Igraine

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

At Thomas' question, Antonia stood quietly, gliding silently to cross the distance between them and stand behind her lovely man. His question wasn't for her after all. She knew as well as Thomas, the real business that had brought them here this night, the tantalizing information connived from another hapless privateer captain earlier this very day - and it had not a thing to do with rounds of gleek.

But she'd have to be blind and senseless, to miss the foul mood these games with the First Mate and the helmsman had brought on him. The tense set of his jaw screamed of his growing anger as he won hand after hand, and the flashes of irritation in those copper eyes was as bright to her as a beacon fire. Oh, she could see well what the first mate was doing, the numbers ticking easily in her own head all the way down to the precise 1/12th of her own coin Nicolette still held back. And Antonia could see the peace that orchestration brought to the woman, that blessed calm that she created for herself, by her own wit and intellect, in the eye of the storm of this world.

But for all his worthy qualities, Thomas could not see the reason behind what Nicolette did, the exquisite control she exerted in every least move, the calculations and the quiet, deliberate deference before yet another captain. And he was still most ill-pleased, despite that wisp of a smile he wore.

Antonia's strong fingers began to slowly knead Thomas' shoulders, his neck, a motion as soothing as the gentle kiss of calm seas against a sandy shore. She sighed tenderly as she leaned forward to whisper in Thomas' ear, words meant only for him.

"Now Silver Fish, if you chose not to shoot your Antonia, even after stealing all your coin? Surely it must give you pause, to reconsider shooting your crew for throwing all their coin at you, chèr? Besides, you did say they would pay for the 'interruption,' non?" A gentle breeze of a laugh escaped her lips, just under her breath, as she rested the soft warmth of her cheek against his ear. His breath was scented still with tangerine, and for just a moment her thoughts were seduced to sweet anticipation, how a kiss this moment would taste -

Before good sense returned her right where she must remain for the moment. "You've yet to show them your back Thomas. Have faith. I do - in you, at the least. Such an uncanny bent you have, for knowing to keep the right people around you, unless... "

Antonia chuckled warmly. "Unless you are looking to make your rogue jealous already? Not even a proper kiss between us yet, but I wonder. Tell me true, are you holding out for a crimson branding on your cheek from Mademoiselle Nicolette now, as proper payment for her deception? Or... Oh! Is it the smiling helmsman who has caught your wandering eye, my lovely man?" she teased, grinning widely as she stood to her full height once more. Antonia's fingers ran tenderly along his neck, his shoulders, before those grey eyes turned first toward the ever-smiling Jax, and then to the almost-but-not-quite smiling Nicolette.

Fires

Wonderful post - sent you a quick message, when you get the chance, before I respond ;)

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Bright beautiful morning from class! Morning's going fine, but the professor is running late, so of course at a bit of a loose end. XD Hope everyone else having a wonderful morning too *toasts all your good mornings (or afternoons for our friends across the Pond) with the can of Monster I've got sitting beside the laptop*

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

OK yeah, that was fun... XD

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Veti's brow knit curiously as she wiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands, still smiling and now lifted to her feet, able to catch a breath though she was still firmly encircled by Max's arms. Or at least... Well, it seemed very like Max and yet... There were the smallest differences she could see, feel beneath her hands. That scent of her lover, that unmistakable, irreplaceable musk - all was the same as ever, blessedly warm and amber-rich, yet somehow... More. Something golden, lighter, and it shone through in everything about him, now that she could actually see him head to toe.

The muscles beneath her hands felt more lithe, less corded and thick yet still quite strong - more than strong enough to lift her easily from the ground thrown her to, as if she weighed no more than a tiny babe. Taller than she, yes, but she could meet that the gaze of his dark brown eyes far easier now, eyes that seemed... Faded? No, not faded, simply lighter somehow, a ring of pale blue about the dark irises she was sure hadn't been there before. Veti reached to touch the face she'd only seen in her very best dreams for nearly a year now, the tips of her fingers running tenderly along his jaw line, twining a tendril of his hair between thumb and forefinger.

Hadn't his hair once been a deep, midnight black... Curlier?

