January 20, 2003.01.20.03. - wicked games [harlequin-dahlila-grania][cymaa]
(dahlila olufemi)
Crunch. . . crunch. . . crunch
The exquisite sound of sand beneath ones feet is delightful. It may be this one tiny detail that made her feel so at home in the dark, commercialized club. She passes within easily, and take in tonight's press. Long fingers brush back trailing tendrils of hair as she manuevers around a few people to the bar. The music was sultry, and she can't help but move in its rhythm, while she walks. She could pass for decor here, her stamp of blood on features, face, and body. Black on her dusky skin and with her dark hair and mixed eyes make a contrast of proportions that draw the eye, or make one overlook her. Whats one more Egyptian thing among an egyptian themed night? Sliding up to a stool, she perched there, long legs crossed beneath long leather skirt, and ordered wine. Its deep red counterpoint to her dark, and she lit a slim black cigarette as she watched the ebb and flow of people like waters betwixt the banks of hr homeland.As her face watches people, ears languidly listen to sound like fine wine, her mind trails over a recent piece she had seen. One that would fit nicely in her den. Pondering over the qualities of it, as she sits. The cigarette comes up, lips wrap around it delicately and a long low draw of flavored addiction before it comes away, and a long minute later smoke drifts lazily from her mouth. Setting it down in the ashtray at hand. The bartender here was nothing if not ideal. Fingers toy along the rim of her as yet untouched wine, slightly chilled and smelling of mild age and potent alcohol. Rich, dark reds were always so tantalizing. . . slender fingers trace a dance along that rim with perfect nails clicking the glass every so often.
(harl)
he decends the stairs slowly glass of wine in one hand the liquid half gone a rosy pink colour like the touch of a sunset just before the helios dies and the world sinks into nights embrace. he glides there is no other word for it as if feet dont quite touch the ground down those stairs. to the ground floor. the twisting writhing bodies and major dance beats once more summoning him. that and he did not find anyone that interested him upstairs.a raver at heart his outfit shows this the shirt is a shimmering gold translucent and clining just right to show off the body that flows beneath it. black leather that looks almost painted on hugs his legs. and boots compleate the outfit... eyes dark like the darkest of chocolates look out from between strands of raven hair the khol that surrounds them adding to that dark depth.. he brushes one of the bangs from his face only to have it slide back over tanned skin a second later a twist of a smile playing on his features. now who and where and my my my how will one have fun
(dahl)
Finally, a drink. Its that perfect combination of deep red lips (rubies) that sip at the deeper red wine. Must be an expensive brand, because not a trace clings to the glass when her lips part ways with the glass. Even dressed down, dressed for the dark den this place was, she still looked upper class. Eyes are misty dark, blue swirled grey, and speak of intelligence as they roam exotic patrons and minute artistic detail. Still her mind hums around the scroll she had found. The one that would match her set so well. It was the visual, colorful story of the same that amrched up exquisitely arced spine. Black lines and glyphs told some tale on her. Can you read it? She can.Setting her glass aside on its tiny napkin, and taking up her cigarette, inhaling the sharp, sweet cloven scent that flavored it. She smelled of her cigarettes and her abode. Sandalwood and cloves. A spicy, heady mixture for a spicy, heady woman. What would the Board say if they saw her out after work?
(harl)
they would probably be to busy drooling to really notice where she was, this decedant den of antiquity, to busy trying to hide the fact that they where staring and had been caught themselves in such a place to wonder why she was there...those eyes deepest dark look slowly aorund the club as he moves finally from his perch on that last step. graceful and deadly he moves through the croud as if water flowing down a river the path of least resistance. bodys flow by with not a touch where others must force thier way through the crouds with an ungainly struggle he seems to simply walk. silken glide takes him slowly towards the bar skirting the edges of the dance floor. something had caught his interest something he had wished to see. a play of skin on a silken back he had thoughthe noticed while surveying the room. now turned from him or is that to face him.
(dahl)
She's not looking for anyone, in particular, or really at all. Its a relaxing time to descend from Corporate America and cut loose, indulge her other passions a bit. Shifting some, the softcreak of leather as her legs recross the other way and smoke drifts up from her cigarette. A dark half smile on her lips as she watches. Music and voices pouring into finely tuned ears. Just another face in the night.(harl)
it is not the face he is interest no not with that much silver gleaming at throat and navel. how can she stand the stuff and with her colouring gold would look better anyway. silver is the colour for ice quens and nordic monsters. no she would look better in the burnished gold that is so reminiciant of the desert sun. the white gold of nooon days fire, the yellow that is sands in sunset. so it is with a slight amount of distaste that he circles her although the rest is much approved of. he knows it was here somewhere but where? eyes play across the croud he was sure it was here. then again the line of glyphs come into sight oh no it is the woman in silver. that smile falters for a moment before he can muster it again place it back into a genuine smile gliding towards the woman with the tattoos upon her back(dahlila)
. . . And from all corners of the earth did the great Goddess, Isis, gather the strewn pieces of her consort and husband, Osiris, thereby to assemble them with the aid of Nepthys and Anbubis . . .
