a late april day and it's sunny outside
and a red little girl's at the top of a slide
and an an orange old man at the bottom
wants to take her for a ride
- The Dresden Dolls
Red Dragon Inn: A couple months ago.
He had picked her. He had too. He knew he couldn't hide.
"You smell of paint and broken things."
"Come. Help me."
So she did help him. The Death Knight had led the seer to the kitchen, toting a first aid kit and a thousand other questions.
"Why do you allow yourself to be so.. damaged?" She regarded the injury: his wrist wept crimson from two precise puncture wounds.
"You know my darkest secret that I hide from the world, Ultrinnan. Why not one more? It is the bites I crave, Victoria. Like the burning of a fire. Is there a coagulant in there?"
There was. She set about the task of patching him up, first with the sticky stream of ointment, and then the heavy bandages. They spoke little. The faucet of the kitchen sink had far more to say of the situation, but Jodiah could only hear a steady stream of tap water.
"You will need stitching if it opens up and bleeds all over.." She returned the supplies to its case and closed it with a loud snap.
The Death Knight's chuckle was almost bitter. "Perhaps I can get away without the stitching. I'll be careful."
There was a quick smirk in response, and she gathered her hair into a small knot at the base of her spine so that he might see the marks on her own throat. They were far more angry than the neat little puncture wounds he had on his wrist. She knew his cravings, for she had similar. How many times had the seer's lovemaking turned violent with the sandman?
"Secrets for secrets." Her eyes found his easily. "But do take care."
He kissed her softly on the forehead and left her to her fantasies. The kitchen was unexplored. As he drifted from her and she from him, she took up a space on the floor. Her hands went for the many pots and pans beneath the kitchen sink. They were calling. She would make noise.
She had set them up in a semicircle around her, these instruments for the cooking and preparation of food. She put the largest in the center, and the sizes decreased thereafter. The very smallest of them were the flat pans for frying. She held a giant spatula in one hand, a large mixing spoon in the other, and held both high above her head. There, they were frozen, as if the drummer waited for a cue from an invisible conductor.
Viki heard the noise from the commons seep through the door, and then, the sound of foreign heels. She seemed rather apathetic to having an audience, but she was delighted by the sounds the Jackal carried as he made his way in. Irrykin the Jackal. She knew his name because he had told her, once, quite a while ago, before Domikai had ever made her a lover. She knew his nickname only because she had the Sight.
And what a curious name, Jackal. Would you like to know why?
She didn't care. She marveled at the soft, lingering voices from the commons, the white noise. Her hovering hands then fell, and both spoon and spatula hit the top of the largest pot with a force that bordered on the dramatic. Then, a melody, tribal in nature, followed, as each pot was struck on the head. While the spoon pounded, the spatula made a soft "clink" to each pot when hit, perhaps taking the place of a symbol. There was a series of repetitive strokes, a tribal hum, and a drumroll, which she thought was clever indeed - after all, there was no drumroll in the song which played over and over through the mind. This was all her own. She was talent! And when it was finished, she hung her head in mock bow, awaiting applause that would never come, but perhaps the appliances would offer small echoes of her performance.
The Jackal's presence was entirely forgotten, for she was swept away by the melody, and he had positioned himself to a corner of the kitchen, beyond her sight, but he kept her within his range. So when he applauded and stepped into view, uttering a hearty "Bravo," the seer seemed a bit surprised. Both "drumsticks" fell from her fingers and hit the floor with a bang.
"Amvel," she whispered, taking him in with ferocity. He had helped himself to a sandwich in the middle of her performance, and it sat half eaten on a nearby plate.
"Rivar'rrin." She had meant to shock him with her "thank you" said in his language, but his response of "rivar'rrin," you're welcome, sounded only curious.
In the past, she had greeted him the Jackal youthful enthusiasm, but now, she knew these dark things, of blood within blood and all the same color, and she peered at him with guarded curiosity, this one, the other who makes birds. Irrykin was her brother's lover, and though she did not know their relation exactly, she had been warned.
"Hello Irrykin."
"Good evening, Victoria. I'm certain the kitchen enjoyed your show... the food rarely has such entertainment." He leaned against the adjacent counter and devoured the leftover sandwich. "It was certainly one of my, brighter dinners." The silver chain which hung from his lip to his ear chimed only quietly, as words forced the movement of his mouth.
