Once Afterthought Into Slumber

[Saxon]

(Closed to Empyrean, all bunnying approved, and Continued from To Trump A Bluff.. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=2097))

Smoke whistled out of the cracks of a particular seedy opium den as the raw, blood-orange pulp of a sun cast its wary glance over a city of sin and decadence. Its name wasn't important and neither were the particulars of what land it settled upon as far as Fibonacci was concerned. Attended by a beautiful, voluptuous woman barely brought out of her twenties, the peddler laid with his back against a plush violet couch and took a long, deep draw on a strange ornamental pipe. Thoughts seemed to coalesce into a tunnel of pure ecstasy while the memories of jilted prostitutes and nameless rabble of customers drifted away from the storyteller's concern. Whatever the case was, he didn't seem to have a care in the world as he watched the tan, slanted-eye beauty pull the pipe gingerly from his lips and smile as she dabbed the sweat from his brow.

This was what the slow, harsh grind of reality had turned the peddler into and it was something he was neither proud of nor cared to explain. Every day and night toiled away into mindless tales of folklore and gossip for the occasional copper he could get his greedy hands on and feed his drug-addled brain. Feeling his taste of paradise slowly begin to slip away, Fibonacci lullingly tugged upon his attendants sleeve for more. Feeling the pipe at his lips again, he breathed deep, savoring each molecule of the sacred substance as if it were his last. There always was never enough booze nor opium to wash or cloud the storyteller's guilt and the concerns that hung with it. No matter what he took, the sight of his daughter's frail form drenched in sticky, scarlet blood never seemed to escape Fibonacci's thoughts. As the smile of his attendant turned to a frown, she quickly left the vision of the babbling addict, leaving him to his devilish, pestilent thoughts.

Taking the pipe himself, Fibonacci scrambled and fiddled with the device with both hands until he sucked away at the intoxicating feeling and fed his desire to forget. It was a brief moment compared to what awaited him when he felt the device ripped from his pale, rheumatic fingers and his vision spinning like a top as he was lifted off his feet. A greedy, half-naked brute covered in tattoos spoke in a tongue that slipped into mere echoes, the peddler's ears trying hard not to hear what they feared most. The slanted-eye woman and man both barked and growled at Fibonacci, in which he failed to understand until his back slammed against the ornate paneled door and reality was cranked to a startling, mind-blowing level.

"Ey' deadbeat! That was your last warning, ya' got me? I've told you a thousand times before! Don't touch the girls!" the bouncer bellowed. Shadowing the frail figure from the lamp fixed to the center of the ceiling, the brute picked Fibonacci off his feet, opened the door and tossed him onto the wet, muddled road before the drug-house.

Feeling the burning gaze of the top-knot man upon him, the storyteller sprung out of his stupor and to his feet, pulling the pouch of measly coins and tossed them in every direction, "I give ya' money to get my fix, and you rough me up because of it?! What price do I have to pay for common decency and a sprig of opium in this shithole of a town?! Huh?!" Fibonacci screamed.

Citizens from every nearby crevice came out of the woodwork to witness the storyteller's fall from grace. Making each sinister step count, the bouncer ground his teeth as he watched one of his best customer's make a fool of himself, "Your money isn't good here any more, you hear me?! If I catch you here again you won't be waking up from your next 'fix', got me? Get some help!" he roared at the peddler as the crack of thunder met the pitter patter of rain upon their shoulders.

Tossing the bag feebly at the bouncer, the storyteller didn't care any more, he turned only to hear the strong deafening footsteps end in the finality of a door slamming shut. Ears aching and mind pounding under the pressure, Fibonacci knew it was finally time for another drink. Slowly gathering a couple of coins from the slush of mud, the peddler shoved them into his pocket and went about the rest of his day. No matter how much he drank away his problems, however, life for he and his alter ego staggered on.

~*~

[Saxon]

A hazy, vague feeling buzzed in Saxon's ears as the world around him ebbed and flowed, pulsing with life as it was sculpted to his will. A small ring of white fire caught in the weird's vision trickled and bled with creation as the scene of a sleepy Radasanth cradled his imagination. Houses sprang from the ground and cobbled roads plopped from the skies, and with that the eldritch stood in the center of the mysterious metropolis. Feeling the dreamy swoon conform to his consciousness, Saxon stumbled forward into the narrow streets and passed the various stretch of stony walls and empty, vacant merchant stalls. Places where memory filled in the gaps with twinkling torchlight were steadily snuffed out by flickering, hungry shadows and leaving only the shine of the ghostly moon to be the weird's guide. It felt as if an eternity had passed and the sun would never again arise while the eldritch took steady, unsure footsteps further into the plane of his imagination.