The werewolf gazed in silent awe at that tendril of hair, a soft wave of golden brown in her hand. But she knew him, her love. She could feel him, sense him, breathe his scent and his essence - he was himself, her Max. Perhaps more himself than he had ever been in this life or the next, and the way he looked at her now? Her heart thrilled in her chest, her breaths coming faster. She could feel the hardness of him pressing against her... God above...

Wrong place, wrong time for all these delicious thoughts running through her head. The werewolf grinned and shook herself head to toe, sapphire eyes wide with laughter, the crimson-lipped smile about ready to split her face. One hand slipped slowly downward as she stood to her tiptoes, the other hand wrapping about the back of his neck, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. The tip of her tongue ran tantalizing and slow along the tender edge of his lobe.

"Later, love... So much to catch up on, but not here - "

Veti's eyes opened wide, startled, as she stepped back a pace. What she'd wrapped her hand around was most certainly long and hard - but what she hadn't expected was the crossbar with the thick ring perched atop that had absolutely no correlation to her lover's anatomy whatsoever.

"OH! Well... damn! Holy shit, Max!" Veti burst out in raucous laughter, lifting up the Ankh in her own hand now, stunned, tickled beyond all measure. Of course, of course this would be the answer, the way back and -

Maria Brink's voice screamed from inside her leather jacket, startling the werewolf all over again as she leapt from Max's grip, her free hand slipping into one of the inner pockets.

"Blood blood blood, pump mud through my veins,
Shut your dirty, dirty mouth, I'm not that easy."

Today it seemed unlikely she'd ever cease being shocked, stunned, surprised - but at least she wasn't immobile. Veti tucked the Ankh under one arm as she plucked the smartphone from her jacket, staring incredulously at the caller ID, at a number she couldn't immediately place at all.

"Blood blood blood, pump mud through my veins,
I'm a dirty, dirty girl, I want it fil- "

"Yeah, this is Veti." The words were more question than statement really, but she was still reeling with the realization somehow she'd gotten cell phone reception and service in the legendary Vaults - five bars at that!

Veti grinned up at Max with a wink - hell, he just had to understand, there was no way she could refuse taking this call, no matter the monstrous roaming charges. The werewolf nodded meaningfully toward where her lover's own gaze had gone last, toward Nestor and Semyon, then pointing to the flask the demonspawn had dropped. To Semyon's question, Veti could only catch his eye with a smile, point to the shape of the Ankh still tucked under her arm, to Max, and give him a grin and a silent thumbs up.

"This is... Wait... Seriously? Cornelius!? London Office Cornelius?"

Veti remained incredulous, but she was chuckling nonetheless at the response she got. The werewolf glanced up at Adam who, she felt strangely sure, just might enjoy the company of the rubber ducky Anima - but not nearly so much as someone else she knew.

Veti strode to Daisy and Artie, again an enormous ebony dog-like, and sat down easily, cross-legged and wedging herself right up close to the pouting Reaper, whether she liked it or not. Holding the phone just a little further from her ear, she leaned against the hellhound, holding the speaker near his ear too so he might hear the voice on the other end.

"Atticus is there in London, Henry and Mr. Hoyle... What about Siya? Siya's all right, yes?" She didn't let the breath go from her lips until she heard the response to that all important question on the other end. Veti sighed softly, a weight she hadn't even realized was there shed from her chest.

"Good... Right... HA! Did you just say 'shit' Cornelius? Really?"

"All right, all right I know that wasn't the point of course, but yes... "

"Yes... Understood... "

The werewolf couldn't resist whispering softly to Artie, scratching him neatly under those thick jowls. "It's Cornelius! Oh yes he is, you good boy, yes he is! Your most favorite squeaky toy ever! And he's got a potty mouth, oh my goodness yes he does... "

"You tell Atticus for me, Cornelius: we've got an Ankh, and a beautiful, brilliant dead man brought back to life. Everyone is... " Her eyes traveled over their group, searching for words as truthful as she could make them without worrying their boss unnecessarily. "Everyone's mostly whole, definitely still breathing, and we'll be in London ASAP."

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

So glad to hear from you Wordsmith, and most everyone can use the overtime - especially now that the weather's getting just a little nicer. Looking forward to hearing from you hon!

