Blessed Blight

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

“Am I not family?”

It made her pause, just for a moment, while cruel words gathered on the tip of her tongue. But there was no energy left in her to set those words in flight and send them like arrows to rain abuse upon him. There was nothing left in her that wanted to fight. So she slowed, but not enough to stop, and she carried on and away.

“There is nothing inside worth taking home with us,” he called after her, and both the sentiment of his words as well as the sound of them, haunt her.

But not nearly as much as the expression she saw on his face, just a fleeting glance over her shoulder before disappearing beyond the threshold of the building.

He had not appeared angry, surprised, or wrestling with any sort of inner conflict. His entire appearance had been relaxed, with his supple mouth edging toward a smile -- or maybe a frown, and his eyes piercing straight through her to the heart of the matter. Her fear. He was pleased, perhaps, because she was afraid, or comfortable knowing he produced such a response in her. She couldn’t be certain, but the confounding nature of their reunion followed her as she sought a back exit to the tavern.

“It’s like,” she stepped out into the night, alone, but continued to voice her thoughts -- as if somehow, that might help her make sense of it all. “It’s as if -- we’ve done this before.”

Rather than running wild into the night, she stopped there, under a short awning that protected her from the drizzle of fog that was falling in heavier sheets. A step back brought her closer to the building until her shoulder blades rested against the wooden panels that made up the exterior wall. And, as if the cold were affecting her, both arms rose and crossed over her chest. She even shivered -- but it was the memory of his face, of his contentment, of his pleasure.

They had a history. Those memories were intact. She knew who she was long before she had ever met Roen. Irene Gabriela DuGrace, from Earth, from a Kingdom by the sea -- Atitlan. She was the hope of her people, the firstborn child to a dying species. And then she became their horror when she ran away, leaving them all to a fate worse than extinction at the hands of her ruthless mother and cousin. She remembered these things. She remembered the taverns and the people she met during those times -- Kalicity, Malice, Lucis. And of course, she remembered Tenebre, though his absence now was painfully noticeable, and of course, she remembered that she had taken his place and that Roen -- he had stolen her birthright.

She remembered dying.

She remembered waking up in a public garden devoid of a public -- in an empty city.

She remembered the humiliation and the exhaustion, and the children he promised she would be able to see if only she pleased him -- if only she finished.

It was the suffocating realization that if he truly had her children he would forever have control over her. That simple and horrifying realization sent her running again. Better to never see the children -- better to never play in the game. He wouldn’t hurt them, they were as much hers as they were his, and she did not think him cruel enough to cut a part of himself from this world just to wound her. He wouldn’t hurt them, she had convinced herself of this and left. But what folly had it been?

Of course, he’d follow -- to the ends of the earth, to the ends of the universe.

Golden eyes shifted then, focusing at last upon the swirling sky above. The fog had rolled in fast and it had swallowed the night sky, but she could see through the mist. The flickering of stars shone dimly, but she could still make out the strange new pattern of constellations, the distant glimmer of hope that her old life still existed.

“He never wanted the queen, he only ever wanted the girl,” she said out loud, a whisper -- a realization that made her sudden determination steadfast. “But he can’t have one without the other.”

I am a fucking Queen.

With her arms crisscrossed over her chest, her hands clutched and squeezed at her own biceps. She took in a deep breath and let out a slow sigh -- a measured release. And then, resolute with her intention, she turned and went right back in the same way she had come. Through an abandoned kitchen, where the remnants of abandoned projects remained, and back out into the noisy tavern.

She stopped there, just beyond the swinging kitchen doors, glancing down the length of the bar. She examined the patrons, most of them chit-chatting (and all but avoiding making eye contact with the man she had stolen from), and then turned her eyes upon the wall of pretty bottles. There was no bartender, although it appeared some were playing the role -- though by their appearance it was clear they did not actually belong to the establishment.

With a shimmy of her shoulders, she decided that she too could play the part and went about the selection process. Somehow, she had to save face and prove to herself -- as much as to the devil -- that she was not just a frightened little girl. She said she came back for something and now she had to figure out what that something actually was.

Gabriela pointed a finger and walked along, behind the counter, studying the bottles. She had only ever seen Roen drinking wine -- Orisian Wine. But that didn’t exist here. She settled on a silver-white bottle of vodka and took it by the neck. Unable to partake, she settled on a single glass and made sure she filled it with ice. However, Roen wasn’t likely to believe that she had come back in for a bottle of vodka.

