It's Only Love (Closed)

[Mordelain]

It's Only Love (http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=it%27s+only+love+matt+cardle&oq=it%27s+only+lo&gs_l=youtube.1.1.0l10.11803.13244.0.40914.12.8.0.0 .0.0.430.1481.2j3j2j0j1.8.0...0.0...1ac.1.rQ5Xh_qA d0k)


But I'm going to steal it anyway...

http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs24/f/2009/241/3/b/Desert_fantasy_city_by_Inkarnus.jpg


Closed to Abbie.


With eyes ablaze with malice and scorn,
My feline hunts the weak,
With claws so sharp with look forlorn,
With a leap she slays the meek.

With fear my cat she hunts me raw,
My tiger in domestic cage,
With well-placed claw and gentle roar,
On me she vents her rage.

With speed so swift with grace and might,
My cat she slays the weak,
With sultry look of morning plight,
I don’t move or even speak.


Cydney Oliver.

[Mordelain]

Prologue

Mordelain Saythrou had finally agreed to expand her repertoire. She did not like to be outdone. Though in essence a mere delivery girl in the ranks of the Abdos, Suresh, her mentor, had convinced her to take on bounty hunting in the pursuit of greater fame, and naturally, greater piles of gold.

“Am I really looking at what I think I’m looking at?” she asked smarmily, spreading the parchment over the coffee table with keen disinterest. She was not sure, if she was awake yet, or if the lack of sleep, food, and a decent assignment was getting to her.

“That is her alright.” Suresh replied, pouring two thick, jet-black helpings of his secretly produced espresso. He set the percolator onto the tray, and held out the small silver-rimmed cup to his protégée. The merchant was dressed in a simple brown shawl, ill-fitting trousers, and a heavy Bedouin robe. Whatever the business of the day was, impressing clientele was not an item on his itinerary.

Mordelain tried to curtail her sarcasm, but failed miserably between sips of sweet Arabica. “The cat burglar…” she sighed, “is a cat.”

There was no denying the picture’s likeness, even if the artist was questionably ‘talented’. The Abdos had a tri-partite policing body, one that worked out disputes amongst the three factions that operated within its walls. Whenever somebody or something broke the ancient reliquaries that were Fallien’s laws, it was they who attempted to apprehend the culprit. Occasionally, when the culprit escaped they issued contracts to any foolish enough to take them.

“Irony, I believe is the word,” Suresh chuckled. His chins chuckled along with him. Of late, the merchant had found great amusement in tormenting Mordelain. In the winter months, when spice deliveries dropped, and work dried up, he had to be increasingly more creative to keep her on her toes. “I have some catnip in the stores, if you run into trouble catching her.”

Mordelain’s piercing glare would have borne a hole into his coffee cup, had she given it half the effort. Deflated, though increasingly waking up from her night’s half-satisfying slumber, she considered the options available to her. There would be a handsome reward if she managed to find, apprehend, and deliver the criminal to the Abdos alive. It always unnerved the Troubadour how non-descript the condition was, rumour had it people were delivered often enough, but living was not the word she would have used.

“Are you certain this is the only assignment on the boards?” she raised an eyebrow, sipped her coffee again, and let the parchment go. It curled up at the edges, and rocked back and forth whilst she felt the tension rise. “I mean, surely, even you have to admit things are becoming stranger by the day…” she alluded to the recent rise in black market activity, the sand wyrm migrations, and the sudden rise in demand for figs.

“Unless you mean to stay indoors all day, again,” he snapped, “you will finish that,” he pointed to the platter on the table, “take a handful of bread, and begun your investigations.” A matter of fact tone in the merchant’s voice let Mordelain know he was not budging. Reluctantly, she nodded in agreement, a motion fused with defeat. “Good,” he added, before downing his coffee. He made to pour another, but made no such offer to Mordelain.

“At least,” she began, before she had to groan to rise, “it’s a nice day.” This was true enough. Winter in Fallien was a descriptive term, but instead of snow, there were only darker hours, and cold along with it. For a few select hours around noon, if the sun made an appearance, one forgave for thinking it was not winter at all, but late spring, or early autumn.

