|
|
| (4 intermediate revisions by 2 users not shown) |
| Line 1: |
Line 1: |
| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/FirstMovement|First Movement]]
| + | #REDIRECT [[ADanceOfAngels]] |
| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
| |
| − | | |
| − | == The Ashen Dove ==
| |
| − | | |
| − | Windia moved frantic as any ant nest outside, but that mattered little inside Count Devrier’s Manse. A small manse, but still greater and more powerful than that most people have ever been in. The Count’s parties are neither the most opulent, beautiful or sordid ones on Windia – they simply are. Pleasant enough to be filled with some of Windia’s best, common enough to be known, and filled with decent entertainment, it was the kind of social event that wouldn’t make one’s life, but also the sort that one wouldn’t miss as long as he wanted to be up-to-date in politics, connections, and gossip.
| |
| − | | |
| − | But tonight, it boasted something special. Tonight, the count boasted arguably the best performer in Windia, the Fae-boy from house Winterwing, Domiel. Many there had only heard of his performance, and wanted to see it with their own eyes... and others, who had seen it once and never forgotten, wanted to see him at work again. Anina Tierney was one of the latter, watching Domiel intently... without the company of her husband, the Baron Aleksei. Here and there one could see branches of the Silverstars, of the Windia family, and many of the Devrier family about, too many for Domiel to know, recognize, or care.
| |
| − | | |
| − | As the servant girls passed by the musician with looks that varied from admiration to fear, the Count approached him, a girl many years his junior on his arm. – as was the boy sitting on his wife’s lap across the hall – He smiled, patting on the Fae-Blood’s side, “Enjoying the party, my boy? We are thrilled to see if you are all I heard about, oh, we sure are, aren’t we, sweetie?” He asked of his companion, who could only blush, smile, and nod. “I suppose you won’t be needing anything special before you play, Wyld-boy?” He'd say, the prejudice without venom, just something the cheerful old windian, already after the first hand of drink-counting, said naturally.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Fingers to pluck a cord or draw a bow can play flesh so finely as well. The music one could bring from the caress of an arm, a neck, a thigh... so less harmonic. So much the more satisfying. Skilled, subtle lips worked slowly at the neck of the red faced woman he had cornered against the wall. A playful nip. A soft kiss. He danced his way up to her ear, while his slender hands caressed down the silken dress encasing her form, a finger tip tracing along her hip and drifting up the ridge of her spine sending a shudder through her. He knew not her name, not yet. An elder to him by years. Very married, as her feeble protests proclaimed between the half-caught sighs. Far too puritan for her own good and more than beautiful enough to draw the attention and fantasies of a young man.
| |
| − | | |
| − | He was enjoying this immensely.
| |
| − | | |
| − | The Count could not have made his approach any less ill-timed. She was on the edge of surrender already; the bored nobility, even the most loyal of them, were never too hard to sway. His whispers in her ear, promises of shameful delights and decedent pains, had her fingers to her throat and a hand gripping tightly to his arm. She would have been his in another heartbeat, had their host not come to play the unwitting savior to her conscience.
| |
| − | | |
| − | The moment was broken in an instant and his nameless pleasure was quickly to wriggle free of the corner and walk away at a discreet pace. Disappointment filled Domiel's eyes as he watched her go, but only for an instant. There would be other women tonight and he could hardly shun the attentions of his host, not when this was the finest party he had been called to attend in some time now.
| |
| − | | |
| − | "M'lord Deviers, milady," he wore a pleasant smile as he bowed his head to the elder Windian's prejudice, then gracefully took the hand of the Count's young companion and lowered his lips to it, passing a kiss across the tips of her gloved fingertips. "You honored me with your invitation and further with your company."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Count:</b> "As I should" The Count'd say, nodding, seeing the blushing woman walk away, grinning. "Haven't you taken the eyes of women tonight, Wyld boy. I bet many here wish they would be so young... and maybe, so wyld." His companion would smile at Domiel, her face blushing slightly, searching his features... not just wanting to admire him, but to find... <i>something</i>. To find why he seemed so... strange. "Well, not me... I had my share of youth, and have to say I quite enjoy my age..." the older man, close to his fifties, stripes of silver on his dark red hair, a great mustache over his lips, would say as he rose the chalice of wine on his hand to the lips of his companion, making her face even more... red.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> "As one should enjoy ones age, whatever it may be. Youth has vitality, age maturity," Domiel's smile is to the Count, while his gaze lingers thoughtfully to young woman afixed to the old Windian's arm. "We should all be happy to enjoy what pleasures life brings us as we go. We only live once. It's not like wine..."
