The Flesh Failures: Cellebration

[Breaker]

"Pardon?" Angeline shouted above the band's hip-swaying dance beat. The willowy blonde stopped two-stepping on the spot and leaned closer to the newest addition to her security staff.

"I said, this is the perfect job," Molly Doomeye replied. The Giselan stood with arms crossed over the many knives sheathed up and down her demon-hide corset. "I owe you more favors than I carry blades," Molly purred through the manager's golden mane.

"First keep my club in order," Angeline said, face flushing so hot she had trouble making her lips move, "we'll save the rest for later." The manager of the Flesh Failures resumed her lonely two step, back to the empty spiral staircase. The night would be both profitable and enjoyable... she felt it in every pore of her skin.

"No worries Angie, no one in this crowd's like to get the drop on me." Doomeye shook her head to emphasize the statement. The many braids of her midnight hair snapped like a cat-o-ninetails. Angeline smiled and kissed her scar-slashed cheek.

"They should know better than to cross the Daughter of the Wind," the club manager yelled as quietly as she could. "I'm going to take one last look around, before it's packed too tight to see!" She danced her way toward the front doors of the Flesh Failures as they opened to admit more warm bodies.

Soon they would be hot.

The club was only at half its capacity and already hopping. The band - known simply as The Tribals was a three-piece affair with two lads and a mousey haired honey who smiled like a Raiaeran maid on her wedding day. They'd set up on stage in the back left corner and launched into a furious set without so much as a tune-up. That entire quarter of the club scrambled the senses with the most delicious spices. Perfumed fog bellowed from enchanted bellows fixed beneath the stage. A show of lights like Aleraran sky-strikers lit the dancefloor, compliments of the young rebellious Mystic Angeline had recently hired. The blue-haired boy had hidden himself in a curtained booth beside the stage but glowing amber eyes peeked out every so often to check his handiwork.

Angeline danced free of the swarm of arms and legs and detoured through the front left corner of the club. Lounge-style leather sofas and chairs surrounded low tables and Akashiman-seat cushions. Only a few patrons had chosen the reclusive seats so early in the night, and most of them held glowing cigarettes or tobacco pipes. Once the first wave of dancers tired themselves out, the couches would see a sudden swell of interest. Angeline chatted up a few of the regulars before skipping past the double-doors with a wink and nod for the burly brothers who guarded them. The Flesh Failures had seen as many incursions as Radasanth itself over the years, and since Breaker's departure from the security staff Angeline had implemented new procedures. The boulder-shaped men with cudgels on their belts spread around the club's perimeter was the second line, Doomeye the third. The first had cost her nearly a year's worth of profits, but violence in the Flesh Failures had dropped to nothing since its purchase.

"How's my sweetheart doing?" She asked Stephen, the taller of the two giants on the door. He glanced at his brother Joseph and chuckled.

"Which one of us is it yer' sweet on Angie?" Stephen guffawed.

"You both know I meant her." Angeline swooned, petting the enchanted adamantine trunk with both hands. No larger than an average trunk, it was grafted to the wall just beside the front doors. It fed a ticket to each patron who willingly stored their weapons inside, and squirreled their possessions away in its limitless storage space. Only the bearer of the right ticket could reclaim their property, short of calling up the Dwarven alchemists who had forged the thing.

"Works like a charm, Angeline." Joseph said, always politer than his brother. "Some few folk still refuse to come in wiffout their swords an' arrers, but it's like you say. Fer' every arse who won't walk in unarmed, their's one in the line who will." The brothers turned back to the door as their teammates outside let the next few party-animals in. Angeline gave her lovely trunk one last caress then spun and did the pony all the way to the bar.

The long teak counter stretched most of the right side of the club, surrounded on two fronts by stools full of determined drinkers. The service staff was scrambling to keep up with orders so Angeline circled to the back of the club and ducked under the island. She checked her hair and knee-length dress in the mirror behind the bar then jumped into mixing cocktails and cracking wise with colorful patrons. She made a rum shake for a neko, a gin and fizz for a pink haired dark elf, and a scotch on ice for a crazy-eyed dwarf. Or a child with a very convincing beard. Breaker had supplied several insulated cases full of shredded and cubed ice, and the delicacy was selling drinks so fast the manager considered asking Doomeye to lend her infamously fast hands.

No, she decided as she drew a pint of ale for a leering demon, I'd best save Molly's speed in case there's trouble. Or for all the favors she owes me. Where is Josh anyway? She hadn't seen the Breaker since early in the evening, and midnight would soon be upon them. Hope he's not in his room alone, sulking over Ai'Brone's judgment of the tourny. Josh didn't really seem like the type, but then all men needed to inflate their ego privately from time to time. Angeline tore her sapphire eyes away from the spiral staircases at the back of the club. She had guests to attend.


Open only to people approved via the OOC thread (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26240-Cellebration-OOC). Everyone may bunny the staff and patrons within reason but Angeline and Doomeye should be treated as my PCs. GM accounts include Breaker and Peacemaker.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

The Cell had been a hellish day. No two ways about it - Aurelius had died twice in as many hours, both times in pain that would have taken out any normal sod three times over. But that wasn't even the worst part. No, the tiefling's ego was still bearing up to the fact that a nobody little chit from Fallien had went and won the bloody tournament. The tournament itself had ended a week ago, but he was still far from sanguine about the whole affair.

He'd been about ready to cut his losses and disappear out of Radasanth to get up to some serious mischief.. when he'd received an invite from some messenger on the streets who'd apparently been looking for someone matching his description. With the lack of tieflings wandering about, Aurelius figured the message was either from someone who actually knew him, or someone smart and well-lanned enough to know of him. It was a simple invitation, signed by someone named Angeline, and a bloke by the name of 'Breaker'. The half-demon was dubious of anyone with a moniker like that, but chant held him up as a decent fighter, and most bookies had marked the sod down as most likely to take the win during the Cell. Naturally paranoid, the half-demon figured it might be some elaborate set-up, but he knew how to handle himself.. and if he was perfectly honest with himself, he had absolutely nothing else to do. So, he'd come along to the swanky little shindig, even if only to get blind drunk and stick his pike in a woman or six. Granted, Aurelianus was none too happy about having to leave all of his blades outside - they'd even made him remove his bladed armour - but he'd died enough times in the past few weeks to last his a few lifetimes - pissing off two giants wasn't going to do much for his stunning good looks he had decided in an uncharacteristic moment of clarity.

They had been exceptionally unsure of how to handle Junior though. The animated foetus had hissed and gnashed its tiny needle fangs at the giants as they tried to pick the familiar up and inspect it. The albino abomination had not taken kindly to that, but after a lengthy explanation that those blades are its hands, the doormen-- doorgiants? Had relented, and allowed the winged horror in, so long as its plane-touched master agreed to keep it on a short leash.

So here he was, wearing nothing but his leather trousers and vest, with Junior perched happily on his shoulder sniffing the pink-haired Dark Elf seated next to them; Aurelius' tattoos (http://i636.photobucket.com/albums/uu84/Anarchist147/AurelianusDrakshal.jpg) stood out down his arms, and across the visible parts of his torso, stark black against his alabaster flesh. The only other adornments he had on him were the ever-present collection of amulets and tokens tied around his wrists and neck and the myriad piercings through his pointed, elf-like ears, clinking together with every movement but unheard over the cacophany coming from the stage. Running a hand through the crest of bloody-red quills running down the centre of his head, he turned on his bar-stool, tearing his serpentine eyes off the delicious little thing behind the bar and looking over the club. The place was already heaving with people, and he'd marked dozens more outside waiting for entrance. Running his forked black tongue over his fangs, Aurelius couldn't help but feel smug. He even raised his glass amicably to a few of the other bodies sat at the bar before throwing the Aleraran T'keela back. He savoured the burn as it wormed down his throat, caressing his stomach with fire when it hit. He slid the empty glass across the bar to the chit behind it, leaning on the edge of the polished wood so she could hear him over the music blasting out from the stage.

"Another, if you wouldn't mind luv," he shouted, cupping a hand to his mouth and leaning in close. The girl, obviously used to working in such conditions, nodded and poured another measure of the amber liquid into the perspiring glass. His fourth since he had sat down. Ten minutes before. She looked down as Junior scampered over the mahogany counter, the hideous little pink tongue flicking out to lap up stray spills of alcohol. She raised a calm, professional gaze to Aurelianus who gave a simple smirk and a shrug in response.

"Kids, eh?" he grinned, shooing his pet off the bar and back onto its usual spot on his shoulder.

After a few minutes of nursing his drink, Aurelius turned to the stage. The band leader, a scraggly looking sod in a garish motley moved to the front of the raised dais on which they were playing. He raised his hands to the already heaving crowds, and called out in a voice slightly rough from singing, "does anyone have any requests?"

Throwing back his drink in a single gulp, the warlock put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill, sharp whistle. The band leader looked in his direction, as did a dozen other people - more than one let their eyes linger on the horns emerging from his brow, or the inhuman eyes and yet more stared agape in disgust at the crow-winged Junior clambering about the bold-as-brass half-breed's frame. But this was Radasanth; they had seen worse. The tiefling slid through the crowds followed closely by his nightmarish little familiar, understanding the guards' insistence he remove his usual bladed armour, and within a few uncomfortable, sweaty and claustrophobic moments, he was through the throng of people and hopping nimbly up to the stage to a smattering of applause. He slapped a hand on the band leaders shoulder and smirked as he leaned in close, his mouth almost touching the younger man's ear.

"Try to keep up, mate," he chuckled, drawing a small silver instrument from his pocket and tapping it against his thigh a few times.

"Well, alright buddy! Let's see what you got," the man laughed, not even fazed by the sight before him and made a few gestures to his band behind the half-demon. Junior flapped through the air and landed comfortably on its master's shoulder once more, turning sutured eye sockets over the hippies behind it. They smelled funny, and the sin against nature was not sure if it liked them very much. But it knew it was to behave, so settled in and ran its scalpel fingers lovingly over the leather under its diminutive, half-formed body.

Looking over the crowds, and already feeling the warm fuzzy feeling of a fast-approaching state of inebriation, Aurelius raised his harmonica to his lips, closed his eyes..

And started to play (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0JB4wxtSJk&noredirect=1).

[Peacemaker]

Duke - the frontman for the Tribal band - unstrapped his guitar and pushed away the voicemag stand. He found a pair of bongos and propped them on a wooden tripod as the tiefling launched his lungs into the harmonica. The young man and his two best friends had spent most of the summer tending their small farm in Radasanthia and performing on the City's streets when they found time. It was wicked sweet to have such a star-spangled gig, especially with all the righteous birds and booze-happy chums skatin' round the hardwood floor.

"This snake-tongued cat has got some groove Rosey!" Duke the frontman hollered at his band mate to-the bed mate and-a somethetimes soulmate. "Think we can lay it down in time?"

"Like Am'aleh keeps the tides," Rosalie replied saucily. She took a dramatic step and then dipped her upright bass like a dancing partner, laying it safely aside. The poncho-wearing young lady scampered to Duke's side and shared the bongos as their third band mate laid the beat. The big broad-shouldered Fallien man hadn't batted an eye at the change of tune. He whirled thick dark arms and lit up his drums in a blur of bamboo brushes.

"Hang on kiddies," Jack said in his deep crawling voice, "the devil's takin' us on a merry dance."

Duke and Rosalie beat the bongos like one expert drummer practicing in the mirror. They followed Jack's lead, and the percussionist matched pace with the tiefling's every breath and stomp. The bellows beneath the stage belched fog into swirling multicolored lights.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“Name?” The bouncer said to the man before him. He was a scrawny thing, wirey built like a runner. He wore a trench coat and had died the tips of hair as he had a throng of woman behind him. He oozed charisma from every pore in his body and he turned to the man, giving him a solid chuckle.

“Your daddy,” he replied with an arrogant smile and a wink. The Bouncer sighed and looked to the list flipping through the pages, slowly, painfully looking at each name. The man tapped his foot and pursed his lips, letting out a hoarse like rasp as the Bouncer finally lowered the clipboard.

“Sorry, ‘daddy,’ but you aren’t on the list.”

“Oh come on, can’t you tell who I am? I am the suave, smooth, cunning and dashing, Jensen - muther fucking hold the applause until I finish- Ambrose.” The bouncer merely shrugged his shoulders. “Come on fatty mc lard pants, you can’t possibly forget a face like mine? Your mother sure had no problems getting to know it intimately when I was face deep in her crotch.”

“Classy,” the Bouncer replied preparing to move him. The man made a rotation with his wrist, showing a knife and dancing it under the club worker’s face. The Bouncer’s eyes widened in alarm, looking to him and narrowing his vision. Jensen merely giggled in response, turning back to the ladies and winking again.

“Check the name again, bub,” he said, tapping the knife on the clipboard. The Bouncer looked to the papers again, and with a sign he spoke.

“Ahha, found the name.”

“See told you!” he replied with glee, turning to the ladies again. The Bouncer moved faster than lightening, his clipboard slamming into the back of the man’s head, downing him as he stepped on his back, pushing his shoulder blades out. He leaned forwards, head close to his ear and spoke in a determined manner.

“Little punk ass bitch isn’t on the list of approved party members. You can bottom feed in the gutter, you trash.” The bouncer knocked his head in, and stood back up looking to his list of names and turning back to the audience. Another man stepped forwards, eyes filled with alluring qualities. His jacket flowed behind him, as if the wind eternally teased it out. His hair was slick and the red tips recently re-dyed. His black shirt was neatly tucked into his denim black pants, and boots as clean as a whistle stopped just before the brutalized kid.

“You can’t possibly match this level of charm, suave, and skill kid. When you isnult someone, don’t go right for their mother. It shows you have no talent for breaking souls and demoralizing a human psyche. If you’re gonna do knife tricks, make sure the person isn’t bigger than you, and for the love of fucking Yedda’s sagging tips,” the man lifted his hand into the inside of jacket, pulling out kerchief and dropping it on his nose. “Wipe the shit off your face.” He rose turning to the Bouncer and flicked his invitation to the party on the Bouncer’s clipboard turning to the ladies of the evening and pointing them out with a flair for style.

“All of them are with me,” he said.

“Welcome to the Flesh Failures, sir, enjoy your evening.”

The man walked on, prepared to enter the dance floor with his new entourage of giggling girls, when the boy turned and looked to the man, hand reaching out and tossing a small throwing knife. With reflexes born of a true warrior born the man twirled, grabbed it by the hilt, twirled it in his fingers and returned fire in the blink of an eye landing the blade inches from the boy’s hand.

“Who are you,” he whispered in awe.

“The name’s Jensen Ambrose,” he turned to the woman and placed an arm behind the two closest backs. He walked on, lifting his head to finish his conversation with the boy. “Accept no substitutes.”

When Jensen entered into the foyer he checked in his jacket, twisting to grab a drink off a waitress platter and downed the crisp, cold liquid with a bite and a giggle, moving to the dance floor where the band played. With a snap of his fingers a waiter appeared and gave a respectful nod to the denizen.

“Inform Joshua Cronen that Jensen Ambrose is here looking for his twenty gold a drink with him.” Jensen patted him on the shoulder and made way to the floor.

Tonight is going to be good… Jensen mused.

[Reine]

Fae hurried down the darkened streets of Radasanth. The trail of her black trench coat flapping in the cold night air and allowing the icy breeze to snake inside and tickle up the length of her bare legs. She couldn't help but shiver. Even int he summer, the breeze that came in off the harbour held a chill to it that wormed it way through her skin and into her bones. She'd grown too used to the hot sun during all those months in Fallien.

Keeping a wary eye on the dark lanes and alleys, cause Radasanth was oh so safe at midnight, Faelynn made her way towards The Flesh Failures. She knew its location well, had been there many times before she got this invite and would continue to return to the busy lounge. About two streets over, the houses and shops in this section mainly dark with a few taverns and bars still turning the candles late into the night, Fae could hear the thumb and thrum of music over the wind and the cadence of many voices.

