“Your dagger.”

The ever-present grin almost faded completely from the Twilight Elf’s face, then, and his moon-colored eyes narrowed suspiciously. Inwardly she grinned as she watched the conflicted emotions play in his eyes. 

Weren’t expecting –that- now were you dear? No… no you weren’t… 

“You may never trust me completely, Cayrimsa Etellenya,” Shyndyn said in a hushed tone as he took hold of the weapon’s cold blade, the bloodruby set in its pommel pointing at the half-elf, and laid it gently atop the yawning gash that marred her hand, “and for that I cannot blame you… trust is not a thing easily found in either of us… but let us hope that this, perhaps, imparts enough to, at least, allow us to work more efficiently together, yes?”

She was somewhat surprised when he relinquished his blade to her.

Not what –you- were expecting either now was it?

Her fingers curled around the hilt and she found the cold metal stung the wound across her palm. As he slowly came closer she found herself looking at her hand, at his dagger with the beautiful gem in its hilt, again losing her breath. It was very…

intimate…

Unexpected. When he edged close enough she pressed the dagger to his throat with her trembling fingers. “One wrong move mith’ganni…” she whispered quietly but firmly.
I almost hope you –do- move. I wonder what you would sound like screaming. I wonder if I –could- make you scream…

“More familiar with spells than steel, yes,” he noted aloud, wincing a bit but elsewise ignoring the tickling sensation of the tiny stream of scarlet blood that trickled from the edge of the blade to disappear under the collar of his padded coat, “Carefully, arwenamin. The blade is poisoned and I should not care for my corpse to be dumped in the bay.”

The smile on the mith’ganni’s lips was a curious mix of nervousness and wary confidence in the fact that she wouldn’t kill him just yet; “I may continue, yes?”

Her eyes had simply narrowed on him at that even while thoughts of him screaming in a puddle of his own blood entertained her thoughts. It was his touch that shattered these thoughts though. The slender fingers that played against her skin were much gentler than she thought they could be. It did not hurt though she took a raspy breath as if it did and held it again. A light, almost drunken, feeling wrapped around her head as she found herself all the more aware of what she was not wearing as he kneeled so close. For the second time today she could feel his breath upon her. Her nose twitched slightly as she took in his scent. Elves smelled so differently from humans. No matter how long they had lived in an urban setting something to their smell recalled memories of campfires and running through the woods on a spring morning. Humans smelled of the city, of commerce and mortar. 

And what do I smell of?

“You have herbs as well as books on that shelf, yes?” he asked, his hands moving slowly and staying within her sight as they moved from her neck and jaw, “feer’apsa, arnica, and perchance a bit of lavender?” 

Very slowly she nodded her head. The dagger moves from his throat half an inch, giving him the leeway to move again. The sudden civility that was occurring between them made her itch. At the shelf she directs him to a few of the items, small boxes, jars and vials contain what he is looking for and more. There is even a mortar and pestle on the bottom shelf, a bit of some bluish dust in the bottom, which she asks him to wipe out before he uses it. 

While he prepared the unguent she held onto his dagger. The dark blade that still held a thread of his pure elven blood was interesting. Poisoned, he said. Carefully she caressed a finger along the flat edge of the blade. Her head was still feeling slightly light from the… intimacy… unexpected turn of events. 

Why are you so confused about things Cayrimsa? You are half elven. Denying your blood does nothing to change it. 

I swore… never again. I meant it.

Ohhh… that. Cayrimsa, that was ages ago. When will you let it go?

Never.

The sound of a scream rang through her head and the taste of fresh sweet elven blood coursed over her tongue. Elven blood… elven blood… her eyes flicked to the dagger in her hands. There it was that thin line of dark red against the ebony of the blade. With a muffled cry she leaned forward and buried the blade into the floor boards with a heavy thud. 

Nyx’s yellow eyes rose up to meet hers with her sudden movement, as expected there was some satisfaction in them at her sudden outburst. Before he could make whatever comment was coming to that snide smile upon his lips she once again held out her hand to him.

“Give me that. I’ll tend to my wounds from here. I appreciate your assistance and I’ll see you in the morning. And… there is a door…” her voice taking on a slightly acidic tone to it again as she cocked her chin toward the canvas covered entrance to her space. 

“If that is clear… we should arrange a more appropriate place to meet tomorrow and begin this job.”

With those narrow slits she watched him, followed his eyes up to the tapestry behind her and yet again found herself pressing back against it.

Why does it bother you so that he looks at it?

Because it is mine!