"Bright darkness..." She began to stack the pots and pans, shoving them every which way they would fit, back into their cabinet. Her movements were rushed, lacking the sort of dreamy grace she possessed for the most part.
"There was a call for music and I answered it. But I am perhaps glad it was pleasing.." She was still on the floor, somehow tangled between a sitting and kneeling position. She craned her neck as she spoke to him, perhaps to better see one who towered above.
"...to both you and the room." She finished.
"Only perhaps?" He watched her with his strange eyes, one marred by a cataract, but the seer wasn't sure if it was entirely blind. His seemed wounded by her uncertainty, her short words. She knew better.
"Xas." The scent of his brother still lingered, on the same dress she wore for days, on the softest of skin, in her tangled hair. She took note of his shifting expression, then stared, hard, those pools of aquamarine pouring into his mismatched ones. It was an attempt to scratch the surface.
"Ah, Illythiri. Is that why your ears are so elegant?" He smiled like a cat, or a fox, thought the girl, and his silver chain jingled as he turned his attention from to the expanse of the kitchen. Perhaps he intended to steal more food.
She was still measuring the oddities of his eyes. Then her fingertips flew to her right ear, barely brushing over the length of the lobe. "Elegant? Yes. My blood is part dark elf."
She watched him still, and perhaps a small anxiety crept along the length of her spine. These things she knew.. As if in reaction to growing tension, the free hand wandered to the rim of the dress, to the patchwork that looked so different from the rest. In that place, she had sewn a paper clover.
His shifted attention morphed into a casual rummaging of the cabinets, and finally, he produced a cognac and companion glass. Irrykin poured his liquor and turned back to her, staring.
"I can't say that I've had a chance to fold any clovers. You have another paper patron?" He posed his question like he already knew the answer.
Her eyes were still glued to every move he made, every step in whichever direction, and if he had choose to circle behind her, she would spin in her place, but not leave the floor, as if it provided some sanctuary - a sacred space between cabinets and ovens. Some quiet shock spread over her pretty features as he mentioned the clover, as clearly, the material of her dress covered it in parts, and one could not possibly see its full shape. She searched his words, and tasted them for lies.
"There are others who make such things." She spoke coolly.
He sidestepped, changing positions, and leaned over an island counter nearest to her, the cognac swirling in tow. "You are cross at me... perhaps because I have not given you more birds to fly?"
"I am not.. cross." And for a moment, she thought of crosses, and the line formations that cabinets made as they stood side by side were a curious distraction. There were crosses there. And for a moment, the smallest of things, she took her eyes away from him, even though he lingered so dangerously close.
"Ghost birds.." She offered the wood a small smile, even as she watched these borders run into each other. "I do like the birds."
"Perhaps for you, a bluebird," he said softly as he reached into the air and pulled a paper bird seemingly from nowhere. It perched in the palm of his hand like a mock nest before he set it on the counter and peered down at her.
"Bluebird.. hair.." She pressed the side of her head to the cabinet, as if to listen. Her eyes had a far-off look to them, as if she were neither here nor there. She would've been perfectly still, save for the rising arm. A hand reached for the paper creature, and fingers caught it easily, feeling the corners and edges and all that made its paper parts.
"Amvel," she said quietly, with eyes were still elsewhere, though the body was here, and the bird was taken into it, and flown absently about in the air in front of her face. Her eyes saw, but were still perhaps searching other planes.
The Jackal laughed softly. "You're quite like him, in some respects. Quite a... match." He spoke absently as he took a drink of his liquor.
"Why then question if you have such answers?" Her pretty face turned to him, and her eyes returned to the present reality, though her hands and bird still hung in the air, as if frozen in flight and time.
"I do not see that one small answer might cascade into so many others," he replied with rising brows.
She brought the bird to her chest and held it. It was already a living creature in every aspect, with beating wings and sound and song, and she would not abandon or part with it, even if she was suspicious of its maker. "Domikai."
"Once, you would laugh and smile me a greeting, and now you are distant and ask many things with your gaze." His tone was not at all harsh, nor was it sad. He was merely a keen observer.
Off-blue seer eyes met both the possibly blind eye and the possibly perfect eye of the Jackal. Her expression, while not cold, was careful, and the tone of voice shifted and softened and wore less suspicion.
