[cymaa]
(nakhti)
how strange, that has has brought himself here once more - not for the reason of comfort or company or escape from the silence of his flat and the tempest of his thoughts, but because he has been told
if it were any other's words, Cymaa would be the last place to find him tonight, though he waits upon the very same gauze hidden couch of where they last spoke (you are blind with your hatred), wrestling with the call of desire and the satiation of need (you strike out because you are alone), finely sculpted chin resting on the flat top of bent knee (you lash out because you hurt), slender arms caging his leg as the low sigh breaches lungs (you know you should wait until the time is right to strike) and the eyes colored of sullied riverbeds search the bodies that stroll languidly past (why can you not shake the dishonor of allowing them to do it without you)
(judah)
There is a confidence that radiates from Judah. One might doubt that the tall man ever second guesses himself, simply by his gait and poise. He strides on bare feet towards that very same shadow caressed booth. His black pants hang far too low on his slender hips, threatening to fall at any given moment, for any number of reasons. His shirt is an earth toned brown, and it clings to his sun kissed skin snuggly, exposing the lower half of his etched abdomen.
Sleek ... tall....elegant .. the Prince of Cat strides with long legs towards Nakhti, and it is with a cocked head and lazy bright green eyes that he regaurds the other cat. He does not sit, for the moment, instead an arm drapes quite casually across his stomach, dangling there listless as he stands towering above the booth.
"Good evening, brother..."
(nakhti)
the confidence, the poise, the sheer predatory presence which approaches out of the darkness, the crocodile lurking in ambush, the leopard waiting in the trees, the cobra poised on the burning sands - it is everything he should be, but the statue has been broken,and the sandstone pieces too jumbled to quickly repair
it pains him, as well, to be in such a position, to be at such a lack of control
gaze stirs, drawing up the long line of black slacks which leads to the torturous slash of flesh, peeking from beneath the fabric before covered once again with the clinging shirt that reveals beneath its snug confines the etch and carve of lean muscle, finally he finds his way across spanse of throat, the pulse that flutters beneath curved jaw, and those bright, bright eyes, the words returned in a slow dance of one hand through the air
(judah)
There is the slightest cant to Judah's head as he continues to study Nahkti. A flickering of confusion and uncertainty threatens to overtake his expression as he slowly eases into the bench seat of the booth next to the other man. He has no regaurd or care for personal space; much like a house cat that refuses to accept that they are not going to be caressed and stroked at the moment they so wish it.
"What did you dream of last night ...." Such an odd question, yet it seems so very natural falling from the threshold of his plump lips. His arms cross over his lower stomach, lap, and he seems comfortable as one leg drapes over the other at the knee.
(nakhti)
there is no regard for personal space, just like the housecat asserting it's will for attention, whatever is in your space, is also theirs, at the very moment they wish conquest, and so the younger cat does not move away, perhaps there is some acceptance, or even some hidden need, to have another that would draw so close without second thought to what it is that hides beneath his skin, and slow breath so sensitive his senses for the lack of another, draws in what it is that coils from Judah's flesh, the tiny particles of information that cling to the dark waves of hair
Hunger.
the hand had moved to the napkin laying in wait, single word printed beneath sight's guidance before it draws up to the Prince again
(judah)
"Hmmmm" It's a soft sound that leaves his lips in a quiet hum, heard barely above the solid thump of the music surrounding them. He does not move, other than the soft flesh caressing tendrils of hair along his jaws and the resplendent green of his eyes.
"You've had time to think ....do you still wish to wage war with the dogs?" His eyes shift to weigh completely upon Nahkti; the dark son of Olympias and Amon is still .... waiting to read the written words of the man at his side.
(talibah)
One would assume she would dress to match this place. Appear in some vision of egyptian splendor that passed from the daylit world centuries ago. Be predictable. She is anything but. She comes here when her mind needs release from work. No tombs to retreat to, in this young country. No great ancient libraries, barely any good museums, in her opinion. So she comes to this club. . . but maybe beyond its too appealing sensation is the fact she knew who walked here. The first play made, and she returned for the enxt move in their strange, silent, game. Point. . .set. . . match.
