Date: 7/14/1999 8:52 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
Like so many other nights since her discovery of Rose's departure, Baghiira found one of the large, heavy carriages waiting for her at the end of the Gallica Path. Daytime in the House was bad enough; humid jungle air was thick and warm as blood here, and the drawn shades did nothing but stifle any breath that stirred. But at night... well, the House was more alive then, it seemed; more sentient. She
was likely to find herself lost deep in the catacombs when she awoke, or sprawled in the center of the ballroom's parquet floor, rather than tucked into Rose's large bed. Either the House enjoyed toying with her, dumb animal, or it simply didn't think she should be sleeping in Rose's private chamber.
Nonetheless, she refused to retreat into the jungle, leaving her own lair deep within the temple neglected. She would wait for Rose's return, stubbornly faithful as those soul-less, twin Dobermans. Rudolph and Gregor, in fact, seemed to welcome her presence in a silent, noncommittal sort of way; was the House playing games with them as well?
Tonight, like so many other nights, she made no choice regarding destination; simply clambered past the expressionless footman into the dark depths of the carriage. The wooden panels had never been removed from the windows; the six jaunty Clydesdales (yes, six - as much for show as for necessity) had to be restrained every time her scent wafted to them as it was. No light reached her, and very little sound and yet, when the carriage drew up before
the Red Dragon, she knew she wouldn't be going in -- not the Inn itself, at least. She slapped away the footman's extended hand and descended, pausing at the street's edge to taste the air. There was sweat, excitement... and something tantalizingly familiar, something which pulled her without thought beyond the Red Dragon... to the Outback.
She knew why she'd come as soon as she entered.
((Author's note: To be continued; taken from live roleplay.))
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
Hunter/Hunted
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/14/1999 8:12 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
"Tareth," a caller shouted, "hope you got sperm in the bank, buddy. Otherwise, there go the kids."
Tareth. The name seethed in her mind like the hiss of boiling water - blood - and she recognized the scent that had taunted her, leading her beyond the cattle-market of the Red Dragon Inn to the Outback. It wasn't the fighting, the smell of blood or tang of adrenaline in the air -- it was Him. Concurrent with this recognition, pantherine eyes lit with green mamba poison and the purr which chased her every breath became steeped in
sky-blue death. The jungle cat sank into shadow and watched him fight. Near the end of the match, when he was distracted and struggling to hold his own, she eased out of those shadows -- motion like an oil-slick animated, only the roll of a hip and the scuff of a boot to reinforce solidity, reality. She moved nearer the ring, ignoring the chairs and tables there in favor of settling into a comfortable crouch well below eye-level. One arm
stretched to drape across a bent knee, the fingers of the opposite hand trailing the wooden floor.
End it. Regardless the commotion in the room, her attention fixed on that match; small hairs at the nape of her neck rose unnoticed; whether from the excitement in the room or some form of skittishness or even the charge that crackles across her own flesh remained unknown even to her. Finally did it end; she didn't glance to the scoreboard as both struck but only one succeeded -- the caller's reaction was all she needed, a mere motion in
periphery. As He went down, she rose in a serpentine undulation, stretching as she straightened to drop back a pace into shadow. Bare arms drifted to dangle by her sides; she suddenly became the picture of cat-in-the-sun calm, golden-green eyes lazily half-lidded. She remained in place, features placid and contrasted only by the energy which hums constant beneath taut skin.
She would wait, and watch, for now.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
"Tareth," a caller shouted, "hope you got sperm in the bank, buddy. Otherwise, there go the kids."