She needed something tangible -- and fast.

Golden eyes flickered to the door. He hadn’t come in after her. That was unusual.

She glanced around again, and then she saw the strangest creature she had ever laid eyes on. A young woman, with a pretty and pale complexion and stunning red hair. But that isn’t what singled her out. A white rose appeared to be growing out of her left eye socket. It was both magnificent and undeniably disturbing. The woman was wearing a medallion -- perhaps a talisman -- it was pretty, and Gabriela decided she wanted it. She could use it as proof that she had come back for something.

Picking her way toward the woman, still, on the opposite side of the bar, she approached.

“Can I get you a drink,” she asked, her voice thick with an accent from a distant land. With great care, she set the bottle and glass down, pushed them aside, and then waited to see if she could manage to seduce the woman into a conversation.

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

“Tsk-tsk-tsk.”

Each curl of his tongue, the front base of it pressing smoothly against the roof of his mouth like a promise of more, caused her to sink further and further into herself. She didn’t feel like herself, but standing before him now when so much of the world didn’t make sense left her ego with a gaping wound. More than disapproval, the sound of his tongue clicking seemed to imply that he was trying to spit out the taste of disappointment. And surely she was that if nothing else -- a massive disappointment. Hadn’t he loved her, once upon a time, because of her fierceness, her spirit, and her relentlessness, but what aspects of those virtues remained now? He called and she came, like a well-trained dog.

“Do not cry, lovely one.”

He had his hands on her. While she sank and drowned in a sea of black failure and the bitter taste of it, he had freed his hands from their metal gauntlets. The weight of his hold upon her shoulders felt like the violent weight of hands shoving her head underwater, keeping her below the surface until the bubbles stopped. And surely that was his intent, to show her, in the most subtle way possible, how capable he was of ending her existence. But she did listen -- she dried the well of tears that had sprung from her eyes, and forced the emotion down her throat via a difficult and painful swallow.

Hot fingers threaded through her hair, which was mostly trapped in the intricate loops of her braid, but he still managed to catch those wayward strands, combing them free so that her dark hair floated and danced around her head. However, it wasn’t enough to simply dishevel her hair. The wide expanse of his palm cradled the back of her head while the other hand circled around to hold her under the chin. She had been avoiding his eyes, especially at so close a distance, but he was having none of it.

Pulled in and tilted upward, her face was exposed to all of the silvery moonlight that managed to break through the bleak night. What she had tried so hard to hide under the cover of her hood’s shadow, was revealed then and there. Her pretty face was tilted up to his, and her golden eyes stared right back into those bloodied-crimson orbs of his.

It could have been something sweet. There was some rhyme behind it initially -- his lips touching hers, and the fingers in his hands curling into claws to cause her head to tilt into his mouth fully. There could have been romance then, a sweet and hungry need. But it came and went like the gentle breeze that had pushed her with gentle lies to come upon her fate rather than running from it. And now she was trapped.

The kiss turned into a savage sort of claiming that pulled the breath out of her lungs and straight into his. Her hands were wrapped around his wrists, one before her -- where she was held by the chin, and the other reaching behind, trying to unclasp his grip from the back of her scalp. And all the while his mouth crushed her own, and his tongue penetrated past her lips with desperate need. The hunger seemed predatory in nature, especially as he tightened his hold around her head and pulled her aside, causing her entire body to pivot on the balls of her feet or risk tripping and falling to dangle by her slender throat. She moved with him of course, moved until she was turned away from the curiously peering eyes. And gone was the moonlight and the shape of her face, hidden under a dense mass of shadow cast by him.

And then, with smoke and spice, there is the unmistakable sharpness of taste -- of burnt sugar and of concentrated citrus. It’s a splash of a taste, like a brushstroke of cherry red against a canvas of white, and she feels the flavor of his blood in other parts of her body, in more intimate places.

His blood was her favorite.

“What have I done?” he asks, and her eyes barely flutter open.

She watches the way he sweeps his tongue along the bottom his bottom lip, painting it with his blood.

“You’re the one that cut me,” he smiles -- she does not, her head is still locked within tight constraints of his hands.

