#I tried to lean into more sharp angles like a scorpion

[jujapaya]

Ok prev. Bet.

Me. You. Jaeger. Now.

feels so wrong that itll be 2025 soon. fake year. science fiction year

[love-and-monsters]

Armon the Aqrabaumelu

Hey guys! Before I get into this, I’m just letting you know I won’t be posting writing for the next two weeks because it’s grad school final time and I have so much work. In the meantime, if you want to give me some prompts, I’m all ears!

M aqrabaumelu X F reader, 2,895 words

You’ve been hired to paint a portrait for a local rich family. What do you make of your irritated (and a little irritating) subject?

Fortune Falls was a small town, but it was surprisingly bustling. Perhaps it was the variety of species that kept it that way. Perhaps it was just the sort of people who came to a place like Fortune Falls, excited young people who were trying to start up new lives and careers. At least half of the shops in town had opened in the last couple of years and were run by young residents.

You weren’t one of the excited newcomers, although you could have easily been mistaken for one. Your family was one of the first to move to Fortune Falls, which meant you had some roots here, and had managed to snag an apartment toward the town center for relatively cheap. Your family was friends with the building owner, and you were handy enough to earn your low rent.

It also meant that your career as a struggling artist was at least somewhat feasible. Your family had connections with the other families in town, especially the well-off ones. The sort of families with the disposable income who could commission artists for portraits.

That was your newest job. A commission for one of the older money families, a portrait of their second-oldest son, since he had come of age. Portraits were, in your humble opinion, exceedingly boring. Trying to paint a face staring off into the distance while subtly tweaking their worst features to suit their vain attitudes wasn’t interesting. You were much more partial to landscapes and nature scenery. Much more beautiful. But you still had expenses and if painting rich people managed to pay them, so be it. You would.

The Aristota house was technically just outside of town, on an enormous plot of land. You gathered your supplies into the passenger’s seat of your ancient car and hobbled up their long, winding driveway.

It was a pretty mansion, you thought. But it was also just a little bit too rich for your taste. The chandeliers, the velvet carpets, the deep reds and golds and creams. It was all just a little too much, like they were more interested in showing off their money than creating a house that was nice to live in.

Fortunately, you knew the family well enough for them to dispense with the overly stuffy pleasantries. “Good to see you again,” Mrs. Aristota said when you entered the sunroom. She was settled on a long, red couch, deep orange carapace glinting in the sunlight. “You’ve met Armon before?”

You looked toward the person she was gesturing at. He looked quite similar to her- a rounded, but sharp-cheeked face, thick lashes, rich, black hair, and long, delicately fingered hands. Like the rest of his family, he was, from the waist down, an enormous scorpion. His carapace was a deep shade of orange and his tail was lifted, curling behind him with its stinging tip brandished outward. You knew enough about aqrabaumelu body language to read the discomfort in his posture.

“We’ve met before,” you said. It had admittedly been years ago, when you were both teenagers, and neither of you had wanted to be around each other. “Hello.”

He dipped his head to you, then went back to staring out the window. He was wearing a black coat with little gold stitches around the hems. His long nails worked at the hem, tearing the stitches out a little at a time.

“You have the specifications for the portrait?” Mrs. Aristota asked. She rose from her couch and skittered over you, looking critically at your supplies.

“Same as the last one I did, I assume,” you said.

“This one will be a little smaller,” she said. “But roughly similar, yes. Armon will give you any more details he desires.” She walked over to him and lifted his chin in her hand. “And smile, won’t you?”

With that, she turned and headed out of the room. You finished placing your canvas on the easel and organized your paints before looking at your subject.

He’d mostly turned his back on you, staring out the windows of the sunroom into the garden. You cleared your throat. No response. You cleared it again, louder this time. His gaze flicked to you, expression unchanging.

“Are you ready to begin?” you asked. “Pick a position you think you can comfortably hold for a bit. I’ll take pictures, but I like sketching in person. It helps me with proportions.”

Armon let out a long, heavy sigh and crept across the room until he was standing in front of you. He stared flatly ahead, tail still hooked and lifted in its defensive posture. His expression was flatly neutral, almost bored. You frowned at him. “Uh. You sure that’s the position you want to go for?”

His dark eyes slid to you for a moment. Then they returned to their staring-blankly-ahead position. You shrugged. “Whatever.” You could make some touch-ups to make the position a little more interesting, more stately instead of bored. After snapping a few photos, you sat down and got to work.

A silence fell over the room. You could hear your pencil scratching against the canvas, the soft noise of your breath. Every now and then, Armon would shift a little and the hard plates of his carapace scraped quietly together. After thirty minutes, you paused, flexing your wrist.

“Wanna move around a bit?” you asked. Armon shifted his head toward you.

“I thought that would be disallowed.” His voice was both deep and quiet.