And Derren, you have a great couple days and we'll see you when you get back - and we'll hopefully have some fun things for you to catch up on, yes?

I'll wait for your Max post, Tirg - as always, with much anticipation! And yes Lil, dat beard... that lovely, luxurious, thick and touchable can't-keep-your-fingers-from-it beard - I pray it survives, and so looking forward to your post ;)

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Antonia's wide smile finally reached her eyes, widening in genuine surprise at Jax's entirely impudent, utterly inappropriate and likely very unwise response.

And then she started to laugh. She simply couldn't help herself. Low, warm and soft and so genuine, the sound could only add to the First Mate's terse, tight command for a ceasefire to the sudden tension, her own falling away with every incredulous shake of her head. So many small, even delightful surprises in the span of moments, and Thomas' reaction had been one among them. Antonia looked sidelong at her lovely man, head tilted curiously for just a moment as she took in the words, the tone, the expression of his face - and then tossed him the rest of her neatly peeled tangerine with a slow, knowing wink.

Quick fingers reached to the tray once more, plucking up a soft, ripe mango this time. Antonia's blade sliced long, thin wedges of the fleshy fruit away from the pit, taking small bites thoughtfully as she watched the other two players, the guests of the Parakeet. This was what she did, after all, the captain's roguish spider. Antonia observed. She listened. She parsed what was said, and what was left unsaid. Every movement, each gesture, noted and considered and whispered into the ear of her lovely man.

Oh Jax. Antonia could only shake her head in wonder. Well, he truly was a wonder, was he not? Antonia had been certain as she watched him steer, enamored of his new charge, tending the wheel of the Skate as dearly as a lover; at his side as he walked through the filthy streets of Port Royal searching for even he knew not what - until he found the Boar; how he embraced the bloody brawl in the Boar with a joy that bordered on a berserker's ecstasy - that this man? Yes, she had become certain Jax was a man bound for either fame, or infamy, or an early grave.

For perhaps the first time, Antonia could honestly say she'd be a touch disappointed if it were the latter for the smiling man. After all, Jax gave "audacity" whole new shades of meaning, as strangely varied as the subtle variations of that ever-present grin on his lips.

Grey eyes turned easily toward the First Mate, to Nicolette Beauchamp, and her expression grew a touch more pensive as Antonia sipped her wine, subtly flavored with hints of tangerine oil. The First Mate had held herself so stiffly, so tensely, as she exercised her authority before their intimate gathering. Strangely, the rogue could recall no such circumspect hint of hesitation aboard the Skate. Ah, such a strange, crafty, subtle piece of contradiction, was this woman before her - though if nothing else in this world, First Mate Nicolette Beauchamp had the stones of most any man Antonia had ever met.

Antonia knew she would have never attempted such a protracted deception, couldn't even imagine the circumstances, the purpose or the reasons that she'd willingly attempt such a feat for so long. Her own guises were far more subtle ruses, aspects easily maintained with the help of a few props and a good deal of rum in her mark. Entwined in her own blends of gris gris and voudoun, the lies of certain willing accomplices, her own quite natural acting skills and vast, dark knowledge of this wicked world, Antonia knew well that men often only ever see what they wish to see. Antonia always gave them what they wished - well, at the least until she had what she wished. Precious few of her masks would hold up under intense scrutiny - and most certainly not the pretense of a man.

That Nicolette had done so for so long, successfully by all accounts to the last, spoke to as yet unseen depths in the woman, well worth the time it might take to sift through. A challenge then, and Antonia found herself warming to the prospect. She'd already known for some time, that the First Mate was no turncoat, no danger to Thomas or the Skate. No... Rather, this was entirely for her own curiosity, her own... Well, her own pleasure really, peeling the layers back for no better reason than to see what lie beneath. What lovely stories there must remain to be found, beneath that juxtaposition of sweet vulnerability and impervious stone.

Antonia sliced a thicker wedge of soft mango away from its pit, and reached to offer it to Thomas on the blade of her knife with a satisfied tilt to her full lips. She might not be playing gleek herself this night, but she was certainly enjoying the game immensely.

