Incense at Dusk: .02.25.03. - common ground [phineas-grania-ra'gon-gemile]

February 25, 2003

.02.25.03. - common ground [phineas-grania-ra'gon-gemile]

[cymaa]

(nakhti)
the eyes of thoth twist tribal across his shoulders, they glare, open, waiting, watching, and eternal at the club behind him, iridescent black ink lain into the flesh which seems to hold a slight tan, even in the dead of winter, for the sun that shone upon it burned so brightly, Ra's kiss would forever darken his skin

the eyes that watch his back remain open in exchange for the ones above high cheekbones which have closed, black lashes settle against the sculpted curve which swells towards his ears, hidden by the shadowy tendrils of hair falling freely to the call of gravity, his head is bowed, slightly, fineboned chin barely tucked towards shirtless chest, long lines of slender back rise in cobra strike from wherehis lower portions sit crosslegged on a low table, bare feet tucked below thighs swathed in black linens, wrists - one inked and the other bare - settled on knees

something drew him from his comfort, again, something in the club which called to him, to sit here now on the second floor, feeling the pulse of bass and clash of treble filter up through the expensive wood infront of the plush couch, silent and meditative even in the exotic electric atmosphere of Cymaa

(phineas merenisis)
The linnen is red this time instead of the white he usually wears, the red of fresh blood spilt. The material not even decending to his knees. the belt made of what appears to be beaten gold, or prehaps gold plated. the only other peice of clothing is a large thick egytian colar laying heavy across his shoulders and chest. he too wears the tan of the desert people kissed by Ra his skin is the dusky brown of a desert sand dune in the shadows of twilight. his eyes are the deep green of the mediteranian. he steps from the stairs on almost silent feet. the whisk of material the slight rattle of beeds of those 100s of plaits one against the other and all of them against that collar. and the smell of herbs cling to him aromatic sweet a little bit deadly if you know what it is.

(nakhti)
is it the rattle of beads that causes his attention to surface once again, the tiny clit-clatter of little weights against each other and the hammered collar? perhaps it is the scent of vanilla and something far more intriguing that has wound its way into his conscious and inspires curiosity to rise? or perhaps, then, if nothing else, it is the energized charge of another being entering the floor which has sent ripples of awareness clashing against his naked flesh, the barest electromagnetic charges sparking invisable fireworks across shoulders and chest and belly.

maybe, it is nothing at all, and the only movement from the silent shadowcat is the heave of bone and cartiledge drawing slow breath, feeding his body the nourishment needed for another handful of heartbeats until the cycle must begin again, lest be drown himself in sorrow and starve himself in mourning atrophy in the pouring rain of music from the hidden speakers above

(phineas)
he has a presence a sense of being, as if the life spark burns extra bright in him. like some god rides within his flesh empowering his blood. those closest too him feel it the longer he stands there the more it effects them touch would make it stronger touch makes a lot of things stronger. he stares at the private door for the longest time up to where more secrets lay how can he find the one responsible for those secrets.

again it has drawn him here to this place to this club. the downstairs noise and crowds getting to be to much so that he retreated to the lounge and softer music of the wine bar. content to explore the face of one of the sarcophogi, reading the enscriptions there. still wondering if it is real or a replica.

(nakhti)
the breaths are slow, tranced, drinking the scents and tastes that roll waves through the air about him, washing across his skin, tendril fingers coaxing throught the long strands of hair parted and spilling over bare shoulders, he could so easily be one of the statues that permanently resides here - and finally, as if some light had switched on, those eyes open

dark lashes lift from dusked skin, rising until half mast, then sleepily higher
pupils swell and contract in their adjustment to the shadows deep hazel seems to devour

and he watches, again, nothing moving save his gaze to glean and discover what it is that has finally convinced his attention to stray towards those things that dance outside of his own mind, soon enough, he finds the man in blood red and gold, low lights sparking a subdued ember to glow in that gaze, the predator's inner fire: simply, silently, watching

(phineas)
fingers trace the designs, mouth move with every letter every symbol a story told here one that comes undone beneath his fingertips beneathhis eyes. a pharoah died mysteriously struck down by the gods. he smiles. how many people has he delivered the gods justice to either to heal or kill? no that is a thought for another day. bare feet pad softly across the marble floors ...blink.. the dust rises before his feet it has been so long since someone was in this part of the library so long since its halls had been walked, scrolls and tablets line the walls some of them going to rot due to neglect, he will have to tell the cheif librarian of this, they should get some scribes down here to copy those still salvagable ...blink.. no there is no library no more anyway and if there was none have found it all yet alexandria is long gone to the sea shaking his head as if to clear it he moves to one of those couches. sliding into it with the grace of one who knows his body, knows how it moves and how the materails he wears will react. skin shown all the way to hip a smooth line of sandy skin broken only by the touch of gold. .

(nakhti)
he watches the man studying, he watches the man walking, like some feline sitting on a windowsill, but rather than the rays of the sun he bathes in the darkness inherant, allowing those shadows to crawl and creep and warm the fur hidden beneath his skin, there's a subtle, lingering curiosity in him, watching the stranger sink into the velvet arms of the couch, studying the display of flesh

he is Bubasti, after all
hunger comes in as many forms as his body
though how the flesh could be consumed is still a mystery of a whisper

dark eyes glimmer through overt stare, while the other is confident in his body, the small, slender man is confident in his presence and right, a feline arrogance that settles in the hold of shoulders, the ripple of muscle through his back which makes the inked skin quiver (he can feel the blessings of the gods washing off this one) in anticipation, fingers gently curl in the air before his knees, tips brushing against the linen fabrics in negligent thought, then a breath heaves in sigh, the small gold anhk tapping against the chest in landing on the skin so suddenly pulled away from it upon exhale

(phineas)
. a word to a waiter has 2 glasses of iced water brought to him. a small twist of paper removed tipped into and then consumed all in one action. a slight twisting of lips at the bitter taste washed down with a sip from the second. He is looking for something his study of the room would say that the intense way his eyes pass over everything looking searching

what is it that distracts him brings his gaze sweeping over the cat who sits studying him? what is it that brings it back again as if to make sure it was not a mirage created by the sun and heat. that leaves dark green eyes with thier endless depths stareing at him.

