"When a descendant of Scillarevlyax sits before me with the power to freeze a man whole and to melt an ifrit's heart, who else would I look to? And how could I look away?"
Samirah and Konstantin are easily findable in the bar, a bottle and pair of glasses between them. They are sitting at a largish table and having a conversation.
The one armed man from behind the bar approaches during a break in the conversation, he looks at the bottle with one eyebrow raised. "I've no objection to pretty women getting buzzed at my place, but how'd you like some of that beastie you gave me?"
Shortly before the arrival at the Inn, with a growl of frustration, Drea takes Kyle into an abandoned building, apparently for a quick chat.
Drea removes the gag.
"I can't do this without your consent," Drea says stonily. "It isn't right."
"I've thought of a deal you might agree to, if you'll hear me out."
"They're not going to burn you alive if they find you guilty, Kyle," Drea says. "It's wartime, and they aren't making a fuss. I saw what happened to the last person they found guilty. They'll stab you through the heart, right there in the courtyard. Hardly anyone will even see it."
She goes on, forcing every word out like she hates saying them. "Let me try talking with you first. A stay of execution is the best I can hope for, and if I fail, if you are truly evil beyond redemption, then when the time is up you will walk out right to your death, and I will see to it, I swear, that it will be a grand pyre, public for all to see, that no one can ignore."
Drea looks like she wants to vomit.
When the bartender asks about the 'beastie', she looks to Konstantin with a raised eyebrow, then back to the one armed man. "I am rather hungry... what sort of 'beastie' is it?"
When the bartender asks about the 'beastie', she looks to Konstantin with a raised eyebrow, then back to the one armed man. "I am rather hungry... what sort of 'beastie' is it?"
The man smiles at her, the genuine actions deepening the lines of the old campaigner's face, "Smoked lizard. Marinated and left to cook for over twelve hours," he looks amused, "Their loss, but most people have been going for the stew when I tell them that."
He cocks his head at the bottle, "I'd suggest something warmer and rounder than that antifreeze though."
She looks significantly more excited after the description. "The food sounds delicious; I'd love some. And... I actually don't mind the taste of this stuff," she gestures at the bottle the bartender is disparaging, "but I'm willing to try pretty much anything once. What did you have in mind?"
"Yes, a cut of the lizard would be wonderful. Just show a cut of it to the fire, and put it on my plate still bleeding."
He pauses, and turns to Samirah. "I suspect you might prefer your meat a little more cooked."
...but that is not all that's in his eyes. No, there is something altogether more animal. The only way he could show her how truly connected to her he feels in this moment. The inn might as well have vanished into the void.
There is no one else in his world but her.
And he needs her.
She wrinkles her nose. "A little bit more cooked, yes. It's hard to get a taste for nearly-raw meat in the Plane of Fire when things cook to perfection almost immediately upon death." She pauses. "Though it does mean we have a hard time with marinating anything properly. That is certainly something to appreciate about this Plane."
Instead, she pulls her hands free of his, and runs her fingers along the side of his face. Then traces his bottom lip with the tip of her pointer finger. It's quickly followed by her own lips in a kiss that's as inquisitive as it is hungry, while her hand pulls him closer, hot on the back of his neck.
He breaks only long enough to murmur, "I seem to remember we were going to take this slowly." His mouth reaches for hers again, desperate for the sweetness of her.
She looks around at the room. "Though we do currently have a bit of an audience. What do you want to do, Konstantin?"
With the way she's asking, it's clear that she's just as happy to take it down a notch, if that's what he wants, as she is to find somewhere more... private.
He glances around, and she can see the Irrisani reserve fighting to cover what she's awakened in him. "I believe you want me as much." He touches his lip, still a bit pink from where she bit him. "But for what I want to do to you... what I want for our first night together... I will need more privacy than this place affords. Still... I want you. And the way you look at me, the way you touch me, sets my blood on fire."
"I suspect that each time we meet this way and consent to wait another night, we will require that much more privacy when the time comes." She leaves the rest of her thought unspoken, but the increased heat radiating from her and the way her body is angled toward him says enough.
