He watched her stoop, watched her stop, but she needed to understand, so he didn't let go. He didn't understand what point he was making, not quite. Just something in the back of his mind, where the things that told him to run, to hunt, to lay in the sun, where those thoughts lived, told him to bite, so he bit. If she was going to act like he was some prize or that she could touch what she wanted because she could, then he was going to leave a mark of his own on her. A claim.
She told him to let go, he read the words clearly on her lips. He held on for a breath longer, just to show that he would let go when he wanted, not when she told. But then he did, his teeth scraping as they moved away from her skin, lips barely touching the bite marks as he moved. To be nice, he bent down, picking up the leathers he had dropped and handing them too her.The dust wasn't so thick in this area that they would demand a rewashing, unless she was truly picky about how clean they had to be.
To Let Weeds Thrive
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Fidget blinked. It was a reaction, a flinch of movement nearly indistinguishable from any other -- but one nonetheless. He had released the precious burden she had given him and then so carelessly picked it back up. Only in that he had given it back to her did reflexive action not sink in. That he had put his teeth to her, even with that look in his eye, was not an unfriendly gesture. Not to her. Not when the marks she was so proud of were nearly all gifts from similar (or, perhaps dissimilar) situations. He gave them back. That soothed the thorn-bite, and another glance into the gold-peppered eyes of green stone kept her need for retribution at bay. She wasn't angry. She so rarely was.
The sun was luring her towards a distant roof, to a day spent baking and sweating and watching, but the water knew better. The river sang a sweet siren song that did not leave room for choice. Fidget looked down at her leathers, then looked up at the hair, the eyes, the lips that hid the teeth. She turned in one smooth movement. There was room for later. There was always room in that nebulous possibility, but some things had to remain ordered. There was no room for dancing, for the exchange of sound and touch. Not right then.
She walked back towards the river.
The sun was luring her towards a distant roof, to a day spent baking and sweating and watching, but the water knew better. The river sang a sweet siren song that did not leave room for choice. Fidget looked down at her leathers, then looked up at the hair, the eyes, the lips that hid the teeth. She turned in one smooth movement. There was room for later. There was always room in that nebulous possibility, but some things had to remain ordered. There was no room for dancing, for the exchange of sound and touch. Not right then.
She walked back towards the river.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
She moved past away with the leathers, and he watched her as she moved. Snakes. That was still what she reminded him of. He moved up from her a bit, going to the river so that he could finally get what he had came here for. The diversion had been interesting, but now the day was getting on, and he had things to do still. He carefully put his gear and belts down, going over arrows and bow, knife and belts to make sure none needed replaced. He would wipe them down, oil what was needed, but first to get the stink off of himself.
The river was clean here, and he never understood why. Maybe because so many people got their drinking water from it, they kept it clean. But who knew? He cupped a double handful of water, splashing his face quickly. Not too cold. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, still on guard as he scooped another handful and dumped it over his head. The water cooled him down, but he had to hurry before it got too hot. He reached into his bag and pulled out a chunk of the harsh lye soap that he had bought, getting it wet in the river and scrubbing his arms and hands with it. He hated the stink of it, but it was soap. That was all that mattered. He checked out of the corner of his eyes again, making sure she hadn't moved closer to him.
The river was clean here, and he never understood why. Maybe because so many people got their drinking water from it, they kept it clean. But who knew? He cupped a double handful of water, splashing his face quickly. Not too cold. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, still on guard as he scooped another handful and dumped it over his head. The water cooled him down, but he had to hurry before it got too hot. He reached into his bag and pulled out a chunk of the harsh lye soap that he had bought, getting it wet in the river and scrubbing his arms and hands with it. He hated the stink of it, but it was soap. That was all that mattered. He checked out of the corner of his eyes again, making sure she hadn't moved closer to him.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Care was needed and given. It wasn't until Fidget had finished with wiping it clean and found a place to put it that would not soil it again did she move back for the hair she'd left behind. This time she'd unsheathed one of her beloved ear daggers. Oh, the sun loved it. She knew why. She tasted the purity of its steel in the way the edge kissed the air. Her hand rejoiced to feel the hilt, and though she had more favored needles in her collection she still counted it as one of her most beloved possessions. The water had washed away the pepper, replaced with the stink of uncertainty. It twined about her arms like myrrh, making her movements leaden. She lifted her face to the sun to burn it away, and when she turned her head to look at the man, he was looking at her.
