. You know her for what she is. And you even respect that, of a sort. She can't help her nature. No more than any rabid dog.
The crowd parts, and you see Hilmi ad-Dib there, waiting for you in the duelling ring. They're sprinkled fresh chalk dust over the ring's floor. He's stripped down, wearing only a leather loincloth and sandals whose leather bindings rise to the knee. The marks of his battle with Haitham are obvious. The long gash down his right forearm and the line on his chest stand out, ugly and livid in the lantern-light. His back must be in a similar condition. He's wiped off the lip paint he was using to cover the split lip's scab.
Things to remember. Things to take advantage of.
"So you didn't run like a mewling she-cat, witch," he calls out in greeting. Such as it is. He probably can't manage anything better.
You say nothing as you take your place in the ring. He is trembling. Faintly, but it is there. You don't think it is pain. Neither is it fear. No, you've seen this a few times before. You suspect he's taken stimulants, to numb the pain of his wounds from Haitham's blade - and to counter the pain of any blows you strike. You're not sure which herb he's ingested, but those things tend to share traits. He'll likely be more impatient, more agitated; maybe even able to power through the pain of your venom. You won't be able to trust that agony will incapacitate him.
One of the younger ak-Kinzira clears his throat, cradling a box. You try to remember his name, this greasy-looking young man who's running to fat, but it simply hasn't registered. "We are here this evening to settle… s-settle accusations of murder." You hear his voice shake from nerves. You wonder why. "Meira, of the Sayu family and a stranger to our lands, and Hilmi ad-Dib have vowed to fight to the death. Here, within this ring, in the eyes of the gods. Kamis, bless us and bring truth to this matter."
You pace forwards, eyes locked on Hilmi. "This man murdered my lover, Haitham ad-Dib, so that he could steal back the black jade-steel knife he had lost to him in a duel. A duel that he still wears the wounds from." Your words sets off a buzz of voices in the temple. "The Dragons will see my vengeance through and will see justice done."
Hilmi tenses up, his dark eyes narrowing. "This foreign witch accuses me of murder, has sought to slander my name and frame me for a murder. When in truth, it was her that did it! Your blood will feed the gods, and they will devour your lying soul."
"Shameless," you say softly, shaking your head. "Is that all you can do? Lie and lie and lie?"
"Look now how she breaks the form of the challenge!" Hilmi appeals to the crowd, to the onlookers. "She can't stop with her poisoned words."
"She is a foreigner," Sadia interjects quickly. "She doesn't know the intricacies of a challenge." She glances at the Kinzira. "We should move on."
"Yes, yes, quiet down, everyone. Their… um, seconds have come to an agreement that it will be done with the bronze knives of Kamis, as offered by ak-Kinzira." He opens the catch of the box, revealing two fine and well-polished bronze knives, sitting on red fabric. "Take your weapons."
So Sadia couldn't restrict it to fighting with your bare hands. Honestly, you had been over-optimistic to try. When you were fighting to the death, no one had any reason to fight with bare hands - unless someone had a lethal trick that the other didn't. You should have thought of that.
Hilmi takes a knife first, stalking back to his side of the ring. You take yours, testing its weight in your hand. The grip is slightly worn, but it should be good. The blade is long for a knife, with a slight curve to it. Its edge is a razor.
The Kinzira man scurries out of the way between the two of you. "On the chiming of the bell, you may start - and may the gods ensure that justice is seen through," he says. You only barely hear him.
They're here. Watching you. Not just Sadia, behind you. Everyone else you've met at this party. Everyone is here. Even little Inaan.
You'll give them a spectacle. Something that shows them you are not some weakling stranger. You are not dying here, not here, not now. Not after crossing the world after escaping the Immaculate Order and House Ferem. Not because you were falsely accused, of all things.
If the world had any justice then you'll die in your bed at a ripe old age. But if it has the justice that fools claim it has, then at least you'll die because of something you actually did. It's too humiliating any other way.
"Ready to die, witch?" Hilmi growls.
Why does he keep saying that? It's not like anyone here actually know you're a sorceress. You don't say anything back. You just look at him, with your expression as doll-like and perfect as a Cheraki child in the presence of her elders is meant to achieve.
"Well? Why don't you say something?" Oh, your silence is agitating him. He bounces up and down on his toes. You'll need to watch for those sandals. "Nothing to say, witch? Seductress? Murderer?"
Your heart seethes, but you simply look at him, eyes focussed not on his face, but at his jugular. He doesn't like that. He twists, taking up a stance that you recognise. That's Blazing Bull style; his arms resemble the horns, able to grab as easily as he stabs. He's a wrestler, and his stockier build reinforces that. He's not using the Sword-Wind style you saw in the last fight.
Interesting.
You sink into your Peacock school stance; weight forwards, back arched, your arms out wide ready to fend off blows or bring them in. You can feel the strain in your muscles. They're protesting at you from the wounds and the withering of old talent. Your left thigh aches along the scar. Your posture is poor; this is a poorly weighted knife for this school; you have no flowing sleeves or corded off-hand weapons to disguise your movements or bind.
"Peacock?" He recognises this too. "Peacock? A weakling's style." He laughs, and oh there it is, the relief in his voice. He was scared. And now he's less scared. "I thought you were going to try to kill me."
The jansi take up a beat. Not clapping, exactly. One hand open, the underside of the other hand, balled into a fist. The motion you'd make when stabbing someone overarm.
The bell chimes; deep, old, sonorous. The beat fills your ears. It drowns out the sound of your bare feet against the chalk-sprinkled stone floor. Each movement throws up some dust. It wraps around your bare legs like fog. The beat of the jansi makes the chalk swirl and dance.
The two of you circle each other.
"Come on, do something!" Hilmi yells at you. He steps in, the muscles in his chest clenching and relaxing as he tries to inure you to those little movements. So you won't notice when he attacks for real. "You're scared. Scared and weak and soft! How long since you've fought for real, rather than just take men to bed?"
He's taken stimulants to numb the pain. He's fighting with Blazing Bull; he thinks you're using Peacock which never wants to get too close to a foe. And he thinks you're rusty. And you are. If you were back at your peak, this wouldn't have to be like this.
Hilmi, bless him, huffs and puffs. His snorts make the dust swirl. How like the maddened bull he emulates. But he has just enough sense that something must feel wrong to him. Maybe he thinks you're pretending. So rather than charge and overcommit, he closes in more slowly, that knife in his right hand a weaving, dangerous thing.
He cuts at you; you lean back. Again he jabs; again, again. His knife whistles through the air. And it's much closer than you should like. You cut back, but he flicks to your wrist and you have to jerk out the way.
Right. Right. You're sweating. The chalk dust clings to your skin. He's stronger than you. Faster, too; not much faster, but when you're using Peacock such a little thing matters.
And fuck you were watching his knife hand too much. His left hand lashes out, grabbing your skirt, and you didn't even think to look for that. You can't step away and now the knife is coming in as he twists to your left, away from your knife. With a kiai, you block his right arm with your forearm but his weight is on there and he powers through your block. Pain lances into your shoulder as the tip of his knife slices through the skin and rests on your collarbone. He's got a grip on you, and you can't twist to stab him without giving him the leverage to cut things that matter much more. And then he starts to angle the blade, using your bones as a fucking pivot as he works it around to…
You get your thumb over the cut Haitham gave him on his right arm, and squeeze. There's no real finesse in the strike, so you barely manage to get any venom in - but it's enough that his arm seizes up. You press down on the broken, damaged tissue and he pulls away, ripping your skirt away as he does.
The two of you separate, both gasping.
It's shallow. Yes. Pretty sure. It's shallow. If he'd managed to cut any of the important things in the area, your left arm would be useless or there'd be a lot more blood. But he's cut you to the bone there. You switch your knife to your left hand and pinch the gash shut. Stopped the blood loss. Yes. Even if it's throbbing and you can't tell the difference between the beat of the jansi and your own hammering heart anymore.
Fuck. Close. Too close. Shit. A little deeper, a little to the right, and he'd have cut a major blood vessel and you'd be fucked. Shit. You haven't fought a knife fighter and grappler like this in decades. Not in a real fight.
For his part, Hilmi is wheezing, too. "Stuck you," he gasps, as he winds the leather of your borrowed skirt around his forearm. Fuck. That's smart. He's going to be much more dangerous now, because that's enough leather that you won't be able to easily cut to his arm. You'll need to put serious force into things. He can feel a lot more confident about what he's doing.
Confidence, much like viper venom, is such a slow and insidious killer. And you've been saving your winning tile in your hand.
"Hilmi." It's the first thing you've said all fight. And you smile at him, through the shaking, through the gut-clenching fear, through the rasping of your breath and the throbbing pain in your shoulder. You smile with all your contempt. "The reason I didn't sleep with you is that you're obviously shit in bed. I talked to other women. They say you've got a small cock."
That needle is the horsefly to a bull, and with a snarl he presses his advantage. An advantage which no longer exists.
You see your chance, and take a step back, straightening up and focusing your strength in your spine and lower back. What had been a rusty Peacock stance becomes a grounded, strong Viper stance. The stance of the Disturbed Snake. Green surges out from your skin, wrapping you in your soul's mantle.
One step in, and a twist of your hip. The fingertips of your left hand strike his right shoulder, and the Viper's poison surges into his muscles. An ugly bruise spreads across his upper leg like red ink in water. He lets go of the knife, and it goes flying. But he can't stop the momentum of his charge, and he barrels you down. The stone floor is a slam of pain against your back, and chalk dust goes everywhere. Your hair bun is the only reason you didn't slam your skull into the hard ground.
But you had your knife, braced against your hip. And his own weight has just driven it into his lower abdomen. It's trapped between the two of you, driven in to the hilt.
You're close enough that you can see his pupils contract to little dots. He's lit in green. His weight is on top of you, and he can't hold himself up with only one good arm. His head sags down onto your shoulder as he writhes against the blade, an ugly sound coming from the back of his throat. His blood is on your hands. Warm. It drips down onto you. And you smell the coppery tang - and the stink of his guts.
"Fuck you," he gasps. Clinging to you. Scrabbling you with his nails, trying to get purchase on your skin that's wet with sweat and now his blood. Trying to fight for the knife with his weaker left hand.