"We've waited this many years to meet each other... surely waiting another handful of nights won't kill us." She doesn't sound convinced, and slides her hands over his to keep them on her hips. "But I will say I've wanted nothing in my life the way I want you now." The smile that appears on her face is almost feral. "I'm not making this any easier, am I?"
"Another couple of nights won't kill us," he says, as though convincing himself. "And when we're together, we can bring the building down."
He leans forward and kisses her one more time, this time a restrained brush over her lips, then back, reluctantly letting go of her hips. "You are an unexpected woman, Samirah Basri. Most unexpected."
With that, she tosses back her drink in one quick gulp; it's as close to a cold shower as she can get without leaving Konstantin's company.
Then, thoughtfully, "I hope it is the second one. I like this Samirah... the woman behind the veil. Although I suspect that I would like any Samirah with the sun in her smile."
He pauses, then sweeps one hand over the table, as though fanning out cards. What he creates are some obviously false hillocks of snow. Upon them stands a regal silver dragon, her crest frilled in fierce nobility. "This is Terendelev, known as Tear, the owner of the scale."
She watches the display with bright interest in her eyes. "She was beautiful," she says, softly. "Which reminds me... when you said that she 'approved' of me... what did you mean? She died in battle, did she not?"
Konstantin shifts in his seat, momentarily uncomfortable. "When you healed yourself, my scale grew cold to the touch. I have always had a deeper connection to the scales than the rest of our companions, I assume by virtue of my heritage. As to how she expressed this from beyond the grave..." he trails off with a helpless shrug.
"Chancre would suggest -- I believe, anyway, I am putting words into his mouth -- that this is evidence of my faith. Some higher power in which I believe. But I do not believe in Tear any more than I believe in this chair. I simply know they exist and waste none of my will on affirming that existence."
He pauses. "Yet, knowing she approves of us... as mates, as consorts, as what we are... this matters to me. For a reason I can't name."
When she returns, it's with two glasses of thick, smokey liquid that looks like it ought to be steaming in the glass. The smell is reminiscent of campfires and old forests.
"Would Tear have known Scillarevlyax?" She asks, after sipping her drink with a sigh of contentment.
At her question, he shrugs. "It is my great regret I did not ask her. She was in human form when we spoke, and with her white hair... I feared she might be an agent of the winter witches. I assume they must have at least known of one another. She intimated that she was searching for someone like me, only descended from her. If I can find this person, or these people, and help them in any way, I want to do so."
He pauses with another drink of the smokey stuff. "I suppose all of us have goals. This is one of mine."
She considers what he's said, studying his features. "Would Tear's descendants have been hunted in the same way as your kin?"
She looks pensive, and doesn't seem to be aware the look has crossed her face. "It's an aspect of myself I've yet to investigate more deeply." She tilts her head. "Do you know much about the Ifrit? Have you met with any aside from me?"
"An afternoon? No, that seems highly unlikely at best. My plan," she says in flat tones that suggest she knows exactly how ridiculous what she's about to say sounds, "Is to convince a trio of people I barely know, the most important one of whom is married to someone who actively distrusts me, that an unrepentant cultist somehow merits a stay of execution, so that I may stand guard over her in a basement room, or, if they refuse that as they did before, somewhere out in a demon-overrun city. As Konstantin says, I have taken her on as my responsibility, and that requires considerably more than an afternoon on my part."
"I think I've got about two hours or so to figure out how to pull this off."
"Let me know if I can help," Chancre says. "It seems foolish, but that never dissuades me."
Chancre is one of the hardy souls trying the marinated gecko.
"This would be good in a curry," he says to no one in particular. "Gecko vindaloo."
He finishes his drink. "Alien beauty... where I am from, the standard is... well, the standard is me. Those with direct lineages to Scillarevlyax. You are... I don't want this to sound insulting... but you are exotic to me. I could not have imagined a woman who looked like you, nor who could be so beautiful at the same time. You look like some sort of dream to me, but a dream that I could never have had."
"And I'm sure all of the women in your mountains told you how striking you looked." It's a question as much as it is a comment.
