Xiuhteena

It's been a while, dearest friends, since last she's been about.

Such monotony, you've missed her deeply, can't allow that to play-out.

The Queen's Keeper does yet wander, appearing within the crowd.

Eyes flicker, always watching, the flashy and the loud.

A slow smile, a demure glance, she'll inquire casually.

((For added flavor, listen to This. I think it complments it nicely))

It had come suddenly, too suddenly and they had not been prepared for devastation on such a large scale. But they had done what they could; water and food gathered within huts, supplies such as wood and metals that would be needed later piled high. The village still had much that needed to be repaired. The gate’s strength had sundered by the world’s breaking, their security resting upon loose hinges and soil.  The days after had been filled with near panic for Dutaee, the old troll’s mind never given a moments rest as he worried for his Tribe. Even now, weeks later he could still feel hopelessness upon the edge of his mind.  Tonight was a bit worse as members of his tribe, his family, traded news about the state of the world.

Bags hung under her eyes. She hadn't slept since before the invasion of the village. Her hands hurt from playing the guitar for so long, trying to help people rest a bit easier, and from making sure everyone stayed clean and had blankets. Her mind hurt from still trying to comprehend the previous day's events. Her heart felt the pang of loss that seemed to linger with everyone around her...even herself. She had finally found a place to call home again, and away it went in a stampede of gnolls.

Rebuilding would take time. Moving forward would as well. Aya knew this all too well, as it was written across all the faces around her, and perhaps even on her own. And even as she thought this, her head hit the table, and she was asleep seconds later.

Time heals all wounds, but while wounds may fade away, they always leave scars.

The three trolls moved quickly along the cliff face, hands and feet moving from one ledge to the next. Zyjiin was frantically trying to keep up, all the while trying to keep his mind from thinking too much about what would happen if he lost this race of theirs. His stomach tied itself into a knot, and he couldn’t make sense of how he felt about it. Were the girls serious? Would the winner really kiss Zy? What was he going to do?

With a yelp, Zy caught himself about to walk off a ledge into the thin air. Had to focus, had to concentrate on the task at hand. A glance above him confirmed his fears as he saw a pair of blue feet scamper over the next rise. Moments before he had been worried that they would end up in yet another argument. They had set aside their differences all too eagerly in this new attempt to make him squirm.

((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.))

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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."

(( continued from Walking On Air! ))

I hate cleaning the fish tank. Pirahnas leave the most disgusting reddish-brown waste behind after a large meal, and having to mind-control fish requires a lot of effort. Small brain, and it's hard to think that basic. I'd prefer to have flesh left on my arm, though.

The tank was almost cleaned - glass scrubbed, pebbles washed, plants replanted, new water and fish added - when Fortune arrived. He checked out the house but couldn't find out how an assassin got in either. I could see it rattled him, though. He is a protector sort. He promised to protect me, and he failed. And he failed to my cousin, a woman he despises.

I wonder how much he would despise me if he knew I was the one who provided her with the drugged wine, that year past? But it is not something to come up.

“Okay, I need you to trust me,” Zyjiin said.

Hakkajin’ju mumbled a response, looking Zoram Strand’s dunes a little curiously and confused. She hadn’t expected to find herself here that evening. She turned that puzzled gaze towards Zyjiin as he dug through his satchel. It was when he pulled out the netherweave blindfold that she began to groan. He held it towards her, his smile small and hopeful.

“Fine, but you better hold my hand,” she grumbled, as though it was suitable punishment for hauling her out here only to leave her blind. Zyjiin was all too happy to submit himself to it.

There had been no rest in the long hours since he'd received the letter.

Sheared locks belonged to her head. His suspicions had already been confirmed, but this propelled him to relentless action. They warned him away, vaguely wording that if he persisted there would be an accident. How excruciatingly unwise of the Solancer family-- the accident would be their own. He scoured the countryside while Xiuhteena toiled in the city to pinpoint the area for him.