“Your warning is duly heeded, nwalmaer,” he said quietly and rose to his feet. With a rattled breath she twitched her fingers and let the clay pot follow him up, every muscle in her lean frame tense and waiting for him to strike. But instead he bowed slightly to her, a flash of confusion drifts across her dark eyes and again her breath catches in her throat.

He keeps doing that to you doesn’t he?

It isn’t him… it’s my throat, it is hard to breathe, it hurts to breathe…


“Now, as to your loathing of me and my kind, if I may? There are no others of my kind, Cay… what remained of my clan I dispatched to their end with my own hands after your beloved humans had killed or enslaved the rest…” His gaze lifted skyward, studying the night sky for a second as he continued; “There may yet be other mith’ganni out there but my clan and my kind are at an end with me.”

The soft light of the night fell across his features again and she noted how his eyes almost glowed, how the shadows caught the line of his jaw.

He belongs in that light… A twitch to her lips again as she focused on his words.

He is alone… like you Cayrimsa. Ettelen.

No not like me. He once belonged and it is his fault he does not anymore, and he –does- still belong in that light. I belong nowhere, and it has always been thus.


His eyes flashed as they let go of the sky and fell back to her as she tried to sit up a bit taller. “As to the job… it has already begun. I believe I know where we may best start our surveillance, which was to be the point of this visit, yes? You require your rest, though,” he said and waved a hand at the still looming pot, “Put away your crockery and I shall leave you to it…” He turned, peering up through the skylight as if determining precisely where he would latch on and pull himself back out into the night when he left. “Tell me where and when you should like to meet tomorrow and I shall await you there.” Without waiting for a reply, the elf assassin sprang upwards and, in a flutter and whirl of shadow-hued cloak, was gone through the hole in the roof.

She did not put the pot back when he asked but instead pulled it back a few inches from him and listened to him as he finally got them back to business. As he slipped up into the black hole she had carved into the roof to allow natural light to fall upon her weaving she said as loudly as she could manage at the moment.

“Dawn, Grey Arm Dock…”


The last flutter of his cloak disappeared from sight leaving nothing but the blue velvet of the night sky speckled with stars for her to watch. After a few seconds of this she took a long deep breath and closed her eyes letting the clay pot simply drift down toward the floor where it landed with a heavy thud.

He should have killed me earlier… I don’t understand… I don’t understand any of it. I don’t want to understand… She sighed with a cough and had just started to let her head drop to her chest when his voice back in her room made her jump.

“I forgot to mention,” Nyx grinned as he poked his head back through the hole in the roof and regarded her upside down, “Your weaving is exquisite. You’ve really quite captured yourself in that piece over your bed…”

Eyes wide open now she gasped, coughed and sprung into a reaction that was fiercely defensive and nearly instinctual. She was on her knees pressing her body and her fingers against the finely woven fibers of the tapestry, knowing where the branches of the blood red tree stretched by feel she tried to cover them as much as she could. A pit formed in her stomach as she watched his face and knew that her own must be showing her own shock and surprise. Coughing still she froze in that position and worked to bring her wrath into her features instead of her surprise.

He held the laughter when the surprised breath she had just inhaled brought on another wracking cough, though. Instead, Nyx invited himself back in, landing in the same spot as he had just vacated but not showing any intention of moving any farther… yet…

“Also,” he said, lifting his fingers to his own throat when she glared at him, “I can perhaps fix this… but I may have to touch you to do so…”

Very slowly she eased herself back down onto the pallet, catching one of the blankets as it began to slide off her bare shoulder and yanking it back into place. Her fingers graced over his purple marks as she did and for half a second her eyes close only to flutter back open and fix on him.

“You did do this… it seems only right that you fix it.” A hesitation ran under her words.

“I do not trust you mith’ganni…” she began to explain even as she wrapped an arm tighter around her middle, pulling the blanket more securely around her as she did. “I…” surprisingly enough her color deepened suddenly to a dusty rose, a blush? “I am unarmed…” Eyes flit over to the pile of clothing that still carry his scent near the door then back at him.

Slowly she readjusted herself, coming forward a few inches on the pallet, finally breaking the contact between her body and the tapestry. Keeping her eyes on him the hand not wrapped around her middle snakes out of the blanket and stretches toward him palm up the angry wound mouth gaping at him.

“Your dagger.” Even with the rasp to her voice it comes out not as a question but as a command.

The shadows shifted opposite her position on the pallet and, without moving, her eyes flickered toward it. There was no noise, only the crouching spider on her floor that had not been there a moment before. Keeping with the silence her eyes moved to the Bedine coin, it was not yet burning red.