She smiled, knowing a warm place, a good drink and a steamy dance floor were not too far away. She needed it to. After losing in the second round and then being verbally berated by her brother, Fae craved a distraction. Letting loose on the dance floor seemed like just the place to do it. Not to mention she'd get to see Astarelle again, and perhaps be able to sneak a moment with Cronen.

Rounding the second corner, boots clicking on the worn stones of the street, Faelynn saw the long line to get into the club and slowed. The personal invitation was in her hand, slightly crumpled from being held so tightly, but she didn't know if it would get her passed the front door.

Reaching up with her free hand, she adjusted the intricate braids of her hair. They looped around the side of her head and joined at the back, where the rest of her hair fell in curls down to her shoulder blades. She'd spent a lot of time on it, that and the make-up that accentuated the golden green of her eyes and her high cheekbones. Fae knew she wasn't anything particularly beautiful, just kind of average, but with a little make-up, even the girl next door could start to feel rather sexy.

Approaching the two bouncers, Fae gave them one of her most dazzling smiles. Though they probably saw a hundred girls far more beautiful than her every night, their eyes locked on her body and never left, which gave her a thrill deep down int he pit of her stomach.

“Hi boys.” She purred. “I believe I'm getting the special treatment tonight.”

With a flourish she produced the invite that Angeline had written to her and placed it on the clipboard. Bouncer number one smiled and looked it over with a quick glance of hi dark, brown eyes.

“That you are. Weapons?”

She nodded her head. “Of course, I know the rules.”

Slipping the rucksack from her shoulders, Faelynn placed it within the Adamantine trunk and took the ticket, slipping it down into her cleavage for safe keeping. Her outfit didn't exactly come with extra pockets.

With a wave and a wink, she slipped into the lounge and was immediately assaulted by the deep thrumming of the music. It filled every inch of her body and made her want to let all her inhibitions go and just get out on that floor. First though, she had to get rid of this jacket.

To the right of the entrance she spotted the coat check. Walking over, Fae slipped the black material from her body, revealing a lot of skin and a lot of red. She'd chosen to stand out tonight rather than blend in as the thief she normally was. Her outfit was Fallien made. Beads of glass were sown into the short top, which completely exposed the smooth skin of her stomach and the taunt muscle underneath, and they glittered in the light show that flitted about the room. Her skirt was long and flowing and made of several layers, each one having a slit in a slightly different area so as she moved, a new section of her leg was exposed. Both garments were vermilion in colour, or perhaps closer to the stain of blood. Fitting considering what this celebration was all about.

Bangles covered her bare arms, a black choker around her neck and a long silver chain that disappeared into her cleavage adorned her chest, all made of silver and all of it reflecting the light.

Handing over her jacket, Fae received another ticket and once again slipped this one into her cleavage. Then with turn and flip of her hair, she disappeared into a growing crowd of people and headed right for the dance floor. She nimbly moved around a man with two women on either arm, he looked strangely familiar, but she wasn't paying him much attention to be perfectly honest. Instead, she weaved and worked her way right onto a the floor, packed with men and woman all gyrating to the deep thrum and beat, bodies grinding up against one another.

She had no one to dance with, yet. So she closed her eyes, breathed int he music and just let her body twist and turn, her legs slide to the beat and her arms flow about her in a sensual sway.

[Amber Eyes]

“Maybe I shouldn’t go.” The mystic pursed her lips to the side and ran her fingers down her midsection.

“You have to go Kyla, every other competitor is going to show up and you’ll look like a poor sport if you don’t.” Her sister stepped closer, fixing a stray hair that seemed to have developed a mind of its own. She stepped back, admiring her work before reaching into her bag, digging for something in the contents.


“Maybe I should have gone with something a little less…”

“Provocative? I told you that at the store.” Anita’s voice was flat, her attention focused on the task of moving items from the bag and placing them on the counter in the dusty inn bathroom. Holy Water, lip gloss, several books on Thayne lore, a couple loose clothes, a small dagger, each took its place in the growing pile. Finally she gave an “aha!” and lifted a small vial into the air in triumph. She smiled widely, her deep blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Here, this will take the edge off a bit.” She watched as Kyla took the glass, pulling the top and downing the bitter liquid with a grimace.

The girl swallowed several times, doing her best to get rid of the after taste. Anita quickly reached into her bag once more and handed her a mint.

She placed the small candy in her mouth and smiled, looking herself over in the mirror once more.

Her dark brown hair curled delicately, stopping midway down her back. Her bright blue eyes stood out against her pale face, and her bright red dress accentuated each and every curve. The neckline was modest, but nothing else about the garment was. It ended long before Sei would have liked it to, part of the reason that the girls were now holed up in an inn rather than dressing at Ixian Castle. Her boots stretched to her mid-thigh, leaving a few inches of skin between them and the silky fabric. Her arms were bare, even missing the opera glove that never left the girl. She had been told clearly that no weapons would be allowed. After all the attention she’d drawn in the actual tournament the young woman thought that was for the best.

She made her way towards the club, each step moving the strange concoction through her veins. She hadn’t thought to ask about the contents, something she was beginning to regret as her steps seemed a little less even and her vision slightly less clear. She could feel herself beginning to relax as she reached the place, the music clearly audible from outside. She was just about to take her place in line when she heard her name. She turned, somewhat unsteady, and pointed to herself. “Me?”

The man motioned for her to join him, laughing loudly. “Not many other Kyla Orlouge’s floating around I’d assume.” He reached out for her arm and Kyla took it, grateful for the added stability given her current state. He held the door open for her, “Hope you enjoy yourself, Ms Orlouge.” She took one last look back at the line and gave a weak smile before entering the club.

Lights blinked on and off, the music seemed to fill every bit of the air, and there were so many voices tangled together that Kyla froze. It was much different than the pubs she and Anita visited on a rare occasion. It was quite a bit to wrap ones mind around and Kyla wasn’t in very good shape for thinking.

Someone pushed past her, knocking her off balance and sending her in one ungraceful movement to the floor below. A wave of heated embarasment ran through her, you always did know how to make a classy entrance. The mystic pulled herself to her feet, brushing the imaginary dust from her dress and swaying along to the music as she searched the crowd for a familiar face.

[Roht Mirage]

The anxious line of bodies outside the Flesh Failures rippled with a flurry of curious whispers as an unmarked carriage came to a stop. It stood silently for a moment, a dark solidification of the night, then was obscured as six riders on horseback cantered past. Cloaks hid their forms, but their eyes gleamed with a hint of magical energy. “Mystics?” asked one astute soon-to-be patron, but his guess was swallowed by the rumble of anticipation for the reveal of the passenger...

Which quickly fell to confused disappointment as a lanky man just barely too old to be called a teenager emerged. He adjusted the border of lace at the cuff of his black jacket, shook his dark hair -heavy and shining from some sort of product- and swaggered past the line as if he didn't see it. He looked straight at the door, wearing a smirk that was begging to be slapped off.

Behind him, a second passenger emerged, a young woman in her early twenties. Her slim yet boyish frame was favored by a royal blue dress of modest length, yet cut with the sharp angles of a highwayman's attire. A dark tri-corner hat completed the look while still retaining some femininity in a burst of violet lilacs tucked into one up-turned fold. She gave the crowd a wide grin with just a hint of not-so-innocent intentions and tipped her hat forward to shield most of what looked like a horrible burn scar above her eyebrows. As the bewildered mutterings grew, she followed on the younger man's heels.

By the third passenger, the crowd was growing tired of all the pomp and circumstance for nobodies. Said third passenger, however, didn't care even in the slightest. His white, draping shirt was utterly plain, though immaculate. It marked him as an island of zen against the rows of flesh and bright fabrics, and it drastically accented the dark Fallien cast of his skin. In his own way, he showed enough skin to make it a party, but it was in the wake of his receding hairline. A short, grey, almost comical tail was tied at the nape of his neck. It might have invited comment if the shallow crags of his face didn't suggest that he had heard them all.

“Master Kotra?” a woman in the line asked aloud, perhaps unintentionally. A sudden blush ran down her pale, plunging cleavage.

The old master's eyes lit with mirthful memory. “I see you're taking care of yourself, Tara. I wouldn't expect to find you at a place like this, though.” She blushed harder and toed the ground as if she was once again the street urchin he had sheltered. “I hear all kinds of debaucherous things happen in this club,” he rumbled with false disgust, then gave her a wink and walked straight for the door.

The final passenger, upon revealing herself to the cool night air, was washed over by the long-held anticipation as it transformed into a cheer. Astarelle Set'Roh -famously and regrettably known to many as Roht Mirage- gave a quick, straight-toed spin for the crowd. Her crimson skirt, short in the front and ankle-length in the back, flared high and separated into five distinct panels, revealing that her legs were uncharacteristically covered. The full black leggings were thick and almost dark enough to steal light, if not for a series of sinuous grey lines that ran up them. They traced her dancer's muscles, accenting sharply the shape that was already on display against the tight fabric. Her spin finished, she leaned on her long reed staff and swept into a bow, showcasing what a well-fitted corset could do to even the most modest of bosoms. Above the leather, her pale-for-a-fallieni chest and shoulders were lined with a rolling dune-like tattoo in all the shades of the desert. Each dune was caped with a slim line of white as if the moonlight truly was reflecting off the Fallien landscape. In a sensual double act, the dunes also enhanced her shape, pouting her cleavage and teasing the smooth, touchable curve of her shoulders. A softer ripple of desert lay down the length of her arms, ending only at her reed-woven bracelets, while a jagged extension continued up her neck and marked her cheeks with the harsh, powerful lines of the rocky plateaus that were Fallien's hungry teeth. High on her chest, a sapphire pendant sparkled like an inviting oasis. The same glimmer of blue sparkled around her eyes, the gem-like powder shimmering as if she had borne even Fallien's stars across the ocean. She looked after her companions, swinging a dark braid that was woven with ribbons in the same brilliant red as her panelled skirt.

Cries of, “Cell Champion,” went out from the line. It was not as many people as Astarelle had feared, but the calls knotted her stomach and heated her cheeks just the same. She also felt a flutter in her heart, a strangely-pleasant swell of pride. I did win the blasted thing, didn't I? she asked herself as if it still sounded suspicious. Like someone was playing a trick on her. The paranoia sloughed away, though, as she walked the edge of the line. Lanky Tabin, sly Raylene, and craggy Kotra walked ahead of her, but might as well have been invisible for all the gazes that punched clean through them to lock on Astarelle. She felt a heat over her skin as if the tattooed landscape was radiating the long day's last warmth. By the time she reached the door, her companions splitting to let her take the last step, there was a wide, ridiculous, bug-eating grin on her face.

“Champion,” one of the giant doormen said coolly, almost rudely compared to the outpouring of raucous love from behind her. “If you would leave your staff, please.” He gestured to the trunk by the door.

Astarelle found herself sneering. “Is that any way to treat a champion?” she said as if her mouth was connected directly to her ego. Venom tipped the edge of each word. She glanced at her companions, her expression saying, “Is he serious?” The old master only rolled his eyes as if looking for his missing hair, and Tabin mumbled something, then elbowed Raylene and pointed. Astarelle followed the other woman's gaze a moment later to see the scrawny fellow sitting on the ground, his back against the club's face as he shrank into his trench coat. The knife in his hands played across the stone street like the tip of a forlorn dog's tail.

Raylene snorted a laugh. Astarelle almost mirrored her, but stopped short. In a frozen moment, she felt the ominous gap between her and the rebuked stranger. It was physically only a few steps, but it felt like a chasm, deep and impassable. She had seen many where the surface of Fallien still bore the scars of its ancient breaking. Such gaps were walls more absolute than any castle... or prison. The only determining factor was whether or not you wanted to stay on your side. Though her heart and head swelled with the quieting cheers, Astarelle already pined for the other side.

“You'd better move along, kid,” threatened the other doorman as he followed their gaze and flexed his fists.

Astarelle gave a stalling wave to the giant before he shifted his feet, setting her own into motion instead. With lithe strides that whispered of her homeland, she closed on the man and loomed her small frame over him.

“You one of Ambrose's girlfriends? Here to kick me?” he asked dejectedly to her woven anklets, then looked up. His eyes widened till they might fall out. “You're... bloody hell. You're-” He shot a glance at the vacant space where he had ruefully watched the champion moments earlier.

“Yes,” Astarelle answered sweetly as she planted her staff and used the other hand to help the young man to his feet. In the void that he could still find no words for, she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then said quietly. “You're not missing much. I've been in this club before. It was barely worth remembering.” He gaped. The hand that -thankfully- did not hold the dagger shot up to his cheek. Astarelle gave him one last smile, then turned and slipped away.

She felt her center again, a cool, comforting spot amid the heat of celebrity. The doormen looked at her askew, and her companions looked with some solemnity, but she just smiled and fed her long staff into the trunk as if performing a magic trick. The ticket, she secreted under one bracelet. A small amount of the tattoo around her wrist reverted to its natural sand state and affixed the ticket in its hiding place.

Astarelle Set'Roh led her entourage into the club, where the noise and lights were powerful enough to give her a sliver of anonymity. She sensed the others immediately fan out. Tabin went toward the bar, all hormonal swagger, Raylene circled around the periphery of the dance floor, mindful to keep her hat from being knocked off by the swaying limbs, and Kotra made immediately for the seating area with -undoubtedly- a story or two ready on his tongue about the 'proper herbs' they smoked in Fallien that would put the cute little cigarettes to shame. Astarelle stood amid the movement, transfixed by the music coming from the stage. She had never heard its like before, in style or instrument. Unbearably curious, she knifed one slim shoulder through the dancing crowd to get closer. The music stirred a melancholy in her, a feeling that all the grandeur and bloodlust of the Cell was meaningless; just so much noise distracting from the true ups and downs of being human. She wanted to meet this musician.

As she neared, his features coalesced against the flashing lights, and a memory stirred. One week and a day ago, she had been in the same club, ensorceled by the kind of madness that would drive someone to enter the Cell. She thought she had purged all the embarrassing memories of that night, but one had apparently secreted itself away, all sharp edges and regret, ready to pounce.

~

The tendril of his cigarette tickled her nose. She inhaled, savoring the acrid smell as just another part of the experience that was this strange -diabolical- man. He rasped something to her. She couldn't make out the words as alcohol stirred in her veins and she lost herself in studying the edges of his pointed teeth. He felt her magnetic gaze and leaned closer. Closer. She did not resist. Though he was clearly a threat, she thrilled at it. Shivers ran to her core. The distance closed to nothing, and she learned that his tongue was forked, for she felt it on her own-

~

Bury me. Bury me to the depths.

The image of the mohawked demon and his horrible half-formed pet was burning into her mind, anchoring itself to the foggy memory as a mistake she would never -never- forget. She turned, catching her own feet so badly as to shame her old dance instructor, and fell below the surface of writhing heads and arms.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Eventually, after what seemed like hours lost in the music, Aurelius drew his mournful tune to a close. It was always the same when he opened his eyes after playing; feeling momentarily disconnected from everything but the music. Taking the silver instrument away from his lips, a small grin stole over his face as the applause roared out, and he gave what was, for him, a modest bow, turning to direct some of the applause to The Tribals.

The tiefling slid his harmonica away into his pocket again, shaking Duke's hand and slapping him on the shoulder amiably.

"Aye, you did not bad, mate. Might be 'ope for you young'uns yet," he laughed, letting himself simply enjoy the revelry. He said his goodbyes to the band, letting his serpentine eyes linger on Rosie for a moment longer than the other two, before he turned and hopped from the stage. A few of the crowd offered him praise, but the half-demon had marked something much more interesting, in the sweating horde and the flashing, strobing lights.

He forced his way through the thickening crowd, the mob getting rowdier as Duke and The Tribals belted into another tune without missing a beat, the younger cutter's voice carried around the vast room by some sort of spellworks; the warlock smirked, knowing his own music must have reached every corner too. Reaching down to the girl he'd watched fall flat on her arse, the tiefling dragged her back up to her feet with one hand, the other sliding a cigarette between his lips and lighting it with a small flash of Hellfire.