Perhaps he notices her discomfort, or perhaps he had his fill of her mouth -- for whatever reason, he lets her go and sets her back down. Free of his hold, she almost immediately takes a step back, but her retreat is stopped by a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“How are you?” he asks, but she knows he doesn’t want an answer -- he’s distracted with smoothing out her heavy cloak over her small shoulders.

“Mmm, you’ve led me on a bit of a chase. Even I don’t know where we are, or how to get home. You must have been very afraid indeed if the Threshold City sent you here.”

Tension crept upon his handsome face and she grimaced under the weight of his hand squeezing her shoulder.

“I take a very dim view of mothers abandoning their families, Gabriela.”

The tension is near palpable and she fears, if she takes a breath, she might choke on it. But she holds her ground, as much as possible, standing under the pressure of his squeeze and with her golden eyes set on his crimson ones. He breaks first and glances over his shoulder -- clearly distracted by their audience, which has grown now by one more -- a woman in a military-type suit.

“Another tavern, another pair of friends…” he softens but she does not.

“I don’t have friends,” she speaks up, seeking to draw his eyes back -- along with his attention. “I also do not have a family -- my children died on Orisia, my children are dead and gone, as I should be.”

There were fingers on her throat, a touch against her cheek with the back of his hand, “...don’t be scared,” he urges, but she isn’t scared -- she’s angry.

“I forgot something inside,” she manages to pull away, to escape before his fingers curl and grip, just out of reach -- just beyond capture. “I’ll run in to get it, then we can go back home.”

Home…

She glances at him over her shoulder, just a fleeting thing -- they both know she’s not coming back, and then she lips through the tavern doors.

Inside, into the swirling smoky room, the dense perfume of alcohol, and the waves of voices, laughter, and singing. Inside, she goes, and this time she does not take in the aspect of the room with curiosity. She doesn’t care who she sees or who turns to look back. She goes on her way, forward and out, toward the double doors behind the bar -- the kitchen perhaps?

A back exit for sure.

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

The man’s moment of reflection after she had rejected his offer for a drink was somewhat unsettling. Sitting, beside him, she watched the hard profile of his face as he regarded the drink in his hands -- a small, frail bottle within the grip of large and meaty fingers. And it was so much like a dance, the way disappointment touched the corners of his mouth and then a light, and nearly cheerful resolution. He was going through something within the expanse of those few moments, something that was perhaps profound, or could just as easily be absolutely meaningless.

She would never know.

He screwed the top back onto the bottle he was holding and set it down. Golden eyes narrowed at the display, and her brows pinched in the study of the creation he had suddenly busied himself with making. A line of bottles, all different sizes and colors, and all of them lined up prettily before them. She wanted to comment on the quantity of alcohol he had on hand, but could not think of a way to say anything without sounding judgmental.

Salvador was going through something and she would never know what it was.

He turned then, his large head on his stocky neck, and regarded her with his kindly eyes. She was momentarily caught off guard under the weight of his regard but managed to produce a small, timid smile. She didn’t have much to offer -- really, she had nothing to offer. But kindness cost her nothing, save the ache in her chest that felt like a warning that misunderstood intentions could kill.

He looked a bit more peaceful after that. Maybe the discarded weight of the bottles was a relief -- or maybe it was the fact that she was keeping him company.

We’re such wounded things, all of us…

She looked away, back up at the night sky, back to the black expanses of the abyss and the twinkling stars that tried, in vain, to light up the darkness.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Just felt a brief sense of inspiration.”

Fortunately, she wasn’t looking his way and so she didn’t see the sudden longing in his eyes -- that desire to compare her to ‘a summer's day' -- a darling bud of May. It would have been a disservice to him, to have her think him so vapid. Rather, she carried in her heart the belief that goodness still existed in the hearts of men, and that art could be conjured from the imagination of those who worshiped beauty. She needed to believe that.

“It’s not nothing,” she replied, still lost in her star-gazing, “it’s everything -- really.”

On her lap, a wayward thumb stroked a metallic flower petal.

“Well, since these may very well be newly discovered stars, what say we give them our own names?” Salvator seemed to have noticed her disconnection from their current moment, for which she felt somewhat embarrassed. She looked at him, that same hint of pink -- just a dusting of the color -- touching her cheek. “See those ones? They look almost like a cat, don’t they? We could call it the Felid constellation, or well… I’ve never been good at picking out names.”