“Take a shawl, just in case,” he said, absent-minded. He patted his own shawl to prove a point. “You may be some time.”

“I daresay somebody will have seen someone so…” she curled his lips, “obvious.” If someone had seen her clear enough to draw her, Mordelain’s hopes grew. They were obviously dealing with an amateur, or at the very least, someone who stole for the thrill, the exhilaration, and the innate desire to acquire things they did not possess. “I’m not sure if she or the horned dervish from the north is the more disturbing bounty I’ve had to contend with.” The awkward silence her considerations caused made her shuffle away briskly, gaze fixated on her sandaled feet, hair tied back, but swaying neatly in its ponytail.

As she approached the marble archway that lead from the courtyard out into the bazaar streets, Suresh heckled her.

“Take some tuna with you, for bait!”

As she padded out into the streets of Irrakam, eyes shining with meekness, heart racing with fear, she cursed the day she met Suresh. She cursed the day she had become so comfortable in her lifestyle in the desert kingdom that she would do anything to maintain it. She folded up the hood of her half-cloak, wrapped it securely over her shoulder, and with vigour, she ploughed ahead into the unknown potential of another day.

[Abbie]

Heartbreak has a way of changing things, making places seem sinister and uninviting. Being hunted down by the law also has a similar effect, especially when the lawman in question has a grudge. Radasanth had become that place for Abbie. After waking up on the blood-and-ale soaked barroom floor, Seth and Letho nowhere to be seen, she had moved on to another job. That ended in disaster when Letho popped up again, this time to arrest her, and she started feeling... something... for Victor. Without hesitation, she had returned to her rented room, retrieved her belongings, and booked passage on the first ship out. As luck would have it, Fallien was the destination.

After two weeks being in cat form and eating all the fish she could get her furry little paws on, Abbie was bored. She enjoyed the attention she got from the sailors, and the fresh air was delicious, but she longed for a challenge. Even her continued attempts at painting each evening frustrated her. When the ship finally docked in Irrakam two days later, she was so excited she nearly forgot her little chest in the rush to get ashore.

Fresh off the sea, Abbie was a little wobbly in the legs, and the arid heat assaulted her lungs brutally. Still, she soldiered her way down the pier to the bustling streets of the city. The local law quickly shuffled her into the Outlander's Quarter, but she didn't mind one bit. Bright, silk-clad figures strolled through the square. Others stood behind stalls or carts, shouting the qualities of their wares in a bid for attention, hopefully leading to a sale. The smells of heavy spices, raw sewage, and sweat hung in the air pungently.

Catching her land legs, the redhead wove through the crowd, catching eyes with her strange attire and pale flesh. Feeling conspicuous, she decided it might be best to blend in a little, though her skin and hair would still be a beacon in the darkness. Within an hour, the pooka had lifted three purses, purchased two new saris, and eaten a heavily spiced meat pie of some kind. The heavy silk was beautiful, in shades of blue and green just right to flatter her own coloring. She was just on her way to locate lodgings when she saw it.

In the dusty window shop, light glinted stubbornly and beautifully from several glass figures of varying color and size. Off to the left of the display was a small, cat-like figurine. No more than a hand high, the feline was perfectly sculpted to highlight the supple musculature, implied grace, and unmistakable nobility of the animal. The glass was delicately marbled to give it a brindled look. Whoever created the piece was worthy of praise, as it was a work of art. The price tag read 1500 glass beads. Abbie had to have it.

Glancing around the street, she noted the position of the shop, every line and color, so she could find it again later. Soon, my lovely, soon... Taking care to maintain a mental map, she traipsed further into the city, ideas whirring in her mind. When she checked into the Oasis Tavern an hour later, she had no idea that the coveted prize had been sold moments after she had turned away.


~*~

That evening, as the temperature dropped intolerably, Abbie slipped out of her window, her smooth marble flesh now coated in thick, black fur, feline whiskers sprouting from her face. Her sassy minidress was replaced by skintight black leather, which hugged her form seductively while aiding her in slipping through the shadows along her path. Within a few minutes, she had located the building where the lovely prize had caught her eye.