Tareth. The name seethed in her mind like the hiss of boiling water - blood - and she recognized the scent that had taunted her, leading her beyond the cattle-market of the Red Dragon Inn to the Outback. It wasn't the fighting, the smell of blood or tang of adrenaline in the air -- it was Him. Concurrent with this recognition, pantherine eyes lit with green mamba poison and the purr which chased her every breath became steeped in
sky-blue death. The jungle cat sank into shadow and watched him fight. Near the end of the match, when he was distracted and struggling to hold his own, she eased out of those shadows -- motion like an oil-slick animated, only the roll of a hip and the scuff of a boot to reinforce solidity, reality. She moved nearer the ring, ignoring the chairs and tables there in favor of settling into a comfortable crouch well below eye-level. One arm
stretched to drape across a bent knee, the fingers of the opposite hand trailing the wooden floor.
End it. Regardless the commotion in the room, her attention fixed on that match; small hairs at the nape of her neck rose unnoticed; whether from the excitement in the room or some form of skittishness or even the charge that crackles across her own flesh remained unknown even to her. Finally did it end; she didn't glance to the scoreboard as both struck but only one succeeded -- the caller's reaction was all she needed, a mere motion in
periphery. As He went down, she rose in a serpentine undulation, stretching as she straightened to drop back a pace into shadow. Bare arms drifted to dangle by her sides; she suddenly became the picture of cat-in-the-sun calm, golden-green eyes lazily half-lidded. She remained in place, features placid and contrasted only by the energy which hums constant beneath taut skin.
She would wait, and watch, for now.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/14/1999 9:47 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
There it was again, motion too near the edge of a spent ring... an admirer perhaps? Well, let them admire from there, because he's got some important whining to do. With a grunt, he pulls himself up from the mat and sits... hand on tummy, eyes shut. So why does he feel like the singled-out sick animal in a pack that's being hunted by lions? Ah well...
She shifts, the roll of a hip and the glide of a step removing her from the path his vision will take when those quicksilver eyes open.
A small belch... well, it helped a little... and he clambers slowly to his feet. Oh, boy... an intestinal parasite might've been moer fune than tonight's joyous moments. At least there's the hope of some cold water as he thumps ungracefully from the ring and plods toward the new bar.
The temptation is to get impatient... tension coils at the base of her spine, slipping greedy hands up the length of it.
"Get you an ale, sir?" This is asked by Khadgar, His opponent from the recently finished match.
"Oh.. no... just water, please." Plod, plod, stump, sit, slump. She remains in place while he sits, screened by mottled shadows like the hunter in the grass.
"Sorry about the low blow." Khadgar goes about getting the water. " 'twas an accident, I assure you."
"Accidents hurt, too... but I don't blame ya." He attempts a smile, albeit a crooked one. "I would have tried the same thing."
"Well, I'm sorry 'bout that anyway," Khadgar affirms, handing him the water.
There's a slow mental count, paced to the beat of a not-so-distant heart... and when she moves, each stride carries her far - perhaps farther than it should - water rolling down a hill. He's gulping the water down quickly.
"I am Khadgar," the former opponent offers. "May I know your name, sir?"
"Last I checked," he gulps down the last of the water, "it was Tareth. But if ya call me that, I'll be surprised."
"Well, what should I call you?" Khadgar's friend, Bob, joins the pair. She hesitates.
"Bastard seems to be the most popular these days." So close; a hand lifts, long fingers yearning momentarily toward spikes of blond -- they would, after all, offer a good grip. But she stays that hand, settling for moving closer, nearer the warmth of his back.
"Well, hello, Bastard." This witty comment comes from the newly arrived Bob. Khadgar is the only one to laugh.
"I'll call ya Tareth. Tareth, this is Bob; Bob, this is Tareth."
"Nice to meet you, Bob." But his tone is suddenly chilly; there was something he didn't like in Khadgar's eyes. Ever so carefully he eases back on his chair... until planting his hands against the bar's edge, he shoves back violently.
And o! How close! But she draws her arms in quickly and jumps to the side, a low hiss seething between bared teeth.
"Something wrong, Tareth?" Khadgar has noticed the sudden movement.
"You could say that." His brows are low, his voice a gravel grate. The chair now faces something... someone.. that drove all thoughts of nausea away.. igniting a very cold fire instead.