It was at a particular street where the journey seemed to end with a gradual welling sadness that had caught the weird in full surprise. It felt as if a loss had finally grappled free from the depths of his subconscious, and the only thing Saxon could do was embrace it. Stopping a couple of feet from a familiar stoop where for the first time in a long while, the eldritch felt his solitude being threatened. A white, fleshy blurb stood clutching what seemed to be a frocked, teal coat weighted down with handfuls of coins and other such things. The blob of flesh finally took shape into that of a young boy who stared at the weird with some sort of otherworldly purpose. Suddenly, the rusty hinged door opened and the boy clutching the coat faded into wispy, gray smoke. A small, dainty girl with salty tears dripping down her face ambled out of the dwelling and down the stairs to Saxon's feet.

Watching the girl with as much attention as he could muster, the eldritch took a step back while the girl looked up and spoke and words failed to escape her lips. The feeling of brackish, crimson red sprung into the weird's mind as the child gripped her stomach and her eyes screamed with pain. Feeling powerless, Saxon could only watch as the girl laid to the ground and blood soaked upon her plush, pink dress. Feeling his own grief well inside of him, the eldritch felt suddenly more alert as fleshy blobs appeared out of no where and stared at the stain of lifeblood upon the sidewalk. Wondering where the girl went, the weird turned his attention back to the apartment only to be knocked aside by a beautiful, middle-aged woman. Brown curls dangled in front of the shrieking woman's face, her black dress stained with blood as Saxon finally noticed what she clutched in her arms. The corpse of the curious child.

Trapped in this never-ending play, the eldritch wanted nothing more then to be freed from the nightmare that had snared him. Turning back the way he came, Saxon prepared to run far, far away as a pulsing fear welled up in his throat. As his first foot forward came down against the sidewalk it stuck to the pavement like glue and was sucked into the amorphous substance. Gripped with fright, the weird tried to pull his legs free from their bondage and escape this hinged trap. Alas, the harder he tugged upon his frozen limbs the faster he sank into the gray, still liquid and a cry for help sprang from his lips. Feeling his need for aid unanswered, Saxon turned his gaze to the disembodied figures who all stared back at him.

Their silence seemed like the last laugh to a lonely man who only wanted to be free. Holding his breath instinctively, the weird panicked as he shut his eyes tight and felt his fate sealed with the little girl's death. But as the gray goop devoured the back of the eldritch's head, he stubbornly opened his hooded eyes and stared forward where he saw a man in a bowler and brown pin-striped suit cackling at him. The feelings of fear, guilt, and pain swelled and coursed through his veins until a strange peace caught Saxon's attention. Feeling ready to meet his maker, the weird stared helplessly as his vision blurred and faded into black darkness as he was sucked into the vast, empty void of nothing.

~*~

[Saxon]

Waking up in a cold sweat, Saxon sat up and gasped for air and sucked in as much of the cool, sweet air as he could until he began to wretch. The exhilarating and suffocating grip of terror that over took the eldritch vanished in seconds as his cold, azure eyes probed the room and adjusted to the darkness. His mind raced sluggishly onward as it stubbornly sank back into reality and the familiar dreamlike quality of nostalgia slowly dissipated," Pmilani," the weird heard his own hoarse voice remind his confused brain, "I'm in Pmilani.. an isle far off the coast of Fallien, more than a world away from that wretched place."

It had become harder and harder to tell exactly where or who he was anymore, at least that was what Saxon had thought, but he couldn't tell if it was from the recurring nightmare itself or from the insomnia it had caused. It was all the eldritch could think about during the bleak hours of nightfall and the overwhelming feeling of loneliness didn't stray until the first strands of light crept over the windowsill and dawn broke. Methodically, the eldritch pulled the hot, sticky linen from his naked body, and wrestled his aching legs from the grip of sleep and onto the cold wooden floor. Scratching his scraggly mess of black hair, the eldritch stepped over his black, pin-striped pants and into the gloom with little need for his sight.