"You wish," you spit, and with a twist of your hips you're on top. Grabbing your knife in both hands, you yank it forwards, tearing through flesh and organs in a vertical slit. His hot blood dribbles down your arms, wets your thighs. Under you, he screams. He's dead, even if through some miracle he kills you now. A gut wound like that will turn foul.
It'd be a mercy to kill him now, but you're not doing it for him. Your knife goes into his other shoulder, putting an end to his attempts to hold you off.
You yank his head back and hold your knife to his jugular. It's not just so his throat is more exposed. It's so you can see his eyes.
"This is for Haitham," you growl, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Wait," he gasps.
But there's really no reason to do anything he says.
You slit his throat. Scarlet sprays out, splattering on the shrine's floor. He gurgles and he thrashes, but there's no strength in his arms, no words to say through a cut wipepipe. You hold his head back and let the blood flow. It drips from the bronze knife in your hand; it soaks into the padding bandages around your feet. There's blood on your hands and some of the spray droplets are soaking into the bandages on your chest.
Your heart is hammering. Pounding, really. You straighten up, still straddling the dying man as your soul's fire dies down. There's an uncontrollable trembling in your left arm, and you feel the ache in your muscles and in your scars. The aches and pains of a body that just drew on the demanding arts of the Disturbed Snake. The soreness of a body that just fought for its life and won.
He's dead, or nearly so. You're not.
You want to laugh. You do laugh, between the panting gasps. You're alive. Not just because you're not dead; you feel alive. The rush hits you, the rush of relief and exhaustion and exhilaration and a thousand other things all mixed up and you couldn't pull them apart if you tried.
Dragons, you feel young again.
You rise from the meat, dripping with blood. It's still spasming and gurgling, and you step away from it before it can befoul you. Like one of the gladiators from the arena, you lift the bloodied blade above your head.
"I have avenged my lover!" you announce to everyone. "The murderer of Haitham ak-Kas is dead!"
Yes, how must you look to them indeed? Hands red with gore, your thighs painted red, the hemp bandages dyed scarlet.
You get your answer when they cheer you. They howl for you, they scream for you, they call out your name and hammer their hands together in a clamouring caterwaul that rises to the roof itself.
All you can do is hold your right hand up and pant for breath, even as Sadia appears and drags you to someone who can clean the cut on your collarbone. The herbal paste they smear on hurts like blazes, and makes you feel light-headed. Even more light-headed, that is. Little Inaan holds your hand, and says something but it doesn't register. In your almost-floaty state, one thought can't help but strike you.
Shit. You better not have ruined this set of underwear by getting his blood all over it. You like this pair.
They're probably confused why you start laughing. You laugh until you cry.
The shrine priests take Hilmi's body, and wrap it in a hemp shroud. As the cloth is wound around him, it dyes itself red. The bindings hold his guts inside. And then they pour spirits over his remains. They pour them until it is soaked through.
And then the priests lift it up in slings, to prayers and burning incense. He is condemned into the gullet of the five-eyed god. For the gods - so they say - have judged him, and the body of the murderer is given to them.
You've calmed down a bit by then, as the rush of pain dies down into a dull throb and the realisation of just how filthy you are drains away your elation, and the reminder helps you calm down even more. No one had told you that was what happened to the loser of these things. But Hilmi must have known. Hopefully the gods will accept him as a sacrifice and won't let him return to bring his vengeance on his killer. He was the one who challenged you, after all.
Still, you flinch when the spirits catch and sooty flame erupts from the god's mouth. You feel the skin on your face grow taut from the sudden wave of heat. What will they do with his bones? Will there be bones, or will divine Kamis take them for himself?
Well, the god is welcome to that meal.
There's an outcry as the belongings of the killer are given to the family of the deceased, and one of the ak-Kas realises that there's a lock of Haitham's hair among the trophies pinned to it. It nearly comes to blows when an ad-Dib suggests that maybe it was old - but no. It's too fresh, too soft, nothing like what months-old hair winds up in the fierce heat of Cahzor. You are vindicated in the eyes of anyone who wasn't convinced by the fight.
You should be happier about it, but you're too tired and too covered in a man's blood to have your spirits lifted.
Kareena ak-Kinzira bustles up to you. "That's that settled, then," she says, looking you up and down. "I probably should congratulate you on avenging him. It's a shame. Haitham was a good man. Really, in many ways, we should have seen that coming. We always knew Hilmi was an angry young man, but we didn't think he'd go that far.
You don't tell her to go fuck herself, though she rightfully deserves it. You remember the talk you had with her and Sadia when you arrived; everyone knew those two hated each other, and then Hilmi lost a duel. Maybe Haitham wouldn't be dead if someone had kept a better eye on Hilmi. "Mmm," you say, blotting your face on the towel someone left you. "I hope this is the end of it."
"I hope so too," Kareena says. Even in your state, you can see she doesn't think so. It's going to escalate. Something of that must have shown on your face. "If things do, uh, go bad, it'll be between ak-Kas and ad-Dib."
"Ah."
"After all, Haitham was murdered by Hilmi."
"Mmm."
Kareena seems to realise that she's doing most of the work in this conversation. "You know," she says, tilting your head back so you're meeting her eyes, "there are quite a few handsome young men from the duelling cults who really want to get to know a woman who can do that."
"Even when I'm all… filthy?" You didn't mean to let it slip, but… you do. It's bothering you. It's bothering you a lot, to feel Hilmi's blood drying on you.
She winks at you. "Especially then."
Oh. Oh.
Yuck.
"It must be lovely to have young men falling over themselves to get you at your age," she adds, somewhat wistfully.
"Might I ask a favour?" you ask, trying to hide how tired you feel.
"Oh?"
"I really have to ask to use your family baths," you say. "I'll be down at the party later, but I just… I just can't manage it when I'm covered in blood." You force yourself to smile. "With you there, they'll hardly miss me."
Fortunately, Kareena is very understanding, and you are swiftly hurried to the Kinzira family baths for the second time this day. It's so good to watch the blood washed away down the drains. It strips away the memories of caked-on mud and caked-on blood, up in the frozen North. The servants promise they'll try to get the blood stains out of your underwear, though you're only somewhat hopeful.
With a sigh, you step into the warm water and sink down, letting the heat infuse into your tired muscles. Yes. It's like there's been a weight lifted from your shoulders. Poor Haitham. You hope he'll rest easy. You don't think he's the sort to return out of love for you, because it was just a fling for you two. But at least his killer has departed this world. As the Immaculate Order of your childhood taught, good gods permit the souls of the deceased to pass on to be reincarnated, while wicked ones jealously take hold of them and inflict sufferings that are the equal of the self-inflicted misery of a lingering ghost.
You hope the Kinzira gods are wicked.
Washed and dressed once again, you make your grand appearance into this evening's party. When you step out at the top of the staircase, it is to thunderous applause that echoes through the black-pillared room.
Which is quite a nice little booster to your self esteem which helps banish your previous gloom, if you do say so yourself.
"Thank you, thank you," you call out, with a great sweeping curtsey. "You're too generous. No, really, thank you. I have seen so much of what the jansi have to offer, in this trying time, and I just want to thank you all for the support and delights you have shown me." You save a particular smile for Inaam, beaming down at her. "And maybe someday, I might be able to return the favour. I can tell you, in all my travels across the world, I have never seen a party like this. The grand affairs of the jansi of Cahzor should be renown across Creation!"
That gets you a second round of cheers, and you curtsey again. It's not that you're shameless. It's that you have nothing to be ashamed of.
"You're too kind, too kind. I just want us to put the unpleasantness we may have seen behind us, and enjoy the good times. I am delighted that the gods have shown such generosity as to clear me. They must be as wise as the men and women of this city are generous!"
You continue like this for some time, playing the crowd and flattering them with unearned compliments and remarks that don't let on that you're remembering faces of people who were whispering about you. But why would you? Everyone is friends here. Friends.
"... and lastly, but not in any way, I think we should all give great thanks and applause to the mightiest hearts in all of Cahzor, the Kinzira, who have put us all up during this unpleasant storm and fed us all so well that," you smile, "I fear if we were trapped here much longer, you might need to roll me out the door. So for such a distinguished display, I hope everyone here will join me in unconditional, effusive applause for our fine hosts!"
You descend the stairs as the hall is full of applause, curtsey to Kareena and the grotesque, corpulent Boulos. Because you are a charitable, benevolent soul, you even kiss the disgusting old man on the cheek, and try not to breathe.
Then you head to the drinks table and disinfect your lips with a small glass of spirits. And goodness, there are quite a few handsome boys who want to talk to you. Many of them with the nicely muscled physique and prominent scars of the duelling cult.
"Let me treat you to a drink."
"I saw your blade play there. It was so beautiful!"
"Want to see my sword? Let me tell you, it's not a short sword."
You fend them off with smiles, pleasantries, and in the case of the one who thought he was so clever with the sword thing, a certain cutting edge to your comments. You might be considering them a little more firmly if you didn't have a handsome fae waiting for you in your closet.
But there is certainly a different feel to tonight's party. It is wilder. Less restrained. The Kinzira know everyone will be leaving so want them to have good memories, and so have broken out treats they were saving. The weight of the murder has been lifted off people's shoulders. It's all in the past now. And, of course, the storm is passing. This is the last night to get in everything that makes these parties worthwhile. Which is, in the eyes of your fellow attendees conspicuous consumption of everything set before them, fine spirits, music, and the freed passions of the libertine.
Which is a euphemistic way of saying that, oh my, some people aren't even waiting to head back to their rooms before they start fucking. You mention this in passing to Sadia as you hand off a pair of your more handsome swains to her, introducing her as your 'gallant, beautiful second'.
"Well, of course," she says, leaning in to whisper into your ear. "This is a party of the jansi. We enjoy the good things. And this is going to be the last night. So some people are getting… frisky outside of the group rooms set aside for this sort of thing."
You blink. "I hadn't seen that earlier."
"Well, you've either found a single partner or gone to bed early every night," she retorts. "Of course you wouldn't be invited into one of those rooms. And you used your own, rather cramped guest rooms rather than one of the ones set aside by the family."
"Goodness," you say, for a lack of anything else to say.
She giggles. "I thought that was what you were doing in that private room with Zia. That's one of the things that kind of room are for."
Oh. Any other questions are going to have to wait, as one of the duelling cultists wraps an arm around Sadia and pulls her away. "I see, she is as beautiful as you say," he says, with a grin, "but surely you're not teasing us with her before keeping her to yourself?"