Mulling over the tale in her mind. Its colorful patterened story inked into papyrus and would complete her small collection for that one room. . . hmmmm. . . decisions, decisions. Tapping off a bit of ash from her cigarette and taking another long lungful of sweet addiction, she pondered, letting eyes and ears do as they will while she did. The very same story etched into black elegant inks on her back. Like a human scroll of ancient history. Exotic for the unenlightened, intriguing for the learned few.So while she thought, her swirled eyes caught on the exotic dark one, the sleekly gliding one who moved about. While this place catered to the deeply different, he stood out some. Maybe its just the eyes. . .
(harl)
that stretch of skin studied so closely every swirl every line every minute detial something iin that look suggests he could draw it now both her entire back and the glyphs that mark it without a trouble. even in that brief glance before she can spin on feet the sound of leather drawing across leather as she turns the way that top flows and silver is once again exposed to eyes. like white fire burning at her throat and navel... a dark god long forgotten bast his mistress he moves with that predatory grave that attracts so many and scares others... dark and exotic a sweet blend of old european, egyptian and something else. something many dont really know the blood o the rom. and modern day club culture. written across his face in his eyes are the misteries of worlds mostly forgotten written across his clothes is the mistery of the bachinaal only now being rediscovered by the youths of this country.eyes light with amusement as he looks upon her. that smile growing he has been noticed. and he knows it that glide carries him the last few steps that seperate them the distance halved then halved again... usually he would get closer but that silver is so cold the last of that rosy liquid a light and fruity elixir sweet wine stains his lips before empty glass is placed on the bartop. the stool next to hers claimed. .
(dahl)
She comes from the land of burning sands and blazing suns. The land of animal gods and bloody history. The land of myth, mystery, and history that even now lives on. It is not a light past, nor a pretty heritage. The strangely compelling man does not frighten her. In fact is more intriguing then not. It even draws her back from her musings some, enough that she titls her head to his side, not quite facing him, in a silent inquiry maybe, or just a silent acknowledgment.One dusky tan hand lifts her wine to her lips once more, filling her mouth with the rich aroma and taste. Lips damp with it and licking them slightly, gathering it all in. . . but she doesn't look trite. Its all done in sleek, soft ways. Then the glass returns to the napkin beside her, and the aroma of wine, cloves, and sandalwood fills in the absence.
(harl)
such sweet scents all it is missing is the undertone of myrhhh so close to his own lover. he draws a deep breath bringing taste and scent over his pallete the essence of her drawn deep into his lungs. so sweet so nice.he continues to study her with those dark chocolate eyes. he doesnt hide it his interest although there is sometihng dispasionate in it something not quite right it is not lustful male enjoying the view but rather someone studying a puzzle a rubix cube a scroll that he must decipher.
finally his voice however pours from between parted lips, stained with wine fine delicate and expensive. "hello" it vibrates an almost tangiable force that one could touch and hold a simple word that seems to draw on forever mixing and blending with the music. becoming part of it overlapping it to only become seperate once more as it drifts to her ears.
(dahl)
No, his watching her did catch her attention. She was used to the men of the various companies making eyes at her. Something about being foreign she supposed, since she was fairly conservative by day, but this one did not, thouh he had interest. . . how odd.She listens to that wod. Her ears replay it in minute detail. Words, language, voice. . .its a beauty to her. Heaven for no one else but her. The sound that emerges from ruby lips is lushly foreign, like the speech of some long dead Pharoah queen who wandered into modern nights. Rich with its egyptian songs and play.
"Good evening."
(harl)
he is also forign or at least looks forign his voice has an exotic blend of so many languages so many cultures. although the liltng sound of the romani is sitll predominant. "yes it is, and how does the evening find you" oh daughter of the nile with words upon your back what secrets are enclosed within flesh and written clearly for those with knoweldge to understand. and why oh child of the delta are you wearing silver. is not gold the metal of your people? eyes flow to that necklace stop there prehaps it is peekaboo he wishes to play before the gaze slides back up to your face. tilting once more to the side studying you in that half light.(dahlila)
How does it? Her two little vices being sated in a lushly sensual atmosphere, dressed as far from business professional as one could get. . . yes, she was feeling good. Letting her hair down so to speak."Relaxing. . . and yourself?"