They were not so far separated. If she reached out and took a step forward, she would touch him. Her dagger-hand, the left hand, she left at her side; it was not ready yet. She took that step forward, reaching again for his hair with her right -- the bite marks yet visible. Fidget did not mind them there.
They were not so far separated. If she reached out and took a step forward, she would touch him. Her dagger-hand, the left hand, she left at her side; it was not ready yet. She took that step forward, reaching again for his hair with her right -- the bite marks yet visible. Fidget did not mind them there.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf had seen her move. His left hand had dropped to his boot when she did, slim fingers closing around a metal hilt that was whisper thin against his leg. Hand reached and he struck, the blade leaving a thin trail of red on his leg as it was drawn, but it left another red line on her flesh, and he rose in a crouch, eyes aflame and teeth clenched in a snarl.
He had told her once, in a language that he thought she could understand, not to touch him. And now she came back with her hand reaching. His drew his other dagger from the pile of his gear, ready for her to move at him. If she did, he would strike again. The blood running down his leg into his boot told him that she would. He had cut her, and no matter how many scars she had, that was a challenge in Marn that had to be answered. And she would have to work for that answer.
He had told her once, in a language that he thought she could understand, not to touch him. And now she came back with her hand reaching. His drew his other dagger from the pile of his gear, ready for her to move at him. If she did, he would strike again. The blood running down his leg into his boot told him that she would. He had cut her, and no matter how many scars she had, that was a challenge in Marn that had to be answered. And she would have to work for that answer.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Blood. Fidget's lips parted. Her eyes focused on his blade, and the hand that held it. Pain. It was a ribbon of sparking light, zinging along the outside of her calf. They had matching cuts, now. Wavering ideas formed between them, and Fidget followed their scent as she hesitated; her own blade flicked outward as her arm came up. Strength was the true ruler. Fidget had already been bested by sapphire and onyx, and she would not test their claims so soon again. Serpentine would -- must -- wait, for they stood in the open where any might witness.
Fidget skipped backward, sheathing her dagger. She could feel its agitation against her leg as she released the hilt. Her heart foolishly sang, and she looked down at her bleeding leg. The padding was ruined, though she could sew it together. Beneath the padding the new cut sliced through an interweaving pattern centered around a scarred burn. The slice was clean, and tapered, and she could sense its merits as an overlapping loop. Perhaps she would set it later that night. Or not. There would be ashes and coals if this fresh blood was discovered, even if she hadn't been the one to attack.
She took a few more steps back and stopped. She admired him. The way the blood worked its way down his body, the way his face crinkled up as pepper spiked the air: it curled around her and beckoned her forward. Resisted. She heard what his body said, tasted the mind that had grown that hair that had been between and around her fingers. There was want. Resisted. She licked her lips. Her stomach growled.
Fidget skipped backward, sheathing her dagger. She could feel its agitation against her leg as she released the hilt. Her heart foolishly sang, and she looked down at her bleeding leg. The padding was ruined, though she could sew it together. Beneath the padding the new cut sliced through an interweaving pattern centered around a scarred burn. The slice was clean, and tapered, and she could sense its merits as an overlapping loop. Perhaps she would set it later that night. Or not. There would be ashes and coals if this fresh blood was discovered, even if she hadn't been the one to attack.