She followed the direction where he pointed and saw the grouping of stars he referred to. It struck her as odd, at that moment, how one person could see one thing and another could see something completely different. But she didn’t say that out loud. Rather, she nodded her head in silent agreement. What was the point in telling him that what she saw was actually a rough outline of Orisia, and that thinking of the Summer Isles nearly gutted her right then and there?

“Me? I’m not sure why I’m here. It wasn’t somewhere I intended to go. But I’m glad I got to experience it.”

There it was again, the lingering residue of sadness across his face -- the loss of something, or someone. She examined him again, while he looked anywhere but in her direction.

“She’s resting. For a while,” he said by way of explaining where his daughter had gone.

Gabriela didn’t know if it was the truth, she had suspicions -- but again, she said nothing and only nodded her head.

And then there was a moment of pure panic, which she kept neatly contained within herself, as she considered the possibility of just blurting out that she had killed her own children. What would he think then? What would he say… would he say anything at all? Would tha kindly look in his eyes turn dark and hateful? Surely it would. Her lips pressed into a line and her hands trembled, but held on tight to the flower he had given her. She could just spew it all out, all of the viel and ugly posion that was sloshing about inside of her. She could confess everything. She could finally weep, perhaps, for all the great hurt that she had caused.

Maybe he’d forgive her.

Maybe he’d take that great big hand of his and wrap it around her skull and squeeze until she was a part of the darkness above, lost somewhere in the space between stars.

“My name is…” she paused then, and the words were like molasses in her throat, gunky and thick, and she couldn’t produce another sound. Robbed of her voice, the smell of brimstone and spice, caused her to choke.

There was power in a name -- she had learned that from a young age. This was a new world, a new time, but she was still who she was and surely her name would awaken something, if not in this massive stranger, then surely in herself. She would remember. And in remembering, she would shake off this accursed sadness and reclaim her understanding, her logic, her reason. She didn’t do what she did because she was wicked or cruel -- she did what she had to do. She did the only thing she could do when she was robbed of will and integrity.

But her name was lost…

She hadn’t seen him.

She hadn’t felt him.

The world was new, and she was new to the world. For eons, she had been forced to sleep, and wake, and sleep and wake, with the only memory that she was allowed to retain being that of her tragic death. Her mind was still fractured -- surely that’s why she failed to notice. She was not herself. She was not the Black Queen of Orisia, the fruit of her mother and father’s hate, the produce of dwindling line -- the hope of what was left of her kind. Now she was just a rarity, an exotic little creature among beasts of more regard, and certainly, more power.

But the tell-tale fear was nowhere to be found. Yes -- she had run away again. Yes, she had managed to find a way to open one of the many doors, and then she had stepped through it in an effort to escape her fate. And that should have been cause to run, another desperate and hopeless attempt to escape him, the sight of him standing there in full battle regalia, was instead a washing of relief. The will to run, or escape, simply wasn’t there. And it was so strange to not feel those urges. Running from Roen was the most natural thing in the world for Gabriela, an eternal endeavor that kept them both alive.

It was now that he was in view that she heard the clicking, the whirring, and humming -- it was only when she could attach those sounds to their movements, to the sight of his encased form, that any of it made sense.

Roen gestured -- a black gauntlet-covered hand held upward, a half wave.

It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. The gesture did not match the grim expression upon his face, the dagger-like edge in murderous eyes, or the serrated threat of his pressed lips, which seemed to barely contain the promise of the ugly things he was going to do to her once he had her alone.

“I am sorry,” she said softly, her voice becoming a small thing on her lips, barely a whisper -- Salvator would hear the words, but they were intended for another.

“I am sorry,” she repeated, this time forcing herself to break her golden gaze from Roen’s blood-red stare. She looked at Salvator, “...I have to get going now.” She stood up, and held out the flower, “I can’t accept this, please, give it to someone worthy of your talent.” If he did not take it back, she would leave it -- abandoned -- where she had been sitting.

And then she was gone. Trekking the short distance, through the mud and the cold, to the dark knight that waited for her near the door of the tavern. He had gestured for her to come, and she obeyed. Never before in her life had she been so content to obey. There was certainly a degree of comfort in knowing he still wanted her by his side, a confirmation she heard in the loving caress of the wind as Hades called for his Persephone.

As he bid her to return home.

