April 122PW
The sun had wanted to wish Fidget warmth, even when she had tried to show it that she did not need its warmth. It sparkled at her, off the water of the river and through the curving trails of smoke that spun through the air in the morning and in night. It would chase her the whole day, even when she crawled through the ruins of what had once been a whole city, or part of one. What would the sun have seen when the ruins were new? Would it have illuminated tall and complete buildings that might stand before it proudly, displaying their finery for all the world to see? Or would its light have been another shame, for maybe the city had never been bright and clean like the rest of the city to the north. The city it hung off of like some runt, cast off from the tit by its brothers and sisters. Fidget understood that the city had been divided into districts. Her home was like that. The systemic division did not make much sense to her, for even now the sun was preparing to light up all of the city. Divisions were artificial.
It was early. The city was waking, as evidenced by the smoke. If Fidget turned around, she would see the smudgy results of burning trash. If she breathed deep enough, she could smell it. Thick, acrid, like a deep muddled green spiked through with silver. Under that was the smell of waste, mixed in with food. That made Fidget's stomach growl, and she paused to consider the sensation and its meaning as she redressed herself. Yesterday had been so messy. Slippery, squishy, and intense. She hadn't enjoyed it, not precisely, but neither had she not enjoyed it. Perfect then, in its own way. She had been so interested in her find under the ground of the city that she had forgotten to eat. Now, as she patiently held her wet hair out of the way of the collar she strapped around the scar that wrapped her throat, she considered the dual problem.
She could not put her leather on over her linen shift and shortpants until it was dry.
If she was not wearing her leather, she could not eat.
She did not need to eat. The worming pain in her gut was not wholly unwelcome. It could keep her company as she dried, as she watched the gold slide into the umber of this morning. Maybe she could climb a building, entwined with the anise that drifted on the slow and sluggish currents of morning air, teasing and pulling her from her own sleepy state. Maybe she could lay there and dry, watching and waiting for everything below to resolve itself while the sun lavished its heat over her. Yes. Okay. She would accept the sun's promise, and its offer of escort.
She strapped on the twin daggers she'd brought -- the needles were already woven into collar, clothing, and hair -- and gathered up her freshly wiped leathers. She turned from the water, and stopped as if struck by stone.
To Let Weeds Thrive
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf melted through the shadows, the browns and greens of his outfit helping him stay hard to see in the shadows of pre-dawn Marn. The strip of cloth that he had wrapped around his face helped with the smells of the district, waste, offal, the press of unwashed bodies and stagnated waters. They fouled the skies even more with the smell of burning trash and the thick black smoke it created. He wondered if the fact that yesterday had been so strange was what was putting him in such a foul mood. Usually he didn't let it bother him as much as this.
But yesterday had been strange. First, the elf woman. Then the others that had seemed to latch onto him like fleas to a dog. They had attracted the bandits, the ruthless men who cared for the hunger of they and their children's bellies far more than the lives of a few strangers. So he had disappeared from sight, up the bricks and into the rooftops. He had left there, and he had arrived at his home safe and sound because of it. He had returned later that day, and saw no signs that could talk to him. Some bloodstains, some scuff marks, but no one had said they had killed outsiders. So maybe they had gotten away.
He finally reached the end of shadowed alleys that stank, and could emerge into the sunshine, closer to the river. He liked it more here, but not enough to try and stay. Those who lived this close to it attracted more attention from the guard, and while he had not met many that tried to harm him for his heritage, those in a position of power were always likely to do so to someone weaker than them. His father had taught him that. And as a deaf halfbreed in a city full of people who were either angry or depressed, poor and hungry or rich and bored, he was about as weak as a newborn child.
His eyes glanced around, before zeroing in on someone. A woman? He didn't recognize her. But in this part of the city, it was hard to keep track. So many people drifted in and out, disappeared into the bottom of bars, and then emerged, that you could never tell who was supposed to be here and who wasn't. But what was important was that even from here he could see the daggers at her side. It would be too hard to draw a bow if she was like those that had wanted to attack like yesterday, but he had knives of his own. The tension flooded his body, making his arms feel stiff, making his heart beat pump in his throat.
