Things had been quiet, but frustrating. The identity of Am'thyst's attacker had not yet been revealed, but it had nearly become common knowledge that she was murdered. Acts of destruction, the bleeding out of strong emotions so tied up over the nymph, had been occuring lately. Talomar promising slow, agonizing vengenance, Tara truly seeming to spin beyond what little control her mind had left. Others had been searching -- Jewell and Kristia had come to his room, asking questions. He had expected it, but not this soon. How easily people remembered his night with Amthy there on the couch, telling her the story of Ayla the Wise and the Spear of Fire.
Very easily, indeed.
That night ended poorly. They had disturbed him, you see, and the death knight did not like to be disturbed when he was trying to rest. Having apparently gotten what she wanted, Jewell finally left, leaving Kristia standing there.
Smirking.
In the end of things, he would rest satisfied that she got what she deserved. He told them he'd put them over his knee if they didn't leave him be, and while it might not have actually happened that way, she did recieve a none-too-kind swat to her bottom when she finally did turn and begin strolling away like she owned the place.
It was a short brawl, but savage. Jodiah Ayreg was not well accustomed to fighting with hands and feet, after all, but he gave as good as he got. It turned mostly into a grappling competition -- and he would have thought he had done well, despite her superior, inhuman strength.
Until her fangs slid into the flesh of his throat. It takes only the quickest piercing of vampiric fangs to sap all the strength to fight out of a mortal.
The night ended well enough, if not a bit smug on her part, judging by the way she spoke. She fancied herself his better, perhaps -- a fancy he would have to disabuse her of, given the proper equipment that, ironically, was mere footsteps away back in his room.
Fortunatly, today was a new day.
The common room had filled up slowly and steadily. Jodiah Ayreg did not care for crowds much, and this group was no exception. He retreated to the alley outside, ostensibly to enjoy the smoke of his silver-worked pipe. Bootsteps were heard echoing over the cobbles as he entered, and he moved to a place of hiding. Perhaps he could take his mind off of Amthy's true murderer by becoming one himself.
Down a Dangerous Path, Flirting with Disaster, and Waltzing the Edge, Sid"]The back alley of the Inn was empty, just the way he likes it. Solitude. Quiet. Peace. Until the sound of boots over cobbles echoes up between the buildings. He turns his head briefly, glancing in the sound's direction. The twisting of the walls preventing any sight of the owner.
Crouching down behind any one of a dozen or so obligatory dumpsters, he waits. The footsteps were coming closer, and it had been some time since Ayreg had delighted in the joy of a random kill. His Runesword was left in his room, because all he wanted was some peace for few minutes - and he was NOT going to get that in the common room today, it seemed. Closer still, the steps sounded broad apart which spoke of a man of some height. Heavy steps of boots also indicated that: very few women, even in Rhy'Din, wore heavy boots. Jodiah's leather vest creaked softly over the blackened mail coat, and his eyes narrowed to keep some of the afternoon sun from blinding him. Just a little further now . . .
As the booted feet neared, Jodiah Ayreg counted down from three. Three. A sword would have been preferable to end this quickly, and bloodily. He would have appreciated it. Distractions have been keeping him too long from reveling in the bloodshed of random carnage. Two. Even closer. Hands and feet were not the old knight's strong suit when used in the attack, but he was knowledgeable enough to know what a killing blow could do to a man - though not knowledgeable enough to the killing blows themselves. He was strong enough to fend away attacks, and strong enough to pummel others with his own. One. He paused the span of another two heartbeats, and then - like a coiled wire released - burst out from behind the dumpster. He had been expecting a tall man, naturally, so his arms were flung out to grapple and tackle the unlucky pedestrian that was happening by.
Sid went down with the tackle, her lean, lank form twisting deftly beneath the onslaught until one hand gripped the butt of her blaster at the small of her back. Yanking it free, she used the momentum and their bodies' own weight to roll off it and over to allow the arm to swing wide. Her other hand had struck out for the attacker's throat, first two fingers and thumb clawed to grip with vice-like intensity. Muttered words flowing through the action were hoarse and raggedly breathed. "Ye really dun wan' to be yotzin' me off today."
This simple and humble pedestrian was near as slippery as a snake, and writhed easily in his grasp. This pedestrian was also . . . strong. Ayreg was very nearly stunned when the surprise ambush turned in to him pressed to his back. Larynx strained and his airway compressed to have his breathing at labored rasps, he balled his fist to lash out at this person now bestriding him like a colossus - and he knew they had to be, after all, because of the feel of solid, strong thighs gripping at his flanks - but the figure itself was silhouetted against the backdrop of the afternoon sun. The blaster, though - that was something he recognized, and feared. Especially without his armor on. The voice, and the tell tale jingle-jangle of bells clinking against bits of mirror? "Yotz"? He blinked, but his hand stayed fisted, and his other stayed upon the wrist whose hand was at his throat. Swallowing hard, his voice came out as raspy as his breathing. "Obsidian!?"
The Trueblood's eyes had gone to solid orbs of black, staring down at . . . "Jodiah! Jodiah? Frellin' crap, Jodiah." Immediately the pressure was released from his throat and the blaster turned muzzle back. Still, she remains atop him. "Death wish, much, dux?"
He gasped as the pressure vanished, allowing him to breathe once more. The hand that had been balled into a fist rubbed at his throat, the other dropped limply when she pulled hers away. It ended up on her leg, briefly, before gravity brought it on down to the cobbles. Masterful as they were for making cheap and resilient streets, he did now take notice that they weren't the most comfortable bed to lay upon.
After a moment, his thin lips twitched into a smile. He still couldn't see her because of the sun, but at least he wasn't being so thoroughly thrashed like a dirty rug taken out to launder. "I..." He gave a cough. "...I wasn't expecting it to be you, Obsidian." His mind worked over things he could say. Every possibility was as foolish as the next, and the one before it. The one he finally settled upon was no less foolish, though perhaps the least of all. "So, what brings you down the deserted alley, Obsidian?"