"Upsa daisy, luv," he shouted over the noise, making sure the chit was settled on her feet as he took a deep drag on the smoking roll-up. Junior swept in, hovering in the air before her and hissing through tiny, dead lips. Aurelius waved him away, chuckling - he was determined to play the gentleman to what was hopefully someone who couldn't handle their bub, and maybe get his dick in something other than his hand before the night was out...

But as his eyes flicked over her familiar tattoos, and the flesh beneath, something clicked inside his brain-box. He knew this chit.

She was the winner of the Cell.

But even as he realised this irksome fact, and bit back the urge to headbutt her for stealing what could have been his glory, the half-breed realised he had met her before that. Here in this very bloody club!

With the beautiful yet awful moment of clarity that always heralded a drunken memory returning to a lucid mind, Aurelianus slapped a hand to his forehead and doubled over laughing, smoke spilling out of his nostrils into the hot, close air of the bar. He remembered tasting her flesh, drinks flowing, skin on skin, smoke and vodka and saliva... he also felt his lusts stirring as he regained his composure, still sniggering softly as he took another lungful of smoke. He ran a finger absent-mindedly over the hydras along his scalp before fiddling with the new steel ring through his left nostril. It was the newest addition to an already large collection, and as with the rest of the many piercings, it reflected the dazzling rainbows flashing from the smoke-hazed stage.

Hardly able to hear himself, and feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his back from the pressing warmth of the bodies around them, he leaned in close to the Fallieni chit.

"Buy you a drink, luv?" he shouted over the noise, an almost friendly, and only slightly predatory smirk perking up the corners of his fanged mouth.

[Breaker]

The line outside the Flesh Failures wrapped around two sides of the building and grew with the passing minutes. Groups of party-goers intent on experiencing the legendary night leaned against the grey stone of the club's exterior walls. They smoked and sipped from flasks beneath layered robes, chilled fall air misting their conversation. Every so often the big bouncer at the doors would allow a new star-eyed quartet of revelers in amidst a burst of heat and noise from inside.

Joshua Cronen watched the rocking club from a window table at the Carriage House across the cobblestone street. He stirred the cup of tea before him and smiled at the owner of both establishments.

"You're making me bloody rich boy," said Andre Sellings, father to club manager Angeline. "Ever since you entered that tourny our business has increased. Every silly sod in Radasanth wants to sit down and hear about what the Breaker was like as a young bouncer." The rotund man scratched at his short silver beard then picked up an equally silver fork and dug into the slice of peach pie before him. "But this party," he said as steam escaped the slit he'd cut in the pie's golden crust, "has started something new. We're getting letters every day from folk who want to book the Failures for a night to remember. Folk thick with coin." He added, and then scooped a morsel of pie into his mouth.

"It was Angeline's idea," Cronen offered, lifting his mug of Akashiman ceylon and inhaling the rich scent, "all I did was get in a few fights. Might have mentioned my affiliation with the club once or twice." He chuckled into his mug and sipped warm tea, hearing Sellings nearly choke on his pie.

"That's about all it takes," Andre laughed once he had cleared his throat, "in a place as gossipy as Radasanth, with a name like Breaker..." the businessman trailed and picked up a crystal goblet full of elven wine. "You're making me rich, lad." He repeated and they clinked drinking vessels in an informal toast.

"You were already rich," Josh pointed out, "I just lent you some confidence." The silken tablecloth made muffled sounds as they set their cups down. "Well," Josh said, peering into the leaf-strewn dregs of his tea, "I suppose I should make an appearance over there. Will you linger long here?" He stood and shook Andre's hand.

"More like than not," Sellings chuckled, signalling for a willowy elven server to refill his goblet, "I love the wine and I hate feeling lonely. Suppose that's why my establishments stay open so late." He waved dismissively but then called out a few final words. "Do stop by again before the night's out, there's another idea I might share with you."

Breaker wound through the tables of chatting patrons and left the restaurant by its side door. A crisp breeze trailed through short brown hair and ruffled his long-sleeved Akashiman shirt and slim-fitting trousers. The garments were all blue sifan, layers of sky and azure forming silhouettes like glaciers against the fabric's grain. The wind went right through the lace-up shirt and pants and bare feet padded over chilled cobblestones, but Cronen did not feel the cold. Only a caress, like his Lady sending love from afar. Ever since she had accepted him into the depths of her glorious world, everything held higher meaning. Breaker had seen a face in the dregs of his teacup; a face that seemed friendly and unfamiliar all at once. It was not Am'aleh; her likeness would have rendered Cronen speechless. But it must be a message from her... a moment's inspiration.

The bouncer on the door returned Breaker's respectful nod in kind, and the martial artist slipped into the club. The familiar cacophony of lights and sound swaddled him like a newborn babe. He exchanged a few words with the brothers guarding Angeline's trusted trunk and waded toward the bar.

"Josh!" A young server yelled in his ear, barely audible. "Someone named Jensen says you owe him money!" The petite blonde waitress rocked on her heels as Breaker threw back his head and laughed.

"I suppose I do, at that," Josh said, giving the girl's shoulder a re-assuring pat. "Don't worry darlin', Jensen's friendlier than he seems." Over the server's head he saw the club's manager still working hard behind the bar. "I'll get the Immortal his gold. Would you let Angeline know I'm here? I'd like to have a word when she's less busy." He managed not to roll his eyes when the girl practically curtsied.

"Straight away Breaker," she replied, glancing at the teeming bar, "we should be getting reinforcements from the late shift soon. Angie won't be stuck back there forever." She winked slyly and then rushed off.

Breaker bit his lip and shook his head but circled through the smoke-filled lounge area and eased onto the dance floor. His bare feet whispered over immaculate varnished wood as the blues of his sleek garments rasped and waved. He let the music wash over him and into his pores, and his feet matched the beat to the sway of loose hips and roll of broad shoulders. A quartet of young socialites in shimmering red and gold skirts tried to pull him into their circle. He made excuses and iced their drinks and danced away. Hazel eyes roved the crowd for Jensen but caught sight of a different Ixian Knight first. He had heard tell of the young Mystic's power and beauty, but had not yet met her in person. Even so he felt he had seen Kyla Orlouge before.

In the tea leaves at the bottom of his mug.

"Miss Orlouge," he said, leaning close so the words reached her ear. "I feel fortunate we did not meet during the contest. You are more beautiful than the stories named you dangerous." He gave her the Breaker grin with both barrels. Y-shaped scars shone from cheeks where dimples should have formed, capturing the club's dazzling light. Josh followed his instincts as he did so often in combat. He reached for Kyla's pale hand and half bowed over her elegant wrist, aiming to brush her knuckles with a delicate kiss.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen’s hand lifted upwards to the woman known as Fae, taking her fingers and locking his in as he shoved her forwards, catching her weight pulling her back in a half twirl and sweeping her leg bending her with one hand gracefully touching her back. He pulled his free arm up and cupped her face bringing her back to her feet with a whimsical grin of pleasure, stalking upon her like a wolf as she sensually maneuvered herself backwards in an enticing matter.

When the music hit a new tempo they changed pace, both letting their arms dance around the other, bodies maneuvering around the together in an impasse, never connecting, but never far apart. They read each other’s body language like an actor reads a script letting their bodies flow with the passion of the words. They hovered dangerously close yet again, breaths tickling the others flesh as they clapped once on opposite ends, clapped to the other, and turned away for a fleeting second to fall harmoniously back to back just as the first song ended.

“You fought like shit,” Jensen chuckled to her as the band began to play another song for their entertainment.

“You dance like shit,” was her crisp reply. They gave each other a hearty laugh as the music turned to something a little less tango and more club. Jensen maneuvered his body around to be at her side, guiding her in his own dance rhythms, forcing her body to move in ways it had never done before.

“The name’s Ambrose,” he whispered in a husky voice. “Jensen Ambrose.” Faelynn stomped her foot down, forcing Jensen to curve around her and twist, her hands lithely darting out and beginning to punch at his wrists, swatting them as his body became her slave. They maneuvered themselves in a high pace, leaving those around them dumbfounded as Jensen began to feel the insides of his stomach gurgle with pleasure and he barely could contain the pitch of giggles that wanted to burst free.

“Faelynn,” she replied with a wink. Jensen winked back, his hand lashing out behind her left shoulder and sniping two drinks. He slowly pulled them to her face, his feet kicking her so she tripped into him where his other arm wrapped around her waist. He leaned back allowing her to comfortably collapse into his grasp, but he left it frigid and loose. He gently lowered the drink to her chest, letting her free hand grasp it as Jensen chuckled.

“A pretty lady shouldn't be without a drink,” Jensen whispered.

[Amber Eyes]

The music flowed through her as she moved, her eyes shifting from person to person, trying to figure out exactly what she should be doing in a place like this. She saw a few familiar faces though no one who quite caught her interests. Her head was clearing a bit from the heat of the room and the adrenaline rush from the fall, and she was just teetering on the edge of enjoying herself. The bright lights still overwhelmed her and the band played songs she’d never heard before but the mystic was starting to see exactly why everyone told her this was the place to be tonight.

Kyla turned, looking towards the door in hopes that someone interesting might appear. Her wish was soon granted when the crowd began to part and in walked Rhot---No, Arestelle the girl reminded herself, the now champion of the Cell. Kyla watched her move through the crowd, a calm elegance in her step. The mystic noticed a slight flush in the champions face just before she fell. Her own embarrassing moment filled her mind and her cheeks flushed red. Perhaps it would be better to pretend she’d seen nothing. She debated with herself for just a moment before a deep voice reached her ears above the music.

Her eyes turned forward and for a moment she froze, a warmth running through her veins. She had watched the finals of the Cell and his was a face she would not soon forget. She had, of course, heard many stories of his strength and the tournament only proved that everything she’d heard had been far understated. He leaned in close, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing against her arm and leaving behind a trail of goose bumps.

The mystic forced herself to exhale, a small smile playing on her lips. His eyes seemed to pull her in, and suddenly her head was woozy again though this time no concoction was to blame. Joshua Cronen’s smile was far more powerful than any drink. His lips brushed her hand and sent a tingle through her spine. She found her manners quickly and gave a hint of a curtsy, bowing her head slightly while holding his eyes. “I’d wondered when I’d have the honor, Mr. Cronen. I’ve heard much about you from my father, but I fear he failed to mention just how charming you are.”

She looked around at the people dancing furiously to the wild music and the met his eyes again with a smile. “I’d ask you to dance but I’m afraid I am a bit out of my element here.”

[Roht Mirage]

For what felt like a very long moment, Astarelle didn't know how to respond. The musician and his pet -she didn't want to guess what it was- looked like something out of a nightmare, but there was a certain charm, at least in the way he carried himself. A nauseating charm, she wanted to call it, but whatever tastes had led her astray one week and a day ago were still a part of her, however regrettable. With a wary glance around for the flitting return of his imp-thing, she stammered, “O- Okay,” without really thinking. He gestured chivalrously for her to step ahead of him and toward the bar, which she obliged for all of five paces before coming to her senses.

In a flash, she spun and planted her palm solidly against his chest. “Stop,” she commanded over the throbbing mixture of music and laughter. “We will not be repeating any of... that, got it?”

The pointed smile he shone at her was one part chivalry and ten parts, “I like a challenge.”

Astarelle gave him a small push, to which he swayed back, not even shifting his feet. “On second thought,” she mused loudly.

“No need to be like that, luv,” he said with a hint of apology, most likely fake, “How 'bout I play you another song?”

So he had caught her dreamy-eyed slip and was already pressing the advantage. The demon was skilled at his craft; if filling his bed could be called a craft. Astarelle readied another rebuke, one with more venom. But, she was suddenly distracted by the scene over the demon's shoulder. In a void carved out by his erratic motions, she recognized Jensen Ambrose. She only knew one thing about him. He was the warrior who had brought Crozius, that heavenly gift of a weapon, into the final round. That fact alone should have indebted her to him, but she was quickly learning a second fact about him that soured her regard.

“He is a horrible dancer,” she thought aloud, unconsciously pitching it to the high volume that was the new natural. With a spinning grab that was more assault than anything, he spun his partner around and gave Astarelle another shock. He had Faelynn. She barely knew the woman, but for a short alliance in the Cell. Just as then, she fought admirably, meeting him move for move as two warriors might trade blows. It was impressive, but it was no way to dance.

Her spiky suitor appraised the situation and leaned in to shout, “Care to show 'em how it's done?” as if reading her mind.

“Do you dance as well as you play?” she asked bemusedly.

In lieu of a response, he took her hand and lifted it high, but there was no force. While Jensen tripped his partner about like a toy, the demon moved his body in a dancer's 'tell' and gave Astarelle an opening to step into. Instinctively, she did, brushing her hip against his as she stepped past and slid a full circle around him, her fingers grazing his loose grip. “Nice,” she chirped as she halted with her shoulder against his chest, “Your form, that is. I'm sure you're anything but.”

“Aye, the night is young,” he smirked as he leaned even closer for her to hear.

“Not long enough for that, snake,” she said, matching his smirk.

“Aurelianus, luv.”

“Astarelle...” She let the word hang, accenting the lack of 'luv' from her end. Unruffled, the bastard just grinned.

With a small, teasing bump of her hip, she took a long, flowing stride away from him and launched into a spin. Her shoulders dipped to ride the arc just as the flaring panels of her skirt did, and in doing so carved an empty space much more gracefully than the bludgeoning steps of Jensen, destroyer of dance. In the blur of motion, she caught just a glimpse of him as he brandished a drink under Faelynn's nose.

“Really?” Astarelle and Aurelianus said in unison, just loud enough for it to travel the distance between them. Surprised, they shared a very honest look, then painted smirks on once more. Jensen's ham-fisted ways were an insult to both of their crafts.

With a showy hitch of her hips, Astarelle reached a beckoning hand toward the demon. "You want to impress me, snake? This is your chance," she sent with a vampy smile. He needed no more invitation than that.

The crowd parted ever more as their bodies carved a path toward Jensen and Faelynn. A whispering touch of the hands connected them at all times, but they still took up all the space therein with sensuous spins and long, powerful strides. Where he drew close, she slipped through, her body grazing his as two lantern flies in the night breeze, and he let her pass. In kind, she flitted sylph-like under the lead of his skilled hands. When he did catch her -her shoulders to his chest, her bottom barely making contact- it was only because she allowed it.

With feet synched as one, they closed on the brawl-dancing pair.

[Reine]

Faelynn laughed merrily as she took the drink from his hand. “A gentleman as well, thank you.”

The glass was cold, ice cold, and the liquid within quenched the desert that her throat had become from the exertions. Jensen tossed her around like a man used to taking control, and she didn't entirely mind it. She couldn't imagine Jared would dance with her like that, she couldn't imagine Jared would dance with her period. He may be good with his lock picks and daggers, but he was probably useless on the dance floor.

As she emptied the glass, her golden green eyes noticed something else besides the quirk of Jensen's smile and the way the heat of his body felt so good this close to her. She noticed Astarelle, the champion of The Cell, and her brief ally, dancing with the demon she had seen her with a week before. Fae honestly couldn't believe she'd let him touch her like that, but then when their body's became a synchronized motion of dips and twirls and flashing flesh and shifting material, her mouth practically fell open.

Astarelle danced like a woman with a grace she'd never seen before and the thief felt a kind of envy for that fluid motion she could only wish and dream of accomplishing.

But, she could still try.

Grinning from ear to ear, Fae made eye contact with Astarelle and a silent idea passed between the two of them. She laughed and nodded her head, Astarelle twirled in the demon's arms. Turning back to her partner, Fae plucked his drink from his hand, it was mostly empty anyway, and placed it on the tray of a passing waitress. She adjusted his arm lower on her back, his fingers resting just above the rise of her ass. With a devilish smirk, she took control of the dance and he was forced to follow her quick footwork.

He kept up admirably.