He hated meeting people out away from others, by themselves. People seemed to be pack animals. One alone was usually trouble.
But yesterday had been strange. First, the elf woman. Then the others that had seemed to latch onto him like fleas to a dog. They had attracted the bandits, the ruthless men who cared for the hunger of they and their children's bellies far more than the lives of a few strangers. So he had disappeared from sight, up the bricks and into the rooftops. He had left there, and he had arrived at his home safe and sound because of it. He had returned later that day, and saw no signs that could talk to him. Some bloodstains, some scuff marks, but no one had said they had killed outsiders. So maybe they had gotten away.
He finally reached the end of shadowed alleys that stank, and could emerge into the sunshine, closer to the river. He liked it more here, but not enough to try and stay. Those who lived this close to it attracted more attention from the guard, and while he had not met many that tried to harm him for his heritage, those in a position of power were always likely to do so to someone weaker than them. His father had taught him that. And as a deaf halfbreed in a city full of people who were either angry or depressed, poor and hungry or rich and bored, he was about as weak as a newborn child.
His eyes glanced around, before zeroing in on someone. A woman? He didn't recognize her. But in this part of the city, it was hard to keep track. So many people drifted in and out, disappeared into the bottom of bars, and then emerged, that you could never tell who was supposed to be here and who wasn't. But what was important was that even from here he could see the daggers at her side. It would be too hard to draw a bow if she was like those that had wanted to attack like yesterday, but he had knives of his own. The tension flooded his body, making his arms feel stiff, making his heart beat pump in his throat.
He hated meeting people out away from others, by themselves. People seemed to be pack animals. One alone was usually trouble.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Someone stared at her. Riverside, the spot Fidget had chosen, was left to the sun and the wind and the water. She'd gone to it for that reason, so her skin might have a proper conversation with each as she washed up. Now that there was barrier between her skin and the pushy, flighty air, someone had come to see her. Or take her place. It would be like burnt offal to think to take her place, even if things went to empty again, it wouldn't be the same. Fidget knew sameness. This wasn't it. This was something different.
She could feel the sun's encouragement as she stepped into the tension, anise discarded for fenugreek and lye. She opened her mouth, breathing in the sunlight and the waste and the river, and stared back. Stranger. But not strange. New. Hair like coal peeped at her, tangled and twisted. It had been some time since she'd a chance to dance with hair like that. A thought then, to cut a piece for herself. Her palms itched. The thought of the blade was a secret thrill, a spike of purest steel along the remains of vicarious, bloody nights.
Four steps closer, pat pat pat pat, small sounds hidden beneath the flow of the water so close behind her. It was jealous. She could smell it. Her arms were full with her leather and the wet-mud smell of them, animal oil shimmering like the finest of jasmine strewn harems beneath that -- it made her think of the whorehouses back home -- and she regretted that. If they weren't full she would be reaching for a blade, reaching for the promise of that hair between her fingertips, rubbed as delicately as snarled strands of gold wire.
She could feel the sun's encouragement as she stepped into the tension, anise discarded for fenugreek and lye. She opened her mouth, breathing in the sunlight and the waste and the river, and stared back. Stranger. But not strange. New. Hair like coal peeped at her, tangled and twisted. It had been some time since she'd a chance to dance with hair like that. A thought then, to cut a piece for herself. Her palms itched. The thought of the blade was a secret thrill, a spike of purest steel along the remains of vicarious, bloody nights.