The Ancient knew they watched, knew they were spread over the city so thick she could taste them. Would this incident bring Jodiah more to their attentions, would they know and use him at some point to get to her like they have done others associated closely with the Three since Ber had worked his spell? Did she now put him into the line of fire? Maybe she should cold-cock him and jump up, kicking him as he . . . His words paused those thoughts and she scoffed, her own words holding truth tempered by mirth within her tone. "I be lookin' to kill somethin'. An' ye, Jodiah?" Shifting atop his form, those well-toned thighs flexing along his hips. "Why be ye hidin' out here like some . . . rogue bandit?"
"I have been known to be the proper rogue from time to time, I'll have you know." A wolfish grin, of sorts, played along Jodiah's lips though it may have appeared odd on the face of the aging knight. "The common room inside is . . . well, entirely too occupied for my tastes. I've been acquiring a great deal of attention lately, for some reason. Commissions from other patrons of the Red Dragon. Grem contracted me to build him some kind of collar big enough to fit onto a bear, and that dark elf . . . " He shook his head. "Too busy, for me. I was enjoying solitude when I heard you come up. Had I known it was you I would have greeted you somewhat differently."
His head rolled back, now, relaxing onto the cobbles behind him. Oh, what a compromising appearance they would make should anyone come outside, or look out one of the windows. It's a good thing Jodiah Ayreg didn't particularly care what anyone thought about him. Well, what most thought about him. A close few - though perhaps they did not realize this fact - he did, indeed, care about. "Looking to kill, you say?"
"I..." Sid looked about her now, teeth worrying briefly at her lower lip. "I be nae realizin' I be this close to the Red Dragon." Oddly, this seemed to disturb her, but she recovered swiftly and stuffed the blaster back to its place beneath the leather. "Och! It canna be comfortable on this ground." Looking back to him, then, head bowed over so those elflocks formed a ringling curtain around them. "An' aye, lookin' to kill somethin'. 'Tis Rhy'Din, Jodiah. There always be somethin' or someone about needin' to get dead. Or . . . close enough."
"Comfortable, no. But you know what they say - it's all about location." His hand lifted to lightly lay atop her thigh, apparently tempting the Fates to become one of the next things that needed to get dead. "I suppose you have a point, but most people prefer to do their murder under the cover of night."
The grin came at his joke, fox lit and sly. Her laughter whiskey-tinged and honey-warm as elflocks joined in with a gentle chiming. "Ye made a joke, Jodiah. I be 'avin' nae idea ye be such the wit." Her own hand moved from her hip to slide down to his on her thigh, fingers just barely a breath from his own. "An', aye, I suppose ye be right about secretin' thin's 'neath the cover o' night. But, if'n one nae fears the day or the eyes about, then 'tis when convenience calls be wha' works best. Aye?" The Trueblood spoke all this so casually, as if she was giving him a recipe for some tasty treat. Still, behind those eyes now morphing back slowly to the glamoured hue, a shadow lurked. One which the Ancient was becoming increasingly annoyed with.
He had to always think about what she said. He, himself, had been born and raised in Rhy'Din, though he never exhibited any sort of dialect. Others did. Sid in particular. Occasionally he had trouble understanding what exactly it was that she was saying, but it was a rare thing to completely miss an idea, or a statement. In this case, it was quite clear. If it had bothered him that she spoke so openly of wanton acts of murder - in broad daylight, no less - it didn't seem to reflect on him outwardly. "I'm not possessed of any great wit, Obsidian. Sometimes I try, though. You are right about the other thing, as you often are. I've discovered women having a tendency to be that way more often than not. Being right, I mean. And if they are not right, then they try to convince everyone that they are anyway."
He shifted beneath her as a single cobble had started to push awkwardly into his shoulder blade. Another shift. Finally his hands drew back behind him, and he leaned upwards toward her to tickle his own face on the bits of mirror and bells woven into her hair. "You have been distracted of late, Obsidian. I... I haven't seen you around often at all, save only on the day of your shifts here at the Red Dragon."
"I find nae much difference in the genders after all this time, it sort o' all balances out. Either tha' or I be forgettin' more'n I remember. Which be possible." Her weight slid back until she rested on his thighs, most of it held off him as she rocked upwards onto her ankles. She had been distracted, too distracted and that could prove dangerous.
His words brought a lowering of her head, a sliding of her gaze off to the right to study some bit of brick for a moment before she looked back. And, for the briefest of seconds, she opened so plainly to him it might well smack him in the face. Then she breathed, thin lips drawing a smirk, and the moment was gone. "Aye, distracted. An', in this burg tha' be dangerous, oft deadly. Ye can be sayin' tha' many thin's weigh upon me which I be nae accustomed to, Jodiah. I find meself dealin' with such I be nae created to know."
Jodiah Ayreg was often a study in dualities, and never more so than now. Secret games and meetings and liaisons played with the nymph had softened him terribly - far, far more soft than when he first arrived at the Red Dragon so many moons ago. He craned his head forward, the tip of his nose touching against one of her woven elflocks. Perhaps he would have used his hands had they not been occupied with keeping him leaned upward, but that is in the realm of what-nots and might-haves. "You smell nice." Then, a blink, as if remembering himself and regaining his composure his head pulls back, awkwardly, and his thin lips twitch. "It sounds like you need a holiday, Obsidian. Tell me of your troubles; perhaps we can find a way together to ease them."