(nakhti)
the endless depths of brilliant green settle on him, he can feel their weight through the darkness, as if some physical touch against his flesh, tentative and yet so very demanding, and, perhaps it is the expression that intensifies on the stranger's face during that double take that brings a glimmer of amusement ghosting over lips colored with the faintest faded pink (and just what is it you see, that captures your attention so) slim chin lifts: inviting the question, or daring the answer?

there is a tingling in the air, the scent of ozone crackling so faintly above the incent sweat of bodies dancing below, above the heady wine that waits to be bought at the bar, and those lips part in further smile, the barest of movements, tongue peeking out to brush across them before disappearing once again, and those eyes, those invasive eyes that would read the secrets of a soul, widen

hungry
recognizing
(Rahjah... Nala)

(phineas)
his back seems to stiffen whatever it is he sees, he feels it now as well. the touch of something. something old something he does not know. like someone running thier tongue across his skin. it sends his spider senses tingling as the hairs on the back of his neck try to stand on end. and the way his aura shifts ever so slightly changes and settles once more in time to the own sensations playing over his body.

a carefully shaped eyebrow raises slowly as those eyes look at you. do you dare to plunge into the hidden depths so calm on the surface yet the stillest water often is the most deadly.

raising slowly to his feet he drifts towards you glass twisted lazily between fingers. not once does he let his vision break let it slide off or slacken his study of you is intense. like someone trying to figure out where you fit into the puzzle

(nakhti)
and the puzzle piece stares back, not wavering, not averting, not even blinking as Phineas approaches, slimline jaw lifts further to continue the eye contact as the other stops before the low table, study just as intense in this silent decision of who became predator and who subjugates as prey

and out of some whim of pure, dark amusement, he allows whatever it is that crackles around his skin to wash out, the ignition of that inner fire that sends the feeling of rasped tongue further against the other's flesh, pressing harder as if to clean it right off with each languid, invisable lick, what could be so gentle and loving a touch now armed with the raw power of desert sandstorm, that severe ability to rend body to nothing but dust seemingly held at bay by will alone, by some faction within his conscience that would rather play than rend

he toys with the one with hint of Rahjah's hand, he tempts and plays and teases with this glimmerling of power and Rage and secrets held just out of reach

(phineas)
this is new something he has not felt before, what are you? to pulse with so much anger yet not reek of magick, he has felt masters in thier spheres who could not project so well with such raw unbound rage. prehaps it is because the human psyche lacks such an ability.

whatever it is curls low around his spine a dull ache that runs against his skin in an tingling rush like fire ants. the sands of a desert storm able to rend flesh from bone in minutes. and he stares at the eye of that storm pushing ever closer to that invisible wind. his will is all the world around hiim bends down to it is shapped by it that strength that knoweldge lays in his eyes.. as he circles that table slowly. arogance prehaps or simple curiousity drags him closer. until he is close enough to touch to rend... does he know how much danger he puts himself in? does the other know what he deals with.

(nakhti)
it curls around his spine and runs against his skin, it wraps a fist edged with razor claws around vertebrae and runs the tips of those deadly fingers to pluck and pull at each nerve beneath skin, it feels as if it could very well pull the bones free of their sockets and spread the flesh a canvas across the floor

but what is it
the man on the table sits in confidence, for he knows
and he knows, in at least some part, what it is that circles him

and he allows it, Phineas, to circle behind him, slowly rotating skull to follow - the oblique stare passing shoulder, the coy glance across the slope of muscle which leads to the tribal inks across his back, the whipping turn which sends inky hair to dance when his stalker reaches the other side, so close, enough to touch, enough to rend, close enough to fall into the deep trancing pool the shadowcat seems to possess in the shadows that cling and wrap his slender form

(oh.... how I -do- intrigue you)

(phineas)
those tattoos get not a blink not a rise nothing. prehaps he knows what they are what they mean. rivals father and brother gods to my own beloved mistress. do you stare at me from his skin knowledge of what i am seeping to you from some divine source.

he has his own aura an aura of power an aura of vitality of life. he is so alive...

he is not stupid he knows who is predator and who is prey.. they may play a game but he understands who is the more deadly of the two. yet even the lion can be saved by the mouse.

the silent study is all the invitation he takes the passive posession the drawing of someone deep into the shadows that collect around them swallowed into the dark he slides onto the couch... not once does his eyes leave yours. as if to break the contact would end it all both fading away like the mirages on the deserts that created both of them. .

(nakhti)
as Phineas sits, the shadowcat still does nothing more than those supple movements that twist spine and torso to follow, slow breaths making the little gold ankh glitter in the passing lights, the look in those eyes is lean and hungry, as if given the chance he would consume the other and spit out nothing but fragments of bone

he is the creature of desert nights stories were told about, the monsters that roamed the darkness and claimed hapless souls, advantage taken and twisted to coil deadly as striking cobra that hovers just before the child that all but glows in vitality, of life, of the light that may well penetrate his own darkness

(..............how he aches for the Bagheera)

but his pain does not show, it does not filter into the maintained contact between their contrasting eyes, he does not allow that personal loss into their dangerous little game, he offers no word, no touch, nothing but the constant stare and the lilting intrigue for the power that tickles across the back of his mind, something he does not quite understand..... yet where it comes from.... that is what breeds familiar

(phineas)
He grew up on the stories of gods and goddesses he grew up in the hidden temples of Cairo, he is the one who paints the symbols on the door, who shines the light into the dark and who whispers the words of power that bannish you back deep into the desert. He was taught to handle the snake before he could walk. to charm the serpent before he could talk. what he fears is not the bite of the snake. no you are something else. the cats are not the only gods that stalk the streets of Cairo they are not the only ones who touch the divine

a smile creeps slowly over those dusky features as waterglass raises to lips a single sip of the icy liquid sliding slowly across his lips.

(nakhti)
ice water touches lips, chilled liquid molesting warm mouth, cubes surging at the gates as if to clamber their way inside the warm receptacle, and he watches (thirsty) and he waits (patient) until the glass is pulled away, then his head tilts, slowly, into a lazy blink which asks a question of its own (what is it that you see)

a silent question, in the room filled with the echoing pulse of the music below, and what it is that so very few notice snaking through the walls, of all the things he could have done, sitting so closely on the table to the reclining man - they could touch, they could fight, they could begin a writhing dance all their own - all he does is tilt his head, the regal power of Bast flooding his veins, coloring his countenance, the arrogant might of the goddess gazing down upon her subjects, that mere inclination enough to drive other to frenzy to figure out the singular meaning trapped within that tiny movement - but will Phineas understand...

(ra'gon)
Like before he entered the club. Unlike before he was dressed for the occassion. Having 'borrowed' a black suite, shirt and tie, only his hair still unkept was wild.

Eyes intent upon the dancers as he strayed in, though his attention was never far from surveying.