"New things.. You mean to harm one another but you cannot. Why?" Such sadness hung onto the question!
"Ahh... And here I thought my brother was more wanting of his secrets." Irrykin's chin caught his hand as he continued, keeping his lean upon the countertop. "Unkind things occur, even amongst family. But! Family must not spill the blood of family." He took another sip of cognac.
"Brother? So that's why I see blood in blood though I guessed it was so.." She pressed her side into the cabinet and let both legs slide out from under her before she shifted once more and pulled them into an indian-styled seating. "Nau. Family must never spill blood." She was still a quiet careful thing, but perhaps these words had shed new light.
"I'm sorry Irrykin. I did naut mean tae be.. rude."
"Do not worry, Victoria. It is not something you could know. He'd never tell you such a thing." His voice was soothing, and his lean casual, though his eyes tended to roam her figure, particularly the sloping line of her neck.
"That does not look like the product of vampire teeth. Those usually heal immediately.' Again, Irrykin's words reflected his knowledge of the situation.
The soothing way he spoke tore apart the lingering suspicion, the guarded gaze, and she rose, to speak on his level, with feet on the floor and hands drifting over the countertop. "Yes. It is naut." Her eyes revealed the source as they tumbled into his in quiet confidence.
"At least you still have you throat." His silver jewelry wove a sound of worry to his words. The Jackal was concerned.
"I gave consent.." She lifted her chin, a proud little thing, with fingers which traced the edge of the counter. These idle habits of hers..
"He would naut hurt me terribly," she paused only to whisper, "and there is pain and there is pain.." She thought of Jodiah Ayreg, and knew that he would understand.
His brows were on the rise again, though he crafted a smile through his lingering concern. "That too, is true." The chain on his lip was whispering to her, but for once, she did not hear. It was meant to be subliminal. He was the Jackal, after all. It sounded almost like I know, and such things I can show you..
Despite this unconscious suggestion, Viki blinked, attempt to guard quiet things between lovers. Had she said too much? Each hand caught the counter from behind, and she pressed her back to it. She shifted, and placed her eyes at the floor, and as they fell, a foot lifted, then rested against the opposite knee. It was almost a dancer's pose, as this had been the theme of the night, but there was something so vulnerable about it. Perhaps it was the flushed face.
"Shh... It's something I know well, little dancer." He knew her pose immediately, and her concern. He chuckled before he began again. "I excel at that kind of pain, for those that want of it."
"Passed down through family, she mused. She was well aware of the heat of his words, but not that they were silver-laced. She brought her eyes back up to acknowledge him, to reply in the softest of ways her delicacy allowed. "There is only one I want for now." Love. It was written all over her face. It was reflected in the polished floor and furnishings, the liquor in his glass.
The Jackal nodded between drinks, then drained the glass entirely and set it aside. His smile seemed to soften to match her tone. "Do not worry, Victoria, that is understood. But I keep rooms here, if you should ever find yourself... curious."
She was not yet familiar with him or his ways, and it was easy to exhibit some surprise to be so solicited. "I..." A stammering. A sentence. She had little to say for such things. ".. nau. I do naut think I will be so.. curious. I mean.." Her eyes darted to the side. Words upon words. She lacked a vital element of casual conversation: tact.
"But thank you," she added for good sport.
The Jackal's chuckle sounded again, even as he straightened from the counter, brushing out the wrinkles of his shirt. "You are quite beautiful in your way Victoria... surely I'm not the only one to have spoken such things to you?"
"Nau.." His question stirred buried memories, some of recent things, some of long gone. "Not the only one.." Beautiful? She was tangled hair and water-eyes and stitching of dress. Clearly, she did not think she was beautiful. Pleasing to look at perhaps..
She sighed. It was a tired thing, not dismissive.
"Och.. Whether or not you believe my words, they are there." He near reached for her two-toned hair with a single gloved hand, but paused midway. He covered the movement by straightening his tie. "It is time I go and see the Night. S'lai ahim ro te, Victoria."
He moved for the door.
"S'lai ahim ro te," she repeated, and watched his back slip further and further from her.
