Shryndael

The fight had been terrible. They always were. She and Saviero had screamed at each other, thrown things, grabbed each other and stopped just short of trying to beat the crap out of each other. When they had first become attached, the fights would have ended in drug-influenced lovemaking, but now that she was sober and he was usually sober, they ended with him storming out and her changing the magickal locks on the suite so she could ensure he couldn’t come back until morning.

This fight had been different. Shryn’Dael couldn’t even remember what started it. Maybe a snide comment about Nagmos from him, or a bitchy comment about Teufelia from her. It had taken off quickly, fueled by all the unsaid and buried hurt and bitterness over the quickly unraveling relationship.

The magister sat on one of the wood and gilt benches in the lower Sunfury Square, her short blonde hair ruffling lightly in the breeze kicked up by the waterfall and fountain behind and to the left of her. She sat stiffly, hands clenched on her lap, feet flat on the cobbled ground, breathing calculatedly even.

Then she would move, cross her legs under her robe, and her foot would swing and twitch frantically. The Magister was not good at hiding her anxiety. She was terrifiedly anxious, despite several of her guardians in close proximity, on different levels. The man beside her couldn't harm her, nor could his mangled feline friend. He could not steal the thing he carried, the creature most precious to her.

The barrister’s office was well lit and furnished in brass, woods and leather. Behind a solid-looking desk, a prim and trim Sin’dorei woman, with nary a hair out of place and in one of the most extravagantly simple gowns the Magister had ever seen, stood and curtseyed.

“Magistrix Sunwalker, a pleasure to see you,” the woman purred. The blonde Magistrix--who preferred the masculine Magister versus its feminine alternative--simply stared the woman down.

The secretary was unflappable. She stepped around the desk and gracefully picked up a silver serving tray, covered by a flickering violet magical hood.

The Magister went through the basket again, checking each item carefully. She didn’t want to forget anything before she headed out. Market might be open but it didn’t mean she had the strength to strong-arm her way through it. Her guards would do it for her, but that would cancel out the idea of a ‘low profile.’

Eggs. Check. Oranges, check. Coffee, check. Bread, butter, bacon, sausages, check. Everything else she would need was at the apartment in the Row, so she was good to go.

Except her stomach was tossing and turning like a nervous teenager’s. She sighed, trying to calm herself. Of course, that meant Fortuna would pick that moment to wake up and turn on the patented Fortuna Audio Blasting System. How could a creature so small create so much noise?

And would it delay her finishing yesterday’s business?

* * *

You chose this, I reminded myself, as I tried to organize the mess of papers into a semblance of order.

You could have walked away, I thought. Didn’t she ever number or date her records? When the hell did this happen?

My desk was lost under a sea of inadequate paperwork and my mind was about to be lost under the tidal wave of a headache so powerful you’d think I’d had a goblin-made mortar go off between my ears.

And there were boxes and boxes and boxes of more paperwork. I eyed the office I had installed myself in on appointment as Bringer – what a stupid title – and groaned.

I wasn’t sure who I hated more. My employer for being a drug- and alcohol-crazed lunatic or myself, for taking a job with a drug- and alcohol-crazed lunatic.

I carefully filed the papers in my hands to the “sort of deciphered” pile – a meagre-sized lump beside the mountains of bullshit. The even more pathetic molehill of deciphered paperwork was filed neatly in a box.

“A commendable record,” the frail Magister casually flips through the sheaf of papers, each one worn well enough to put the lie to the uncaring glance at the records. She raises her head then to look at me and I took the opportunity to study her.

Frail is the first word that comes to mind and it was no doubt accurate in a physical sense. Her skin is the translucent-like white that comes with a long illness and dark shadows are visible around her eyes. Her pulse throbs quick and loudly in her neck and her wrists are painfully thin.

It would be a mistake to label the woman as out for the count, though, I decided. I think she must have the connections and the political knowledge to make people’s life hell should she want to. She probably wasn’t well liked, given what I knew of her, but respected enough that people tried to keep her out of her business.

She smiled at him as he took his seat. “Hello, Fortune.”

He nodded to her, silent greeting. How long had it been since he’d last seen her? Too long, his innermost heart responded. She tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear, flashing a smile his direction again. She was happy, he could tell. Still, something in her benevolent expression left him unsettled. “It’s good to see you,” he managed, and he knew as well as she that so many words went unsaid, even as the few he spoke slipped from his mouth.

Pleasantries were exchanged and he marveled in silence over ordinary things, like how she ordered food. This was not the woman he knew, and yet, once the exchange with the servant was over, he realized… but, she is.

Saviero flipped his two cards over.

The tol'vir opposite him coughed on the drink he'd just gulped down. "Damn it, blood elf. You win again."

Saviero reached for his drink and poured the sweet cactus juice down his throat. It was excruciatingly cold in the sweltering Uldum heat, and even though the pair played cards under an awning, the stiff breeze did nothing to cool him down - it was dry heat and the wind did nothing more than swirl sand over his skin. Sand was an almost constant presence, and as much as he enjoyed it here, sand managed to eventually work its way into every crevice of your clothing and body. Sex here must be a bitch.