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Fortune Velstand receives the following letter in today's mail:

[Image below break, refers to events at Fancy Cakes last night]

Wednesday

“Living in cities is an art, and we need the vocabulary of art, of style, to describe the peculiar relationship between man and material that exists in the continual creative play of urban living. The city as we imagine it, then, soft city of illusion, myth, aspiration, and nightmare, is as real, maybe more real, than the hard city one can locate on maps in statistics, in monographs on urban sociology and demography and architecture.” -Jonathan Raban

"If I said your assumption was true, would you ignore me for the rest of your life?" Delamontre's voice was deep and low, almost a whisper. His bright blue eyes, those eyes that all death knights shared, looked at Moriurya with concern and ... love?

She waited that morning, because this was one thing that she was good at, if more by default than anything else. She had grown up waiting, because she had always been impatient, and because she'd been born into the middle of a war. And she thought, each war has lost me something, and she thought, in this one I have lost twice. She thought of Fortune, Malkin, Ahmandil and the others, all of them laughing at her back for her own miserable attempt at what they had all fought and bled for.

Fucking fools, all of us.

For as much as you desire a simple life, you certainly have a knack for creating complications, my friend.

She had been pouring herself into any work she could—Cafe work, Earthen Ring work, Healing work—so that she wouldn't have to think. “Don't think about it,” having become a mantra in the back of her mind.

(( Getting tagged in to take over the Braedyn kidnapping story from Adela and her blog Prick It!  :) ))

[Again, some bad language in this makes it NSFW - but probably not bad enough for a 'mature' rating]

Friday evening STILL continues......

[Again a 'mature' as a heads-up for NSFW due to language]

Friday evening continues......

Weekly report - Aug. 10 - Aug. 15

Tuesday Aug. 10 - observed the Felsworn gathered around a cart; discussion seemed little to do with others, mostly of others within their own circle, personal difficulties, and playful banter.  Did notice an open box within the cart filled with weapons and tabards.  I was unable to identify the pattern on the tabards.  There was also a sealed lockbox, was unable to see what was inside.  Later in the day I followed Avaraelia, overhearing her advising an orc who was following their ways asking for instruction in wielding the fel; she instructed him to find a warlock.  Shortly thereafter a young girl, very young, approached Avaraelia and informed her that on her mother’s death, she had been instructed to follow the Felsworn.  I attempted to dissuade her, but am unsure whether my attempts were successful; her name is Lunaliska, her mother was apparently a mage of some power, who has recently died.

Fancy Cakes was closed.

In the year and some excess that Fortune had known the baker and her assistant, he'd never known the shop to be closed. Even if it had needed to close, there was no way that they wouldn't leave a notice. His fingers itched and a frown tugged at his mouth, but he settled in to wait. Perhaps they were just late. Perhaps things would be alright. He told him these things over and over, but he didn't believe them. He stuck it out, hopeful, though as the minutes drew on worry began to seep into him, imbuing his bones with restlessness.

[I put a 'mature' tag on here for some truly excessive swearing. NSFW due to language!]

Last Friday continues....

Last Friday evening......

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(( This Sunday Fancy Cakes will not be hosted as usual. Please feel free to attend and ICly wonder at the unannounced absence of the hostesses!

On an OoC note: Braedyn has been kidnapped/is missing, and no one was privvy ICly. She's been missing since Friday night!))

The scent of powdered sugar hung faintly in the air. His sense of familiarity with the place added a layer of comfort to what might otherwise be tense. It wasn't as if he hadn't arrived uninvited in the past. But... this time was different.

This was a response to insult. He sat alone in the closed shop. He already knew that the apartment-room above was uninhabited. The common room was hogged, swallowed up by the form of Evios. The lion stretched across the floor, his head and body laid haphazardly on the cushions usually reserved for discerning elven glutes. Usually, Evios wasn't allowed into the shop. But, who was he to tell the lion 'no'?

His arm is holding me against him, and for a brief flash I want to laugh. The urge is cut off in a gasp as his arm roughly pulls me tighter to him. I can feel the heat of his breath against my ear and the strength of his core as he keeps me where he wants me.

I'm smiling though, the irony is not lost on me.

For the last several weeks, when I've stolen away for these meetings with him, Fortune Velstand's first lessons to me have centered around one thing: breaking his hold.