“Nah. You can shift around a little bit. Just go back to the position when you’re done. I can tweak a little bit to fix any problems. And I need a break too.” You stood up, rolling your wrist and stretching your legs. “Want to take a look at what I have so far?”

He scuttled over to you and peered at the canvas. You saw his eyes move, roving over the image, then he leaned back. There was no change in his face. “What, nothing?” you said. “I thought it was pretty good. Anything you like, don’t like, want more of?”

Armon sighed, shifting his weight. “I don’t know. I’m not an artist.”

“Well, if I think it’s a bad idea, I just won’t do it. I’m just asking your opinion. It’s your portrait.”

Armon laughed. It was a bitter, cold laugh. “This is not me,” he said, pointing at the painting.

You frowned, feeling a flicker of insult. It wasn’t your best work ever, but it didn’t look that bad. It looked like him! “In what way?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral. You’d never had any of them, but you’d heard about clients who wouldn’t let their painters stop until the image looked like a god come to earth. If he was trying that angle, you weren’t sure how long you could bite your tongue for.

Armon looked at you for a moment, then sighed out his nose and waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter.” He walked back over to his position and held it again. This time, he looked even more stiff and uncomfortable. His tail tip twitched like he was threatening to strike.

You looked consideringly at the painting. Even with your careful alterations, he still looked a little stiff. His tail was arched over his back in a way that seemed unnatural, and his expression was severe. You couldn’t give an accurate depiction of his smile because you’d never seen him give one. His brother had been all grins and self-importance. Armon seemed to be sulking.

“I need a break.” You tossed down your pencil. Armon gave you a look.

“Weren’t we just taking a break?” he asked. You stretched, groaning as your joints popped. Armon blinked at you as your arm twisted around. “Humans aren’t supposed to bend that way,” he said. His expression was vaguely queasy.

“I’m double jointed,” you said. “And I need to walk around for a bit. Stretch my legs, you know? And my fingers, otherwise my hands will cramp.” You tilted your head, staring around the room with feigned interest. “Mind showing me around the place?”

Armon clicked his many legs against the ground. “Something you’re particularly interested in seeing?” he asked with little enthusiasm.

“Whatever you’re interested in is fine by me,” you said charitably. Perhaps you could get another emotion out of him that wasn’t sullen disappointment.

There was a moment of consideration, then Armon opened the glass door to the outside. Without checking to see if you were following, he stepped outside and into the sunshine.

You followed him to a small stand of trees around a pond. He settled by it, back pointed at you. “This is nice,” you said, looking around. Your fingers were itching for your supplies. It would be a lovely scene. In fact, Armon’s form seemed to fit well with it. His unfocused, serene gaze, the curl of his lowered tail, the sweep of his black hair over his brow. He seemed much more relaxed than he had in the house.

“I have an idea,” you said. Armon’s gaze became guarded as he looked up at you. “We can continue the painting out here.”

Armon gave you a bewildered look. “What?”

“It’s a nice day. And the sunroom’s really hot. We can keep going out here. Much nicer.” Armon frowned. His many legs shifted, sharp tips digging into the dirt. “Something wrong with that idea?”

“I thought Mother wanted it done in the sunroom.” His voice was stiff and his tail was starting to bristle again. You put on your easiest smile and clapped him on the shoulder. He started at the touch.

“I’ll tell her I thought it looked nicer out here. I’m sure she’ll be fine with it.” You turned and started to head back inside. After a moment, you heard the quiet scuttling of Armon following you.

He watched as you gathered your supplies up. It took some skill to juggle them. You carefully slid the easel under your arm and tried to gather as many paints as you could into your arms. Armon stared at you for a moment, then picked up your paint box from the floor. He held it still while you carefully dumped your paints into it. “Thanks,” you said.

“Just helps speed things up,” he mumbled. Before you could say anything else, he headed out the door ahead of you.

You followed him back to the small stand of trees and set your supplies up again. When you looked up, you clapped a hand over your mouth, barely preventing a giggle.

There were several birds around Armon. Three of them were crows, and one was a blue jay, which was perched happily on his tail, apparently unconcerned by the venom. A chipmunk was eying him from a short distance away, and a squirrel was sitting by one of his hands without concern. Armon seemed to consider this as relatively unimpressive. His expression was just as neutral as it had been before. But his tail, you noticed, was relaxed.

“Uh,” you said gently, “so how long have you been a Disney princess?”

His tail jerked reflexively and the animals scattered. “Oh,” you said, watching in disappointment. “That would have made a cool painting. Can you make them come back?”

“I don’t make them do anything,” Armon said. “They just know me.” He looked around, his gaze softening. “I come out here a lot. It’s nice. Better than inside the house.”

There was something peaceful in his gaze. Almost without thinking, you reached out and started sketching.