| |
| − | | |
| − | A pause. Reaching outward in deliberate delicacy, he brings his finger tip across the lips of the young woman, bringing it away damp and red from the liquid still lingering on her mouth. "We cannont pick and choose the age we enjoy best, only take what comes to us..." Bringing his stained finger to his mouth, he gentle kisses the wine clean from his hand. "Any vintage is sweet, if you find the best in it."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Count:</b> The girl moves her face back as Domiel reaches to her, shy "True, true, very true!" The count chuckles, "But we certainly can choose the vintage of his partners! Thin, sweet wine of youth..." He says, pushing his companion by the waist more against him, as she looks at Domiel's kiss of the wine, grinning and then averting her eyes to the Count, "...and the full, fulfilling older vintages..." he says, looking at his wife.
| |
| − | | |
| − | The older man would come closer to Domiel, in a half-whisper, "You seem to be attracting the attention of these, Wyld boy." he says, motioning with his hair to Anina's glances...
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> Anina looks... opulent, on her black and red dress. Long golden blonde hair falling over her shoulders, some snaking their way down almost to her deep dark-golden eyes.... the mark of something ... else, most probably a magic university graduate. Her wings have shining white feathers, well-preened, folding neatly around her dress like purity over sin, and yet, leaving so much to view.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> That brings his attention at once to the Lady Tierney and there to rest for a quiet, speculitive moment. Long enough to let her see him watching her, for her to know that her own attention has not gone completely unnoticed.
| |
| − | | |
| − | "Not attention, Count Deviers. Dreams. Fantasies." He speaks before he turns back to his host, holding the eye of the noble woman untill a passing couple masks her from sight, breaking only in that instance and giving her not so much as another flickering glance or mindful attention from the corner of his eye. Now, perhaps, she would try a little harder than simply staring and waiting. Laziness should hardly be rewarded.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Giving the Count a nudging grin, the musician slowly reaches to the thin belt around his waist and pulls free a leather thong, using it to tie his hair back as he speaks. "Though, for my part, milord, I prefer my vintages well mixed. Partners, unlike wine again, taste all the more sweeter when you pour the youthful into the same glass as the elder."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Count:</b> "True, I suppose. Something I may try more, but I guess <i>that</i> is when we should be mindful of our age, hmmm?" He says, taking some steps away with his companion, "Well, I suppose things have slowed down enough... time to lighten the moods!" Leaving the chalice on a nearby table, he'd let go of his companion, so he can better motion to his servants, "Pleae, prepare everything and tell all my guests that we shall have our performance shortly." He turns to the Changeling, "Right, my boy? There will be plenty of time for fooling around later tonight, after you have graced us with your supposed talent, oh, there will!"
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> His hair pulled back now into a simple tail, the Ashing Dove smiles faintly and bows his head again to the Count. "Of course, milord. I hardly expected my invitation to have been sent on the reputation of my charming company alone."
| |
| − | | |
| − | A snap of his fingers stops one of the passing servant girls in step, her eyes wide as a doe about to be pounced upon by a stalking cat. "My instrument, if you please milady. It was taken from me to be watched over at the door. Go fetch it, if you would be so kind?"
| |
| − | | |
| − | Not waiting for her response nor expecting anything but obedience, he steps past her to follow the Count towards the area being readied for his performance.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Count:</b> Going to warn his other, more important guests, the Count leaves it to servants to take Domiel to the stage outside, on a veranda garden, high, high above ground... the currents of the air and the wind swooping in the living fence and the trees quite appeasing to the Windians in the party. Not a rainy day, the Maidens and their constellations shining clearly in the cold northern wnd, the guests take their places on the grass, on the trees, on sturdy, needlessly ornate iron banks on the garden or new ones put by the servants, while the Gazebo on its center is reserved for the performer...
| |
| − | | |
| − | One of the servant girls quickly bringing Sweet Lover's Sigh to Domiel, they leave the fiddle in his hands and go, leaving the performance mostly to the guests... from there, Domiel can see them, under the pale moonlight... the Count and Countess, with their respective playthings. The Baroness Tierney looking at him with bemused eyes, and the other guests, all under the pale moonlight...