It had been like this for weeks, and as the eldritch made his way through his apartment with practiced grace, he soon felt the nightmare become a distant memory as he walked into the bathroom. Reaching up deftly into the air, Saxon stared at the ground as it flashed with life when he tugged upon the canopy chain to the ceiling light. Ugly fluorescent light reminiscent of a horror movie flashed in the weird's eyes as he reflexively closed them and tried to maintain his balance at the same time.

The dull buzz of the light hummed within Saxon's tired mind as he looked up and opened his eyes and instead of noticing the grimey lime wallpaper that lined the bathroom or the cracked tiles that looked to be sprouting roots at his feet, the eldritch looked into the mirror. Purplish-black rings circled the bottom of his glinting azure eyes and the weird's mess of hair seemed to be making a hostile takeover of his face and head. I've got to sleep, Saxon thought with futility as he stared upon his pale, dull flesh that seemed to be wasting away, revealing rows of ribs and it hung tight over his organs in an emaciated fashion. He stubbornly looked away from his lower haunches as the striking, bitter feeling of impotence had overtaken him. It wouldn't be long before now that he'd die if he hadn't slept or eaten, but the weird could do neither.

He was sick. Too ill to eat, the ability to bed a woman stripped from him, and his most basic function to sleep eluded the weird to the point of borderline insanity. He was a husk. The eldritch was a shell of a being with all the guts and intricate parts that had made life worth living deprived from him. It wouldn't be long until this nightmare ate him alive, and a distant part of Saxon's mind was looking forward to ending this tainted existence. Taking a deep breath the weird leaned over the sink and heard his knees pop as he tried again and again to pull himself away from the direction he was heading, and he knew all too well where that would be.

It wasn't a good place.

Turning the knobs to the faucet, it belched translucent water that stank of a backed up sewer system. Stubbornly, withered hands splashed the muddled water upon the eldritch's face and the disillusioned feelings of black emptiness and despair began to fall away like clumps revealing a feebled form of the weird's calm demeanor. Looking into the mirror one last time, Saxon whispered, "I've got to get out of here."

Moving briskly back into the darkness, the eldritch snatched his jacket from a nearby chair as he walked back towards his bed and threw it over the dresser that sat in front of the mauve window pane. Wrestling his boxers over his legs and what had to be his pin-striped pants followed, he felt a strange sense of determination and purpose as he pulled the dark iron zipper upwards and snapped the button of his lower apparel together. Reaching behind him, Saxon felt his orange button down shirt and threw it over his lanky arms as he wrestled with the buttons only to forsake them.

Feeling the tight, conforming fit of his shoes as he slipped them on, the eldritch tied quick, complicated knots as he felt the overwhelming desire to eat again cause his stomach to growl loudly. It had been like stepping from a corpse and into a living body, and it felt great. Perhaps the eatery between Fifth and Cardinal was still open, Saxon thought optimistically, already knowing that it always was. Grabbing his jacket as he stood, the eldritch whirled around and walked towards the door and felt the familiar, heavy leather of his fedora Amalarj as he pulled it off the bedpost it rested and onto his head.

Soft afternoon light flooded the weird's vision when Amalarj rested upon his scalp as if the sun had spastically changed its mind and declared it to be day. Not able to see the first glimmers of light that poked through his windowsill, Saxon didn't even feel the spell of sadness break completely as he wrenched the door open. Like a marionette, the eldritch waited until his serpentine staff, Syvriak, slithered to his feet and rose into his hands before crossing the threshold. Unaware of his strings being pulled, Saxon didn't even notice the mysterious sigil chiseled upon the door of his apartment as it swung shut.

[Empyrean]

She was burning.

Without warning came the surge of heat, plunging over her body and smoldering her skin as it poured painfully over sensitive areas. An uncharacteristically girlish shriek bounced off the egg-white, tiled walls as her hands scrabbled wildly for the nozzle. Her eyes squinted tightly shut in a last-ditch effort to save her eyesight from injury. A moment of fruitless fumbling as the spray of water continued to scald, until - yes! - her fingers closed around the steel tap and twisted it to the right with furious speed. The shower stilled into a harmless trickle as the plumbing in the walls moaned, loudly signaling the stoppage of the water flow. It sounded vaguely like the keening of a dying animal.

How terribly pleasant.

