February 11, 2003.02.11.03. - brother's hunger [judah-eleanor](judah rahotep)
It's hot. 10 minutes within the main club area on any floor would send beads of salty sweat rolling down the curves of necks and the sweet swell of breasts and arms. It is much different at night, than it is during the day ... so much so, it's nearly unrecognizable.The music is slow, the bass is loud, the clientele is rich or on their way to being so ... and it's Judah's domain, one he intends to defend and keep clean above anything else. Anyone ...else.
It is not hard to miss the tall wiry man. Of middle eastern decent, he stands head and shoulders over most of the patrons at well above 6 feet. Yet, for all of his height, he is as thin as a Greyhound. Muscles are pronounced, yet there isn't the slightest hint of fat anywhere on his body. Beneath the sheer material of the camel coloured shirt, the flat of his stomach can be seen etched in tattoos that wrap around his body from front to back. Thin to the point of anorexia, he can't weigh more than one hundred and seventy five pounds ... and that would be giving him a few pounds. The simple weight of his gaze (eyes so bright and green they seem as if balefire ..) is enough to part the crowd - if his mere presence wasn't enough.
The crowd moves for him, leaving a wake of writhing bodies in his wake with each step.
(eleanor chambers)
The ice cubes float lazily within the globe of her glass, shards of crystal twinkling within the clear liquid basin. Their mistress draws a finger down the slope of their prison, enjoying the coolness of the condensation trickling upon the glass. The young woman relaxes at the bar, her favourite little spot to watch the activities of the Cymaa.Eleanor is Judah's opposite in all things. There is little they share. A precious little thing, she stands little more than five feet in height and a scant inch or two. Yet she hasn't the delicacy of his lithe form. Eleanor is curved and generously so, to the delight of male eyes and attentions. Arms are outstretched before her, tangled together as serpentine lovers, her cheek resting upon their union. Her eyes are dark, asian shaped with depths that rival the abyss. They are equally cold and unmoved, a silent, depairing constant that drinks deeply of anything they partake. Souless wells, they give nothing, offer nothing, show nothing. They lend lies to every expression she makes, even that semi permanent ghosted smile that adorns her soft, full lips.
Layed out upon the counter, one of Judah's dark shirts descends from her shoulders. The buxom young thing leaves it unfastened, trusting the harnessing, low cut, white tank top to keep her modested. It never serves the purpose quite well enough. She is a delight to look upon, the weight of her chest pressed to the marble surface of the bar. Judah approaches and she wakes a little, lifting her head from its repose. The weight of her shoulder length mane settles down about her face, its colours of deep chestnut brushed with silver and white shining beautifully in the false torch and candlelit ambiance of the Cymaa.
(nakhti)
shoes are discarded at the etched glass doors of the club, checked as well as the heavy woolen coat - he is not made for weather such as this, he is a slender creature of the desert sands that wash across his flesh and beneath bare feet, the windswept dunes which carve angular chin and highly curved cheeks leading to the deepset (hungry) myriad brown and green eyes, inky shadows of long hair fall to dance across the planes and lines of his facethis is the climate he was created for - born in - cuffs of thin linen pants sway against the floor with each step so light it barely leaves print from slight weight, long sleeves from the light tunic hanging on slender shoulders drop to curl about wrists: black, always black, he moves as if a dark shadow rising from beneath the sands themselves, the weight and warmth of bodies and raining sound presses in, leaving an oily stain which he swims through, serpentous
watching
exploring
.... searching about the club(arden bentley)
Most but not all. There is another figure who manages to look over the rest. Lithe and graceful rather than sleek and wiry. A prince amongst men there is a look of absorbed observance and inner amusement as eyes hidden by fine shaded glass note details. Those tinted glasses despite the near cave-like darkness within -- still one might assume they are for vision rather than style though the square wire rims and slight violet shade lend otherwise. Expensive nonetheless as is the tailored clothing which is as glove to a fine hand. No concession to ancient Egypt here - though the fine brushed silk of his suit pants and coat cut just above the knees in classic fashion speak of style nonetheless. Features are youthful in their pale fine cut - high boned and marked by the straight lines of his birth. All the signs of blueblood are marred perhaps by the long black mane of hair which falls straight past his shoulders marking him as perhaps a musician dressing up for the night instead of the noveu riche he might have been. Yet, the oddly languid movements and slow assessments lends towards something else entirely. He's the sort that likely can be termed eccentric once he is old enough to collect the full inheritence. Surely there must be one.(judah)
He is, as most are, barefoot as well. The cuff of each pant leg is flared, far more baggy than any other area of the slacks. The hems are rolled up twice, as if he were treading through true beach sands, or desert dunes, exploring and searching for ..........perhaps the same thing which draws Nakhti farther and deeper into Cymaa. Those of their brood are more than likely aware of the meaning behind the club's name ... and perhaps that is the enticing bit of catnip that draws them each further within it's tomb like walls.