She took a few more steps back and stopped. She admired him. The way the blood worked its way down his body, the way his face crinkled up as pepper spiked the air: it curled around her and beckoned her forward. Resisted. She heard what his body said, tasted the mind that had grown that hair that had been between and around her fingers. There was want. Resisted. She licked her lips. Her stomach growled.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf continued to snarl at her, the copper tang of blood on his knife starting to fill the air. When she sheathed, he stood, looking at her, watching her. The serpent was going to strike if he wasn't careful. He watched the way she moved as she stepped away, waiting for what she was going to do. He didn't trust that this was done. She was still staring at him like she owned him, like he had no say, and that just made him angrier. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up in the static tension of it all, the harsh lye soap drying to his skin. It burnt, it itched, but he still watched her, eyes steady on her own.
The copper tang in the air was starting to make him hungry. He hadn't tasted blood in a long time, not since the last buck he took. He hadn't eaten heart flesh in a very long time, and he hated tasted body hot blood in even longer. And besides. It was frightening. A show of fearlessness or madness scared more off than a naked blade. Long and pale, his tongue flicked out between snarling teeth and licked the copper red tang from the edge of his blade. He took a step back, sheathing his large dagger and lifting his items to his shoulder. He snarled again, tinging the action with a growl meant to warn, to scare. Maybe she would listen.
The copper tang in the air was starting to make him hungry. He hadn't tasted blood in a long time, not since the last buck he took. He hadn't eaten heart flesh in a very long time, and he hated tasted body hot blood in even longer. And besides. It was frightening. A show of fearlessness or madness scared more off than a naked blade. Long and pale, his tongue flicked out between snarling teeth and licked the copper red tang from the edge of his blade. He took a step back, sheathing his large dagger and lifting his items to his shoulder. He snarled again, tinging the action with a growl meant to warn, to scare. Maybe she would listen.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
The way skin folded and stretched was a source of endless fascination to Fidget. Whether it was her own or others, she could always imagine the pattern of blood beneath the skin, the layers of fat and muscle and so much more. Threaded in between were the colors of sensation, pushed up against the endless heat of smell. It begged to be touched. He begged to be touched, even as he threatened her with a display of aggression. She saw it. Noted it. But it did not scare away the air, and it was the air that had her by the throat, pushing little fingers of command down her shirt and beneath her skin. She reached up to push wet hair out of her face from where it had stuck, but otherwise she kept staring.
Impasse. She could neither move forward nor away, and in the lee of the teasing notes of myrrh -- smoky and deep -- she could only stare at him. She wanted to test. She wanted to feel.
The memory of punishment, against sky and sun and water, kept her still.
Impasse. She could neither move forward nor away, and in the lee of the teasing notes of myrrh -- smoky and deep -- she could only stare at him. She wanted to test. She wanted to feel.
The memory of punishment, against sky and sun and water, kept her still.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
He backed slowly away from her, keeping the dagger in one hand and his belongings in the other. After a few steps away, out of her reach, he started backing away faster, away from the riverfront and into the old buildings that marked the start of the district. He bumped against a building, tearing his eyes away from her for long enough to check the ascent of his belongings as he tossed them up onto the roof. He didn't want to take his eyes off of her long enough to climb, but he had to. He didn't have a choice. He moved the dagger between his teeth, whipping around and climbing the ivy and trellis on the old building, feeling pieces break behind him as he did so. When he made it to the top, he turned around, crouched in the sunlight, staring at her. He finally sheathed his boot knife again, feeling the heat of the cut it now rested against in his leg.
He stayed there, crouched on the roof, watching her. If she moved to follow, he held the high ground. But he wasn't going to give her that chance. With a wink, where did that come from? he thought, he grabbed his things and started moving across the roof tops. She would never catch him there, and maybe he would be able to get this soap off of his skin.