Leaving coat and shoes with the check, she entered in a whisper of lace. Black lace, from shoulders to waist tight and from there dripping to the floor. Something underlaid it to make it passable for polite society but nearly sheer. It creates imagination, it gives glimpses, it bares certain secrets to night's eyes. And her eyes? Seek a strong moon. . the player. . . slipping through the thrumming throng of the first floor for the stairwell up, to where they had played round one. . . climbing stairs in a silent whisper.
(nakhti)
the dark son watches him, studies him, with eyes as ready as his own to look so deeply they would see what has been so brutally carved across his soul, and his head shakes, the snaking shadows falling from head's crown brushing against the high curve of angular cheeks
The war with the dogs is the same as it has been for lifetimes before my own. I wish not to start a new one, only to see the Jackal children draw end to this battle.
the bitterness still throbs within him, as heavy as the soundtrack bass, as powerful as any heartbeat - but it is more controlled, now, the wound seems not as raw
(judah)
Judah nods, removing his attention and gaze from Nahkti, he sets his eyes upon the more intimate area of the second floor. He watches the dancers with their flesh bared so readily, he watches them offer up themselves to Gods and Deities they do not know....it interests him for a fleeting moment as slender shoulders lift and fall in a noncommittal shrug.
"So it has always been ... so it will always be." The man with the beautiful features (neither man ... nor woman...) repeats that which was echoed to him years and years before. So it will always be.
(talibah)
Bare feet quiet on floors, sand, and stairs, as she emerges at the top of the stairwell, midnight ink eyes already looking. Body already moving among the lighter crowds here, the more. . decadent. . air permeating everything. There was just something about. . this place. Maybe she had been hidden in her isolation too long? The bass of the lower floor a dull throb in the soles of her feet as she began her circulation of the second floor. . . she sought only one. . . her luck? or her chagrin, should she find both? Fate, it seems, is not without its irony.
(nakhti)
there is a breath, so soft, so slow, and if it only could, it would hold the slightest connotations of a purr that should rumble in his chest, a sound colored with the blushing desert hues under which he was born, the mysterious and exotic, the shadowed and horrifying, for it would not be a purr to signify contentment, perhaps only a sound that symbolized his attention
We cannot change what already is, only shape what will come.
he, too, watches the dances for that breif moment (how he can see the shadows of their spirits writhing in flames), as if he, too, had heard the very same words laced into his memory, the prophecies of a smoke-laden mystic, the burden of knowledge and secrets that have been handed down between generations should only one be so lucky to recieve them, breifly, his eyes linger on the pseudo-familiar form of the Kin, attention casually peaked
I hunger for what you would give me, Brother.
the undeniable urge to learn, to devour all that is placed before him, his eyes draw back to study the other, so focused and intense their gaze
though should she approach, perhaps that will not be his gift, tonight
(judah)
"Seek out your revenge. I will be there to help you. When this is done, then I will teach you, brother.....I will not teach you before this." His words are quiet and softly spoken .... his eyes are the only portion of his attention that cuts towards Nahkti.
Judah perhaps seems quite fickle; at times he is aloof, and most others he is extremely intense, at the moment he lingers closer to the former. A waitress, scantly clad, leaves two glasses of ice water on their table, without so much as a word from Judah.
(talibah)
When her eyes finally pick out. . . Nakhti. . and . . . the Pharoah, she pauses. Fluidity stemmed, a dam placed in grace, and she watches both. She knows they know she watches them. Or rather she assumes such. Always assume the best (or.worst) of them, and be pleasantly surprised if your expectation is lived above that. The split second decisoon before itbecomes obvious they have surprised her, to approach the both of them, or to retreat for a night's round when they were broken down to their component pieces. Such a delicate dance. Finally. . . decision made, and merely seconds have passed before motion resumes. Face a stark relief, not unlike a statue carved of stone, perfect and composed. Its the depthless eyes, warm as inky desert night, that give it life. Decision made and the next move in the dance started as she approaches the two of them. Soon enough to see if her presence accepted or rejected. It did not matter to her one way or another. Alays Phineas for such games if she truly felt the need. . it was just more satisfying with her blood.
