Pale angel, go away
Come again some other day
The devil has my ear today
I'll never hear a word you say
- A Perfect Circle

Red Dragon Inn: The Porch
It's Still Thursday

The Jackal haunted the shadows of the porch in an easy seat upon one of the benches. He didn't even blink as the Seer went charging past, but a chill frown furrowed his brows. The silver chain said nothing as he turned his bizarre eyes back to the night, an ear ticking after the other woman passing.

Out of breath and nearly out of his mind, he clutched the briefcase to his chest, a crutch in leather and familiar locks, and headed for the stairs. Emerald colored eyes, enlarged by that which encased them, found that strange woman again, Lerida, moving inside. He followed in suit, but not pursuit.

And there in his path, a Jackal.

?We really need to ease you of your timid nature, bookworm...? The Jackal tilted his head to one side in nearly unkind humor, but the chain murmured a praise. Despite the thunder of the bookworm's heart, apparent to him, the delivery had been made.

?It is done.? His tone might just have reflected the wild flutter of his heart, for it oscillated in pitch and sound as he turned for the Jackal. Soon, his angles would settle, his newly crafted muscles relax.

A gloved hand beckoned the mock-barrister nearer, offered a seat beside him upon this porch bench. To the other side of Irrykin, an innocuous cane was leaning against the wood. A flask awaited Cale, and the Jackal's eyes drifted through the window and to the scene within, very briefly narrowed.

Arden moved like one possessed rather than one exhausted, and settled his bones to the bench, placing the briefcase on the floor at his feet. Slowly, he let his spine align with the back of the bench, and closed his eyes rather than follow the Jackal's attentions. Perhaps he knew what they were. ?She came to visit today.?

?I see. She engineered a mishap in room seven.? He said this all quite mildly and placed the flask in one of the younger man's hands before situating himself into stillness once more.

?She is..? A child? Clearly not. Fingers clutched the flask as if it were a lifeline. His knuckles were a rival for the color of his face. Mock-barrister. Surely he could come up with some mock-defenses. He lifted the flask to his mouth, washing away the thought.

?Be calm Arden. It is but a myriad of broken glass. It hardly calls for a return in kind.? The Jackal could lie as beautifully as he could smile, and he was quite, quite practiced. He left the mock-barrister the flask, touched a gentle gloved hand to the back of his neck. Just a presence, before it was gone.

He softened under the touch and the sway of alcohol, easily warmed by both, and half-lidded eyes fell unto the one beside him. The flask, half full, turned about in his hand. An idle motion to fill the time. Nervous habits never left this one. ?Thank you.?

?There is no need for such thanks. You complete such thankless tasks.? An ear was ever ticked back to the grime of the window, it's milky, warm light spilling onto the porch. The Jackal leaned in to breathe near the younger man's temple... a bit warmer, almost too warm, but far from scalding than the typical heat a blood and flesh thing gave to the air. There were words and there was silver to line them.

Arden flushed something fierce and drew his eyes to the trees, as if any may have actually heard what silver words said.

Then the Jackal leaned back, straightened, stood. ?I must see to sweeping up the rest of the shards. Try to keep to the backroads...some do not take kindly to the necessary deliveries.?

?Yes. She seemed, most vexed.? She of course meant the fearsome little pirate woman, though Arden was still actually debating the matter of her sex. He rose with the Jackal, a perfect match. Small mannerisms were rubbing off on him. ?I will see you home, then.? Short and proper speech in case ears might linger, though of who, the bookworm could not say. He did press however, very close to the Jackal's side, then brushed by him, taking to said roads, as quick as loafers might carry him.

A predatory smile flitted across the man's features, with some thrill of metal chime chasing after the bookworm's steps. The Jackal took up his cane from its lean and turned for the door.

Loved ones tell stories about me to me,
But I already know what it's like to die,
And to pluck at my ghost's sad eternal.
I wrote an apology on the mirror,
And one forget-me-not to yours truly.
Another ideal sculpted frame
-Saetia

You could speak of the devil, but the Jackal didn't hail from a word of hellfire pits and dancing demons. He merely slid into the door, looking as any gentleman proper might, though he had wolfish ears and odd tattoos.

Lerida recalled the devil has seen in Mayan drawings, or mayhaps, Egyptian. She dared not a look over her shoulder, and kept her chin bowed and her eyes on her pale hands, clasped together.