"Have I done something to offend you, sir?"
Perhaps 'something' was closer to the mark than 'someone.' There's a similar fire in golden-green, but it burns with all the heat and intensity of brush-fires in a season of drought. And the snarl that teases the lips framing the hiss is anything but human; a panther's rictus, feral and incongruous to such human form.
"Not a thing," Tareth responds without looking; he'd sooner turn his back on a noisy rattler. Khadgar, easily appeased, shrugs and turns back to Bob.
But it's not the noisy rattler one needs to worry about; the hiss dies away abruptly, cut off somewhere deep in her chest, and those lips seal. She straightens finally from the saving jump, and the smile which corrects those features is cool and at all odds with both the previous manner and the eyes which still burn above it.
"Tareth." The syllables are almost garbled in the gutteral purr which is her voice.
"How very nice to see you... Baghiira." His own words barely escape, as his jaw refuses to relax while in motion.
Bob leans over to Khadgar and whispers, "What's with them?"
"No idea." Khadgar's response is equally quiet. Both go unnoticed by the tense pair.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
There it was again, motion too near the edge of a spent ring... an admirer perhaps? Well, let them admire from there, because he's got some important whining to do. With a grunt, he pulls himself up from the mat and sits... hand on tummy, eyes shut. So why does he feel like the singled-out sick animal in a pack that's being hunted by lions? Ah well...
She shifts, the roll of a hip and the glide of a step removing her from the path his vision will take when those quicksilver eyes open.
A small belch... well, it helped a little... and he clambers slowly to his feet. Oh, boy... an intestinal parasite might've been moer fune than tonight's joyous moments. At least there's the hope of some cold water as he thumps ungracefully from the ring and plods toward the new bar.
The temptation is to get impatient... tension coils at the base of her spine, slipping greedy hands up the length of it.
"Get you an ale, sir?" This is asked by Khadgar, His opponent from the recently finished match.
"Oh.. no... just water, please." Plod, plod, stump, sit, slump. She remains in place while he sits, screened by mottled shadows like the hunter in the grass.
"Sorry about the low blow." Khadgar goes about getting the water. " 'twas an accident, I assure you."
"Accidents hurt, too... but I don't blame ya." He attempts a smile, albeit a crooked one. "I would have tried the same thing."
"Well, I'm sorry 'bout that anyway," Khadgar affirms, handing him the water.
There's a slow mental count, paced to the beat of a not-so-distant heart... and when she moves, each stride carries her far - perhaps farther than it should - water rolling down a hill. He's gulping the water down quickly.
"I am Khadgar," the former opponent offers. "May I know your name, sir?"
"Last I checked," he gulps down the last of the water, "it was Tareth. But if ya call me that, I'll be surprised."
"Well, what should I call you?" Khadgar's friend, Bob, joins the pair. She hesitates.
"Bastard seems to be the most popular these days." So close; a hand lifts, long fingers yearning momentarily toward spikes of blond -- they would, after all, offer a good grip. But she stays that hand, settling for moving closer, nearer the warmth of his back.
"Well, hello, Bastard." This witty comment comes from the newly arrived Bob. Khadgar is the only one to laugh.
"I'll call ya Tareth. Tareth, this is Bob; Bob, this is Tareth."
"Nice to meet you, Bob." But his tone is suddenly chilly; there was something he didn't like in Khadgar's eyes. Ever so carefully he eases back on his chair... until planting his hands against the bar's edge, he shoves back violently.
And o! How close! But she draws her arms in quickly and jumps to the side, a low hiss seething between bared teeth.
"Something wrong, Tareth?" Khadgar has noticed the sudden movement.
"You could say that." His brows are low, his voice a gravel grate. The chair now faces something... someone.. that drove all thoughts of nausea away.. igniting a very cold fire instead.
"Have I done something to offend you, sir?"