The streets were blessedly empty, with only the occasional watchman passing her at a distance. After watching the pattern for nearly an hour, she determined that it was now or never. Carefully, she unhooked a lock pick from her ear, where it had hung decoratively for as long as she could remember. With practiced movements, she twisted, jiggled, and poked at the lock under the door handle. Soon, she heard a satisfying click. Smiling with silent pride, she replaced the pick and entered the establishment, taking care to close the door behind her softly.

As she approached the front window, she crouched, prowling toward her goal. With a quick glance to make sure the street was still devoid of life, she reached for the figurine, but found instead a blocky, hideous owl statue. What the..? Bewilderment gave way to anger, unreasoning indignation, and finally resolve. It had to be somewhere, the new challenge was to find out where.

Slinking to the back of the shop, Abbie located a stack of purchase receipts. The third one down described the statue as a rare Karuku-tal. There was something about pre-Vadhya, whatever that was, but the more important information was the address where the statue was delivered. Pocketing the sales ticket, she exited the way she came, then slipped into the shadows toward her temporary home. Little did she know, she had been observed by another shop owner as he sipped his evening tea from his second floor apartment window.

[Mordelain]

Rumour spread like wildfire in Irrakam. At best, if enflamed at sun’s rise, it crossed the Outlander Quarter in less than an hour, and could be coffee shop conversation in the northern spice fields by sunset. No sooner than the merchant set eyes on the occurrence, his man servant was informed, sent on his way, and a potentially lucrative chain of events began to unfold in the trill night air.

By the time it reached Mordelain, it was already old news. The outsider’s quarters kept its own to its own, and instead of reaching the ears of the keep guard, it echoed into the ears of every il’Jhain brave, tired, and drunk enough to still be up at the ungodly hour. She let the vibration in her midriff fade as her tokens on her belt vented the last of their energy, and then leant casually against a railing of a long abandoned stall. The stillness of the bazaar all around her mimicked her own statuesque pause.

“She is not making it hard for me to find her,” she said pensively, to no one in particular. Usually, the culprit at least made a break for it, but apparently, she had not noticed. The Troubadour tied her hair back into a ponytail, curled it about, and pinned it into a bun with a needle she produced with a flick of her wrist from beneath her fur-lined gloves.

The message had given her a rough location, but getting there would take time. At least, it would take time if she travelled on foot. Though it was still early in what could potentially be a long night of hijinks, Mordelain took a deep breath, waited for her lungs to begin burning, and then closed her eyes. The cold air of Fallien’s night faded, replaced instead with the indigent atmosphere of Hudde. She opened her eyes, slowly, and sighed with relief when she recognised the landmarks stretched out across the blistering horizon.

“One step for the glory of the Abdos,” she said aloud, and with plentiful helpings of sarcasm. She folded her arms across her midriff, pressed her hips, and rolled her spine to alleviate the stiffness the walk from one world to another caused whenever she was cold in doing so. When her vertebrate clicked, she nodded, ran forwards, and leapt from the cliff face.

The eggshell hue of Hudde’s dusk fell away, and Mordelain felt the rush of the wind wash over her. She spread her arms out wide, let her legs curl naturally against the pressure, and waited for the inevitable and disparaging dissipation to propel her back through the Void to her home. The smell of soil filled her nostrils as she vanished, and with a thud, she landed in an alleyway in the familiar dark. Fallien’s peculiar mixed scent of spice and sleaze tickled her nostril hairs, and she rose from her stoop, triumphant.

It took her a while to place herself in the maze of tunnels, bazaars, and closed courtyards, but the second she stepped out eastwards, she recognised exactly where she was. In the space of seconds, she had travelled nearly half a mile from one side of the city to the other. Though she could not be certain how much time had progressed on Althanas, her heart quickened, and her pace began steady as she advanced along the boulevard that lead away from the border between the lower quarter, and the noble upper, and on towards the glass bazaars of the Naira family.

It had been a while since she had visited this part of the city. It was always bustling, at least in the day, as the many types of sugar glass, poisoned Valaya, and marble dusts were in demand. Everybody drew on the Nirakkal, the ruined heart of Fallien for prosperity and comfort. If the theft was taking place there, then whatever was at stake no doubt was a particularly precious piece of art, or perhaps, just perhaps, one of the Great Glass Glaives – pole-arms so potently in tune with the heart of the desert and its people, they sang their own song when swung, and conjured sandstorms with their keen, shimmering edges.