(nakhti)
there is but a nod offered the words, affirmation in the lift and drop of carved chin, in the way flesh flexes across his throat and the jugular hidden beneath and the way each decisive muscle has chosen to work in wondrous cohesion in creation of such a fluid and divine answers in the littlest of movement - how strange to give so little an answer after his gaze had been so overwhelmingly intent
his head bows, this time, the brush of temple against the boned point of Judah's shoulder all the slow stretch and extension of slender body would allow, a breif caress in the fall of inky hair across fabric, when he could supply so much more, for while neither may hold any consideration for personal space, there are still some things he will not invite insult through
he eyes cast towards the approaching Kin, indeed their game must continue, but the water placed before him gathers far more consideration, and the hand covered with the blackened inks reaches to pluck it from the growing ring of sweat condensation beads weep to form
(judah)
There's a moment, when the other Cat's temple brushes his shoulder, that Judah's hand lifts to caress the midnight locks of hair which spill forward. It is a slow gentle caress, one reserved for lovers or family or both.
Nakhti pulls back, however, and it is with a reserved sigh (....close to you) that Judah regaurds the kin. Cool and detached. Shadows bathe them both, and Judah eases back into the booth's seat, silent.
(talibah)
One learns an edge when they spend any time around predators. A subtle wariness that keeps them on the edge enough to react to nearly any situation. Its especially true of kin more then your average person. Even more her. She knew, suspected or had heard tales. . of her family. She expected certain things. . none of them good. A sort of come what may attitude. Watching the two of them in their private moments makes her wonder at her own wisdom. . but whats worse is the need to explore the game begun with the one. To seek. . to know. . to hopefully not come away burned beyond recollection. . .
Progress forward, in what only can be called a slink. Forward and on until she slows up before their table, facing the, one in shadows, one even farther back. Her greetung?
"Nakhti Amose."
(nakhti)
one he knows, the other a possiblity, and when the elder cat eases back into the booth's shadows, weight slips once more, allowing the gentle lean to bring but a breath between their shoulders, should his head tilt - as it does to look at the kin drawing nearer, as it does to drink from the icey glass - the tips of midnight hair will once more tickle across pale fabric, whatever pain possessed him, whatever ache rattled him, it disappears, as if pushed away by the close contact between the two cats
it seems he has regained the coy demeanor which harbors too abundantly beneath feline skin
weight shifts against the back of the booth (the one I spoke of) when feet lift from the floor to tuck on the ample padding beneath lean frames, just beneath, and just beside him, blinking so slowly at the slinking woman who stands now before them as some unknowing sacrifice stepping to speak to the gods, gods whose eyes burn with the most unholy of dark powers and intentions
she greets him by name, and he responds (yes?) with a brow that slowly lifts, and a smile that may ghost across his lips
(judah)
Touch, brush, breeze, caress. Judah thrives in all forms of nearness. It drives the man that he is, and it sates the devil Cat beneath his seemingly normal, human flesh. He is at ease with Nahkti so close, and he seems to regaurd the woman the way a fat full Lion might eye another Lioness within his Pride. Aloof ... yet regal in his judging gaze.
One long arm (...terribly .. so) reaches out and takes up the glass of ice water. He takes a hearty drink, leaving a ghost shimmer of moistness across the expanse of overly pouty lips. Glass in hand, in dangles perilously on the opposite side of Nahkti....the sweat rubs against the lean curved musculature of his thigh ...
In the stifling heat of Cymaa ... it is soothing.
(talibah)
He had shown her the glyphs for his name. Her linguistical skills had easily translated them, and mind had matched them. Now she offers her own first clue. Easy to decipher, the first. Its a ploy, a drawing out. . .
"Seeker of Knowledge in Silence."
