It all started with a horrendously loud clattering coming from the kitchen. Faintly, a voice rose through the door; more a growl than actual words to be spoken. "Son of a...!"

She entered into the common room behind the bar, through that door coming from the kitchen. Ravishing as ever in a corset made of some kind of shiny material, held firm to her body with straps and buckles. Thick pants appeared to be leather, and quite servicable -- something that he could respect.

A dainty little flower she was not. The strap around her waist held her other appendages - three silver collars and a whip. She paused at the side of the counter, taking a slow look around. She seemed.. almost perplexed. It was early evening in the Red Dragon tonight, and it was almost entirely empty.

The death knight was about as relaxed as he ever really got, sitting there at a chair at any random table inside the common room. The lack of crowds meant he wasn't in need of the Deep, Dark Corner? for the moment. He groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he heard the clattering from the kitchens, and could only imagine what horrible, demonic beast was about to come plowing through from the kitchen for one of the famous "maim-and-run" attacks most demons seemed to make here in Rhy'Din.

As it happened, though, those brilliantly, impossibly green eyes were feasting upon Kristia as she walked out looking like a cat that got dunked in a barrel of water. Idly his hand rose, sliding smoothly over the curve of his throat and the life-carrying veins there -- and the scabs that would, once all was said and done, revert to simple scars.

More scars for the litany of pain written in blood over his body, perhaps, but these were special. No blade nor arrow would, this one.

Vampire fangs, punctured in the flesh, and left to heal by natural causes.

A kind of inaudible grumbling rose from the death knight, but he lifted his glass of chilled wine in a kind of salute as she stood there at the end of the bar.

She blinked, staring at him. Lips twisted up into a wicked half-smile, those pearly whites peeking out over her lower lip. She watched his movements, which drew her attention to his neck.

Her handiwork.

She began a path towards him, the high heels of her boots clicking against the floorboards. One hand outstretched, and she directed it towards his normal corner. "Decided to make a move to the light, hm?"

"When it is empty..." He started, wetting his throat with a sip from that upraised glass of wine, "...I've no great mind on where I sit. Judging by the great cacaphony back in the kitchens, I'd say your own entrance was a bit less graceful and delicate that it normally is, too." A kind of wry turn of his lips. It might have been a smile, if one used their imagination. A lot.

The sight of those pearly whites of hers was not lost upon him. Jodiah Ayreg felt a certain... kinship with this woman, based largely in part to their conversation on the flaying of the humanoid body some nights ago. The smaller part was the grappling brawl they got into, upstairs, outside his room last week. Or the week before. He couldn't remember quite right, truth be told.

Age did that to a man.

The smallest part, and the one he refused to even acknowledge, was the burn in his body to know the Kiss of those incisors in his flesh again. She was a leech, as it happened, and to know those feelings was like partaking in a forbidden, unspeakable pleasure.

Just like chocolate.

"You heard that?" She gave a small frown, her head canted to look back towards the kitchen. "Someone doesn't know how to clean up after themselves.. Dangerous back there. Pots n' pans attacking from all sides.." Her voice was dry, as if she were rather unamused at the concept of her struggles with the kitchen.

The thought of the troubling kitchen was quickly abandoned though as she turned back to look at him. The tip of her pink tongue slipped out and flicked around one of her fangs to bring further attention to the sharp ends. The expression across her face was mixed -- a little friendly.. and a little hungry.

Perhaps she was recalling the taste of him as her green eyes stared? She looked at him as one would 'undress' another with their eyes. If she had been considering the flavor of his blood, though, she made no outward remark for it. "I wonder where everyone is hiding..." A slender-fingered hand guestered down at a chair across from him. "May I?"

Ayreg tipped his glass slightly in the direction of the indicated chair. "By all means."

The death knight's gaze fell from Kristia to the glass. He lifted it, and sniffed. "Can't say I've tried it before."

She blinked and gaped at him. "You've never had whiskey? Good lord, man. That's just.. blasphemy.."

"I'm usually more of an ale or wine man, myself."