She winks at you. "Oh, no, she was just telling me something. Gentlemen, if one of you could fetch me a drink because I am positively parched. Then perhaps I could see a private display of your bladework?"
"Winner takes all?" the other asks.
Sadia smirks. "Well, I think I'd be triumphant to have two such strapping men attending to me," she says, as you walk away, trying to conceal your smile. She's having fun. That's nice. They're a handsome gift for her.
There's no sign of Fatin in here, nor of Zia or Inaan. There is Inaam ak-Kas, however, and you sashay over with a generous smile on your lips and a heart full of glee.
"Well, hello there," you say, trying not to look too malicious. "How are you doing this fine evening?"
She grips her glass tighter, and tries to smile. She reeks of a certain eau de death rictus. "Just marvellous," she says. You swear her teeth are grating together like nails on a slate. "Thank you for avenging my nephew."
"Oh, it was the least I could do," you say, reaching out to pat her hand. She pulls away. "After all, I was his last lover and that horrible boy Hilmi was more than a little jealous."
"Ad-Dib has always been like that," she says.
"I wouldn't know such a thing. But like I said, I do hope we can put everything behind us."
"That would be good."
"Yes, wouldn't it?" You pat her on the hand again, just to see that twitch below her eye. "Well, I simply mustn't monopolise your time. Do have fun. I certainly am. After all, it's wonderful to be surrounded by so many people, all praising you."
"I wouldn't know," she says through her clenched teeth.
"Oh, you wouldn't? Darling, it's marvellous. Toodle-loo." And then you wave her goodbye, a little gesture with just your fingertips, as you leave her behind in the crowd.
Ah. You shiver with pleasure. Truly, it is the little things in life which make it worth living.
Goodness, you could do with another drink.
"Excuse me," a familiar voice says. A man in long black gloves approaches you. He looks vaguely Cahzori, but you don't think you've seen him before. His sleeveless blue shirt is damn near painted on, and must have cost a fortune for the dyes, and his thigh-high boots are made of black desert-beast skin.
But you know the voice.
You meet his orange eyes, and there's just a moment as you start.
"Lady," he says, with a fucking arrogant grin that makes you want to slap it away then kiss him better. "I'm surprised you don't recognise me. We're quite well acquainted."
"Sir, you forget yourself," you tell Blue. That cad! He didn't tell you he was a shapeshifter!
"And you forget me? Lady, that hurts."
"I simply didn't recognise you in this light." You gesture up and down, taking him in. "You were much more… colourful the last time we met."
"Oh, I can be plenty colourful if you want."
"Please don't. Not here, in front of everyone." You smile at the others, and hook your right arm around his elbow. "Why, we should get drinks together and renew our acquaintance."
The alcohol burns as you throw back the clay cup. "What are you doing, wandering around?" you demand, trying to both whisper and convey the depths of your annoyance at the same time.
He sips his drink more sedately. "I woke up well-rested, lady, and felt I just simply had to see you."
"You didn't think about anyone noticing you?"
"Oh, I did." He smiles at you, boyishly. "That's why I spun myself a new shape and put it on. I'm not too fond of the skin colour, but it'll do." He leans in, to kiss your hand. "At least if I can be by your side."
This is what you both love and hate about your charming princes. They're just too damn adorable to stay mad at for long. "I am very annoyed with you for not following my instructions. I had to fight a duel, you know."
"I know, I know!" His eyes are wide. "Lady, I should have been here for you. I would have cut that dog to pieces without you having to put yourself at risk." He looks up at you, his kissable lower lip wobbling.
Naturally, you kiss it. "I am very angry at you for disobeying me," you whisper to him, running your fingers through his cascade of long, night-black hair that hasn't changed at all. His ears come to points. Well, that's not rare among the princes of chaos. They seem to like it. "Very, very angry."
"What can I do to earn your forgiveness?" Oh, look at him! So distraught at the thought you might not trust him! It's causing that idiot nearly physical pain when he thinks about how his plans might have gone awry.
"I can think of something," you say, a note of whimsy in your voice.
Your night is very busy, and it's only a little before dawn when, somewhat bow-legged and stiff, you creep back to your room with the disguised Blue trailing behind you. He collapses face down onto your bed.
He hasn't had any real sleep, poor thing.
On the other hand, you're feeling wide awake. You napped for a few hours, head on his lap, and right now you're in this strange state of super-aware exhaustion that you often get some of your best ideas in. Sometimes you think that this altered state of consciousness puts to sleep all the bits of your mind that chain your sheer brilliance. Though it does make you slightly… erratic.
Oh. Like the fact that you apparently forgot to put your dress back on when you came back. Which means you walked through the thankfully empty halls in just your bra. Where is it?
Right. You were leading Blue with it, using it as an improvised leash. See! That's what you mean by brilliance! He looks so handsome like that!
You need some fresh air. You need it! It was stuffy in the other room, and you just can't… you just can't think properly without it! The window is boarded up, but not to worry, you have a knife! You'll be rid of those nails in no time!
Well, maybe a little time. But you do tear down the barricades obstructing the shutters, and throw them wide open. The night's air is delightfully cool. You can see the stars in the sky through patches of clouds. There's just enough of the wyld in the air that it feels like anything is possible, without any of the much less pleasant results of 'anything is possible' making themselves known.
There's a freshness to the air, so unlike the dry heat of Cahzor. You'll be leaving the Kinzira estate tomorrow, heading back to your rooms at the Blue Lotus, with a darling new fae lover. Hopefully Amigere won't kick up a fuss. You'll have to make it clear to the boy that he doesn't own your heart. Or any other part of your body. At most, you'll let him stay there if he pays his rent. Of course, you'll probably have to make him feel better about this, but this whole murder incident has left you very tense so you'll need to spend a few days releasing some stress anyway.
It'll give the city down below time to burn off the chaos. And then?
Well, if Cahzor is to be your oyster, you'll need to go fishing. Hire some men, buy some supplies, and start following up on those leads. You've made more than a few contacts in high society, and oh, a certain name for yourself. Probably some enemies, too, but enemies make things more interesting. If you were friends with all the jansi, it would be very awkward when you work to steal their power and birthright and suchlike.
You light a cigarillo from the lantern, and suck in a contented breath. You can feel it swirl inside your mouth, like all the thoughts inside your head. Buzzing, buzzing, like a flock of birds all cawing for attention. You exhale blue smoke into the pre-dawn light. It drifts out of the window, catching a hint of aurora for a moment as it is lost among the maddened spires of the ak-Kinzira.
Yes. You could have done a lot worse here.
Look, the title is pretty clear. There's graphic sex in this chapter, under the spoiler blocks. Also bloody violence, though somewhat less graphic and not in the same section.
Would you believe me if I claim I didn't deliberately pace the arc so chapter 30 could have this warning?
This time, you are the one stepping into the duelling circle in the temple. The jansi are here, packed into this room that stinks of burnt meat. The great statue of the ak-Kinzira god wafts smoke from his nostrils; his belly glows cherry-red. You can feel the heat from here. The light only touches the gloomy corners of the room enough to cast long shadows, which dance as the crowd moves.
The air is stifling hot, the Cahzori warmth taken to a dry roast by the temple and its sacrifices. But the stone under foot is cold; as cold as the grave.
And people fall silent as you enter. It's not like the last duel. That was sport. People were tipsy and joking around and laying bets on the outcome. If they've been doing that, it's already occurred. Or maybe it's not something that'll happen for this one. Maybe it's even in bad taste.
Because you can feel it in the air. Everyone here knows that they are going to see a death tonight. There's this hunger. The hunger of a cat that's seen something small and chirping out in the gardens. The jansi can smell the fore-echoes of blood, and it's whetted their appetites.
What do they see when they look at you? What do they think of you? You meet Inaam ak-Kas's eyes, and she at least has the guts to not look away. There's no guilt in her eyes; only a sort of dark glee. She thinks she's killed you. Killed you without getting her hands dirty. Just like one of those desert beasts that flock to a carcass to get the food without risking anything on the chase and the hunt.
Yes. You know her for what she is. And you even respect that, of a sort. She can't help her nature. No more than any rabid dog.
The crowd parts, and you see Hilmi ad-Dib there, waiting for you in the duelling ring. They're sprinkled fresh chalk dust over the ring's floor. He's stripped down, wearing only a leather loincloth and sandals whose leather bindings rise to the knee. The marks of his battle with Haitham are obvious. The long gash down his right forearm and the line on his chest stand out, ugly and livid in the lantern-light. His back must be in a similar condition. He's wiped off the lip paint he was using to cover the split lip's scab.
Things to remember. Things to take advantage of.
"So you didn't run like a mewling she-cat, witch," he calls out in greeting. Such as it is. He probably can't manage anything better.
You say nothing as you take your place in the ring. He is trembling. Faintly, but it is there. You don't think it is pain. Neither is it fear. No, you've seen this a few times before. You suspect he's taken stimulants, to numb the pain of his wounds from Haitham's blade - and to counter the pain of any blows you strike. You're not sure which herb he's ingested, but those things tend to share traits. He'll likely be more impatient, more agitated; maybe even able to power through the pain of your venom. You won't be able to trust that agony will incapacitate him.
One of the younger ak-Kinzira clears his throat, cradling a box. You try to remember his name, this greasy-looking young man who's running to fat, but it simply hasn't registered. "We are here this evening to settle… s-settle accusations of murder." You hear his voice shake from nerves. You wonder why. "Meira, of the Sayu family and a stranger to our lands, and Hilmi ad-Dib have vowed to fight to the death. Here, within this ring, in the eyes of the gods. Kamis, bless us and bring truth to this matter."
You pace forwards, eyes locked on Hilmi. "This man murdered my lover, Haitham ad-Dib, so that he could steal back the black jade-steel knife he had lost to him in a duel. A duel that he still wears the wounds from." Your words sets off a buzz of voices in the temple. "The Dragons will see my vengeance through and will see justice done."
Hilmi tenses up, his dark eyes narrowing. "This foreign witch accuses me of murder, has sought to slander my name and frame me for a murder. When in truth, it was her that did it! Your blood will feed the gods, and they will devour your lying soul."
"Shameless," you say softly, shaking your head. "Is that all you can do? Lie and lie and lie?"
"Look now how she breaks the form of the challenge!" Hilmi appeals to the crowd, to the onlookers. "She can't stop with her poisoned words."