"That's two out of five, Ke'fertet. One more game and I get to see your wife's rack, per our deal."

The burly tol'vir snorted, which caused his feline nose to scrunch up comically. "I do not understand why you desire to see her unclothed, but I agreed to it..."

((The following is Wezil's summary of last night's event at the Gin & Juice. The direct link to the Wiki entry for this night is here, complete with photos of the event...

http://www.cobiness.com/index.php?title=Gin#Week_2_Monday

Saviero couldn't seem to remember how to get into the Estate via the secret entrance, but managed to somehow...do something with his hand, and a puzzle...who knew.

He was drunk off his ass and high as the moon.

He stumbled as the translocation orb *poofed* him inside, but instead of finding himself in her closet, he was in the middle of a circular room with a curved staircase leading to a familiar arch. He was in Shryndael's bedroom parlor/lobby thing. And there was a weird lady playing with an elven head on a table. Blinking again, he discerned through blurry eyes that it was just a wig she was mending.

Well, that was a relief. Still, he had to find his woman and patch things up. There was no sense staying mad at each other for stupid drunken words. He wasn't going to lose her.

So he demanded, politely, that he be allowed to see Lady Sunwalker. He was proud and felt himself rather eloquent.

The day did not start well for the blonde-haired magister.

She had laid in her bed and stared at the red velvet that was the top of the canopy covering her bed. The urge to remain in bed was over-powering — this was a day she did not want to deal with.

But she couldn't stay there. She couldn't indulge in the desire to cover her head and pretend what had happened hadn't happened. She could hear Eridela speaking with Adin in the main room of her suite and knew she had to get up and out of bed. So she did, slowly, rubbing eyes that were red and sore from weeping. 

As she slipped into a clean and unwrinkled nightgown, she avoided looking out her balcony, avoided looking at the sea that had swept so many of her people, and their hard work, out and away from shore, to a cold, freezing, drowning death.

The tiny ghoul hands were grasping at him. He was surrounded, weaponless, trying to fight them off with tooth and nail.

But they still came in waves, pressing all around him with their blank eyes and drooling mouths.

An earthquake shook rubble from the ceiling and a boulder the size of a tauren smashed down upon his head.

Saviero woke up with a gasp.  He was sweating, his new short hair flattened on the side he had been laying, glued to his forehead by sweat. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced over at the still woman beside him. Her breath came in regular rhythms, assuring him she finally slept even after her worrisome ordeal. And yet...

((Due to a RL issue, I will be unable to attend Fancy Cakes, I'm guessing. Honestly, I am not quite sure how long it will be. Right now, planning on two weeks, but it may be more, it may only be the next event. I would encourage everyone to keep coming and RPing! Your support has been great over the last year+, and I would hate to see my absence have any kind of impact.

Xiuh plans to host Cakes the coming week, and we may have another temporary server lined up to help her soon, if my absence is lengthy.))

____________________________________

Zeik had been poisoned.

Saviero had been manhandled and forced to overdose on mana.

And he was in jail.

His back was leaned against the shimmering wall of the cell, his eyes fixed on a tile. He could ignore the guard that circled the enclosure, could ignore his look of contempt and could ignore the fact that he had been shoved into the cell like common rabble. He couldn't ignore the fact that he was in this predicament. You know better. You know to control your emotions. He was, now, eyes slightly glassy, hyper focused. Despite this unfortunate stumble, he was aware of the game and was playing keenly. "Know your enemy," his father had instructed on more than one occasion. "Know them better than your friend."

Master Kerwin,

I am writing this letter to you shortly after being released from a jail cell I spent my night in. My crime? Being a good friend. I'll explain sir, in hopes you will be able to right the wrongs that have been taking place within the city as of late.

My involvement in these matters took place a week ago at Fancy Cakes. A good friend of mine, one Fortune Velstand, was targeted by a sinister witch named Shryndael. I know you know of her sir, as do most for having an unsavory history within our Kingdom. While everyone was enjoying themselves, she was tucked away secretly plotting against my friend.

It was the colors that hurt him the most.

They were so intensely bright and he couldn't squint his eyes against them.

He felt anger and frustration but it was all trapped inside a cage of synthetic peace, induced by the heavy dosage of mana he had received.

And just when he was trying to get clean.

"Just stay calm, young man.  We'll take care of you," he heard a chorus of soothing voices say. They were above him, beside him, below him; everywhere. He wanted to scream, but only a moan came out. The straps binding him to the bed were tight, and held him down against the throes of withdrawal that were already beginning to hit him. The mana was good quality, but it wasn't meant to last. It offered an intense psychedelic high, but the crash was rough. 

He felt tiny bugs crawling under his skin. He watched them head down his chest, into his nether regions. He sobbed and screamed alternately.