He pulled back too soon, one of her hands raised to touch upon his jaw, or stroke a strand of graying hair. Instead, it fell back as she sighed, the smile soft and conveying a gratitude for his compliment, his presence, his . . . Him. What was this male to her? Why had he wheedled his way within the confines of her being? These were questions, like many more on even more subjects she had not the answers for. "A holiday?" This bringing a most unladylike snort. "Aye. Except those like me, we get nae holidays, Jodiah. I 'ave gone away o'er times, but it be nae pleasant for those left behind nor for me. An' truly, Jodiah, do ye wish to know me troubles? Methinks ye 'ave ye own, an' I wish nae to be a burden when I know dire thin's weigh upon ye head. In fact, if'n I were to speak plain . . . an' mind ye, I only possess the knowledge I get from talkin' to ye an' watchin' ye . . . But, if'n I were to speak plain, I believe mayhaps we share similar troubles to some degree."
And then she did it, she let that hand come up and the silken touch of her fingertips drew down the line of his jaw, her smile soft in quicksilver sparked eyes. Her voice a whisper. "Sometimes, methinks, War be the simpler o' existence."
What was this male to anyone? To Alysia he was bodyguard, and valuable aide-de-champ within the boundaries of Rhilshen. To Rhaine he was a tool, and nothing more. To Sluiss, he might as well be a forge hammer with feet. To the nymph? To Sid? And to think - all of it started when Tara harassed him about trying to be nicer, and Sid had just happened to be the tender on duty.
The only reaction he had made in response to her velvet touch - amazing how not a few minutes ago it was likened unto iron - was a faint twitch of his thin lips, though his green eyes did indeed take a sparkle or two. His head canted again, then, in the direction of her fingers. "Everyone can have a holiday, Obsidian." This was one of the many lessons he had learned from the nymph. "And everyone deserves one. Surely people do not rely so heavily upon you that their lives diminish with your absence?"
But he continued, not waiting for an answer and not expecting one. "War is simple. Lead well, and be victorious. Win or lose, with no middle ground for partial failure or partial victory. I like the life, but those days are gone, Obsidian. I've had to adjust. Speak plainly to me, woman, and I will hear your words. If there be nothing to do for them, then I am no more impressed upon by duty than I was a few moments ago. True?" He dared something himself, then. His hand lifted from behind him - his other readjusting to be more central - and he touched lightly over the sapphire-inlaid silver necklace dangling down her chest.
His words struck a chord, her smile wry, the nod knowing. Those eyes followed his hand and she drew a deep inhale before meeting his gaze. "I wan' ye to know somethin'. Somethin' true. Nae illusions, or thin's gettin' in the way. Mayhaps this be foolish on me part, but I wan' ye to see, to know o' me. Will ye let me show ye, Jodiah?"
Ayreg gave a simple, wordless nod and reaching up, she took a hold of his hand touching lightly upon that necklace. Slowly, in the dying light of the day her eyes were morphing back. Darkened threads swam in the glamoured blue fields, overtaking them. This was something he hadn't been expecting. Obsidian was an elf, after all - tall and lanky, toned yes, but he hadn't noticed much in the way of magic capabilities from her, and this was beyond the scope of most magics he was aware of in general. His head craned a bit as he stared into her eyes, watching in rapt awe as the darker shades began to engulf the lighter hues.
Her eyes were solid orbs of black now, fingers curling about his wrist, another deep breath was drawn and she opened herself to him, she let him see. The visions came fast and furious. A field littered with thousands of bloodied and broken bodies of creatures of entrancing perfection. The skies rained fire, filled with the sounds of warring birds of prey bent on destruction. Above, winged beings, counterparts to those that littered the battlefield, cried out for their brethren's blood.
A sharp gasp was released from the aging knight, then, and the sudden hijacking of his vision left him without words to speak by. It was . . . cold? And hot. Battle heat. Fire rained from the sky, and the smell of brimstone was everywhere. He blinked and turned his head . . . the alley was gone, so far as he could tell. Around him was a veritable charnel house of chaos, and destruction and - no. It couldn't be. His eyes narrowed as he examined one of the fallen dead. No, dead would be far too pleasant a word. These bodies were ravaged, and annihilated.
Battles are always hot, even in the cold. The stink of death was all around him, engulfing him, and the sulfuric fumes were made to choke, riding atop the scent of death. Where had he gone? His head craned upward, skyward, to those majestic beings battling one another in the skies overhead. It was as if he was standing on a field of war the likes of which he had never seen before. Never experienced, in all of his years of battlefield knowledge. Surely not, though - surely he was still pinned beneath the elf's body, in the alley back behind the Red Dragon! But there he was, all the same, awareness expanded on all levels to take in the sight, and the smell . . . and the carnage.
Swords of dazzling light and terrible construction were wielded with calculating precision. The creatures . . . gender-less, immense, androgynous, enthralling beauties. The vision speaks these events play on for some span mankind finds incalculable. And then, a shift. A fair meadow, the beauty of a spring unknown to most who walk the physical plane. Bare feet, falling feathers. And as the point of view moves upwards along the form, it is female. A tall, lank drink of water bathed in luminescent flesh and silvered hair; between her lithesome legs and falling from the crown of her head over wings tattered and torn, broken and bloody.
Blackened eyes look to a crow, braver than his brothers, who stands there to investigate. Her screech of speech from unused throat and lips, doing little to scare him off. As the Mystery, the crow, looks defiantly, his beak reaches forth to pluck a falling feather, gulping it down before he takes to the skies. The creature gesturing outward and upward in child-like motion, dropping to her knees and pulling the tatters of her wings about her.
There was meaning here. Symbols. He was thankful to be away from the terrible sight of battle, but now this? She seemed to resemble someone he knew. He couldn't place it. Someone from another world, perhaps. He reached his hand out and became aware that his body didn't seem to move right. He felt his arm clutching something, roughly - as if in horror - but he saw his arm extend out as he tried to reach forth his hand. It . . . did not feel like his own. More like a thing he controlled as if a marionette on a set of strings. However he felt, though, this creature - slender, tall, and exotic - was beyond his grasp to reach, and his feet did not seem to work like he thought they should have. He opened his mouth, and even his own voice sounded strange to him. Hollow. Tinny. As if not really there. "Are you all right?"