"Harm jingles like little silver things.." She whispered. It was for the kitchen, a piece of advice in return for having such a captive audience.
and a red little girl's at the top of a slide
and an an orange old man at the bottom
wants to take her for a ride
- The Dresden Dolls
Red Dragon Inn: A couple months ago.
He had picked her. He had too. He knew he couldn't hide.
"You smell of paint and broken things."
"Come. Help me."
So she did help him. The Death Knight had led the seer to the kitchen, toting a first aid kit and a thousand other questions.
"Why do you allow yourself to be so.. damaged?" She regarded the injury: his wrist wept crimson from two precise puncture wounds.
"You know my darkest secret that I hide from the world, Ultrinnan. Why not one more? It is the bites I crave, Victoria. Like the burning of a fire. Is there a coagulant in there?"
There was. She set about the task of patching him up, first with the sticky stream of ointment, and then the heavy bandages. They spoke little. The faucet of the kitchen sink had far more to say of the situation, but Jodiah could only hear a steady stream of tap water.
"You will need stitching if it opens up and bleeds all over.." She returned the supplies to its case and closed it with a loud snap.
The Death Knight's chuckle was almost bitter. "Perhaps I can get away without the stitching. I'll be careful."
There was a quick smirk in response, and she gathered her hair into a small knot at the base of her spine so that he might see the marks on her own throat. They were far more angry than the neat little puncture wounds he had on his wrist. She knew his cravings, for she had similar. How many times had the seer's lovemaking turned violent with the sandman?
"Secrets for secrets." Her eyes found his easily. "But do take care."
He kissed her softly on the forehead and left her to her fantasies. The kitchen was unexplored. As he drifted from her and she from him, she took up a space on the floor. Her hands went for the many pots and pans beneath the kitchen sink. They were calling. She would make noise.
She had set them up in a semicircle around her, these instruments for the cooking and preparation of food. She put the largest in the center, and the sizes decreased thereafter. The very smallest of them were the flat pans for frying. She held a giant spatula in one hand, a large mixing spoon in the other, and held both high above her head. There, they were frozen, as if the drummer waited for a cue from an invisible conductor.
Viki heard the noise from the commons seep through the door, and then, the sound of foreign heels. She seemed rather apathetic to having an audience, but she was delighted by the sounds the Jackal carried as he made his way in. Irrykin the Jackal. She knew his name because he had told her, once, quite a while ago, before Domikai had ever made her a lover. She knew his nickname only because she had the Sight.
And what a curious name, Jackal. Would you like to know why?
She didn't care. She marveled at the soft, lingering voices from the commons, the white noise. Her hovering hands then fell, and both spoon and spatula hit the top of the largest pot with a force that bordered on the dramatic. Then, a melody, tribal in nature, followed, as each pot was struck on the head. While the spoon pounded, the spatula made a soft "clink" to each pot when hit, perhaps taking the place of a symbol. There was a series of repetitive strokes, a tribal hum, and a drumroll, which she thought was clever indeed - after all, there was no drumroll in the song which played over and over through the mind. This was all her own. She was talent! And when it was finished, she hung her head in mock bow, awaiting applause that would never come, but perhaps the appliances would offer small echoes of her performance.
The Jackal's presence was entirely forgotten, for she was swept away by the melody, and he had positioned himself to a corner of the kitchen, beyond her sight, but he kept her within his range. So when he applauded and stepped into view, uttering a hearty "Bravo," the seer seemed a bit surprised. Both "drumsticks" fell from her fingers and hit the floor with a bang.
"Amvel," she whispered, taking him in with ferocity. He had helped himself to a sandwich in the middle of her performance, and it sat half eaten on a nearby plate.
"Rivar'rrin." She had meant to shock him with her "thank you" said in his language, but his response of "rivar'rrin," you're welcome, sounded only curious.
In the past, she had greeted him the Jackal youthful enthusiasm, but now, she knew these dark things, of blood within blood and all the same color, and she peered at him with guarded curiosity, this one, the other who makes birds. Irrykin was her brother's lover, and though she did not know their relation exactly, she had been warned.
"Hello Irrykin."
"Good evening, Victoria. I'm certain the kitchen enjoyed your show... the food rarely has such entertainment." He leaned against the adjacent counter and devoured the leftover sandwich. "It was certainly one of my, brighter dinners." The silver chain which hung from his lip to his ear chimed only quietly, as words forced the movement of his mouth.