Why does she wear silver? Perhaps because it goes so nicely with gleaming skin and black. Perhaps because it shines like the moon instead of beating like a sun. Who can say for sure. Nothing about her as it seems.
(harl)
"enjoying the atmosphere" eyes look not so much at you but through you as if he can see what is etched into the skin on your back from this side and if by staring at it long enough can come to understand exactly what it is that he sees... prehaps he shoould just ask but that would remove some of the fun prehaps although it would offer up the answer so much quicker.(dahl)
She's used to the looks. Hardly notices them anymore. Its what comes of having strange markings instead of hearts and thorns and other too often seen tattoos. Hers had signifigance, to her, and were the lore of ancient blood and long tradition."Its easy to do in such a place."
Facing him a bit more now, as she takes a drink of her wine once more. The glass itself having only reached half empty. She's not drnking heavy tonight it seems. Nostrils flare slightly as she smells the richness beneath it. Sliding smoothly down her throat and then attention given back to the mysterious stranger who sat beside her with peering eyes.
(harl)
"i find it reminds me a bit of home" liar although a very good one. "i love the mix of old world and new beginnings" the club beats with the lifeblood of youth yet it is a palace of antiquity frozen forever in the past of some lost desert temple... a place where those like him where worshiped as gods. do you know an incantation of your own sits with you my dear.(nak)
cruelit describes the slash of smile across slender face, the curve of lips that draws a smooth expression between high cheekbones framed by sculpted jaw, shadow trails of long black hair dangle to his shoulders, lifted by the slow crawl of fingers that find their way through the midnight strands, body arching into liquid stretch which ends with arms unfurled above slender frame, fingers splay, hands opening themselves to the glittering stars in the night sky ceiling while his feet touch the desert sands below
his body a bridge between earth and dark sky
left hand with it's pattern of ink embedded within skin the guide, it begins at a point just below middle knuckle and sweeps downwards, he can feel the darkness crawling down his flesh, falling as rain from the intricately hidden speakers far above, over the loosely fitting silken shirt and the black pants that pool around his ankles, flooding into the warm sands that covet his toes as if answering his silent commands, the darkest army gathering at his feet
that is when he turns, slow, deliberate, grains of sand crushed and sorted beneath pivoting foot, slow, strolling strides taken to weave through the club's patrons
just what is it the devil seeks tonight
(dahl)
The place was well done, but its not home. Home are the musty, murky tombs with their glorious murals and tales. Scents of death and eternal life. Grit of sand and heat. Oh how she misses home somedays. Instead she plied her skills learned at home for corporate America, and collected small treasures of the past, safely hiding them away from tawdry, ignorant hands."It does not remind me of home so much as aids in remembering."
Mini seech for her. Words her trade, and life, but in her relaxation they were only wine to the ears, not pushed from the throat. No, her nameless companion could be any exotic face and she would never know the difference. Her world was built of history and myth. Taking up that delicately scented cigarette once more, but no inhale, just holding it, filling their space with its scent.
(harl)
"and where is home to you" child of the delta. the last left unsaid even as he watches her cat and mouse a game and war of words that pouring seductive tone to melt hearts and set fires of lust alight. that scented ciggarette raises slowly in the distance that seprates them a burning beacon that draws his eyes the subtle play of smoke in the air before it is swallowed by the darkness entrancings. the sweet smell tickling the back of his nostrils enchantment. and beneath it all her.. the simple movement of hand and arm as the hand raises slowly brining with it that burning ember.there is another in this club prehaps he had been looking for him prehaps he can feel his presence or prehaps a stray glimpse over the shoulder of the one he talked to currently is enough to allert him of the others presence whatever it is that smile altohugh not changing seems to become more genuine softer somehow. eyes alight upon the silken figure that weaves like a deadly viper through the crouds. tell me eve was your serpent as sweet looking?