“No wonder you seem comfortable out here,” you said. You kept your tone low, trying to encourage his mood. One of the birds hopped cautiously closer. Armon stretched out a hand toward it.

“Mm. The animals are nice.” The bird, a crow, closed the distance between them. Armon let out a low whistle and it hopped onto his hand. “There are stray cats out here too, sometimes. I feed them. Can’t have them in the house, though. Father doesn’t like furry pets.”

“Allergic?”

“No. He just doesn’t like the fur.” Armon stroked a finger over the bird’s head. It let out a croaking note. His lips twitched.

For the first time, you saw the tiniest of smiles appear on his face. You sketched it into place. One of his cheeks dimpled. It was rather adorable.

He stayed still and silent for several moment, stroking absently over the bird’s head. You hurried to get the scene out onto paper. It was a much more relaxed picture than the one you’d been trying to paint inside.

“You seem to have a strong connection with them,” you said after a few minutes. “Can you speak to them?”

Armon looked at you. For a moment, you were pretty sure he wasn’t going to answer, then he shrugged. “Not like we’re speaking. They’re not that intelligent. But I’ve spent enough time with them that I understand their mannerisms.” He glanced at you. “People, not so much.”

“I feel that,” you said. “I’m better with paint than people.”

Armon turned his gaze back to the bird. “You’ve been doing well to me.”

“Yeah, that’s lots of practice. I’m not very naturally good at it.” Armon snorted and his tail lashed.

“I was never any good at it. Nothing like my brother.”

You gave an absent nod. “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?”

Armon closed his eyes. “He’s much better than I am.” There was a pause as he swallowed. The bird fluttered back to the ground and pecked at the soil. “I think my parents have quite given up on me.” He said it with a bit of a laugh, but his expression was twisting in a way that almost made him look like he was going to cry.

You lowered your pencil. “Given up?”

“You need to be good with people to be good at business. I’m awful with them. I’m just too unapproachable. They keep me around, add me to the collection of family portraits, but I am not what they want in a son.”

“Fuck your family,” you said. Armon blinked at you. “Your family’s too up their own ass. No offense. Why don’t you just leave? You’re old enough, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Armon said. “But I don’t really know how. I’ve never been on my own before.”

“You’ve got a lot of money. You’ve got some time. Why don’t you just figure out what you want to do? Not saying it’s going to be easy. It’ll be a lot different than what you’re used to, but it’ll be better. I mean, being an artist isn’t easy. But it’s more enjoyable than doing something easy that makes me miserable.”

The grass rustled as Armon made his way over to you. He sat down, looking at the drawing over your shoulder. There was a moment of silence, then Armon let out a low, shaky sigh.

“That’s me,” he said, reaching over to tap the painting. He traced the slight smile that twitched at his lips, the softness that gathered around his eyes. “That one is me.” He leaned into your side, letting his head rest on your shoulder. “Thank you.”

You didn’t get much more painting done that day. Armon showed you around the grounds a little bit before dropping you off at the front gate. “I’ll show you the painting when it’s done,” you said.

Armon smiled again. It was small, and it looked poorly practiced, but it was something. “I’ll look forward to it.”

It was a couple of weeks before you returned to the house. You met with Armon’s mother before going to the sun room, where Armon was waiting. He looked up as you entered.

“Here,” you said, holding it out toward him. He took it delicately, as if he was afraid his claws would tear the canvas. He stared at it for a long time, just taking in the artwork.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “It’s better than I thought it was going to be.” He gave a weak smile. “All those portraits in the halls are so stuffy. So formal. They’re never something I really wanted to be a part of. This one is much nicer.”

You shrugged. “You can keep that one, if you want. I’m not getting paid for it.”

Armon’s head snapped up. “Why not?”

“Didn’t meet the specifications your mother was looking for, apparently. She said it was too… um… casual, I think.”

Armon looked down at the painting. “I’m sorry. I should have-”

“Don’t sweat it. It wasn’t your idea, remember? I pushed you into it.” You shrugged. “Your mom’s giving me a second chance, though. I would have to do it right this time.” You perched on the side of a lounge, looking steadily at Armon. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

Armon gave a small smile. “I don’t think I’d mind sitting for another portrait,” he said. “As long as you’re the one doing it.”

“Hey, I’m not exactly mad about it either,” you said. Armon made to hand you back the painting, but you pushed it back toward him. “I did say you could keep that, right? It’s a gift.”

Armon looked down at it with a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said. You memorized that smile. It was going into his portrait no matter what.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Beside The Dying Fire (part eleven)

[DnD AU with the tour!verse]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Word count: 2113

TW: Blood

---------------------

Katherine let out a sharp yelp as she was suddenly thrown across the dunes. The Sand Snake she had been riding does a sharp U-turn and dashed back over to her. Both it and Catalina looked thoroughly amused.

  “You good?” Catalina peered down at her. 