She let that heavy beat of music flow into her and raised her arms above her, spinning around so he was at her back. With a single step she felt all that taunt muscle resting against her back. She leaned into that, reached around, grabbed his hand and spun, her skirt flaring around the two of them. Fingers entwined, she gently pulled him in close to her and he followed as they spun to the thump, thump, thump of the music.

She twisted and turned, changing their direction, her body fluid like water, as she moved around the floor, bringing them closer to Astarelle and spikey, spikey demon man. When nothing separated the two dancing pair but a couple feet of space, Faelynn made eye contact with Astarelle once more. They nodded. Each turned their their body's and their partners around, almost creating some kind of infinity symbol on the dance floor as they shifted around in each in a flair of skirts.

“We're about to switch.” Fae said as she leaned in close to Jensen.

“Switch?”

She grinned and nodded towards the Champion of The Cell, then the two women made one step towards each other. Hands reached out, fingers touched, and they twirled together, bringing their partners with them. At the point where Fae would normally be in the arms of the demon, she shifted, the hand on Jensen's waist turned him and Fae found herself int he skilled hands of Astarelle, leaving to two men in the arms of the other and to their own devices.

She laughed, the sound deep and throaty as she leaned in close to the champion and whispered in her ear. “Congratulations on your win. I had hoped to run into you again.”

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

Aurelius had learned years ago that women dropped their knickers for a good dancer almost as quickly as for a good musician. To that end, the half-demon had spent a few months actually learning how to move on a dance-floor; he was amused to learn it wasn't all that different from a fight. Both relied on timing, rhythm, foot-work and reacting to the moves of the other person.

But even the serpentine tiefling wasn't quite prepared for the sneaky change-up.

In a heartbeat, what had seemed like a definite shag had vanished, and he was looking up at the chiselled features of some random bloke who looked none too happy at the turn of events. For a moment, they stood looking at each other, neither quite sure what to do - one a handsome human, the other a plane-touched half-demon... a cute couple they did not make.

"You're not my usual type, cutter, but what the 'ell!"

Aurelius burst into a wide grin, fangs displayed openly, his inhuman eyes shining with mirth. His hands came up to hold either side of the man's face and with a cheeky wink, Aurelianus leaned in and snogged the poor bastard right there in the middle of the staring crowd. The tattooed guttersnipe's pale lips pressed against Jensen's, and the Cager could feel the other man kissing back as the forked tongue tried to slither into his mouth. After a few moments though, neither man could hold back the torrents of laughter that came spilling out of them. The amused Immortal shoved the horned horror off playfully, his preternatural strength sending Aurelius skidding onto his arse across the wooden dance-floor, laughing himself stupid as the drink and the atmosphere overwhelmed what little sense he may have had. After another moment, the crowd went back to their own affairs, leaving the warlock to pick himself up and dust himself down. Wiping the smirk off his face, Aurelius let out a soft whistle, barely audible over the throbbing of the music, and Junior hovered into view.

His easy screw for the night might have abandoned him, but after witnessing that little display, the planewalker doubted many women would be rushing to shove their tongues down the other man's throat either. If I ain't gettin' a shag, then neither's 'e, he thought smugly.

Pushing his way through the throngs of people, Aurelius sat back at the bar, ignoring the befuddled looks of the men around him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the tiefling waved over the bar-maid, his other hand idly teasing Junior as the unliving foetus scampered about the top of the bar again. He ignored the pointed look the waitress gave him again, and shouted his order over the raucous crowd.

"Blueberry juice and vodka, luv," he called, cupping a hand to his mouth and leaning over. The girl, seeing the horns and the quills emerging from his scalp, leaned back but sorted his order nonetheless.

The glass arrived before him, and he raised it appreciatively to her before swivelling round in his seat to look around again. One of the men standing next to him was staring. The pierced and tattooed tiefling turned to him, yellow eyes glinting in the flashing lights of the club, almost shimmering.

"You lookin' for a kiss too, sweet'eart?" he shouted, louder than he had to, eliciting mocking laughter from the man's drinking buddies. Needless to say, he didn't stare any more. Running a hand through his spiked crest, Aurelianus let his eyes roam again as he drained his glass dry - the blueberry juice was sweet, but the vodka followed it up instantly with a nice bite that sent a shiver of delight up the half-breed's spine.

So far it was turning out to be an entertaining night.

[Breaker]

A hot lance of excitement surged through Cronen's veins when he kissed Kyla's hand. She was sweet and refined and shivered from his touch like sugar running through a sieve. He blushed at her curtsy and compliment and hoped the flashing lights and natural flush from dancing hid his color.

"Out of your element?" Josh said as he offered the Mystic his arm, "perhaps a drink and a private tour can change that. The jungle isn't for everyone," he laughed with a nod towards the dueling foursome of familiar dancers. Kyla threaded the crook of her elbow through his and allowed him to lead her to the bar. A space along the mahogany counter opened like rain splitting along a weather vane. Angeline was instructing a nervous looking young man in the intricacies of mixing drinks on the rocks, but sent him on his way with a soft slap on the rump when she spotted Breaker. "Kyla Orlouge meet Angeline Sellings, manager of the Flesh Failures."

"Such an honor to meet you Miss Orlouge... may I call you Kyla?" Ever the elegant hostess, Angeline seized the opportunity to chat up a well connected patron. As the women exchanged pleasantries Josh leaned across the bar and yanked a bottle of fine Raiaeran wine from a lattice-worked rack built beneath the counter. He found some thick Coronian crowns in his pockets and counted out the equivalent of thirty gold pieces. Ten for the wine, twenty for the Immortal.

"Could you have one of the girls make sure Jensen gets his gold? The man looks busy, and Kyla and I are about to take a tour." Angeline was all smiles and laughs but mouthed the word later as Cronen showed Kyla toward the back of the club. The music grew louder with each step and the dance floor overflowed, but their passage was made easy by the tangible impact of Breaker's presence. For a moment he felt as if Kyla was slipping away, but she merely withdrew her arm to grasp his biceps as they approached the spiral staircase. "Should we go up first, or down?" As Kyla pursed her lips and pondered Josh noticed the club's new head of security. He'd heard stories of Molly Doomeye from Angeline, but the tall muscular woman wearing braids and blades like badges of honor was much more impressive in person.

"I have heard tell that Joshua Breaker started out in Radasanth, training beneath the bar where he bounced." The young mystic raised a slim brown eyebrow, "I would hate to miss an opportunity to see such a legendary place." Her smile was playful, perhaps hiding hesitation, but Cronen was distracted by Doomeye. Would the Daughter of the Wind try to stop them getting to the basement? He didn't want to suggest Kyla come up to his room. It would seem incredibly forward, and for that matter he didn't know for certain what was happening in his room. The deliberation ended when Doomeye uncrossed her arms and clicked her tongue, striding toward a shoving match that had broken out in the crowd.

Is Jensen making out with a demon? Am'aleh's eyes, if his pockets are that light I would have gladly loaned him some extra gold. No one should have to be a Haidian prostitute.

Breaker returned his focus to the much more endearing vision of Kyla Marie Orlouge. The heels of her high boots slipped on the top step but Cronen caught her with a gentle arm around her waist. Her red dress flared showing a flash of slimly muscled legs. Her gasp was warm and minty, close enough to touch his neck. The wine burbled beneath his other arm and the glasses chimed, clasped together in a callused hand.

"Welcome to a forgotten piece of my past," Josh smiled as they descended into the soft glow from below.


Kyla and Josh have moved to The Basement (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26271-Cellebration-The-Basement). Doomeye is not actually going after anyone, but a server is on her way to Jensen with 20 gold. I hope that can buy enough shots to eradicate the taste of Aure.

[Warpath]

The night was clear but the hour was late, and Flint was growing progressively surer that he had wasted yet another four hours of his life banking on a fool’s whim. And he was in the company of idiots, to boot.

The brute was leaning against a brick wall in the mouth of a narrow alley in Radasanth’s uptown, as still and composed as he’d been when he’d taken up his vigil hours before. He was dressed warm: very loose cotton pants, brown, tucked into tremendous and heavy black boots of studded leather military style, an uncommonly thick belt, and a trim and well-fitted black leather coat. He was a dapper sight compared to his companions, a pair of ragamuffins in their motley, but all three were undeniably thuggish.

“Stand tough lads,” Eames said. “He’ll be going out tonight for sure. It’s a night for parties, this is.”

Flint grunted his response. He was not so confident. The trio was across the street from an embassy house belonging to a Salvic expatriate – a young man with noble blood. The brute’s companions were chiefly interested in robbery, but Flint was giving serious thought to assassination. Unfortunately the house was heavily guarded, which meant any victimization first necessitated isolation. Still, something about Eames’ declaration stirred a thought.

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a neat, well-sized envelope, which he turned thoughtfully over in one hand. It smelled vaguely of perfume.

“What’s this, then?” Eames said, pointing.

Goren was digging some grime out from under his fingernail with a pocket knife. He flicked his eyes up to the envelope for only a blink, and then returned his gaze to his work. “More of that Cell stuff, I wager,” he said.

It was a safe bet. Flint had been receiving job offers, business propositions, marriage proposals, and invitations galore since his appearance in that tournament. He’d been mentally kicking himself all the while: the one time he was in Radasanth not seeking attention, he had it in droves. Apparently it paid to play to type.

“Let’s see it.” Flint handed it over to Eames and returned his attention to the manor house.

“Ha! It’s dated for tonight. You planning on ditching us to attend some soiree?”

“No.”

“Ah hell, that’s good. Look here, Goren, it’s from the Flesh Failures.” Eames affected a haughty air when pronouncing the club’s name.

Goren scoffed. “Of course. The one place in Radasanth the People don’t run.”

That drew Flint’s attention. “Why not?”

“On account of their patron. Real nutter hard-ass, like you. A lot like you, actually. I guess he took up living there at one point, practicing his fighting down in the basement all day and keeping the peace all night. Who practices fighting? It ain’t that hard. The fuck they call him?” He nudged Eames.

“I don’t remember, who cares,” Eames said, handing the invitation back to Flint without folding it.

“Smasher or something like that.”

“Breaker?” Flint offered.

“Yeah, that’s it!” Goren said. “That fucking guy. We pushed hard for awhile there, but he ran that place like a barracks. Hard-ass. Shame, too, tart that ran the place was a treat. I would’ve taken alternative forms of payment for her protection fee, if you get my drift, and I know you do.”

Flint carefully refolded the letter and stepped away from the wall. “Where you going?” Eames said.

“I have been invited to a party,” he said. “It would be rude to decline.”

“You just said you weren’t going! And besides, we’re working here.”

“Eh, let him go,” Goren said, standing up straight himself. “This sod isn’t going anywhere tonight. I’m going to bed. You have fun getting your head punched in, boyo.”

“I believe I will,” Flint called over his shoulder.

----

Flint was on the wrong side of this, and it showed. There was a long line at the establishment, dozens of people dressed in modern finery. In Salvar, people queued up for loaves of bread. Flint did not stand in lines. He marched past the would-be partygoers, ignoring the glares and jeers, and approached a pair of men he better resembled.

They eyed him up and down, immediately tense, and Flint couldn’t blame them. He looked like trouble. He was trouble. He stopped just short of their post and produced his invitation, which he proffered without a word.

“Oh,” one said. “Mister Flint…er…sorry.”

He began to step past them, but the one on the right took a half step in to discourage him. “Sorry sir. Before we let you in, I’m afraid we need to ask you to remove any weapons on your person.”

“I carry no weapons,” Flint said.

The pair shared a look, and then reluctantly stepped aside to let Flint past. He’d hardly made it inside before a small woman accosted him for his coat, informing him he could “check” it. He took this to mean his jacket was not allowed, so he removed it. The girl said, "Oh," but he didn't know what that meant. Underneath he wore a thin cotton shirt and, of course, his vambraces. When the serving girl saw those she hesitated, and voiced her hesitation loud enough that one of the toughs just outside stepped in to investigate.

“I think I told you no weapons, sir. If you want in, you’re going to need to lose the big bracelets.”

Flint held up his hands. “These? Impossible. Without them I will die.”

The bouncer had already heard some variation of that one before, dozens of times. There was nothing left he hadn’t heard. “I assure you, we allow no weapons inside, and Flesh Failures has the best security in Radasanth.”

“You misunderstand,” Flint said, but no amount of argument would convince them until, at last, he offered his arms and commanded them to remove the vambraces themselves. There was, of course, no discernable way to remove them short of removing his arms. In the end they waved him through, sighing quietly and shaking their heads.

Flint was pleased. If they were correct in their assessment, he was now one of the most dangerous people in attendance.

He entered the Flesh Failures and skirted the outside wall, scanning the assembled throng for familiar faces.

There was one he sought in particular.

[Hysteria]

The street stirred with a few quiet conversations. The sort of hushed speak one has while waiting. The cold mixed with nervous anticipation worked well to stifle more well defined thoughts. A carriage moved down the street and paused out the front. The driver hushed the two large black horses as they stamped their feet on the road. In a well practiced motion he jumped down from the front of the carriage, taking a second to smooth out his uniform before placing one hand behind his back and with the other opening the door.

A small form emerged. He stepped down to the road and twisted his head back into the carriage. His head barely came up to the driver's chest, even adorned with the small top hat. The rest of his cloths were similarly formal. A black suit, bold dark red shirt and black tie. The youth rarely combed his hair, this was somewhat of a step up. His arm reached back up to the carriage and a small white hand reached out and rested on it. The rest of the body followed. Platinum white hair, soft pale skin and blood red eyes. The woman stepped down, her dark dress catching the light from a hundred sparkly stones cut through the fabric. Her free hand holding a clutch. The dress sat low on her shoulders as it hugged her sides and broadened slightly at her waist. The cut across her chest was revealing, framing her breasts into eye catching mounds and leaving a gap travelling down her stomach to her belly button. Nearly as encapsulating as her figure were here eyes. A deep blood red, framed by the small bob cut of her hair. Finishing it off like any dress should be were a pair of high heels. They were relatively simple compared to her dress, black and high. Her arched foot stretching her leg and showing off her defined muscles up until the dress just above her knees.

Talen smiled as he turned from the carriage with woman in arm. The youth was at perfect eye level to enjoy his date dress, but he looked slightly out of place his the top of his hat only reaching her chin. The pair moved passed the line and up to the giants.

“Name?”

“Talen, plus one Angel.” Said Talen.

“Cute.” Replied the Giant.

“Actually that’s my name.” Angel smiled, flashing her white teeth from between her red lips.

The giant flipped through the guest list.

“You're here, unfortunately no kids allowed.”

Talen's eyes narrowed. The youth thought something like this would happen. He could hear Jensen laughing in the back of his mind.

“Fuck it.”

The youth body started to stretch. His whole body grew taller his arms moving out from his suits arms and his legs viable between his pants and his shoes.

“Talen... your cloths.” Said Angel.

The dark suit changed shape, stretching down over his revealed arms and legs until it sat on him comfortably. Taller Talen turned and looked down at Angel. His face was leaner, cut lines down his cheeks but somehow his eyes remained filled with boyish glint. The youth was somewhat taller than his date now. His limbs were long and lean with broad shoulders sitting under the suit. The tip of Angel's head just reached Talen's blue eyes. The woman gave an approving nod. Settled, they entered. Neither had much room for weapons.

Barely two steps in Angel froze. Talen twisted around to see her eyes closed tightly as her head rolled slightly. He breathed in the haze from the club. Lust, debauchery and envy, all her favourite sins danced around as much as the people. Talen stepped back to her and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her eyes opened slightly and stared into Talen's.

“I like it here...” managed Angel.

“Control yourself, for now at least.” Replied Talen, flashing her a smile.

She nodded and the pair moved on. Talen was edging towards the bar and lifted his hand and gestured towards a bottle. They reached the bar and two champagnes appeared movements later. Talen passed one to Angel and took the other. He let both glasses touch before taking a sip.

“I can't believe that Tiefling made out with that Jensen guy. Seriously not what I came here for.”

Talen lurched forwards, sending his mouth full of champagne onto the unsuspecting club goer.

“What the fuck?!”