Four steps closer, pat pat pat pat, small sounds hidden beneath the flow of the water so close behind her. It was jealous. She could smell it. Her arms were full with her leather and the wet-mud smell of them, animal oil shimmering like the finest of jasmine strewn harems beneath that -- it made her think of the whorehouses back home -- and she regretted that. If they weren't full she would be reaching for a blade, reaching for the promise of that hair between her fingertips, rubbed as delicately as snarled strands of gold wire.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
She moved forward, four steps. Quick steps, almost like a snake. He didn't like it. His nose was muffled by the cloth strip, and he tugged it down quickly, taking in a deep breath. She smelled.... he didn't like it. Wet leather, animal oils. So she kept her gear in good shape then. But there was something wrong about her scent. He couldn't describe it, but it made the hair on the nape of his neck stand up. He took a half step back, but his eyes focused in on her. Even with the handfuls of leathers, he could see scarring. A lot of scarring. It was interesting.
His eyes flickered up to her face, then to her hands, then back. He was trying to watch her, to see what she was going to do. He did not want to be attacked by someone with more than one dagger. Not unless he could get his bow off his back. The sunlight was sparkling on the river, and it made him wince. The glare cut around her into his eyes, and he took another step back. She was pretty, but pretty like a pattern welded blade. Sharp. Hard angles and cutting was what she was reminding him of. And it just his body more tense.
He stopped his hand from dropping to his belt, but only barely. He tilted his head to the side, his hair falling off the side of his shoulder as he narrowed his eyes at her. He straightened up, reaching to throw his hair back again. If she took another step....
His eyes flickered up to her face, then to her hands, then back. He was trying to watch her, to see what she was going to do. He did not want to be attacked by someone with more than one dagger. Not unless he could get his bow off his back. The sunlight was sparkling on the river, and it made him wince. The glare cut around her into his eyes, and he took another step back. She was pretty, but pretty like a pattern welded blade. Sharp. Hard angles and cutting was what she was reminding him of. And it just his body more tense.
He stopped his hand from dropping to his belt, but only barely. He tilted his head to the side, his hair falling off the side of his shoulder as he narrowed his eyes at her. He straightened up, reaching to throw his hair back again. If she took another step....
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Serpentine green. She absentmindedly mouthed the words to herself as she caught a flash of the color in his eyes. Green, and ragged black, and a thread of peppery expectations. She could not see the whole of the piece, only sly glances of it as she imagined felt the coarse texture of that hair. How balanced was the ground between them? Did it threaten to buck them off? She tilted her head to match his, watched the line of his hand as it moved towards his hair. Anticipation. How would it move, how would it dance?
Sly, the next step. Her fingers tightened around her leathers, arms pulling them in closer to her. The gusting smell from the squeezed leather was familiar. Comforting. Even so, the air plucked at her to move forward, to take what she wanted.
She started to walk towards him, with his corded hair and jaded eyes, careful but sure.
Sly, the next step. Her fingers tightened around her leathers, arms pulling them in closer to her. The gusting smell from the squeezed leather was familiar. Comforting. Even so, the air plucked at her to move forward, to take what she wanted.
She started to walk towards him, with his corded hair and jaded eyes, careful but sure.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
'Serpentine Green?'
He caught the move of her lips, and he read them just as loudly as if she had whispered in his ear when he still had his hearing. What was she talking about? Either way, she was getting closer. She moved her head to match his, and he was reminded of a bird he had saw once, back in the forests. It had caught a look at itself in the water, and then moved, the reflection of course following it, and the bird had continued, more awestruck by this other bird who moved exactly like it than possibly anything else in its life. That wasn't this, but it reminded him very much of that.
Or of a snake, mirroring to strike. She's going to kill you, idiot. His hand dropped down, slender fingers wrapping around the bone hilt of his dagger and drawing it. The steel would have sparkled in the bright sunshine, but he had long ago dulled the blade with soot and ashes, and did it again whenever he had to clean it. It was the best way to keep it the sun sparkling off of it when he needed it the most. His lips drew back over his teeth, the snarl the closest he had came to saying anything. He kept his blade in close, along the line of his forearm, showing her if she took another step, he would defend himself.