"She is a foreigner," Sadia interjects quickly. "She doesn't know the intricacies of a challenge." She glances at the Kinzira. "We should move on."
"Yes, yes, quiet down, everyone. Their… um, seconds have come to an agreement that it will be done with the bronze knives of Kamis, as offered by ak-Kinzira." He opens the catch of the box, revealing two fine and well-polished bronze knives, sitting on red fabric. "Take your weapons."
So Sadia couldn't restrict it to fighting with your bare hands. Honestly, you had been over-optimistic to try. When you were fighting to the death, no one had any reason to fight with bare hands - unless someone had a lethal trick that the other didn't. You should have thought of that.
Hilmi takes a knife first, stalking back to his side of the ring. You take yours, testing its weight in your hand. The grip is slightly worn, but it should be good. The blade is long for a knife, with a slight curve to it. Its edge is a razor.
The Kinzira man scurries out of the way between the two of you. "On the chiming of the bell, you may start - and may the gods ensure that justice is seen through," he says. You only barely hear him.
They're here. Watching you. Not just Sadia, behind you. Everyone else you've met at this party. Everyone is here. Even little Inaan.
You'll give them a spectacle. Something that shows them you are not some weakling stranger. You are not dying here, not here, not now. Not after crossing the world after escaping the Immaculate Order and House Ferem. Not because you were falsely accused, of all things.
If the world had any justice then you'll die in your bed at a ripe old age. But if it has the justice that fools claim it has, then at least you'll die because of something you actually did. It's too humiliating any other way.
"Ready to die, witch?" Hilmi growls.
Why does he keep saying that? It's not like anyone here actually know you're a sorceress. You don't say anything back. You just look at him, with your expression as doll-like and perfect as a Cheraki child in the presence of her elders is meant to achieve.
"Well? Why don't you say something?" Oh, your silence is agitating him. He bounces up and down on his toes. You'll need to watch for those sandals. "Nothing to say, witch? Seductress? Murderer?"
Your heart seethes, but you simply look at him, eyes focussed not on his face, but at his jugular. He doesn't like that. He twists, taking up a stance that you recognise. That's Blazing Bull style; his arms resemble the horns, able to grab as easily as he stabs. He's a wrestler, and his stockier build reinforces that. He's not using the Sword-Wind style you saw in the last fight.
Interesting.
You sink into your Peacock school stance; weight forwards, back arched, your arms out wide ready to fend off blows or bring them in. You can feel the strain in your muscles. They're protesting at you from the wounds and the withering of old talent. Your left thigh aches along the scar. Your posture is poor; this is a poorly weighted knife for this school; you have no flowing sleeves or corded off-hand weapons to disguise your movements or bind.
"Peacock?" He recognises this too. "Peacock? A weakling's style." He laughs, and oh there it is, the relief in his voice. He was scared. And now he's less scared. "I thought you were going to try to kill me."
The jansi take up a beat. Not clapping, exactly. One hand open, the underside of the other hand, balled into a fist. The motion you'd make when stabbing someone overarm.
The bell chimes; deep, old, sonorous. The beat fills your ears. It drowns out the sound of your bare feet against the chalk-sprinkled stone floor. Each movement throws up some dust. It wraps around your bare legs like fog. The beat of the jansi makes the chalk swirl and dance.
The two of you circle each other.
"Come on, do something!" Hilmi yells at you. He steps in, the muscles in his chest clenching and relaxing as he tries to inure you to those little movements. So you won't notice when he attacks for real. "You're scared. Scared and weak and soft! How long since you've fought for real, rather than just take men to bed?"
He's taken stimulants to numb the pain. He's fighting with Blazing Bull; he thinks you're using Peacock which never wants to get too close to a foe. And he thinks you're rusty. And you are. If you were back at your peak, this wouldn't have to be like this.
Hilmi, bless him, huffs and puffs. His snorts make the dust swirl. How like the maddened bull he emulates. But he has just enough sense that something must feel wrong to him. Maybe he thinks you're pretending. So rather than charge and overcommit, he closes in more slowly, that knife in his right hand a weaving, dangerous thing.
He cuts at you; you lean back. Again he jabs; again, again. His knife whistles through the air. And it's much closer than you should like. You cut back, but he flicks to your wrist and you have to jerk out the way.
Right. Right. You're sweating. The chalk dust clings to your skin. He's stronger than you. Faster, too; not much faster, but when you're using Peacock such a little thing matters.
And fuck you were watching his knife hand too much. His left hand lashes out, grabbing your skirt, and you didn't even think to look for that. You can't step away and now the knife is coming in as he twists to your left, away from your knife. With a kiai, you block his right arm with your forearm but his weight is on there and he powers through your block. Pain lances into your shoulder as the tip of his knife slices through the skin and rests on your collarbone. He's got a grip on you, and you can't twist to stab him without giving him the leverage to cut things that matter much more. And then he starts to angle the blade, using your bones as a fucking pivot as he works it around to…
You get your thumb over the cut Haitham gave him on his right arm, and squeeze. There's no real finesse in the strike, so you barely manage to get any venom in - but it's enough that his arm seizes up. You press down on the broken, damaged tissue and he pulls away, ripping your skirt away as he does.
The two of you separate, both gasping.
It's shallow. Yes. Pretty sure. It's shallow. If he'd managed to cut any of the important things in the area, your left arm would be useless or there'd be a lot more blood. But he's cut you to the bone there. You switch your knife to your left hand and pinch the gash shut. Stopped the blood loss. Yes. Even if it's throbbing and you can't tell the difference between the beat of the jansi and your own hammering heart anymore.
Fuck. Close. Too close. Shit. A little deeper, a little to the right, and he'd have cut a major blood vessel and you'd be fucked. Shit. You haven't fought a knife fighter and grappler like this in decades. Not in a real fight.
For his part, Hilmi is wheezing, too. "Stuck you," he gasps, as he winds the leather of your borrowed skirt around his forearm. Fuck. That's smart. He's going to be much more dangerous now, because that's enough leather that you won't be able to easily cut to his arm. You'll need to put serious force into things. He can feel a lot more confident about what he's doing.
Confidence, much like viper venom, is such a slow and insidious killer. And you've been saving your winning tile in your hand.
"Hilmi." It's the first thing you've said all fight. And you smile at him, through the shaking, through the gut-clenching fear, through the rasping of your breath and the throbbing pain in your shoulder. You smile with all your contempt. "The reason I didn't sleep with you is that you're obviously shit in bed. I talked to other women. They say you've got a small cock."
That needle is the horsefly to a bull, and with a snarl he presses his advantage. An advantage which no longer exists.
You see your chance, and take a step back, straightening up and focusing your strength in your spine and lower back. What had been a rusty Peacock stance becomes a grounded, strong Viper stance. The stance of the Disturbed Snake. Green surges out from your skin, wrapping you in your soul's mantle.
One step in, and a twist of your hip. The fingertips of your left hand strike his right shoulder, and the Viper's poison surges into his muscles. An ugly bruise spreads across his upper leg like red ink in water. He lets go of the knife, and it goes flying. But he can't stop the momentum of his charge, and he barrels you down. The stone floor is a slam of pain against your back, and chalk dust goes everywhere. Your hair bun is the only reason you didn't slam your skull into the hard ground.
But you had your knife, braced against your hip. And his own weight has just driven it into his lower abdomen. It's trapped between the two of you, driven in to the hilt.
You're close enough that you can see his pupils contract to little dots. He's lit in green. His weight is on top of you, and he can't hold himself up with only one good arm. His head sags down onto your shoulder as he writhes against the blade, an ugly sound coming from the back of his throat. His blood is on your hands. Warm. It drips down onto you. And you smell the coppery tang - and the stink of his guts.
"Fuck you," he gasps. Clinging to you. Scrabbling you with his nails, trying to get purchase on your skin that's wet with sweat and now his blood. Trying to fight for the knife with his weaker left hand.
"You wish," you spit, and with a twist of your hips you're on top. Grabbing your knife in both hands, you yank it forwards, tearing through flesh and organs in a vertical slit. His hot blood dribbles down your arms, wets your thighs. Under you, he screams. He's dead, even if through some miracle he kills you now. A gut wound like that will turn foul.
It'd be a mercy to kill him now, but you're not doing it for him. Your knife goes into his other shoulder, putting an end to his attempts to hold you off.
You yank his head back and hold your knife to his jugular. It's not just so his throat is more exposed. It's so you can see his eyes.
"This is for Haitham," you growl, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Wait," he gasps.
But there's really no reason to do anything he says.
You slit his throat. Scarlet sprays out, splattering on the shrine's floor. He gurgles and he thrashes, but there's no strength in his arms, no words to say through a cut wipepipe. You hold his head back and let the blood flow. It drips from the bronze knife in your hand; it soaks into the padding bandages around your feet. There's blood on your hands and some of the spray droplets are soaking into the bandages on your chest.
Your heart is hammering. Pounding, really. You straighten up, still straddling the dying man as your soul's fire dies down. There's an uncontrollable trembling in your left arm, and you feel the ache in your muscles and in your scars. The aches and pains of a body that just drew on the demanding arts of the Disturbed Snake. The soreness of a body that just fought for its life and won.
He's dead, or nearly so. You're not.
You want to laugh. You do laugh, between the panting gasps. You're alive. Not just because you're not dead; you feel alive. The rush hits you, the rush of relief and exhaustion and exhilaration and a thousand other things all mixed up and you couldn't pull them apart if you tried.
Dragons, you feel young again.
You rise from the meat, dripping with blood. It's still spasming and gurgling, and you step away from it before it can befoul you. Like one of the gladiators from the arena, you lift the bloodied blade above your head.
"I have avenged my lover!" you announce to everyone. "The murderer of Haitham ak-Kas is dead!"
Yes, how must you look to them indeed? Hands red with gore, your thighs painted red, the hemp bandages dyed scarlet.
You get your answer when they cheer you. They howl for you, they scream for you, they call out your name and hammer their hands together in a clamouring caterwaul that rises to the roof itself.
All you can do is hold your right hand up and pant for breath, even as Sadia appears and drags you to someone who can clean the cut on your collarbone. The herbal paste they smear on hurts like blazes, and makes you feel light-headed. Even more light-headed, that is. Little Inaan holds your hand, and says something but it doesn't register. In your almost-floaty state, one thought can't help but strike you.
Shit. You better not have ruined this set of underwear by getting his blood all over it. You like this pair.