She still had a home.

She stopped before him and took the measure of his appearance. When she awoke in Carcosa she had not seen him like this. He had come prepared to do battle. Those golden eyes dropped down the length of his chest and settled the pommel of the sword at his hip. Once more, she looked at him, her brows pinching. She was suddenly nervous for the man sitting behind her and for his obvious heartache. She wanted to reassure Roen, then and there, that she was not the cause of Salvator’s pain.

“I don’t know this world,” she said, by way of greeting, “I don’t know where I am, and by extension, I don’t know who I am.”

Everything fell away then, in that moment of confession and vulnerability, under her heavy cloak -- dirty and caked with mud as it was -- she grabbed at the edges and pulled it closer to her, hiding her small form. But she stared up at him, sought some sort of knowledge in his crimson eyes that she could not find on her own. Bloody tears welled up in her eyes as the scope of it all came crashing over her head like a broken sky shattering into a million pieces.

She had seen Carcosa. She had understood it -- somewhat. A new world, a new kingdom, a new home. But what was there beyond Carcosa? She didn’t understand this. With Tenenbre’s gift, she would have had eons to learn, but he had robbed her of both power as well as time. She was still the same woman he knew in Valucre, she had not aged much more than those tragic last few months, and she didn’t fully grasp why it was all so different. But an understanding of it lingered on the edges of her mind and it threatened to drive her mad.

“What have you done?” she asked, breathlessly, so very quietly.

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

There was a busy energy to the man that reminded Gabriela of a bee -- bumbling around, buzzing, and zipping from one flower to the next, with some kind of goal in mind, but the appearance of utter chaos for anyone observing. He was by far one of the largest men she had ever seen and that was no easy feat for she had found herself surrounded, in her past lives, by creatures of great stature. But certainly, he was by far the gentlest of the giants she had ever met. Yes, there was something about him that appeared as harmless and sweet-natured as a hardworking little honey bee, but she was well aware of the fact that he might well carry a stinger.

And then, as if to confirm her suspicions about his gentle disposition, the man seemed to reflect for a moment on any potential appearance of rudeness and so he offered her a drink. It was the fact that he opened his coat just as he made the offer that filled her with a good dose of her own busy and anxious energy. Suddenly her head was buzzing with the temptation of blood -- a thought she had not allowed herself to even consider in what felt like years.

A drink, he said, and a drink he offered as she saw the puncture marks on his chest and stomach. They seemed to be shallow enough wounds, but who could really tell with a man of his size? He could be feigning strength when in reality he was terribly hurt. But he was grinning as he held out a small glass bottle to her, filled to the brim with a clear liquid that she was sure would burn the inside of her nose if she dared to open it and sniff.

“No, thank you,” she replied, holding out a small pale hand as she shook her head.

“I’d offer my coat, but…” the sleeve of his coat shifted like a living mechanical thing.

She smiled -- a tight and reserved smile as she observed the man carry on, almost by himself now. And yet she was captivated by his many quirks. She could already see why his small child was so endearing, clearly, she had a father who nurtured, if not encouraged, the child’s unique personality.

That was a rare thing to see in a parent.

And then that same busy and quick energy caused the man to perform a bit of magic. And she, still standing there near the door, observed with quiet but intense interest as the man formed and shaped a metallic flower. This small work of art was handed to her and she did not think twice about reaching out to collect the gift. It seemed a silly and stupid thing to be accepting flowers from strangers, but she could not find any suggestion of ill will from the man.

“It’s beautiful,” she told him as she held the flower close to her face and examined the craftsmanship. There were so many questions that danced on the tip of her tongue -- how had he managed it, what sort of powers or magic did he utilize, and did he carry around the material for this sort of project or steal it from the environment.
But he wasn’t interested in that.

“So, where are you from? It occurred to me that most likely none of us are originally from this strange place.”

The question struck her into a sort of shocked silence. The sheer scope of her situation became suddenly apparent to her and what was left in place of the sheer shock of it all was the sudden flood of helplessness.

“I don’t know,” she confessed, her eyebrows pinching and her golden stare remaining fixed on the flower in her hand, “--I don’t think the world, I mean, the universe is as I once knew it.”

She sighed and slowly made her way to sit close to the stranger.

“I look up at the night sky and I do not recognize the pattern of the stars -- in fact, I do not recognize a single one, not a single one of those stars, as familiar.”