Samirah hears Chancre's comment about the gecko, laughs, and calls him over to the table she shares with Konstantin. "A word, Chancre?"
Samirah hears Chancre's comment about the gecko, laughs, and calls him over to the table she shares with Konstantin. "A word, Chancre?"
Chancre carries his dish of gecko and his mug over to the table. "Sure," he says. "How can I interrupt your fine evening?"
Chancre carries his dish of gecko and his mug over to the table. "Sure," he says. "How can I interrupt your fine evening?"
"You are no interruption, Chancre. Please, have a drink," Konstantin signals the bartender for another round of the smoky whiskey Samirah ordered earlier.
"This is ridiculous," she says, laughing, and allowing his hand to rest on the table along with hers. "I can't seem to stop touching you. This is going to make future battles with cultists very awkward."
"I just thought you might enjoy that gecko in the company of other likeminded fellows, and I thought I could get your professional opinion on this drink." She gestures to the fresh round of whiskeys on the table.
Chancre sips the smoky whiskey. "This is quite good," he says. "Speaking as a matter of personal religious belief, of course."
He looks at Konstantin's plate. "...did they forget to cook your gecko? You can send it back, you know."
A small smile plays on Samirah's lips as she tries to look serious. "Of course. That's why I asked you; who better to know the quality of liquor?"
She follows Chancre's gaze. "The gecko on his plate may as well still be putting up a fight."
He looks at Konstantin's plate. "...did they forget to cook your gecko? You can send it back, you know."
"Oh no. This is lovely... a bit overdone. A bit."
"I would show off my knowledge of alcohol for you, kid, but a real expert has opinions on drinks that he doesn't like, and my only real opinion is that I don't like them."
Chancre takes another sip of the whiskey, and smiles. He puts a bite of gecko into his mouth and looks back to Konstantin's rarest gecko.
"Is it a philosophical objection, chief? Things that have touched fire will never pass your lips?"
Chancre chews thoroughly. His mouth twitches at the corner as he fights against the oh ho i am so clever smirk.
"Is it a philosophical objection, chief? Things that have touched fire will never pass your lips?"
Chancre chews thoroughly. His mouth twitches at the corner as he fights against the oh ho i am so clever smirk.
"I enjoyed kissing Samirah. I plan to do so again. We just thought that in so public a place, we should stop for the comfort of those around us," Konstantin says solemnly.
He looks at Konstantin's plate. "...did they forget to cook your gecko? You can send it back, you know.""Oh no. This is lovely... a bit overdone. A bit."
Otai overhears the comment, and snorts. "I offered to just char it for you last night. You were the one that said to cook it as I thought best." The old man says it with a smile though, and trades out the bottle for a full one.
Samirah's reaction to Chancre is a belly laugh, and then a slight blush after Konstantin's comment. "Besides, though I've touched fire, I've managed to remain uncooked thus far."
She takes another bite of her gecko. "Much like Konstantin's dinner."
To Otai, she gives a small salute. "Thank you kindly!"
There is a blankness in her eyes, a refusal to allow something to touch her, "I know crusaders." The smile is sharp, "And they know me. Trust me, hell hath no fury like duped crusader."
"I enjoyed kissing Samirah. I plan to do so again. We just thought that in so public a place, we should stop for the comfort of those around us," Konstantin says solemnly.
Chancre laughs. He catches himself before it becomes a cackle.
"Good answer," he says. "Don't burn your tongue."
Another sip of whiskey, and another bite of gecko. Chewed all the way and swallowed before he speaks (which is not always necessarily the case).
"What do you kids hope to get out of all this when it's over?" Chancre gestures off to the side in a nonspecific fashion. "Given that we all eventually die some day and it might be tomorrow."
He takes another bite of the gecko. "And if I had just a pinch of curry powder, this would make an excellent last meal."
"Good answer," he says. "Don't burn your tongue."
Konstantin nods. This has apparently been on his mind a little.
"What do you kids hope to get out of all this when it's over?" Chancre gestures off to the side in a nonspecific fashion. "Given that we all eventually die some day and it might be tomorrow."