Katherine spat out some sand. “Yeah,” She grunted, rising to her feet.

Sand Snake surfing was a lot harder than the Aasimars made it out to be. Way harder. She could barely even balance on the round board they had to stand on, and the harness pulled tightly at her hips as the serpent glided through the sand, but this mode of transportation was much better than walking, so she got back on.

  “Will YOU be okay?” Katherine asked, eyeing Catalina’s stomach.

Catalina laughed. “I am a PRO, Kat. I’ll be fine.” She pat the side of her bright red Sand Snake. “Come on, let’s keep going.”

The Snakes took off once again, and Katherine jerked forward with them. She wobbled on the board, grabbing onto the rope bridled to the horn of her serpent for balance. She felt like she was gliding through water.

  “What exactly are we looking for out here?” Katherine asked. All she saw in every direction were sand dunes, cacti, shrubs, and more sand dunes. There were a few pillars of old, long-fallen buildings, but nothing more.

  “Uhh… I’m not actually sure!” Catalina answered her, riding next to her. “There’s the giant scorpions and serpents, but I don’t think they’re the beasts we’re looking for. There was also the Brazen Bull, but it’s been dead for centuries.” She thought for a moment. “Oh, and there’s Parthenais, Lord of The Skies!”

  “Excuse me?”

A roar shook the dunes.

An ear splitting roar that might have rendered Katherine deaf if she were any closer. She instinctively reared back, nearly falling off of the board, and closed her eyes when sand billowed straight into her face. When they open again, they go wide at the sight of the beast lumbering in the distance.

Up ahead was a circular plate of sandstone raised above the ground, bearing thriving palm trees and lush greenery. Atop it sat a giant creature, its brass-colored scales shimmering in the sunlight. It stretched out huge, triangular wings that connected all the way down to the base of its webbed tail, making them look even bigger than they already were. Then, it pumped its giant wings and leapt into the air, blocking out the sun with its massive body.

The serpents came to a halt as the Brass Dragon swooped down in front of them. A tidal wave of sand splashed up into the air, and Katherine had to shield her face away from the spray. When she recovered, she looked up at the towering beast looming over her.

After a moment of staring with glittering orange eyes, the dragon moved again, slowly lowering its head to bump Catalina affectionately. Catalina laughed loudly and threw her arms around its large head. 

  “Parthenais!” Catalina cried in glee. “It’s so good to see you again!”

The dragon, Parthenais, growled happily. It flicked its small ears towards Katherine and looked at her.

  “Oh, this is Katherine,” Catalina introduced her. “She’s my friend.”

Parthenais extended her snout out to Katherine and nudged her gently before churring in a sort of approval and turning back to Catalina.

  “I’m sorry I was gone for so long,” Catalina said, stroking the scaly plates curving from the sides of Parthenais’ head. “I just had to get away from my dumb family.”

Parthenais rumbled. Slowly, she got down on her front knees, lowering her huge body to lay like a horse on the ground, tucking both legs underneath herself. Folding her massive wings in close and curling her tail inwards, she now looked like a peaceful and happy giant scaly dragon loaf in the dunes. Katherine had to shield her eyes again when sand exploded up into the air for a second time upon the dragon deciding to lounge in front of her and Catalina.

  “You never said you had a pet dragon,” Katherine said to Catalina.

Catalina laughed. “You never asked!” She said back. She looked up at Parthenais. “Par isn’t really my pet. More like a friend.” She scratched under Parthenais’ chin.

Parthenais leaned forward and nudged Catalina’s belly with her nose. Catalina laughed lightly.

  “I’m gonna be a mom soon, Par,” Catalina told the dragon. “But first I have to save the world!” She grinned. “So, have you seen anything suspicious around here? Our mission is to slay the beasts in each of the territories, and we’re starting here.”

Parthenais churred, then lowered one wing. Catalina perked up and clambered onto her back, while Katherine just stared at her with wide eyes. Catalina laughed.

  “What are you waiting for? Come on!”

Katherine had never thought she would ever ride a dragon, yet here she now was.

  “Oh my god!!!” She screamed as Parthenais zipped through the clear blue sky. She gripped tightly onto one of the ridges along the dragon’s back, shrieking. Catalina howled with laughter at her side.

  “Isn’t this incredible?!” Catalina shouted over the wind whipping past them.

  “This is insane!!” Katherine cried.

  “I know!!!”

Parthenais wheeled around in the sky, nearly flinging Katherine off, and landed heavily in the sand. They were now in front of a narrow valley carved into from Highland Cliffs, opening up into the mesas above. The smell of roasting meat whisked out through the gorge.

  “Something is in there?” Catalina asked Parthenais, and Parthenais bobbed her head with a growl. “Alright. We’ll look into it. Come on, Kat.”