His arms are long, and they seem excessive appendages without a home, they hang lifeless at his sides ... then lift, and long slender fingers rake through the long dark tresses of his thick hair. Finally, they find a home - hands in pockets. The shadows which seem to fill this place cling to his form, hungry for just a moment of attention ... aching to be nearer to his flesh and touch ....
It is a slow, lazy gate which draws him through the massive crowd. A slow and lazy tread on bare feet ...crunching sand ... his eyes close and for a moment ... he remembers ages past, long since gone.
(eleanor)
A hand beneath her chin, a soft smile of amusement colouring her lips, she watches Judah dominate with just a presence, just a touch of his eyes. There are some that manage thus, not often, that mark themselves upon the very soul of this quaint construct. The Cymaa, for all of its pretentions, is a wonderful vessel in which the beautiful come to play. Nora has played cat at the window for a long time here, enjoying seeing the powerful flaunt and the young play fools. But damn, is it uncomfortably hot.The ice water is raised again to her mouth and she sips it slowly. Her position at the bar is entirely strategic, directly beneath the slightly cooler wash of the ventilation. The artificially aclimed air is never quite satisfactor, but it certainly bests cooking amongst the swelter of half dressed bodies that writhe upon the sands of the dance floor. She is barefoot too, her clothing light and designed for summer. Yet still she wilts, a glow of perspiration shining upon her pale skin. Her clothing hangs limp and lifeless from her body, baked and drained. It scarcely moves when she does, and the dampened white cotton of her tank top clings jealously to her pleasing heavy curves.
A small movement and she is standing, alighting upon the balls of her feet. Nora walks thus, like a dancer with a step that is toe to heel. At Judah's side she is in a moment, yet a nother dark swathed shadow that begs to be in his presence. She is a white stomached kitten, however, head and shoulders smaller than the male, preening subtly in his presence as she drinks from the globe carried in her delicate hands.
(nakhti)
there is something that has drawn him, repeatedly, to these walls, and the darkness within, some incent opiate haze, some sweet elixir, some inner craving which so far has not been answered, a curiosity that glimmers deep in hazel eyes, a hunger that has not yet been satisfied by the delights of flesh and feast found upon any other occasion - for every few nights, he returns, once more to the humid darkness, once more to the shadow's calls, once more.... maybe.... to the memories which instill themselves along the glyphic walls and cadent beats, the rising sculptures and swelling sands, all that glitters temptation in the darknessCymaa..... home.... a bright jewel in the frigid wasteland of American shores
dusky lips part, rose-pink tongue draws across them as if tasting the oils which air laden with the remnants of others places upon them, he will consume all that is offered even if it is mere scented taste which inspires further gluttony which leads to touch then indulgent gorge
but for now it is his eyes that run rampant through the darkness, resting on a dancer here, a soulless corporate playboy there, the woman that pretends to flaunt his dreams - then the tall man with the white-bellied kitten, shoulders shift as weight drifts to allow progress to linger, curiously and overtly peering through the pulsing crowd
(judah)
His head dips slightly to one side and he peers down at the little one, the easiest of grins becomes quietly etched across sensual lips. Moist lips. Hungry lips. The shimmering gold of the Scarab on his necklace shimmers and glints with each faint ray of light breathed upon its surface.The music is a sort of chant ... a slow and edgy beat filled with a mans deep voice and a woman's angelic crooning. It fills his hungry soul up until he feels ready to swell, and it quenches his true hunger and sates his enormous thirst, if only for a moment. "Who was your visitor...."
His pace slowly comes to a halt at the edge of the dance floor. Turbulent, swirling bright green eyes skim over the top of the crowd, and it is then that he notices the man nearly as tall, if not taller, than he himself. A finely arched brow lifts and his expression if one of amusement ... interest...however fleeting.Without moving his head, without shifting his weight or pose, the Shadow Cat picks Nakhti out of the crowd and his gaze narrows, not in anger, but rather .... curiosity ....