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b>The fiddle and the bow were both still warm from the young servants grasp. He could feel it. Feel the faint slickness of moisture where her palms as sweated as she grasped it. Practically feel the mar of her finger print on it's flawless black neck.
| |
| − | | |
| − | He breathed in deeply as he glided through the night and into the center stage, waiting for the other guests to finish shuffling arond and settling in. Moisture in the air, a tang on the back of his tongue. It was cool outdoors, but his skin felt hot with the eyes of all those around his. You were always naked upon the stage. It opened you more to opinon than any courtly gossip. Here, there was only you.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Domiel was already glowing faintly. The moon was his silver spotlight, but the air around him swirled with gold and the instrument in his hands gleamed all the more brightly in the warm light. Essence flowed like water around him, caressing his skin as he willed it to follow his wishes, channeling it into his hands and into the slick black fiddle he held. Then further more, into himself, his eyes closed to the gaze of others, catching the Baronesses glance before darkness descended over him.
| |
| − | | |
| − | He wished for change, for beauty beyond any those around him would have ever seen. For the grace and presence of a god. Then he granted his own wish and felt the stark inner-self, the dream of what he could be, emerge from behind his mundane skin with brilliant light, as he ascended beyond reality and into dream.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Tonight, he would give this bored, drunken, noble audience something to remember.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Party:</b> Clapping with smiles in slightly-flushed faces and their eyes seeming far away on warmer thoughts, the audience alutes Domiel as his performance ends, awe-struck glances he had seen before, but not the slight shock beyond awe he had been known to incite... no matter, it had been a perfect performance.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> Anina's long blonde hair falling slightly over her beautiful face, a hair so well-tended by so many servants, as were her feathers... her hair, her skin, her feathers and her eyes as much a mark of her station as her dress, for no wild, poor, or busy beauty would be so well preened and groomed. Her gaze over Domiel would narrow slightly for a moment, her smile into a grin... amused with Domiel, and not immune to the aphrodisiac effects of his music... as aren't his patrons, touching the secret places of their young playthings in plain sight, looking at one another as they do it, as if daring the spouse to do better with the young ones... around, Dommy can also see some... <i>suspicious</i> movements in the bushes...
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> It's the wind that awakens him. The delicate, cool caress across his skin. The freezing touch of a Winter lover. Thought is distant still, split and scattered onto a thousand notes of music, each one a memory from somewhere else and some other time. Harnessed for the Here and the Now, to settle into the memory of this slumbering audience. Lick them with the flame of lust and passion.
| |
| − | | |
| − | But the wind cares nothing for that and strokes his skin to ignite ice and fire upon him. And it draws him back, unfocused but awake again, himself again. Breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, his face flushed and serene. Not the satisfaction of a musician expressing his art. It was the satisfaction was that of the warm moments after, laying in a cocoon of sheets and limbs. The satisfaction of a hundred hot summers among the hay or frozen winter nights spent entangled before a fireplace.
| |
| − | | |
| − | His eyes opened slowly and watched his audience. Some still stared at him, awe in their eyes. Many had already turned on one another with words and touches heated by the passion which made anger a bitter rain when compared to it's flame. Others had gone past touch and word. A smile, or the beginnings of one, touched his eyes as he caught side of the rustling bushes on the edge of the light.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Only one stared at him with something else, a look which ended the smile before it began. Anina Domiel's expression was curiously calm as he returned her open regard. She was beautiful in the candle light, but radiant in the moonlight. Heartbreakingly so. Her amusement, so clear in that gaze. So expectant.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <i>Think you cornered a mouse, oh bird of prey, and it's only a matter of time before you feast?</i> He knew her type. He <i>was</i> her type. Perhaps this mouse could draw a cry from her throat. It was an amusing thought.