Once translated he would have her name. He may know it. He may not. He may have contacted the shadows of home. . . some of whom could tell some of her secrets even. . . or maybe known of her by mortal world reputation. Or perhaps, just perhaps, she was anonymous, blessedly unknown. . that would be a jewel.
His browwent up (yes) and this time hers does, with her words. One dark browcanted delicately skyward (Round two?). Eyes flicker to the other, the pharoah as yet unnamed to her, but sight alone enough identification. Gaze sweeps over him sweeps him up and then attention becomes Nakhti's again.
(nakhti)
through the close contact, through the comfortable zone with which he lounges in the stifling, welcome heat of the club, perhaps Judah can feel the tremble that begins what would be laughter if he had the ability to lend sound to the air escaping his lungs, the satiated Lion may watch her with judgement in his eyes, but this spoiled prince which curls and leans against him with touches that tease and tempt to offer more begets a cruel glimmer in those murky eyes
how easy it would be for him to turn to the other cat, and allow himself to be consumed, simply to flaunt Judah gets what he knows she so hungrily seeks, that knowledge contained within and on his flesh
the hand reaches for a new napkin, pen laying black symbols across it's fiber surface with ease (Talibah. You are a day late.) and slow enough for his elder to read before it's twisted for her eyes, the napkin travels across the smooth surface of the small table, suddenly expressionless
would her timing cost her the next clue...
(judah)
His mother touched him so. Royal lineage bathed in blood and secrets. How many times had she caressed the soft tresses of his hair ... the angled line of his sharp jaw...chin...he reads the words just before his lids close slowly. The music (Ambient...Dead..Can..Dance..)has shifted and it allows the King of Cats a moment to retreat into himself, an action so rarely enjoyed these days and nights of late.....
The hiss of snakes, the snarl of Jackals, the sweet rumbling purr of cats.....all of it overwhelms his senses as he sits so silently with closed eyes, enjoying the music and the company at his side ... and perhaps even the Kin so boldly standing before him.
It is with slow hesitance that his eyes finally open once more, pupils shrink and swell as he fixes his eyes (so .. green...) upon Talibah. Judah is set back within the dark shadows of the booth, the oddly bright colour of his eyes seem the focal point for any attention cast his way.
(talibah)
Better to be bold, then to cringe. They held mystery, and so did she, little storehouse of blood and magick. Gleaming warm eyes flicker between them, boldly. The lucid green of Judah hidden in his shadows, the toying gaze of Nakhti. She could almost seem to enjoy it, the cat and mouse. . .
Reads Nakhti's words, and a soft purring laugh, thick with that accent. No, definitely not native to this country, and most definitely from the land of burning sands and ancient legacy.
"I hope you did not wait long. I would never be that predictable."
Countermove. Did it work?
(nakhti)
if only he could purr, if only he could allow that sound to rumble through his chest to bestow the depths of his emotions to the conversation, but he will always be reserved, he will always have that barrier between any that he communicates with, so perhaps it is only pheronome scent which discusses the amusement which trembles electric beneath dusky flesh
once more, that dark brow lifts (I did not wait at all.) and his weight settles backwards, drawing further from her, and closer to Judah (You missed your turn.)
now it is she whom will have to wait for more
(judah)
His keen sense of smell shifts towards Nahkti and his eyes wander the expanse of the other mans person, it is with great reservation that he tears his eyes from the cat man and returns his gaze to the woman kin. The faint pink of tongue washes over his lips, moistening them, and soon he's lifting the glass once more to his lips. He reguards their game of cat and mouse with faint interest ... at least it seems such on the surface.
(talibah)
Whether he thought she would be bereft at his withdrawal or not, she merely smiles at his retreat into shadows. Ever the manipulators. A slight, flippant shrug at Nakhti's movement and she cants her head slightly watching them both.
"Pity. Perhaps Phinease will have more interesting games then."
One thing made plain in her voice, and body language. She did not seem to think she needed them. . . and made that plainly obvious.