She was looking up, her expression helpless.

“I have no idea where I am or how I could possibly get home.”

Silence lingered between them, heavy and pregnant with possible interpretations. As a way to end the awkwardness, the man asked her if she was warm enough. Her cloak was still soaked, and the hem of it was caked in mud. But apart from simply being uncomfortable and a burden to handle, she merely shook her head and stared down at the flower she had been given.

“The cold doesn’t bother me -- I don’t even feel it. But what about you? Where is your child? Why are you here -- this place hardly seems appropriate for decent folk.”

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

The cold sobered her up quickly and the lingering warmth of that red coat as she pressed it closer to her chest was a sharp reminder of what she had done. She tried to dismiss the weight of her guilt as something silly – a harmless prank. There was still time to toss the coat next to the door and forget all about its existence. Surely the owner would get up, look for it, curse that it had been taken, only to find a happy surprise once he left. She would leave it, there, within eyesight to anyone exiting the tavern. But her nearly immediate remorse really did force the question up to the surface of her mind. Why had she taken it in the first place?

Because it reminded her of Roen…

She grimaced and closed her eyes tightly for a moment. This was a stupid and impulsive thing to do, and the sort of thing that could very well put her in harm's way. There wasn’t much left to live, and she didn’t exactly understand her purpose in existing, but there was one resounding and powerful compulsion that continued to propel her forward – survival.

“No harm, no foul,” she said out loud to herself as she began to bend down into a crouch. She intended to arrange the coat neatly and leave it behind. But just then the door swung open and she was literally caught red-handed.

There wasn’t time enough to try and stuff the coat away inside her own cloak. There wasn’t even time enough to try and pretend some sort of mistake had been made. She could only stand there, halfway to the ground, and watch with wide eyes, as a massive creature of a man from earlier emerged from the warm comfort of the tavern. He made eye contact with her, a passing glance that denoted what a gentleman he was since he did not comment on her illicit activities. He merely stepped around her, and past her, and went to take a seat on a nearby stump.

Frozen in place, Gabriela let out a slow breath before turning to glance over her shoulder. The man had come out and was sitting now facing her direction. He seemed perplexed – he was murmuring to himself – and that made her feel a little better. His mind must have been elsewhere and surely he wasn’t out here to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a tacky red coat. Slowly, she stood and straightened, still hanging on to the coat.

“Hey. I appreciate the kindness you showed my daughter.”

The little girl had belonged to him.

Gabriela nodded her head.

“And I agree with her, you are very beautiful. But what brings you out here?”

It was a blessing that her blood ran too cold to allow for a blush to paint her cheeks. But the truth of it was that compliments made her feel bashful. She had been receiving them all her life, of course, but there was just something marginally embarrassing about having a complete stranger comment on your appearance. It caused her to reach up and push a strand of hair out of her face, to tuck it behind her ear.

“Your daughter was very sweet,” Gabriela offered quietly but made no reply about the kind compliment. “And, I was just on my way out now. It’s late…” she glanced around, it was night – she hadn’t been aware that it was daylight within the Tavern. Surely it had been synthetic light or she would have been in massive amounts of pain.

“Nice coat,” he said and at this, her body could not help but respond.

A dusting of pink colored her cheeks – just the faintest blush. But before she could say anything, he was standing and urging her to wait a moment. And then he was gone, back inside, and she was left to stand there with her heart thundering.

Did he mean to go and tell the owner of the coat that she was about to take off with it? Was he calling for guards – or perhaps to fetch a weapon? Panic prickled her scalp and she had to turn and glance through a window, but she could see nothing of the interior.

And then he was back, and much to her relief, alone. He was carrying a dark bottle, with amber liquid inside.

“Now we’re both thieves. Common ground and all that.”

She stood there, the petite thing that she was, with her eyes set intently on Salvador as he took a swing from the bottle. A part of her wanted to protest the fact that she had been called a thief, but the more logical part of her mind acknowledge that she was exactly that – a petty little thief.

“No,” she began, rather certain of herself, “no – I didn’t steal it. I just, it was a mistake. I was going to leave it here.”

She bundled up the coat and took notice of the strange dog-like ornaments on the shoulders – she frowned. Then finished semi-folding it before setting it down beside the door.

“There, I am sure it will get back to its owner.”