Perhaps 'something' was closer to the mark than 'someone.' There's a similar fire in golden-green, but it burns with all the heat and intensity of brush-fires in a season of drought. And the snarl that teases the lips framing the hiss is anything but human; a panther's rictus, feral and incongruous to such human form.
"Not a thing," Tareth responds without looking; he'd sooner turn his back on a noisy rattler. Khadgar, easily appeased, shrugs and turns back to Bob.
But it's not the noisy rattler one needs to worry about; the hiss dies away abruptly, cut off somewhere deep in her chest, and those lips seal. She straightens finally from the saving jump, and the smile which corrects those features is cool and at all odds with both the previous manner and the eyes which still burn above it.
"Tareth." The syllables are almost garbled in the gutteral purr which is her voice.
"How very nice to see you... Baghiira." His own words barely escape, as his jaw refuses to relax while in motion.
Bob leans over to Khadgar and whispers, "What's with them?"
"No idea." Khadgar's response is equally quiet. Both go unnoticed by the tense pair.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/14/1999 10:29 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
"I've almost missed you." In the way that one misses eating. Pink flickers across her lips, widening them into a smile.
"I'm betting you have." A very abrupt grin splits his face, but if you believe in that, then the tooth fairy is coming for you tonight. "But this is a place of honorable duel. So... if you feel like a hunt, I'd suggest choosing a ring."
A brow flies skyward at that, stark slash of sable in perpetually tanned skin. "You're not going to run away this time?" The purr loops and curls like a hungry cat around his ankles, pawing its way up his legs -- and surely there's no danger in such honeyed tones... surely..
"Things change." Again that mirthless grin, this one must certainly strike a sour note with its oddity.
"Fine." The syllable is sharp, stacatto, regardless the purr which attempts to wrap it in velvet. It's all steel underneath, anyway.
"And I have a duel to attend. So unless you're going to step in the ring..." This stated, he pushes the chair backward and away from him, preparing to depart.
"Lead. I follow."
"Oh?" For the first time since this unpleasant discovery, amusement finds his voice. Her response, a snarl, ripples not only across her lips, but from somewhere within her abdomen, a sound earthy and primal and far beyond her stature.
A roar... oh... so sweet... it begins the music within his head... a steady beat that can only lead to natural rhythm. This should be good indeed.
True to at least one word, she follows him into the ring, pausing only long enough to strip off boots and any other 'unnecessary' accoutrements.
Threads of scheme weave themselves among pounding techno... it would seem adrenaline will be his companion for this fight.
There's a ripple of green around a bicep as she presses her hands to the mat, slinking beneath the ropes and straightening once within. The hunger in those eyes is unmistakeable; she is the hunter in the grass, and only the patience necessary for survival holds her in check.
He knows this foe... straightening, he settles into a nearly sedate stance... nothing given in defense or offense... a cold calm settling in with synthesized notes in his brain.
"I need your name!" The second - or third? - shout from the caller jerks her attention to the side and pantherine eyes narrow. The word is a hiss, sharp at consonants.
"Baghiira." The caller adds another odd name to the database and starting a new file.
"Let's do this." It's a quiet whisper from Tareth, and though she offers no verbal response, her body does respond. The purr again rumbles in her chest, rising and falling with her breathing, and those eyes, if possible in this dim light, brighten.
Like a giant cat... incredible. Whose, if anyone's, lap does she sleep in at night?
There's little time to ponder such questions; she's quick like a cat, too, and evades his first move -- but instead of dodging away from the kick, she darts in and ducks beneath his leg, brushing purposefully near his body as she steps past him and turns behind to fast.
A rather powerful chord in his music had dictated an equally powerful move... he seems to be fighting water. So be it - water splatters, too.
Even after dodging - if such could be called a dodge - she remains in close, pressing in on his territory. Indeed - whose lap?
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
"I've almost missed you." In the way that one misses eating. Pink flickers across her lips, widening them into a smile.