They're probably confused why you start laughing. You laugh until you cry.
The shrine priests take Hilmi's body, and wrap it in a hemp shroud. As the cloth is wound around him, it dyes itself red. The bindings hold his guts inside. And then they pour spirits over his remains. They pour them until it is soaked through.
And then the priests lift it up in slings, to prayers and burning incense. He is condemned into the gullet of the five-eyed god. For the gods - so they say - have judged him, and the body of the murderer is given to them.
You've calmed down a bit by then, as the rush of pain dies down into a dull throb and the realisation of just how filthy you are drains away your elation, and the reminder helps you calm down even more. No one had told you that was what happened to the loser of these things. But Hilmi must have known. Hopefully the gods will accept him as a sacrifice and won't let him return to bring his vengeance on his killer. He was the one who challenged you, after all.
Still, you flinch when the spirits catch and sooty flame erupts from the god's mouth. You feel the skin on your face grow taut from the sudden wave of heat. What will they do with his bones? Will there be bones, or will divine Kamis take them for himself?
Well, the god is welcome to that meal.
There's an outcry as the belongings of the killer are given to the family of the deceased, and one of the ak-Kas realises that there's a lock of Haitham's hair among the trophies pinned to it. It nearly comes to blows when an ad-Dib suggests that maybe it was old - but no. It's too fresh, too soft, nothing like what months-old hair winds up in the fierce heat of Cahzor. You are vindicated in the eyes of anyone who wasn't convinced by the fight.
You should be happier about it, but you're too tired and too covered in a man's blood to have your spirits lifted.
Kareena ak-Kinzira bustles up to you. "That's that settled, then," she says, looking you up and down. "I probably should congratulate you on avenging him. It's a shame. Haitham was a good man. Really, in many ways, we should have seen that coming. We always knew Hilmi was an angry young man, but we didn't think he'd go that far.
You don't tell her to go fuck herself, though she rightfully deserves it. You remember the talk you had with her and Sadia when you arrived; everyone knew those two hated each other, and then Hilmi lost a duel. Maybe Haitham wouldn't be dead if someone had kept a better eye on Hilmi. "Mmm," you say, blotting your face on the towel someone left you. "I hope this is the end of it."
"I hope so too," Kareena says. Even in your state, you can see she doesn't think so. It's going to escalate. Something of that must have shown on your face. "If things do, uh, go bad, it'll be between ak-Kas and ad-Dib."
"Ah."
"After all, Haitham was murdered by Hilmi."
"Mmm."
Kareena seems to realise that she's doing most of the work in this conversation. "You know," she says, tilting your head back so you're meeting her eyes, "there are quite a few handsome young men from the duelling cults who really want to get to know a woman who can do that."
"Even when I'm all… filthy?" You didn't mean to let it slip, but… you do. It's bothering you. It's bothering you a lot, to feel Hilmi's blood drying on you.
She winks at you. "Especially then."
Oh. Oh.
Yuck.
"It must be lovely to have young men falling over themselves to get you at your age," she adds, somewhat wistfully.
"Might I ask a favour?" you ask, trying to hide how tired you feel.
"Oh?"
"I really have to ask to use your family baths," you say. "I'll be down at the party later, but I just… I just can't manage it when I'm covered in blood." You force yourself to smile. "With you there, they'll hardly miss me."
Fortunately, Kareena is very understanding, and you are swiftly hurried to the Kinzira family baths for the second time this day. It's so good to watch the blood washed away down the drains. It strips away the memories of caked-on mud and caked-on blood, up in the frozen North. The servants promise they'll try to get the blood stains out of your underwear, though you're only somewhat hopeful.
With a sigh, you step into the warm water and sink down, letting the heat infuse into your tired muscles. Yes. It's like there's been a weight lifted from your shoulders. Poor Haitham. You hope he'll rest easy. You don't think he's the sort to return out of love for you, because it was just a fling for you two. But at least his killer has departed this world. As the Immaculate Order of your childhood taught, good gods permit the souls of the deceased to pass on to be reincarnated, while wicked ones jealously take hold of them and inflict sufferings that are the equal of the self-inflicted misery of a lingering ghost.
You hope the Kinzira gods are wicked.
Washed and dressed once again, you make your grand appearance into this evening's party. When you step out at the top of the staircase, it is to thunderous applause that echoes through the black-pillared room.
Which is quite a nice little booster to your self esteem which helps banish your previous gloom, if you do say so yourself.
"Thank you, thank you," you call out, with a great sweeping curtsey. "You're too generous. No, really, thank you. I have seen so much of what the jansi have to offer, in this trying time, and I just want to thank you all for the support and delights you have shown me." You save a particular smile for Inaam, beaming down at her. "And maybe someday, I might be able to return the favour. I can tell you, in all my travels across the world, I have never seen a party like this. The grand affairs of the jansi of Cahzor should be renown across Creation!"
That gets you a second round of cheers, and you curtsey again. It's not that you're shameless. It's that you have nothing to be ashamed of.
"You're too kind, too kind. I just want us to put the unpleasantness we may have seen behind us, and enjoy the good times. I am delighted that the gods have shown such generosity as to clear me. They must be as wise as the men and women of this city are generous!"
You continue like this for some time, playing the crowd and flattering them with unearned compliments and remarks that don't let on that you're remembering faces of people who were whispering about you. But why would you? Everyone is friends here. Friends.
"... and lastly, but not in any way, I think we should all give great thanks and applause to the mightiest hearts in all of Cahzor, the Kinzira, who have put us all up during this unpleasant storm and fed us all so well that," you smile, "I fear if we were trapped here much longer, you might need to roll me out the door. So for such a distinguished display, I hope everyone here will join me in unconditional, effusive applause for our fine hosts!"
You descend the stairs as the hall is full of applause, curtsey to Kareena and the grotesque, corpulent Boulos. Because you are a charitable, benevolent soul, you even kiss the disgusting old man on the cheek, and try not to breathe.
Then you head to the drinks table and disinfect your lips with a small glass of spirits. And goodness, there are quite a few handsome boys who want to talk to you. Many of them with the nicely muscled physique and prominent scars of the duelling cult.
"Let me treat you to a drink."
"I saw your blade play there. It was so beautiful!"
"Want to see my sword? Let me tell you, it's not a short sword."
You fend them off with smiles, pleasantries, and in the case of the one who thought he was so clever with the sword thing, a certain cutting edge to your comments. You might be considering them a little more firmly if you didn't have a handsome fae waiting for you in your closet.
But there is certainly a different feel to tonight's party. It is wilder. Less restrained. The Kinzira know everyone will be leaving so want them to have good memories, and so have broken out treats they were saving. The weight of the murder has been lifted off people's shoulders. It's all in the past now. And, of course, the storm is passing. This is the last night to get in everything that makes these parties worthwhile. Which is, in the eyes of your fellow attendees conspicuous consumption of everything set before them, fine spirits, music, and the freed passions of the libertine.
Which is a euphemistic way of saying that, oh my, some people aren't even waiting to head back to their rooms before they start fucking. You mention this in passing to Sadia as you hand off a pair of your more handsome swains to her, introducing her as your 'gallant, beautiful second'.
"Well, of course," she says, leaning in to whisper into your ear. "This is a party of the jansi. We enjoy the good things. And this is going to be the last night. So some people are getting… frisky outside of the group rooms set aside for this sort of thing."
You blink. "I hadn't seen that earlier."
"Well, you've either found a single partner or gone to bed early every night," she retorts. "Of course you wouldn't be invited into one of those rooms. And you used your own, rather cramped guest rooms rather than one of the ones set aside by the family."
"Goodness," you say, for a lack of anything else to say.
She giggles. "I thought that was what you were doing in that private room with Zia. That's one of the things that kind of room are for."
Oh. Any other questions are going to have to wait, as one of the duelling cultists wraps an arm around Sadia and pulls her away. "I see, she is as beautiful as you say," he says, with a grin, "but surely you're not teasing us with her before keeping her to yourself?"
She winks at you. "Oh, no, she was just telling me something. Gentlemen, if one of you could fetch me a drink because I am positively parched. Then perhaps I could see a private display of your bladework?"
"Winner takes all?" the other asks.
Sadia smirks. "Well, I think I'd be triumphant to have two such strapping men attending to me," she says, as you walk away, trying to conceal your smile. She's having fun. That's nice. They're a handsome gift for her.
There's no sign of Fatin in here, nor of Zia or Inaan. There is Inaam ak-Kas, however, and you sashay over with a generous smile on your lips and a heart full of glee.
"Well, hello there," you say, trying not to look too malicious. "How are you doing this fine evening?"
She grips her glass tighter, and tries to smile. She reeks of a certain eau de death rictus. "Just marvellous," she says. You swear her teeth are grating together like nails on a slate. "Thank you for avenging my nephew."
"Oh, it was the least I could do," you say, reaching out to pat her hand. She pulls away. "After all, I was his last lover and that horrible boy Hilmi was more than a little jealous."
"Ad-Dib has always been like that," she says.
"I wouldn't know such a thing. But like I said, I do hope we can put everything behind us."
"That would be good."
"Yes, wouldn't it?" You pat her on the hand again, just to see that twitch below her eye. "Well, I simply mustn't monopolise your time. Do have fun. I certainly am. After all, it's wonderful to be surrounded by so many people, all praising you."
"I wouldn't know," she says through her clenched teeth.
"Oh, you wouldn't? Darling, it's marvellous. Toodle-loo." And then you wave her goodbye, a little gesture with just your fingertips, as you leave her behind in the crowd.
Ah. You shiver with pleasure. Truly, it is the little things in life which make it worth living.
Goodness, you could do with another drink.
"Excuse me," a familiar voice says. A man in long black gloves approaches you. He looks vaguely Cahzori, but you don't think you've seen him before. His sleeveless blue shirt is damn near painted on, and must have cost a fortune for the dyes, and his thigh-high boots are made of black desert-beast skin.
But you know the voice.
You meet his orange eyes, and there's just a moment as you start.
"Lady," he says, with a fucking arrogant grin that makes you want to slap it away then kiss him better. "I'm surprised you don't recognise me. We're quite well acquainted."
"Sir, you forget yourself," you tell Blue. That cad! He didn't tell you he was a shapeshifter!
"And you forget me? Lady, that hurts."
"I simply didn't recognise you in this light." You gesture up and down, taking him in. "You were much more… colourful the last time we met."