[Peacemaker]

Duke and the Tribals finished a foot-stomping number and flowed right into a rhythmic slowdance. Rosalie and Jack kept rhythm while he carried the tune with spider-like fingers up and down the neck of his guitar. Duke noticed the tall blonde boss lady heading his way and made a half bow in her direction. Angeline was the kind of chick that inspired cats like Duke to write songs, and for a fleeting moment he let himself imagine she'd approached to be his muse.

"Mind if I borrow the voice magnifier?" The Flesh Failures' manager asked, stepping open-toed heel onto the raised platform. Duke tugged his eyes away from the flesh her sandals displayed, and had to drag them all the way up her lithe legs and sleek dress before he could answer.

"You can touch whatever you want, boss lady." Duke backed up to stand beside his bassist, whispering in Rosalie's ear till she giggled. Angeline took the spotlight.

"Welcome everyone to Corone's hottest nightclub, the Flesh Failures!" The response from the crowd was a broken, drunken roar of approval. The fatigued patrons who had taken to the lounge looked up from snogging one another or slurping drinks, and while some of the dancers remained in revolving pairs some stopped and paid attention. "I just wanted to thank all tournament participants who took the time from their busy schedules to grace our dance floor tonight! We've never seen so much magic and muscle!" The response was louder and more uniform this time. Angeline smiled. "And as long as I'm up here, I may as well make the draw to decide the winner of our first door prize!" She produced a soft bag filled with numbered parchments that matched the tickets taken by patrons who had checked weapons and coats. "Maestro, would you do the honors?" She held the bag out to the shaggy-haired band's frontman.

Duke stepped forward with a toothy grin, still strumming an open chord on his guitar while he plucked a bit of parchment from the bag and pressed it to Angeline's palm.

"That's one honor," he whispered as mouth passed close to her ear, "give me but a moment of your time and I'll do you another." He put as much passion as he could into the last word and then retreated between Rosalie and Jack. Dexterous fingers danced up and down the guitar's neck as it sang a breathtaking solo.

"And the winner is..." Angeline flushed at Duke's comment but remained otherwise unruffled. She read the numbers from the winning ticket out in a loud clear voice. The second bag clasped in her hand jingled with light Raiaeran currency, ten rectangular sheets of mythril valued at twenty gold pieces each.


Astarelle is the winner of this draw (200GP), earned via Cell trivia. Feel free to bunny Angeline whilst claiming your prize! And, there's still a waitress trying to find Jensen and give him his 20GP.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle and Faelynn were reluctant to stop their dance, though they glittered with a hint of sweat.

After distancing themselves from the happy couple -and both nearly falling over with laughter as the demon made the best of the situation- they had claimed the center of the dance floor. Skirts snapped, feet flickered, and they carved a space for themselves like a twin-funnelled tornado. Faelynn's glittering jewelry and Astarelle's iridescent tattoos made a localized light show between them, almost distracting from the big grins and expressive glances they gave each other as they circled and slowed.

It had been a long time since Astarelle had a proper conversation with just the eyes. Not since Akashere... Whether it was due to necessity in the thumping club or just a natural wavelength the two women shared, she could read those golden green eyes like a sister's.

“That was incredible!” Faelynn's beaming face shouted.

“We work well together,” Astarelle sent with a rise of her brows and a gentle fondness in her smile.

The smile was returned in eager agreement, but the next moment, Faelynn's eyes shifted uneasily. “You hardly needed me.” The music suddenly slowed, and the Coronian woman swept into one final spin that ended with her hips swivelling to the new tempo. She lifted her hands to the sides, bangles jangling as she lifted them unhurriedly, the music tempering her.

Astarelle reached out a hand to touch Faelynn's. The woman looked at her questioningly, but Astarelle was already turning, pressing the backs of their hands flat, then their elbows. Her one bracelet clattered against the many. Like a reflection returning home, she flexed her knees and pressed her back to Faelynn's, her hips trying to mirror the sensual motions by feel alone. It was a deep, rolling swivel that made her overly-conscious of the lithe lines of her own body, as well as her partner's more shapely form. What most men wouldn't give to be this close to her...

Astarelle giggled and turned her head. Faelynn felt the brushing of hair and turned her's also, looking past her upraised arms as her body rolled side to side. “I would have let that blasted flood take me if not for you,” she said just loudly enough to reach her ally's ear.

“Oh shove off,” Faelynn communicated, but not with her eyes. Astarelle could only make out the flutter of lashes in profile. The shorter woman made her point by literally shoving Astarelle away with a playful booty-bounce.

The fallieni dancer capered for only a second before dipping herself into a wide-legged slide, then sinuously twirling upright. Toward Faelynn, she took a long, hippy stride, and instantly ruined the appeal by sticking out her tongue like an absolute child. Faelynn laughed so hard that she lost the timing of her sway, and she returned the raspberry in kind, her eyes sparkling.

As if on their cue, the music faded, and a beautiful voice replaced it. Astarelle spun to find a woman on stage who was positively radiant with the aura of the club as if she had coalesced from the hot, perfumed air. Her tattooed shoulders bobbed to the guitar as she began to listen, but stilled halfway through the speech.

“Magic and muscle, huh?” she breathed under the roar of the crowd. Faelynn appeared bouncily at her side, saw the hint of a frown on Astarelle's sun-bred face, and tilted her head with an unspoken yet sympathetic question. Astarelle waved nonchalantly and reacquired her party face just in time for the drawing.

“And the winner is...” A flurry of small tickets lifted skyward to catch the flickering light. Faelynn drew a ticket from her cleavage, making Astarelle's grin lighter. She might have stored her's the same way if that particular hiding place wasn't taken by the keys that would end her revelry. Stubbornly, she refused to think about it.

“Number 139!”

The sound of disappointment in varying volumes and toxicities bubbled through the crowd as Astarelle belatedly pulled her ticket from under her woven bracelet. “How about you?” Faelynn asked as she shrugged and tucked her ticket away before the breath of exhausted dancers stole it.

Astarelle gaped. Who needs magic and muscle when you have luck?

Her friend leaned in, blinked once, then gave her a poke toward the stage. “Go!”

Quickly finding her feet, Astarelle cut through the crowd and jumped onto the stage next to their lovely hostess. “If it isn't our champion!” she announced.

A raucous cry parroted her. “Champ-i-on! Champ-i-on!”

Astarelle felt her cheeks color to Fallien dusk, and she resisted the urge to look over the crowd lest they see just how much darker a fallieni blush could go. The woman took her ticket, nodded, then gave her an odd, indecipherable look with her fathomless eyes. “You're on a roll, sweety.”

The bag of prize money settled into Astarelle's hand, feeling unusually light, especially compared to the weight of eyes upon her. She risked a look out over the exhilarated, glistening faces and felt the contagion catch in an instant. Exuberantly, she thrust the bag up high. The crowd roared and clapped. Astarelle beamed, then felt her breasts fighting against her corset and curled down from her stretch like a rolly beetle.

“Oh, don't lose your tickets,” the hostess said hurriedly into the magnifier, “You'll need them to claim your coats and weapons.” More than a few people dove to the floor. One would assume that most were after tickets and not a peek up skirts. Astarelle was tempted to look for Aurelianus among the divers, but instead she hopped from the stage and adjusted herself in the relative privacy of the scramble.

Satisfied that everything was in place, she tucked her own ticket safely under her bracelet and slithered back to Faelynn. Her friend gave her a proud grin, but her eyes were locked on the bag. “How much?” she practically beamed, but was too polite to say it. Astarelle opened the bag and their foreheads brushed as they both looked in. Faelynn whistled, and Astarelle gave a short laugh, then grabbed her arm.

“To the bar,” she proclaimed, her eyes dancing, “You're going to get at least one drink tonight that doesn't have strings attached.”

[Breaker]

Angeline hopped off the stage as the guitarist's solo crescendoed to a chilling rest. The tune that followed had a beat that put a roll in her hips and a pop in her walk. She laughed softly and shook out her long blonde mane, ducked around a rough crowd of men that reeked of ale and waltz-stepped her way between two Wyrmin' Alerians. A circle of chanting patrons formed around the pair as they flipped and spun and writhed about the ground. They copied each others techniques, adding individual flair and new moves with each riposte. I wonder if any of the Cell contestants will get in on that, she thought as she nearly plowed into one of her servers.

"Angie! I'm sorry, I can't find Jensen anywhere. Have you seen him?" She pulled her apron pocket opened and displayed the gold crowns still in her possession.

"Oh, there he is," Angeline said absentmindedly. She stood a head and neck taller than the poor girl, but sent her running in the right direction. As the server dashed off the manager swept to the staircase and elbowed Molly in the ribs.

"Havin fun, Glumeye?" She asked her childhood friend.

"My head hurts, your bloody music is too loud." Doomeye growled in response. Her flinty gaze roved restlessly across the club. She snorted at the smoke and dazzling lights and rolled her eyes at the cavorting patrons. "If you ever pay me so much I could afford to spend a night here, I will quit. Angelface." She slipped a hand off of her many-knifed clothing and pinched Angie's rump.

"Breaker said something similar once," Angeline laughed, twitching her hips to avoid a second pinch. Molly had pulled a wry face at the comparison.

"The only thing that man and I have in common is the strength to stretch you over a knee," she said through a smile of uncharacteristically straight teeth, "now attend your bar, boss, looks like much coin will soon be spilled." The gathering of strangers along the mahogany counter looked like a good place to get stabbed. So many bodies pressed together, any one could have smuggled or conjured a knife. Given a choice, Doomeye would have taken an open battlefield over nightclub security. But no war she knew of paid gold by the day.

Angie brushed her cheek with a kiss and swayed her way to the opening in the bar. Doomeye wiped her scar-studded cheek and ran callused hands down the four-and-twenty knives sheathed along her corset and leather pants. She danced a bit to the swelling beat but felt silly and stopped, mop of chestnut braids settling about her shoulders. Her wrist rubbed her nose till the cartilage clicked, but she couldn't scour out the blend of different smokes and sweat. So much for this being the perfect job...

A man loomed out of the gloom. A group of young elves dancing in a tight pack split like waves around a warship's prow as the Salvic Beast sauntered through. He held his forearms, bulbous with vambraces, agianst his sides as if carrying invisible buckets of water. Few men appealed to Molly Doomeye, but this stranger had the mass and the scars and the meanness that she fancied in the less fair sex. Not poncey scars like Cronen's face-letters, real lines and grooves and discoloration that told stories of the times the bruiser had been the better killer.

"Hi," she said, surprising herself with the words and even more so by leaning into his path, "what's a frost-gouger like you doing in a place like this? Come for the icy drinks?"

The band's instrumental intro ended, and the shaggy haired frontman started singing about unicorns and wizard sleeves (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJR51lyvEcc).

[Reine]

Faelynn let out a giggle and did a quick spin on the spot, the rush of adrenaline from dancing with Astarelle still flooding her system. Though nowhere near the exhilaration of stealing, or the shake and terror or fighting, it was still an enjoyable, more mellow kind of rush that worked it's way slowly into every nerve ending.

"To the bar!" She yelled over the music.

The two women linked arms with each other, wide grins covering their faces, sheen with sweat, and headed towards the long wooden counter. Hip-checking a couple people out of her way, Fae made room for them and raised her hand, drawing the attention of a rather handsome bartender.

"What can I get you two ladies?" His grin was wide and his eyes sparkled with mischief, she liked him already.

She looked to Astarelle. "What do you drink?"

The Fallenien shrugged her bare shoulders, tattoo glimmering as she did. "I've never been much of a drinker."

A devilish smirk lit up Fae's face. "Time to teach you a couple fun games then. We're doing some body shots!"

Even in the dim atmosphere, light flashing and alternating colours, the thief could see the hint of a blush creeping up Astarelle's cheeks.

"B-body shots!?"

Fae turned toward the bartender and winked, without another word he set to work. Less than a minute later the two women had two shot glasses filled with a clear, amber liquid before them. A lime wedge rested on the rim of each glass and a shaker of salt sat between them.

"I'll do the first one so you can see," and feel, "how it's done. The point is to just have fun with it!"

Astarelle looked at her dubiously, but did not object.

"Oh, um...could you maybe move the tattoos up a bit?"

Faelynn watched with fascination as the shifting sand crawled up Astarelle's chest and settled higher up along her shoulders.

"That is one of the most amazing things I've ever seen."

"Really?" Astarelle replied, a smile of confidence touching her face.

"Yeah! You're going to have to teach me that some day."

Placing the shot glass between her breasts, Faelynn grabbed the salt shaker and poured a line of the glimmering crystals on her left breast then held out the lime, rind facing The Cell Champion.

When she looked up, the woman's face had darkened considerably, and a look of uncertainly flashed in her eyes. "Bite down on the rind, but don't eat it."

She did as she was told. Aware that more than a few eyes were on the duo, Fae became a little self conscious herself, though more than that, a thrill of excitement went through her. She enjoyed being the centre of attention, having a dozen or more eyes locked on her every move. Placing a hand in the small of Astarelle's back, she guided her new friend in closer to her then ducked her head. Strands of her long, brown hair brush against the tops of Astarelle's breasts as she licked the trail of salt from the woman's breast. Without using her hands, she wrapped her mouth around the shot glass, brought her up head, tipped it back and swallowed the contents, feeling the liquid burn across her tongue and down her throat. Quickly, she took the glass out of her hand, then bit the lime wedge from Astarelle's mouth, the acidic fruit taking away the fire of the alcohol.

[Warpath]

There was a reason Flint had kept the invitation on his person, and it had everything to do with dancing. It is a known and universal truth that women love dancing. Flint, however, was only savvy about two forms of dance: one ended in broken bones, the other in illicit moans, and neither of them was appropriate for large parties. It was, he’d decided, in his best interest to keep himself and parties as distinct ideas, unique and insoluble. That meant putting the offending invitation in his pocket and doing his best to forget about it.

These people were all fools eager to announce their foolishness: flailing around half-dressed and silently screaming for attention. There had to be a better way to gain the notice of the opposite sex. Simple contests of strength, perhaps. Flint nodded to himself absently, and decided this was a much better idea. Truly humanity was a lost cause, if he alone had come up with such an easy and obvious solution to the problem of courtship.

And who among these sylphs was worthy of a true man’s eye? He was certain that even if he could attract one of these fine-boned elf-kins, he would have to treat her like a sheet of tissue paper eager to crumple under his affections, and where was the fun in that? This was a mistake. Why would the Breaker waste his time here?

“Hi,” the answer said. “What’s a frost-gouger like you doing in a place like this?”

“Ushekta,” Flint replied, stopping in place, and his grin was more in his eyes than his mouth. “One might ask the same of you.”

“One might,” the lady said. “I’m Molly. I’m security here.”

She faced him straight on, and between the set of her sculpted shoulders and the way she said ‘security’ the subtext was explicit: I could handle you. The hard smirk suggested she didn’t just mean in a fight, and Flint had little doubt about that part. He was suddenly having fun – his kind of woman was rare, an elusive and painfully temporary discovery. He might have abandoned his original mission entirely…if not for a mousy scribe a stone's throw east.

“Molly,” Flint said, tasting the word in his accent. They were gravitating closer together now, and from the outside it was difficult to tell if they were sizing one another up for a fight or if they were about to collapse into a very different kind of struggle. They were pressed close, almost cheek to cheek so they could speak close to one another’s ear – the volume of the synthetically-enhanced music was a perfect excuse. “The first thing I heard about this place was the quality of its security. It is proven even more so, that I did not know your name already.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Flint leaned back just enough that she could see his grin. “Tales of your talent preceded tales of your physique. That is rare.”

Molly Doomeye gave him a genuine smile, if only for a heartbeat. He knew why. Most men would hate her because they feared her, ensconced in their preconceived notions of traditional femininity. Those few that had the balls to express their attraction to her would do so privately and reservedly, and would foolishly choose from compliments that would please any scrawny girl with dreams of gems and tiaras. If this woman wanted to be a princess, she’d be a princess. No, this one wanted to be admired for her strength and skill first, for it was from that her vanity stemmed. That she was beautiful was ancillary.