“Whatever it is she’s after,” she mused, heart beginning to race as she broke into a run. Her well-wrapped feet padded over the dry stone, her bosom flounced in the embrace of her satin blouse, and her hands reached, instinctively, for the chill remorse of her kukri’s hilt. “It will be back in its owner’s hands by sunrise…” the determination in her voice mirrored the cold, dark eyes and the stubborn grit of her teeth.

[Abbie]

Though darkness enveloped the streets, Abbie felt less alone than she liked. Was there a witness? She couldn't remember seeing one, but she had been flustered by the failed burglary. Already, though, she was nearing the inn. Thinking quickly, the pooka slipped down an alley, shrouded even deeper in the blackness. If she was being followed, it would throw them off. Running as fast as she could, she was faster than any human, but she had a better idea. Running her hands over the brick of the closest wall, she easily found a loose brick. With deft hands, she shimmied the brick out of place, stripped her clothes off, and replaced the brick silently. Very little dust had been disturbed, and there really wasn't anything illegal about owning a black leather outfit anyway.

Ducking back deeper into the alley, Abbie looked around to make sure she was completely undetectable, then down at her hands. This middle of the road transformation was useful, but not her favorite look. The black fur was thick, but not obtrusive, aiding her in blending with the shadows, and making identification impossible when in her normal, human form. As she watched, though, her hands began to shrink. The air seemed to shimmer, as though from a sultry heat, her body tingling from head to toe. Within moments, her entire point of view had shifted from a little over five feet in height to less than one.

Her transformation complete, the black tabby shook off the last vestiges of the creeping feeling of magic through her fur. Stretching her limbs and giving a wide yawn, Abbie made a lazy lick of her lips and meandered out of the alley. It felt a little strange being on all fours, as she was used to only two, but she enjoyed the swish of her tail and the pad of her paws on the cobblestone. Pausing in the middle of the road, not far from the inn, she sat and licked her paws, rubbing them against hear ears. After all, this late at night the streets belonged to cats, rats, and other nocturnal city creatures.

A sliver of light crossed the paving stones, and the smell of burnt meat and grease wafted through the air. It wasn’t her favorite meal, but she was in disguise, and the transformation had made her hungry. Quickly, she darted to the opened door, pawing gently at the ankles of the woman that was now standing in the light. Short in stature, she was pleasantly plump, with a mop of graying curls tucked into her head wrapping. A soft but well-worn wrap of deep blues and purples was draped around her thick body in a modest way that suited her somehow. Bright teeth flashed in a wide smile in her dark visage, welcoming the attention of the tiny visitor.

“Hello there, sweetheart! You look hungry. Did you want some of this leftover stew, hm?”

Though her accent was thick, she was clearly at home with the common speech used by travelers, which was lucky for Abbie. Rubbing her side against the woman’s legs affectionately, she earned a scratch on the head. The same spices that were used in the food seemed to have permanently soaked into her skin, the odor strong, but not unpleasant. With another bright flash of a smile, the lady placed a bowl of the offered stew on the stoop and beside that a smaller saucer of cream. Like the stew, it wasn’t fresh, but a cat’s stomach was far less sensitive to that than a human’s.

With a little mew, Abbie turned twice and sniffed at the dishes, then lapped at them hungrily. She hadn’t forgotten that she was possibly under pursuit, but that made this little interaction all the more direly important. With large emerald eyes, she scanned the streets, her ears perked for the sounds of footsteps. It didn’t take long, but she thought she could hear someone, a female by the weight of the steps. Good luck, sweetheart! she thought as she ate. You’re going to need it.

[Mordelain]

After what seemed like hours, Mordelain finally felt like she was making progress. She had little information to go in, and she was very tired, but she persevered. Corners and alleyways had blurred into one long labyrinth. Sunset had faded into dusk, and dusk to twilight. Twilight was now long gone, and the unforgiving night was truly here. It swaddled here in encroaching chill, left a tingle down her spine, and made the il’Jhain long for her bed.

She had made a promise, though. She had a job to do.

