Incense at Dusk: .02.24.03. - ancient secrets [talibah]

February 24, 2003

.02.24.03. - ancient secrets [talibah]

[cymaa]

(nakhti)
the night has brought temperatures dangerously cold on the heels of the snowy mountains that had formed as dunes outside the building housing his flat - a flat he had resided (hidden) in for far too long, mourning, drowning himself in rituals in effort to cover and distract and somehow fill the void that the blizzarding weather only made seem so much great, a crevasse that had spiked into his blackened soul and, day by day, minute by minute, inch by devastating inch slowly widened until he felt nothing more than an abyssmal void trapped in the shell of what only looked like a man

the cold seemed endless, forsaking, winds stripping nerves raw as they howled lupine outside his windows, but the endless days began to be replaced by something that wormed its way into the desolation, something that finally drew him into the meagerly storm-paused night to find his way to the club that so resembled and housed the fondest of memories

memories of home
memories of warmth
memories of... love?

something haunts the muddy hazel eyes, there is a presence that clouds the very depths of the shadows, it darkens them with its pain harbored so fiercely in a place that it cannot be touched, it cannot be soothed, it cannot even be influenced to be anything other than the heartbreaking agony that has filled his slender frame for days - but there is resolution, there, as well, a determination that finds its way along the lithe and muscular arm reaching out to trace fingers over the glyphed wall upon his passage into the sand-filled bowels of the flesh laden club

his thick woolen coat was discarded at the door, carelessly given to the girl behind the counter, barely a glance to claim the ticket which would join them later, bare feet tread upon the find grains of sand scattered on the floor, thicking and deepening with each step, but he seems to ignore it, just as he ignores the crush of bodies, the beads of sweat forming on dusky skin from the humid temperatures increased by heat rolling from dancing, writhing bodies (how he can visualize them writhing in flames), ignoring the bar and it's call of quenched thirst

he moves to the stairway hidden in the farthest shadows, climbing slowly upwards, towards the lesser filled second floor wrought with queens couches and sarcophagi and wine at $125 a bottle, it is here he finally chooses to stop, the shadow in black silk sinking further into the created darkness, finding a touch of velvet to bear slender weight that curls to wedge itself against the draw of arm and back.... it is here, with the muted thumb of bass drifting up through the floors like heat from the gilded sands, it is here he seeks solace, comfort, simple warmth, or maybe just the absent crawl of anonymous people flickering at the edges of his periphreal - cats are solitary hunters, but they are, indeed, social creatures

(talibah mert-sekert)
Perhaps its the moon. Perhaps its the call of blood. . . perhaps she is bored. Or even worse, perhaps its all of those, and more, darker reasons. The silence is gone, tonight. A veil dropped, and Talibah revealed. Emerged. is born. . .

Its the feline in her that emerges in that rolland play of flesh over muscle beneath slithering golden cloth. Hair loose to mid back, in a sheet of midnight. And blazing in black inks on her skin, above the low hanging skirt and below the slim lines of a nearly backless top is that amrk. Its the amrk laid upon her years past. . like she was property. . . normally hidden, tonight she lets it show, breath, glow.

Shoes and coat left at checjk, she merges with the thummin dancing crowd, hands trailing like butterflies over the bodies she meets. . . something in those eyes tonight. . .

(phineas merinisis)
this den of antiquity reminds him of his own home of those hidden temples where people still come to worship. great mistresses feared gods and deadly beings of power still stalk the streets of his homeworld. from the past he has stepped, into a place that brings both past and present together. combines it and makes it something different something more. sometihng that appeals to the heart the soul and yet fills neither. empty longing for a homeworld no longer there. longing that goes back not through just this life but many. he takes his bottle of wine. and retreats to a couch. the secrets of this place still eluding him. frustrating him. so many secrets that he wants the answers too. he falls into the velvet embrace of the couch as he trys to drink himself into the sweetest of oblivions. worry about the secrets another day they will infuriate you no end if you keep up at this. the small folded twist of paper is removed, from within his belt the aromatic herbs inside spilt into the sweet white wine stired once with a lazy finger and then set aside to steep for a moment to be absorbed and diluted and mixed the slow swirl mesmerising and distracting.