He came too soon… figures…

The coin stays still but she does pull a hand out of the blankets raising it up to shoulder height. Before she can twitch her fingers, however, the spider rises to its full height. Once again the mith’ganni steals her breath from her. The lithe figure is tall and illuminated by the stars above in pale light, causing those yellow eyes to gleam, he is confident even while in her domain. Breath held in her lungs she presses the last half inch back into the tapestry behind her and grinds her teeth together. 

Tensely she follows his actions with her eyes alone. For now her pale fingers stay poised at her shoulder between herself and him. As his eyes wander over her and the tapestry behind her she tries vainly to press herself further against it, almost as if to protect the tapestry from his defiling yellow gaze. 

What do you think he sees? What do you think he wants?

If he is watching her face then he will notice a slight irritated twitch to her lips and a slight shaking of her head, but as soon as it happens it is controlled and she is still again. 

“Have you missed me,” he asked, pausing for instant, “Cay?”

With his voice she began to breathe again. The breath carried with it a whispered spell that passed between her lips like a breeze. The poised fingers also jumped into action and while she kept her eyes firmly fixed upon him her fingers guided a clay jar off the shelf and between them, hovering at his chest height. Nothing else stirred in the room. 

“No…” Her voice was raspy still and she coughed softly after she says it, the purple fingers across her neck bearing down against her larynx still.

“No I did not… I would prefer it if you sat down Shyndyn. Where you are… you will regret trying to come any closer to me.” To prove this she pushes the clay jar just a bit closer to him with the finger across the room. As he goes down to the floor she has the jar follow him, staying at his chest level. 

“That’s better. You caught me off guard before… it shan’t happen again. I am sure you wonder why I have not disposed of you yet. Unlike you I find killing merciful, and I do not wish to grant you that mercy. More importantly though,” she takes a deep breath through her damaged windpipes with a rattle, “more importantly, your actions were due to my mistakes. I should have better control, even when dealing with hwandi such as yourself.” Another long breath as she watches him. 

“My prior warning, however, still stands.” Her eyes narrow on him and she leans forward a few inches. “Don’t you ever touch me again…” the warning coming out in a slow growl. “I will work with you, because I have been ordered to, because being a Hellkite is something I have worked toward and something I will not throw away because of some adenedehl. You may think you know me Shyndyn… but I promise you do not. Nor shall you ever. I do despise you and all of your kind. If that is clear… we should arrange a more appropriate place to meet tomorrow and begin this job.” 

Her face contorts into a slight wince and she coughs a few times as her voice continues its slow healing, her eyes off him for but an instant, although the jar never waivers. 

As soon as the Mith’ganni got off of her she gulped down the fetid air of the alley and let her hands seek her throat. For the moment she worked on filling her lungs and getting the blood flowing back to her brain. On her second full breath she sat up and searched for Nyx, a spell already on the tip of the tongue he had so recently violated.

There was nothing around her but dense mist, though. Cursing in her head she fell backwards into the mud again and laid there for a moment gasping as tears streamed down her cheeks and taking advantage of the privacy the mist provided. As she came further into full consciousness she slammed her fist against the ground once then fell still for once.

She had expected some reaction from him. That grin he gave her was irritating but certainly expected. This is why she had continued, she had pushed him further until he reacted. That the reaction had left her completely incapacitated, something she had not felt often in her life, had not been expected. His speech ran through her head once again: he had insulted her, complemented her, analyzed her and then finally… finally kissed her.

Sitting up quickly she spit on the ground and pushed up onto her feet.

KISSED ME… that adanedhel shoved his tongue into my mouth! I can still taste him…

Continuing to spit she started back home, moaning in a gravelly voice as she stretched out her arms, flexing them as if she were trying to regain control of them again. The loft she called home was only three more blocks from this alley and she stalked toward it. Careful now to keep her eyes on the shadows around her. The Twilight Assassin could be hiding in any of them, she had let her guard down once around him, she vowed that it would not happen again.

‘Vergel Sea Port’ was painted onto a three story wooden building. It was graying with age, falling on one end toward the ground, and had no eyes, only a handful of entrances that seemed to eat anything that dared enter, the smell of fish hung on it like a dank cloak. A narrow staircase hugged the back of the building. The stairs groaned in protest as she mounted them and made her way to the top story.

The top story was no more than a stretch of attic. The floor, walls and ceiling bare wooden planks that held no beauty but many holes. The door had long been missing and a flap of heavy canvas covered it. As Cay pushed it aside bells along the bottom of it jingled hollowly. The few people who have had the misfortune of seeing the inside of her lair have found it surprising to say the least. The furniture itself is nothing unexpected. A pallet hiding under a tangle of worn blankets in one corner, a rough table and chair at its foot. A bookshelf made of wooden planks bolted to the wall takes over one wall. Worn books and strange jars cover the shelves.