He caught the move of her lips, and he read them just as loudly as if she had whispered in his ear when he still had his hearing. What was she talking about? Either way, she was getting closer. She moved her head to match his, and he was reminded of a bird he had saw once, back in the forests. It had caught a look at itself in the water, and then moved, the reflection of course following it, and the bird had continued, more awestruck by this other bird who moved exactly like it than possibly anything else in its life. That wasn't this, but it reminded him very much of that.
Or of a snake, mirroring to strike. She's going to kill you, idiot. His hand dropped down, slender fingers wrapping around the bone hilt of his dagger and drawing it. The steel would have sparkled in the bright sunshine, but he had long ago dulled the blade with soot and ashes, and did it again whenever he had to clean it. It was the best way to keep it the sun sparkling off of it when he needed it the most. His lips drew back over his teeth, the snarl the closest he had came to saying anything. He kept his blade in close, along the line of his forearm, showing her if she took another step, he would defend himself.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Oh. That line. That one, the sliver of it dull and much burdened by the earth (and it shouldn't be thus, because it was meant to shine) -- it was so achingly familiar. But what did glint was teeth. Fidget saw them, the same way she saw the hair, and she stopped her forward momentum to study the pepper-fire in his serpent eyes. Belongings belonged to those who could lay claim to them, and in that moment there was only a tenuous link to what belonged to who. Hair was attached, yes, but that circumstance could change like any other. All of the blood in her body belonged there only so long as no one let it out. She had gifted it to numerous parties with the scattering of time's pleasures, and she had no cause yet to regret it. So too, that mass of coiling hair: she lay her claim to it with eyes and desire. The sun made witness, and the air pushed and teased at her. It wanted to touch her skin again. She could not say she didn't want the same.
Sideways. Sidle, slide, step. What was the cause of this poise? Had she angered the mass of flesh and muscle and bone and serpentine cord? Was this a bluff, to scare her away? What did he know? She had not shifted her grip on her belongings, had not even considered putting them down while they were so freshly damp, and she stood without guile. What then gave cause for the sudden surge of denial? It wasn't right. Fidget had seen it, and she deserved it. She watched line, edge, hand, hair. Sidestep.
Sideways. Sidle, slide, step. What was the cause of this poise? Had she angered the mass of flesh and muscle and bone and serpentine cord? Was this a bluff, to scare her away? What did he know? She had not shifted her grip on her belongings, had not even considered putting them down while they were so freshly damp, and she stood without guile. What then gave cause for the sudden surge of denial? It wasn't right. Fidget had seen it, and she deserved it. She watched line, edge, hand, hair. Sidestep.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
She kept moving. He was getting more tense now, the feelings a ball of tightness and hard nerves in between his shoulders. How he wished for a rooftop far away from this. He needed a crossbow instead of a longbow, and this proved it. Sharp tongue flicked out like an animals to wet dry lips, mirroring her movements. Sidestep, sidestep. If she was going to go one way to get around him, then he would give her room. But he still felt on edge, like a man in the forest being watched by a wolf.
That's what she made him feel like, and why it was so strange to him. She made him feel prey, the way her eyes were on him. Like she was a trophy hunter, and he was a buck with a fine rack of antlers that she desired. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. She wanted something from him, and he could feel it in the very core of his bones. But that didn't matter. Everything he owned, he had bled for in someway or another. And he intended to keep what was his, and she would not take it from him.
He shook his head, staring her in the eyes. The trinkets of bone and beads that were decorations in the thick mass of locs made tinkling noises, a few small bits of shell catching the sun and throwing it back towards her. Why did she have to be here? Why had today been the day when this woman with the scars stood between him and the river?
That's what she made him feel like, and why it was so strange to him. She made him feel prey, the way her eyes were on him. Like she was a trophy hunter, and he was a buck with a fine rack of antlers that she desired. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. She wanted something from him, and he could feel it in the very core of his bones. But that didn't matter. Everything he owned, he had bled for in someway or another. And he intended to keep what was his, and she would not take it from him.