(grania)
She has prowled the darkness every night since promised, and still he has not come. There is an dullness that tangles in the soul of one who met him but once, yet missed the ability to complete her offer. And so, again, tonight, she slides through the crowds of sweating pulsating bodies, searching, curiousness deep in dark, dark gaze, the set of lips firm and determined as she moves with serpentine grace.
There is a small box in lace covered hands, black filigree sliding over creamy flesh past elbow, midway up strong bicep before bare skin rounds into shoulders, and dips into the laced tight corset of darkest hunter green (she is the huntress who stalks your nights, she is the seductress that tempts your days) that paused in flash of creamy white before flesh is again covered in shifting flowing patterns of lacey black, swell of thigh and strength of flank seen as hips shift slightly to avoid this, or touch that, gaze hungry under tempestuous blond curls that tuck and tease around strong chin as she searches still…

(phineas)
his smile grows. that geasture so like his own. the curious tilt of his head what is it that you seek?

he too is touched by a goddess she rides not only in his veins but his very soul. "Phineas Merenisis" his name offered up as sacrafice, beloved oracle of Isis. is that what he can feel the divine spark of his own goddess sister/cousin to your mistress.

(nakhti)
the magick man sits upon the couch, the blacksouled creature resigns on the table which becomes the alter upon which the name is laid, the beloved oracle mirroring the darkened moon which rises in shadowed glow above the raging sands of their homeland, can they recognize the powers that crawl from them out scarabic across the floors, scuttling into the shadows only to ebb tide and surge back once more to crash at their bare feet

as the oracle speaks, slowly the shadowcat leans forward to offer a message of his own, the arm that does not bear the adornment of ink upon wrist and hand reaches to allow a single digit to touch the miniature dunes which make the floor, as if the very hand of their painted gods would reach down to bless the ground, perhaps the rhyme and reason of it can be divined (strong moon is born) carved in heiroglyphs in the sand between them, his fingers hover above the symbols, before they're wiped away and his arm drawn back to it's place resting upon his knee, this living statue suddenly brandishing the Sphynx's riddle, challenge writ in partially lifted brow

(ruv ra'gon)
Again the ambent sounds from both floor and stereo echo down the hollow of his drums. There pitching a fevor till there was none. As always when entering such places as these, the first to go is his hearing.

With lazy lash swept across his eye, the gaze he offers slides. There upon the Bar it hovers. Then slow to pan back towards the dancers.

Another step and he was within their pulsating midst. Swallowed by the undulations of dancing. Pressing through the mass, unable to hear, everyone so bitterly close. Maddening.

(grania)
Something shimmers in crystalline gaze speaking of secrets untold as box is held between hands and cradled protectively along strongly muscled belly, and even still her movements are graceful (magic) and sultry in the press between (light and dark - we all dance in twilight) writhing bodies that answer music’s call. A hand frees from precious burden to slide along hips, touch the swell of thigh, caress lean muscle of this body or that, touching memorizing learning, gleaning things from the softest caress that is instantly forgotten by bodies in constant movement. There is a hunger in her gaze, a burn deep within (i.could.devour.you) as they meet the darkness of another’s and lips curve into smooth smirk as slender frame writhes within her skin and she spins away from that who would capture her for the time being… the slink through light and dark, spotlight and shadow fails to bring words to her lips - silent, she speaks volumes, and without speech, she searches still..

(jastima gemile)
She pushed her way thru the front door, arms hugging close to her chest for warmth. It was, as they say, freggin cold out there!

She stood in the hallway for a bit, letting the heat that filled the club wrap over her skin like a warm blanket. Then slowly her hands and arms relaxed to her side. She let one last shiver run up her spine. Even the small black bells around her wrist tinkled a moment in time. Hazel eyes dropped to the sandy floor benieth her knee high boots as she walked further into the club. Dark purple skirt of her peoples she adorned tonight, the black and golden glyphed sash tied around her narrow hips, the ends dangling to her heels. A lavender embroidered shirt clung to her body, hanging to expose her olive colored shoulders... dipping low so that the roundness of her breast seemed the only thing holding up the cotton shirt. She looked just like her twin. Even her long dark hair was loose and flowed down her back, the tips tickling her shoulder blades. Large gold hooped ear rings adorning tiny lobes. She added Ves'tacha's tinted gloss to her own pouchy, upturned lips.

Her gaze flickered over the place. The walls, the effects and etifects, the masses of faces bouncing around on the dancefloor, the few heatlovers clinging to their drinks at the bar. With a dancer's grace she pushed her way to one of the statues of Isis, one hand extending to trickle along its base as she tucked herself away upon its corner. Tonight, she watched and waited.

(ra'gon)
Surrendered from the mass, now upon the bar. Eyes lift to the right, back and afar. Upwords they float to the stairwell above.

A bump, a soft brush upon his side by a passing patron brought down his eye. And there for a moment they lingered upon the blonde tresses of the chavi craddling the obscure tightly around her belly.

(grania)
There is a moment that a gaze lingers upon blond curls and chin is lifted to capture gaze. There is a glint of challenge, perhaps, or something far more sinister deep in her eyes as a hand lifts from box to slide single nail down the length of borrowed tie, tugging lightly on the end as a slight smile perks the side of lips and lithe frame turns and pulls away.. who knows the mysteries revealed in the subtleness of her touch, who can tell the secrets begged with the sway of hip under shifting lace that flutters and slides about her form to tangle with strongly muscled calf as she moves away.
Again her search has proven fruitless upon the first of floors, and there is a pause near the bar and finger lifted brings tender close, breath spilled across his ear voicing her request, and answer given brings furrow to finely sculpted brow... a moment then, and the tender is pulled close once more, the slide of cheek against his (subtly marked) before another request is born on single breath… to this, she receives a reply, and furrowed brow is relieved by slow lift, the subtle movement flowing into feline stretch that pulls body upright again, and gaze toward the stairs that leads to unexplored floor.

(gemile)
The dryheat pumping thru the vents began to thaw her bones out. Slowly, but surely. Naturally swollen bottom lip softly tucking itself underneith her teeth for fleeting seconds. Fingers danced along the base of the statue she perched herself at, not far from the entrance of the club. Opposite hand, clad with thick silver and turquois braclets dances along the sash around her hips. Her eyes strain to pick the face that she followed from blocks away, confident mos his senses would not find her right away.

(ra'gon)
She passed before his abysmal pools of black. Searching was she? So was he. Casting her gay chalont aside, pressing forwards to the stairs that rose high. There he slowly climbed.

(gemile)
Leaning her head to one side to gaze pass the floating heads, searching in curiosity to where He was to tread. Lifting her back from the wall, the tips of her fingers rest upon the base of the statue fertile for a fleeting second, then lift away as she pushes from her spot. Bootheels sinking into the sands, a hand rounding up to push the hair from her painted eyes. The first signs of heat showing on her skin, just at the nape of her neck in the form of one fine trickle of sweat. Pouchy gleaming lips turning up into a sweet smile. She loved the climate, even daring to entertain the thought of making the club a second home while in this forbiddenly frozen city. She rounded near the entrance again, making her way towards the bar with the suttle sway of hips.