Her lips twitched, and continued to do so until it formed what may have been a small smile. "Ahh.." She then put her feet under her chair to push up a little, leaning forward towards him over the table. "So.. I'm interested.. what is it that made you decide to steal the skin of your enemies?"

"I needed a belt." He said that simply, and evenly. He might as well have been talking about a bolt of cloth he picked out at the seamstress for her to make him a shirt. The true reason was a bit more shrouded, but Jodiah Ayreg did not reveal every secret to even those he had known for some time. Certainly not of his sacrifices made to The Nihil, so long ago. How long had it been since he had offered a sacrifice to his dark gods?

How many had he missed, now, so preoccupied with being alive again?

"I needed a belt, and his didn't fit. So I made one." A simple shrug, and he took a drink from that glass. It tasted... it was not an unpleasant taste, all things considered. Quite a bit better than the orc swill Panther calls ale here at the Red Dragon. "And I became quite enthralled with how versatile a suit of skin could be. It made a fine wrap for sword hilts, as well. Everything one could imagine being made of leather, only made with the skin of one's fallen victims. Stronger, sturdier, and far more..." Green eyes flicked up to her, over the rim of his glass before he took another gulp. "...visually appealing, as well. A fine medium, and a great art to be raught."

"Hmm.." She smirked at that. "I suppose that's a practical reason." Kristia looked positively amused by something, and he could only wonder what she was thinking as she mulled it over. Eventually, the slaver gave a quick shrug of her shoulders and took another taste of the whiskey.

"Yourself?"

"I started with tongues.. as a trophy thing, you know? But I found that no matter what you do to them they eventually shrivel up." She looked up to the rafters briefly, and he could swear she actually appeared sad. "It was very dissapointing.. my whole collection.. just.. little strings after a few years.. So, I graduated to skins and, I suppose, also admired how useful they were."

He nodded, faintly. The Scourge of Worlds kept trophies, as well -- the Hourglass of Souls. That artifact, like The Truncheon, was destroyed when the armies of the White Dragon's Vengeance descended upon Doomhammer Keep like a plague of locusts. Now, even the memory of the Scourge of Worlds was dead, and had been for some time.

He was now simply a man, named Jodiah Ayreg, who worked at the Dragon's Breath Forge down the street.

"Tongues are mostly water, anyway, so yes -- no matter what you do, I suppose they would shrivel into little nothings. What was your biggest mark? The most dangerous one?"

"Most dangerous?" She was silent for a time, rolling the whiskey glass around in her fingers. No doubt she was considering his question, mulling over who would fit that description best. In the end, she simply snorted. "Dangerous.. I suppose Octavius. This large, disgusting.. I'm not sure what he was, really.. He was only mortal but the man had some amazing abilities with machines. Made some pretty deadly weapons.. almost lost my arm with him.. But he did make a lovely purse."

The death knight laughed. It had the sound that might remind one of an empty snake's husk crumbling over rock. Ayreg leered at her, eying her up and down as she finished speaking, and taking note of her particular brand of wardrobe. "A purse? I somehow can't imagine you carrying a purse about, Kristia."

She smiled. "No? I didn't really think it suited me much either.. but.. he didn't really deserve to be part of my weapons. His flesh would have dirtied them.. Now he remains only as a chew toy for my canine.."

"What was yours? Which one are you must proud of?" She ended the question with another quick drink of whiskey.

Her piercing gaze made him want to strike her across the face. It also made him want to give himself to her. The burn inside of him, the angry desire he had to mute. She was a vampire; a leech. They plagued Rhy'Din like a hive of ants plague open fields of green. Yet there it was, in the darkest corners of his mind, yearning for the same thing he despised so much.

"Morals?" He snorted, "I'm not the righteous sort, Kristia."

"So why get involved in a civil war? Usually they're about morals and that messy political stuff. Just to get in some bloodshed?"

Thin lips twitched, and he took another sip of the whiskey. "It is a matter of... the repayment of debts, so to speak. I don't pretend to be any sort of good man, Kristia."

No, most certainly not that.