| |
| − | | |
| − | He did not close his eyes, this time. They were solely for her. Calmly for her. A step forward. The bow came up again, set to the strings. Another step, the heels of his boots clicking on flagstone. Then, he began to play again, with deliberate intent. A song he knew well, but played little. The Queen of Emerald roses taught it to him, that warm summer night in the grass, playing it to him as she laughed and rode above him, the same black fiddle glistening with sweat as it dripped from her face. All that was passion, was this. All that was hunger, was this.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <i>Come, my dear huntress. How long can you toy with your meal, before it makes you starve</i>
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> She looked at him with a Lover's eyes already, admiring his body as a lioness admires her prey... her gaze narrowing as her face takes a characteristic.. pink tinge, just shy from red. The Windian noble's magnificent wings shook imperceivably, as her voluptuous, mature body seemed to heave with heavy breath under her black and red dress. Her beautiful eyes and full lips crowning the glow that is almost a blush but not quite so, she moves her fingers as if playing his body from afar... then calls for a servant girl, whispering something to her.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Count:</b> Many clap his new performance, and many leave... out of the balcony, or into the corners of the garden, all away from the gazebo where the performance seems to have ended... two young toy servants cry in pleasure simultaneously as your hosts bring them to their climaxes, and Count Devrier used that moment to clap, "Nicely done, my boy! All I expected from you!" He says, getting up, helping a shaky, dream-faced girl to her feet as he admires his glow, "And too good I didn't invite our visiting Realm friends... remember to keep a low profile, boy, I still want to see more performances of yours before the dragons smite you down! Now, if you will excuse me..." The Countess blows a kiss as she gets up with her trembling boytoy, both walking out of the garden... the prejudices of the Immaculate Philosophy weren't entirely lost on him, but that is the same man who had Neomah dancer for his party once... not the most decadent, or the most scandalous of Windia, but Devrier did have a... <i>reputation</i>
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Sevant:</b> And then, the servant girl Anina had called walks up to the Changeling, looking at him with awe... and fear. Lots of fear of his impossible beauty and the chaos about him... "T-the Baroness... s-she asked..."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Clothing is ruffling. Bodies moving. The gaze of the audience is scarcely upon him anymore. Defeat, for a performer, in most cases. Save when they turn away only because your goal has been reached and their hearts, or less tender emotions, have been touched.
| |
| − | | |
| − | The night air has just grown much warmer, even as bodies slip away to darker corners of the courtyard. He hears the servants cries echo in unison, not the only sound of that sort to fill the air, but simply the loudest for the moment.
| |
| − | | |
| − | His eyes don't move.
| |
| − | | |
| − | He hears the Counts jovial departing words. There is danger, there, part of him realizes. A few simple words causing some inner warning to tick once, then grow silent. He lifted his hand and waved to his host. His eyes did not move.
| |
| − | | |
| − | He <i>feels</i> the Countesses blow kiss on the wind, a hot mite that bites his skin. With a delicate twist of the wrist, he makes as if to catch it and clutch it to his heart. And still, his eyes do not move.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Then the girl comes before him, her scent filling him as she grows close. That clean, healthy scent of femininity. It's enough to make the warmth in the air, held out so long, finally rush in to fill the void he had made of himself. Color, scarcely perceivable, touches his skin, and a hot hunger melts through the glacier of his eyes. Ravenously hungry, mirroring the look in the eyes of the woman watching him.
| |
| − | | |
| − | The girl speaks, or begins to, and he silences her with a finger pressed to her lips. Even as he leans in suddenly to kiss her and his tongue slips adeptly into the warmth of her mouth, swallowing her startled gasp, Anina still fills his eyes and his thoughts.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Still clutching the fiddle and bow, only his finger tip caresses across the young servants body, slowly across the line of her jaw, trickling like a rain drop down her throat, over and between the swell of her breasts, curling slowly into the shadow beneath them. Always, his eyes on Anina, teasingly now, almost mocking her as he touches the girl's back with his bow and slides the string slowly back and forth across her.
| |
| − | | |
| − | His teeth bite gently at her lip as he pulls away. "Tell your mistress" he begins softly, the bow to her back sliding down to her buttocks, the finger tip climbing upwards to the crown of her nipple and pressing it through the folds of her dress. " that I will, where ever she desires and tell her that I request your company when we do."
| |
| − | | |
| − | Finally, he turns his eyes down to the maid in his arms and smiles, painting her face with the golden light of his Caste Mark. "Tell her that you're very warm and I fear for her that I may be too cold to keep her through the night alone."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Servant:</b> The girl backs away, scared, her dirty blonde hair, brown eyes and light-brown feathers, mark of common stock, shaking at the attempted touches. as soon as he turns his eyes to her, he can see two words in her eyes - 'Fair Folk', something not even an unearthly beauty can safely bridge.... she tries to talk again, only to find herself without words, without voice, as in a nightmare in front of such a creature of dreams. Then she simply nods, eyes vanishing under her hair as she avoids the Changeling's faerie gaze, face red in blush and shame, and walks up to Anina, repeating the words as she can remember them, shaking....