"I'm betting you have." A very abrupt grin splits his face, but if you believe in that, then the tooth fairy is coming for you tonight. "But this is a place of honorable duel. So... if you feel like a hunt, I'd suggest choosing a ring."
A brow flies skyward at that, stark slash of sable in perpetually tanned skin. "You're not going to run away this time?" The purr loops and curls like a hungry cat around his ankles, pawing its way up his legs -- and surely there's no danger in such honeyed tones... surely..
"Things change." Again that mirthless grin, this one must certainly strike a sour note with its oddity.
"Fine." The syllable is sharp, stacatto, regardless the purr which attempts to wrap it in velvet. It's all steel underneath, anyway.
"And I have a duel to attend. So unless you're going to step in the ring..." This stated, he pushes the chair backward and away from him, preparing to depart.
"Lead. I follow."
"Oh?" For the first time since this unpleasant discovery, amusement finds his voice. Her response, a snarl, ripples not only across her lips, but from somewhere within her abdomen, a sound earthy and primal and far beyond her stature.
A roar... oh... so sweet... it begins the music within his head... a steady beat that can only lead to natural rhythm. This should be good indeed.
True to at least one word, she follows him into the ring, pausing only long enough to strip off boots and any other 'unnecessary' accoutrements.
Threads of scheme weave themselves among pounding techno... it would seem adrenaline will be his companion for this fight.
There's a ripple of green around a bicep as she presses her hands to the mat, slinking beneath the ropes and straightening once within. The hunger in those eyes is unmistakeable; she is the hunter in the grass, and only the patience necessary for survival holds her in check.
He knows this foe... straightening, he settles into a nearly sedate stance... nothing given in defense or offense... a cold calm settling in with synthesized notes in his brain.
"I need your name!" The second - or third? - shout from the caller jerks her attention to the side and pantherine eyes narrow. The word is a hiss, sharp at consonants.
"Baghiira." The caller adds another odd name to the database and starting a new file.
"Let's do this." It's a quiet whisper from Tareth, and though she offers no verbal response, her body does respond. The purr again rumbles in her chest, rising and falling with her breathing, and those eyes, if possible in this dim light, brighten.
Like a giant cat... incredible. Whose, if anyone's, lap does she sleep in at night?
There's little time to ponder such questions; she's quick like a cat, too, and evades his first move -- but instead of dodging away from the kick, she darts in and ducks beneath his leg, brushing purposefully near his body as she steps past him and turns behind to fast.
A rather powerful chord in his music had dictated an equally powerful move... he seems to be fighting water. So be it - water splatters, too.
Even after dodging - if such could be called a dodge - she remains in close, pressing in on his territory. Indeed - whose lap?
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/14/1999 10:45 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
"Gratha! Two! Baghiira's jabbing, and she's scoring over Tareth's sweep!"
It's a "jab" with her own sense of the attack; her claws are fully extended and the fingers tensed when her hand slams forward to punch through his defenses.
Lost within the beat... for what place has a better sound system than one's mind?... the music halts like a skipped CD when her claws sketch silvery lines of pain down his forehead. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.. and a slight frown mars his features until the tune comes back on line. Funny... this wasn't the same soundtrack -- live with it. He just hopes the scratches don't bleed into his vision.
And now the tang of blood is added to the heat which presses against her skin. She's still pressing inward, staying close, reaching out...
"Gratha! Three! Baghiira's wanting to flip, Tareth leaps away."
Enough... her scent is too sweet, and so he simply bunches as she moves forward again, sliding low and sailing high... a puzzle of movement in attempt for some space.
"Jabs are the scoring maneuvers in Gratha, it seems." Nevermind the failed reach, she continues moving in; palm flat, he simply halts his backward movement and allows her own momentum to carry. She was dropping, but not fast or low enough to save her face from the heel of his hand. Nevermind that, too; the pain is mutated into a pleasurable tingle by high levels of adrenaline; she goes with the fall, rolls and is on her feet again, balanced
in a low, four-point crouch with teeth bared.