“Oh well,” she grumbled, her feet scuffing the cobblestones. She turned one final corner, and felt every bone in her body stiffen. Her muscles tensed. Her eyes widened.

Mordelain Saythrou had expected many things. A hot-tailed pursuit over rooftops was on the cards. She pictured the final exchange of witty banter between herself and the thief, and then the moment when she reclaimed the item in question triumphant. The moment she passed an open doorway, her expectations were shattered. She looked down at the hairy stumps the house owner called legs.

Forgetting her manners, she crossed the threshold uninvited.

“Oh gosh!” she squealed. Though the moon waxed and waned overhead, and a thin veil of mist lingered over the river, the planes walker forgot all her troubles. “You are adorable!”

Cats were Mordelain’s favourite thing. Second, only to date wine, gambling, and good friends, she loved her own kitten as if it were a sibling. On the rare occasion she has to spend a full afternoon with her, they would tire one another out by sundown. She was usually the first to go, with the kitten falling asleep in a purring bundle on her lap soon after.

“What are you doing out here in the dark?” she said. She knew all too well, what cats did after sundown was their own business. They did what everyone else out at this hour did. They found the thrill of life in the shadows and sonatas of Fallien’s capital.

Prancing forth, she approached the cat, oblivious to the irony. She stooped when she came to be ten feet away, rubbed her fingers together, and made the same sucking and coy sound everyone did when they called for an animal’s attention. The tinkle of her bells and ribbons rattled up and down the alleyway. “Come on,” she clucked, “I have something for you!”

With a flick of the wrist, she produced a small chunk of meat from her pocket. She had been saving some of her dinner for the eventuality of a long night, but what harm was there in a little charity.

“By all means, come on won’t you?” the woman said, flatly, dryly, and sourly. She rested her hands on her hips, soap stained hands buried in her ample girth. She tried to smile, but the sand mottled skin of her jowls only sagged further into a frown.

Mordelain winced. “Oh, I am sorry, I am so, so sorry,” she dropped the titbit and retreated swiftly. “I did not mean to be so rude!” she cried, disappearing round the doorway and proving her statement quite incorrect.

With fingers flexed, skin prickling with goose bumps, and sparkling eyes picking out every detail of the night, Mordelain stumbled on in a hurry. She would rue the day she allowed something so cute, furry, and wily to distract her from the task. When she came to the end of the alley, and looked out into the wide thoroughfare, she righted herself. She cleared her throat. She nodded to nobody in particular.

“I can sense her,” she said. She pricked her nose. She took a deep breath. She stepped out into the street…away from the very thing she had been looking for.

[Abbie]

That's her, the one hunting me, I can feel it... The pooka tensed slightly, watching the woman intently. Abbie was certain she wouldn't be caught, but it was impossible not to react to such a meeting. She was tall, at least a hand taller than her own human form, with piercing blue eyes. Her dark hair was made darker in the starlight, like a shadow around her head. Indeed, she would be formidable in a fight.

Then she did something completely unexpected. The grim determination etched into her visage transformed into abject adoration, her heart melting at the site of the little black cat. Her squeal of delight pierced the still night air, causing the plump innkeeper to look up sharply at the intruder. Abbie, however, was amused by this turn of events. The tinkle of bells and the sight of ribbons made her paws itch with the desire to play. The familiar calls were accompanied by an even more irresistible one - a piece of meat. The smell of the treat enticed her, and she sniffed at the air, licking her lips.

Before she could do more than take a couple of tentative steps, though, the heavyset woman above her voiced her annoyance with the intrusion. To her credit, she left the meat on the ground before beating a hasty retreat. With a soft meow, Abbie darted for the tidbit, gulping it down with pleasure. But now she had two choices: follow the stranger and learn more about her, or hide in the inn. Behind her, the large woman was calling to her, offering more food and sweet cream, but before her lay a mysterious trail. As they say, curiosity killed the cat! With a longing look at the person she would very much like to follow, she turned away.