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> The bird of prey laughs sublety, then handles the girl a paper, then getting up and walking away, a last glance to Domiel, and the whispered words that can be heard so well accross the room... not on the sound, but the intent of her lips,
| |
| − | | |
| − | 'Come'
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Servant:</b> The servant girl walks up to Domiel again, hesitanting in every step now, as if going towards the very gates of hell. Unearthly beauty and demonic markings cooperating to make her crushingly uncomfortable, she handles Domiel the note without looking at him... ready to spring away like a terrified gazelle. On it, with perfect, shining caligraphy of magic is written, 'Outside', and as Domiel reads it, it seems to be whispered by her words on his ear...
| |
| − | | |
| − | And then, just as it is taken, the servant girl sprints away...
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Fear. How disconcerting. Understandable, but a touch disheartening just the same. For what it was, not who. All artists desire to be loved, yet for him it was always fear, if it wasn't lust. Disheartening
| |
| − | | |
| − | Domiel doesn't make her suffer his touch more than need be. She was something to tease the Barnoness with, nothing more. Doubtful she'd be sharing their bed tonight, doubtful she even gave Anina the second half of his message, but he would be more than willing to reeducate the girl on the glory of the faerie if she had. Mixing wines, as he had told the Count, made for a far sweeter drink.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Not who he was yearning for, though. Not the blond haired servant girl. Not tonight. The drink he found himself with an almost gluttonous thirst for was leaving, rising gracefully from her seat. An angel of shadow and fire. It was impossible to look away.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <i>"Come,"</i> she had mouthed to him, practically making the note the frightened young servant brought to him gratuitous. Come. As if he would not have followed her anyway.
| |
| − | | |
| − | There are only lovers in the courtyard now, hidden in the shadows and among the garden. Sighs, whispers, cries; a symphony of love under Lunas bright visage. Tears and regrets maybe, tomorrow. Joyful sin tonight. There was no better kind.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Fiddle in hand and a perfect, devious smile on his face, Domiel strode calmly after the retreating figure of Anina. There was time to take time. She would wait. He knew she would wait, as much as she had been certain he would follow. Reflection was tomorrows dish. Sin was for tonight.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Party:</b> After she leaves, it gets painfully clear of how the others look at him... the servants, the younger ones, the playthings. It was on aprehension on their faces before, but now... it sprouted in its full glory. They see a Faerie, a Ravager. In many ways not different from the Neomahs Devrier had dancing for him not long ago, a monster, for their entertainment but a monster all the same... when his faerie nature came to the surface, he became a being of another world. A being for the courts of the fae, for the Queen of Emerald Roses, for Godlings and elementals... but not for this world, not for the world he had never been a real part of growing up, but never so detached either...
| |
| − | | |
| − | Even on the looks of lust from noblemen and women, there is that trait, that tinge of the lust of the forbidden... that is there because that is what he is. It makes the air on the garden cold, just as Anina's gaze was warm. A warmth that waits for him, waiting as his unnatural light fades completely for Luna's light to fall upon his brow...
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b>... And then, comes the time. She had awaited long enough, as had he. Walking out the Count's regal place in Upper Windia as a mere mortal, Domiel is led to Anina's Coach... and to the angel of sin waiting for him inside. Strong hands, stronger than him by far, and yet so feminine, slamming him on the padded seat, a warm tongue and a voluptuous body against his'... so unlike the cold of the stares before, of the light of Luna. A mystical gesture of the woman's part and a bound servant took them away, through the moonlit streets and to her own manor... everything else is a warm dream, rolling against the walls to a bedroom, throwing away clothes and inhibitions... to simply feel the warmth. And sleeping with an angel, stripped of blood and fire, simply of immaculate pale perfection of a matriarch, lain atop his body...