Sanoë sank back against the shower wall, for once not really caring what sort of bacterial scum might have embedded itself in the plaster. The jeweler breathed in deeply through the steam and watched the water form a miniature whirlpool at her feet as it ebbed away through the drain in the floor. Wet, and shivering even in the stifling humidity of the bathroom, she raised a hand to her face and shoulders to scrutinize herself for any possible damage. Her cheeks were flushed, and the recent gunshot wound in her left shoulder, though healing nicely, gave a splintery twinge when she twisted a certain way. It was a lingering wound from a short stint with Corone Law under Letho Ravenheart, a short enough job to keep her from having to settle anywhere too long, but long enough of a stint to get her injured and shocked by the unexpected havoc. As much as she hated the irksome pain it dealt at seemingly the most inopportune moments, she was starting to get used to the little scar. She was almost proud of it, seeing it as something of a tribute, a staunch reminder of the tumultuous events that she'd been thrown into thus far.

"Shit."

Upon closer inspection of her shoulder, she found a raw-looking pinkness spread all along her upper arms and chest. As much as she had always been advised against it with the old adage, she was curious as to how severely that hot water could have seared her. The jeweler poked gingerly at it with an extended finger, and was rewarded with the all-too-familiar sharpness one felt after aggravating a tender bruise. Wincing, Sanoë sucked in her breath through her teeth and pressed lightly on the area.

Practically hot enough to cauterize a wound. Clearly, she would not be enjoying this vacation.

Of course, when had she expected to enjoy any of her time here? Even setting out she knew she had twice the workload to accomplish. She was on a furious manhunt to find her half-brother Eliot, a fanciful young man of twenty with an appetite for women, alcohol, freedom from the national debt and freedom of speech. It was a penchant that befit someone his age, but to her would have looked more appropriate on a man twice his age with nothing to lose and a decaying sense of morality and self-worth. Eliot had confidence, he had looks and potential and the promise of a bountiful life going for him; trouble was, he was going about it all wrong. In his snappish retreat from Sanoë's one-bedroom flat above the jewelry store she shared with her adoptive mother, he'd neglected to take with him whatever miniscule shreds of common sense he might have possessed. As a begrudging older sister, it felt like a duty locked onto her like a heavily-linked chain to go after him and prevent him from falling to whatever creative death he would likely encounter. It was Eliot, after all.

After she'd recovered from the brief bout of broiling from the torrid spray of water and finally managed to get herself clean, Sanoë pulled back the shower curtain and stepped warily onto the bathmat. Quite honestly, she was more than just a tad suspicious of her current lodgings. Pmilani, from what she'd heard from local gossip, was as wealthy in hospitality as a nobleman's estate dripping in regality and largess, but unfortunately was found wanting when it came to cleanliness and first-class hotels and, as she'd discovered in a very stinging way, proper plumbing. She'd have to have a word with the manager. She'd always been good at that.

Her towel wrapped hastily around her, the jeweler bent over the little wooden desk in her bedroom and slid a sheet of paper from the rather dusty-looking stack of old stationary beneath the lamp. Dark, wet hair swung in front of her face, letting a few drops fall onto the paper; impatiently, she batted them away as she jotted down a few preemptory lines of a letter to her adoptive mother, Jora.

Aside from searching for Eliot and getting away from the chaotic assignment in Corone, she'd decided to take in a little profit on the way. Pmilani was unknown to her, but there was a good chance it was one of the port cities from which shipments of materials came to her little jewelry shop back in Arsal. If she accomplished nothing else on the hunt, it would be a consolation to her to be able to say she could still do what she did best.

[Empyrean]

She descended the stairway at the end of the hall swiftly, wincing every time the tap of her boots on the steps landed too loudly for her taste. The stairwell, like most of the hotel, was made of a raw-looking sort of stone, smoothed out and marbled in the walls, but rough in the floor, and any weight that was the slightest bit heavier than a pencil fell hard on the stoneware. At one point she had a ridiculous notion to try and speed along her purpose quietly by tiptoeing each step, until she realized how accomplishing such a feat might look to anyone remotely within the grounds of 'normal.'

Subdued blue-ish light fell softly in shafts from azure-paneled stained glass windows as Sanoë reached the first floor, curling her damp hair around an index finger and looping it into a loose bun. The long, thin windows stood from floor to ceiling, so jagged and dusty in corners that one would assume they were as ancient as the building itself, which had to be a hundred years old or more. So detailed, however, were the illustrations blocked in by black ink, wire, and panes of violet, blue, and yellow, it was hard to believe they came from an elder, more primitive age. The scenes depicted were simplistic, rambling hills and rivers tended by peasantlike townsfolk and iconic leader figures and stiff animals, but the endearing quality presented was easy to accept. Every few feet or so was a small wooden table adorned with a vase of lilies and wildflowers, a relatively cheap but winsome fixture in the narrow halls of the small hotel.