He stayed there, crouched on the roof, watching her. If she moved to follow, he held the high ground. But he wasn't going to give her that chance. With a wink, where did that come from? he thought, he grabbed his things and started moving across the roof tops. She would never catch him there, and maybe he would be able to get this soap off of his skin.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Go, don't go. Stay, don't stay. Such conflict was unusual. Even so, it could be appreciated. Fidget drank at it, supping slowly as she turned to watch Wulf leave. Did not could not move until he was past her sight, and then she did move. Her fingers bunched and knotted, forming a repeating pattern with no life behind it. She closed her eyes, lifted her face up to the sun. Ignoring the wind's capricious and cutting fingers, she bent down at the water's edge to clean what she could of the blood. Her pant leg would be stained. She would have to dye it if she wanted it to look clean, or perhaps paint on a new pattern. Her hands had hooked into the drawstring before she realized that going around naked would be as likely to earn chastisement as the blood. This time her arms moved with her fingers in a flurry of agony.
Her expression never changed.
There was duty wrapped up tight underneath the crimson expectations and dazzling distractions of moment to moment. It had cocooned her as she had aged, bound her tight with a leash that would not easily be severed. If she even wanted it to be severed. If anyone was willing to sever it. No matter. It had been bled from her, and she knew well enough that the next step was back to her leathers, then to a solitary (and stable) rooftop. Mid-morning saw her, therefore, dressed. It felt good to have her needles properly in place, even if the requisite dress meant suffocating inch by inch of her skin. Sapphire-Ayala had told her over and over that her skin was too distinctive for a city like Marn. Cover it clean. Clean. Like her skin was not clean. Fidget was always clean. Always. That was something Ameus had understood and kept fresh like incense between them. Blew it all away. Burned it in.
Fidget ate as she watched the eastern road into the city, playing over and over the feel of gold and steel between her fingers. It was so interesting, that hair. She imagined plying it against her skin as she took her turn waiting for their mark. Their. Even now her two keepers were somewhere. Did they let their skin taste the sun? Did they see the pain of suffocation? It consumed Fidget, drew her in beyond the bosom of the stone she sat on while she waited, waited, waited.
The sun reached the final quarter of its arc, and Fidget was freed from her shift, second shift. The things she was not supposed to do had been ordered to avoid were not the point of the matter. She was . . .
She was going to find that hair again.
Her expression never changed.
There was duty wrapped up tight underneath the crimson expectations and dazzling distractions of moment to moment. It had cocooned her as she had aged, bound her tight with a leash that would not easily be severed. If she even wanted it to be severed. If anyone was willing to sever it. No matter. It had been bled from her, and she knew well enough that the next step was back to her leathers, then to a solitary (and stable) rooftop. Mid-morning saw her, therefore, dressed. It felt good to have her needles properly in place, even if the requisite dress meant suffocating inch by inch of her skin. Sapphire-Ayala had told her over and over that her skin was too distinctive for a city like Marn. Cover it clean. Clean. Like her skin was not clean. Fidget was always clean. Always. That was something Ameus had understood and kept fresh like incense between them. Blew it all away. Burned it in.
Fidget ate as she watched the eastern road into the city, playing over and over the feel of gold and steel between her fingers. It was so interesting, that hair. She imagined plying it against her skin as she took her turn waiting for their mark. Their. Even now her two keepers were somewhere. Did they let their skin taste the sun? Did they see the pain of suffocation? It consumed Fidget, drew her in beyond the bosom of the stone she sat on while she waited, waited, waited.
The sun reached the final quarter of its arc, and Fidget was freed from her shift, second shift. The things she was not supposed to do had been ordered to avoid were not the point of the matter. She was . . .
She was going to find that hair again.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf staggered under the dead weight of animal meat and fur, but it had been a good day. He would hang this all out tomorrow, start drying the meat on the rooftops. He would have to sleep with it, light as a feather to make sure no one stole it. But this much dried meat was a boon, especially for the last animal of his day. The hardy old buck had walked into his vision as he was getting ready to leave, he had sighted an arrow on his heart before the creature knew his death was on him. He was angered, because he didn't have time to let the body properly drain, so now he had blood over his back and the tips of his hair from carrying the carcass. But his anger was assuaged by pride, and the knowledge that he had a lot of meat for the days to come, for barter or for trade.