(arden)
Home to some; a brief amusement to others.
Violet.violent eyes sweep the club with what seems a resigned acceptance. Heat white-hot flushes through like a breath upon the alabaster statue's features. Odd that though unlike those surrounding him the (almost pretty) attractive featured man remains cool. Features if gleaming from their sheer paleness in sharp contrast to the jet of his hand brushed suit.
The bar? Not hardly. An ease of movement that is not so much the crowd parting for him as his steps happening to land where someone had just so recently moved out of his way. Subtle - amongst the elitist, would be bluebloods and vamp queens he remains a prince. Unaffected, observant and amused.
Settling amongst one of the more comfortable seating elements with lips tuned into a slow smile as a waitress approaches. Lips against her ear as he orders his pleasure.(eleanor)
A sliver of ice is caressed by her tongue and clacked by her teeth. She draws upon it, closing her lips, suckling quietly as Judah surveys the crowd. Beneath the canopy of arms and heads, she sees nothing. "A goose," she answers, the press of her chaws finishing the bit of winter in her mouth. Eleanor takes another small measure of water and turns her dark eyes up onto the person of the Cymaa's master. He is distracted.Eleanor is not without jewelry of her own, a pair of delicate loops of white gold pierced through the tender flesh of her ear lobes, left and right. From her throat upon a length of thin leather, a drop of obsidian suspends. It's bottom edge is hemmed with a argentine metal which runs a crescent up each side, creating a beautiful little jagged moon. "He had to fly south," she tells him before he can turn any accusatory eyes down upon her. "Owl was busy painting Raven, you will not find Bear's skin empty," she says darkly, silencing and censoring herself further by finishing the last of her drink.
(nakhti)
words fall into the rain of speaker's music, dropped flooding from the mouth that quietly etches into a smile, joining the bass chant and treble croon, and it draws him further, fine chin lifting in interest, as if the breath drawn from a half-inch higher would linger the tell-tale scents which would solve this sudden mysteryleft hand backed in glyphic inks curls spider fingers against thigh, linen drawn puckering against smooth skin beneath, a sudden, sharp breath drawn in curiosity's peaked excitement, and perhaps a smile begins to ghost its way through his features, as fleeting and faint as the lights which dip and sway, carving scyth paths through the heavy shadows, some tiny little drop of enigmatic drug which falls into the empty pool of endless quest embodied by the young man standing inches short of six feet, it is not his stature that separates him from the crowd, it is the subdued presence that suddenly crackles around lithe form when attention focuses ever further
turbulent green clear as crystal narrows, met by the swirling haze of emerald held beneath the Nile's muddy bankwaters narrows slightly once, twice, then close completely in languid blink - a thousand words spoken in that singular expression
(arden)
Fingers lace as long pale things one against the other even as leg's stretch to cross at the boot. Tailored footwear as at odds with the other denizens barefeet as is his smooth pale flesh dry and cool. Shaded vision is depthlessly unreadable hidden as it is though as lips thin turn upwards slightly in a smile there seems to be that careful amusement as if life were a joke for his personal entertainment in seeing his server(nt) return there is at least a hint in the facade.(judah)
There's a moments pause, when, Judah releases himself to the insecurities all of his ilk must feel. One so close ...why? What does he want? There are more questions than answers, yet, those thoughts and uncertainties fade like a distant fog quickly and his lips part into a full smile ... exposing perfect white teeth. Sleek hands leave his pocket and the fingers of one hand tap idly against the strong line of his thigh. Above Nakhti's head a gas lit torch springs to life highlighting the crescendo of the song. His eyes follow that spectacle slowly, watching what might be embers falling, cooling, gone.....except for the flickering kiss of the torch itself, which is slowly being stalked by a greasy shadow who hopes to use it as a burning, living hand of angry yellow.The light from each torch washes, suddenly, over and through the entire club. The heat builds for a moment, squeezing them, sucking in the air, eating it until a cooler burst of air comes in a wind whistling through the main thoroughfare into the club like the whispered voice of a long forgotten God(dess).
"Hmm. Stay near me Kitten ..." Long legs draw he and the small one towards Nakhti, though with his height ... Arden is quietly appraised, often actually do his eyes caress the form of the tall ... pale man.