He shook his head, staring her in the eyes. The trinkets of bone and beads that were decorations in the thick mass of locs made tinkling noises, a few small bits of shell catching the sun and throwing it back towards her. Why did she have to be here? Why had today been the day when this woman with the scars stood between him and the river?
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Oh. Fidget's lips rounded in an o, and she stopped to taste the vibration produced from the hair, the everything. Her fingers itched. She thought of the safe space, her hole in the world, of the things she had collected and kept safe from prying eyes and touches, from anyone who might think to take anything from her. Yes. Yes, that was where she needed to put it. Safe away, where only she would be able to find it, and hold it, and touch. . .
Stop. No. The pepper had expanded, dark and twining with the choking smoke that billowed out from the old side, the damaged side. Ruins, all of it, perfect for someone like her. Perfect maybe for someone like him. He was tall. He stood out from the dirty rain streaked, rot-ruined, time-chewed buildings and their ground-in occupants. He stood, waiting, baring his teeth at her like they were something, some kind of dance. She wasn't supposed to. Knew that. Tch. Her head turned, looking past him and into the gaping maw of the city-beast, wondering where its eyes were and whether they blinked at her, saw and knew the spider trails that even then had been strung up in her. What then, to punish her for her straying thoughts? A hesitation, dangerous thing. She knew better. But the touch, that she ached for. Everything she was, had to be, would be, needed -- it was wrapped up in that knotted hair, remembered and made new by every potential second she had to touch it.
It was morning, and gold had marked her. She took a step towards him and his offerings, shifting her burden to one arm. Then she reached for the line, the edge he teased her with: palm up and quiet with certainty.
Stop. No. The pepper had expanded, dark and twining with the choking smoke that billowed out from the old side, the damaged side. Ruins, all of it, perfect for someone like her. Perfect maybe for someone like him. He was tall. He stood out from the dirty rain streaked, rot-ruined, time-chewed buildings and their ground-in occupants. He stood, waiting, baring his teeth at her like they were something, some kind of dance. She wasn't supposed to. Knew that. Tch. Her head turned, looking past him and into the gaping maw of the city-beast, wondering where its eyes were and whether they blinked at her, saw and knew the spider trails that even then had been strung up in her. What then, to punish her for her straying thoughts? A hesitation, dangerous thing. She knew better. But the touch, that she ached for. Everything she was, had to be, would be, needed -- it was wrapped up in that knotted hair, remembered and made new by every potential second she had to touch it.
It was morning, and gold had marked her. She took a step towards him and his offerings, shifting her burden to one arm. Then she reached for the line, the edge he teased her with: palm up and quiet with certainty.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
She looked past him, and for a moment he was afraid that someone stood behind him. A friend of hers, ready to crack his skull and help her take whatever she wanted. Then the wind shifted, and blew against his back, and he felt the cool air wrap around his body, tickling his nose, and he smelled no one. Just himself, like cool earth and the forests. He hadn't been ingrained in the ruins for long enough that his body took their stench on. He didn't smell like trash and offal and defeat, at least not yet. And he didn't intend to. That's why he came to the river, to make sure that he was clean. The water was mostly clean, not as good as the forests, but it was closer. And he had wanted to wash the stench from yesterday from his skin again. But his attempts were blocked by her. And now she moved closer.
She shifted her leathers, stepped forward, held out her hand towards his dagger. He wanted to strike out at her, wanted to lay a red line of pain and warning across her arm, but he knew he wasn't the best with a dagger, and that she could probably defeat him. But he had the option of fighting, or fleeing. And for some reason today, with his hackles up, he refused to flee.
The words grated out of his lips, voice dry and husky from misuse, the sounds whispered low in his inability to hear them. But she possibly would be able to, and that's all that mattered to him. He punctuated them by raising the arm that held the knife spin tight against it, ready to defend if need be. He took a step back to her one, watching her carefully.
"Stay... back."
She shifted her leathers, stepped forward, held out her hand towards his dagger. He wanted to strike out at her, wanted to lay a red line of pain and warning across her arm, but he knew he wasn't the best with a dagger, and that she could probably defeat him. But he had the option of fighting, or fleeing. And for some reason today, with his hackles up, he refused to flee.