(nakhti)
there's a smile that grows across his lips, studying her reactions to his movements as if scripted, this is where his head tilts to lay across Judah's shoulder (Oh Talibah, his games are interesting indeed.) writ in the smug, knowing, curl washing across rose-tinted flesh, because as much as she may think she does not need them, he knows, he blessedly knows, that she cannot exist without them - a fact as plain as the scarred flesh he saw across her back, and the independance she tries to boast
one arm lifts, snaking itself to curl around the other cat's neck, fingertips light brush along the stretch of throat, climbing into the dark locks of hair, his jaw tilts upwards to allow those lips to turn and hide themselves against the elder cat's neck, a slow breath seeping out to warm the flesh he's found as if they were truly words spoken and promised across the steady flicker of pulse beneath lean jaw
but that's when he draws away, slow and seductive, peeling himself away from the closeness with the man, and taking himself past the woman, bare feet padding lightly and silently across the lounge's floor
(judah)
The nearness is gobbled up emotionally by Judah, swallowed whole and guarded fiercely. As the other leaves he arches a brow, curiously, perhaps questioning whether or not the Kin will dare toy with him as she does his younger brother in blood.
(talibah)
Whats life without a little danger. . and what good comes of not being willing to take risks? The best things come from those willing to tempt fate some for them, and so she returns Judah's gaze, echoing him, facially. Calmly standing there, even as she knows just how fragile the footing is. Adrenaline gave her strength and the come what may attitude gave her boldness.
"Did we amuse you, Pharoah?"
(judah)
"...somewhat..." Comes the whisper reply breathed between his lips, barely heard above the mystical sounding hum of the music surrounding them. ".....intriguing....slightly..." His words are nonsensical it seems, and are not placed within complete sentences. "Do you intend to stand the entirety of our conversation?"
(talibah)
A smile, curling and languid with his question. As much invitation as she needs or reads into it, and herself slips forward, slinks forward, to slip within the shadows where Nakhti had so recently sat, to join the Pharoah, in conversation? Would see how things turned out. . .
"Do you intend to have a conversation with me?"
Perhaps a very valid question. After the give and take between her and Nakhti, a conversation would be wholly unexpected. Only kin. . to their cat. . .
[cymaa]
(nakhti)
the message, the call, again those things that have drawn him from the high heat of his flat into the bitter cold of the cloudy night and into the familiar club once more, coat checked, shoes removed, slender body stalking down the long hallway foyer, fingertips absently brushing along the carved tiles in half-caress - but his attention is elsewhere
not on the swelling press of heated bodies, not on the myriad scents that wash and tease across his senses, not even on the bar that offers such wond'rous things to quench his everlasting thirst
dark eyes search the arrogant ruler, the Pharoah of this strange, strange misplaced kingdom, cuffs of black linen pants marking the sand with each step, low waistband clinging to bare flesh that rises to his shoulders blessed with the tribal inks of thoth's ever-watching eye before the inky tendrils of long hair sway in silent stride
(judah)
He is poised like the son of perhaps Olympias and Amon. Tall and lean, with delicate features and soft caressing tresses of the deepest darkest secrets cradling the angles and lines of each jaw. His body is shifted oddly at one angle, most of his fair weight is jutted out over one hip, exposing the dangerously sharp bone of his hip.
The black wrap hangs low on his hips exposing his navel and the fine dark path of hair that trails down his stomach, his shirt is black as well and it snugs the wiry strong muscles of his upper body. There is a fine pout that resides on the swell of his lips, and the dark whispers of anger flicker flash within the pools of brilliant shimmering green eyes.
He is alone, positioned there, aloof, watching the dancers with no more than lingering interest. His overly long, thin arms seem like useless appendages, and hang still and lifeless near his sides.