(grania)
The one (sur)passed moves to the stairs, but it is not to follow him that her steps turn that way. There is a look to the box within her hands, where lacquered nails tap against flesh-toned box, and a moments decision sees first steps moving toward upper lounge. Nails lift from box still cradled by other hand to trail light click over rail, steps near soundless as slender form lifts from step to step to step and finally gains landing shortly after Ruv himself made the same passage. And here? A glance, and then her prowl begins anew… the Other is here. She will find him.

(ra'gon)
There atop the stairs, swallowing the harem view whole. Lucious as it maybe, nevertheless its callousness was there beyond the viel for any to see. Perhaps this was a representation of the Malmuk' rule over Egypt during the 16th Century?

He strode past veiled couch after next. Eyes vigil within each, stealing a glance upon those seated between.

(phineas)
"nakhti amose" offered up as prayer more than as a question. so he can read the scripts of old scartched into sand that lays between them before it is brushed once more away the desert winds shifting the dunes into new inspirational patterns.

(gemile)
Hands folded to clasp behind her back as she strode, balance and grace held perfectly even in the sands benieth her feet. Fingers upon her right hand playing with the blackened bells around her left wrist, gaze lifting to the well used stairwell as she passed the bar's side. Skirt hems bending and flowing, raising ever so slightly as she began to make her ascend to the second floor. Narrowed hazel orbs flickering from her feet to those above and in her pathway.

(khepera)
He had come to the Cymaa for different reasons. Personal reasons of leisure and pleasure. He was not suspecting his 'pack' to be present within the confines of the club. The atmospher alluded him, beckoning in his dreams the past few nights. It was a splendid vacation from the bitter cold outside. Khepera did not quite follow the typical attire of most of the men. Him in a suit? Never. He deposits his leather trenchcoat at the check-in after making it through the front doors. Long muscled legs were encased in buttery-soft black leather pants tucked into calf-length boots (matrix-style). To follow the trend of black on black, a flowy mesh shirt clings to his torso, out-lining the lean, muscled frame. A series of small heiroglyph tattoos run down the length of his spine, from beneath the hairline to the tailbone. Another one graced his left shoulder, a finely detailed scarification tattoo, in the design of a coiled reptile, covered his entire shoulder. Around his neck, clasped a gold metal collar with a sapphire-back scarab beetle pendent that burned brightly when struck by the light. His eyes, twin dark pools of obsidian, were lined in dark kohl, much like the Egyptians of old. Weathered sun-kissed from Khephir's rays were shadowed by a dark curtain of sable-brown hair that falls into this face. He does little to brush it aside, moving with a fluid grace through the crowds as he looks around the club.

(nakhti)
the oracle remains quiet in contemplation this little mystery drawn before his toes, and for the breifest moment, the shadow looks up fromt he questioning gaze, feeling a familiarity tugging across the waves of air and light flickering through the lounge, the way that something begins stalking across the floor, the vigilant gaze sweeping to invade each private lair shrouded in veils and velvet and shadow

his is not private
it is not a booth hidden away for decadent pleasures
he had chosen a spot merely at the corner
nearest the sarcophagi that watch with ageless stares

then the words reach his ears, the prayer offered at his altar, it draws the gaze of emeralds beneath muddy waters back to the magickal man who deigned to play his game, and a smile begins to ghost along his lips once again (yes)

(grania)
Slowly, searching, the brightness of gaze slides over table, over couch, over partitioned and curtained areas, bodies languished on couches and stretched on tables, sand drawn in and erased and steps and the ever press of bodies along smaller dance floor surrounded by hieroglyphics and surrounded by statuettes and idols to be worshiped in the supplication and offering of body and soul. It is there, in the corner, surrounded by ageless stares, his decadent pleasures unhidden as words are traded with another. It is not he who she sought, originally, but it is he that will be spoken too tonight.
There were no words passed between them before, a conversation of gestures, of greed, of gluttonous shared wine and dancing darkened glances. Tonight will be different - and it starts now, as silken tones slide past full lips to fall upon his ears for the first time… “Excuse me..”
a glance is spared Phineas as well, though the slight lilt of lips fades, the expression bland, even as eyes burn and slide over his skin, devouring him without touch, in gaze alone, before she turns again to Nakhti, and awaits his acknowledgement.

(ra'gon)
Around the entire floor he circles. Eyes traversing from left to right. Sliding over everyone that lingers upon his sight. Though and unfortunately for he, passes Nakhti without even a blink. Phineas on the other hand only strengthens that 'cult of Bast' belief with his strange clothing and comedy.

Then his eyes faulter upon she. Nadja!, a momentary tug of his lip, threatening a smile to give till....No scent. Narrow again his eyes went and he approached her. Tongue rolling off in Romani "Pena, I believe this place is a bust"

(phineas)
he almost wishes he had his old friends Talibah gift to read knowledge in the secrets of silence.

and then thier game is broken the hypnotic stare with its secrets is taken away and he is left to study instead a face and body as its gaze sweeps instead over the rest of the club. to flow once more to sek out and pin him helpless trapped a smile creeping over his face, the acknowledgement that it was right. what distracted you however. his gaze sweeps slowly over the other patrons of the floor and then finally upon the one who approaches them approaches him it would seem many want to offer prayer upoon your alter.

(gemile)
Outstreaching one hand to touch lightly on the stair rail, the tinkling of her bells was drowned by the throbbing loud music echoing thru the club. She paused upon the second floor landing, brows knitting together as her gaze took in what she had not seen before. Secrets slipping over lips and thru wanton touches all veiled upon the leather lounges. ~Nadja's playpen~ silent thought crossing her mind as a coy smile came across her lips. She turned to look over her shoulder a second before being pushed past, and having to step to the side to let others through the stairway. Painted gaze sweeping down one way, then the other. Lashes fluttering as her Prala came around the bend to be by her side. She nodded, replying in the same tounge (romani), though her voice was raised more than it should be to carry over the music and Ruv's natural deafness, "No luck then? The sandwalker who tempts Aphrodite must have an agenda to send us on such a wild goose chase with ill information.."

(khepera)
He watches as he moves, silent in his movements. He blends into the crowd somewhat. A charming smile for a pretty lady here, a coy wink for a cute guy there. A chuckle rumbles in the base of his throat. He passes his gaze onward to look upon the twin statues of anubis that watched over the patrons of this place. He sighs, looking away again as he heads for the stairwell.. passing by Phineas and Nakhti.