Okay Mr. Monster .... I know you're coming to eat me....
(nakhti)
insecurities plague even those that deem themselves the most confident, however breif, however uncensored, however latent those niggling fears may pester and nibble like the tiniest of termites, they are there, they are a warning, they are but a hint of what is to come from the entire mound's attention - should it come to pass, of course, should it come and swarm to passthe questions and answers and suspicions which plague, finding personification in the tender, chilling crawl over spine warmed by the distant showers of the torch's explosive warmth lingering and fading into the hands of the waiting, patiently waiting, ever present shadows, a punctuating shower of glory and darkness to signal the musical end to a raining reign of notes and quadrants and bass and voice, the guillotine's fall burying it in memory and sand
music rises from the darkness again, another queen, another pharoah, another ruler to control the listener's minds and bodies
yet he stands so still, this slender man, so easily lost in the shadows elsewhere, but when consumed and surrounded by them now he only waits, with the patience of ages, for the other to approach, the constant gaze which would be threat to another becomes a warm invitation (are you the one i seek) the swell of breath in chest to set slender shoulders beneath the tunic, the ties which follow sternum revealing, in the slow rise and fall, the glitter of gold ankh on delicate chain resting warm along skin - and when they stand tall before him, not a word does the smaller man speak
(eleanor)
A foreign princess in this world of pharaohs and crypts, tombs and lost kings, she is outlandish even in this exotic world. At Judah's right she stands, a consort that finds favour in his shadow and personal space. The warmth of her is telling, even Judah is aware of it in the summer's heat that burns feverishly in his wake, a temperature that never ceases. There are no niceties in that gaze, two hollow deaths stare upon him, measuring the skein of his life with callous disregard for comfort. They weigh him, measure him, take him in as they shamelessly rake over his person, strip him of knowledge and feast on the little parcels of secrets burried in his flesh. And all the while she smiles at some private humour, a ghost's welcome that graces her peach coloured lips.So this is the little distraction Judah was keeping all to himself. The former is forgotten, the latter new, interesting, different yet wonderfully familiar and the same. The black coated kitten takes two steps forward, forgetting Judah's caution as curiousity consumes. Her tongue glances upon her lips, wetting them as her smile becomes something more genuine. "Raven was always fascinated with shiny little baubles," she declares, her voice that of a whispering lark, joyous and pure.
(arden)
And he must then be the foreign prince. Features so sharply cast there is an undefinable quality of difference than the average pretty boy face.
His fingers linger tangled in his waitress's hair as she now kneels down speaking closely to lounging creature. Hands crawling like pale spiders' along the fire of the woman's hair in slow caresses as eyes tilts slightly up catching the burning jade gaze of the club's patron. Lips curve into the most slow of cheshire smiles as his free hand tilts the glasses down slightly so the briefest glimpse of violet-glow orbs meets Judah's green. Must be a trick of the light making the man's face seeming a fallen's angel's mask.(judah)
His eyes cut to her quickly, the look is quite like the sound of nails on a chalk board, grating and painful to experience. The crowd has swollen, sloshing against one another like liquid flesh. Dark bobbed wigs, make up is drawn around one eye to form the Eye of Horus on some...other have chosen to paint their face white (deathly pale, Mr. Monster....) and the smell of greasepaint and wine flood his senses as a pack of sheep wander too close to the threesome."Welcome." That word, one word spoken on a soft whispered tone, expressed more than a syllabus could ever convey. Welcome. So still, so placid, the dark camel colour of the sheer shirt he wore gave his skin a deep carnal glow in the low light of the gas fire lights about the club, he turns his head, then, offering Nakhti the flawless vivid image of his profile.
There is always an air of presentiment about Judah. Now is no different, nothing has changed with the other male cats arrival. Something is off kilter, his expression replied to eyes that peered up at him for answers to unspoken questions. Yet, with invincible composure he stood statuesque still .... waiting.