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

She lingered in silence for a few beats longer.

Indecision stretched out into an excruciating eternity.

It was the thought of the cold night beyond the enclosure of the tavern that gave her such heavy pause. She didn’t really want to go back outside. It was wet, it was cold, and it was so goddamn quiet. The only sound out there in the night was the wind -- high up in the trees or rushing low along the tall grass. And that sound was too familiar to the paradise she had lost. The paradise she had destroyed.

But there was no solace to be had here. The sound of voices, chatter, and laughter, was filling her head and leaving no room for her painful reveries. There was of course the smell, the flowing alcohol, the cooking food -- searing meat, roasted vegetables, boiling broths rendered from thick bones. Even the cold tea that sat on the table in front of her. The perfume lingered -- sweet, floral, and comforting. The spice and warmth of the tavern were undeniable aspects of reality, but they were lost on her.

This wasn’t the place for her.

She deserved the cold of the night and the ice of a frozen tomb.

Under the table, her hands closed into fists. It became unbearable to remain, sitting there, pretending that she wasn’t a killer -- that she hadn’t slaughtered millions.

In a second she was standing, leaving only the shift of her soaked cloak to resonate as heavy, drenched fabric hit the wooden floor and swept past it before settling. Her hood had dropped and she didn’t bother with adjusting it, leaving it hanging behind her shoulders with coils of her dark braid spilling into the fabric.

A single coin was left on the table -- a copper piece or something of lesser value. More, surely, than a cup of hot water and a spoonful of sugar was worth. Or maybe not enough. She didn’t care.

She picked her way through the crowd and made it back to the door. She had every intention of leaving -- of pulling the door open, stepping through, and disappearing into the night. But a voice rose above the rest, that same voice that had caught her attention previously.

“Pardon me, alms for the thirsty. Something hard, please.”

Another pause -- another beat.

She glared over her shoulder. Golden eyes cut into slivers as she narrowed that metallic stare in the direction of the man sitting at the bar. Something about him -- about his voice -- rubbed her the wrong way and pissed her right off.

She turned back to the door but out of the corner of her eye saw the gleam of red fabric, and her fingers grazed past a cuff. It was still warm. But the old smell of brimstone, smoke, and spice -- it didn’t bloom from the woven strands of fabric. The devil didn’t come to life, conjured from the most intimate parts of her remembering.

No -- but she still saw red.

And before the better part of her reasoning could take hold, she had taken hold of the crimson coat, and in the most natural of ways, had tucked it under her arm and walked right out of the tavern. What exactly she intended to do with the garment, she had no idea. Maybe toss it into a muddy puddle, maybe burn it in a trash bin, maybe just put it on and cry into the sleeves once she pulled them over her hands. Whatever the case, she walked self-assuredly, as if she hadn’t just committed theft.

TNT - The Nameless Tavern. (Always Open)

She sat perfectly still as abuse was hurled upon her. Her eyes, wide and depthless, regarded the woman as she spat forth her venom.

“No need. I wouldn’t accept help from an arrogant leech such as you anyways.”

Usually, it took most people at least a little bit of warming up before they revealed their deeply held prejudices. That certainly wasn’t the case with Alex. And Gabriela, who had been minding her own business, was now at the center of this stranger's angry tirade. She had to break her stare, to glance outward toward the quickly filling tavern -- had anyone heard?

More importantly, perhaps, did anyone care…

She was well aware that she had every right to be upset, after all, what could she possibly have done to Alex to deserve this abuse? Therefore, Gabriela assured herself that her own feelings were valid, even if they did not please her current company.

“You, boy. Go to the man at the bar and ask him to get you garlic, onion, a bottle or something strong, and some clean cloth. Got that?”

She arched a brow -- and somehow she had been proclaimed to be arrogant?

Talking to people like this was no way to get help.

But just then the woman turned, perhaps in the direction that she meant to flee, and Gabriela’s golden eyes focused on the dried panels of her braid. Dark stains of blood had soaked into her hair, and from this position, she could see the brown-red blood that had dried along the woman’s neck, and at the collar of her shirt.

She is badly hurt…

But the woman was gone now and no amount of remorse would bring her back.

For a brief moment, Gabriela considered going after her. Based on the grocery list of materials she had requested from the young man, she truly held little hope that the woman would survive -- but then again, Alex had seemed rather competent.