(nak)
thiefhis ancestors stole the very breaths from babes, tasting innocent souls with each inhalation across viper's tongue, dusky lips part, drawing in the scents and tastes to slip across his tongue with each step, past each body, as if slowly choosing the soul which will be reaped before dawn
temptation
eyes a molten swirl of brown and green draw towards the bar, their weight skimming down inked heiroglyphs turning to the pinprick icicles of something with sharp hooves slinking across a grave, climbing into the depths of a forgotten tomb, yet he does not read them, he does not comment, a blink brings the focus elsewhere, drawing to the boy
torture
drawn by the boy, something changes in that sinister smile, a deviant warmth to the cruelty, an invitation to the aloof step, those eyes sweeping down the length of him, before the manshadowcreaturespirit melts behind a gathering of patrons, slipping away, the serpent slithering through the desert sands, searching for what dares become blessed oasis to shade and quench and cool what heat the relentless sun must have inspired beneath scaled skin
(dahl)
Oh how she loved a voice, loved words. The meanest face and if it poured out a voice sweetly rich and decadent she could die happily. He spoke and forlong moments all she hears is the sound, no words, no meaning. . just the voice. Then the words. Mind picking apart the words, nuances, sound, for accents, languages, rhythms. Its what she does. Student of tongues. Known in the small sphere of her world for her middle eastern mastery. Finally, drawing in some of the smoke that wafts between them and setting the stick aside she settles for fingers that toy absently with that flimsy little chain about her waist, even as she watches him. To answer? Oh that ruins the fun. . ."Where might you think it would be?"
A game, a word game, a mind game, and every inch of it fun. Drink it up, beautiful man, and come play. What draws your eyes away? Lips drift up to a slight smile, a tempting smile that begs the question.
(harl)
from what forgotten place and time did you step forth, which gods do you serve and from what temple did you crawl are you the serpant that crawls on its belly to whisper sweet words like the slither of scales over sand? or prehaps you are servant to the shadowcat that stalks the night to steal the soul of the innocent. like the adder that hides in the long grass waiting within the welcoming embrace the posion hidden deep within the bossum of beauty. is it the birds eye that you cast upon us the ibis who governs over pens and inks or the hawk sailing across the day light sky. prehaps it is the mother and father you serve isis and osiris. that creation myth carried in so many cultures told in so many ways... are you from the hidden valleys and high desert sands or the green flood planes where the river spills her blood into the sea.as a swirl of the croud steals the sight of his lover eyes drift back to the woman, it would seem he could get an answer on what is written there much sooner than he thought. that smile turns to her sooo you wish to play the game "are you from the upper or lower kingdom?"
(grania)
There is a hush that surrounds her, a quiet pensiveness, a aura of grace that soaks through every little movement: the tilt of head, the slide of hair, the drop of lashes only to raise again, the curve of lip into a smile offered the bouncer as ID and cover is produced.
The picture is determined to match the face, and ID is tucked into denim pocket of new lowrider jeans, sand underfoot scuffed by first step of leather boots. Poetry in motion, feline grace as arms are slid from coat to reveal bare skin under delicate silk camisole, a deep blue, much like eyes surrounded by darker then dark lashes, which are often obscured by the fall of blondish curls that slides over ear to tickle under jaw.
Music pulses and sings to movement, intrepreted by slide of foot and sway of hip, the roll of shoulder in subtle shift, the cant of head, and sparkling gaze, steps that weave and wander throughout the patrons, attention drawn, attention diverted, her own attention divided among all, fingertips sliding over statue, touch gracing glyphs along the walls - unread, but appreciated for the beauty within each sweeping line and mark.(nak)
some maze is being drawn in the sand, this steady prowl, his very path a string left within wake to fall latent against the grains until it is whipped taught and deadly, wrapping about a stray ankle, striking from the murky Nile waters like some prehistoric crocodile dragging the unsuspecting wildabeast to drowning depths, like some secret which tantalizes even the most concert into the cursed depths of the richest tombthere is a hunger in those eyes, a deep desire that ebbs and flows as tidal waves crashing over the blackest of hearts, and there is something more that begins to follow him, some call, some draw that weaves the sweetest scent of honey and myrrh clinging to dark clothes, lost in the liquid self-indulgent movement that aligns itself to the rainfall music, a dance of his own, lost in the pilgrims which cast themselves into this modern desert
but still he watches the bar, the occasional glance, the intricate and intimate stare
(dahl)
So he guessed the homeland, but a new question flows? Its not hard, especially sitting against such a backdrop, to know her ancestry. Not as if she tried to hide it. Oh the lips curl up a bit at his question, but silence still reigns, silence and scent and music. She disturbs the strung out moment, spun out like eternity, by slipping a hand around her glas, and taking a long, deep drink. Lips and drink match, deeply darkly counterpoint to her. Setting it back, nearly empty now, she waves the bartender over for a refill and then her swirled eyes flick back to Harlequin. If another watches them, she knows not, or cares not. His voice is more musical then the music, and trying to decipher that accent a puzzle in and of itself.What shadow turned you out of its fold to torment this world with sweetly decadent sound? What god's grace did you steal to nie on fly amongst lowly mortals who jostle and fight the press. As much a mystery yourself, stranger. Eyes can say so much, but lips even more.