(nakhti)
as Ra'gon passes, once more those eyes lift, locking on the son of Anubis though allow him passage without molestation, soon it is Grania whom barbs his attention with her mumured, measured words, the lithe movements of his body making Harlequin's ankh glitter and wink in the lights, the tiny piece of pharoah's richest gold warm and coveted against bare chest

Phineas is afforded another glance, almost apologetic in the way tattoo'd shoulders shrug, tribal brows on eyes of thoth lifting to signal whatever it is that watched his back, the smile waxes coy, secretive, alluring (we shall finish our game momentarily) and the gaze lifts once more to the woman swathed in black and crowned with gold, brow arches in acknowledging question (what.) though the gaze is drastically less playful than had been afforded the man on the couch

(ra'gon)
Shaking his head having heard only a bit of what she had said. (Romani) "I will not waste my time here anylonger. I go now to seek the Mongoose. The Children of Bast linger in shadow. If they come out..it will be after the battle is won. As has been, as always will be."

(gemile)
Her eyes widen as she looks up at him, hand reaching out to grab upon his upper arm. Pulling herself to her tiptoes so her lips are closer to his ear, though her voice still booms in their native language... nearly screaming to be heard.... "Are you bringing the Mongoose to play along in our journey to find our lost ones, or is it to settle something thats none of my damn business?"

(khepera)
He makes his way up to the stairs, glancing upward as he follows the line up to the second floor. Dark brows raise upward as he thinks he sees a familiar face.

(grania)
Her eyes fall to the ankh and trail in languid hunger over throat (i.could.devour.you.) the strength of chin, the fullness of lips, length of nose to settle on gaze far from playful (there is something..missing….tonight..) and her voice falls again as she flows to fluid crouch before knees touch sanded floor by the edge of the table, package resting between sharpened nails against the laced tightness of corset that should steal her breath, yet doesn’t… “I seek the other, your mate.”

(phineas)
he settles back into the couch content to wait content to play the game as it folds out and wondering where this new peice fits into the puzzle. eyes full of mysteries full of power watch grania watch Nakhti watch the suroundings.

even still there is a sense of movement about him as if the vibrancy contained within him is not content to sit still as if life itself flows from him through him is him. an aura of being that no matter how little he moved would tell any instantly that he is alive...

in its own way his study of the club is to give them privacy even as he refuses to give up his space.

(nakhti)
he watches, as she sinks to her knees before him, and the listens as her words weave through the music to touch upon his ears, and if one watched closely enough, they would see the pain well forth a silent banshee howl across some plane that can only be felt rather than heard, the way the aura around him flickers and changes, sudden erratic heartbeat of unbearable greif lashing to the surface, slowly, his eyes close in aching blink, as if that would combine with the slow swallow which would bury the pain once again

a pen is pulled from hidden pocket, stretch borrowing bar napkin from the other end of the table, words quickly written, nimble fingers turning the napkin for her to read

You will not find him.

(gemile)
Fingers fondeling the black blazer triggers her eyes to search his vistage, brow arching as she wondered just whom the suit once belonged to. Shaking her head to bring her thoughts back to the here and now, hand tightening upon his arm at the growl. Eyes snapping back to look up at his face, almost hurt it was that graced it as she stared up at him. ~Fine, fuck you and your gaje. Play now for later we seek death for our familia~ thoughts silently chastising him. Screaming (Romani) to the deaf man, "Don't you have catnip?!"

(ra'gon)
Deeper they furrow "Nip?" He languishes out in English "Oooh" Eyes widening suddenly with the aforementioned. Suddenly his tongue returning to Romani "I recall your insistence upon not awakening the spirit of the Mint. And now you inquire upon it?"

Though his hand slide inside his suit pocket, brandishing a small metallic case. "It is yours if you truly feel it would not be a waste"

But it was something else that caused him pause. Something that seemed to shiver across the veil through the spirit world that gave him alarm. With narrow eyes he followed the wake, followed it back to the men upon the couch with the woman who seemed reverant to pray. There something odd was capturing his grace. The man (Nakhti) "We may yet still have no need."

(gemile)
Pushing hard away from him, her hand once holding his shoulder now upturned in his face. The scowl she wore slowly faded as her hazel eyes once again turned into an emotionless void. (romani) Loudly her words were to him, "Give it to me before you go seek your Mongoose." Fingers flexing for him to hurry, she knew how much he loved to vanish quickly away without wait. Pausing at his words. Brows knitting together as she saw the void look upon his face. ~Leaving before the body does, Prala?~ Her gaze swept to follow his, picking upon faces, "Why?" the one word, english, came screaming out her throat.

(grania)
She is watching, and she sees his sorrow as it wafts over her in suffocations shadow, her own frame trembling with the howl that is unheard yet seen behind aching blink and slow slide of agony through his gaze. Her fingers ache to reach and trace the pain that lay rest in his gaze, though they do not lift from the box, her gaze slow to pull from him, shimmering brightly as eyes fall to the napkin before her.
There is a sigh, softly empathetic, for the loss of one met once, for the agony that palpitates the very air she pulls into her throat, pulling shoulders down to sag with the weight felt in his own. Chin dips in a nod, and movements shrouded in mystery, she lifts the flesh-toned box, and offers it to him. There is no pittance she can pay for the loss of love, for the ache of desire that thrums under inked skin, there is only the gift intended for one, for both, that can now rest in his hands should he accept... “Then I think he would wish me to give this to you…”

(phineas)
they know each other and they know a third. one who if his greif is anything to go by is departed now to the realms of Osiris. a spectator in some great tragedy as presented by the greek playrights of old. he feels uncomfortable where he did not before and his body moves shifts he gives them the privacy they need for real this time instead of the curteous one of before.

(ra'gon)
The reply he gives is as simple and crass as ever before has he gave. His hand rises, finger extends and the single point of the index directs. "There's the Child of Bast"

(nakhti)
curiosity tilts his head, and at first there is hesitancy in his actions - but only at first (he would wish me to give this to you) hands reach for the box, fingertips tracing over it's folded edge, Phineas for the moment unwittingly forgotten, the Strider as well, at the portence of what this may hold, and because of whom it is they speak, already it crosses his mind to snatch it greedily away and retreat to some private, unaccesable corner to open it with only his anguish for company, but he waits, patiently, strangely respectfully, for her to bequeath it to his possession, cradling the weight in hands before it is drawn into his lap - safe and secure, even though he knows not what it is there is care taken in the handling

the hand covered in ink draws to his chin, rotating around elbow held near waist to drop towards her in a quick gesture (thank you)

(gemile)
She turned around, following his finger tip with her eyes. Thin brows creased together more as hazels narrowed upon the near skyclad festive man in a corner. "How you know that?" (romani) she called out before immediatly making a bee-line towards the man in question. Her own patience was growing thin, and weather or not Ruv was right or wrong, she would find out right damn now.

(ra'gon)
~Oh no!~ Grasping outwardly with a hand to capture her before she stormed off towards them, but to no avail. Instead only following behind her, eyes deepening into pools of blackness.