Fires

Why, I do believe I will hon... This looks like a beautiful spot, and look at that! You've already got a wonderful fire going at that!

Fires

Blue grey eyes dispassionately observed the elegant pair headed up the red-carpeted stairs, resplendent in shades of deep sapphire blue and topaz, ivory and charcoal, at their perfect ease in this marble and mahogany modern-day palace. Her gaze, her attentions never waiver, even when they merged with the myriad other lovely couples and all the other beautiful people making their way back from intermission, returning to the stately theatre for the second half of the ancient opera “Carmen.” It was a venerable ritual among the well-heeled, one that had carried over for centuries now, and Elke did not mind of course.

There was a great deal Elke did not mind, though whether she was born not minding these things, or had simply learned to pay them no mind over her twenty-six years of life, even she could not have said. It wasn’t that she had no preferences of her own – she did. She far preferred “La Bohème” in truth. She found the emotions far more genuine, and the music less tedious to follow though she likely could have never explained the difference, were she ever asked.

Not that anyone would ever ask, of course. Elke was not made to be asked for her thoughts, and her opinions mattered precious little beyond the confines of her own head. And in truth, she did not mind that either – or had long since learned the art of seeming so. No one ever asked the guard dog his thoughts, after all. And though she looked the part of an opera goer in her pale green, floor length sheath gown, her expensive, real leather shoes and clutch bag? She knew her place.

Maintaining an appropriate fifteen pace distance at all times in public. Guard dog, born and bred and raised to oversee the sparkling woman with the burnished bronze hair, the sea green eyes and that resplendent sapphire dress. Her Moira. Elke’s charge, her sister-like, the closest thing she’d ever had to a friend in all her long life.

Not that she minded. It was in her DNA, it seemed. Genetics was all, and she had been born to be what she was, who she was. In her more nostalgic moments – or at least, as nostalgic as Elke ever got – she imagined the parents she never knew spent every last credit they had to give their unborn daughter a life they could only dream of inside the walls of the New Boston-Columbia District, far from the grinding poverty just past its impenetrable, fortress-like gates. Solid concrete and steel that was still one of the best building materials known to man, spanning some quarter mile into the sky above.

At least that was what Moira had told her about her parents, huddled together beneath blankets as the little girls they'd once been. And Elke liked to think her sister-like would not lie to her about such things.

Not that it mattered. Elke ne Sonnengirata was as bound to Moira Sonnengir the Truth-teller, as she would have been to Moira Sonnengir the Liar. But it gave Elke something very like pleasure to believe these good things of Moira, beautiful, brilliant, talented, shining Moira her sister-like, as kind as she was lovely, and already renowned as the brightest mind of their generation. And so that was what she chose to do.

Elke padded up the stairs after the pair lithely, nimbly, utterly unaware of her feline grace, or the poetry of precision in her every least movement from tucking the clutch purse beneath her arm to tucking a stray strand of silver-blonde hair back behind the ivory skin of one perfectly shaped ear. Muscle and sinew and bone moved in perfect synchronicity, an almost inhuman dance in every least movement that screamed – despite the clothes she wore, and the comely feminine shape of her body – that she was something entirely apart from this affluent crowd of ancient opera aficionados.

And they gave her path a wide berth as she followed after Moira. It was simply the wise thing to do, in the presence of a Genaltata birthed as a Guardian, bound to her charge to the day she died or became too old – often around the age of fifty or so – to carry out her duties. Then the Guardian would be replaced of course, by another Genaltata Guardian, to live out the lifetime of the charge and…

Well, Elke didn’t actually know what became of Genaltata Guardians after the age of 50 or so. Her kind were exceedingly rare and staggeringly expensive to birth, and so she’d only met a handful or so in her entire lifetime. And it wasn’t as if they simply “kept in touch” with one another; there was simply no community meant for the Guardians, beyond whatever notice their charge chose to allow them.

Elke did not dwell, of course, on this thought concerning her future. She found it… Discomfiting.

Not that she should have minded.

Fires

*looks around at this lovely, shiny new thread* Oh, I think I'm going to like it here very, very much... *grins*