A chill, overcast night surrounded Psly, as he walked the distance between the city and the barn. A good night for quiet contemplation, no one around, not even a hint of breeze to distract him. With his hands in his pockets, Psly let his feet walk the well-known path, as his mind swirled around various thoughts. Yet another attempt for the Diamond, lost. The reappearance of Shard, and how much that had hurt. His feelings for Jaycy, and how their growth wasn't slowing down. The tentative friendships, people and places long thought forgotten. And so he walked, and thought.
***
This was a well-worn path, and Psly walked it often. Life had taught him many things, but all teachings may be forgotten in time. After his arrival here, he'd rarely had occasion to utilize the life's lessons that kept him alive in the 'Plex. Even more, after the "reformatting", less and less of his previous life seemed important.
Psly had grown. . .complacent.
Lax.
One might even say, careless.
***
?Mistress, he is alone and isolated.? A slim girl knelt before the woman?s chair, thighs held tight against one another and head bowed. Soft yellow curls spilled across her cheek and down over the red enamel band around her neck and her shoulder as she reported to her mistress. ?He went for a walk not long ago, leaving his house.? The woman tapped well-manicured nails against the dark velvet that adorned the arm of the mahogany chair. ?And the whore and her idiot girlfriend and boyfriend?? she finally queried.
?She left the City early this morning and is unreachable. She stated last night on the Isle that she did not know how late she would return,? the slave-girl whispered. Her hands remained lightly resting on her legs, palms touching flesh just below the hem of her brief violet silks. ?The other woman is at the Twilight Isle. Her boyfriend is with her.? The woman lifted a hand, flicking the fingers toward the door in a shooing motion. ?You have done well, Veran. You may go claim a treat from the Overseer.? The girl rocked back and to her feet. ?Thank you, Mistress,? she murmured and then backed out of the room, careful to keep her gaze pointed at the ground.
The woman?s gaze followed the girl as she took herself out of the sitting room and remained at the door even after it had been closed softly. Painted nails drummed a pattern on the deep crimson fabric in an idle, random pattern. It had taken several weeks for everything to fall into place. Her quest for the proper weapon had ended in a painful and long process that involved her shifting into full dragon form ? something she only did in the most desperate of times because of the agony ? to surgically remove rib bones for the crafting of her daggers.
She sneered at the flames lazily licking upward in the fireplace. How dared he. He had given the whore a wholly undeserved gift; a life, a strength, a form she never should have received. The whore was an imposter dragon now, a mockery of true members of the kin. That woman presumed she should be as equal to her father! Worse, her current lover ? toy ? had agreed and given her the means to pretend to be one of them. She flaunted her new status too, showing ? no, wearing ? wings as if they were some accessory to her clothing. He needed to pay for such an insult to the kin. She had warned him. A slow, cruel smirk ticked the corner of her mouth upward. She had warned him and he hadn?t listened. He was alone. Idiot.
Long fingers curled around the arms of the chair and she levered herself up, rolling first one pale shoulder and then the other, wings lifting in time with the motions. Hips swayed slightly beneath the white sheath dress as she walked toward the fireplace, her destination the blank section of beige wall next to the mantle. The tip of her right index finger snaked out and ran down the wall before the hand ran across her body from right to left. The wall faded away, revealing a recess. Within lay a simple, low and long wooden box, plain and free from any markings or visible clasps.
The woman pressed palms to the dual ends of the box and pulled her arms toward her chest, drawing the container from its hiding hole. She turned and took steps toward a nearby short bookcase, the dark gleaming wood the match for her chair. She set the box gently down before drawing the fingertip of her left middle finger across the face of the box and then lifted the lid. Red-gold eyes gleamed as they lit on the contents within. A pair of long, lightly curved daggers nestled in a bed of black silk. The sheaths were plain; leather wrapped around oak. The hilts also lacked decoration, the dull silver lackluster ? without ornamentation or the shine of polished metal.
Almost reverently she lifted one dagger from the box and set it next to the outside edge, on the wood of the bookshelf?s top. The mate remained within and she closed the rectangular vessel before lifting it and turning to replace it in the recess. ?Xendon,? she murmured to the wall. The left edge of the hole began to shimmer and spread right, solidifying behind the leading line. Index and middle fingers from her left hand swept over the magicked wall, sealing it. She plucked the retrieved dagger from the bookshelf and strode for the door, swiftly exiting the comforting confines of her private space.