Good men were few and far between in Rhy'Din, no matter how noble their goals and aims were. As for himself, he was a damned soul and he knew it. No doubt the Nihil had a veritable plethora of agonizing torments awaiting him when he dies a mortal death. He really should have at least tried to keep up with the sacrifices. "I do, however, stand by my word."

"Sounds honorable enough." She lifted her glass up, and the remaining whiskey was shot down her throat. The slaver gave a little cringe, her shoulders bunching up to her chin and brilliantly green eyes accustomed to catching minute details caught sight now of goosebumps caressing the skin of her arms.

So human, he mused.

Lifting one hand up to cover her mouth, she coughed and cleared her throat. "Arhmm.." The whiskey had apparently not gone over well in that large, singular gulp she had just taken. "And I agree.. that the activity around here has calmed over the years. It's a pity too, you know? Kept things exciting... Even all the little anti-slaver rallies have gone missing.. but then again, so have most of the slavers..." as she trailed off, she offered up a wistful sigh. No doubt to the bygone days of yore, when the slaving empires of old dominated much of Rhy'Din.

"Neither of which are missed by me, I assure you." He said, flatly, with a level stare. "The so-called 'anti-slavers' were moronic buffoons, who didn't seem to get it that most of the slaves were slaves because they desired to be pressed under someone's thumb. Any 'freed slaves' invariably went running back, holding their own hair up to accept the collar again."

"I remember.. it was quite entertaining to watch.."

"Oh, I'm sure it was," said dryly, "I never had anyone close to me taken with a collar, though. Well, one, but I quickly disabused that particular slaver of touching my fa--... those I would consider to be my friends."

"No offense of course" He waved his hand, dismissively.

"None taken..."

As if to explain, he continued on. "I dislike weakness. Slaves are weak, and spineless. Unable or unwilling to stand on their own feet and face what comes, so they crawl about on their knees and accept what is given."

"...But have we not already had this talk?"

"Yes, that we have.." She laughed, and shook her head. "You, Jodiah, would make a terrible slave... and anyone that thought you looked like prey for a collar probably deserved one themselves."

He made a certain huff of air at that point. Very likely, it was a scoff of some kind. "A terrible slave? Thank you... I think. I'll just take it for a compliment, given my opinions for slaves."

They continued their rapport for some time.

The smoldering, piercing gaze of the slaver becoming more open, more friendly, as she took in more whiskey. Jodiah himself even started to come out of the shell he's normally always in, releasing the iron-fisted grip upon his self-control. The bottle, full and new when first picked up, had started to run low as the conversation pressed on into the night. They spoke of battles for a time, then the subject changed to what happens in the modern nights.

The whiskey had started to do the talking for them, and they were beginning to act downright silly here and there.

Battles of wit, mostly, and battles between lovers fighting over who loves whom the most, and makes everyone else near sick to their stomach with their endless prattling. She had commented on some kind of device -- a button -- used to just make people vanish, and lamented that such a thing does not exist.

He informed her that it would be a great deal less satisfying than bloody murder, though.

"Yes, that's very true, Jodiah. You have a good point." She put the glass down to pull the mess of curls behind her shoulders, flashing another smile. Her thoughts seemed to be all over the place now, as they spoke. "What's it like working with gnomes? Get a lot of back talk from them?"

"I did at first," making a soft grunt, "Still do, occasionally, but since I've been bringing kegs of rum from the Red Dragon over to the Dragon's Breath, they've warmed up nicely. They fancy themselves pirates, you see..."

"Little .. gnomes?" She placed her hand out, palm down, about at the height of what a gnome would stand. "I don't think they'd make good pirates.. maybe parrots.."

She giggled at that. A hand went up to cover her mouth, but she was smiling behind it. He always had an eye for details. "Oh my. I do believe my prejudices are slipping out.."

He shrugged, but the idea did cause him to start laughing himself. "Yes, they're quite absurd. They don't even have a boat. Nor do they even know how to sail!" He slapped the table, laughing at the expense of his gnomish coworkers before he made another good drink of the whiskey that had made his head feel quite stuffed full of wool, by now. "They do have a parrot. Picture this: they take turns tying the poor little wretched thing to their shoulder!"