He found his home, lugging the dead buck up the back steps until he was on the roof, with it's drying racks and table for carving meat. He laid the animal down, rolling his shoulders and untying his belts and laying his daggers and bow down as well. He wouldn't need them here, or so he hoped. He still felt off by the events of the day, with that elf woman. Whoever she was. He started to carve away at the deer, caping it as he looked out over the city. Try as he was to focus on what he was doing, his mind kept turning to the woman.
He found his home, lugging the dead buck up the back steps until he was on the roof, with it's drying racks and table for carving meat. He laid the animal down, rolling his shoulders and untying his belts and laying his daggers and bow down as well. He wouldn't need them here, or so he hoped. He still felt off by the events of the day, with that elf woman. Whoever she was. He started to carve away at the deer, caping it as he looked out over the city. Try as he was to focus on what he was doing, his mind kept turning to the woman.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
A banner of crimson and mottled fur lead Fidget along from her perch. It sang notes of meat and death, spiced with the sweat of the man who carried it. No pepper then, not between them, not for her, but she could sense its potential in the currents of air who goaded her along. Oh how she wanted to bare her skin to the fading light and its accomplices, shred all the barriers and drink them up before she could be discovered. It didn't happen. She had no intention of making it happen. There would first be contentment in the hair she desired, and then more would need to be measured against her predilection for pain. One strip of flesh at a time. One dark hole against the rest.
The thoughts lingered as she closed in on the man, staining the fresh and viscous excitement that bubbled out from the pores in her skin. He was flaying the meat, focused on his task. It was getting darker, and the ribbons of shadows would soon be ready to receive her. She was practiced at moving within their embrace, whisper soft and oh so gentle. It was rare now that they would cast her aside. There was understanding there, hard won, and much more reliable than her careful trysts with the lurking wind. So she slipped up behind him, timing movements and irregularities with perfection. Behind him she tread, knife out and muscles tensed with readiness, awareness. He had height on her. It would have to be an upward sweep and a jump back. She could not afford to fall within his range, for then she would be hard caught. She couldn't afford that.
But she could not have asked for a better perch than the roof they stood upon. When he pressed down into the meat, she stretched up, freshly sharpened knife arcing up behind to lighten him by a snarled lock of his hair.
The thoughts lingered as she closed in on the man, staining the fresh and viscous excitement that bubbled out from the pores in her skin. He was flaying the meat, focused on his task. It was getting darker, and the ribbons of shadows would soon be ready to receive her. She was practiced at moving within their embrace, whisper soft and oh so gentle. It was rare now that they would cast her aside. There was understanding there, hard won, and much more reliable than her careful trysts with the lurking wind. So she slipped up behind him, timing movements and irregularities with perfection. Behind him she tread, knife out and muscles tensed with readiness, awareness. He had height on her. It would have to be an upward sweep and a jump back. She could not afford to fall within his range, for then she would be hard caught. She couldn't afford that.
But she could not have asked for a better perch than the roof they stood upon. When he pressed down into the meat, she stretched up, freshly sharpened knife arcing up behind to lighten him by a snarled lock of his hair.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Something tickled his nose, some pollen or dust wind whipped from the city streets, and Wulf sneezed hard, burying his head into his shoulder and arm to stop his bodily fluids from getting onto the meat. It didn't matter much in the long run, but it just seemed so disgusting to him to blast his snot all over the meat he planned to eat. Since his shirt was already covered in blood, he could always leave it on, but the night was hot and sticky enough as it was. So instead he decided to pull it off, turning to toss it into the corner of the roof.