(nakhti)
he waits as if before the golden king himself, the smaller man in black before the statue carved from camel's rich carnal glowhe can feel her eyes, her interest, her attention intent and curious and demanding as they hover and molest and search, and but for the breifest moments hazel gaze tears away from the domain's highest, watching her as her voice flits in avian song, some hummingbird that twitches and soars about him in contrast of the heavy tones falling ambiently from above - and still, nothing passes his lips, for her, there is but the faintest expression, a slow raising of a single dark brow towards the frame of inky hair
then the word reaches him - Welcome - and within it sonnets seem plain, ancient tomes seem elementary, and nothing suddenly becomes everything, a breath fills his chest, as if to speak, and add his voice to the many that glide and sway about them from the herding sheep to the catering music, but rather, his left hand lifts until before his face, sleeve falling back, recoiling from the dark V needled into skin, central knuckle to each side of slender wrist the whorl and pattern of something far more ancient than even portrayed within the club's exotic interior, black ink falling and snaking beneath the lingering cuff to tempt and taunt there is something more writ across the flesh still hidden by dark material
but the hand falls, elbow set at waist and digits drawing away from his face as a singular gesture is formed in the air (thank you) before the profile is offered so pleasently, and the emerald blazing trail followed to the peering, questioning eyes filtered by strange violet
(eleanor)
An amused sound, a tone that she emits, appreciating Nakhti for everything that he is. The world improves, if by small means here and there. "Alms for the poor," she says softly. Eleanor will not be joining them from this point in. The young female and Judah share a look, a brief contact of eyes. It is almost impossible to believe that anything could be shared with those death wells, their silence unmutable. But something clearly must have been said, for she walks away into the ocean of bodies, slipping into the cruel tide. There's solace upon the third floor, away from all of this. The wilting kitten has had enough of playing Pharaoh to pretending slaves; it is one game that wears thin quickly. The boys will play, however, and that is their due. She will speak to them each later. For now, the coolness of a shower invites her attention. She's had enough of men.(judah)
No words. A gesture. Judah's attention swings back full circle to rest upon Nakhti. "Come, so that I might speak with you away from this herd..." It is with careless disregaurd that he motions to the mortals so close to them. He cares little for them, and desires them only for the worship and blood they lay upon his feet ... were it not for that... would it surprise them to know he'd not care if the race was culled? Likely not ...Eleanor's departure brings no expression to rest upon his features. The shared stare dies after a moment and Judah motions casually with but a nod of his head to a table near Arden. There, he surmises, he can both speak to Nakhti and watch the pale man ... he smiles, quite satisfied with himself.
(nakhti)
the negligent words, the careless gesture, the derisive glance - they all bring the ghosting expression to finely featured face, some remnant parcel of a smile, perhaps it could even be colored by an amused laugh... though still there is not a sound, attention slants to the departing girl, and the stare shared, to others it would mean nothingbut he, above all, knows the communication in silence
the table is chosen, and it is then weight finally rotates, ball of foot and toes twisting to press against the shifting sands, following in the wake created by the taller cat's progression, the herd of painted wraiths that part some radiant wave before him, the confusion of bodies that collapse together in wake, then he waits as the other chooses which of the chairs is wanted, before his own selection is made. beside rather than across from Judah - not deigning to present his back to the pale one, either
(judah)
Whispered secrets of ancient times and stories flash blatantly in preternatural eyes that have fixed themselves for the moment on Nakhti. Slowly, his tall form is eased back into a comfortable chair. One leg crosses the other properly. He is the epitome of class and style....without ever needing to try and be such."I am Judah Rahotep ... my heart speaks to me. It whispers to me that you are much like me ... either you wish to not speak with me, or you lack the ability to do so ...?" The question lifts a brow as a waitress brings both of them over a cold glass of ice water. It is forever hot and humid within Cymaa .... which weaves ideas and dreams of the River Nile, and awakens memories long forgotten of lives past.