"Bright darkness..." She began to stack the pots and pans, shoving them every which way they would fit, back into their cabinet. Her movements were rushed, lacking the sort of dreamy grace she possessed for the most part.
"There was a call for music and I answered it. But I am perhaps glad it was pleasing.." She was still on the floor, somehow tangled between a sitting and kneeling position. She craned her neck as she spoke to him, perhaps to better see one who towered above.
"...to both you and the room." She finished.
"Only perhaps?" He watched her with his strange eyes, one marred by a cataract, but the seer wasn't sure if it was entirely blind. His seemed wounded by her uncertainty, her short words. She knew better.
"Xas." The scent of his brother still lingered, on the same dress she wore for days, on the softest of skin, in her tangled hair. She took note of his shifting expression, then stared, hard, those pools of aquamarine pouring into his mismatched ones. It was an attempt to scratch the surface.
"Ah, Illythiri. Is that why your ears are so elegant?" He smiled like a cat, or a fox, thought the girl, and his silver chain jingled as he turned his attention from to the expanse of the kitchen. Perhaps he intended to steal more food.
She was still measuring the oddities of his eyes. Then her fingertips flew to her right ear, barely brushing over the length of the lobe. "Elegant? Yes. My blood is part dark elf."
She watched him still, and perhaps a small anxiety crept along the length of her spine. These things she knew.. As if in reaction to growing tension, the free hand wandered to the rim of the dress, to the patchwork that looked so different from the rest. In that place, she had sewn a paper clover.
His shifted attention morphed into a casual rummaging of the cabinets, and finally, he produced a cognac and companion glass. Irrykin poured his liquor and turned back to her, staring.
"I can't say that I've had a chance to fold any clovers. You have another paper patron?" He posed his question like he already knew the answer.
Her eyes were still glued to every move he made, every step in whichever direction, and if he had choose to circle behind her, she would spin in her place, but not leave the floor, as if it provided some sanctuary - a sacred space between cabinets and ovens. Some quiet shock spread over her pretty features as he mentioned the clover, as clearly, the material of her dress covered it in parts, and one could not possibly see its full shape. She searched his words, and tasted them for lies.
"There are others who make such things." She spoke coolly.
He sidestepped, changing positions, and leaned over an island counter nearest to her, the cognac swirling in tow. "You are cross at me... perhaps because I have not given you more birds to fly?"
"I am not.. cross." And for a moment, she thought of crosses, and the line formations that cabinets made as they stood side by side were a curious distraction. There were crosses there. And for a moment, the smallest of things, she took her eyes away from him, even though he lingered so dangerously close.
"Ghost birds.." She offered the wood a small smile, even as she watched these borders run into each other. "I do like the birds."
"Perhaps for you, a bluebird," he said softly as he reached into the air and pulled a paper bird seemingly from nowhere. It perched in the palm of his hand like a mock nest before he set it on the counter and peered down at her.
"Bluebird.. hair.." She pressed the side of her head to the cabinet, as if to listen. Her eyes had a far-off look to them, as if she were neither here nor there. She would've been perfectly still, save for the rising arm. A hand reached for the paper creature, and fingers caught it easily, feeling the corners and edges and all that made its paper parts.
"Amvel," she said quietly, with eyes were still elsewhere, though the body was here, and the bird was taken into it, and flown absently about in the air in front of her face. Her eyes saw, but were still perhaps searching other planes.
The Jackal laughed softly. "You're quite like him, in some respects. Quite a... match." He spoke absently as he took a drink of his liquor.
"Why then question if you have such answers?" Her pretty face turned to him, and her eyes returned to the present reality, though her hands and bird still hung in the air, as if frozen in flight and time.
"I do not see that one small answer might cascade into so many others," he replied with rising brows.
She brought the bird to her chest and held it. It was already a living creature in every aspect, with beating wings and sound and song, and she would not abandon or part with it, even if she was suspicious of its maker. "Domikai."
"Once, you would laugh and smile me a greeting, and now you are distant and ask many things with your gaze." His tone was not at all harsh, nor was it sad. He was merely a keen observer.
Off-blue seer eyes met both the possibly blind eye and the possibly perfect eye of the Jackal. Her expression, while not cold, was careful, and the tone of voice shifted and softened and wore less suspicion.