In the alley, the air turned cooler as it was sucked into blue flames that slowly started to grow between those narrow brick walls. Taking shape, drawing upward, pulling their dancing edges into the hard lines of the old man. The armor that surrounded him coming first into view, then the sword he carried at his side. That sword was brought swiftly to hand once the flames died into him, his gaze narrowing to look around.
Tass had felt the power that was being expelled by the one, and a frown came as his eyes alighted on the pair before him on the ground. He knew the look upon her, and he thought long and hard at pulling her free. The thought was made for him, though, as he watched her draw more power into herself. It might not be enough yet, but soon it would prove too much for the one beneath her to handle, and Des wouldn't like that. He quickly shoved the blade to its sheath and wrapped his arms about her.
As his arms encircled her, she shrieks. A keening wail in the speech of her kind that was more than harsh to mortal ears; a thousand murders of crows on the wing. Tass cursed himself, and quickly dove into his power. Wrapping Ayreg in a cocoon to protect him from the shriek first, then into her. Supporting both her body and her soul as the link broke and she fell full weight to his hold, blackened eyes staring upwards, unseeing. He would not see her lost.
Another sharp gasp, and Jodiah fell backward with a dull thud against the filthy cobbles of the back alley. He, too, stared wordlessly skyward. It was blue now, and didn't have terribly beautiful creatures doing battle. The skies were not raining fire. There was no winged being anywhere about him. A terrible sound had been heard, but it vanished almost as quickly as it started. The earth seemed to quake for the time it was there, though. He was as limp as a boned fish, lying there on the ground.
Beneath Tass? hands, a hot spot; something secreted about her person burned like a tiny sun. Pale lids fluttered, those eyes morphing with quicksilver flash - her usual glamoured blue beginning to swim through the maelstrom - looked up to the dragon and then cast over slowly to Ayreg. A voice, hoarse, like glass over gravel, breathed out. "Help him." And then those snowy lids fell, shuttering the light behind them.
Tass continued to hold onto Sid, but seeing what passed for her soul kept and secured he turned the power to the one who lay prone on the cobblestones. It was a matter of making sure now that his soul was properly tethered to his body. It could have been easily lost in the backlash he had felt. Especially considering Jodiah Ayreg was a normal, ordinary mortal man. His soul could very well have just been ripped from his body, and it would have been a lifeless cadaver sitting there between Sid's thighs. As it was, the aging knight was particularly strong of will, and of metal fortitude. As his mind clung to sanity, so, too, did his spirit cling to his body - like a cat desperate to avoid getting wet, but clinging all the same.
Finding mind and spirit there, yet clutching desperately to the thread it had, the old dragon wasn't one to leave one dangle. Even his enemies. So, a mental hand extended, the powerful talons drawn back in friendship as it offered help to draw Jodiah back from the precipice.
The next few instants could have been truly devastating to the psyche of any mortal. Ayreg, however, was more than willing to grasp at the offered assistance, and with an abrupt (and another) sharp intake of breath, he leaned his upper body up off the cobbles, and coughed harshly several times. Set back into place on all levels - physically, mentally, and spiritually - another possible disaster had been averted. He groaned, softly, as it felt like fifty big strong fighting men just went a few rounds on him. He blinked, taking in the fading light of the evening sky . . . it had been full sun, the last time he looked skyward.
Once Ayreg was properly in place, the talon hand vanished from the mind and the human one that was extended to help him to his feet drew back around Sid. The Ancient in his arms was there, but gone. No reasonable amount of time spent on rejuvenation and rest in many, many days, this had taken a great deal out of her. Perhaps, in the right light, a brief glimpse of a silvered-hair being, regal of bearing and yet pure like an unsullied Spring morn could be seen, superimposed over the street savvy image of the Red Dragon's tender.
Tass sighed softly, seeing she was at least resting. Looking to Ayreg, then. "Are you well enough that I need not carry you?"
Ayreg might as well have been asleep, if he had his eyes closed. He was breathing at least, even and steady. But, wide-eyed stare of brilliantly green eyes never left Sid's form. A single tear had rolled down his face, interestingly enough. Not exactly weeping, but a tear nonetheless. For what was glimpsed, and lost? Or for merely what was glimpsed? He snapped his head as if shaken when the dragon spoke to him. "What?"
The old dragon nodded, seeing the man was still not full of sorts. "If you'll permit me, I'll help you to my library where you can rest and heal. It will be where Sid will be until she recovers."
"I..." Jodiah shook his head slightly. He had things to do. A commission for Grem was ready to be delivered! But . . . something was wrong. His head felt stuffed full of wool like he had just taken in four full glasses of Midnight Tears. "What happened, man?"
"Much and nothing." Tass? answer was straightforward. Much had happened, but none during this time. They had merely been within the alley, prone to attack by any here near the Red Dragon. "Need that rest?"
"To this library." Ayreg, said with a faint nod. "Yes, rest." He gave another lingering look to Sid and a final nod to Tass as the old dragon lifted the Trueblood into a powerful hold, then felt the dragon draw the air into a semi-solid mass beneath his arms for support. Cold flames rising at once to take them all onto the Athenaeum.
He had no real memory of what happened after. The gnomes at the Dragon's Breath would later tell him he was gone for almost two days, but what had happened in that library that he had been taken to? With a mind of fog, he resumed his daily routines, only now he stared at Obsidian like they were both strange cats in a small room. It could even be said he may have been avoiding her, but she made no real effort to approach him, either.
The human mind was easily warped, even the death knight's. He needed time to sort this out, and time he was given.