"Oh, I can be plenty colourful if you want."
"Please don't. Not here, in front of everyone." You smile at the others, and hook your right arm around his elbow. "Why, we should get drinks together and renew our acquaintance."
The alcohol burns as you throw back the clay cup. "What are you doing, wandering around?" you demand, trying to both whisper and convey the depths of your annoyance at the same time.
He sips his drink more sedately. "I woke up well-rested, lady, and felt I just simply had to see you."
"You didn't think about anyone noticing you?"
"Oh, I did." He smiles at you, boyishly. "That's why I spun myself a new shape and put it on. I'm not too fond of the skin colour, but it'll do." He leans in, to kiss your hand. "At least if I can be by your side."
This is what you both love and hate about your charming princes. They're just too damn adorable to stay mad at for long. "I am very annoyed with you for not following my instructions. I had to fight a duel, you know."
"I know, I know!" His eyes are wide. "Lady, I should have been here for you. I would have cut that dog to pieces without you having to put yourself at risk." He looks up at you, his kissable lower lip wobbling.
Naturally, you kiss it. "I am very angry at you for disobeying me," you whisper to him, running your fingers through his cascade of long, night-black hair that hasn't changed at all. His ears come to points. Well, that's not rare among the princes of chaos. They seem to like it. "Very, very angry."
"What can I do to earn your forgiveness?" Oh, look at him! So distraught at the thought you might not trust him! It's causing that idiot nearly physical pain when he thinks about how his plans might have gone awry.
"I can think of something," you say, a note of whimsy in your voice.
Look at you, pretending that you don't know exactly what you're going to do with him. But first you circulate, mingle, talk to people and generally bask in your newfound status. And you watch Blue at work. People don't question him. He looks about right, he dresses right, and their eyes skip over his inhuman eyes, pointed ears, and a few little too-perfect details.
It's the magic of dreams, and it's a magic you're not sharing with the several ladies and couple of gentlemen who proposition him.
Eventually that gets on your nerves. By that point, the party is notably lower in its cups and inhibitions are falling away. You're one of the more sober people in the room, because you need to be for what you plan - and Blue is such a handy disposal vessel for all the drinks people keep handing you when they're trying to charm you.
In your circling, you make certain queries of individuals about the various side rooms, and identify one that sounds like fun. And it's one of the private ones, so you obtain its key from one of the mute Kinzira guards and then lead your darling little azure lambling to it while they light the lights.
"What is this place?" Blue asks, as the servants leave you in peace.
Oh! How thoughtful of them. Certainly, they didn't make the interior door bar from an iron pole for things like this, but it's so perfect. You seal the door. "This?" You smile at him, hand rubbing against his crotch as you bear him backwards. "This is where you make it clear that you're not a naughty boy. It's where you make it up to me."
He beams at you. "What do I need to do?"
"Well, first off, just… get rid of your disguise." You flap a hand at him, as you look admiringly at the salacious art. Nymphs rut with djinn on banquet tables; a wall-hanging that looks like it came from further north shows an embroidered daisy-chain of young men. And there's what looks like a Tengese statue in black stone, of an elephant-headed god whose trunk is only matched by his endowment. You idly wonder if it's realistic or merely symbolic, because the width of that wine-bottle-sized thing inspires a wince. "I like you more the other way."
His tan skin peels off, dissolving into many-coloured dust that effervesces away, and the glamour that hid his limbs as gloves and boots fades like morning mist. "I like that you like me like this," he tells you earnestly.
That is so much better. You try not to stare too much, because he's shed all his glamour-clothes too, but Sadia is welcome to those two handsome young gentlemen when you have a prince all to yourself. In the low light, his white facial markings glow. His soft dick rests against his thigh, standing out against his shiny black leg.
"Now, close your eyes, and don't open them again until I tell you to. No matter what you feel," you say. "And don't say anything, either."
He screws them shut, face trembling with concentration. Oh, now you feel bad!
Wait, no, you don't.
"Such a good boy," you murmur to him, as you get everything into position. "Such a good, good boy." You run one hand through his pubic hair, stroking against his cock until it twitches to life.
You shed your clothes, and arrange yourself on the softly padded chaise longue in the middle of the room. The pale covering doesn't complement your skin tone wonderfully, but the shadows fall over you and give you a delectable aura of mystique, if you do say so yourself. You almost tell him to open his eyes, and then you pause. You bite your lips to redden them, and then pinch your cheeks for a little more colour.
That's better.
Seeing him like this, obedient and naked and… well, it's a very good thing that the seat has an absorbent cover cloth covering, because otherwise you would be staining the fabric. It is definitely doing it for you. A pleasant yet needy warmth is in you, and when you look at him there, obedient and so pretty, you know you're going to enjoy what comes next.
"Oh, Blue," you say. "You can open your eyes." He does so, and you can't help but blush with delight at the way his eyes widen and he licks his lips. Oh, look at where he can't be sure where to look; face, breasts or between your legs! "Now, we're going to play a little game. One to make sure you know to obey me. You just have to kiss whatever part of me I tell you to, and keep on doing it until I tell you to stop. And do it with the feeling, the emotion I tell you to. And if you get it all right, then you get your reward. Do you want to play, darling?"
He chuckles. "Is that all? Lady, I can tame the stormclouds with my kisses."
"We'll see. We'll see." You hold out your right arm. "Now, sir, you may kiss my hand, like a true gentleman."
The man approaches slowly, and falls to one knee before you. "My lady," he says, gently taking your wrist in his grip as he holds your hand. His lips are so soft, so gentle they're like butterflies landing on your skin. He does each nail in turn. "I am graced that you offer me this chance to be of such service to you."
You can't help but giggle. "Sir, sir, you can stop." He looks up to you pitifully, as if he has just been denied his greatest delight. He doesn't let go of your hand, though. "Now, though, kiss up my arm to my shoulder, like a man who has just met his love again after a long time abroad."
His eyes widen, and his grip on your hand tightens. "It's you," he gasps, bringing his head to rest on your arm. He doesn't kiss, not at first, but instead just gasps and sighs in relief. Somewhat overacting, if you want to be honest, but you're having too much fun for things like honesty. "I have seen ten seas since l left you." His first kiss is barely above your wrist. "Ten seas and twenty lands and," another kiss, more pressing, wetter, "cities beyond count. Great spires, my lady! Great spires and towering… towers," he covers up the poor phrasing with more kisses, tingling pleasantly on your arm, "and I have seen the so-called beauties of other lands."
"Oh, have you?" you ask him archly, trying not to giggle as he kisses the inside of your elbow. No, curses! He's found one of your weak spots. You are intensely ticklish there.
"Well, other men said they were, but," his lips are on your viper tattoo, now, and heading towards your shoulder, "I couldn't see their attractions. Not compared to you."
Blue, that devil! He's pressing up against you as he showers kisses against your upper arm and shoulder, and that means his cock is now pressing against you. He's hard now, and each extravagant kiss rubs him against you.
What a delightfully naughty boy. You grab him, and he groans as you squeeze - not hard enough to hurt, but just hard enough to remind him who's in charge. He pulses in your hand, warm and slightly sticky.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," you whisper. "You serve me, darling. Your pleasure comes when I say it can." You rub your fingers against the tip of his dick, running against the rim of the head, and you bite your lip when you hear his breathy squeal. "And won't happen if you're not very good."
"I'm sorry, lady, but I have been desolate without you for so long," he says, with a sniff.
"Better. Now, you may kiss me chastely on the cheek, to greet a maiden good morning." Of course, there's nothing chaste about the situation, and you continue to stroke him with your fingers as he leans in to kiss your cheek. "Again." Each time you tell him to kiss you like that, you rub his dick. He's growing darker in the face, eyes half-hooded, and your fingers get hotter and stickier.
"Stop." You let go of him, walking your fingers up his chest to present your upturned palm to him, all smeared with his excitement. "Kiss my palm. And use some tongue," you order him. "You've made quite a mess."
It's hardly a kiss, but both of you know the spirit of the game, and he laps at your palm. His long tongue brushes up against your palm and your fingers, licking up his faintly luminiscent orange pre-cum. You can't help but giggle in a shivering frisson, your chest heaving. It tickles, but you want him so much.
"How was it?" you ask him.
"Delicious," he says, hints of it glistening on his lips.
You tap yours. "Now, kiss me like a lover," you say, and he needs little more encouragement. This time it is a true kiss, and he frames your head with his hands as your lips meet. You can taste him in your mouth, sweet and spicy like star aniseed, and you wrap your arms around his back. The strange carapace of his arm presses into your breasts. You ache for him, your inner warmth needing to be filled.
But you break the kiss. "Very good, Blue," you murmur. "Those clouds must have been very impressed."
"I've never heard complaints." He goes to lean in again, but you pinch the skin just over his spine to chide him. "Ouch."
"But, darling, the game isn't over yet." You uncross and cross your legs. "Now. My feet. Like a servant desperate to please his mistress."
He works his mouth.
"Is something the matter, Blue?" you ask him, and somehow the sight of him wanting to keep on kissing you only to be denied is just as good as the kiss. You squeeze your thighs together, and smile innocently at him.
He settles on a pout. "Of course not," he says - though he chooses to take some liberties in how he slides down your body to kneel by the divan. You decide to allow him that. "This humble servant of yours will do anything to see you happy." He lowers his mouth to your feet, planting the first kiss just where your foot meets your leg.
Looking down your body at him, you shift your right arm, covering your breasts like you're feigning modesty. It's nothing of the sort, of course. Right now you're just so aware of how soft your skin feels, especially with it resting against the hard warmth of your nipples. You can feel your heartbeat in your clitoris and it's all you can do to wait, but wait you do. Wait until he's covered both your feet in kisses, to muttered "Please enjoy this, mistress," and "One hopes this humble servant can be of assistance" and other things you're pretty sure he's never said before, but has heard others said.
That's when you spread your legs, resting your heels on his back. "Kiss me there," you order, a little more urgency in your voice than you wanted. "Kiss my thighs, kiss my lips, kiss my clit. Kiss me until I come, like it's the thing you want most to do in the world!" You run your fingers through his hair, and pull his head to where it needs to be. "Kiss me like you never ever want to stop!"