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Awake, but unmoving, Domiel wore a smile that hadn't left his face since she had drifted into slumber. Pain filled his every moment. Every muscle throbbed in the languid heat of exhaustion. Every darkening bruise on his pale body was a constant and dull ache. Every bloody slash into his flesh where her nails had raked into him was sharp and biting.
| |
| − | | |
| − | And she was warm as sunlight on his skin. As soft as silk. A wonderful, burden of weight curled up against him beneath the blanket, one long, exquisite leg wrapped snuggly around his own. Her head upon his chest, resting on a pillow made from her arm and her own sweat-soak, mangled hair.
| |
| − | | |
| − | He toyed with her body playfully even as she slept, hands exploring across her warm skin. Hunting out the places that drew faint moans and smiles from her, even in sleep.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Domiel had always enjoyed the act of love making. No one could teach you a finer appreciation for matters of the flesh than the Fair Folk. Though the comparison had been merely to amuse and set to the tone of the evening, lovers truly were as wine. After taking one more beautiful and skilled than Creation could ever make possible, you learned to enjoy the subtle differences that ran between real women, of taste and scent and touch.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Anina was a very strong drink and she burned every inch doing down.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Finding a tender bruise against her thigh that made the noblewoman wince and frown, Domiel began to gently play with her pain. Touching more satisfying places until she flushed, before cruelly flicking his fingers back across the bruise, he could keep her shifting from one sensation to the next until they blurred. As she had done to him.
| |
| − | | |
| − | A smile, fond as he softly kissed her hair and left the bruise alone. He'd remember this night, as he remembered every night he had ever shared in the arms of another, and would hold a special place in his thoughts for the fiery passion of the woman against him. The hunger in her lips and wild motions of her body, as if she truly wished to consume him alive. She nearly had. The pace she set surprised even him. Had it been the Queen of Emrald Roses or the Maiden, they would have surely killed him in such a fervor. Anina burnt herself out long before that, though, screaming madly and tearing at her hair before collapsing. He took the lead from there, too aroused by the sight of her excitement by far to let the night end. Softer love. Warmer kisses. As real lovers share, though there were no illusions that this was anything more than a different sort of play. But always nice, just the same.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Domiel sighed again, deeply, and then began to think about music, again, and about where he would travel next. Only half aware of it himself, the play of his fingers sent a rushing warmth through Anina, her breath catching a moment and a shudder following quickly after. Dampness on his hands and a long purr of contentment from the noble woman, as she shifted and sighed and buried herself even closer against him.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> Purring, Anina gets up, the sheets sliding out of her, the sunlight making her sweat-soaked hair glisten like gold as she moves her beautiful, full body to a nearby locker, a kiss left to Domiel, taking out a bottle of juice, mystically kept fresh. "Hmmm... you did perform better than I thought!" She says, leaving the bottle and stretching, "I absolutely adored last night... even if I need to apologize with you for it."
| |
| − | | |
| − | Bottle popped open, fresh grape juice poured on a goblet, she would open a little glass with some cheese, already cut, mantained by the same spell, taking it out with a pick, her pale naked body shining under the diffuse sunlight, bathed and dried of sweat... asking the changeling without bothering to look at him, "Want some?"
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> Rolling onto his side, half propped up with his cheek resting on his fist, the musician watches the noblewoman appreciatively as she moves through the room. Not even the modesty to throw on a robe. He could almost love this woman.
| |
| − | | |
| − | "And what, pray-tell, could you possibly have to apologize to me for?" he asks off-handedly, admiring the sway of her hips as she goes to the cabinet. "Wounds of passion, my dear, are to be savored, not lamented." A puff of breath to clear a strand of hair from his face and Domiel smiled sardonically at her back, fingering one of the reddened scratched across his chest. "I suppose we could say you gave me a great deal to savor though, if you wish..."
| |
| − | | |
| − | Her offer makes his smile quirk a little more. And she drinks in the morning, as well. "Mmm if you promise to bring it and yourself back to the bed, I'll take some."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> "Oh, why not. My soul is still on one place... and I did want my body ravaged. As much as I could do the same." She smirks, filling a goblet for Domiel, eating one last slice of cheese and bring the goblets to the bed with the carelessness of someone who has an army of servants to clean up any messes with the juice. Translucid under sunlight, the grape juice seems so much like wine, but with the strong scent of fresh crushed grapes that bring the image of the orchards of home to mind...