(nakhti)
beneath the gaze blazing emerald with the weight of timeless secrets and stories he sits, silently, so very easily returning the studying glance as others would flinch and shy away, the slow blink of ease and comfort, the sway of body to relax against the back of the chair, legs lift and cross in swirl of black fabric before him, and even in the lenient posture, he is proud, slender shoulders squared, fine chin lifted with the regality of the (dark) goddess they call motherhis attention remains on Judah, until the sound of iced water sounds against the table, above and beyond the throb and pulse of music, chilled crystals frozen in place supercedes even the sweaty rhythm of the humid club, the memories of home, the feeling of familiarity which has been created in a place thousands of miles from anything that truly could be
hazel eyes snap to the glass placed before him, slim hand reaching to wrap long fingers around the cold curve of glass, palm pressing into the condensation droplets to marr their natural pattern, for a moment, his glance returns to the other, and an amused smile begins to crawl across his lips - the thirst never quenched - though try he does as clear glass lifts to dusky lips and does not part until the ice rattles empty
(your heart whispers secrets true) then the glass returns the table, his hands begin weaving a dance of themselves in the shadows cast between them, a combination of gestures and letters writ my the subtle movement of fingers (i am Nakhti Amose) a lifted brow answers the last question, making no assumption of what languages are known or needed to be translated, but ability to speak he has not
(judah)
The cataclysmic fury of music roars across the inner labyrinths of the club, a feral rhythm that resonates and bounces off the concrete walls inside Cymaa. The loudness of it all, no matter the demure air it attempts to deceive with, does nothing to hinder the deep bass sensual whisper of words which leave his lips. He is not adept at sign language; of all the ancient tongues he has been taught, the language of no voice is lost to him. Without speaking, or motioning, a waitress brings over a small note pad and a pen. It's set before Nakhti. Judah smiles.He watches the other Cat so carefully, so intently, like a cat may eye another in its domain. What are you doing? Come, let me smell you and allow your scents to tell me stories your voice could not ... questions, questions...Judah has a thousand and more.
(nakhti)
something sparkles in hazel eyes, something shines out of the muddy waters - that shining stone jailed beneath the murky surface, trapped by some cruel joke that made his eyes so dark instead of the matching the brilliant green watching him, and it is a gaze that does not breatk, reaching absently, blindly, for the notepad that is broughtpen touches paper as bass drum thunders into a stormy sweep across the club's inner desert, dark lines drawn upon the fibered surface slash and sway to the effervescent beats that roar defeaning.. where it not for his tainted blood, his ears would ring for days at the damage volume causes, as briefly as it was torn away, attention slipslides upwards with coy smile growing across lips, nimble fingers spinning the pad until it is presented right side up to Judah
Your heart is true.
Nakhti Amoseoh, the many interesting things you would taste across my flesh
(judah)
Outside Cymaa, the night rumbles with the sounds of traffic and mass machinery and automobiles of more than a million human beings. Neon flickers. Chrome gleams. Voices echo in back alleys. Cymaa is an oasis away from all of that. A transportation back to Ancient Egypt when Pharaohs ruled, and Bast was worshiped, and the Kyphur roamed the desert lands. It allows him to enjoy the company of another of his blood, though his eyes still seem uncertain. Another. Here. It seems simply surreal.So much so, that he reaches out with long slender fingers and touches the others hair. Inky soft black strands rain through his fingers. Yes, he is real. That brief touch satisfies him for the nonce, but it is but an appetizer given to a starving man ... it can only sate for so long. "Nakhti ...you are welcome here. Be careful, however ... there are dogs among us. They have tread on my domain too many times for my liking....their punishment is still being crafted..."
(nakhti)
when the language of words is not among the options of how one communicates, gestures and signs replace it, but there is nothing that speaks more deeply, more intimately, than touchand it is that explorative touch that infiltrates meaning far more intensely than the first word between them, finely sculpted chin lifts, skull tilting into the tender venture of fingers into silken ink which frames his face, dark eyes slanting half closed in some misbegotten pleasure, the figment of grooming which sates as much as it tempts, if only a sound could from from neck that had stretched into the touch, a low, sighing sound that would have solidified the acceptance of welcome
yes, i am real, i have walked the sands the kyphur roamed, i have touched the stones our ancestors carved, i have seen the wrath of bast in the storms which sweep the vasts deserts that claim so many yet comfort our own as with the sanctity of the lair you have created, if only you could reach such memories in the simple gesture which grants flesh the pleasure of flesh
it is spoken and teased in the half-mast gaze, widening only as the hand pulls away, and his own returns the patterns of ink to the paper, a slow fire sparking to emberous burn behind the shadows of hazel
I would guard as my own, but to help.