(phineas)
he who had retreated slightly (without really moving) from the other 2 had nothing to do but watch them grieve. so it was he noticed the man pointing in thier direction so it was that he watches as she stalks towards them. those dark green eyes watching her every move as she draws closer. it would seem everyone does wish to pay homage to the strong moon. for he certainly does not know these people.

(grania)
Fingers reach, and she relinquishes the box without hesitation, allowing its weight to rest heavily in his hands, her fingers turning to smooth over his a moment in shared grief - in understanding that his anguish is so deeply felt, for she too has lost one close, she too has known the path he now treads.
she curls back and stands, slowly, an uncurl of muscles rippling stretch along bone under skin that shimmers the slide of lace along skin..
There is a pause, midway, her height not fully reached before knee falls to rest upon his table, his altar, hand capturing the thanking gesture in her own as forward fluid movement slides cheek against his. A breath is taken, mingling of scents to pull them deep within her throat, lodging in memory the agony and desire that breathes through him, until her breath falls across his ear. “if you have need, call.”
Her retreat is as smoothly sudden, uncoiling and serpentine, as was her approach, a tap of nail against fleshtone box suggests a means of communication is also held within… A nod is offered Phineas, and then body turns in fluid display, eyes seeing the trail of Gemile on straight path, railroading those who would be left in peace… perhaps it is intentional then, that her steps collide with the other woman, arm wrapped around belly and pulling her back a step or two with hidden strength… though words are unspoken, the intention is clear.

(gemile)
Her eyes were soely for the redrobed one as she walked with the grace of a dancer over to the trio. Feet comming to a sudden halt as the girl, unknown to her, a gaje, pulled her back one step. Her head snapped to the side as a han reached to wrap itself around the girl's extended arm. "You do not know me well enough for such closeness. If you have words, speak them quickly now to me else let go." The sweat was beaded around her neckline now, even still she gave off no scent. Her own nose flared just slightly as her gaze fell heavily to the gaje woman beside her.

(ra'gon)
The Triumph Rant be damned! The horror he now wore upon his face made evident for all of his sudden distaste. Quick to flank his captured Pena. Rage boiled from within threatening to send assunder inside a temple dedicated to the Goddess of Fertility. Thus why the Anubite Statues are so misplaced, but now the irony of that fixtured seemed clear and present upon his face. Death! Though his voice called out in raspy English "Watch your step" A pivot of words instead, though his demeanor suggested the worse

(phineas)
he watches with the cold detachment of someone who has seen what lays on the other side of deaths gates would they desecrate this temple? spill blood not in sacrafice? fingers dance at his sides a nervous geasture prehaps. one of those blue stones set in the middle of the gold disk slides with but a fingers touch inside a paper twist is removed. a second laying still in its secret embrace. that feeling is growing that clawing at the base of his spine that prickling sensation over skin. that fear that threatens to turn bowels to water. others in the upstairs let in to thier instincts not fleeing but leaving rather quickly.

(nakti)
as she grasped his hand to pull them close, a part of him recoils, instinctively, the shuddering retreat from touch for his pain, but to do such a thing would be insult, and she had placed a gift in his hands, so the closeness is tolerated, the scents exchanged, and before there is another gestured word between them she has stopped the.... Romani? woman from entering the santuary of the couch and table he and Phineas share

he watches, curiously, quietly, as Ra'gon stops beside them (which Pena is it?), head tilting as hazel eyes study the interaction, a glance to Phineas the chide perhaps they should have chosen more quiet places for their game, but the attention roves back to the trio a few yards off on the floor, something ripples beneath bare skin, beneath dusky flesh and iridescent black ink, an anticipation of what he does not yet know will happen, sense of danger tickling over his nerves

normally it would not be within him to stop their actions, it should not be of his concern, the Jackal's children partaking any violence within these walls will only lower Judah's (and his own) opinion of their lupine relatives, and he vowed to protect this as his own - and so that is why he rises in fluid, liquid grace from the table, another apology glanced towards the oracle for further delay of their game, and his steps tread lightly across the sand towards the Striders and Grania, ignorant of those that flee the growing Rage

a staying hand reaches for the closest arm, Grania's (it is allright), a look up towards Ra'gon (what do you seek here?) holding question in dark dark eyes

(grania)
The rage twists and tangles and dances between the two and it pulls a sad smile across her lips as her arm pulls from Gemile in a trail of nails in caress over the woman’s belly… lingering and slow and far from a threat, sultry and lithe body moves closer still to the two…
Words, she has them, though she holds them in too high regard to let them flutter and fly without reason from her lips… the tip of tongue moistens the lush fullness of a smile barely formed head canting to the side slightly, golden curls capturing the light that shimmers and shifts above them..
It takes a mere moment as breath is gathered and voice almost falls, and it is then the staying hand rests upon blackened lace and her gaze slides upwards, lashes fall to kiss cheeks, and then rise again, and finally statement falls to Gemile and Ra’gon.. “Excuse me..” though it is far from an apology that it was perhaps originally meant to be.. “I will watch where I go more closely.”

(gemile)
Prala's rage trickled up her spine, raising her own to boil to the surface. Her gaze did not weaken nor move from the gaje woman by her side. Her hand did not tighten up the woman's arm, nor did it move from its perch upon her skin. She waited either words or an exit.

It was the flicker of movement so close to her side that caused her eyes to move momentarily. The redrobed man in question had risen, to what, come to the gaje's rescue? Brows knitted high upon her head as she slowly looked back at the woman. Stomach muscles tightening upon the intimate touch of nails across her skin, foreign to her as salt to bees. Lashes folded as she blinked, then gave a small slip of a grin, "Till soon." English, accented heavily though as she turned to face the redrobed man. Priorities.

(ra'gon)
Eyes steal away the presumptions made. There how they lingered to replay at a later date that image of he laying so effortless a hand upon she who attempts to delay. ~They know each other~ There amidst those abysmal pools, her image is thrusted back upon her like a mirror. A sudden glint, a glistening of the lights abound crashes against the pools of black, dislodging the mirror, leaving only solid.

Everything seemed so surreal, so slow in the turning of the sudden events that encompassed them. There as his eyes dance upon the flickering light to land there on Nakhti's own. There he pauses in thought. "Death has already plagued your house. For that we retire ourselves for your loss. But our Prala to we he was. We have come to tell you whom has defiled our Pride. They call themselves Grandson's of Thunder. We hunt them now. Because of Tradition, you are allowed to accompany the hunt...should you seek such vengence upon their arrogance. If not, we leave you now. To bother the house of Bast no more, not now"

(phineas)
it is interesting this little drama that plays out before his eyes. those who set his teeth on edge and make him wish to run intruige him thier words filtering through the soft lounge music the relaxed atmosphere thier accents marked measured and prehaps recognised. at least on the level of where have i heard it before. the words however they are much more to contemplate. so the strong moon is of the order of Bast that suggests these others are not.