Alone, and left to her own devices, she glanced down and made a quick mental note of her available supplies. There was her teacup, sitting pretty and untouched upon its saucer, there was also the sugar bowl and the small cream jar.

“I know I am going to regret this,” she mumbled to herself as she turned her attention to the task at hand.

She plucked the sugar bowl up and dumped mostly all of its content out into her teacup, turning it into a syrupy drink that no one would ever want to drink. With nothing but half a tablespoon of sugar left in the bowl, she reached up and ran the very tip of her finger across a dainty, but sharp, incisor. The pain was felt -- sharp, cold, sudden -- but forgotten just as quickly. Glancing at her finger, Gabriela watched the way her black blood came to the surface. It was a perfect droplet of obsidian, which she flipped over and dropped into the sugar bowl. Her black blood made a flower-like design in the sugar-lined bottom of the bowl before soaking into the sweet grains. Next, she took the milk jug and poured a few tablespoons into the blood and sugar concoction. It didn’t take any stirring to dissolve -- her blood had a tendency to smooth things out rather quickly, and so sugar melted into the cool milk, and the liquid took on a dark gray hue.

It hardly looked appetizing.

By that point, the young knight had returned but his lady in distress had gone away.

“She went upstairs,” Gabriela explained to the young man, who still appeared rather enthused to help -- a trait she did not share or envy.

“Can you please give her this?” she held out the small milk jug with her sweet elixir within, “...please tell her to drink it, if she so pleases. I suspect she’ll know what it is. Tell her it will make her feel like she consumed poison, but it will help.”

At a cost -- Gabriela thought to herself.

All the gifts that came with vampyric blood came bound to a steep price. And when it came to matters of accelerated healing -- well, human bodies were simply not supposed to heal like vampyres. So while the processes would prove to be successful, and would leave Alex good as new, and perhaps even a little better for a short time -- it was going to hurt like high hell.

But her part in this was done and she could do no more. She could not ensure that the young man would give the hurt woman the healing potion, and she could not go for herself to ensure it was taken. She wanted it to be out of her hands. She didn’t want any responsibility over anybody’s life -- not ever again.

And just then, as she meant to sit back in her chair and spoon the sickly-sweet tea she had just made -- which was cold by now -- she caught a flash of red. It was the feeling of a sudden drop that caused her stomach to churn and her breath to catch in her throat like a harsh inhalation through a sore passage. But it was the red, bright and flashy, lined in black and adorned with golden buttons -- it was the details that made her think the devil had found her.

A twirl, a masterful display of fashion walking and posing, lead to the newly arrived man to pull his red coat off and hang it by the door. The sudden fear that had gripped her melted away, but not without leaving chills in the joints of her bones. The tension had been so sudden that she hardly noticed that she had balled up her fists and that her pretty nails had dug deep into the palms of her hands. Blood slipped through her fingers, and she seemed surprised by the momentary loss of control.

“This isn’t the Firebrand at all. Where the hell…” she heard him call out.

She dropped her golden gaze and focused on cleaning up the mess she had made. Her blood looked like spilled black ink across her pale skin. With a napkin, she wiped it away.

“HEY. I DESIRE A MENU.”

While she was no longer watching him -- it was particularly hard not to follow the sound of his voice, especially not when he was yelling at the tavern staff. She dared one more glance in his direction before focusing on the task of cleaning her fingers.

“You’re pretty.”

A child had come up to her -- a pretty little girl with big curious eyes.

“Thank you,” Gabriela replied, but her eyes glanced past the girl to see who was attending to her -- surely this was no place for a child. She suddenly saw the careful and protective glance of the giant of a man who had entered the tavern earlier. He was watching them like a hawk. She was able to distinguish the look of a loving and protective parent. Satisfied that the child was not alone, she turned her attention back to Ruka, “--you are very pretty as well.”

“Wanna dance with me?”

A frown touched Gabriela’s face -- she looked confused.

“Dance, child?”

“Whenever I’m excited, or mad, or sad, I dance away my troubles.”

And then the child was gone -- twirling away on the balls of her feet like a ballerina. She wove in and out of the crowd until Gabriela could no longer see her. And still, she wore that look of worried concern and that look that touched on confusion.

“This is a strange place…” she said aloud, again just a mumble to her own self.

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