The words grated out of his lips, voice dry and husky from misuse, the sounds whispered low in his inability to hear them. But she possibly would be able to, and that's all that mattered to him. He punctuated them by raising the arm that held the knife spin tight against it, ready to defend if need be. He took a step back to her one, watching her carefully.
"Stay... back."
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Frustrating, this line of ochre, the pepper in it so thick as to be choking. He made the effort to speak, and it was like a ripple stolen through the skein of her guard. She stopped. Her nostrils flared, eyes wandering over him. There was much to see, much to be read, but the push of air current against her told her that it was a waste of time. Was it, though? Fingertips knew otherwise, skin guessed as much, and she was suddenly and achingly reminded of her cloak and its comforting folds. She wasn't supposed to fight. She wasn't supposed to a lot of things. These things were not meant for her, and yet they continued to wrap her within their thorny embrace.
Rather than step, she leaned forward, free arm extending out towards him with all the persistence of a growing vine. Her hand was exposed, skin whitening as her fingers bent down and out, palm laid naked for all the world to see. Her scars were mesmerizing against the empty backdrop, but she resisted looking at them. Her nose was too full of his tension, the acrid and crude placement of his words.
She hated words.
They were so necessary, even as they shredded her tongue.
Rather than step, she leaned forward, free arm extending out towards him with all the persistence of a growing vine. Her hand was exposed, skin whitening as her fingers bent down and out, palm laid naked for all the world to see. Her scars were mesmerizing against the empty backdrop, but she resisted looking at them. Her nose was too full of his tension, the acrid and crude placement of his words.
She hated words.
They were so necessary, even as they shredded her tongue.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
He breathed, a hard push that forced more than air out of his body. The tension between his shoulder blades pushed out as well, but not because he felt safer. It was because he felt resigned to whatever was about to happen now. He didn't know what she wanted. But she obviously wasn't going to try to kill him. Not yet anyways. The thin sliver of cold steel that still shined in the light winked as he rolled the dagger around his fingers, dropping it back into his sheath. He wasn't going to cut her. He looked at her hand, the scars that formed almost a web or map across the plains of her palm. She either learned lessons the hard way, and the cut wouldn't show her nothing, or she had been cut so many times she would ignore the pain. Either way, he wasn't going to add any new scars to her skin. For now at least.
Still, he managed to stop his own hand, the one now hovering over hers, from reaching down and feeling those scars for himself. Because generally nothing like that could be real, or so one would think. That many scars? What did one do to get so many? Wulf had his own share of scars that crisscrossed his lean frame, from wolves and bears, even a cougar that he had came too close to once. But that many? Sight wasn't always real for him, or for anyone. Hearing was gone, so words meant nothing to him. Smell and touch were the only scents he truly cared for, because they were the only ones that he knew would tell him the truth.
But did he want to know any truth about this woman? He didn't think so. His fingers curled, flexed out, and he looked her in the eyes again, searching for whatever he wanted to know without touching.
Still, he managed to stop his own hand, the one now hovering over hers, from reaching down and feeling those scars for himself. Because generally nothing like that could be real, or so one would think. That many scars? What did one do to get so many? Wulf had his own share of scars that crisscrossed his lean frame, from wolves and bears, even a cougar that he had came too close to once. But that many? Sight wasn't always real for him, or for anyone. Hearing was gone, so words meant nothing to him. Smell and touch were the only scents he truly cared for, because they were the only ones that he knew would tell him the truth.