"And what do you know of the Kingdoms, stranger?"
A question for a question for a question. The game deepens.
(harl)
eyes that watch and dance and play the sweeping geastures of the other as he weaves his wicked spell through the crouds upon the sands. what is it you doo sweet lover in your seductive dance. who will you capture with your movement and your gaze, so that they sacrafice themselves up to you so willingly... eyes dance and flow watching for the stray glimpse of the figure that moves across artificial desert as much as they watch dalilah. prehaps more... "conqured in war and bound in peace thier history is to extensive to summ up in a simple scentence. are you born of the desert or the delta?" there is something there whatever language he calls his first english is just as fluent to him prehaps he grew up speaking both. the slight tinge of american of european of english and irish all blend into his it is good old fashioned melting pot with a dash of old world lilt to take the edge off. to give it that sweet tonal quality that can bring forth image of silken sheets and fur sliding across the spine.(grania)
Something shimmers in crystiline gaze, something speaks of stories untold, of things most have never seen, of deeds that can never be undone, of desires that can never be fulfilled but by the grace of her hand. An approving eye slides over this, or that, only to fall away in curiosity of that, or this. Something continues to pull her eye from one thing to another, each devoured by heat and at times memorized by touch. The grace of fingers sliding over skin, touch of arm, brush against swell of flank, curve of back where hand rests to herald her passage among the sea of patrons, just as quickly removed even as the feel is memorized..stored, to be remembered another day, explored another way.
She has yet to speak (and in that alone she speaks volumes), lips have yet to do more then curve into slightest smile, and still she wanders, an ever explorative slink between shadow and light..(nak)
what game it is he plays, some spell woven in the patterns on the sand - decadent, devious, and delicious with each step and sway, the slide of his body against another, bump and lean of weight that could only be deemed as seditious for it far exceeds a casual placement of hand or hip or arm or full press of form driven by the music's enchanting call, this deliberate cobra rising from the sands, emeralds glitter behind his eyes, venom could so easily drip from his tonguebut how the game wanes
hunger unsatisfied, craving uninspired, it drives him from the shifting masses, shadow slipping between bodies to find place at the bar, negligent glance allowing a further scrutiny of Dahlila's back, before those eyes drift across her shoulder to Harlequin with the barest ghost of a smile
and then he looks away
(dahl)
His words echo true and yet. . . its too much fun to play the mystery. A flicker at the others around them, brief, more a pause then an attempt to see any one thing. The swell and roll of his voice enough distraction for now. If only she heard such delightful things during the day, her job might be more interesting. That wash down her back, muscles rippling with a half suppressed shiver. . . indeed fur along the spine."I'll be kind. . . sun baked desert saw my childhood, though the banks of the Nile were everpresent."
What towns and cities did that leave? In the Upper Kingdom, quite a few. Oh so many riddles and puzzles. Why tattoo that particular story upon her back? Why weave amongst darkly decadent places when she lived such an upstanding life? One balck brow tilts up some for his answer as she eyes him over the rim of her bleeding red wineglass.
(harl)
that left soo many questions so many towns many places and all those in between. lost in the distant land that he has only trod upon once. for such a breif moment...that smile from over the womans shoulder awakens one in his own hands raise about to flicker then pause int hier movements frozen for an instant about to sign. yet then that gaze driffts away and he finds himself again drawn to the woman the woman with her secrets the answers written across her skin
"how long have you been here my dear?"
(grania)
The common press, the careful slide of hand and body, the serpentine writhe of flesh as one dances with another, drawn into the movement as further careful study to contrast experience with memory.
Where one lacks inspiration, another finds it, where one is unsatisfied, another drowns in bounty. where riddles abound and answers are questions, silence under musics swell is her steady companion.