Eventually, he did approach her again. They spoke briefly of what had happened, and he told her something that would, when it was said and done, change his view of her entirely. How little did he truly understand what he was signing himself over for, as he spoke the words. Such simple things, words. The wrong combination can break alliances between the greatest nations of the world, and the right combination can have you in the loving arms of that world's most beautiful woman. Just words, and nothing more. Powerful magic and an unbreakable sword were little beside the long-reaching impact capable of being made with a single spoken phrase.
"I would like to finish what we have started."
Very easily, indeed.
That night ended poorly. They had disturbed him, you see, and the death knight did not like to be disturbed when he was trying to rest. Having apparently gotten what she wanted, Jewell finally left, leaving Kristia standing there.
Smirking.
In the end of things, he would rest satisfied that she got what she deserved. He told them he'd put them over his knee if they didn't leave him be, and while it might not have actually happened that way, she did recieve a none-too-kind swat to her bottom when she finally did turn and begin strolling away like she owned the place.
It was a short brawl, but savage. Jodiah Ayreg was not well accustomed to fighting with hands and feet, after all, but he gave as good as he got. It turned mostly into a grappling competition -- and he would have thought he had done well, despite her superior, inhuman strength.
Until her fangs slid into the flesh of his throat. It takes only the quickest piercing of vampiric fangs to sap all the strength to fight out of a mortal.
The night ended well enough, if not a bit smug on her part, judging by the way she spoke. She fancied herself his better, perhaps -- a fancy he would have to disabuse her of, given the proper equipment that, ironically, was mere footsteps away back in his room.
Fortunatly, today was a new day.
The common room had filled up slowly and steadily. Jodiah Ayreg did not care for crowds much, and this group was no exception. He retreated to the alley outside, ostensibly to enjoy the smoke of his silver-worked pipe. Bootsteps were heard echoing over the cobbles as he entered, and he moved to a place of hiding. Perhaps he could take his mind off of Amthy's true murderer by becoming one himself.
Down a Dangerous Path, Flirting with Disaster, and Waltzing the Edge, Sid"]The back alley of the Inn was empty, just the way he likes it. Solitude. Quiet. Peace. Until the sound of boots over cobbles echoes up between the buildings. He turns his head briefly, glancing in the sound's direction. The twisting of the walls preventing any sight of the owner.
Crouching down behind any one of a dozen or so obligatory dumpsters, he waits. The footsteps were coming closer, and it had been some time since Ayreg had delighted in the joy of a random kill. His Runesword was left in his room, because all he wanted was some peace for few minutes - and he was NOT going to get that in the common room today, it seemed. Closer still, the steps sounded broad apart which spoke of a man of some height. Heavy steps of boots also indicated that: very few women, even in Rhy'Din, wore heavy boots. Jodiah's leather vest creaked softly over the blackened mail coat, and his eyes narrowed to keep some of the afternoon sun from blinding him. Just a little further now . . .
As the booted feet neared, Jodiah Ayreg counted down from three. Three. A sword would have been preferable to end this quickly, and bloodily. He would have appreciated it. Distractions have been keeping him too long from reveling in the bloodshed of random carnage. Two. Even closer. Hands and feet were not the old knight's strong suit when used in the attack, but he was knowledgeable enough to know what a killing blow could do to a man - though not knowledgeable enough to the killing blows themselves. He was strong enough to fend away attacks, and strong enough to pummel others with his own. One. He paused the span of another two heartbeats, and then - like a coiled wire released - burst out from behind the dumpster. He had been expecting a tall man, naturally, so his arms were flung out to grapple and tackle the unlucky pedestrian that was happening by.
Sid went down with the tackle, her lean, lank form twisting deftly beneath the onslaught until one hand gripped the butt of her blaster at the small of her back. Yanking it free, she used the momentum and their bodies' own weight to roll off it and over to allow the arm to swing wide. Her other hand had struck out for the attacker's throat, first two fingers and thumb clawed to grip with vice-like intensity. Muttered words flowing through the action were hoarse and raggedly breathed. "Ye really dun wan' to be yotzin' me off today."
This simple and humble pedestrian was near as slippery as a snake, and writhed easily in his grasp. This pedestrian was also . . . strong. Ayreg was very nearly stunned when the surprise ambush turned in to him pressed to his back. Larynx strained and his airway compressed to have his breathing at labored rasps, he balled his fist to lash out at this person now bestriding him like a colossus - and he knew they had to be, after all, because of the feel of solid, strong thighs gripping at his flanks - but the figure itself was silhouetted against the backdrop of the afternoon sun. The blaster, though - that was something he recognized, and feared. Especially without his armor on. The voice, and the tell tale jingle-jangle of bells clinking against bits of mirror? "Yotz"? He blinked, but his hand stayed fisted, and his other stayed upon the wrist whose hand was at his throat. Swallowing hard, his voice came out as raspy as his breathing. "Obsidian!?"
The Trueblood's eyes had gone to solid orbs of black, staring down at . . . "Jodiah! Jodiah? Frellin' crap, Jodiah." Immediately the pressure was released from his throat and the blaster turned muzzle back. Still, she remains atop him. "Death wish, much, dux?"
He gasped as the pressure vanished, allowing him to breathe once more. The hand that had been balled into a fist rubbed at his throat, the other dropped limply when she pulled hers away. It ended up on her leg, briefly, before gravity brought it on down to the cobbles. Masterful as they were for making cheap and resilient streets, he did now take notice that they weren't the most comfortable bed to lay upon.
After a moment, his thin lips twitched into a smile. He still couldn't see her because of the sun, but at least he wasn't being so thoroughly thrashed like a dirty rug taken out to launder. "I..." He gave a cough. "...I wasn't expecting it to be you, Obsidian." His mind worked over things he could say. Every possibility was as foolish as the next, and the one before it. The one he finally settled upon was no less foolish, though perhaps the least of all. "So, what brings you down the deserted alley, Obsidian?"