Konstantin stares hard at Chancre, apparently sizing him up. When he speaks, it is like he is unburdening himself. "I intend to return to Irrisen strong enough so that I am not immediately hunted and murdered. And I intend to bring Lord Winter with me... cold enough to freeze every last winter witch."
Samirah looks a little... embarrassed? "I have no concrete goals, as such... I am looking to find my limits, and sincerely hope I do not find them tomorrow." She looks sideways at Konstantin. "It is likely I will be present at Irrisen, as well."
She busies herself with slowly enjoying her drink. "And you, Chancre? What is it that you want when this is all said and done?"
Chancre nods slowly and breaks out into a grin when Konstantin threatens the winter witches. "That I would like to see."
His expression turns serious for a moment at Samirah's question, then he pops the last piece of gecko into his mouth. "People are endlessly fascinating. I saw them under duress before, but this ... this is something else. I hope to learn more about people. No grand quest for me."
Chancre swallows and finishes off the whiskey as well. "There's words for people like me, and they're not always nice." He chuckles. "I came to Kenabres on purpose."
"I think learning about people is one of the grandest quests of all." Samirah says, smiling warmly. "And you're not wrong... I said it before, but it genuinely seems as though most people in this city were on the edge of becoming their baser selves and all it took was this attack to allow them to do so."
Chancre nods slowly and breaks out into a grin when Konstantin threatens the winter witches. "That I would like to see."
"As would I." Konstantin's voice is as cold as that winter he's promising.
Chancre swallows and finishes off the whiskey as well. "There's words for people like me, and they're not always nice." He chuckles. "I came to Kenabres on purpose."
"They seem to throw that term around, crusaders. I think that applies to all of us, whether it is our intended career or not."
"I think learning about people is one of the grandest quests of all." Samirah says, smiling warmly. "And you're not wrong... I said it before, but it genuinely seems as though most people in this city were on the edge of becoming their baser selves and all it took was this attack to allow them to do so."
Konstantin grunts in agreement.
"But we can worry about that tomorrow. Tonight... we drink, and eat gecko, and enjoy good company." She drains another glass. Pours herself another. Her cheeks are very rosy.
"Let me know if I can help," Chancre says. "It seems foolish, but that never dissuades me.""An afternoon? No, that seems highly unlikely at best. My plan," she says in flat tones that suggest she knows exactly how ridiculous what she's about to say sounds, "Is to convince a trio of people I barely know, the most important one of whom is married to someone who actively distrusts me, that an unrepentant cultist somehow merits a stay of execution, so that I may stand guard over her in a basement room, or, if they refuse that as they did before, somewhere out in a demon-overrun city. As Konstantin says, I have taken her on as my responsibility, and that requires considerably more than an afternoon on my part."
"I think I've got about two hours or so to figure out how to pull this off."
Chancre is one of the hardy souls trying the marinated gecko.
"This would be good in a curry," he says to no one in particular. "Gecko vindaloo."
Back in his traditional shadows, Roshan almost cracks a smile. He touches the side of his nose and briefly points at Chancre. He doesn't seem to care whether or not anyone is actually watching.
"Or you could just let me go." Kyle says with a half smile. "Fire or no, it is death that waits for me among the crusaders."
There is a blankness in her eyes, a refusal to allow something to touch her, "I know crusaders." The smile is sharp, "And they know me. Trust me, hell hath no fury like duped crusader."
Drea sits next to Kyle, and starts periodically throwing small stones against the opposite wall.
"I've thought about it," Drea says. "Just letting you go. Let me ask you something. If you didn't have to die, does the Cult of Baphomet treat you so great that the thought of running off back to them makes you feel all happy and fuzzy inside?" It's an honest question, although there is doubt in her voice.
"Because if not, and you're not dead set on getting yourself burned to death after all, I do have another idea I think we'll both like a lot better."
"Let me know if I can help," Chancre says. "It seems foolish, but that never dissuades me."
"Thank you," Drea says. "I could use all the help I can get on this."