The image practically made Kristia choke on her drink as she laughed. She lowered the glass again, her body moving in waves as her lilting laughter erupted out. "That is.. just.. too funny.. I think I'd like to see that sometime.. Hell, I'd pay to see that!"

"Keep your silver, my lady." He grinned. It was a strange thing to see on this man's face, so typically either sneering, frowning, or just stoic in neutrality. "Come by the Dragon's Breath sometimes. They never leave."

She might have been more suprised with Ayreg's current behavior if she had known him better. Though most of the time she did see him interacting with others he was grumpy and standoffish. It had to be the whiskey. "I'll be sure to do that... Is the parrot dead? Tying it to their shoulders and all.. ?" A bright, entertained smile still on her face, taking another sip of her drink. Perhaps she's not so bad afterall, he mused.

"No, it's not. It's alive, and quite displeased with it's station in life. They just have to tie it down, or else it'll fly off. As far as they're concerned, pirates should have parrots on their shoulders, with hooks for hands, and peg-legs. Lacking any of these, they use ridiculous little fake hooks and fake pegs, and gallavant around making silly pirate noises most of the time."

"I think I almost feel bad for the winged-creature.." A solemn expression and the shake of her head.

"They do, however..." Another shooting-back gulp of whiskey was taken, "...do excellent work. Never doubt the ingenuity of gnomes, Kristia."

"No, I wouldn't. I've seen some unbelievable machines made by gnomes.. They're just a very peculiar species. Smart but still.. somehow, so dumb.".

"Eccentric, I believe, would be a fine word for them." He pushed his hands into the table-top, and rose unsteadily to his feet. His head felt so fuzzy, now, but he had other things to tend to for the time.

"If you will excuse me, Kristia, I've got to..." His mouth worked, as if searching for words tactful enough to describe this. In the end, he points over in the general direction of the short hallway leading to the facilities. "Got to.. you know."

"By all means.." She wiggled her fingers towards the bathroom, and lifted her glass for yet another drink. That bottle of whiskey most certainly isn't going to survive past this night, it seems.

His knuckles rap against the table-top, and he moves -- unsteadily -- down the length of the room toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms, and disappears inside. Normally broody, stalking gait was most certainly not seen in that series of teetering steps.

They moved out into the hot, late spring night into the alley running behind the Red Dragon. Slick cobblestones made for poor footing even while sober, and he wondered, idly, what his footing would be in a drunken brawl. How long would it take her to bear fangs, and take a bite? She was inhuman: stronger and faster than he, but she seemed... off. He had fought her before, and quite often her attacks were wide, or too shallow. Her defenses too low, or too high, or too late. Battle was the way of the death knight, as it always had been, and -- while a fierce combatant -- she was not as keen as she could be.

Had he a mind to do so, and the patience to put up with a ward, he might have very well offered to teach her the finer points of fighting.

She asked him of the terms of their coming duel as he exited the common room. His whiskey was his only ally against the slaver, now; there were none others back here to even watch. Having left his runesword in his room (as he often does when he's not expecting to leave the Inn for a time), he opted for a battle of hands and feet.


Another sip taken from his glass.

Her head bowed downwards, crimson locks dripping forward as she fidgeted with her belt. That whip was removed, collars as well, and all were tossed aside to the ground. She then put one hand behind her back and patted around, pulling out a small dagger and dumped into alongside with the whip. Bending over, she pulled several throwing stars out between each boot. "Okay! Weaponless."

He peered at her as she disarmed, and noted her clothing seemed a touch looser than it did before. Small wonder, with that much weaponry. The death knight grinned, reaching over and setting the glass of whiskey down atop a trash can.

How drunk does one have to be before one acknowleges the darkest parts of their being? How drunk does one have to be before their inner-most secrets are pushed out into the light of day? "Or.. we could dispense with the pleasantries, Kristia."

This drunk, apparently

"Whatever you like, Jodiah.." She took another long drink from the glass before leaning down to set the glass aside as well. She was much more careful with the glass then she'd been with her weapons.