Katherine and Catalina ventured into the valley. Katherine was surprised to find that it was a lot cooler in there than out in the dunes, most likely because of the rocky overhangs blocking out the sun from above. Shifting sand turned to sturdy sandstone beneath their feet as they walked through the gorge, deeper and deeper until they came to a small clearing. Several stone shelves jutted out from the wall, sprinkling down sand in golden waterfalls. White tents were set up on one of the larger platforms around a fire, which had been burned out and abandoned. Strange sculptures made from dried wet sand formed squatting wolf-pigs on almost every ledge, staring down at them with dulled coal eyes. Strings of bones and feathers were strung up from wall-to-wall, rattling softly in the breeze. A stone entrance lied ahead, beneath an overhang, where the smell of meat was coming from.

Catalina clenched her fists at her side. “This is one of Henry’s strongholds. He’s fucking set up on my land.” She growled. “We have to take it out, Kat. We can’t let them stay here.”

  “I know,” Katherine said. “But let’s be smart about this, okay? We should just rush in there; we don’t know how many there are inside.”

Catalina took a deep, calming breath and nodded. “Right. Got it. Let’s make a plan and kill these bastards.”

--

One of the wolf-pig statues fell from a ledge and shattered into sandy pieces across the red stone floor. It wasn’t very noisy when it broke apart, but it had hit a strand of bones when it fell and alerted one of the guards inside. The human man went to go investigate, and got a chunk of rock put through his throat when Katherine jumped down from the ledge. When the second guard from inside, a Gith man, heard the commotion, Catalina snuck up behind him and slit his throat before he could yell for the others.

  “Come on,” Catalina whispered.

They slowly slunk inside the large circular room where a rock pedestal stood at the very center. A boar was roasting on a spit over a fire, turning slowly- the source of the smell. All the soldiers inside whipped their head around, and Katherine reached out to the land, and the wind, and the very heat of the sun cradled in the ground’s memory. She clenched her shaking fists and unleashed them all. 

The shabby tents set up against the walls quaked and lost structure, toppling in on themselves while several of the soldiers were impaled by stone spikes that shot out of the ground. The wind buffeted those who tried to escape the chaos and kept the unfortunate souls corralled in the center of the fray.

She spied a high elf shaman, old as time itself, attempting to shout his ritual words over the din, but the wind cut off his words and a vortex surrounded him, choking the air from his lungs.

Eventually the righteous anger of the earth subsided, and what was left were shambles. Many of the soldiers lay unmoving, choked and bludgeoned to death by the Wind Wall spell, while a few crawl about and attempt to rouse their fallen allies or see to their own wounds. Organs and shiny red blood dripped down from stone spikes, pooling across the ground. Catalina wiped her sword’s stained blade against the fur armor of one of the fallen men. Neither of them felt guilty for their actions; Henry’s soldiers brought this fury down upon themselves from the moment they joined his army, and they were merely the vessel.

Beneath the smell of roasting meat, was the smell of blood. Not fresh blood. Old, decaying blood. There was a banner of a wolf-pig up on the wall, and Katherine swept it aside, revealing a small passageway. The smell of death hit her in a thick wave and she wrinkled her nose.

She and Catalina walked down the rocky hallway and into a small room. The smell of death was much stronger in there.

  “I don’t know if I want to light a torch, Kat…”

But Catalina did, and her light shone on a stalagmite, the hair of its occupant casting shadows like sharp quills on the blood-spattered wall behind it. Katherine stepped forward, overtaken by morbid curiosity.

The person’s head hung back at an unnatural angle, and his chest was still. Long, sinuous wounds ran in bloody furrows down the victim’s back.

  “They tore his wings out.”

Catalina’s light shone down to the Aasimar’s slumped form. The feathers usually on the shoulder blades had been brutally ripped out, leaving gaping crimson holes in the flesh.

Suddenly, Catalina careened over to the side and vomited on the floor. Katherine turned to her with a worried frown and began to rub her back, sweeping her hair out of the way.

  “Are you alright?” Katherine asked softly.

  “Shit,” Catalina whispered, wiping a hand over her mouth. “This shit is so fucking wrong. My people-- He was my--” She shook her head, spitting out some bile. “Sorry. I lost my shit for a moment.”

  “It’s alright, love,” Katherine assured her. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

They quickly walked out of the stronghold and through the valley, where Parthenais was waiting. They climbed back onto the dragon’s back, and Catalina asked to go back to Aragon. Her expression was furious.

  “How come Parthenais didn’t just go and kill those men?” Katherine asked during the fly back.

  “Par doesn’t kill living things,” Catalina answered. “Unless it’s for food, of course. So that’s why we had to do it.” She clenched her fists. “And I’m glad for that, too. Those bastards should be dying by my hand for what they’ve done.”

The moment Parthenais landed in front of Aragon, Catalina was off the dragon’s back and running through the city. Katherine raced after her, and stumbled into the palace to find Catalina already yelling at her parents.