Padding back over, she sniffed at the food, but wasn't really hungry anymore. Abbie lapped at the cream for a moment, then wrapped around the woman's legs before waltzing into the inn like she owned it. On light feet, she wound through the kitchen, sniffing and rubbing her sides against some of the furniture. When she located the door to the customer area, she pawed at the door, letting her new friend know that she wanted in. If she didn't get through now, she would be stuck in this form for the rest of the night, waiting for the place to open up for business in the morning. Luckily, the lady didn't seem to mind, and opened the swinging door a crack, allowing Abbie to escape and run up the stairs.

Knowing she had only moments before someone could come and catch her in the hallway, she stopped in front of her door, changing forms into her furry humanoid self. Since the lockpicks she wore were attached to her ears, they had shifted with her, which was something she was often thankful for. Removing one of them, she fiddled with the lock for just a moment before it clicked, allowing her entrance. The pooka slid quickly through the portal, closing it quietly and locking it behind her. Completing the shift to full human form, she shivered, her nude flesh puckering into tiny goosebumps in the cool night air. Without lighting a candle, Abbie rummaged through her things, pulling a thick nightgown from her chest, and slid the warm, rough fabric over her head.

Finally safe, she thought to herself, the tension flowing out of her. Abbie sat on the bed, the flimsy material offering very little padding, but for now it felt like heaven. Flopping to the side, she didn't even bother with the covers. Her head hit the pillow, red pigtails splayed wildly on the lumpy surface, and she was out like a light.

[Mordelain]

It took Mordelain another two hours before the warm embrace of her bed could comfort her. She flopped back onto the furs and silk sheets, arms flailing, and lungs exhaling the last of the night air. Though she was defeated, she felt determined to continue at first light. She had looked high, she had looked low, and tomorrow she would look again.

Something troubled her. She closed her eyes, rolled onto her side, a moaned. She did not disrobe. She lifted the bedding over her goose pimples. She did not blow out the last burning wicks of the candelabra by her door. She let the room die its own death, and fade into darkness of its own accord.

Something worried her.

Outside in the streets below her window, midnight troubadours and shadowy figures strolled back and forth between abyssal doorways. Some were portals to gambling dens. Others were gateways to black market bazaars and debauchery laden, and much-loved taverns of excess. The moon waxed and waned behind silvery clouds, turning the city through cycles of natural light and near true darkness.

All the information that bandied around the Abdos started to seem more and more like hearsay. When people talked cats and robbers, and missing artefacts, they did so with merit. Repeatedly the il’Jhain had to use their running, and their knowledge of Irrakam’s labyrinthine streets to pursue criminals the palace guards had no chance of detaining.

Mordelain opened her eyes. They glimmered in the last light of the candles. Her heart beat loudly, the only nose in a sudden lull. She stared up at the sandstone ceiling, embraced by thick palm beams and tanned leather tapestries. She felt alienated, even in her own sanctuary. She felt like she did not belong here, because she had failed the legacy that passed to her from her fellow il’Jhain.

She was one of them. She was part of them. She had to fulfil their responsibilities.

“Wherever you are,” she said abruptly, as she rose from her bed begrudgingly, “I am going to damned well find you.” She slipped from the cushions and stretched. Her bones and muscles had loosened quickly, and she would need to be limber and awake if she were going to survive another bout of skittering like a shadow through the under city.

She approached the open window, and pushed aside the muslin drapes that dangled and bellowed in the soft winds that danced through the upper reaches of the merchant district. She gazed out at the hundreds of torchlight windows that stared back at her. In the distance, the crystalline vein of the river ran north as far as the eye and the horizon allowed. She curled her lips into a forgiving smile, and raised a sandaled foot to the sill.

“If I were a cat,” she asked herself, “where would I hide?”

The question seemed innocuous, but simple. She held onto the frame of the portal and leant out to look at the street below. It was a good two hundred feet straight down. She looked up at the rooftops opposite, and threw away the notion of making it safely across. She did not want to disturb the household a second time by noisily stumbling through the great gates that separated Suresh’s courtyard from the outside world. She curled her lips.

Her eyes widened with realisation.

“In plain sight!” she whelped. She vanished.

She only hoped she could make it back across the city to the tavern before she let the rouge slip right from under her nose. In the ether and the void between worlds, the amateur detective roared her anger at having been so foolish and sympathy to feline culpabilities.