And that he does. Everything gets warm and relaxed, yet intense as he gets to work. It's not that you're needy, but you need this. Even while he's simply kissing your inner thighs with kisses that feel like petals falling on your skin, you're using your leverage on his back to grind against his cheek. You can't live without the pressure. Your hands are at your breasts but it's not exactly helping, only building up the pressure inside you with every heartbeat. And then when he actually gets to business with his lips and his tongue and all this prolonged foreplay has a point, everything is pulsing and swollen and wet and
oh. yes.
In the warm, sticky afterglow, you look down at him and run your hands through his mane of hair. "Aren't you a good, good, lovely boy?" you coo. "So pretty. So obedient."
"Did I do the game right?" he asks earnestly.
"Of course you did, and you should feel so, so good about yourself for that," you tell him. You pull his hair until he crawls up you to lie on top of you, his weight and his warmth and his scent like a reassuring blanket in your lovely post-orgasmic world. "And now," you kiss him. "Kiss me. Like you love me. And you'll get all the rewards a darling, adorable man like you deserves."
It's the magic of dreams, and it's a magic you're not sharing with the several ladies and couple of gentlemen who proposition him.
Eventually that gets on your nerves. By that point, the party is notably lower in its cups and inhibitions are falling away. You're one of the more sober people in the room, because you need to be for what you plan - and Blue is such a handy disposal vessel for all the drinks people keep handing you when they're trying to charm you.
In your circling, you make certain queries of individuals about the various side rooms, and identify one that sounds like fun. And it's one of the private ones, so you obtain its key from one of the mute Kinzira guards and then lead your darling little azure lambling to it while they light the lights.
"What is this place?" Blue asks, as the servants leave you in peace.
Oh! How thoughtful of them. Certainly, they didn't make the interior door bar from an iron pole for things like this, but it's so perfect. You seal the door. "This?" You smile at him, hand rubbing against his crotch as you bear him backwards. "This is where you make it clear that you're not a naughty boy. It's where you make it up to me."
He beams at you. "What do I need to do?"
"Well, first off, just… get rid of your disguise." You flap a hand at him, as you look admiringly at the salacious art. Nymphs rut with djinn on banquet tables; a wall-hanging that looks like it came from further north shows an embroidered daisy-chain of young men. And there's what looks like a Tengese statue in black stone, of an elephant-headed god whose trunk is only matched by his endowment. You idly wonder if it's realistic or merely symbolic, because the width of that wine-bottle-sized thing inspires a wince. "I like you more the other way."
His tan skin peels off, dissolving into many-coloured dust that effervesces away, and the glamour that hid his limbs as gloves and boots fades like morning mist. "I like that you like me like this," he tells you earnestly.
That is so much better. You try not to stare too much, because he's shed all his glamour-clothes too, but Sadia is welcome to those two handsome young gentlemen when you have a prince all to yourself. In the low light, his white facial markings glow. His soft dick rests against his thigh, standing out against his shiny black leg.
"Now, close your eyes, and don't open them again until I tell you to. No matter what you feel," you say. "And don't say anything, either."
He screws them shut, face trembling with concentration. Oh, now you feel bad!
Wait, no, you don't.
"Such a good boy," you murmur to him, as you get everything into position. "Such a good, good boy." You run one hand through his pubic hair, stroking against his cock until it twitches to life.
You shed your clothes, and arrange yourself on the softly padded chaise longue in the middle of the room. The pale covering doesn't complement your skin tone wonderfully, but the shadows fall over you and give you a delectable aura of mystique, if you do say so yourself. You almost tell him to open his eyes, and then you pause. You bite your lips to redden them, and then pinch your cheeks for a little more colour.
That's better.
Seeing him like this, obedient and naked and… well, it's a very good thing that the seat has an absorbent cover cloth covering, because otherwise you would be staining the fabric. It is definitely doing it for you. A pleasant yet needy warmth is in you, and when you look at him there, obedient and so pretty, you know you're going to enjoy what comes next.
"Oh, Blue," you say. "You can open your eyes." He does so, and you can't help but blush with delight at the way his eyes widen and he licks his lips. Oh, look at where he can't be sure where to look; face, breasts or between your legs! "Now, we're going to play a little game. One to make sure you know to obey me. You just have to kiss whatever part of me I tell you to, and keep on doing it until I tell you to stop. And do it with the feeling, the emotion I tell you to. And if you get it all right, then you get your reward. Do you want to play, darling?"
He chuckles. "Is that all? Lady, I can tame the stormclouds with my kisses."
"We'll see. We'll see." You hold out your right arm. "Now, sir, you may kiss my hand, like a true gentleman."
The man approaches slowly, and falls to one knee before you. "My lady," he says, gently taking your wrist in his grip as he holds your hand. His lips are so soft, so gentle they're like butterflies landing on your skin. He does each nail in turn. "I am graced that you offer me this chance to be of such service to you."
You can't help but giggle. "Sir, sir, you can stop." He looks up to you pitifully, as if he has just been denied his greatest delight. He doesn't let go of your hand, though. "Now, though, kiss up my arm to my shoulder, like a man who has just met his love again after a long time abroad."
His eyes widen, and his grip on your hand tightens. "It's you," he gasps, bringing his head to rest on your arm. He doesn't kiss, not at first, but instead just gasps and sighs in relief. Somewhat overacting, if you want to be honest, but you're having too much fun for things like honesty. "I have seen ten seas since l left you." His first kiss is barely above your wrist. "Ten seas and twenty lands and," another kiss, more pressing, wetter, "cities beyond count. Great spires, my lady! Great spires and towering… towers," he covers up the poor phrasing with more kisses, tingling pleasantly on your arm, "and I have seen the so-called beauties of other lands."
"Oh, have you?" you ask him archly, trying not to giggle as he kisses the inside of your elbow. No, curses! He's found one of your weak spots. You are intensely ticklish there.
"Well, other men said they were, but," his lips are on your viper tattoo, now, and heading towards your shoulder, "I couldn't see their attractions. Not compared to you."
Blue, that devil! He's pressing up against you as he showers kisses against your upper arm and shoulder, and that means his cock is now pressing against you. He's hard now, and each extravagant kiss rubs him against you.
What a delightfully naughty boy. You grab him, and he groans as you squeeze - not hard enough to hurt, but just hard enough to remind him who's in charge. He pulses in your hand, warm and slightly sticky.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," you whisper. "You serve me, darling. Your pleasure comes when I say it can." You rub your fingers against the tip of his dick, running against the rim of the head, and you bite your lip when you hear his breathy squeal. "And won't happen if you're not very good."
"I'm sorry, lady, but I have been desolate without you for so long," he says, with a sniff.
"Better. Now, you may kiss me chastely on the cheek, to greet a maiden good morning." Of course, there's nothing chaste about the situation, and you continue to stroke him with your fingers as he leans in to kiss your cheek. "Again." Each time you tell him to kiss you like that, you rub his dick. He's growing darker in the face, eyes half-hooded, and your fingers get hotter and stickier.
"Stop." You let go of him, walking your fingers up his chest to present your upturned palm to him, all smeared with his excitement. "Kiss my palm. And use some tongue," you order him. "You've made quite a mess."
It's hardly a kiss, but both of you know the spirit of the game, and he laps at your palm. His long tongue brushes up against your palm and your fingers, licking up his faintly luminiscent orange pre-cum. You can't help but giggle in a shivering frisson, your chest heaving. It tickles, but you want him so much.
"How was it?" you ask him.
"Delicious," he says, hints of it glistening on his lips.
You tap yours. "Now, kiss me like a lover," you say, and he needs little more encouragement. This time it is a true kiss, and he frames your head with his hands as your lips meet. You can taste him in your mouth, sweet and spicy like star aniseed, and you wrap your arms around his back. The strange carapace of his arm presses into your breasts. You ache for him, your inner warmth needing to be filled.
But you break the kiss. "Very good, Blue," you murmur. "Those clouds must have been very impressed."
"I've never heard complaints." He goes to lean in again, but you pinch the skin just over his spine to chide him. "Ouch."
"But, darling, the game isn't over yet." You uncross and cross your legs. "Now. My feet. Like a servant desperate to please his mistress."
He works his mouth.
"Is something the matter, Blue?" you ask him, and somehow the sight of him wanting to keep on kissing you only to be denied is just as good as the kiss. You squeeze your thighs together, and smile innocently at him.
He settles on a pout. "Of course not," he says - though he chooses to take some liberties in how he slides down your body to kneel by the divan. You decide to allow him that. "This humble servant of yours will do anything to see you happy." He lowers his mouth to your feet, planting the first kiss just where your foot meets your leg.
Looking down your body at him, you shift your right arm, covering your breasts like you're feigning modesty. It's nothing of the sort, of course. Right now you're just so aware of how soft your skin feels, especially with it resting against the hard warmth of your nipples. You can feel your heartbeat in your clitoris and it's all you can do to wait, but wait you do. Wait until he's covered both your feet in kisses, to muttered "Please enjoy this, mistress," and "One hopes this humble servant can be of assistance" and other things you're pretty sure he's never said before, but has heard others said.
That's when you spread your legs, resting your heels on his back. "Kiss me there," you order, a little more urgency in your voice than you wanted. "Kiss my thighs, kiss my lips, kiss my clit. Kiss me until I come, like it's the thing you want most to do in the world!" You run your fingers through his hair, and pull his head to where it needs to be. "Kiss me like you never ever want to stop!"
And that he does. Everything gets warm and relaxed, yet intense as he gets to work. It's not that you're needy, but you need this. Even while he's simply kissing your inner thighs with kisses that feel like petals falling on your skin, you're using your leverage on his back to grind against his cheek. You can't live without the pressure. Your hands are at your breasts but it's not exactly helping, only building up the pressure inside you with every heartbeat. And then when he actually gets to business with his lips and his tongue and all this prolonged foreplay has a point, everything is pulsing and swollen and wet and
oh. yes.
In the warm, sticky afterglow, you look down at him and run your hands through his mane of hair. "Aren't you a good, good, lovely boy?" you coo. "So pretty. So obedient."
"Did I do the game right?" he asks earnestly.
"Of course you did, and you should feel so, so good about yourself for that," you tell him. You pull his hair until he crawls up you to lie on top of you, his weight and his warmth and his scent like a reassuring blanket in your lovely post-orgasmic world. "And now," you kiss him. "Kiss me. Like you love me. And you'll get all the rewards a darling, adorable man like you deserves."