  “He’s here! Henry is on our land!”

The King and Queen blinked at her. Katherine came up next to Catalina as she continued to shout.

  “Lower your voice, child,” Ferdinand said.

  “What are you talking about?” Isabella asked.

  “Henry! The evil king who’s killing everyone and started a war! He’s here in Braze!” Catalina said. “Kat and I just went to one of his strongholds and took it out. They KILLED one of our people! TORTURED HIM!”

  “Oh, we know,” Isabella said. 

  “That was Ilam, wasn’t it?” Ferdinand looked to his wife for confirmation, and she nodded.

  “Yes. We handed him over a week ago when he kept spying on the stronghold.” Isabella said. “I guess he got what he wanted in the end. Got to go inside their base.”

Catalina was tense at Katherine’s side, and Katherine could practically see the gears turning in her head as she pieced the information together. Her eyes widened.

  “Mother, Father,” The princess whispered, “what are you talking about?”

Isabella looked at Catalina calmly and said, “We work for Henry.”

[soulsuckrrs]

It was truly a wonder he wasn't doing more to annoy Eris. Being cooped up, waiting for their target to align perfectly to their plans was fucking boring and like the child he was, Cristov often did things to cause chaos and annoyance for everyone around him, even in a professional setting... especially so in a professional setting. But Eris playing along with his ridiculous antics certainly amused him and that reflected in his crooked, shit eating grin that quirked his lips at one corner across his teeth. Though his body language spoke otherwise, still very much relaxed and elbows posed against knees as he watched Eris with blue eyes, Cristov was sharp and always held an air of danger about him. Truly, he shouldn't have been in the business but Cristov was just so damn good at being bad there was really nothing else he could do. What would he do? Serve burgers from 9 to 5? Nah, he'd end up beating the shit out of the first person to pick a problem with what he'd made-- he wasn't exactly the best at being personable, that was, in a customer service way.

When it came to the intricacies of the body, what brought the most pain and the most pleasure, Cristov was an expert. He shifted in his seat just a little, chuckling softly and shaking his head some more, astonished he hadn't caused them both to throw fists already, he was losing his annoying edge it seemed. Or perhaps this little job wasn't nearly as distracting as the Russian had hoped, drawing his worries and frustrations over family drama away and focusing on the task at hand. But his regular methods of distraction and self-destruction hadn't held the same effect they used to, not in the face of the problem that was his older brother Viktor. Even the aforementioned method of getting wasted in a bar and beating the shit out of some drunk idiot who didn't know who the fuck they messed with, it hadn't been enough to get rid of that anxiety eating away at his gut.

It was a movement so fast anyone else might not have caught it but Cristov saw the angle of her wrist before that familiar whistle sounded through the air after Eris threw her knife expertly at the wall behind him because he knew she had really been aiming for him, not with how well she handled those knives of hers. His eyes didn't leave hers even as he let silence fall between them for a few moments before he finally shifted again, leaning back and rising to his feet, eyes still trained on the dangerous little scorpion across the room, one hand reaching out to take hold of the knife and pull it from the wall firmly. A shadow settled over his features, even though his grin hadn't left his lips, his dangerous aura expanded as Cristov twirled the hilt of Eris' knife between equally skilled fingers as hers and at last let his gaze leave her, dropping to the knife and inspecting it for a second before he sent it flying back to lodge soundly in the furniture next to where Eris sat with just a flick of his wrist.

"That doesn't sound like fighting, that sounds like foreplay," Cristov responded smoothly, hands moving to slide the dark jacket from his body and toss it to the sofa where he'd been sitting, rolling his neck, a little exaggeratedly as if he had hurt his neck from an oversized head moments ago, rolling out his shoulders and beckoning Eris with a curl of his fingers in a 'come at me' motion. "-- twelve seconds though? Aww, you could do better than that. C'mon, when I win in under ten seconds, you tell me your least favorite word, if you win... well, you get me on my knees," he smirked, body falling into an easily defensible stance if she so decided to launch herself across the room at him, though he had plans of kicking the coffee table at her legs if she tried that because it was unfair for anyone to fight Cristov, he just enjoyed the pain too damn much. She was correct in that astute observation, he did enjoy the taunting and the idea of being forced to his knees to beg for mercy but like all violent things it dwindled so close to pleasure Cristov couldn't deny the zip of attraction there beneath the boredom induced ire and cocky challenge.

His body was made to be a weapon. Seeking out every day people to throw fists with was an unfair thing of Cristov to do, more often than not though, he did it in the worst of times. Even now, when they were laying low, waiting their target out, he wanted to let that streak of heat and violence take over, release the pent up anger he held towards his mother and eldest brother, towards the world and most of all himself. Let it out with fists and blood, teeth and gripping hands, breathless grunts and soft moans, pain so close to pleasure he couldn't help but succumb to the desire. "Or are you too afraid of how much you want me on my knees?" His words held many meanings but the way his voice pitched low and his gaze darkened as Cristov tilted his head and smirked, it was more obvious he wanted to more than just fight Eris.