(nakhti)
the lithe hunter prowling in the darkness, his desert home now transformed into the jungle of writhing, dancing, spinning trees resident below the glittering night's sky colored with the thundering storm of speakers lashing music towards the distant horizons - he weaves between these trees, he searches beyond the templestic decorations scattered on the floors, he ignores the cannibalistic sacrifices which throw themselves at the feet of enormous Jackal gods watching them as doomed prey
soon enough he breaches the make-shift forest, he leaves the trees to enter the small glade clearing which acts as nave before the altar of flesh, the long and lean lines of the resident cat somehow mottled by yet consuming the darkness as he stands, weight oddly proportioned over one hip, the exotic drown into flickeringly angry pout... it does not seem to sway the intentions of the smaller man, it does not halt his steady approach
not until he is within reach, placing himself within the reign of the other, finely sculpted chin lifting, drawing those eyes up the blackswathedcreature until darkest swirls of brown and green meet the brilliant emerald, waiting his acknowledgement
(judah)
Judah is handsome, and pretty at the same time. A masculine strength cannot be denied, yet the mix of femininity within the lean shape of his body, and the full pout of his lips, the thick dark lashes that encase the most resplendent green eyes cannot be denied ... he is both ... yet neither completely. The darkness that threatens to lash out from his very pupils cuts towards Nakhti and he pauses ..as if listening to voices far far away....and finally, then, allows the outermost edges of his lips to tug up slightly ...
..a smile.
"Nakhti.." His lips move purposely so that the other can read each syllable clearly. His weight and the way it is portioned so oddly does not change, his arms dangle listlessly against the strong curve of his thigh, and bare toes peek out from the ankle length wrap that is tied so suggestively around his waist ....
The jungle of flesh the other Bubasti traversed to reach the Prince of Cats is regaurded still with the slightest bit of passing interest. Perhaps there is one in the entire crowd that attracts his ever roaming eye ... and he is quite fickle...and the tree he selects might be used as a scratching post with which to sharpen his oh so dangerous claws ... before being tossed away....used and discarded.
(nakhti)
as the smile tugs slightly at the corner of the Prince's lips, a familiar expression perhaps ghosts across the dusky pinked swells on Nakhti's own face, though it is colored by his sorrow, the inner agony that he has not yet learned to fully hide in dark gaze, the keening wail so prepared to sound across the plains they could never hear but only feel should the trigger be found and pulled, the pain swirls deep in the eyes colored with the Nile's muddy banks, the brilliant green so natural and normal for their Tribe hidden by some other sin to tone it into the darkest hazel
I have much to tell you
writ across the paper pulled from hidden pocket, held up so the other could see without the confusion of gestures pantomining what sign language would have conveyed if only the other understood, and a dark brow lifts towards the thick shock of tamed shadows that crown his skull (the only question is where do you wish to hear it) as again the young cat settles to wait the other's direction
(judah)
His movements are no more than a sweet exhaled sigh. The black gauze like wrap flows around his legs with each movement as he guides Nahkti towards a back booth. He has no worries as to whether or not they will be interrupted ...none within these walls would be so stupid. The small booth is curved in a half moon shape, and it encloses those that sit within in a heated shadowy embrace.
Judah waits for Nakhti to sit before he himself eases his tall frame back into a seated position.
Long legs cross somewhat, and his arms cross over his lap. He seems to almost fold into himself as he offers up the other his entire gaze (here...it is yours...do with it what you will..) and his complete attention (...isn't this what you wanted, desired, for the nonce...?) has suddenly become the possession of Nakhti.
"I am listening, brother..."
(nakhti)
how sweet it is to suddenly possess the singular gift others so achingly crave, that guidance away from the throb of crowd, the full attention narrowing and focusing within the confines of the half-moon booth's intimacy - others would beg and claw and scrap for what the smaller shadowcat recieved so freely
there is little time wasted to revel in such ambrosious attentions, to drink his fill of the sheer presence cascading across his senses, to study each of the tiniest perceptions which draw upon the borders of his mind, it is an effort to refrain from such indulgences and desires, instinctual whim convinced the hunger for knowledge is greater, another paper is withdrawn from the loose pants clinging so precariously to thin hips, unfolded across the table as Judah folds himself to sit, Arabic neatly lining the dull white sheet, words a springboard for the conversation to come
One of our Kin has discovered Cymaa, greedy for the treasures we keep.