The Ancient knew they watched, knew they were spread over the city so thick she could taste them. Would this incident bring Jodiah more to their attentions, would they know and use him at some point to get to her like they have done others associated closely with the Three since Ber had worked his spell? Did she now put him into the line of fire? Maybe she should cold-cock him and jump up, kicking him as he . . . His words paused those thoughts and she scoffed, her own words holding truth tempered by mirth within her tone. "I be lookin' to kill somethin'. An' ye, Jodiah?" Shifting atop his form, those well-toned thighs flexing along his hips. "Why be ye hidin' out here like some . . . rogue bandit?"
"I have been known to be the proper rogue from time to time, I'll have you know." A wolfish grin, of sorts, played along Jodiah's lips though it may have appeared odd on the face of the aging knight. "The common room inside is . . . well, entirely too occupied for my tastes. I've been acquiring a great deal of attention lately, for some reason. Commissions from other patrons of the Red Dragon. Grem contracted me to build him some kind of collar big enough to fit onto a bear, and that dark elf . . . " He shook his head. "Too busy, for me. I was enjoying solitude when I heard you come up. Had I known it was you I would have greeted you somewhat differently."
His head rolled back, now, relaxing onto the cobbles behind him. Oh, what a compromising appearance they would make should anyone come outside, or look out one of the windows. It's a good thing Jodiah Ayreg didn't particularly care what anyone thought about him. Well, what most thought about him. A close few - though perhaps they did not realize this fact - he did, indeed, care about. "Looking to kill, you say?"
"I..." Sid looked about her now, teeth worrying briefly at her lower lip. "I be nae realizin' I be this close to the Red Dragon." Oddly, this seemed to disturb her, but she recovered swiftly and stuffed the blaster back to its place beneath the leather. "Och! It canna be comfortable on this ground." Looking back to him, then, head bowed over so those elflocks formed a ringling curtain around them. "An' aye, lookin' to kill somethin'. 'Tis Rhy'Din, Jodiah. There always be somethin' or someone about needin' to get dead. Or . . . close enough."
"Comfortable, no. But you know what they say - it's all about location." His hand lifted to lightly lay atop her thigh, apparently tempting the Fates to become one of the next things that needed to get dead. "I suppose you have a point, but most people prefer to do their murder under the cover of night."
The grin came at his joke, fox lit and sly. Her laughter whiskey-tinged and honey-warm as elflocks joined in with a gentle chiming. "Ye made a joke, Jodiah. I be 'avin' nae idea ye be such the wit." Her own hand moved from her hip to slide down to his on her thigh, fingers just barely a breath from his own. "An', aye, I suppose ye be right about secretin' thin's 'neath the cover o' night. But, if'n one nae fears the day or the eyes about, then 'tis when convenience calls be wha' works best. Aye?" The Trueblood spoke all this so casually, as if she was giving him a recipe for some tasty treat. Still, behind those eyes now morphing back slowly to the glamoured hue, a shadow lurked. One which the Ancient was becoming increasingly annoyed with.
He had to always think about what she said. He, himself, had been born and raised in Rhy'Din, though he never exhibited any sort of dialect. Others did. Sid in particular. Occasionally he had trouble understanding what exactly it was that she was saying, but it was a rare thing to completely miss an idea, or a statement. In this case, it was quite clear. If it had bothered him that she spoke so openly of wanton acts of murder - in broad daylight, no less - it didn't seem to reflect on him outwardly. "I'm not possessed of any great wit, Obsidian. Sometimes I try, though. You are right about the other thing, as you often are. I've discovered women having a tendency to be that way more often than not. Being right, I mean. And if they are not right, then they try to convince everyone that they are anyway."
He shifted beneath her as a single cobble had started to push awkwardly into his shoulder blade. Another shift. Finally his hands drew back behind him, and he leaned upwards toward her to tickle his own face on the bits of mirror and bells woven into her hair. "You have been distracted of late, Obsidian. I... I haven't seen you around often at all, save only on the day of your shifts here at the Red Dragon."
"I find nae much difference in the genders after all this time, it sort o' all balances out. Either tha' or I be forgettin' more'n I remember. Which be possible." Her weight slid back until she rested on his thighs, most of it held off him as she rocked upwards onto her ankles. She had been distracted, too distracted and that could prove dangerous.
His words brought a lowering of her head, a sliding of her gaze off to the right to study some bit of brick for a moment before she looked back. And, for the briefest of seconds, she opened so plainly to him it might well smack him in the face. Then she breathed, thin lips drawing a smirk, and the moment was gone. "Aye, distracted. An', in this burg tha' be dangerous, oft deadly. Ye can be sayin' tha' many thin's weigh upon me which I be nae accustomed to, Jodiah. I find meself dealin' with such I be nae created to know."
Jodiah Ayreg was often a study in dualities, and never more so than now. Secret games and meetings and liaisons played with the nymph had softened him terribly - far, far more soft than when he first arrived at the Red Dragon so many moons ago. He craned his head forward, the tip of his nose touching against one of her woven elflocks. Perhaps he would have used his hands had they not been occupied with keeping him leaned upward, but that is in the realm of what-nots and might-haves. "You smell nice." Then, a blink, as if remembering himself and regaining his composure his head pulls back, awkwardly, and his thin lips twitch. "It sounds like you need a holiday, Obsidian. Tell me of your troubles; perhaps we can find a way together to ease them."
He pulled back too soon, one of her hands raised to touch upon his jaw, or stroke a strand of graying hair. Instead, it fell back as she sighed, the smile soft and conveying a gratitude for his compliment, his presence, his . . . Him. What was this male to her? Why had he wheedled his way within the confines of her being? These were questions, like many more on even more subjects she had not the answers for. "A holiday?" This bringing a most unladylike snort. "Aye. Except those like me, we get nae holidays, Jodiah. I 'ave gone away o'er times, but it be nae pleasant for those left behind nor for me. An' truly, Jodiah, do ye wish to know me troubles? Methinks ye 'ave ye own, an' I wish nae to be a burden when I know dire thin's weigh upon ye head. In fact, if'n I were to speak plain . . . an' mind ye, I only possess the knowledge I get from talkin' to ye an' watchin' ye . . . But, if'n I were to speak plain, I believe mayhaps we share similar troubles to some degree."