Most of her unfortunate guests, however, have taken in these details later. The first thing that generally catches the eye is the tapestry that hangs over the pallet. It is easily a five foot square. Unlike the rest of the room it is perfectly clean and obviously well cared for. A twisted red tree stands stretching out bare limbs against a grey landscape. Lines suggesting the bark on the tree rise along its length. The right side of the tree is lined in black and seems to rise higher than the left side which is lined in white. Around the edge of the tapestry leafless thorns make a complex design and in the corner they collide to give birth to a small white rose, the maker of the weaver. It is of excellent quality despite its unorthodox subject.

In the final corner of the room a loom stands. Piles of yarn under it and a few feet of another tapestry pulled out on its wrack already. Above it a hole has been cut into the ceiling, a heavy canvas flap attached to it that with the pull of a rope can cover the hole when it is raining or uncover it to allow sunlight in. Today it is open.

Within her own sanctum she finally lets her guard down.

“eh ahm noeght moehr ehlven…” She grumbles and brings her hand to her throat as she hears the scratch in her own voice. The swollen purple lines of Nyx’s fingers were still imprinted on her skin there. With a wince she grasps a bottle off the bookshelf and takes a long swig of it. The liquid burns across her mouth and into her throat before she coughs and spews it across the floor, and yet it still does not get the taste of him out of her mouth, and there is still the feel of him, the smell of him…

The desire to cleanse herself of him overwhelms her and soon she is stripping her clothing off her body. Peeling away the soiled layers and tossing them into a pile. Bottles are opened and she settles herself on the floor before beginning the purification. Beginning at her feet and working up her body inch by inch she scours the pale flesh of her body with a rough sponge soaked in some caustic liquid.

The process was what she had hoped it would be: Painful. Fumes pulled tears from her eyes. The mouth on her palm lapped up the scouring agent between screams. The very flesh covering her body becoming angry and flushed with every stroke of the sponge against it.

He knows nothing about me. Nor apparently of his own kind. Elves are nothing but weak creatures who grovel before the humans. Who live in squalor and rely on pitiful practices to continue their fetid existence. His own kind has barely even succeeded at that!

Humans have succeeded in this world. It is they who have built cities and waged wars that have crippled everything around them. They are brutal and yet powerful.

-And yet he brought you not only to your knees but to your back in some vile alley-

A mistake, and one he’ll regret.

-He threatened your life… and then kissed you-

Another mistake. I would have fought had I the chance, and he would have screamed. At least I did not give him the satisfaction of my screams. For that I can be proud.

-Are you sure you would have fought him?-

Yes! With all I have. I have never brought myself to such degradation as being with an adanedhel, and I never will…

-And yet it bothers you greatly, even though it was taken and not offered-

Of course it bothers me! I can still feel him, I can still taste him!

-And how does it make you feel?-

Filthy! I feel soiled to my very soul, what is left of it. As if oil clung to my heart!

-And warm… something burns over him still-

Enough!

The sponge began to turn pink at her shoulder as she scrubbed mercilessly. When she realized the damage she was inflicting the sponge is thrown across the room.

A slow snarl crept over her face, but slowly it turned into a smile as she ran her tongue over her teeth and found that the taste of him was finally fading. Her skin still burned, but now it burned with the pain she had caused compared to the pain, or other feelings, that he might have caused. The filtered light of the attic swirled around her for a moment. The pink of her skin and the swollen fingers across her neck dimmed in this light and anyone watching would find themselves almost admiring the feminine figure that stood there. Without the hat her brown hair fell in strands down the middle of her back. Her curves were subtle petite lines that followed the graces not of the great planets but of the more gentle stars. It was a body most women would be proud of and would not hide under layers of oversized clothing. Eyes of muddy brown shifted over to the tapestry on the wall, wandering over the blood stained tree that grew in perfect duality there. From this the body seemed to gather strength and relaxed finally. Deep breathes were pulled through the battered larynx into lungs that filled only to accentuate those delicate curves. Then the curves moved as they stretched, the stars spreading against a pale background to realign themselves in a constellation of arcane power.

His voice came to her again, “Something for you to think on until next we meet, yes…It shan’t be long, I promise…”

“I’ll be waiting…” The voice that came from the constellation was rough still but calmer now.

Remaining in her pure celestial form she moves about the room. Lighting her lantern and placing her favored medallion upon its cap to warm. The loom is inspected and tightened. The stars then shift to the bed and envelop themselves in the blankets there, covering the form once again. She leans against the wall, the tree seeming to grow out of her shoulders as she waits.