The Children of Anubis tresspassed last eve to request I join their hunt for the Grandsons of Thunder - those that caused the death of my mate. For this hunt I need your blessings, Brother.
(judah)
The fair pink of his tongue is exposed as it smoothes over the fullness of his bottom lip. It is a lazy gesture, one more of habit rather than conscious thought. "I see ..." He replies quietly, eyes never leaving Nahkti until the paper is exposed and addressed. The dark lover of shadows and secrets takes in what is expressed, and what is written on the paper .... and the full space of a song passes leaving them washed in its music and alone in silence; a feeling that the voiceless Bubasti must know (and hate..?) all too well.
"Grandson's Thunder..." Her repeats, the final 'er' of the last word spoken are drawn up higher in tone to denote a question, a fact lost on the deaf one near his side. However, the perk of one brow might translate his questioning all the better. He nods slightly not shifting his weight in the least .... seemingly comfortable in any spot or position.
"I know they were here....I was showed the security tape this afternoon.....I watched you...and them....and you a bit more"
(nakhti)
the hurt is still raw, the void which was created in the little black soul swells violent in the memories that crash to surface, that he is simply too young and too inexperienced to yet control and hide, pain and betrayal run thick in their veins, from the moment their ancestors reached into the darkest shadows and withdrew hands so tainted Seline never reflected her grace upon them again, it is a heritage he is used to, from the sake of blood and the shape with which he clawed from his mother's womb
something that has been nurtured into the bitter lust of vengance, the promise of the power he will one day yeild should by the grace of midnight the talents be blessed into his possession for the seeds of anger and solitude grow into the most twisted and thorned of trees
thorns now which crave thunder's blood, and that of the Romani he also holds responsible, the ones that spread their scents in Judah's sacred temple, the ones he will use as means to their end
but he is young, such a power is not yet within his grasp, and the slope of bare inked shoulders reveals the hope of which he has come to this elder cat, so that he may begin to walk the paths his ancestors have haunted since the great Kypher roamed the deserts of his home (Shadow Lords killed one taken into the House of Bast) a pen had twirled from nothing to etch the words across paper
and then his head tilts, tendrils of hair brushing babysoft on angular cheeks, a curiosity gleaning into the aching gaze as the pen draws once again (and what did you see, brother?)
(judah)
There is a moment's pause, and in that time his slender index finger lifts and rubs aimlessly along his full bottom lip in thought. He reads Nakhti's question and considers it for even a longer still moment. Judah is a man that takes months to plan revenge ... and years to see them to fruition. He is very nearly anal in all that he does ... following the path of reckless abandon rarely.
"Pain. Uncontrolled, misguided and directed ... " His arms fold back over his lap, and he is so long and lean that he almost seems too tall to fit so compactly and so neatly the way he manages to next to Nakhti. "You should pick and choose your battles with your mind....not your heart. I am not telling you what to do, brother.....but take heed, those of our ilk do not have use for us, nor do they care for us ... we are alone in our existence. We have only our blood to rely on....all others believe us extinct...relic witches....or live to see us as such..."
(nakhti)
there is a nod, that tainted gaze averts in a breif show of understanding and rare humility, something perhaps an older Bubasti would be the only to see, as the prodigal son is reminded of his lessons (I know, Brother. The Children of Anubis wish to leave me with the corpses of Thunder's as equally as I do them.) then there is a pause, and eyes so dark lift to the brilliant green
Harlequin had use for him when no others would even draw near, much less care, and that affected the young shadowcat so deeply
this should take months, this should even take years to wait and plan for the proper time to strike, when the necessary tools have been gathered and the creatures of wolven moon have stopped looking over their shoulders (But it is dishonor to not be there when they strike for my mate... even if I am not one within the battle) he knows he is not a fighter, he knows he does not possess the strength of the larger of their kind - his battle is to direct, trip, and betray, the others will fall as he watches, the others will do the work he cannot (It is why I seek your advice and blessing)
of his limitations he is well aware
(judah)
"If you were hungry, and I told you that bread without water would not sate you ... that it would make your hunger still for a moment, but your thirst would drive you mad ...you would not believe me. My words would be like so much air ... passing in and out of you, dismissed so that you might feed your desires....wants....needs." He pauses, a sigh breaches his lips and his eyes shift to Nakhti fully once more.