Her brow quirked. Oh, she didn't need telling twice to use that pretty little knife of hers, but she'd wait for the right moment. "You think I'm just going to hand over my least favourite word? Come now, you know me better than that, it'd come with a price." When he mentioned his head getting bigger she squinted and held her knife up, like she was using it as comparison and then laughed. "By god, how is that thing being held up on such little shoulders?!" she faked a mocking gasp, a hand jokingly over her head. "A medical miracle your neck isn't broken by just how big your head is!"

She went quiet after that, a sickening twist in her gut at the idea of him starting a fight with anyone... that wasn't her. He was hers to fight with, he was hers to taunt now, was he not? She did not enjoy connecting to anyone, she did not enjoy any form of emotion, she'd say it was safer to stay away from it and yet in some way... she'd learned in these weeks, to look for him, to keep one eye on him, to need him near the minute trouble arose but oh.. in those moments of chaos, she thrived.

Her knife created a whistle through the air when she threw it, even a little breeze or at least one he'd feel. She was beyond accurate with that thing and had thrown it so that it skimmed by his head, not enough to cut him but enough that it was clear just how close it was. The knife made a twang as it pierced the wall behind the sofa. A wicked smirk played across her pretty lips, one leg crossing over the other but her arms copied how he lounged across the sofa. "Then pick fights with me instead. You're too experienced for bar fights, it's almost unfair to the general public. Me on the other hand? I'd have you on your knees begging for my mercy in oh, twelve seconds maximum."

She couldn't help but wink. "Don't worry Crissy, I know how much you'd enjoy that." Crissy. Oh she knew it'd irritate, even the overly girly way she said it. She didn't want to be friends, she didn't need friends... so maybe it was just a bad romance. A pointless crush.

[beeswritinghive]

Of Frost and Friendship

“The Earthmother sleeps.” The telling rumble of an old bull, interrupted by a brief pause as he breathed. “The land rests in preparation for the great bounty to follow. Her heart beats softly, and so the beasts in turn tread softly, and we too slow behind them.”

A few snorts and grunts drifted around the crackling flames in the center of their lofty tent. Most were content to slurp down the soup in their bowls, Suyo though kept her gaze steadied on the aging Tauren across from herself.

“We slow because the snow makes the march difficult. The wolves slow because tracks are harder to find.” The Blademistress responded with a frown.

“That’s da Earthmother. She be who we walk on, we all be a part o’ her cycles… Da’s right, right?” The Troll spoke up, one massive digit pointing aside to the Pandaren before reaching up to scratch the tuft at his chin. The elder bull merely rumbled in a soft laugh as he was looked to for clarity.

“She is the ground that holds us as much as she is the deer that feeds, and the fire that warms us. It is in these cold seasons that the Shu'halo gather close and we give our thanks. To each other, to our Earthmother, and to our Ancestors.”

“The only thanks the earth gets are my bones when I die, and if I’m lucky, the Ancestors get a worthy battle to regale with me when I join them.” Everyone glanced to the Orc, who had already hefted his bowl to his lips and began sucking down what was left of his ration. To Suyo’s surprise, the Tauren merely waved a hand dismissively.

Everyone returned to their idle distractions around the fire. The Orc soon finished his bowl and stacked it with the rest, pausing on his knees to bow his head before trudging out into the frigid night. Likely to meditate, not that it was Suyo’s place to guess, but if there was a single thing trait one could define Moxra by it was his dedication to his blade mastery. She shuddered faintly at the brief gust and the icy flakes that came with it, catching Jimbda out of the corner of her eyes doing the same. The Troll clattered his teeth, rounded tusks twitching as he leaned in closer over the fire. The old bull pulled up his gnarled pipe, tapping it out and packing it full of strange, ground herbs. She was left to her own meditative stance, knelt before the flames with her head low. So lost in the relative peace was she that it took several calls before she realized she had been addressed. “Yes, Elder Barkhide?”

“Your watch approaches… Your eyes held questions but you did not speak. Come. Grant this old one his curiosity, it will stave the cold for a time at least.” The Blademistress merely bowed her head before creeping about to collect her gear. A thick hide of a cloak, a long wound scarf, she had to dance between the sleeping Orc and snoring Troll to collect Ruan Feng sheathed and angled against the tent’s wall. Elder Barkhide peeled back the exit flap when she approached and together they emerged into the pitch of night, greeted by Mu'sha’s pale light and the biting frost of the early morning. There was mostly silence in all directions, but for the crunching of snow between paw and hoof, and the rustling of hides as they trudged to the dug out watch-post. Rolling hills twinkled with the occasional glint of fresh powder, the distant dark shaded towering cliffs and copses of needled trees. Somewhere out there, Centaur roamed in pairs and small warbands trying to rally against the Tauren resurgence, but so long as the watch was tranquil it was a worry for the morning. Suyo took one knee and rested her arms on the remaining, keeping her profile low and her gaze wide. The Elder merely sat with crossed legs, as much as the strangely jointed limbs would allow. His voice remained low in respect for their post, but his tone remained uplifted and soft. “Do the Pandaren celebrate the changing of seasons?”