There were many devils. Some wore foreign fashions and spoke in a strange tone the seer could not place. It was not like Arden's heavy stress on some syllables, or quick-paced speech. Off-blue tumbled into what the air expelled and narrowed.

Magenta followed. She is a bit more than 6' 2" tall, and most of that seems to be leg.. Her breasts, now straining against leather wear, are likely not entirely products of nature. Her eyes are the pale gray of dirty rain. Her hair white blonde, long, a carefully casual waterfall. Her features are both beautiful and cruel, with beauty and cruelty having rubbed against each other on that face until both are honed to a razor edge. She wears a new vulnerability like a transparent blouse...

?You're far too still to play the unaware.? Either the Jackal was well versed in the reading of people, or he was simply arrogant enough to make such a comment. But this was the only thing he said to the other woman. Strange eyes immediately moved to the Seer, wearing some indeterminate, but certainly unpleasant, emotion. Click-clack said the cane.

Attention halved. Off-blue took up Magenta a moment, and cradled her in constraining color, before snapping back to Irrykin. The Lover?s Brother. She had likened him to an in-law for Jewell's understanding. A smile flickered once, then faded, catching sight of the cane. ?Hullo Irrykin.?

Magenta took a pause in the doorway. Big hands splayed-finger lift and let fall the riches of her hair, free fragrances hidden between it and oh-so-delicious skin. Chill eyes sparkle as she strides to the bar, spike heels elegant as a tattoo.

A curl of rebel white bounced over an eye as Viki shifted in that stool. Bare legs still dangled from patchwork, and shoes threatened to topple off her toes.

A swivel, knees facing the door, and Lerida put the face to the name. A familiar one. There was the passing rainbow of grays and whites, that was Magenta, that held the eye a moment, and then there was the man who's name she did not recall, but whom she had not forgotten.

?Is there a reason why I would be playing anything?? Lerida observed, remarked, said straight, watching the Man as she slid a hand inside her jacket for a smoke and her lighter.

Susurration of thigh on thigh, of leather skirt on both, whispering surrender, as Magenta sits, hair tossed on good, strong shoulders, tiny purse pinned beneath one big hand like a jeweled fly beneath. ?A spider.?

There was a tchutch sound as the wheel was rolled and fire came. Lerida lit the smoke and dragged and exhaled, all in a careful and slow ritual, her eyes having left the Jackal's face to watch smoke rise into the rafters.

As a whip might slip across a silk-clad thigh, just laid there until its own weight carries it snaking off with a sigh of whisper, so her voice, all smoke and whiskey and chocolate and sin. ?I seem to have walked into a m?nage in the making. Don't bother about me, loves, I've watched before, even been paid to....?

The Jackal is not so irate as to refrain from appraising the length of woman with miles of leg in the door...though at the moment it was abstract. He more noted her height and its similarity to his, came to lean upon his cane near the Seer. ?Sound travels in infuriating ways.? A cold smile, before he dismissed the woman again..Daerli? It drifted for a time.
?Hello, Victoria. An...associate of yours ruined my mirrors.?

Viki watched him with some element of caution, though the proximity of the pup on the bartop divided her attention even further, which was not the best for one so weak in the world of Focus. The creature in turn simply sat and let loose an open yawn to one and all, neither phased nor pleased by the number of people or the possible tension. It was far past his bedtime. ?They did naut.?

Port captured and bled into a tiny glass, mingled flavor of nut and grape and lust paints her sculpted mouth, Magenta watches with the lazy attention of an aficionado.

Lerida bowed her head again and pressed her back into the counter, the cigarette held aside as she whistled out a trail of smoke, she would pay iciness to those that treated her as such, and left the man and the seer to the discussion, in mind, not body. Her thoughts elevated her elsewhere, where clouds streaked a pastel sky and thousands of balloons bobbed about the distance.

Magenta?s clever fingers tweeze within the little purse, chopstick out a small packet of crimson crystals. A dusting coats one fingertip, smoothed against her gums, the finger sucked clean while pale eyes glisten with sudden wet brightness.

?You lie poorly.? The Jackal was far from amused, but the only thing that betrayed this was the tone of his voice. His stance was utterly at ease, leaning there, ears tilted aside to this or that sound. The chain jingled idly, as any silver chain might.