“Well, what about you?” she said, close enough to his ear that he felt her lips brush skin. “What order do the stories about you come in?”

“I cannot say,” Flint admitted. “Perhaps you can tell me. My name is Flint Skovik.”

Molly laughed. “Oh, I’ve heard of you,” she said. “But the stories about you don’t say anything about talent or physique. They say you threw a cheap shot and tried to drown the Breaker. That I would have paid to see.”

Flint smiled wickedly. “Is that so? It happens that I am here in search of Joshua Cronen, in fact.”

“You found something better.”

“So I did,” Flint said. He let the tone of his voice convey the truth of it: part of him wished to forget all about the Breaker, but a larger part would never suffer him to betray Luned. “Unfortunately, business must trump pleasure.”

Molly let out an exaggerated and wistful sigh. “What’s true for you is true for me. What sort of business are you in, Mister Skovik?”

“It happens that I am a breaker, too.”

“Is that so? If you plan on plying your trade tonight, we might end up mixing business and pleasure anyway, you and I.”

Flint wasn’t sure if that was a threat or an attempt at seduction. He liked it, either way.

“Though, you know,” Molly said suddenly. She pressed her fingertip to Flint’s jaw and guided his head to one side, and then nodded toward a shadowed staircase. “I might have seen Cronen a moment ago. Since I don’t see him on the floor, I’m guessing he’s either upstairs or downstairs. I’d try downstairs first.”

Flint caught Doomeye’s hand in his to press a kiss to a well-used knuckle. “We shall have to dance again soon.”

“If you let your…business get too out of hand, we might end up dancing sooner than you’d like.”

“You have a tendency to lay down rules and then encourage me to break them,” Flint mused. “You have my word.”

They shared a hard look, and then Flint turned and began to stalk away.

“Flint,” Doomeye called after him. He turned back to look at her over his shoulder. “Don’t hurt the mystic.”

He made a gesture with his head that was part-bow and part-nod, and then continued toward the staircase his new friend had indicated. Already his thoughts were drifting, pleasant emotions carried away by the all-too fresh memory of being drowned and impaled and worse – overpowered.

And then, there he was. Flint might not have recognized him for the heady pleasure on his face, the lack of focus in his eye. This was not a man privy to all threats, a god on the battlefield, steely-eyed and murderous. The brute did not hesitate.

He took two long strides and leapt.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The immortal was having a hell of a time at the party as he watched the body shots go down the throat of Faeylnn. His demon friend who he made out with earlier also was in good cheer as he moved himself along the throng of people and Jensen took revelry in the activities.

“Bartender I want another End Times,” Jensen said, the letter ‘s’ slightly slurring as he grinned to her, knowing full well he was getting close to intoxication levels best reserved for after war binges. The Bartender was a decent lady, curly blond hair and gorgeous blue eyes shining in the dim lighting. She shook his drink with a bit of flair, tossing his cup to him and bringing the tumbler to stop just before his face, pouring the drink ever so smoothly into his cut without a single splash. “Smooth fingers there,” Jensen winked to her, slapping the table, snatching the drink and downing the whole shot.

“Well you were one of the more swifter members of the Cell,” She replied. “So I take that as a compliment of my talents and not just this pretty face.” Jensen laughed with her chuckle, his own fingers rolling the small glass around his knuckles as he lifted his other hand out, sliding the age old magic trick of the coin behind the ear. He removed his hand, cupping her sweet face and turning.

“Your smile will bring a lot of luck to you,” Jensen said as he stood. “So never lose it.”

The woman frowned, a little confused at his words when the gold coin fell to the table in front of his tab. He tossed a few more coins, winking to her and stood stretching. He found a waiter walking by and he lifted his hand out, grabbing a drink and detaining them as he drank the crystal liquid with a satisfied sigh.

“Joshua Cronen, where would he be?” Jensen asked. “Needed to discuss some things with him.”

“He moved to the basement with a lady of the evening, One I think may take him…all evening.” Jensen nodded.

“Well I wouldn’t want to interrupt that!” Jensen laughed. “But no, I do have some business to attend to with him. Ixian matters cannot rest for the weary. Trust me, Sei made sure to ruin every sensual moment I had set up.”

The waiter nodded, not sure what Jensen meant as he rushed to ensure a near empty glass was replaced. The Immortal turned to the Basement level and made his way, keeping tabs that he needed to talk to the Champion of the cell. He snapped his fingers, as if he had an idea, and turned to the waitress. He pantomimed the tools for writing, and wrote her a note to meet him in the Loft. With mission assigned he maneuvered himself towards the stairwell leading to the Loft, greeting the bouncer with a cheery smile pointing in the direction he wanted to go. The man gave him a once over, nodded back and gestured for the immortal to get moving (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26270-Cellebration-The-Loft).

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle's cheeks were the dark maroon of sunlight advancing into a moonless desert night. I can't believe I just let her do that... and with so many people watching!

As Faelynne sucked on the lime wedge, Astarelle risked a glance away from her gleeful, puckered face. There were definitely eyes on them; some drunk, some amused, many leering. The invisible saliva on her breast felt like it might boil away in the burning spotlight. Even Tabin -oh bury me- was watching her. His expression was cocky to the others' enraptured, obnoxious to counter their delight. He approached the bar suddenly, his lacy cuff brushing across her back as he planted his glass on the counter for a refill. The creepy yet non-threatening aura of a teenager oozed off of him, hormones practically filling the air.

Faelynn seemed to not notice him. “Now you do me,” she instructed loudly as she set down the remains of her lime and pushed the tools of debauchery across the bar to Astarelle. Her temperature increased as if the sun had awoken over her tattooed dunes, but the air was too muggy to be of the desert, too thick with sweat and drink and innuendo. A hot gust if wind brushed past her ear.

“If you don't want to, I'll do her,” Tabin breathed like a predator. A small one. A tiny white scorpion scuttling amid the giant obsidians, so sure of its own strength that it would inevitably snap off its stinger on the first living thing to get close. He did have good reflexes, though, as evidenced when Astarelle's elbow nonchalantly caught him in the gut and he didn't spill a single drop of his refilled drink. Wheezing surrender, he staggered away from the bar.

Faelynn glanced at his retreating, swaggerless form and asked, “What was that abou-” only to be swiftly silenced as the rind of a pristine lime wedge appeared in her mouth. She almost bit clean through it in surprise, then laughed as best she could through the citrus gag. The same slender hand nestled the shot glass into her cleavage, a softer, more welcoming bed than Astarelle had provided. Salt was next, a line of it cut across the roll of her breast like the flicker of a hunter's knife, and in the instant the shaker hit the bar, Astarelle's tongue was on it. There, her pace slowed to a teasing crawl as if she was analyzing just how the flesh yielded to her pressure. Her facial tattoos drifted off of her cheeks just slightly, brushing against the skin like a shimmering, tickling aurora. Faelynn gasped at the surprising touch and reflexively raised a hand, but Astarelle caught it in her own. The bangles clattered noisily. With a final twitch of the tongue and a deliberate pulse of the sandy caress, Astarelle dove deep for the shot glass and craned back her elegant neck. In a single burst of heat, it was gone, and she swapped shot glass for lime in one smooth motion.

If she had been under the same spell that had brought her to their first meeting a week ago, she might have lingered in the last moment. That Astarelle -no, Roht Mirage- might have even taken it further. During that evening, a mere touch from the woman had rendered her defenceless and vulnerable. Not now, though. Astarelle Set'Roh was just having fun, no matter what the aroused onlookers or her willing victim might think.

Faelynn let out a breathy, staggered laugh, no small amount of color appearing in her own cheeks. Then, her eyes widened as Astarelle held up three bangles. In the moment when one's mouth was short of air and the other's was full of lime, a conversation passed more clearly than any should under the blaring song of castles and hammer pants.

“Oh you little...”

“Fair's fair.”

“That won't work again.”

“I know.”

“Miss?”

Astarelle turned to the bartender, frowning around the dry remains of her lime. To his credit, he seemed very sorry for interrupting. She curtly plucked the rind from her mouth and dropped it among the leftovers of their very enlightening lesson. “Yes?”

“For you.” He slid a note, blank side up, across the bar.

Astarelle grimaced as she read it to herself. Worst timing ever.

“I'm sorry, but I have to go,” she said with an apologetic shrug. In one hand, she crumpled the note, and left both it and the bangles on the bar.

“Why?” Faelynn asked, almost pouting.

Ixian business. Not something you need to be involved in... not on my behalf. You don't owe me anything. She did not let the thought reach her face. Instead, she patted the peeking leg that had enchanted her one very long week ago. “It'll just be a minute. We aren't done here,” she said with a smile so bright that she seemed ready to hug the woman.

No hug, though, not until she dealt with this distraction. Eager to get back to their games, she bounced up from the bar stool and slipped toward the stairs. A very dangerous looking woman, sharp knives all over, gave her a head-to-toe scan with even sharper eyes. Astarelle slowed, almost hoping for a rebuff, but the woman just shrugged and looked away. She huffed, then hurried to the staircase leading to the loft. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26270-Cellebration-The-Loft)

[Breaker]

"Molly, stop them!" Angie's voice cut through the music as the willowy woman ran, for once not dancing, between patrons. Doomeye glanced at the trio of scuffling Alerians whose dance contest had devolved into much less elegant combat.

"Don't worry Angelface," Molly grinned as her friend skidded to a halt next to her, hands on hips and eyes scalding, "they'll tire themselves out before I could get over there." She teased some of her friend's long golden locks between thumb and finger. "Don't lose your hair over it."

"You're supposed to stop the fighting," Angeline hissed, punching her head of security in the ribs so hard it bruised her knuckles.

"If there's any fighting, I'll put a stop to it." Doomeye laughed, "look, they gave up already." One of the dark elves had collapsed in defeat while the second claimed the dance partner of choice. The third had staggered off toward the bar shortly after the first punch was thrown.

"That's..." Angeline drew a sharp breath and blew it back through pursed lips. "Fine, I suppose. Where did Josh go? I need to speak with him."

"You sure you're not just trying to interrupt his date?" Molly asked, folding densely muscled arms across her chest. Blue eyes met grey in a familiar staredown. Angelface won as usual, her blonde eyebrows arching as if to repeat the unanswered question. "I'm not sure where they went," Doomeye admitted, "but he probably took her upstairs. That's where he took you, isn't it?"

"I took him," Angeline sniped in response, neck and ears flushing, "and it was in a bloody single-story inn!" Even retreating she was beautiful, flying up the spiral staircase to the loft (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26270-Cellebration-The-Loft) on long supple legs. Molly grimaced, hoping she'd been right when she sent Flint to the basement. The man had certainly been gone long enough to note whether the space was empty. Since chatting with the Salvic brute the club had seemed less oppressive, but the tilt with Angie brought Doomeye's legendary frown back to her scarred face.

"Miss Doomeye!" Sobbed a young waitress, staggering out of the crowd. The tiny sandy haired chit clutched at her front apron pocket like she had to make water. She planted her tears-stained face in Molly's bosom and mewled like a kitten.

"What... are you doing?" Molly asked, grasping the girl's shoulders and thrusting her back to arm's length. Thin lips wavered and formed words around thick nasal congestion.

"Angeline asked me to take some gold to Jensen for Josh," the server sniffed, wiping her nose with a laced hankie pulled from her cleavage, "and I've been trying all night. But Jensen is just too fast," she whined, "every time I get close I lose track of him again..." she hicupped and blew her nose and then stuffed the handkerchief away, seeming to gain some control.

"Stupid bloody men," Molly muttered, and then winced as the server's lower lip quivered. "I mean uh, there, there." She patted the pixie awkwardly atop her blonde mop and sat the girl on the spiral staircase leading up to the loft. Hopefully Angeline would trip over her, and the two could hold hands and have a good cry. "You just relax now," Doomeye said aloud, "I think I saw Jensen climb to the Loft not long ago. Calm yourself 'till he comes down, and then finish your errand." She settled the girl and turned back to the writhing mass of dancers. Molly paused and glanced over her shoulder, frown deepening. The burly Salvic bruiser had been gone some time, and he hadn't only pursued the Breaker. Kyla Orlogue had been touted nigh as dangerous for her performance in the Cell. It would be just like Cronen to set a sneak-thief trap, she told herself.

Doomeye hesitated, running heavy hands over the hilts of her knives and scanning the club. She saw nothing that demanded immediate attention, and the other bouncers were all tending their positions. Braids swung about her shoulders as she peeked into the basement (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26269-The-Flesh-Failures-Cellebration/page3) to see what was going on.

[Hysteria]

“Oh, is this one of custom things?” Asked Angel.

Angel quickly followed up her question by taking a sip of her drink and spitting it on the dumbfounded customer. It would have been graceful if in different circumstances. The gentle arch of liquid, the pursed lips and slightly closed eyes. In the current place and time however, it wasn't.

The man's confusion quickly switched to anger as he lifted a hand to strike Talen's date. The youth reacted in a blur. His relaxed hand flicked on the inside of the man's and knocked it aside. Another flick of Talen's hand caught the man lightly on the head and he stumbled backwards. The look of confusion passed over his face, although this time he had better sense and turned and walked away.

“He seemed angry. Did I not spit enough on him?”

“Forget the spitting.” Talen turned his eyes to Angel, “Just do what you would norm- actually, just do what everyone else is doing.”

Almost as soon as Talen's comments finished Astarelle and another woman cut through to the bar. The youth's mouth gapped as he watched the exchange, his eyes taking it in, but his mind slower on the upkeep.

“Like them?” Angel's voice cut through Talen's thoughts.

“I... I... I need to come here more often...” said Talen.

Talen turned back to Angel, letting his hand slide around her waist and settle on the small of her back. The youth's eyes looked into Angel's for a moment, the woman stared back.

“You want to leave me to go check out where all those people went, don't you?” Accused Angel.

“Good heavens, I am outraged that you would suggest such a thing.” Talen glanced up, away from Angel's face, “But now that you mention it...”

Angel jabbed Talen hard in the side, and the youth played up his shock and hurt for a moment. His hand slipped down lower in her back and he planted a kiss on her cheek before untangling himself.

“You're the best... oh and don't kill anyone while I'm gone.” The youth lifted a finger and pointed at her, “Not even one.”

With that Talen cut through the dance floor and up to one of the most impressive women the youth had ever seen. Taking the opportunity of her staring down the basement Talen slipped past up the stairs. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26270-Cellebration-The-Loft)

Angel lent against the bar with drink in hand. She looked slightly bored as her eyes scanned the room, searching for something to entertain her time. Her red eyes settled onto one of the young women clearing away bottles and cups left by patrons. Angel took a sip of her drink and spayed it onto the woman as she passed.

“Hi” said Angel to the stunned girl.

[Mage Hunter]

“This, this was a mistake…” Drusilia muttered under her breath. She was looking at the club seeing the bright lights that were almost certainly the product of magic. She could almost feel the club’s magical presence, and it was across the street. It brought about a slight bout of Nausea, but nothing terribly overcoming. She had to endure such a level when she was defending Anebrilith which was replaced by Benoist, after blue Raven in a moment of monumental penis measuring replaced the city that was falling apart at the seams. Even the Elves had to question the act, and many refused to move into the quickly placed port.

The Drow had to wonder just what the hell people thought when they crammed that much magic in so small a space. Muttering under her breathe about bottomless wallets she crossed the street feeling the oppressive aura of the magicks involved overwhelming her senses. She had left her short sword at home, along with her other gear, there was no need for it tonight.

Drusilia had her hair pulled back in a braid that saw it down to the small of her back. She was in the neatly pressed uniform of the Kyorl, but it was missing the patch that would mark her among their numbers. The patch having been cut off in the ceremony that exiled her from her home was long since missing, and only those familiar with Alerian history would recognize the uniform. Her boots bloused the pants giving her a military look and being the most formal she could get for the event. She had been told to dress up in the invitation, which seemed given to her as an afterthought.

People didn’t like inviting the losers to the party.