But there was someone behind him, and the bloody shirt smacked them in the face from his toss. How had he not smelled her? It was enough not to hear someone, and understandable that he didn't, but he usually smelled someone far before they got close to him. Maybe he had been too preoccupied. That was the problem with this city. It preoccupied him. That and the thoughts of the strange woman from this morning, who was in front of him now. Scrabbling hands went to grab a blade, and in his haste wrapped around the actual steel of the blade instead of the hilt. He let out a loud grunt-noise, a mangled mesh of words and sound, the closest he came to talking and cursing most times. Sliced fingers moved down a blade slick with the owners blood and he grabbed the hilt, moving back from her to give himself the room to swing it if he had to. The sound of blood dripping from his hand and to the roof was lost to him, but he still narrowed flashing angry eyes and searched her for an attack.
If she was going to follow him this much, she wasn't leaving this roof top without another scar. Something that told her to stay away.
But there was someone behind him, and the bloody shirt smacked them in the face from his toss. How had he not smelled her? It was enough not to hear someone, and understandable that he didn't, but he usually smelled someone far before they got close to him. Maybe he had been too preoccupied. That was the problem with this city. It preoccupied him. That and the thoughts of the strange woman from this morning, who was in front of him now. Scrabbling hands went to grab a blade, and in his haste wrapped around the actual steel of the blade instead of the hilt. He let out a loud grunt-noise, a mangled mesh of words and sound, the closest he came to talking and cursing most times. Sliced fingers moved down a blade slick with the owners blood and he grabbed the hilt, moving back from her to give himself the room to swing it if he had to. The sound of blood dripping from his hand and to the roof was lost to him, but he still narrowed flashing angry eyes and searched her for an attack.
If she was going to follow him this much, she wasn't leaving this roof top without another scar. Something that told her to stay away.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Fingers caught up the shirt after the sneeze, and Fidget had found herself with a tiny lock of hair that was not what she wanted. Then the shirt was coming off, and Fidget took a step back as the body before her twisted. Muscles were loud in their movements, telegraphing intent. This time, Fidget was watching, all of her focus on the lines of color in front of her -- so when that shirt was tossed, her hand was out to catch it. Catch it, and then bring it to her face for a smell. Interesting. Vivid. Sparking. Heat. It cooled in her hand as he turned, and she was already moving as he cut himself on his blade. Step step, she was at his side as he sorted sharp from dull, hand reaching up to grab for the hair to take for her own.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
He twisted away as she grabbed for him, putting his back against a crumbling wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She snuck up on you easily enough, didn't she? You need to learn this city better boy. You're going to die in it if you don't. The voice in his head, the one that sounded like his father, always tried to teach him. But like his father, it was a bit of a dick about it. He growled it away, knowing that he made a mistake. He didn't need some ghost voice to remind him. His eyes searched her, trying to understand what she wanted from him. Black strands were falling from her fingers, and his eyes flicked to them. His hair? Was she after his hair for some reason?
His mother had once warned him about magic, the kind that used blood and hair for the spells. Is that what she wanted? Something to use against him? But why? He wasn't anyone. Just someone that had ran into her at the river. Doesn't matter boy. Looks like she's going to keep chasing you, better end it now. He growled and shook his head again, mentally telling the voice to shut the hell up.
This was going to end tonight. Either way. He wasn't going to have some target on his back for the rest of his life in Marn. His screaming fingers gripped the hilt of his dagger tighter, and he jerked forward, swiping with the dagger at her. But it was a feint. His other hand moved to, going for her own arm, going to get the knife out of her hand.
His mother had once warned him about magic, the kind that used blood and hair for the spells. Is that what she wanted? Something to use against him? But why? He wasn't anyone. Just someone that had ran into her at the river. Doesn't matter boy. Looks like she's going to keep chasing you, better end it now. He growled and shook his head again, mentally telling the voice to shut the hell up.
This was going to end tonight. Either way. He wasn't going to have some target on his back for the rest of his life in Marn. His screaming fingers gripped the hilt of his dagger tighter, and he jerked forward, swiping with the dagger at her. But it was a feint. His other hand moved to, going for her own arm, going to get the knife out of her hand.