All eyes and attention focused on him, she began a slow cat-walk from side to side.

Measured, calculated steps carried him out over the cobbles toward her. His glass was abandoned, and he did not have any weapons to disarm himself of. Somwhere, deep inside, there was a part of him that was thankful she had set everything out onto the ground. No knife to stick between his ribs, as it were.

That same part, though, was full and very disgusted with what he was about to do.

The voice that demanded reason, though, was just a whisper now -- it was the other voice, the one that spoke of her, alone, with none others around to see it and to know of the deed, that spoke most loudly of all in his skull, directing him like a master would direct his marionette.

But he was no simple puppet, was he?

What is the definition of addiction, after all?

"I've something you need, Kristia. You have something I want. Must we go through the motions of wasting time, and energy, throwing random punches and kicks and grapples with one another in this drunken state we're in?"

Something changed in the countenance of the slaver.

She was still drunk and disoriented, but the expression on her face had sobered. Rosen lips curled into a faint smile. "Hm. And here I thought I was being sneaky.. I thought you didn't care for.. leeches.." But as she spoke those fangs pulled down and out as she paused from her walk.

The whiskey didn't help at all... while she had intended on a casual, friendly romp of fists, his words would send her instinctual side in full motion. She was still smiles and friendly, but the look in her emerald pools had changed. Something else was at work.

The bloodlust.

"I don't... but I'll make you a deal." Drawstrings on his wrists were pulled, releasing the knotting of the mail coat he wore beneath the black leather vest, and he began the process of rolling the blackened links of alloy up off his wrist and forearm, to bunch at the elbow.

He moved to her flank. "I will tell no one of your half-bad-assedness, as you call it... and you will tell no one that I gave myself to you, this night." His arm raised up to her, the exposed naked flesh of his wrist lifted up toward her face, fingertips grazing lightly over her cheek.

"Do we have an accord... Kristia?"

The rational, sane side of the death knight's mind screamed at him to pull his arm back, and away. To go about what they came out to do. To throttle her! You're a fighting man, not some simpering little blooddoll! his own mind shouted.

Her words came out in a faint murmur. "We do, Jodiah..."

Her hands raised and wrapped around his wrist, those long nails dragging lightly across his flesh. It was a dance. The touch of his flesh. The hunger tugging inside her and begging for a bite. She drew his hand across her mouth, those fangs lightly grazing over his skin. She kept one hand around his wrist as the other crept down and held onto his shoulder, keeping him close.

It was habit. Those she usually fed on tended to pull away and it made for a distracting meal.

The anticipation was the worst part of it all, perhaps. She braced him, ready for him to recoil. He braced against her, as well, using his free hand to grip her own shoulder. It was a torrid thing, this anticipation, watching her nuzzle against the skin of his wrist like some kind of cat with a favored plaything. His eye twitched in the waiting, feeling her lips touching his skin and then --

Green eyes searched his expression and then locked onto the offered skin, looking down and appearing to be closed. Her mouth was nuzzling against his skin, harmlessly and unpunctured, but in that same moment she bit down into his veins. Both hands tightened on him, as she began to steal the blood from inside his body.

Slowly.

-- then came the pain.

Fangs pierced down into the tender flesh of his wrist, breaking the radial artery and opening his body up to the gentle, suckling motions of her mouth. Indeed, the very essence of life itself escaped out of his mortal shell, and down her throat.

The pain lasted only the first second, though... then came the pleasure.

Being fed upon is intensely, even addictively, pleasurable for humans, so only the most strong-willed can continue to struggle after being bitten. Ah, but the death knight was here for the sensation, strong as his will may well be.

He did not struggle.

He barely even flinched.

Her lips moved against his skin as she drank, filling the hole that constantly ached to be completed. Her bite was harder, more wanting, then a vampire's. She didn't feed regularly, so when she did, it was an enthralling experience. She pulled him closer as she fed on him.

Had someone walked back into the Alley, they might have thought something inappropriate was going on. She held him against her, gently but firmly, as one would do to a lover.