And then she did it, she let that hand come up and the silken touch of her fingertips drew down the line of his jaw, her smile soft in quicksilver sparked eyes. Her voice a whisper. "Sometimes, methinks, War be the simpler o' existence."
What was this male to anyone? To Alysia he was bodyguard, and valuable aide-de-champ within the boundaries of Rhilshen. To Rhaine he was a tool, and nothing more. To Sluiss, he might as well be a forge hammer with feet. To the nymph? To Sid? And to think - all of it started when Tara harassed him about trying to be nicer, and Sid had just happened to be the tender on duty.
The only reaction he had made in response to her velvet touch - amazing how not a few minutes ago it was likened unto iron - was a faint twitch of his thin lips, though his green eyes did indeed take a sparkle or two. His head canted again, then, in the direction of her fingers. "Everyone can have a holiday, Obsidian." This was one of the many lessons he had learned from the nymph. "And everyone deserves one. Surely people do not rely so heavily upon you that their lives diminish with your absence?"
But he continued, not waiting for an answer and not expecting one. "War is simple. Lead well, and be victorious. Win or lose, with no middle ground for partial failure or partial victory. I like the life, but those days are gone, Obsidian. I've had to adjust. Speak plainly to me, woman, and I will hear your words. If there be nothing to do for them, then I am no more impressed upon by duty than I was a few moments ago. True?" He dared something himself, then. His hand lifted from behind him - his other readjusting to be more central - and he touched lightly over the sapphire-inlaid silver necklace dangling down her chest.
His words struck a chord, her smile wry, the nod knowing. Those eyes followed his hand and she drew a deep inhale before meeting his gaze. "I wan' ye to know somethin'. Somethin' true. Nae illusions, or thin's gettin' in the way. Mayhaps this be foolish on me part, but I wan' ye to see, to know o' me. Will ye let me show ye, Jodiah?"
Ayreg gave a simple, wordless nod and reaching up, she took a hold of his hand touching lightly upon that necklace. Slowly, in the dying light of the day her eyes were morphing back. Darkened threads swam in the glamoured blue fields, overtaking them. This was something he hadn't been expecting. Obsidian was an elf, after all - tall and lanky, toned yes, but he hadn't noticed much in the way of magic capabilities from her, and this was beyond the scope of most magics he was aware of in general. His head craned a bit as he stared into her eyes, watching in rapt awe as the darker shades began to engulf the lighter hues.
Her eyes were solid orbs of black now, fingers curling about his wrist, another deep breath was drawn and she opened herself to him, she let him see. The visions came fast and furious. A field littered with thousands of bloodied and broken bodies of creatures of entrancing perfection. The skies rained fire, filled with the sounds of warring birds of prey bent on destruction. Above, winged beings, counterparts to those that littered the battlefield, cried out for their brethren's blood.
A sharp gasp was released from the aging knight, then, and the sudden hijacking of his vision left him without words to speak by. It was . . . cold? And hot. Battle heat. Fire rained from the sky, and the smell of brimstone was everywhere. He blinked and turned his head . . . the alley was gone, so far as he could tell. Around him was a veritable charnel house of chaos, and destruction and - no. It couldn't be. His eyes narrowed as he examined one of the fallen dead. No, dead would be far too pleasant a word. These bodies were ravaged, and annihilated.
Battles are always hot, even in the cold. The stink of death was all around him, engulfing him, and the sulfuric fumes were made to choke, riding atop the scent of death. Where had he gone? His head craned upward, skyward, to those majestic beings battling one another in the skies overhead. It was as if he was standing on a field of war the likes of which he had never seen before. Never experienced, in all of his years of battlefield knowledge. Surely not, though - surely he was still pinned beneath the elf's body, in the alley back behind the Red Dragon! But there he was, all the same, awareness expanded on all levels to take in the sight, and the smell . . . and the carnage.
Swords of dazzling light and terrible construction were wielded with calculating precision. The creatures . . . gender-less, immense, androgynous, enthralling beauties. The vision speaks these events play on for some span mankind finds incalculable. And then, a shift. A fair meadow, the beauty of a spring unknown to most who walk the physical plane. Bare feet, falling feathers. And as the point of view moves upwards along the form, it is female. A tall, lank drink of water bathed in luminescent flesh and silvered hair; between her lithesome legs and falling from the crown of her head over wings tattered and torn, broken and bloody.
Blackened eyes look to a crow, braver than his brothers, who stands there to investigate. Her screech of speech from unused throat and lips, doing little to scare him off. As the Mystery, the crow, looks defiantly, his beak reaches forth to pluck a falling feather, gulping it down before he takes to the skies. The creature gesturing outward and upward in child-like motion, dropping to her knees and pulling the tatters of her wings about her.
There was meaning here. Symbols. He was thankful to be away from the terrible sight of battle, but now this? She seemed to resemble someone he knew. He couldn't place it. Someone from another world, perhaps. He reached his hand out and became aware that his body didn't seem to move right. He felt his arm clutching something, roughly - as if in horror - but he saw his arm extend out as he tried to reach forth his hand. It . . . did not feel like his own. More like a thing he controlled as if a marionette on a set of strings. However he felt, though, this creature - slender, tall, and exotic - was beyond his grasp to reach, and his feet did not seem to work like he thought they should have. He opened his mouth, and even his own voice sounded strange to him. Hollow. Tinny. As if not really there. "Are you all right?"
In the alley, the air turned cooler as it was sucked into blue flames that slowly started to grow between those narrow brick walls. Taking shape, drawing upward, pulling their dancing edges into the hard lines of the old man. The armor that surrounded him coming first into view, then the sword he carried at his side. That sword was brought swiftly to hand once the flames died into him, his gaze narrowing to look around.