| |
| − | | |
| − | "Oh, we ravaged each other's bodies well enough," Her gaze follows her words to the changeling's chest, and the red lines of scratches her nails had made in it... "But that is noting to apologize for, now, is it? No..." As the goblet is passed to the Ashen Dove and the voluptuous form of the Baroness lays on the bed again, her gaze becomes distant... the sound of windmills and the chirping of countless birds being all the sound in the room for what seems like an infinite ammount of moments...
| |
| − | | |
| − | "I hear you have played even to the courts of the fair folk... creatures of emotions, driven by passion. I can see some of it in you.." She says, with the tinge of a blush, "But was it just the passion of lust that drove them? Or every passion that is, the drive of every emotion, as I have heard...?"
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> "Quiet," he smiled, reaching up to take the goblet away as she moves back onto the bed. "Live offers us too much to feel sorry for on it's own. Whatever pain brought pleasure as well should never be counted among them."
| |
| − | | |
| − | Domiel Winterwing holds the cup in his palm as he sips delicately. Not wine, as he first thought. The strong taste of grape juice was surprising, but not nearly as much as the questions she asked. Gray eyes peer at her curiously, but he can hear the distance in her voice. He was known, yet rarely asked after in that manner. A surprising woman, this Baroness.
| |
| − | | |
| − | "A court," he corrects mildly as he pulls himself into a sitting position with painstaking slowness. Ravaging of the body indeed... "Not <i>the</i> Courts. They're hardly all the same. One could say that of my cousins as a whole. In that, and only that, they are much like mortals. No single one can be judged by another. The Summer Circle were a pleasant enough band by many standards, yet they warned me often enough themselves of others. Ravishers and ravagers and dream-hunters. Some want passion, sexual or otherwise. Others fear, hatred" He paused, and took another sip, his own gaze wandering into horizon as well. "I suppose that is another way they are comparable to mortals, then"
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> Sipping from the juice, leaving a slight tinge of grapes on her lips, the Baroness lazed on the sheets, resting her head on Dom's legs, adjusting slightly so her great, finely-prenned wings are comfortable as she shakes the goblet idly on her hand, "Oh yes... everyone on Devrier's gathering could be one of the Fair Folk, by these standards. Most of them, at least. So many kill their passions, and leave lovemaking for a sordid thing; kill their souls, and leave even regret to die as they plot their schemes, uncaring... passions are more honest than this. Least the blood shed in passion can be understood, least then it feels alive."
| |
| − | | |
| − | Not idling much longer in these thoughts, her wings twitching slightly, she'd look up at the ornate paints on the ceiling, thanking the lack of Immaculate Philosophy predominance in Windia, letting her have such elaborate displays... "<i>The Summer Circle</i>... pehaps someday I might visit them. I have always desired to see the faerie personally...", she muses, "But if they do everything in the spur of passion, what can hold, of them? It takes passion to conquer the world, but it takes more than it to hold it in place. Passion to play under the sheets, but not to make something <i>last</i>. Can they?"
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> A good question, but not one Domiel ever had a care to think about. The Summer Circle had no designs on Creation, beyond to feed themselves off whatever happiness and desire they could inspire in those around them. They were, he had always understood, the rare exception.
| |
| − | | |
| − | " Allow me offer you this," he replied after a moment, his hand coming to rest upon her hair and stroking it gently. "A question for your question. The Queen of Emerald Roses, the matriarch of the Summer Circle, told me once, after a night of impassioned coupling, that she loved me. They were words spoken with such earnest and conviction that I could not help but be moved, until I heard her use the same tone to express her fondness for the taste of a pastry someone had brought her, the scent of a flower, and the thrill of a kill."
| |
| − | | |
| − | "What could a being who places the love another no higher in her mind than how sweet a desert tastes or the brief scent of a flower possibly make which would last?"
| |
| − | | |
| − | There was bitterness in his voice that caught him off-guard. Still. An old disappointment from when he had been younger and far more foolish than he was today. "Mortals cannot even understand a song, beyond how pleasant it makes them feel. The Fair Ones cannot understand emotion for the same. If there is no real love or pride, what could the ever create which they would not destroy on whim?"