Her sleeves were rolled up to above the elbows and the top couple of buttons were left undone, showing off what cleavage she had. To say she was beautiful would be pushing it. She had the exotic military look down, but beyond that she was nothing to write home about, not compared to the men and women that seemed to flood in and out of the club. The Mage Hunter could only roll her eyes recognizing the tell-tale signs of nobility looking to blow steam by “forgetting” the rules for a few moments.

Moving up to the door she waited for the man checking guests in to turn to her before she presented her invitation, figuring it would be the fastest way to explain the situation. He raised an eyebrow at the invitation before he spoke, “Name?”

“Drusilia Liadon,” Was the honest reply. While curt and to the point it wasn’t snapped, more like a prompt answer than anything. She wasn’t here to start a fight, despite what some people assumed. He looked her up and down for a moment before he looked at the list.

“There you are, please stand still while we check you for weapons, if you wish for the process to go faster you can declare them now,” The man resplied. Drusilia nodded before she reached into her boot and pulled out a small dirk, tossing it to the guard who deftly snatched it she then held her arms out to her sides and let the man pat her down. She snorted softly after a few seconds before she let off;

“Normally a guy needs to buy me a few drinks before he gets that privilege. We done here?”

He let off a snicker of his own before he spoke up, “Big words coming from a contestant that kept vomiting all Cell. You’re clean, welcome to the Flesh Failures, please refrain from puking on a customer.”

She shrugged before she spoke, “Just tell the staff not to use magic on me, and I won’t have to.”

“Don’t mess with the magic then, we pay a high price for those enchantments,” Was the stern reply. Dru sighed for a moment and shook her head before she said;

“I’ll try my best. I can’t control what happens if the magic touches me. I’m not out to ruin your décors…”

“Fair enough, just keep your nose clean,” The bouncer replied.

Drusilia nodded as she stepped in, getting a full glimpse of the Flesh Failures, Corone’s most exclusive night club. It was said that any vice, any sin could be pursued here, but she was more than certain that was just a catchy rumor they didn’t try to quash. No one would condone murder or cannibalism, no matter what was paid, not if they wanted to sit in the most “civilized” port in Althanas. People moved about on the dance floor, full of many drugs and drinks. The Alerian made note of that before she tossed the dirk to one of the two brothers who caught it and produced a ticket form the storage space. She raised an eyebrow at the practice before she shook her head and carefully took the ticket. When it didn’t trigger her anti-magical aura she let out a sigh of relief and moved deeper.

She was half tempted to join the smokers on the sofas, but figured that was too old a move. She was young, certainly no Godhand Striker who would probably have shown up to negotiate a contract. She needed to wait a few more years before she’d slow herself down that much. Still as she moved by them she could catch a faint whiff of the smokes that were wafting through the air. It was enough to leave her lightheaded as she carefully moved through the sea of dancers along the edge. The waves would crash upon her, and leave her carefully pushing through, but in the end she had fought the current and stayed on her task as she reached the bar.

There even managed to be an open stool.

Chalking it up to the good Karma her and Sergeant Verranya had built up over the few months they had protected Anebrilith she took a seat. One of the three tenders behind the counter moved over and smiled as he said, “What can I get you?”

There had to be magic amplifying his voice because she was certain he should not have been heard over the racket that was called music in the corner. She rubbed her temple as the noise continued to wash over her and said, “Something strong, I’m getting a headache from the sound level…”

“Any preferences?”

“Single malt Scotch, at least twenty one years, I want it to be old enough to drink itself.”

“A girl after my own heart, I’ll see what we got in stock and be right back,” The tender said rapping on the counter. She took the opportunity to watch people going up and down stairs from above the dance floor. That was probably the makeshift brothel where one could give in to their lusts for the night. She also looked at some people trying to head downstairs where a woman was frowning and looking with the critical eye of a contract killer. Drusilia recognized the type well enough to know she’d have to outwit the brute by not being seen if she wanted to get by. That girl would be as stubborn as Seth Dahlios over even the most trivial contradiction to her orders.

It didn't take long for the tender to place a glass that looked only a quarter full with a few cold rocks placed inside it. She looked upon the rocks for a moment before she smiled ruefully and commented, "You sir, are a miracle worker."

He leaned over the counter as if imparting a secret and said with promise, "For a few crowns more I could be a god."

Drink was set down before she could laugh and she tilted her head back and let it roll out as she playfully mussed the mans hair and said, "I think I'll stick with my poison for now. Keep that act up and you might have yourself a deal later."

[Reine]

Faelynn signed as she watched her new friend disappear into the mass of writhing bodies. Her lithe form dodging and turning through the crowd with a grace that the thief could never even dream of achieving. It was like she didn't even try. When Astarelle's head poked up over the masses as she ascended the stairs, Fae turned away, her eyes drawn to the remains of their body shots.

A blush crept up her cheeks as she stared at the salt shaker and desiccated limes. It had been her game in the beginning, hers to control, but Astarelle had quickly taken that from her, and not in an unpleasant way. Faelynn could not help the tingle in the pit of her stomach, the heat that pooled there and crept enticingly lower, nor the slight feeling of guilt that reared it's ugly head. She'd never had a woman excite her in that manner, never been interested in women in all honesty. Even Kid had made a pass at her in Lavinya and Fae had not so subtly freaked out. Though, perhaps if Kid had actually tried her hand at seduction, instead of cornering her and kissing her it may have been different. Astarelle had played her like a well tuned instrument as her tongue crept along the sensitive flesh of her breast as sand caressed her skin.

The guilt stemmed from a rather strange and complicated situation that was currently passed out in her guest bedroom back home; Jared Cesarino. She still didn't know what to think of the man. She liked him, enjoyed being in his company, and he handled her antics rather well. But neither of them had talked about what they were doing, what this really was, if anything at all. She'd like it to be something, all she was waiting on was for him to make that move.

Grabbing her bangles off the counter, Fae stared at the crumpled note. Her eyes darted to the staircase where the flare of Astarelle's skirt disappeared into the darkness beyond. Sliding her bangles on, she picked the note up and smoothed it out, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth as she read it.

She's with the bloody Ixians!?

In all honesty, Faelynn didn't know how to feel about that, or whether she should feel anything at all. It obviously had nothing to do with her, still, she couldn't help the worry that replaced the exhilaration she'd had moments ago. In her mind, you couldn't trust an Ixian as far as you could throw them. Being from Underwood, her feelings of the 'saviours of Corone' were quite mixed.

It's none of my business.

She eyes moved to the stairs.

Seriously girl, stay out of it.

Forcing herself to look away, Fae caught the eye of the bartender. She needed something strong and familiar to drown herself in. "Please tell me you have Lavinian ale hiding somewhere back there."

He smiled, blue eyes dancing in the flashing light show. "Luv, we've got everything you could ever want back here."

She quirked a brow at him, highly doubting he had a red headed thief behind the bar, but the ale would have to do. "Really now?"

He leaned across the counter, his face only a couple inches from hers. She could smell the sweat of a hard night's work on him. "Really."

Fae buried her anxiety in a friendly game of flirting, something she liked to believe she excelled in. "Well, you know what I really want?" She reached up, tracing her fingers down the side of his face and along his jaw, her nails gently scraping the skin as she lean in close to him, her mouth less than an inch from his ear. "A tall, thick and hard bottle of Lavinian ale.”

He laughed and moved away from her, taking her rejection with a smile and a wink. Turning his back to her for but a moment, fishing around in one of the large metal tubs, before flourishing a bottle of the brown liquid before her and popping the cap off. Water dripped off the side of it and chunks of ice stuck to the glass. She was more than a little surprised when she picked it up and found it to be ice cold.

"Courtesy of Joshua Cronen."

She shook her head and shrugged. Cold beer, warm beer, what did it matter to her? As long as it was Lavinian.

"Bottoms up."

She brought the bottle to her lips, tilted her head back and chugged down the icy liquid, feeling it cool her right to her core. As she did, she noted someone sliding into the empty spot next to her. She noted skin as black as night and some part of her instincts let off a warning bell. Finishing a good third of the bottle in one go, she put it down on the counter and looked over only to feel her jaw go slack and her face pale.

"D-Drusilia!?"

[Breaker]

The dark and loud club swallowed Josh and Kyla as they followed Doomeye up from the basement. The martial artist and the mystic clung close together, eyes finding the top of the staircase to the loft through a field of waving arms and lancing colored beams. They saw Angeline coming down the steps, slinky black dress swishing, face radiant and composed as ever. She made eye contact with Josh and held up a finger as if asking him to wait a moment, and then danced her way toward the stage. Josh and Kyla moved toward the upper staircase just the same.

"Angie needs a word with you, Cronen." Doomeye's iron-shod grip was as hard as the edge of her voice. Josh flexed his triceps, breaking the mercenary's grip and pushing her back a pace.

"Hands off the sifan cloth, doorlady." Breaker grinned, making a show of smoothing his rumpled sleeve. Doomeye grunted and looked away. Kyla rolled her eyes impatiently but seemed content to wait.

Angeline rose above the crowd as she crested the stage and borrowed the voice magnifier again. Long blonde hair shimmered about a sweat-sparkled face as she addressed the crowd.

"How are you enjoying the evening?" She asked in a sultry voice. The response was a roar of open throats and stomping feet. "We are glad to hear it! I will not interrupt the merriment for longer than it takes to draw our second door prize!" A smaller wave of approval echoed the first. "If you would please check your tickets stubs..." the manager of the Flesh Failures produced two cloth bags as before, but the band's lead singer had left the stage. The mousey-haired bassist leaped forward, smiling and hand raised high to descend into the ballot bag like a swooping hawk. "And the winner of the second door prize is..." Angeline read off the number and then whispered her thanks to the short merry bassist. "You may claim your prize on stage!" Angeline jangled the sack of Raiaeran currency, slightly heavier than the last, and the remaining members of the band struck up a lively duet.

"Guess I should have checked something tonight," Josh joked as patrons all around re-read their tickets feverishly. He leaned close so Kyla could hear and used the action as an excuse to kiss her ear covertly. "My apologies for the delay in the tour, Miss Orlouge."


Amber Eyes won 300 GP via Cell Trivia, feel free to bunny Angeline when claiming your prize!

[Peacemaker]

The willowy blonde manager didn't respond to Duke's quip when she took the voice-mag this time, so the frontman hopped off the stage and weaved through the crowd. He swished his hips and swayed his shoulders, loosening muscles tightened by wearing his guitar all night. He rolled his neck and tossed long brown hair about, grinning at some elven beauties as his whimsical dance carried him past them. Rosalie and Jack were laying down a slayer beat, the pair could jam with the best of them. They'd been jamming after hours of late, leaving Duke alone through the long nights. He needed a drink to cool his throat, parched and cracked from energetic singing. And a little female attention would do wonders for his ego.

The peacemaker sidled up to the bar, lost in the smoky atmosphere and skipping bass beats supplied by his friends. He took a stool and fished lazily in his pockets for coins. A bloke like him, wearing a cheap leather vest over a bare chest and matching pants and boots, would hardly get priority attention. Just his luck, the tender was equally male. The cocktail-mixer made a point of flirting with every bitty at the bar before finally approaching the hippie with a fistful of silvers.

"You Tribals are blowing the roof off!" The bartender said a little too enthusiastically, "let me get you something on the house," he added with pointed narrowing of blue eyes." Duke grinned, he go the dude's message. He left a pile of silvers amounting to half the price of a drink as a tip and nodded his thanks.

"I thought I heard you mention cold Lavinian ale?" Duke asked. He'd only had cold ale once or twice - in the winter. It was perhaps the most refreshing thing he'd ever consumed apart from Rosalie's lemonade, but a cool beverage in the frigid seasons was hardly friendly. But the thought of cold suds sluicing his dry tongue and scorched throat made the concept all too appealing.

"Ice cold," the bartender confirmed, and several patrons tittered as if he'd completed an inside joke. Nice to be invited to the bloody party, Duke thought as the young man opposite him produced a fogged amber bottle and popped the cap with a curved metal implement.

"Health and Prosperity," Duke toasted with a touch of sarcasm, and tasted the brew. "Sweet seeds of Wyron," he gasped to no one in particular, "that is a fine drink." Taking a another lung bubbly pull, Duke realized the young woman next to him was drinking the same ale. When his eyes finished rolling in pleasure he plunked the bottle on the bar and wiped his mouth with fingertips callused by years of string-fingering.

"Tastes like I made the right choice, hope you don't mind that I copied you." He said in a loud mock-whisper to the short brunette woman. Her body was tight and curvy as a strung bow and her green eyes glittered with gold. "I'm Duke," smiled, tossing long bangs out of his face, "what's your name pretty lady?"

[Amber Eyes]

The mystic had all but forgotten the ticket she'd stowed away when first entering the Flesh Failures. Now as Angeline called the ticket number a second time Kyla had a problem. The ticket was tucked into her garter and she wasn't about to go digging for it in front of Joshua Cronen. How had she not thought about a door prize? Her face flushed ruby and the mystic gave a nervous smile as she focused her mind on the tiny piece of paper. She gripped the hem of her dress as she felt the ticket brush down her leg before touching her finger tips. She pulled the page towards her eyes as the hostess repeated the number once more, several members of the party already calling for a new winner. It was a match. The mystic gave Josh a quick smile and made her way through the crowd, passing a few familiar faces and a few cat-calls. She pulled at the fabric of her dress before making the step up to the stage, hoping everything stayed covered.

Angeline gave her a smile before announcing her winnings. "Kyla Orlouge wins the second door prize. Give her a hand ladies and gentlemen."

The crowd cheered, their yells intermingling with several calling out for free drinks and other moaning about the Orlouge's not needing any extra coin. The girl simply gave a simple curtsey and thanked the hostess before taking the bag and quickly exiting the stage. Angeline cued the band to continue the festivities just as the mystic hit the crowd once more.

She made her way to Joshua, who raised his eyebrows and gave her a grin. "And here I thought I was the lucky one this evening."

Kyla felt electricity run through her spine and she took his hand, "Trust me, I've been nothing but lucky tonight. Although," Kyla looked around in mock confusion. "I'm pretty sure someone around here promised me a tour and we seem to keep getting interrupted."

Josh laughed, "What a fool. I suppose I will take his place, upstairs then?"

Kyla giggled, "Unless there are any more disgruntled former opponents we need to take care of first."

Josh squeezed her hand before taking her arm in his once more and leading her towards the stairwell.




Kyla and Josh are leaving the Club and entering the Loft (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26270-Cellebration-The-Loft)

[Mage Hunter]

The Drow smirked as the girl next to her stuttered her name. It was cute in an innocent way. She had flirted with the tender looking for a measly ale while Drusilia continued to work on her scotch. The alcohol slid smoothly down her throat, giving her a bit of intoxication to ignore the background feeling of wrongness that saturated a place so heavily inundated with magic. She looked over at the girl and lifted her glass in toast as she responded, “Ah yes, my merciful killer. Faelynn was it?”

“Y-yes,” The girl managed.

Drusilia nodded as she leaned against the counter and spoke up, “You’re not bad kid. Take it from a mercenary that has fought in a couple of wars.”

"Um, thanks...I mean, I really didn't want to kill you."

Drusilia snickered into her drink before she set it down, “Listen kid, you’re going to do a lot of things. You’re going to regret some, and others you’re going to be proud of. That is what life is. The trick, the way you beat life, is to make the proud moments outnumber the bad ones. And if killing a fighter that asked for a mercy killing is on your list of regrets, I’m sad to say that life is going to shit all over you kiddo.”

Faelynn stared at Drusilia with a mixed look of horror and anger. "I don't plan on letting life shit all over me, woman. And I never said that I regretted it, merely that it's not the outcome I had hoped for."

Drusilia shook her head before she spoke up, “You entered in the Cell and hoped you wouldn’t have to kill a single person? I’m confused as to what your strategy was? Were you having delusions of grandeur that your opponents would simply off themselves and you would win without lifting a finger?”

