And it Rains Blood in Emo-ville

[Synful_Blood]

{Closed. Dialogue is probably not gonna be translated, so if you don't speak Drow, oh well.}

Syn shuffled along a dusty road a few miles from Radasanth, even more annoyed at life than usual. Joining the Audeamus had been a waste of time; she'd come to Corone for no reason at all. Fortunately, she'd lost her pursuit from the Audeamus' attack on the Bazaar a while back. She'd hidden in some bushes, being generally still and silent, and when the mounted guard didn't see her, they went on past. That had been three days ago, and all she really had to show for it was that she'd made some human kill a baby with his flail.

Vith mina lueth ninta ilhars, she thought with an apathetic sort of hatred. She was mildly surprised that she'd reverted to Drow; she only did that when she was in the foulest of moods. Then again, having wasted her time on a worthless group that had promised much and delivered little was just cause to want to find that Dan Lagh'ratham and drown him in blood. Whenever she got the motivation to hunt him down, that was. It wasn't like he was a damn Alerarean or anything.

Without noticing it, she had shuffled into a five shack town with a dusty inn and a couple of trees. The few residents looked at her warily, none of them daring to peek under the hood which shrouded the gray-skinned skeleton's eyes. The aura of threat around her showed most on her heavily scarred arms and warned away any who might approach.

She found a tree big enough to divert the cursed glare of the sun and let her emaciated body fold into a sitting position beneath its boughs. The sudden, off motion made her hood fall back, momentarily exposing streaks of ice white hair that starkly interrupted the ebony black locks that neighbored them, before a skeletal hand pulled the clothen wall back over red eyes, separating her from the world and it from her.

Idly, she took out Mellon en Amin, her shining steel razor blade, and let it dance a pattern into the skin of her forearm. The warmth of blood was much preferable to the heat of the sun or the cold attitudes of inferior humans. Fortunately, inferior beings tended to leave her alone, save for that one human in Scara Brae that had insisted on imprisoning her.

Usstan zhal'la inbal elggen ukta. Her mood hadn't improved at all, so she'd let Mellon work its magic until she either passed out or felt better. She didn't expect to be interrupted.

[Stryful_Blood]

As Syn settled down underneath the thickly-boughed tree, there was a pair of eyes upon her that went beyond just the few humans who could recognize trouble from a mile away. They were above her, staring down in the form of a spire-eared man who was far too overdressed for the heat. He wore a long sleeved grey shirt, with black slacks, his bare toes wrapped around a small budding branch to keep it from slapping against his arm. If he bent the branch to the side just a tad, he could see how the hair fell from her hood. An expanse of darkness, brightened by lines of platinum. His hands moved to his head, where the locks that fell messily down mirrored the same pattern.

When her razor was brought out, the blood coming to the surface, Stryfus frowned. Underneath his heavy shirt, he knew the map of scars on his skin as intimately as he'd known any lover's flesh. He could see scars dancing along her grey arms, jealous for a moment. Not that she had more. Both of them were marred with as many tracings of anger and despair as the other. Rather, her skin was darker. It was a strange shade, like a corpse that had been floating just under the surface of water for years on end, but it was closer to a deeply Drow display than he would ever be able to show.

He knew the feeling that went into a cut, however, so he stayed silently up on his perch as she dug the razor through flesh. Blood bubbled to the surface, beading first and then racing down the curve of her arms in thick, straight stripes. She made a sound, almost imperceptible to his ears. Was it a moan of pleasure? It had only been for a moment, but it pulled at something within him as well. Could this be it? His twin soul? He had to see her eyes. Somehow he knew that if she could look into his sanguine gaze, and not flinch, it was meant to be.

"Ph'dos natha wussrun'wa xor ph'dos trantz?" he asked.

His voice was like a song, an elven baritone that had attracted women to him before. It was like sex condensed into a tone, the melody of his words almost managing to take away all the dark things that the very sound of a Drow sentence could invoke. Still beyond, the pretty quality of his voice, there was contempt resting. She was probably just a figment of his imagination. Something so perfect as his soulmate couldn't possibly be real, be here.

The only thing he ever believed to be real was the pain.

[Synful_Blood]

Here she was, minding her own business, when a voice from a tree asked her whether or not she was real. The voice was beautiful enough to be Elven, but it spoke Alerian without a Raiaeran accent. The tree with the beautiful voice had obviously grown that voice among the race she hated above anyone but herself.

Her blood started curling in the air as a response to the surge of hatred running through her, little tendrils caught in the first swaying movements of a dance which mirrored the shadows of the tree's leaves. She held back for now, though. She wanted her prey closer if he wanted so badly to die. Maybe she could bring him closer; it wasn't worth moving if he wouldn't come to die.

"Er'griff jiv'undus zhah trantz," she responded to his question. Whereas his voice held a distinct and heartless beauty to it, Syn had very carefully cultivated her voice to be lackluster and even caustic. Where his tone held an open contempt for the rest of the world, hers carried its contempt in an undertone. She preferred to let whoever invaded her space long enough to hear her talk know that she didn't care enough about them to do anything other than maybe see them dead.

"Drill..." Her answer before had been truthful. Nothing in her world was real but her pain and suffering. The rest of it was a waking hell, from which each cut let her escape, if only for a few moments.

She was tempted to let Mellon's razor-sharp blade caress her skin once more, but it would be unwise if she was going to try and choke someone. She did need to stay conscious long enough to kill her prey, after all.

"Drill...Ka dos ssinssrin ulu zhaun lu'oh 'trantz' Usstan tlun, dos shlu'ta doer lu' ori'gato uns'aa elgg dos."

[Stryful_Blood]

The movement of her blood in the air held his eyes, captivated as if he were watching the world turn and twist itself. Her power rang out, and his smile spread along his face. He had been resigned that his search for the one who matched him to last for years upon end. His patience had been weighted to this, but here she was. So soon after starting his quest, staring at him. He could feel her anger, bitter and steady against the chaotic beast in his mind that begged him to take his own blood. They were opposite forces, but so similar it was startling.

"Elgg uns'aa lu'beldro uns'aa 'sohna, 'zil serisen xun." he said, his voice barely above a breath as he crawled to the other side of the tree, falling onto the ground in a crouch. He peeked around the trunk, his crimson eyes never leaving hers.

[Synful_Blood]

The audacity roused in her a black anger that felt bitterly vile. Lovers? She wanted nothing to do with either the emotion or the act. Hatred was her lover, her desire, the only reason she got up in the morning. Hatred and the desire to kill any of the tainted creatures that boasted the name Ilythiiri.

She looked up at him for the first time and saw it, crimson orbs staring into her own from the midst of a deathly pale face. He was a classic Elven beauty, but his hair bore the same marks as hers. He was the same as her, half and half, and that made her loathe him all the more. In a strange way, she pitied him, but not as much as she hated what he represented.

She leaned in toward him, blood coiling around itself eagerly, like a snake after its meal.

"Serisen? Feh." She spat the word as if it were the vilest of curses. And it was. A creature of hate loathed the idea of intimacy, of the lessening of hate.

Her lean had brought her arm in close, and she lashed out with her most hate-fuelled weapon - her own tainted blood. It coiled around his neck and she tightened it, trying to choke the life out of the bastard that bore too much resemblence to her.

"Serisen? Usstan ssinssrigg naubol. Plithut zhah ussta dro." She hissed at him, all the while trying to draw the noose tighter and tighter.

{bunny approved.}