(( Written with Pslyder's player. Events take place approximately midnight ET on 1/26/10. ))
***
This was a well-worn path, and Psly walked it often. Life had taught him many things, but all teachings may be forgotten in time. After his arrival here, he'd rarely had occasion to utilize the life's lessons that kept him alive in the 'Plex. Even more, after the "reformatting", less and less of his previous life seemed important.
Psly had grown. . .complacent.
Lax.
One might even say, careless.
***
?Mistress, he is alone and isolated.? A slim girl knelt before the woman?s chair, thighs held tight against one another and head bowed. Soft yellow curls spilled across her cheek and down over the red enamel band around her neck and her shoulder as she reported to her mistress. ?He went for a walk not long ago, leaving his house.? The woman tapped well-manicured nails against the dark velvet that adorned the arm of the mahogany chair. ?And the whore and her idiot girlfriend and boyfriend?? she finally queried.
?She left the City early this morning and is unreachable. She stated last night on the Isle that she did not know how late she would return,? the slave-girl whispered. Her hands remained lightly resting on her legs, palms touching flesh just below the hem of her brief violet silks. ?The other woman is at the Twilight Isle. Her boyfriend is with her.? The woman lifted a hand, flicking the fingers toward the door in a shooing motion. ?You have done well, Veran. You may go claim a treat from the Overseer.? The girl rocked back and to her feet. ?Thank you, Mistress,? she murmured and then backed out of the room, careful to keep her gaze pointed at the ground.
The woman?s gaze followed the girl as she took herself out of the sitting room and remained at the door even after it had been closed softly. Painted nails drummed a pattern on the deep crimson fabric in an idle, random pattern. It had taken several weeks for everything to fall into place. Her quest for the proper weapon had ended in a painful and long process that involved her shifting into full dragon form ? something she only did in the most desperate of times because of the agony ? to surgically remove rib bones for the crafting of her daggers.
She sneered at the flames lazily licking upward in the fireplace. How dared he. He had given the whore a wholly undeserved gift; a life, a strength, a form she never should have received. The whore was an imposter dragon now, a mockery of true members of the kin. That woman presumed she should be as equal to her father! Worse, her current lover ? toy ? had agreed and given her the means to pretend to be one of them. She flaunted her new status too, showing ? no, wearing ? wings as if they were some accessory to her clothing. He needed to pay for such an insult to the kin. She had warned him. A slow, cruel smirk ticked the corner of her mouth upward. She had warned him and he hadn?t listened. He was alone. Idiot.
Long fingers curled around the arms of the chair and she levered herself up, rolling first one pale shoulder and then the other, wings lifting in time with the motions. Hips swayed slightly beneath the white sheath dress as she walked toward the fireplace, her destination the blank section of beige wall next to the mantle. The tip of her right index finger snaked out and ran down the wall before the hand ran across her body from right to left. The wall faded away, revealing a recess. Within lay a simple, low and long wooden box, plain and free from any markings or visible clasps.
The woman pressed palms to the dual ends of the box and pulled her arms toward her chest, drawing the container from its hiding hole. She turned and took steps toward a nearby short bookcase, the dark gleaming wood the match for her chair. She set the box gently down before drawing the fingertip of her left middle finger across the face of the box and then lifted the lid. Red-gold eyes gleamed as they lit on the contents within. A pair of long, lightly curved daggers nestled in a bed of black silk. The sheaths were plain; leather wrapped around oak. The hilts also lacked decoration, the dull silver lackluster ? without ornamentation or the shine of polished metal.
Almost reverently she lifted one dagger from the box and set it next to the outside edge, on the wood of the bookshelf?s top. The mate remained within and she closed the rectangular vessel before lifting it and turning to replace it in the recess. ?Xendon,? she murmured to the wall. The left edge of the hole began to shimmer and spread right, solidifying behind the leading line. Index and middle fingers from her left hand swept over the magicked wall, sealing it. She plucked the retrieved dagger from the bookshelf and strode for the door, swiftly exiting the comforting confines of her private space.
(( Written with Pslyder's player. Events take place approximately midnight ET on 1/26/10. ))