But did he want to know any truth about this woman? He didn't think so. His fingers curled, flexed out, and he looked her in the eyes again, searching for whatever he wanted to know without touching.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Stay taut, remain ready for danger. It was succor to Fidget as she stepped in alongside his arm. Her hand drifted up from his, up past his shoulder and to his hair. There was where nearly all of her attention went, there to the skin that graced her fingers. Ah, ah, the other hand was jealous. If she could, she would have dropped her leather, but that would be unclean. Fidget did not like to be unclean. No, if that was so then she could no longer feel the blessing of the air, not sun nor moon. And here, now, with the hair (not gold, no, not a metal so pure and rare: this was more like iron, or good steel, even if it was soft like gold. Was, and was not) twining around and between her fingers, pressing deep into the memory that would remain, she wanted to be clean for it. More than anything.
A small noise escaped her, born of the frustration of the matter before her. She withdrew her hand to shift the leathers, and pushed them outward and into the man's stomach. She did not normally allow others to hold the precious items that belonged to her, but since he already bore her belongings a few more wouldn't hurt. It was temporary. Besides, she owed it to the serpentine fire in his eyes. They were lovely eyes, and if she hadn't been taken by his hair and the reminder of her job, she might have tried to take that color for her own. Not today, not today: the only bloodshed she was to take belonged to the mark. Her mark. Otherwise she would face punishment. She didn't want that.
A small noise escaped her, born of the frustration of the matter before her. She withdrew her hand to shift the leathers, and pushed them outward and into the man's stomach. She did not normally allow others to hold the precious items that belonged to her, but since he already bore her belongings a few more wouldn't hurt. It was temporary. Besides, she owed it to the serpentine fire in his eyes. They were lovely eyes, and if she hadn't been taken by his hair and the reminder of her job, she might have tried to take that color for her own. Not today, not today: the only bloodshed she was to take belonged to the mark. Her mark. Otherwise she would face punishment. She didn't want that.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
He could see her ears now, the wind blowing a strand of hair away from the fine points, much sharper than his own rounded ones. She was most likely a full blooded elf then, and he fought to keep the stiffness of tension at bay. If she wanted, she could have drawn her daggers when he drew his, and then they would have fought. But she hadn't. Instead, she just seemed to want... Was she touching his hair?
She twined her fingers through his hair, and shoved her leathers into his hands, and he barely caught them before dropping them. Why was she touching him? He snarled silently, his space invaded, his skin crawling from this intrusion. Pretty or not, interesting or not, she should ask before touching. He would have read her lips if she did. So he did the only thing he could think of, and turned his head, pulling his hair from her hand, and sank his teeth into the skin of her wrist. He made sure he had her eyes on his as he growled at her, pressing down a little harder with his teeth, but not breaking the skin.
She twined her fingers through his hair, and shoved her leathers into his hands, and he barely caught them before dropping them. Why was she touching him? He snarled silently, his space invaded, his skin crawling from this intrusion. Pretty or not, interesting or not, she should ask before touching. He would have read her lips if she did. So he did the only thing he could think of, and turned his head, pulling his hair from her hand, and sank his teeth into the skin of her wrist. He made sure he had her eyes on his as he growled at her, pressing down a little harder with his teeth, but not breaking the skin.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Precious few strands of hair remained in Fidget's hand after the whole was yanked from her fingers. It was not enough, but with the start of pain building in her wrist it had to be enough. Intent had risen in him, beyond the need for her to know, and she looked down between their bodies to where her leathers had fallen. Her expression changed a little then, eyebrows drawing down by milimeters. She started to stoop, and stopped when she realized he had no intent of letting go.
Flirtation rode up on her, unexpected, though if it was as the black pepper suggested this was some other ritual. A claim. A stake. Perhaps he did not realize that her belongings were hers, and had no knowledge of the threads wrapping around them. Even then.
Choice then, between his hair and her leathers, but where one remained safe attached to his head the other had been abandoned. Even now she could imagine its suffering.
"Let go," she said.
Flirtation rode up on her, unexpected, though if it was as the black pepper suggested this was some other ritual. A claim. A stake. Perhaps he did not realize that her belongings were hers, and had no knowledge of the threads wrapping around them. Even then.
Choice then, between his hair and her leathers, but where one remained safe attached to his head the other had been abandoned. Even now she could imagine its suffering.
"Let go," she said.