One asks, another answers, another asks, one answers, and soon such questions lead her onto the floor to join press and slide of bodies in motion. Grace incarnate, seductions mystery in every step that brings her closer to her (newest, recent) companion. Hands slide over chest, lazy caress, learned exploration of swell and curve of lean bodies press, brow lifting in amusement, head cants to the side as voice speaks in her ear, and finally a sound slips from her lips in form of soft laughter. Head shakes, smile remains, and she turns from him to dance alone.(nak)
a drink appears at the beckon of gesture, glass raised to his lips and drained before flesh leaves the hard, warmed curve of the container, and that is when eyes slide over again, to her back, dark brow casually lifting in passing interesthis hand moves in a gesture again, some errant dance of limb in the air, perhaps his inspiration has returned, or perhaps he explains the glyphs to his unacknowledged companion
(dahl)
But she asks no questions of him? Thats not how to play the game. Wetting her lips slightly, before speech, wondering at the hand, she glances over her shoulder. Swirled eyes of blue and grey take in Nakhti down the way. No idea if he was who Harlequin looked to, hands moved for, but he was back there. One sinuous, sleek manuever, and then her head comes back to fix on Harlequin."Oh no, stranger. . . I answered your question. Answer one for me."
No more secrets, lovely man, with the deadly beautiful until you tell me something of thee.
"Your voice speaks of many places, but one must be named home. . ."
Picking up her cigarette, she inhales the cloven smoke and waits, eyes fixed on him.
(harl)
"what if my home is all places and none? then how should i name but one and tell you that it is my home would you wish the lie to spill from between these lips in a naming of a town or country?" hands watcht he delicate play of nakhtis own hands and limbs the serpents dance they weave even as he answers her. those eyes fixed on him the play of smoke in front of fave teasing the senses.(grania)
One leads, another follows, one slides away, another chases, and still the slide and press of flesh and fingers and smooth of hand and thigh against anothers continues, while sleek movements carry lithe form toward the bar.
Soon slender graceful form slides against wood, tender waved over and lips purse ina moment's contemplation before he is beckoned forward, closer, and voice murmurs low across his ear the silken purred request. She leans away again, hands curled around the edge of bar, back arching in smooth feline stretch before relaxation settles and she awaits her service.
Shimmering amber liquid is set before her, and fingers lift the glass to lips, pausing as inhale pulls fragrent bouquet across her senses, sip taken, savored against pallatte before it slides away, single mouthful drained before clink of glass sees wine set back upon bartop.(dahlila)
That cigarette finished, she snuffs out its tiny glowing light in the ashtray neary and slips her tiny purse over closer. Miracle of miracls it is a slim case of gold she pulls out, and opening it reveals a half dozen more of her favorite vice, neatly arrayed like tiny mummies in their case. She holds the case out to Harlequin as she takes one for herself. No words given yet, just that simple, motion. The gentle scent of the cloves cloying from the tiny encased sticks, and she breathes it in lightly. Sweet, but not as sweet as his voice.(harl)
he shakes his head ever so slightly at the offered cigarette "no thankyou my dear but thanykou for the offer" the shake of his head such a minute geasture yet soo expressive at the same time as if in the smallest of movements he could communicate so much(khepera)
The music is...alive!
The atmosphere is..unique.
It is a different world unto itself.He was simply in love with it. There is a first time for everything. This was his first experience at Cymaa. A virgin to the sinful world, displayed before him. A stamp on his hand, he was old enough to get in, past the door man, through the volumes of black, velvet curtains..
and here he was..Dark eyes, two deep pools of Obsidian, sweep over everything, drinking in the imagery the club displayed. The music pounded into his ears, seeped into his brain, into his body. He felt his muscles coil, seduced by the sounds, scents, and sights of supple flesh, beauty people, and the dance. He makes his way through the crowd, side-stepping with a perfect, almost prenatural grace. His body, lean, stream-lined muscle, an athlete's build. Brown skin, sun-kissed by Khephir's morning rays, ripple beneath black mesh and worn, soft leather. Dark shadows of tattoos graced the slow, sweeping arc of a spine, from the nape down to the tailbone, disappearing beneath the hem of leather pants. Another, more intriquing spiral, decorated his left shoulder, only made visible at close inspection of what the design truly was. Too tribal to tell. Too dark to see beneath the mesh shirt. Bits of jewelry, white gold, adorned in small hoops in his ears, and gathered around his throat, fashioned in thin ringed choker with a bejeweled scarab beetle as the pendant. His eyes, were thinly-lined in black Kohl, much like the style the Egyptians wore. It seemed rather fitting.. for a place like Cymaa.
(dahl)
The case clicks closed lightly and she slips it away into the dark recesses of her purse. Withdraws a gold plated lighter and gives life to her cigarette. Its a practiced thing. Taking a deep breath of its new smoke beofre laying it aside in the ashtray. Hands free and empty within her leather wrapped lap, drapped atop long crossed legs."So if you are of everywhere, stranger, what shall I call you?"