Suyo’s gaze remained forward, though for the time her tone drifted just faintly from the distant chill it usually held and brought forth the smallest semblance of comfort. “In different ways. Our respect for the land is not so… Personified. Gifts and tributes are much more of a political statement than the bounties you describe.”

“Hmm… You would not share the harvest and give back to the earth that sustains you?” The Tauren mused.

“We as a people are already at large quite… Gluttonous, in a sense. Revelry and debauchery, while sometimes restrained to appropriate hours or ceremony, can be… Downright excessive. When there is drink, there is drink for all. When we feast, we feast on all things, and everyone eats until they can eat no longer. Our dance of the Earthmother’s gifts are… Perhaps more indulged as an act of reverence rather than reciprocated.” A brief distaste crept into the Blademistress’s words, though the old bull appeared too lost in thought to make comment on it.

“Ahh… A bit heavy leaning on the enjoyment of the Earthmother’s gifts. But there is some merit in rejoicing our link in her chain. It is, of course, but one of a few traditions here. The Goblins have taken the old values and perverted them into some gold fueled mockery but even in this, there are blessings hidden.” Barkhide finally stirred, reaching below the many layered pelts over his chest and extending the closed fist across for the Pandaren. Suyo narrowed her gaze a moment before gently waving the offering away.

“It is not my place to accept gifts. I am a blade, I kill-”

“The only thing you kill is the mood, child. Accept an old bull’s lesson.”

The Blademistress blinked at the direct retort. She frowned but reached over to steady her hand under the bull’s. A thin string of hide dropped into her hands, threaded through a pair of sharp, curled claws. She pulled the necklace up to her face to inspect, ears twitching as she tried to derive the meaning or purpose, though Barkhide spoke before she could question. “And that lesson is to recall that we are all creatures of our Earthmother. No matter how steely your hide, or sharp your wit, you are flesh and blood as the rest of us. You have opted into the warrior’s way, and as the times change perhaps you will be one of our Horde’s greatest weapons. But as the claw is an extension of the wolf, so too are you an extension of our people. As well as your people. You are still of a people, Suyo of the Blade. Do not take after Moxra’s fanaticism.”

“… You offered me a necklace to lecture me?”

“I have offered you a gift. I believe by your own words, it would be disrespectful to turn down such a thing?” Suyo didn’t have to turn her head to see the smirk that stretched the old bull’s cracked lips, he rumbled into a rolling sort of chuckling shortly after regardless.

“So what am I to take away from this? A lesson? A gracious offering? Am I supposed to be… Moved and suddenly an empathetic and emotional woman?” Her tone echoed a touch bitter into the night as she clenched her fist around the necklace and pulled it in under the thick cloak and it’s growing layer of snow. The aging bull was largely unaffected by the display, still sitting content and motionless but for the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“I do not expect you to change much at all child. Not now. But perhaps one day long forward when you come to be my age, you will remember this fondly. And if so, that is the best I could hope for. You are of a people, Suyo of the Blade… And the people are of you. The Earthmother, Myself, Moxra and Jimbda, your people. As much as we want the best for you, we also wish to give you our best. Just because you are focused on your path, do not forget that there are others who you will walk with, and will wish to walk with you. Do not forsake them in blindness, child. Or you will grow old, and cold, and alone. Like some old bulls.”

Silence settled in after that. Suyo was a mix of misunderstanding and slow dissection of the conversation, frowning and twitching her ears as she tried to piece apart every phrase. The Elder merely remained, breathing slowly and occasionally shuddering to brush the collecting snow from his shoulders. After a few minutes the old bull rumbled something under his breath and eased to his feet, trudging back to the tent for sleep proper she assumed. It left the Blademistress to try and comprehend the many parts. The dawn came and past before she had made any headway into the mystery. Camp broke, dishes were washed, the tent was bundled, their tools were strapped back to the massive lizard beast the Tauren called a mount. She didn’t budge an inch until the Troll approached and shook her out of the trance. The march continued across the plains, Jimbda goaded Moxra into some argument about the taste of scorpions. The old bull puffed away on his pipe, rings of smoke drifting out of his wide snout. but the Blademistress remained distant, and distracted. Her thumb brushed over the paired claws at her neck, and she marched to the whispers in her head that reminded her a blade’s purpose was to cut, and to kill. Nothing more.