Your night is very busy, and it's only a little before dawn when, somewhat bow-legged and stiff, you creep back to your room with the disguised Blue trailing behind you. He collapses face down onto your bed.
He hasn't had any real sleep, poor thing.
On the other hand, you're feeling wide awake. You napped for a few hours, head on his lap, and right now you're in this strange state of super-aware exhaustion that you often get some of your best ideas in. Sometimes you think that this altered state of consciousness puts to sleep all the bits of your mind that chain your sheer brilliance. Though it does make you slightly… erratic.
Oh. Like the fact that you apparently forgot to put your dress back on when you came back. Which means you walked through the thankfully empty halls in just your bra. Where is it?
Right. You were leading Blue with it, using it as an improvised leash. See! That's what you mean by brilliance! He looks so handsome like that!
You need some fresh air. You need it! It was stuffy in the other room, and you just can't… you just can't think properly without it! The window is boarded up, but not to worry, you have a knife! You'll be rid of those nails in no time!
Well, maybe a little time. But you do tear down the barricades obstructing the shutters, and throw them wide open. The night's air is delightfully cool. You can see the stars in the sky through patches of clouds. There's just enough of the wyld in the air that it feels like anything is possible, without any of the much less pleasant results of 'anything is possible' making themselves known.
There's a freshness to the air, so unlike the dry heat of Cahzor. You'll be leaving the Kinzira estate tomorrow, heading back to your rooms at the Blue Lotus, with a darling new fae lover. Hopefully Amigere won't kick up a fuss. You'll have to make it clear to the boy that he doesn't own your heart. Or any other part of your body. At most, you'll let him stay there if he pays his rent. Of course, you'll probably have to make him feel better about this, but this whole murder incident has left you very tense so you'll need to spend a few days releasing some stress anyway.
It'll give the city down below time to burn off the chaos. And then?
Well, if Cahzor is to be your oyster, you'll need to go fishing. Hire some men, buy some supplies, and start following up on those leads. You've made more than a few contacts in high society, and oh, a certain name for yourself. Probably some enemies, too, but enemies make things more interesting. If you were friends with all the jansi, it would be very awkward when you work to steal their power and birthright and suchlike.
You light a cigarillo from the lantern, and suck in a contented breath. You can feel it swirl inside your mouth, like all the thoughts inside your head. Buzzing, buzzing, like a flock of birds all cawing for attention. You exhale blue smoke into the pre-dawn light. It drifts out of the window, catching a hint of aurora for a moment as it is lost among the maddened spires of the ak-Kinzira.
Yes. You could have done a lot worse here.
Article: Yeah, this is basically the end of the arc. Next update is just wrap up, and then there'll be the XP vote - of which you have a fair amount due to the length of the arc and how much you've got done. This vote isn't going to be a conventional vote, but is the starting point for discussion and conclusions.
Okay, but does Rena have any doubts about what happened with regards to the murder?
[ ] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
[ ] Write-in her questions/conclusions/theories.
Last edited:
mothematics
How wide is the concept of "you"?
- Location
- the bottom of a coffee cup
- Pronouns
- She/Her
There's just one thing.
[X] Hilmi said "wait" before he died. He was a brute and a bully, but he wasn't a coward, and you aren't sure why he said that. It's probably not important, but you can't help wondering.
[X] Hilmi said "wait" before he died. He was a brute and a bully, but he wasn't a coward, and you aren't sure why he said that. It's probably not important, but you can't help wondering.
[X] Why now? While Hilmi was enraged by the outcome of the duel, this was not the first time he and Haitham reached this outcome. The jade steel knife, while valuable, was not so much so to justify the risk of murder, and though men fighting over you is nothing new, them killing each other over you almost always requires you to actually try to escalate it.
[X] Hilmi said "wait" before he died. He was a brute and a bully, but he wasn't a coward, and you aren't sure why he said that. It's probably not important, but you can't help wondering.
[X] Hilmi said "wait" before he died. He was a brute and a bully, but he wasn't a coward, and you aren't sure why he said that. It's probably not important, but you can't help wondering.
Imrix
Periodically Malevolent QM
No :>
[X] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
There was almost definitely more to it, but at the end of the day it's not really our problem. So long as nobles aren't going to come after us with a grudge, we're free to get on with our business of plumbing this place's depths for power and secrets, and powerful secrets.
- Location
- France
[X] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
Amused Bystander
Herald of 'She who Umu's' Be Brave!
- Location
- Philippines
[X] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
It was
drags you to
so they have broken out
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
Last edited:
Arkeus
Crazy cat guy
- Location
- France
Mmmh, not liking the write-ins at all. Rena believes that Hilma was afraid during the fight, and she had to do a lot of work to make him lose his caution for once, so the 'he wasn't a coward' sounds completely false to me, especially as a thing Rena would think (Rena has a healthy appretiation for staying alive, and wouldn't consider it being cowardly).
The 'why now'... doesn't/shouldn't matter for Rena. If anything should matter to her, it would be who actually murderered Haitham (the murder weapon was planted, so it probably wasn't Hilm) or even 'If the murderer going to be a pain in my arse in the future/was it innaam'. Not 'why now'.
So, huh, as I have no idea on how to do an actual write in that makes sense, I'll just vote for the normal vote.
[X] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
The 'why now'... doesn't/shouldn't matter for Rena. If anything should matter to her, it would be who actually murderered Haitham (the murder weapon was planted, so it probably wasn't Hilm) or even 'If the murderer going to be a pain in my arse in the future/was it innaam'. Not 'why now'.
So, huh, as I have no idea on how to do an actual write in that makes sense, I'll just vote for the normal vote.
[X] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
- Location
- Spain
I mean in one hand we clearly don't have a full (Or even partial) idea of what really happened. Himli looked reasonably convincing, we still don't know where the jade piercing ended, etc - but really do we care about that?
There is one thing we should actually care about though
Imaan was pretty spot on accusing Rena of being a sorceress, but was that mere luck, or did she actually had better proof? And did Himli merely pick on those rumours, or did he had better reasons?
And in that note, what is the relation between those two, if any? Imaan starting those rumors in the first place was kinda weird - She shouldn't had a grudge against Rena, so, uh, why did she do that?
There is one thing we should actually care about though
Imaan was pretty spot on accusing Rena of being a sorceress, but was that mere luck, or did she actually had better proof? And did Himli merely pick on those rumours, or did he had better reasons?
And in that note, what is the relation between those two, if any? Imaan starting those rumors in the first place was kinda weird - She shouldn't had a grudge against Rena, so, uh, why did she do that?
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- They/Them
I know we've missed something.
I don't know what it is.
I'm less sure it's worth it, if for absolutely no other reason than it amuses me to have our protagonist mis-solve a murder mystery, shrug, and leave.
[x] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
I don't know what it is.
I'm less sure it's worth it, if for absolutely no other reason than it amuses me to have our protagonist mis-solve a murder mystery, shrug, and leave.
[x] Nah, everything's wrapped up. She doesn't actually care enough to ask questions; she's out of trouble.
- Location
- USA
Of course we didn't mis-solve the Murder Mystery, we had a trial by combat and everything! 
It would be an insult to the local gods to think otherwise.
After all, if he really was guilty and it was Yasmine or Inaan or someone present, when Hilmi got disarmed and his knife went flying it should've soared over and cut the real guilty party on the face at a minimum (if not killed them, but thats a bit much for a Godly sign). We were right in a sacred dueling temple after all
Or maybe their bronze blades shattering the first time they clashed, if the dueling gods wanted to show neither was guilty and fit to die, but couldn't overstep by revealing the culprit?
It would be an insult to the local gods to think otherwise.After all, if he really was guilty and it was Yasmine or Inaan or someone present, when Hilmi got disarmed and his knife went flying it should've soared over and cut the real guilty party on the face at a minimum (if not killed them, but thats a bit much for a Godly sign). We were right in a sacred dueling temple after all
Or maybe their bronze blades shattering the first time they clashed, if the dueling gods wanted to show neither was guilty and fit to die, but couldn't overstep by revealing the culprit?
Last edited:
- Location
- The sixth circle of Hell (second on weekends)
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
- Location
- Spain
Seems reasonable enough.
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
Arkeus
Crazy cat guy
- Location
- France
Mmmh, that's reasonable yeah. Not sure he was /definitely/ involved, but it's true that the whole set up is a bit too complicated if he wasn't involved at all. Beside, this is supposed to be in Rena's PoV right?
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
- Location
- Spain
If he wasn't involved in any way and the knife was planted, whoeved did it must have some measure of supernatural power (Because otherwise they couldn't have passed the magic fire trap)
And that is, well, not impossible, but we don't really have any hint pointing towards such a thing.
----
If we had more agents i would like to keep an eye of Imaan, but we don't have any spies yet (And Rena's personal time is too valuable for that) so *shrug*
Last edited:
Hilmi was likely involved, there wouldn't be any other reason for his packing and attempt at leaving during the storm. He likely had aid, but the question (as I think many others are asking) is why should Rena care?
The way I see it the killing of Haitham was a crime of opportunity that would have happened without Rena's presence. Following that line, there isn't a reason for Rena to pursue the other conspirator(s) as she wasn't the target. I also don't believe they would seek her out, as Rena never stated the involvement of others, resolving the need to tie up a loose end on their part.
So, live let live, Rena has other stuff to do.
The way I see it the killing of Haitham was a crime of opportunity that would have happened without Rena's presence. Following that line, there isn't a reason for Rena to pursue the other conspirator(s) as she wasn't the target. I also don't believe they would seek her out, as Rena never stated the involvement of others, resolving the need to tie up a loose end on their part.
So, live let live, Rena has other stuff to do.
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
Vocalist
Verdant Maiden in Violet
- Location
- By a Cedar Tree
[X] Hilmi probably wasn't acting alone. There are a few little inconsistencies in the events of that night, and Rena can see a few more threads to pull. But who cares? He was definitely involved, and now he's dead and Haitham is avanged. The case is wrapped up, she's out of trouble and his accomplice probably isn't that important. Her time is better spent on stuff she actually wants to do. Like her handsome gentlemen. And sorcery.
- Location
- Dethklok
[X] Why now? While Hilmi was enraged by the outcome of the duel, this was not the first time he and Haitham reached this outcome. The jade steel knife, while valuable, was not so much so to justify the risk of murder, and though men fighting over you is nothing new, them killing each other over you almost always requires you to actually try to escalate it.