Aqua cut clear across the way, lingering on Magenta a while. Perhaps she still held the scent of the Gloved Lady, awash with the aroma of spring, of flower beds and darker things beneath. Viki turned back to the Jackal and tugged the dog, Jinx, nearer to her breast, then cradled him like one might a child. Perhaps it was her play at the maternal. ?They did naut. I did most of it. You are all of far too many things you do naut need. Only need one door.?

The spell broke, and Lerida returned, eyes leading to Magenta, and she smiled, like a woman with an abusive husband, careful and wary, and then looked to the man and the seer, sensing the disquiet.

The twin attentions accepted, both rewarded with a spread of icing from cold-candy eyes, with a ripe pout from the perfect mouth. Magenta rolls her shoulders, her leather bondage top whines, she spares a soft laugh, simple womanly delight.

?That's a terrible habit, you realize...? In a completely different tone...sardonic humor...for a glisten of red crystal disappearing. And then he is considering the Seer again, her maternal protectiveness. ?Is that so? Why not take a long glance into the bar mirror there...? Cane gestured idly.

Viki grinned, but it was full of flat teeth, and kept her eyes aligned with his own. She made no motion to turn, nor to drop the dog from her arms. He looked at peace, ball of black and white. ?You know why naut.?

?For curiosity's sake...why don't we find out exactly why...? Narrowed snake eyes, smiling. The tattoos curled in bizarre methods around his cataract eye where a scar here and there crossed them.

Treasuring peace, herself, Lerida left the stool and pulled her jacket about her, cinching the belt tight with a hand, while her fingers of the other ashed her cigarette. She kept her eyes down as she did so, and then lifted them, wildly verdant, almost neon in this light.

Port tossed back, elegant little glass lost in Magenta?s hand. There is a Broadway show in her standing, in the slow journey of tongue that cleans her lips of sweet wine and her guns of residual powder. Pale eyes touch each in turn, their promises in the eyes of the beholder. ?Tell whomever might be interested that Miss Magenta is back, and that prices as ever are for me to ask and my customers to pay.? Soft laugh, sweet as a fingernail along a thigh. ?Regardless of which purse I'm paid to open....?

About to speak, and then quiet, Lerida turned and headed out the door, across the porch, down the stairs and for WestEnd.

Lerida's exit followed by Magenta, who knows how closely.

"Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy?s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: na?ve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blas? princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd."
Sylvia Plath Ennui

Shortgirl all involuntary dancing. Too-big boots slopping on her tiny feet, too much vermouth slopping in her mind. The former mask the hated mincing gait she was raised to; the latter? Who knows what it hides or paints over, what it fences in or out.

Whatever its task, she has taken in ample for the fulfilling, her walk along the night road an old-river meander, occasional painless (for the moment at least) pinballings off of trees and walls serves to keep her between the gutters.

Dressed as she is (as she ever is); black hair, black tights, thriftstore grabbag of midnight blue and and onyx and dryblood red, one would be
excused for thinking that her white-powdered face was a thing entire, some rare Pokemon ghoul bobbing a random path through the night.

Perhaps the dark man, girl over his shoulder only lately ceased struggling, saw her in the street, beheld the little woman's random changes in direction. Perhaps, and perhaps not.

For her part Ann took in the tableau in the stop-action of drunken attention, one of those still-life memories that so puzzle and horrify the morning's after. She had certainly seen women, all complicit, carried on carnal shoulders from the Inn before, and the assumption served to prop up her image of the place, of its people.

Still, she is noone's coward for all of her lack of inches, and she spun in their wake, watching the retreat of this unnatural beast of two backs, ankles filling the wide neck of her boots as her feet saught sudden equilibrium.

If she called out a slurred challenge (and she surely might have) it was not heeded, and she was in no shape to take up pursuit. Instead, she clenched the fist of her memory within the cloud of vermouth and captured what images she could, visons that would be revealed when morning, all rudeness, pulls the sheltering sheets of wine away.

And even now they offer less comfort as she sways in the trashcans of her boots; already the self-doubts, the anger, flicker under the vinyard mist like little fires, driving it back. Already there is a part of her (really? a part? or other than?) once held down that would gladly ride her disquiet to the surface.....