a gesture of favor in return for the welcome santuary within these cryptic walls
(judah)
It is said, that cats are solitary creatures. In his aura of fading Twilight Judah fits that stereotype quite well. At least he did until Eleanor stumbled into Cymaa. The brilliant green of his eyes is calm, as calm as the expression which has taken up residence on his seemingly young, handsome face. Soft tendrils of darkness fall against his face with the movement of his arm, framing the fine curvature of jaw and temple, teasing his long dark lashes with wispy strands.A moment of silence is taken, stolen from the beat of music around them, as Jude sips his water. He could drink the ocean dry and still need his thirst to be quenched. He fills his belly up with feasts of flesh and worship, though it only sates him for the momentary span of a quick dying heartbeat. Shadows play over his features, making his jaws seem hollow, and the carnal glow of his flesh brighten and then fade with their dark kissed caress. The glass is sat on the table before him once more, and his fingers pluck so carefully a cube of ice from within. It is hot in Cymaa, and much like his female counterpart, Judah chooses to suckle upon a frozen bit of ice, enjoying it's coolness as it courses through his mouth and down his throat....coming to rest in the pit of his fiery belly.
"If you've no where to stay ... I can accommodate you. It is ... the least I can do for you, brother.."
Brother. It flows too easily from his lips, even though the definition of the word is foreign to his mind. His tongue molests and toys with the ice cube behind closed lips, even as he lounges back comfortably in the chair ... forearms draped over the arms of the chair as if it were a throne.
"I have sleeping rooms upstairs ... or you are welcome within my home...."
(nakhti)
it is the shadows they live in, are known for, these shadows others avoid but for the inherant worship and fear of the creatures that reach, so stained, into their depths to find the secrets hidden so carefully within, the shadows that define the exotic features of Judah's face, the depths surrounding his eyes, hollowing his cheeks, lining so subtly his lips, others would find ephemeral deviltry in the creation of flesh skull beneath the heavy paint of shadows creeping - but Nakhti, he finds a quiet joy in such thingsthere is beauty in the darkness, there is pleasure in the sinful shadows which coil as cobras round ankles of the unwary, and it is yet another tiny satisfaction to the endless crave of starving senses, some fear shadows, others hide in them, and the rest craft them to the most rapturous and nefarious ends
I've place to rest, brother as easily as the word passed lips that bar the cube's molestation, it flows from the neat and quick writing I share it with another what kind of creature, indeed, would one of theirs willingly share a personal space so coveted Though I will not turn down your kindess when I am in need
there is a look in those eyes, a breif shadow to darken already murky waters, perhaps it is only suspicion, perhaps it is innate premonition that there will be need soon enough, it seems the young male cat knows and expects hardship to befall one born in a form such as he
(judah)
Slowly, he unfolds himself from his seat, standing tall he stretches like a cat unfurling from a noon nap in the sun. Yet, it is not the soothing rays of Ra that caress this Cats blackened hide, but rather the darkness ... a dark that has forever stained his bloodline and those that shall pass after him. The note pad is taken from the table and upon it he writes two numbers. One to the club, the other to his mobile phone. The entire pad is handed to Nakhti."Here." It is yours .. keep it...should you have need....those thoughts are his, and left unspoken they remain. Judah shifts his weight and moves on graceful strides around the table. Leaning down, cheek to cheek with the other man, he whispers so sweetly in Nakhti's ear.
"The road we walk is treacherous. It is best not to walk it alone. I am here. I am always here" Cryptic are those words breathed from lips that brush so carelessly against the others outer ear while his words subtly work over the inner labyrinths of his senses. A finger touches the fine line of the other Bastet's chin before he turns to go.
(nakhti)
unabashedly, he watches the unfurling stretch, the play of muscles lining skeleton, the offering of flesh to the wandering touch of darkness barred only by the thin sheen of carnally glowing camel dancing beneath the club's roaming lightsthere is perhaps a moment of wry amusement, founds in the smile dancing ghost's waltz on his lips, to numbers given a creature that cannot speak to use the phone, it is a private joke shared between them, for the smaller shadowcat understands the nuances of the offer contained within
and as the other leans in, the hand covered in inks black as their twinned souls reaches to cup the face drawn so carelessly close to his own, fingertips a spider's light crawling touch across cheek and jaw, to hold the indulgence of words caressing ear and senses, jaw lifting to present himself to the gentle graze of warmed whisper, and before the flesh pulls from his, head turns, humid breath spilling down the backcurve of Judah's jaw
then the body heat is gone, replaced by the giant pulse dropping from the speakers, it is not long before the notepad is tucked into a hidden pocket, the young Bastet creeping across the sands to find his way towards his own home
Posted by nakhti at February 11, 2003 12:00 AM
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