(nakhti)
his chin lifts, bearing the words so blantanly reminding him of his greif with pride born into his Tribe, with resignation for suffering both heirtage and birthform, pain is no stranger to him, though this wound still bleeds fresh, the black abyss of the Strider's eyes hold, in breif light, his own reflection gazing back upon him, and as the latent anger rises bile again, his own pupils swell to swallow and devour the errant shadows in his wrath

slowly, the chin lowers in affirmation, then one hand lifts, fingers dancing in the air, spelling out his words (do you understand sign?) as a brow lifts, shoulder already turning to lead him somewhere where writing is more amenable if not - this is nothing that can be discussed in a matter of nods and shrugs

(grania)
Unreleased by Gemile’s hand, her free hand reaching to touch blackened bells, her steps are stayed and her voice is stilled by silent touch of anguished son.. she says nothing more, nor does she move, awaiting the moment to take her leave…

(gemile)
Her hand released, slowly the gaje. Lashes fluttering as she glanced her way for a fleeting moment, then away. Head lowered at her Prala's words, eyes flickering to her own stomach. No red lines, the nails were not hard enough to raise the skin. But she could see what gaje eyes could not. Marhime! The gaje branded her with a simple gesture, meaning or unknowingly. It was there. ~I need a long hot bath~.

Sighing a breath, chin raising as a hand came forth to push back dark locks from her eyes. Hazel stare to the Bast before them, the one that knew their Prala. Head tilting to one side, before it dawned on her. ~Oh bloody hell, The deaf and the mute communicating.~ (thoughtposts).

(ra'gon)
A brow quips as his head is slow in it's wake to suggest 'No I do not'. Instead however his hand raises to point towards Gemile "Seek us if you must with our Peoples over the waterfront. We have among our number those who give words with fingers than tongue. Pena has a address to give you"

(gemile)
More confusion. Brows creasing ever more tightly together as she looked to her Prala, one corner of her nose raising, shoulder rounding as bones crackle and snap. ~SC~ What address?

(nakhti)
it had been worth a try, for their Tribe has been known to be as well versed in languages as his own, it would have been far quicker than writing, but as a waitress passes by, free hand darts lightning to steal a napkin from her tray, the top of the box used as a tablet to write upon, and the napkin is handed to Ra'gon, the words upon it in their native tongue, not English

I will aid your hunt. I know the one most responsible for the final act. Vengeance we shall find before our loss is mourned in peace.

(ra'gon)
Casts only a wink back to Gemile. She was Beta now, whom better than to coordinate such a place than she for a meet? Or must the Omega do it?

His shoulders roll, brows quip then furrow, a slight sneeze ~SC~ The Child of Bast knows Romani.

Nodding after taking the note "Till soon then Child of Bast, glorious then will be our triumph as you walk with the Anubites"

(grania)
Released, it is then that she turns her gaze up Nakhti, and further to Phineas who awaits his return, the slide of her gaze resting heavily upon Gemile for a moment, before her turn is completed and steps lead lithe form toward the stairs.

(gemile)
Hazel eyes widen as she watched the napkin pass to Prala, then his communed words thru their Tribes language gave motion for her eyes to widen even more before lashes fluttered. Hand raised to perch upon one hip with the shake of her head. ~So Prala was breaching the Romania all this time? Shameful~ (thoughtposts) Sighing a breath, her other hand outstreached, palm facing up and paused in mid air before the Bast. "Can I barrow your pen?"

(phineas)
a slight nod of his head to Grania a smile playing on his lips and secrets dancing deep in his eyes. he has learnt much tonight just by watching them. learnt more than he ever thought he would, and has more questions than he will ever get answers too.

(nakhti)
that he does, and so the question remains, of all if it they have spoken when they knew he was near, expecting blessed secrets for his supposed ignorance... how long has he known it? and the nodding smile that ghosts across his lips in response can only be defined as coyly, subtly, smug at their surprise: for it speaks he knew far before he met their Prala

never underestimate Bast's chosen

the pen is placed lightly across her palm

(ra'gon)
With a solemn nod he turns, leaving the Bast to itself. Knowing his Pena would follow shortly after.

(gemile)
~Ok, address, address...~ taking the pen in her left hand, she looks around for a napkin and notices the veiled booths had cleared out. Quirking a brow, she moves to part a veil and steals a napkin from one of the couches arms. Turning around, her gaze sweeping past Prala as he exits ~Oh can't wait a second more to meet your gaje can you prala?~ and then returns to the Bast. Her steps light but sure, head tilted down as she scribbles an address and a phone number upon the back of the napkin. Pausing just before him, hand extending to give him the new rendezvous information.

to Nakhti: ((Adress if for a 7-11store at the BoardWalk, and a phone number beside it. One word upon its surface reading, Gemile.)

(nakhti)
there is a nod, lithely reaching to pluck the napkin from her hands, a glance at the address, then the napkin folds as feathers within his grin, the same sign given Grania before now offered Gremile (thank you) along with another gesture (Gemile) and there is a look in those dark eyes, a resolution

even for their differences, and their instinctive mistrusts, he will not let the Anubites down, they were his mate's family

two fingers are held up, he needs two nights to prepare, then he will be ready to find aid them in their hunt

(gemile)
A tilt of her head as she watches his gestures. Hazel eyes understanding as their only emotion. A slight smile parts her pouched lips, "Two nights you will have. Till soon, Isis's son." bowing her head in reverance to him, she backs away before turning and decending down the staircase.

(phineas)
whatever had passed between them all he did not understand most of it/any of it yet what he does understand is that it is now over. that paper sache the small twist of so thin paper with its white powder inside it. tucked gently behind his belt between material and gold plate.

(nakhti)
the reverent nod is returned, and the wrathful anger while boiled to the suface as bitter bile is forced away as best he can mange, a level of respect held for the Anubites, the napkin with the address is tucked into the pocket of soft linen pants, his weight shifting in the sands to pivot and turn back towards his earlier companion

one more napkin stolen, returned pen scrawling the note as he walks, and it is handed to the oracle

I apologize for the wait. Family business.

(gemile)
Reaching the bottom of the stairway, left hand tucking the pen into the sash around her waist. Her hips no longer swayed as she walked, but carried her own stanch steps as she made her way across the small desertlike club towards the front doors.
Reaching the bottom of the stairway, left hand tucking the pen into the sash around her waist. Her hips no longer swayed as she walked, but carried her own stanch steps as she made her way across the small desertlike club towards the front doors.

(phineas)
he smiles slightly at nakhti his eyes alighting upon the note, traveling down along its length recognition dawning. so it is not one of them cannot hear but rather you cannot speak. his hands flicker flash before his back was too him so he could not see what he said now however he stands facing him.~I understand the calls to duty and none can deny family~ but if they where family he would eat himself.