(talibah)
Secrets. Devoted years to that pursuit, and for the privilege of living her life. So what does she do tonight? Drop layers of privacy, of seclusion. . and all for what? The need to feel a part of things, revel. . proclaim. . others might be infuriated by thier search. Hers comes with ease. . and their secrets? Are hers.

But where was the golden pharoah tonight? Higher in his lofty temple? Higher she goes as well to the deeper, darker places. . in search or being sought? Hard to say but no few eyes will touch on her, on that mark. . .maybe a few witll know it. Friend, foe, or family is the question though. What lurked in this place beyond the grasp of the sun?

(nakhti)
one arm stretches languid along the carved and sculpted arch of the couch's back, supply, body folds to allow chin rest upon the silk hidden muscle that would swell into his bicep, and those dark eyes drag themselves from the floor, the observance of marble traded for a grasp at the contiuation of life (they. will. die.) within grasp of his hands

waiters and waitresses that tempt with the glance of flesh provocative beneath gauzy fabrics, the wine who's breath is only showered upon the senses of the wealthy, the woman sauntering to his left, and the man collapsing to the couch on his right

there is a breif study of the man - as if the inhalation drawn across his olfaction and tongue would betray the frustration and ire seeping from his pores, the pungency of the herbs added to drink - but those eyes cast away again, traveling the length of his arm to the stylized inks adorning the back of left hand, his right draws to the parting seam of his shirt, fingers nimbly finding the golden ankh that dangles above his heart, it's muted reflection flashing and glittering in idle, thoughtless play

(talibah)
Divinely decadent. Why was she not surprised? Padding softly in unshod feet across the space of the second floor. Its a slow, surveying stride, eyes sweeping ever so casually. What was she looking for exactly? Perhaps if she knew she wouldn't be wandering like a predator, or offering herself as the prey, like this. . .

(nakhti)
from the periphreal extremity to his left comes a wandering shadow, the woman that stalks caught in some delicate, decadent balance between predator and prey, he watches, idly, the aggression in her step and the hesitance of ignorance in her stride, and perhaps a contemplation begins in the shadowy mind, somewhere deep beneath the inky tendrils of bangs that hang framing the muddy brown eyes with only hints of green

he watches her, eyes some presence crawling up across the fimsy fabrics covering her back, as if thay very gaze were taloned fingers spidering their way towards the nape of her neck for a killing blow, but they pause, for the low lights flickering along warm flesh cast shadows that perhaps were never meant to be seen

he recognizes the glyph

and the gaze intensifies as if razored talons had dug into her very flesh in order to hold her still enough to study it, intimately, the slow coiling burn of being watched smears across her flesh, haunting, teasing, tickling and violating at the same time, even if the lounging shadowcat does not yet move

(talibah)
She spends her days in libraries and offices, buried in artifacts and journals. She spends coutless weeks every year crawling through tombs ad chambers of the past, her hands gleaning things no mortal eye had seen or known in thousands of years. . . and her nights in the States? Spent within this place that felt like home, like the temples and tombs of Egypt, and yet thrummed in modern music and heated bodies. Normally she wouldn't be so blatant. . .but then normally she wouldn't even be here. Tongith is not normal. Tongiht she hungers for something. . .

. . and when she feels that shiver, that tickling sensation crawling up her spine, along her shoulders and down her arms, leaving a trail of shivering flesh, she knew someone watched. In this shadowy anfd sensual place. . someone was watching her. Was it someone who knew her face as the famed archaeologist? Was it someone looking for company? Or had she uncovered friend, foe, or family. . . because in this place, this club built like a temple where the misguided and hopped up elite and adventurous abased themselves in ignorant worship, one or all were likely to stalk. Snakes, cats, or others. . .

She pauses, in that walk. It can only bedescribed as a slink, sleek and rolling. A pause and her head tursn some, to glance over onebare shoulder, glance with midnight ink eyes for the source of that gaze. . . light catching and drowning in her face.