The Drow set down her drink before she leaned against the bar counter and shook her head, “Who trained you to think like that anyways?”

[Reine]

“No, that was not my strategy at all, and trust me, I do not have vision—or delusions—of grandeur, as you so eloquently put it, dancing around in my skull.” Faelynn growled out between clenched teeth.

She hated the way people always assumed things about her, without even getting to know her. Seth had done the same thing, as had Oberon and Kid and everyone else she met in Lavinya. They took one look at her, thought her a child and brushed her aside. Or thought her incapable, not worth their time or energy. Even Jared had probably made assumptions about her in the beginning. She couldn't even imagine what he'd thought when he'd rescued her from that dank alleyway.

Taking a drink to calm herself, Fae tried again. “What I meant, was that I prefer to face someone on even ground, rather than stab them through the chest to merely end their suffering.”

She looked away from those startling purple eyes and the way their bore into her, as if assessing her very worth in this moment. It was disconcerting to say the least.

“I entered The Cell to test myself and the training I have recently endured,” she ran her fingers up the sides of the cool glass bottle, watching the condensation drip down and coat her skin before turning back to the woman, “training given to me by Oberon Deleraeux and Seth Dahlios.”

[Mage Hunter]

She looked at the girl for a few moments. It was hard to tell if the girl was lying or not, but if she wasn’t it surprised the Mage Hunter. Seth Dahlios was a selfish and cruel person, and to hear he was training another thief caused a silent alarm to go off in Drusilia’s head. He never did anything without forethought and careful planning. He wasn’t training a replacement he was training a tool, and the Drow was more than certain that her erstwhile opponent didn’t even realize it.

“The Lavinian Demon trained you?” She asked probing the girl for her feelings.

"I don't call him that," Fae said, hesitating slightly, "but yes, Demon trained me, is still training me actually."

“Do you know why he’s called the Demon? It’s not because of his parents,” Drusilia ventured.

Fae paused, obviously curious but unsure if she trusted this woman. "I...thought it was because of that."

“Demons are the raw essence of chaos itself. People who saturate themselves in sin go to the afterlife and create the weakest of Demons. From there they grow into the forms they will take from the more lethal ones to the mightiest of Demons like Zieg Dil’Tulfried. They live to sow Chaos and Anarchy wherever they go. They kill for the visceral thrill of it and relish in each life destroyed, sound like anyone you know?”

Fae narrowed her eyes on Drusillia and said in a cold tone. "No. It doesn't."

“Let me tell you something about Seth. For a while he worked for a man that I was a business partner with during the Corpse War. I learned a bit about his business partners, and saw them in action. Seth has only one thing on this planet he cares about anymore. Everything else is just a tool for him to use break and discard at his earliest convenience. Even Godhand knew he couldn’t reign in the demon, just tempt him with whatever he figured out Dahlios wanted. I imagine it’s become the same experience as Sei Orlouge with the Ixian Knights. No one knows what’s going on in that convoluted mind except his nominal wife Liliana. And here’s where I leave you with a warning. He cares only about the family he has pulled together through his own blood sweat and tears. Their safety is second to his own and he would burn this world, if it meant his wife and daughter might see another sun rise.”

She looked at the glass of Scotch. Picking it up she downed the glass and set it on the table. Dropping a handful of gold on the counter she ruffled the hair of the bartender before she said, “Sorry love, I gotta run, my boats due in about an hour. Too bad, I could have used a good roll in the hay.”

The tender laughed as he counted out the gold and said, “Your accounts cleared. Have a good night miss.”

She looked over at Faelynn before she shook her head slowly, “Enjoy the briar patch you’ve walked into…”

She didn’t even bother claiming the dirk she brought with her as she walked out of the club.

[Reine]

Fae watched the back of Drusilia disappear into the shifting mass of people and suddenly felt claustrophobic. The ale wasn't sitting right in her stomach. She could feel it roiling along the heavy weight that had settled there. Feeling exposed and unsure of herself, she searched the crowd for a familiar face, but saw none. Astarelle had yet to come back, she didn't even see the visage of another warrior from The Cell. Nothing.

Turning back towards the bar, she pushed the ale bottle away from her and the bartender thought that his cue.

Another drink?" He asked with that ready smile.

She shook her head. "No." She didn't think she could handle anymore alcohol at the moment. When he moved to turn away, she called out to him. "Wait! Water, please. The coldest you have."

He gave her an odd look before doing as she requested. In less than ten seconds a glass of water appeared before her, ice cubes floating languidly in the clear liquid. She grabbed it and chugged it back, feeling the cool tingle of it all the way down her throat and to her stomach, quenching the fire of the alcohol running through her.

"Everything else is just a tool for him to use and break and discard at his earliest convenience."

She set the glass on the bar counter and stared at it. Stared at the drops of water that collected and streamed down the side, the ice cubes melting on the bottom and the marks left by her fingers. Fae wanted to shrug off everything Drusilia said to her, but she couldn't. Whether it was the conviction in her voice or the hard look in her eyes, the young thief didn't know. What she did know, was that Dru believed every word of it.

I need to get out of here.

Standing, Fae stumbled from the bar and into the crowd of dancers. She was pushed and shoved and jostled. People yelled at her, tried to dance with her and gave her dirty looks, but she didn't care. She needed fresh air. She needed her rock. Why did she leave him at home?

Tumbling out of the moving throng of people, Faelynn nearly stumbled onto the hard floor, her balance saving her just in time. When she looked up, a rather imposing woman covered from head to toe in weaponry was regarding her oddly.

"Just need some place quiet..." Fae mumbled.

The woman nodded and made no move to help or hinder her as Fae quickly escaped the noise and the oppressive feeling that the club suddenly had, her feet taking the stairs two at a time. Not even realizing that in her disorientation, she headed up into the loft, instead of escaping the club altogether.

[Breaker]

Angeline was feeling rattled. She'd lost track of both Doomeye and Breaker, and the crowd had nearly absorbed the rest of her security team. At this point if something went wrong she would need her top bouncers to salvage the club, and her reputation. The willowy woman dry washed her hands as she paced about between the spiraling staircases that led to the loft and the basement. Her eyes needed to be everywhere until she found--

In a single instant she heard Molly tromping up the stairs like a bear and saw Breaker dancing down from above. Bloody hell she knew that walk. Had the fool man really bedded the Orlouge girl? Some might call it a wise move, but Josh was no politician. Or was he? He'd become surprising active in promoting the club of late...

"You and you!" She said shrilly. Long years of managing the Flesh Failures, and hard time put in as a server before that, had taught her how to speak through the music when she truly needed to. But then the hulking Salvic man stepped up behind Doomeye and Angie's hostess charm kicked in uninvited.

"Mister Skovic, so glad you could join us!" Angeline gushed, her mind doing cartwheels. Was that a fresh bruise on the bruiser's chin? And why was Doomeye wearing that grin?... She glanced sharply at Molly, then at Josh, and then back at Molly. She held her head for a moment just to stop it flip-flopping in time to the music. That band leader really did have some swagger. What has happened in my building? She thought helplessly. Ah well, nothing for it but to salvage the night and assess the damage in the morning.

"Now you and you," she hissed at her supposed friends and staff, "just where have you--"

"You did tell me to take my break," Doomeye said squarely. The warrior adjusted her leather straps and rested relaxed wrists on the ridged pommels of her favorite daggers. "While I was doing that I found one of our honored guests had lost his way," she indicated the bruiser with a terse nod. "But I'm back at my post now, boss. Anything further?"

While Angeline goggled at Doomeye's impudence Breaker caught Skovic's eye and nodded toward the front of the club, mouthing the word outside and hoping the northerner would meet him later. He hadn't expected to ever see Flint again unless the man decided to try to kill him. Why had he stayed so long in the basement? Josh smelled no must on Doomeye or the bruiser. So they had sat downstairs an hour and... talked? Interesting.

"As for you, Breaker," Angie hissed like a cat with its tail caught beneath a rocking crib, "you promised you would help keep things in line, not... not beat up on guests!" She said in a shushed rush, punching him square in the stomach. Not hard enough to hurt herself mind.

"I'm sorry Angie, I'm still new at this gig." Josh pressed some stray golden strands back from her face, drawing a stern glance from Doomeye but nothing more. "Come on boss," he coaxed, placing a callused palm between her shoulders and lifting tension from her spine, "let Molly watch over things. You're paying her plenty to do so." He smiled and took her hand in both of his. "Will you dance with me Angeline? I think I know this song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5H1WGVsSyk)."

They blended with the crowd and somehow found room to move in rhythm together. They hadn't danced the first night they met, but they made up for it at the Cellebration.

[Warpath]

Flint rolled his shoulders as he reentered the club proper behind Doomeye. The metaphoric mask slipped into place at the first glimpse of that sea of humanity, and his mind went blessedly blank. He was himself again, stony and immutable. The willowy club owner drew his attention for a brief moment of pleasantries, and he nodded to her politely in passing. He parted with Molly with a shared glance.

He was already a ways apart when he realized the Breaker was present as well, and he tensed, glancing from him to Angeline and back again. At that moment, Cronen nodded toward the front of the club and mouthed the word "outside." Flint growled thoughtfully, the sound lost amidst the music and chatter, but he nodded his assent. The Breaker had no reason to pursue further violence - he would have just finished the job in the basement - so what was left for them to discuss?

The brute was intrigued.

He let his eyes wander over the assembled throng as the band struck up a new, slightly slower song. It was not in him to dance, he did not dance. He eyed the bar, where other revelers that did not normally dance were actively changing their opinion of the phenomenon. Even if not for his newly-discovered immunity, inebriation was of no interest to him. He liked his inhibitions.

Doomeye, oblivious to his gaze now that she'd returned to business, was the only figure of interest left. The temptation she represented was forbidden, though, even if not for her obligations. Flint turned and weaved his way through the crowd, collected his coat, and retreated into the cool and blissfully quiet night air.

He found himself a nice, shadowed place at the front of the club, well out of sight of the still-impressive line of people waiting to get in. He crossed his armored arms over his chest and watched the door for Breaker.

[Breaker]

Within his arms Angeline matched Breaker's movements like a willowy blonde shadow. She stayed close when the crowd pressed and darted or dipped when the smallest spaces opened on the dance floor. She was at home in the club as he had been in the Cell. She was an entertainer, a dancer, a hostess and a server, all folded together like a perfect paper crane.

Breaker was a beast. At least he had visited that side of himself within the tournament's enchanted walls. The side that had made the monicker Breaker a household threat throughout Corone. The rager, the killer, the creature of pain. The life of violence and basic pleasures led to a literal edge, when he'd walked the ocean floor along a bottomless crater's crumbling cusp. And then Am'aleh appeared all around him in the water. She'd turned his pain to purpose and borne him ashore in a lover's embrace. His lady of the water, his sweet angel of mercy. She was in Angeline's laugh and the brush of her fingertips across his scarred cheek. As he'd felt her in Kyla's arms and seen her in the ceylon leaves. As she was everywhere that water could seep.

The beauty could make him weep.

"Are you crying?" Angeline gasped. She'd seen only a limited range of emotions from Breaker, and none involved tears. At least not his own.

"Your hair brushed through my eye," Cronen lied, flicking a few moist flecks away.

"Leave it to me to find the unbreakable man's weakness," she laughed into his ear. The music and tide of dancers swelled and pressed Josh and Angie together.

"You found it years ago," he said, suddenly still and holding her close. "Thank you Ang-"

A lash of concentrated air descended through a swirl of smoke and struck his cheek like a thrown twig. Doomeye quirked an eyebrow and twirled the lash thoughtfully.

"Scuse me Mister Cronen, I must go and speak with my head of security," Angeline said waspishly. So she'd seen the blow land.

Josh laughed and rubbed his cheek as he strutted out of the club. Any thought of retribution for the single lash evaporated when he imagined what a tongue-whipping Doomeye would be sure to receive.

The air outside felt chill and tense after the loose flowing warmth of the Flesh Failures. The folk waiting hopefully to see inside the double doors that night seemed locked in a separate plain, as significant as the torch sconces lining the club's exterior.

If Breaker had needed to look for Skovic he'd have started with the shadowiest corner. But there was no need. The ugly magic inside Flint's vambraces - the click and whirr that kept his heart beating - shone to Breaker's senses like hellfire.

"As long as you're in Corone," Josh said as he stepped up beside Skovic's berth, "there's a job I could use you on." He breathed deeply and looked up as if examining the constellations. "It will require some brute force," he continued, "and there'll be plenty of coin for your time." He paused for a moment, thinking about invoking Luned's name in hopes of garnering trust, but decided against it. "Order a drink on my tab here any night this week if you're interested."

[Breaker]

The Carriage House's warm, mellow atmosphere made for a perfect middle between the sweaty heat of the Flesh Failures and the crisp breeze in the street. Coals sparked and crumbled in five of the half dozen hearths spread throughout the dining area. A tall bartender with a droopy nose and pointed chin nodded sagely as the Breaker stepped over the threshold, then went back to wiping down the long mahogany bar.

Josh wound his way between tables and chairs methodically, enjoying the ebbing smell of woodsmoke and the tread of his bare feet over freshly swept floorboards.

Andre Sellings sat in one of a matched set of elegant leather armchairs. A goblet stained with dregs sat atop the end table alongside an open tobacco pouch. The match flared, and rich pungent smoke encircled his lined, grey-wisped face.

"You missed quite the party," Josh said as he settled into the vacant armchair. Sellings started as if he had not noticed the Breaker's approach.

"Sounds like we're both missing it at this point," Sellings chortled, waving a short stemmed pipe to indicate the steady bass thump that still permeated from across the cobblestone street. "Don't know how Angeline can bloody stand the noise," He trailed off around a mouthful of smoke.

"Me neither," Josh admitted, "but I'm glad I made an appearance. What's this?" He asked as Andre produced a small sifan sack from between the cushions of his chair and tossed it in his general direction. The bag jangled in a familiar way as he caught it in one callused palm.

"Your share of the night's gate. A thousand for each participant of the Cell that attended the party. Yourself included of course." Andre chuckled and puffed contentedly on his pipe.

Josh tucked the sack between the cushions of his own chair. He was thinking about the selection of Alerian scotches behind the bar, and the extra pipe Sellings kept on hand for entertaining guests. The fire still crackled in the last hearth at the end of the long dining room. But as he turned from the dancing flames to look back at Andre, pipesmoke masked the man's face for a moment. Instead of the experienced craggy Sellings he saw the smooth, bright-eyed face of the beautiful mystic he'd left sleeping in his loft. The smoke dissipated.

"Thank you Andre," Josh said, palming his payment and gently gripping the businessman's shoulder as he stood. "I've got one more stop to make before I can settle my bones for the night." Kyla's face still swam in his mind. I hope she sleeps still.

"The Breaker's work never ends," Sellings chortled as he tamped out his pipe. "Don't leave our doorway undarkened, Mister Cronen."

A touch of cold air trailed in as the Carriage House's door swept shut.

Finalment



Spoils / Transfers

Enigmatic Immortal receives 20 GP from Breaker (IC bet made during the Cell)
Roht Mirage receives 200 GP from Breaker (OOC Trivia Winnings/IC door prize)
Amber Eyes receives 300 GP from Breaker (OOC Trivia Winnings/IC door prize)

Breaker receives 8480 GP (9,000 GP payment from Sellings minus 520 from above)

After that everyone is just taking home regular EXP so far as I know. Thanks for reading/commenting/adding/subtracting stuff!

[Lye]

Rewards for all three threads are posted here only.

(Breaker, PM me about the large lump sum requested)

Breaker -

2,700 XP
286 GP

Aurelianus Drak'shal -

390 XP
39 GP

Peacemaker -

286 XP
39 GP

Enigmatic Immortal -

1,085 XP
85 GP

Reine -

884 XP
78 GP

Amber Eyes -

1,456 XP
404 GP

Rhot Mirage -

832 XP
278 GP

Warpath -

1,091 XP
91 GP

Hysteria -

365 XP
26 GP

Mage Hunter -

338 XP
39 GP

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!