(nakhti)
his head tilts, and a smile (weary, though glad for the smallest of gifts) edges into his exotic features, sinking to sit upon the velvet warmth of the couch, gesturing for Phineas to join him once more, the box is settled in the cage of crossing legs, so both his hands are free to speak to the other, a wryness glittering in those dark eyes to see the doubt (They were my mate's family.) even if the sadness returns, no qualms of sharing that information, for he knows Phineas is aware of the bitter greif that still surrounds him

(gemile)
She paused just before reaching the hallway which lead outside. Chest rising and falling quickly as she readied herself for the weather she hated the most. It was almost painful to leave the dryheat that reminded her of homes of the past, homelands she was use to, not all this.... this snow. Body shuttering at the thought, her hands rose to grasp upon upper arms. Bracing with one large sigh, her feet determinely stomped down the hallway and out into the cold night air. The shock of it all making her teeth grit hard, as not to let out the scream, hands to tighten around her skin and pace to quicken towards the nearest taxi cab. The one thought flowing thru her head ~need a bath, need a bath, need a bath~

(phineas)
he just nods to that, he will not offer his condolences he does not know his mate he will not say sorry for he has nothing to be sorry for and they are perfect strangers so he cannot even offer support but he can offer friendship. "my herbs whill not fix a broken heart, not even my mistress herself can do that. only time will heal such a cruel wound. leaving eventually scars and finally fond memories, but if you need someone to talk to my strong moon then feel free to search me out." it is his turn to take a napkin and a pen the heiroglyphs are done quickly but still legeble his name Phineas MerenIsis, beloved oracle of the goddess of magick. beneath that is written a hotel suite a mobile number and an email address. he raises slowly from his seat. flowing across the floor until he is standing near the stairs about to decend. the top floor all but clear buy all the rage of earler. eyes for just him hands move and shape flowing into the semblence of words ~my lovely child of Bast, our mistresses have never been enemies and often friends, do not worry your secrets are safe with me~ and with that he is gone stepping onto the stairs decending itno the decadent river of life that flows on the ground floor. to claim long jacket a peir of loose slacks and boots. all in preperation to brave the cold.

(nakhti)
he listens to the soothing words (just something, to ease this pain) and the fond smile remains over such sorrowed lips, he's known anguish, but never like this before (thank you, Phineas) the words flowing as ambrosian fluids from his fingers, and his head lowers, quietly, silently, gesturelessly, in respect as the oracle turns down the stairs, just as they met - those eyes never leaving contact

---- (later)----

(nakhti)
the strange Bastet bearing gifts had taken her leave, the Striders had taken their leave, as well, soon enough, the magickal oracle departed, leaving the Bubasti to his sorrow in the upstairs lounge, and he sits there, in his own silence, bathing in the sounds that pour from the speakers some rain to cleanse the drought of greif from his desert-born soul, but even Cymaa cannot comfort everything, Phineas had been right, there is little that can mend a broken heart, there is nothing that will sooth the scars that have been carved mercilessly onto his soul

he has lost before, but never like this, he has known that he would lose again... even the nights spent with Harlequin they never expected to last forever, fingers play with the gold ankh hanging agains this chest, the fond smile growing to remember how they met, here, just short months ago, in a rare moment the shadowcat allows his emotions to surface so honestly; he knows from the rituals of the past week that all was not lost, all is not outside of his grasp, and the afterlife is only a spirit's short flight away, and he can feel the presence of his lover even if it means he will never play their games, nor speak to him again

some things, you only have to know

weight rises from the couch, a note left with one of the guards to personally deliver to Judah, and the Bubasti finds himself braving the blistering cold to catch the cab home, a ride spend with fingers running idly on the edges of the flesh-toned box

and when he has let himself into his flat, the door locked, his wool coat cast to the floor, and he's left in nothing but linen on his pants, the ink of his flesh, and the warmth of the dedicated ankh, he sits upon the low couch, ankles crossed beneath, cinnamon incense coiling from the burner on the table surrounded in candles, a blue scarf is pulled from behind the pillows, fabric held against his skin, fingers tracing the designs that a grandmother hand meant for another, but it is coveted as his own, now, and already tears begin to cloud dark hazel eyes

there is a sadness in his eyes as sharp talons emerge cut the tape on the box

(grania)
to Nakhti, Phineas Merenisis: With the lift of lid to flesh-tone box, the softness of layers of silk is revealed, cradling an object within, oddly shaped, perhaps, before it is revealed. It is heavy for such small size, 10, maybe 15 pounds or so, and about 10 inches high, 7-8 wide…
It takes a moment or two to unwrap the silk from treasure within… but once the last wrap is pulled away, an intricately formed sculpture is seen, the statuette carefully crafted and layered in smooth marble and decorating bronze, portraying not one, but two… the lines are sleek, clean, feline, though distinctly human. Two males, one (Nahkti) reclining, upon the bronzed pillows, the other (Harlequin) kneeling behind, the former resting in the arms of the latter, their eyes locked in something purely… primal… the resemblances are almost eerie, so pure the detail gathered from mere moments met and spent with each of them, the fierce possession in harlequin’s eyes all but radiating intensity, the darkness that thrums under the skin of the other matching the gaze evenly, heatedly… A portrait of lust, of love, of possession and intensity… all formed under talented artists touch and tool in delicate beauty. In monetary terms, it would be worth a small fortune… in emotional? The price is far, far, more…. And now, with the loss of one, it is an everlasting tribute to what was shared between them, what was seen so vividly in the few precious moments spent with each of them.

(And remaining in the box, in flowing script, a card: her name, an address, a number. Methods of communication should it ever be sought)

(nakhti)
fingers revel in the feel of silk sliding across whatever is hidden beneath, and perhaps he takes a minute to indulge in the feeling, in rubbing his fingers across the hidden lines of sculpture, a game to guess at what it is so carefully wrapped beneath, imagination running wild with the blind, tactile information gleaned with each delicate stroke - but soon enough the curiosity gets the better of him, the relentless hunger to see and to know what it is that so intimately concerned his mate that another would seek him, yet to find him gone, would still give the gift to the shadowcat himself

a breath, so silent, draws quickly into empty chest, filling it with the rolling cinnamon smoke that wafts through his flat (the scent of his lover), breifly filling that void that rings so hollowly inside, and those eyes just widen, lips parting in sheer awe as the heavy sculpture is held up for closer inspection, following the fine lines as if he could recreate them himself, as she has so expertly recreated what it is he shared with the Bagheera, touching the bronze, grey and white, the pillows, legs, the way arms cross and embrace, roaming up

Posted by nakhti at February 25, 2003 12:00 AM

Comments