(nakhti)
she spends her days buried alive in artifacts that never thought to exist as long as they have, made by those that never fathomed the world their creations would one day see, she delves in secrets and mysteries and soon begins to think she embodies one herself

with the way the walk slithers to a stop, the coy glance that catches and absorbs and devours the oblique light - perhaps she does

the question begins to dawn, Ra beginning his journey across the darkened inner sky, a glimmerling of hope and query which begets offspring of chance and hope, is it enough to tease his attention, enough to whet his appetite (ravenous) and draw the predator towards the sacrifically offered prey in a stalk that would take them into the bowels of the endless night, only to return far... far.... from unscathed

or perhaps, she only taunts him enough to drawn a dark brow towards the shadows created by lamb-soft hair, a minute expression of curiosity ghosting across exquisitely sculpted face, fingers tapping a cadent harmonic beat to the bass drum thumping up through the floor... there is challenge in those eyes (who are you to dare wear my mark) that meet her midnight gaze without apprehension

(talibah)
A challenge? How intriguing. Back home the locals knew of her. . . fey magickal kin. They didn't break her to glean the mystery of her abaility if only because they couldn't be sure it would still work (for.them) after that. She's seen the altars. . . her blood has even coursed over a few at times, the blood of cats, without sacrificing the precious few cats left of the tribe.

But in America? What could she expect but challenge. She bears their mark with pride(brand.property) becuase to do otherwise would be demeaning. His gaze meets hers unflinching and she smiles back, a slow, languid curl of lips. Survival would dictate not poking the predator, but she seems to not have learned that lesson, or had no reason to fear (or.care) for her own life. One thin brow goes up, and a whsiper of desert winds. . . voice painted with the tones of her birthplace. . . the lands of burning sands.

"Yes?"

(nakhti)
she whispers with a breath wrought from the heated sands of her.... his... their homeland, and perhaps upon in, in the distance that had grown by her steps between them, he caught the scents far more natural than the incent stench of human flesh in the club surrounding them, a bittersweet tickling of senses which betrays something far more natural, far more powerful, far more ancient than even these walls could attempt to design

she gives him invitation, and he, in return, presents affirmation

his right hand leaves the ankh it toys at the end of golden chain, crawling up cobra from the shadows, fingertips pulling and wrinkling the fabric over forarm until it grasps, just at the wrist, and slowly the treasure is revealed by fabric's mystery of a whisper, black drawn back from duskily tanned flesh, the striking, stylized V incandescently inked across the back of his hand, stretching to wrap across his wrist, a slender wrist that twists and turns, offering to her the babysoft flesh that protects a suicide's favorite vein, the long shafts of egyptian collar climbing up his inner arm to disappear beneath the cuff off his sleeve, four outer cartouhms filled with heiroglyphs and the middle still bare - but if she delighted in looking closely enough, the backwards drape of his hand would reveal a symbol that looks much like her own, intricately hidden in the swirled inks

(talibah)
Blood. Its always blood, amongst their kind, and with her family in particular. The cats rare, the kin even somewhat rare. A meeting itself more then chance, but the drawing of the gods together. . . he presents that wrist (offers.a.weak.spot) and she smiles. . .

"Family. . ."

Still in that low, egyptian accent. Obvious she has not been in this country long, because she still has the taste and sound of the place in words. Turnign smoothly, and taking a few steps closer but not so close to impose on his space, waiting for an invitation or maybe just waiting. . . eyes reading him as she would any other thing.

(nakhti)
he offers his wrist
she offers her back

how easily he could have jumped upon it and rent the flesh to expose the pretty skeleton below, peeling her like some exotic flower, finding the very necter that waits puddled and ambrosious at her core, for just as carefully as she reads him, the study is returned, the rove of eyes that looks past the clothing she wears and delves into her very soul, twitching at the corner of his lips the ghost of a smile (family) betraying his amusement at just how random, at just how unheard of such things like this are

fingers curl, lightly, the pencil thin tip of adder's tail wriggling before it coils to strike, that is her invitation closer, into the space that he has claimed for the night

(talibah)
He could have. . . but he didn't. Why? Now there's the real question. The weave and weft of this complicated dance of dominance and submission, danger and safety. . predator and prey. The shadowcats hunger, for many things. . what did he hunger for? She? It had been some time away from the familiar (wary.uncomfortable) pull of blood. Too much time amongst the normal throgn could make one begin to forget things, lose their edge. . . and with Bubasti, one can never lose their edge.