And a meal.

Fingers tightened. The slow drinking became faster and stronger. His blood was thick and sweet, she craved it. Each ounce she drank merely left her wanting more, which made the feeding more intense.

The more she tasted, the less likely she'd be to give it up.

The sensation of being the meal for a vampire -- even a half-breed like herself -- went beyond the scope of mere and simple lovers. A thousand climaxes atop a thousand more could barely scratch the surface of what was felt by the mortal vessel.

And the sexual climax itself would be over within seconds. This could drag on.. and on.. for several minutes, perhaps, or (with enough self-control on the part of the one doing the feeding) even hours.

The death knight, so commonly as unmoving as an iron tower trembled in her grip. His mouth was slacked, and his shoulders hunched... it was very nearly all he could do to remain standing, so lost in the rush of sensation as he was. Was there ever any doubt how any mortal could not find this to be the most intense, addictive feeling in their entire life?


Jodiah Ayreg was quite addicted, and Kristia had become the object of his addiction. Once it was done, they might continue on about normally; pretend like nothing had happened between them.

For now?

Now, she feeds.

He wasn't pulling away, so the feeding would intensify. Eyes closed now - Kristia wasn't really there. She was lost in the satisfied feelings of the feeding. She became more aggressive, her grasp tightening on him. Her hand on his shoulder would probably leave marks from her nails digging into his skin. One foot drawn backwards, curling up to stand on her toes.

Oh yes. This was, literally, a toe-curling experience.

Faster.

Harder.

His blood flowed and she began to suck it down like water. If she was a regular feeder it probably would have been much slower and gentler, but the bloodlust had completely taken over. The need to feed was present and the true personality of Kristia had taken a step behind it. She had become all animal.

Wool-headedness from the drink had started to become light-headedness from the loss of blood. He knew that feeling.. it was almost time to stop. He let this continue on for several more seconds, though, squeezing every last bit of The Kiss from her as he could.

It was like a precious metal, you see; valuable in its entirety by those who knew its worth.

And the more she took, the harder, the faster, the deeper she drew him inside of her the more intense the sensation became. It was not to last, though -- if only it were! He and she might very well never leave that spot, though she would eventually become gluttonously engorged.

No, it was not to be.

He was but a mere mortal, at the end of the day, and if they stayed as they were even for a few moments longer... he would be dead. His voice, cracking only once, schooled itself to its normal steely rasp. "Enough."

Pulling away was a struggle.

One part screamed, begged, purred to keep feeding. That part, the dark creature within, would have left him for dead and drank until he was nothing more then a pile of bones.

That wasn't really her, though. Kristia wasn't that creature.

A pained look, but she manged to detract her fangs from his flesh. Her grip relaxed and then, eventually, let go. She released him and took a step back, one hand up to wipe off the few drops of blood that had spilt passed her lips and onto her chin. Another cautious step backwards, her eyes slowly opening. She released a heavy, relaxed sigh as she went to look at him, but she didn't say a word.

She was only half-vampire, unfortunatly -- which meant he was now freely bleeding (more an ooze) from the radial artery of the wrist, small puncture marks as they were. It was the saliva of the vampire, you see, that closed the wound once the fangs were withdrawn.

Hers did not close it, but instead staunchd the flow of blood without actually healing it. It would be enough, until he could get it dressed properly.

He clamped his fingers down around his wrist, applying as much pressure as he could until that moment arrived, too, when he went back inside the common room of the Red Dragon. He shuddered, still, reveling in the aftermath of the powerful sensations, grieving for their loss. It was a dirty thing; a torrid, horrible thing they had done. A vampire needing to hunt, to feed, was one thing. A human willingly offering themself up for the touch of the other's fangs?

It was almost like prostitution in that sense, depending upon one's point of view. And the exchange of "money" was more precious and satisfying than those who never experienced it could ever possibly imagine.

To Jodiah Ayreg? It was a part of him, and a part that would never be broken. Not without a great deal of time, a great deal of effort, and no doubt some kind of divine intervention from a god he held no faith in.

"Kristia... thank you..."