(nak)
there is something that calls him, something that plucks his attention away, myriad eyes pausing in their sweep across Harlequin to dive towards the feline stretch, the limbering of dancing frame, the savored amber liquiddisconcerting - he simply watches, silent in the heavy thrall of music
(grania)
The tap of nails on bartop slides within the confines of the music and press of voices murmur that hums throughout the room. glass is lifted again, slender fingers wrapped around stem to lift shimmering liquid to lips agaiin. Kiss of red against glass and wine slides down throat in smooth swallow with no less grace that spins lithe to rest back agianst bar, and allow dark eyes greedy examination of all before her.
Disconcerting his study, slow her smile as brow make slow climb toward strawberry curl, the arch of neck smooth that leads to tilt of chin, turn of head, meeting of silent gaze.(harl)
"for now i am called Harlequin.' distracted yes his back to the woman and her feline grace all he can see is the play of emotions as they write themselves across nakhtis face. the intesne study that slides from him to another. lost for a moment in the movement a jealous lover that would covvet his gaze alone... or a curious individual that wanders what it is he is missing... "and you dear daughter of the nile what may i call you?"(nak)
there is a slow blink, green and brown eyes, the colors of earth's deepest plunder and the riches grasses that grow from it, hazel wrapped and wrought into the finest of crystaline reflection, they fall away behind the lazy drop of midnight lashes... there is nothing more than the ghosting curl of lip, the absent shadow of a possible smile, and the dark brow mirroring hers' climb(khep)
He continues a slow movement through the crowd. His head canting to survey more of the surroundings. He could gravitate to the bar, or a table, but didn't quite feel like sitting alone. Even though he came alone. Ruby would be mad at him for not bringing her. Not as if he could. She was not suited for this place, and the noise would have been too much for her. Still though, the thought bubbles a soft chuckle in his throat. He casts a side-ways glance to the dance floor, another option. He felt an moment of indecessiveness come over him, unsure as to where to venture first.The decor of the club still held most of his attentions, enraptured by it. Dark eyes move upward, roving aimlessly until they fall upon the two massive guardians, the statues of the dark god, Anubis. A grin, turns the corners of his mouth, upward into a charming smile, and he does laugh then. The rich sound, vanishing by the power of the music, heard only in his ears.
(dahl)
"Dalilah. . ."Gentle
Nothing about her seesm to fit that word, but her surname, it made it all come toegtehr so nicely. Its a pity she didn't give it. His attention strays and she wonders, but since he is a chance met person it doesn't bother. Instead she gives another moment to her wine and casually waits. Her full name? Perhaps it might be interesting. . .
"Dalilah Olufemi."
. . . Beloved of the Gods. . .
(grania)
Smile spreads and back arches in feline stretch over bar before simple rest of slender frame onto elbow and subtle shift of weight toward him. Lazy blink bleds to easy slide of darkened gaze over Nakhti, intimate a touch as if fingers had reached to discect the coil of muscle under skin under fabric under nail.. Brow lift mirrored, and slow curve of lips breathes life into softer smile to only be hidden behind glass, another swallow taken..(khep_
A decision made, more like made for him. In the form of a pretty face, with bright blue eyes and blond curls. He smiles at the young lady that bumps into him, whether by mistake or not. He apologizes in a gentlemanly fashion, speaking low close to her ear, as bodies closed distance, so she may hear what he says. Whatever he added into his apology, it made her wide-eyed and giggling. Though, a couple of drinks would do that as well. She's had many. Her hand sneaks out to find his, dragging the youth off to the dance floor. He doesn't bother to fight it, moving up close behind her as they disappear into the swell of dancing bodies, to become one with the machine.(*harl)
"dalilah olufemi" tasting the name rolling it around his mouth like some would a precious wine finally offering it up as sacrafice and prayer to the gods. "it is a pleasure to meet you delilah olufemi i am harlequin sinclair of the lyupis family(nakhti)
hungryit describes the look in his eyes as he watches, but what it is for - for her? for the secrets she may harbor? for the drink that is cupped against her palm? as her eyes drop, so do his, though he does more than disect muscle and bone, perhaps he looks to delve in deep enough to read what is sliced across her heart, as if judging the temptation of her soul, lips parting on breath to taste her, as she tastes the liquor
perhaps
but all it brings is another smile in this strange little game, which will breach the silence first, if at all
(dahl)
Of the what family? Her question hidden behind a little smile and wineglass. That was something just interesting enough to research. Hmmmm. . . ponder, ponder. A smooth sip, sliding down her throat, staining red lips redder with moisture."Indeed. It is, Harlequin Sinclair."