His fingers curl to draw her closer in invitation and she sweeps in softly, feet a bare whisper, skirt a soft swirling cloud around her legs, hair a gleaming spill of ink acorss her back. She comes closer, invades his space, and allows him to invade hers at the same time. . and gives him that first, perfect opportunity to rend and gore, if he wanted. . . not the first, actually, just the best thus far. . so close now to touch without little movement on his part. Languid and sleek, she still had the slightest tension. . expecting a flickerflash of claws or teeth to taste, tear, and touch her. Perhaps its not the first time. . .

(nakhti)
like some remnant queen she sinks to sit beside him, on the couch he claimed as his, so one would wonder, in such a territory, if she had just accepted to also... be his

he can read her tension as easily as she reads the pages of ancient scripture, dark eyes drawing along the lines of bared shoulder and throat, as if that very tension created a vibe that hummed and skittered just above her flesh, and, by the barest movement on his part, he reaches for it, fingerips featherlight across the stretched spanse of her throat, pausing to tickle just above where her heartbeat flutters (with but a thought, he could tear the life right out from her delicate body) before an imperceptible increase of pressure grants flesh the contact of flesh, tips dragging through the oil that had clung scent just beneath her jaw

and that is the token he brings back to himself, thumb and first two fingers rubbing together to spread the scent on his digits, just beneath his nose, nostrils flaring slightly on inhale, to break some bouquet in rise on the thermals that would educate his senses to her specific smell and taste

and still, those unnerving, soul-devouring eyes watch her

(talibah)
Its not that uncommon a scene for her actually. How many times have dark (light.multihued.evil) eyes bored holes to her soul, crawled over her like they were examining her. The implicit question. . . what use they coud find for her. Its why she worked farther from the,, sent back pearls of knowledge and gave her skills where asked. To recieve enough freedom to not be used. . . but always the chance she would prove too useful and someone would wish to push her farther into their own plans. No, the life of kin is no glory, much of the time, and bubasti kin? Downright frightening for those not quick of mind. . .

Sitting tall and regal, in her golden dress, golden skin, dark accents of eyes and hair. His fingertips. . . meet smooth, unperturbed flesh. Its heat that made her skin gleam in faint moisture. . that must be it. But those eyes of his, meet her own drowning dark ones. They say that the eyes are the window of the soul, and yet, hers open onto nothing. It seems there is knowledge in slence.

He's bold, as only a cat would be, and she is too. Her own long sledner fingers reaching to trace at the heiroglyphs scarwling upon his arm. . curious to read their secrets. . .

(nakhti)
the eyes of his people are the emeralds held in their skulls, depthless, brilliant green that glows with unearthly and damning knowledge - but his, his are the color of the gems held beneath the muddy waters of the Nile that snakes through their home, and not only is the natural verdian mottled and secreted in his eyes, but there is something else, perhaps anger, perhaps betrayal, perhaps it is even... pain...

though a flagrantly teasing curiosity overhwhelms it, a hunger to consume, to dive into the golden dress and golden skin and simply inhale all the knowledge it has to offer, for he knows the power he could weild over her, he could use her, abuse her, take her on this very couch and there would be little frowned upon, he could punish for a sleight that none would understand but the shadowcat himself, he could pull the knowledge from her brain in symbolic retribution for the secrets she dares harbor in her dark-eyed silence

but instead, he offers her a game

wrist twists to show her the back of his hand, the little, perfect symbols trapped in the shapely wedge of patternistic inks, hovering on the long bones just before they connect to his wrist along the top of a thick, black band (the strong moon is born) and a brow lifts towards the inky shadows of his hair, the hand moving to create a series of dancing symbols (tomorrow) in the darkness between them, then, as fluid as shadows he stands and walks away

should the knowledge seeker translate the two languages succesfully, perhaps she will gain further answers to her questions

(talibah)
Foolish girl. You had him within your grasp, at your hands. . and you did not look? That voice inside screaminh its admonishments as he leaves in that fluid stride, watching him, the urge to touch. . to seee grown now that she saw mystey there. She read the glyphs like they were second nature (were.second.nature) but the other? Some sign language? She only spoke a half dozen already. . and that not one of them.

But she does not follow, except for her eyes. His secrets would take some time. . . and stemming the urge to follow and look with clenched hands. He would not see her struggle. . in his retreat. . how long nails bit into golden flesh. . and how spots of blood appeared in the palsm of her hands. . . wasting power there, she was. . .

Posted by nakhti at February 24, 2003 12:00 AM

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