"New things.. You mean to harm one another but you cannot. Why?" Such sadness hung onto the question!
"Ahh... And here I thought my brother was more wanting of his secrets." Irrykin's chin caught his hand as he continued, keeping his lean upon the countertop. "Unkind things occur, even amongst family. But! Family must not spill the blood of family." He took another sip of cognac.
"Brother? So that's why I see blood in blood though I guessed it was so.." She pressed her side into the cabinet and let both legs slide out from under her before she shifted once more and pulled them into an indian-styled seating. "Nau. Family must never spill blood." She was still a quiet careful thing, but perhaps these words had shed new light.
"I'm sorry Irrykin. I did naut mean tae be.. rude."
"Do not worry, Victoria. It is not something you could know. He'd never tell you such a thing." His voice was soothing, and his lean casual, though his eyes tended to roam her figure, particularly the sloping line of her neck.
"That does not look like the product of vampire teeth. Those usually heal immediately.' Again, Irrykin's words reflected his knowledge of the situation.
The soothing way he spoke tore apart the lingering suspicion, the guarded gaze, and she rose, to speak on his level, with feet on the floor and hands drifting over the countertop. "Yes. It is naut." Her eyes revealed the source as they tumbled into his in quiet confidence.
"At least you still have you throat." His silver jewelry wove a sound of worry to his words. The Jackal was concerned.
"I gave consent.." She lifted her chin, a proud little thing, with fingers which traced the edge of the counter. These idle habits of hers..
"He would naut hurt me terribly," she paused only to whisper, "and there is pain and there is pain.." She thought of Jodiah Ayreg, and knew that he would understand.
His brows were on the rise again, though he crafted a smile through his lingering concern. "That too, is true." The chain on his lip was whispering to her, but for once, she did not hear. It was meant to be subliminal. He was the Jackal, after all. It sounded almost like I know, and such things I can show you..
Despite this unconscious suggestion, Viki blinked, attempt to guard quiet things between lovers. Had she said too much? Each hand caught the counter from behind, and she pressed her back to it. She shifted, and placed her eyes at the floor, and as they fell, a foot lifted, then rested against the opposite knee. It was almost a dancer's pose, as this had been the theme of the night, but there was something so vulnerable about it. Perhaps it was the flushed face.
"Shh... It's something I know well, little dancer." He knew her pose immediately, and her concern. He chuckled before he began again. "I excel at that kind of pain, for those that want of it."
"Passed down through family, she mused. She was well aware of the heat of his words, but not that they were silver-laced. She brought her eyes back up to acknowledge him, to reply in the softest of ways her delicacy allowed. "There is only one I want for now." Love. It was written all over her face. It was reflected in the polished floor and furnishings, the liquor in his glass.
The Jackal nodded between drinks, then drained the glass entirely and set it aside. His smile seemed to soften to match her tone. "Do not worry, Victoria, that is understood. But I keep rooms here, if you should ever find yourself... curious."
She was not yet familiar with him or his ways, and it was easy to exhibit some surprise to be so solicited. "I..." A stammering. A sentence. She had little to say for such things. ".. nau. I do naut think I will be so.. curious. I mean.." Her eyes darted to the side. Words upon words. She lacked a vital element of casual conversation: tact.
"But thank you," she added for good sport.
The Jackal's chuckle sounded again, even as he straightened from the counter, brushing out the wrinkles of his shirt. "You are quite beautiful in your way Victoria... surely I'm not the only one to have spoken such things to you?"
"Nau.." His question stirred buried memories, some of recent things, some of long gone. "Not the only one.." Beautiful? She was tangled hair and water-eyes and stitching of dress. Clearly, she did not think she was beautiful. Pleasing to look at perhaps..
She sighed. It was a tired thing, not dismissive.
"Och.. Whether or not you believe my words, they are there." He near reached for her two-toned hair with a single gloved hand, but paused midway. He covered the movement by straightening his tie. "It is time I go and see the Night. S'lai ahim ro te, Victoria."
He moved for the door.
"S'lai ahim ro te," she repeated, and watched his back slip further and further from her.
"Harm jingles like little silver things.." She whispered. It was for the kitchen, a piece of advice in return for having such a captive audience.