(grania)
Hunger, his vision screams, for many things, and none of the same echos in multicolored gaze. Her own reflects that, but in such honest proportions it is perhaps easy to see what it is she hungers, what desires dance under her skin Another shift of weight brings her closer still, and glass is set upon the bar between them. The silence is not broken, but single nail lifts to trail along his collarbone, lashes falling to mere slits through which darkened gaze watches. An eternity, forever in a moment and lashes lift to meet his gaze again. why break the silence and cloud the air with mere bantering when hand slides over chest, following lean muscled line, only to pull away again as fingertips touch waist. Smooth roll of shoulder leads body back to press full against bar again, second elbow finding top to brace lazy lounge.(harl)
he watches the wine the way it swirls in the glass the way it flows down throat the slight contraction of muscles the flicker of tongue to claim moisture still staining her lips. "i have enjoyed our little dhance my sweet desert rose" the way the reminants of that drink swirl in the glass seem to capture his imagination his very presense flowing like the liquid as he raises to his feet. that geasture so graceful and sinful.. sedicious and sensous, eyes flow over nakhti over the one who tempts him and a frown forms ever so slightly. although it is soon replaced with that sweet deadly smile. "i am most sorry my dear but it is time for me to leave i have other places to visit this night and have already dallied to long."he moves into the crouds to be swallowed by the multitude of people dissapearing as if never there. the gllimpse of gold a play of raven hair gone and out the doors as soon as coat can be colletected ((sorry i have to go vegie soup to be made and all that jazz will see you all around))
(dahl)
"Yes, indeed."Watching him steal off into the ebb and flow of the crowds, with her piercing eyes. Languidly relaxed upon her stool, she goes back to her wine and her watching, mind wandering back to the pros and cons of that scroll she had seen.
Finally, her wine finished, she left money for her tab and slipped into her leather jacket. Gathering her purse, she slid into the crowds for the door. She had to work tomorrow.
(nak)
her single digit drags across the silken shirt, pulling and stretching loose fabric across chest, molding over lean muscle beneath, and he waits patiently beneath this physical inspection, diaphragm swelling with the slow breath, tasting the scents that roll from her skin with each blast of recirculated airdark gaze flicks to the side, watching Harlequin move past, and away, and the smile that forms is untold in its meaning, a sinister edge in the gentle movement
a gentler, more graceful movement in the extension of long arm, fingers wrapping around the half-full glass placed between them, it is brought to his lips, held beneath his nose to allow its taste to wash across his features, and then it is tipped back and drained. completely.
(grania)
breath swells and slows and ebbs and everything is gathered and memorized with each passing moment. The movement of those beyond him slipping away is noted, the flicker of his gaze not missed, though her own has been drawn to the press of flesh against flesh in dance once more.
Sinister his smile, lazy is hers, slow the lead of eyes that pulls head around in easy roll on shoulders, brow a slow crawl upwards as eyes linger on fingers along glass, lips against rim, muscles of his throat contracting in draining swallow.
Long arm sweeps toward him, bypassing glass so recently drailed, nail a scrape across lips to gather missed moisture before his tongue has time to chase. pulled back, his touch tainted drop is brought to her own lips, suckled from flesh.(nak)
how confident she is that he would have chased the touch, that her finger was in any danger of capture by his lips, and the white teeth hidden beyond, as if that, too, were some little tidbit offering for his hunger to consume, ready to be snatched away and bolted down his throat were she to linger too longhe does not pull away, nor does he follow the bait
instead the smile crawls into his countenance once again, the empty glass lifted in slight toast before it is set on the bar, and the man pulls away from the bar to disappear into the club's shadows, feet crunching on sand upon the dancefloor, one final dance, one final song, until he finds the door and disappears completely
(grania)
Posted by nakhti at January 20, 2003 12:00 AM
how confident she is, that his form can be memorized in the sequence of simple touch, that artists hands can sculpt and creat what the eye and fingertips have gathered. He does not follow, nor pull, and in her only the slight smile is returned, the knowing curve of lips that suggests she has all that she needed in such a very, very brief encounter.
Some find inspiration in the dance, some in the music, some in the press of flesh upon flesh... she? in the slightest of touches, the hunger of gaze, the desparation bred in every. single. movement. He is watched until he believes the dance to be over - and she knows the dance has just begun..
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