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> "Nothing. Nothing could stand to their whims, nothing they can do last... and yet, they can do anything in these lands of dreams." She replies, with a sigh, looking up at the Changeling and moving her arm lazily to caress his face with a sympathetic smile "You poor thing... must have been awful for you. She was your first love, wasn't she?"
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> "It was a lesson," he shrugged a little, perhaps a bit too ready with the reply, and looked down at her, caressing the arm she lifted to his face. "Love not what you cannot have."
| |
| − | | |
| − | "She was my teacher in many things, that included. There are far more happy lessons she taught me I prefer to remember her by," he gave her a playful smile and turned his head to kiss her palm. "I think I was able to show you a good deal of that teaching, last night. Of course, the Queen was far less inclined to batter me for doing well."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Anina Tierney:</b> "Hmmm... who knows, maybe the passions of the windians surpass that of the Fae... or maybe some of us are just that passion-driven." She giggles almost like a girl for a moment, before her eyes return to someplace far away...
| |
| − | | |
| − | "I guess that my husband is one of the Faerie, then. For like them, he is a creature of passions. Like them, his passions can drive him to do anything... but nothing can last." She says, getting up from the bed, her hips swaying slightly as she walks towards the window, true to Windia, an actal door to the sky... letting the winds caress her naked form, move her golden hair, flutter her white wings... "Once upon a time, he was the most romantic young man I had ever seen among a sea of pretenders... I barely noticed him at first, but he did everything for my heart... until it was his'. There was nothing I could do, as he was so romantic, so loving..."
| |
| − | | |
| − | As she says so her voice takes a somber tone, not unlike the Changeling's when remembering the Queen of Emerald Rose's words. "And yet, now all that I have are burning jealously and the knowledge of his whores. The most romantic boy I have ever met stole my heart, and a small, paranoid man made me cry. Oh, he still can do it... I see it, and I love him for it. And I know it's not me anymore, will never be me for him to burn for... I saw him as he helped to dirty that girl's hands with blood, as he took his place of power... only to see him sink in paranoia to all around him, telling me how they seek to take his place... I have talked and dallied with his subordinates, Dove... and they are simple, nice boys, with the ambition of an Immaculate Peasant. He should thank the Durants for that much, if he could ever see it... Yet, for him, he sees cunning usurpers, and makes his work an innefectie hell..."
| |
| − | | |
| − | She sighs, avoiding Domiel's eyes.
| |
| − | | |
| − | "That is why I have to apologize. If he knows... he will hunt you to the depths of the world, for jealously of the heart that will always be his' and the body he has no right to demand anything of anymore. I knew this when I sought you." She says... turning to the Ashen Dove with a playful, and ultimately sad smile, "But I was hungry for a little of passion, and couldn't help myself. I'm sorry..."
| |
| − | | |
| − | <b>Domiel Winterwing:</b> What could he say? What was there to say? Domiel felt the urge to look away, but resisted. The bedroom fantasies of girls seeking a sparkling future or women looking back to a youth they had lost. These, he was use to. But this was something different.
| |
| − | | |
| − | The Changeling had grown accustom to being used, and to using in turn. A simple exchange, a fantasy from him, their flesh and warmth in return. But now here stood a woman who brought the silent exchange into the open with regret, and named him, a stranger in that, as her confessor. Honesty with ones self as much as with others took courage beyond what most possessed.
| |
| − | | |
| − | <i>I could love this woman,</i> he thought to himself again and knew he meant. Not that he would. Love not what you cannot have. Another man's wife and nobility well beyond his station. And she still loved her husband besides.
| |
| − | | |
| − | Yet there were many kinds of love. They had shared one last night. She shared another with him now. Could he do any less for her?
| |
| − | | |
| − | Domiel rose wordlessly and lifted the sheet from the bed. He moved towards the Baroness and draped it about her shoulders, covering her naked beauty from his eye. Shrouding her in warmth. Gently, soothingly, he slid his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. No lust. No accusation. No regret, either. He held her like that for as long as she would let him, the silence and stillness in the room broken only by the wind rushing by the window and the sounds of the awakening city far below.
| |
| − | | |
| − | "If it matters at all," he said at great length, cautiously playful. "He will be <i>far</i> from the first husband to want me dead."
| |
| − | | |
| − | ----
| |
| − | | |
| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/FirstMovement|First Movement]]
| |
| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
| |