Tass had felt the power that was being expelled by the one, and a frown came as his eyes alighted on the pair before him on the ground. He knew the look upon her, and he thought long and hard at pulling her free. The thought was made for him, though, as he watched her draw more power into herself. It might not be enough yet, but soon it would prove too much for the one beneath her to handle, and Des wouldn't like that. He quickly shoved the blade to its sheath and wrapped his arms about her.
As his arms encircled her, she shrieks. A keening wail in the speech of her kind that was more than harsh to mortal ears; a thousand murders of crows on the wing. Tass cursed himself, and quickly dove into his power. Wrapping Ayreg in a cocoon to protect him from the shriek first, then into her. Supporting both her body and her soul as the link broke and she fell full weight to his hold, blackened eyes staring upwards, unseeing. He would not see her lost.
Another sharp gasp, and Jodiah fell backward with a dull thud against the filthy cobbles of the back alley. He, too, stared wordlessly skyward. It was blue now, and didn't have terribly beautiful creatures doing battle. The skies were not raining fire. There was no winged being anywhere about him. A terrible sound had been heard, but it vanished almost as quickly as it started. The earth seemed to quake for the time it was there, though. He was as limp as a boned fish, lying there on the ground.
Beneath Tass? hands, a hot spot; something secreted about her person burned like a tiny sun. Pale lids fluttered, those eyes morphing with quicksilver flash - her usual glamoured blue beginning to swim through the maelstrom - looked up to the dragon and then cast over slowly to Ayreg. A voice, hoarse, like glass over gravel, breathed out. "Help him." And then those snowy lids fell, shuttering the light behind them.
Tass continued to hold onto Sid, but seeing what passed for her soul kept and secured he turned the power to the one who lay prone on the cobblestones. It was a matter of making sure now that his soul was properly tethered to his body. It could have been easily lost in the backlash he had felt. Especially considering Jodiah Ayreg was a normal, ordinary mortal man. His soul could very well have just been ripped from his body, and it would have been a lifeless cadaver sitting there between Sid's thighs. As it was, the aging knight was particularly strong of will, and of metal fortitude. As his mind clung to sanity, so, too, did his spirit cling to his body - like a cat desperate to avoid getting wet, but clinging all the same.
Finding mind and spirit there, yet clutching desperately to the thread it had, the old dragon wasn't one to leave one dangle. Even his enemies. So, a mental hand extended, the powerful talons drawn back in friendship as it offered help to draw Jodiah back from the precipice.
The next few instants could have been truly devastating to the psyche of any mortal. Ayreg, however, was more than willing to grasp at the offered assistance, and with an abrupt (and another) sharp intake of breath, he leaned his upper body up off the cobbles, and coughed harshly several times. Set back into place on all levels - physically, mentally, and spiritually - another possible disaster had been averted. He groaned, softly, as it felt like fifty big strong fighting men just went a few rounds on him. He blinked, taking in the fading light of the evening sky . . . it had been full sun, the last time he looked skyward.
Once Ayreg was properly in place, the talon hand vanished from the mind and the human one that was extended to help him to his feet drew back around Sid. The Ancient in his arms was there, but gone. No reasonable amount of time spent on rejuvenation and rest in many, many days, this had taken a great deal out of her. Perhaps, in the right light, a brief glimpse of a silvered-hair being, regal of bearing and yet pure like an unsullied Spring morn could be seen, superimposed over the street savvy image of the Red Dragon's tender.
Tass sighed softly, seeing she was at least resting. Looking to Ayreg, then. "Are you well enough that I need not carry you?"
Ayreg might as well have been asleep, if he had his eyes closed. He was breathing at least, even and steady. But, wide-eyed stare of brilliantly green eyes never left Sid's form. A single tear had rolled down his face, interestingly enough. Not exactly weeping, but a tear nonetheless. For what was glimpsed, and lost? Or for merely what was glimpsed? He snapped his head as if shaken when the dragon spoke to him. "What?"
The old dragon nodded, seeing the man was still not full of sorts. "If you'll permit me, I'll help you to my library where you can rest and heal. It will be where Sid will be until she recovers."
"I..." Jodiah shook his head slightly. He had things to do. A commission for Grem was ready to be delivered! But . . . something was wrong. His head felt stuffed full of wool like he had just taken in four full glasses of Midnight Tears. "What happened, man?"
"Much and nothing." Tass? answer was straightforward. Much had happened, but none during this time. They had merely been within the alley, prone to attack by any here near the Red Dragon. "Need that rest?"
"To this library." Ayreg, said with a faint nod. "Yes, rest." He gave another lingering look to Sid and a final nod to Tass as the old dragon lifted the Trueblood into a powerful hold, then felt the dragon draw the air into a semi-solid mass beneath his arms for support. Cold flames rising at once to take them all onto the Athenaeum.
He had no real memory of what happened after. The gnomes at the Dragon's Breath would later tell him he was gone for almost two days, but what had happened in that library that he had been taken to? With a mind of fog, he resumed his daily routines, only now he stared at Obsidian like they were both strange cats in a small room. It could even be said he may have been avoiding her, but she made no real effort to approach him, either.
The human mind was easily warped, even the death knight's. He needed time to sort this out, and time he was given.
Eventually, he did approach her again. They spoke briefly of what had happened, and he told her something that would, when it was said and done, change his view of her entirely. How little did he truly understand what he was signing himself over for, as he spoke the words. Such simple things, words. The wrong combination can break alliances between the greatest nations of the world, and the right combination can have you in the loving arms of that world's most beautiful woman. Just words, and nothing more. Powerful magic and an unbreakable sword were little beside the long-reaching impact capable of being made with a single spoken phrase.
"I would like to finish what we have started."