The lobby was equally charming, decided the jeweler, walking swiftly through toward the front desk. Light from the early afternoon sun outside filtered in through swinging doors, filling the already brightened room with glaring white cast off every available reflective surface. A low, sloping yellow ceiling made of rough stucco stretched down between marble panels in the walls, adding to the homespun feel of old country hospitality. Try as she might, though, Sanoë couldn't dismiss the notion from her head that perhaps they were trying a little too hard. It was in her nature to nitpick, after all; as nice as the old country mood felt, it skittered on the edge of being too cheerful. She'd unintentionally tried to strike up a conversation with an older couple staying in the western wing about the matter, then realized that they, like most of Pmilani, spoke a language she was wholly and terribly unfamiliar with.

It had, at the very least, given her an excuse not to be bothered with any pointless conversation someone else might try to strike up with her. She always had been more of a taker than a giver in such situations.

The jeweler, still wringing out the tips of her wet hair with her fist, approached the front desk, which was little more than a room the size of a coat closet stacked with papers, brochures, and drawers full of room keys. The short man standing behind it was balding, swarthy, and heavyset behind a crisp white shirt with rolled up sleeves and suspenders. Deep set dark eyes beneath thick, pointed brows still gazing thoughtfully at a financial roll sheet, he hummed a bouncy tune quietly to himself in a rich baritone.

"Bisogno qualche cosa?"* He smiled sheepishly when he saw the jeweler. "Ah. What can I help you with today, signorina?"

Sanoë, still a little flustered by the fast, undulating syllables, crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the counter, making sure not to knock over the small, framed painting of what was undoubtedly the man's large, equally dusky family. "I was on my way out, but I should let you know about your homicidal shower."

The manager peered skeptically at her over a prominent, aquiline nose. "Signorina is displeased with the plumbing, then?"

"Yeah, a little displeased, mostly because of the nice, hot scalding I got as a wake-up call this morning," groused the jeweler, keeping her tone down to avoid the stares of her fellow guests. If people were going to be hearing enough to say things about her, Sanoë preferred to be talked about in a language she could at least understand. "I think your 'hot' and 'cold' are a little mixed up."

"I will have my boys take a look at it," he answered, not without a continuing note of exasperation in his voice. "I do hope Signorina knows she is lucky to be in classy surroundings. Most of Pmilani do without our kind of lodgings," he reprimanded as he filed a note onto his papers, all the stern fatherliness of a seasoned parent in his manner.

Unappreciative of the tone, the jeweler looked sharply back at those dark eyes in reply. "I'm sure I am very lucky, but seeing as I haven't been around most of Pmilani, I'd rather take your word for it and have a functional shower."

As she bent over to rebuckle the back of her boot, she thought she heard him muttering to himself, and when she came back up, the manager was murmuring something in his own language -- "Straniera rigida..."**

"I'm sorry?" asked Sanoë with as much sugar in her voice as she could muster up without being completely obnoxious.

Looking only marginally taken aback, he answered without missing a beat. "Just wishing I could fix the problem for you meself, signorina. Ah, before you leave for the day," he began, surely at least somewhat aware of Sanoë's skeptical, disbelieving expression. "You got a reply to your ad yesterday evening. Signore Giordano requests your presence at his home sometime today. Very well-to-do, Signore Giordano, good merchant," the manager added as the jeweler opened her mouth to protest. "Knows his jewels."

Now she shut her trap and considered the possibility. The likelihood of actually landing some good supplies - or even a permanent shipping deal - for the jewelery store back home was not at all high, or at least, she hadn't expected it to be. She was more than a little critical of the offer, but at the most crucial times, any opportunity for business couldn't be left neglected. "He didn't happen to leave an address, did he?" she asked, trying to keep her enthusiasm down.

Smiling, the manager lifted a pudgy finger and pointed just outside the wrought-iron gate beyond the swinging doors of his hotel's entrance. "He is expecting you already. Allow me to call for his carriage to pick you up, signorina?"

"I'd appreciate that, thank you. I'll be outside."



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* "Need anything?"
** "Uptight foreigner..."