"Listen to me brother. My words will mean nothing to you. You will do what your mind has decided to do, no matter of my blessing or my desire .... would you build the foundation of our relationship on lies and half truths....? I understand your loss. It radiates from you like a sorrowful grey light. I am....oddly intrigued at the way it attracts me, like carrion to death....tell me what it is you want from me, brother...what is it that I can do for you ... that will help you?" A brow arches, and he leans his head to one side ... curious and intense green eyes never falter from their intended.
(nakhti)
there is still the slight aversion of his gaze, knowing he should know better, and at the final question dark eyes pull completely away, and the paper is pulled before him, slender fingers dark across the paper gleaming in oblique lights, the patterened wedge across the back of left hand draping to melt around his wrist and tease of the things that lay struck into the skin of his inner arm along the beam of each cartoush that decorates the limb
it is a moment of silence, deeper, thicker than what normally surrounds the young mute cat, for it is now he seems to draw inwards, gathering his thoughts as easily as swallowing the shadows lurking around them in the private booth, and as he begins writing, even if he does not outwardly even flicker, he is suddenly raw, risk taken in the the gutting emotions that subside coiled within slender frame lain in open sacrifice as the words pattern the page
I am lost. I am empty. I do not know how to understand or fill this void. I do not know what to do. I do not have the experience or knowledge to avenge their violation. I do not know how to correct the insult of my mate's death. But I know what I want. I want to quench Bast's thirst for the blood of the Children of Thunder and Anubis because they destroyed her blessed creation. I want to know how this can be done.
as the paper twists beneath nimble fingers to right itself to Judah's pleasure, those eyes lift once more, and lock on the other Bubasti
(judah)
"Allow the dogs to do what it is that they do best.....and above everything else....never betray your blood. You cannot expose what you are Nakhti. You must lie like the cobra and wait....let them think that you are less than you are....allow them to underestimate you....and when they are full of themselves...you strike." His hand covers Nahkti's and he holds onto it gently, in an attempt to offer comfort...something somewhat alien to him. "Give me 1 night to meditate within my sacred place. Come to me tomorrow, and I will give you an option. I can guide you brother, and teach you ... but I cannot tell you what it is you should do..." There is a soft squeeze felt on the others hand as Judah begins to unfold himself from the seat and that somewhat timid touch fades as the Prince of Cats moves. "Will you allow me this?"
(nakhti)
as the hand covers his own, the tightly controlled tremble is betraying telegraph to what swirls and storms so violently within him - at first he wants to pull away, an instinctive recoil from the touch that is not what he aches for, but the spiking fear quickly moves away, allowing himself to drown in the timidly offered comfort, the first he has allowed since the moment Whispers spoke to him, fingers lifting in stroke against the other's hand, head that wishes to hang moving in only the accepting nod (I will accept your guidance and teachings gratefully, Brother, and return to you tomorrow.) and the pen falls horizontal, resting over the paper as if exhausted by the words it was forced to scribe
as the touch fades, the hand lifts to his chin, dropping in silent gesture (thank you) as the mourning cat merely watches the other begin to move away
(judah)
Each move is lazy and languid, as if he could take days to walk from the booth to his destination, and not care about the time wasted in between. Yet, there is a heavier lilt in each step ... he is burdened now with two ..when he was his only concern prior. The weight of decisions and a nights worth of meditation and consideration force a sigh from his lips. As he heads away from Nakhti for the night ...
[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
[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. . .
(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 face
this 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 darkness
Cymaa..... 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 mystery
left 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 pass
the 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 glow
he 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 nothing
but 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 mother
his 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 brought
pen 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 Amose
oh, 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 touch
and 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 things
there 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 lights
there 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