Who ordered the fifth movement? Damn.. ah well, what works will work...
"Baghiira's brutal! Tareth gets hit with his second gene-stopper of the night!" This time, those razor claws are bundled safely inside a fist -- but that blow is not only timed with his jumpkick, but aimed, and the force of her entire body was behind it.
At the very least, he learned from his last match... his outer thigh accepts the force and directs it to his hip, which gratefully spins him around enough to land mostly on the good leg... his hiss, though, nearly equals hers.
She continues in the explosion of movement which carried her out of her crouch, landing and whirling to face him again.
A clash of cymbals... a flash of cannons... that's more like it. Despite a limp, lips split in a grin... oh my.
She's low again, bare feet tamping once, twice against the mat. The blood is singing now -- both that within her own veins and that upon his face. She's not aware of her surroundings.. just the blood... and Him. When he reaches to grab and flip, she dodges again -- once again, not away from him, but far too close to allow leverage of any kind.
Distraction... will he ever get over the last move? Think in the now. Mentally cursing, he uses his forward rush to step by her.. she's behind him, but at least it's different this time...
That purr floats, disembodied, in the space forged by his motion. And they dance; he dodges, expecting an attack and attempting to blur his motion, and she, also expecting an attack, uses her gathered crouch to facillitate a nearly vertical leap, landing her, once again... near him. Around a bicep, inked thorns writhe in anticipation; apparently, she's not the only one here high on bloodsong. Her next strike is the favored jab, but this time
those flexed claws streak over cheek and jawbone instead of forehead.
Silver finds the strike even as he crouches... a quick head jerk and he's able to once more save his eye... which opens again to scowl parrotlike at his attacker.
"I dub thee 'neosporin girl.'" After all, he's going to need a lot of it. But the look in silver eyes is missed by his opponent; she's focused on the frail flutter and determined pulse of the jugular, and her ears pound with a rhythm more His than her own.
A small mental note: next time, make plans a little less painful.
When she kicks next, his arms accept her foot into the good graces of his ribs, but with a twist that's sure to leave a mark as he slaps the edge of his hand to the inside of her knee. And she should have known better than to kick -- she'd always felt most comfortable with both feet on the ground -- hell, she felt most comfortable on all fours, as low to the ground as possible. But now she gets as close to the mat as she could possibly want,
catching herself with her hands as she falls and pushing herself back to her feet. Pain? There's no pain here... she's beyond the point where she can acknowledge it. There's only an anger that borders on lust - maybe bloodlust - and she wades in to slam a nasty right hook toward his face, fingers tense again, claws extended...
The bare hint of a grin, he finally leans into a narrower stance.. and again he accepts the force of her blow - but this time, simply spins on his good support and redirects it toward the mat behind him. It's her own momentum that carries her down and the music stops... silence golden, as his ears receive the thumping of his opponent to his old acquaintence, the mat.
This time, the landing is far less controlled and she pushes to her feet, muscles strung on white wires of exhilaration.
"Funny... I thought all cats landed on their feet." Oh, that smirk was delicious.
Luckily, the flush of the fight is in her skin; for all appearances, the comment slides off -- water from a duck's back. There's no need to broadcast how that does truly irk her. But that anger bubbles forth in her only response: an attack, claws extended and striking visciously. This time, they score his flesh in time with his twirl to carve open his shoulder. He halts then, any pretense of any sort of hint of even *considering any sort of
amusement gone.
"You.. ruined.. my uniform." But she offers no response - again just the loosing of another purr, torn silk between them, and a heightening of the fire in eyes already too bright.
Sidling, edging, leading her toward the edge of the ropes... cajoling, even... taunting with the smell of blood... even a thrust-out fist seems half-hearted.
And perhaps that taunting is working. It's the strong pulse at his throat that she's watching, the rhythm of his heart that she's hearing, and the steps that slide her around his thrown punch are dreamlike, graceful in a way that seems alien to her compact form.
But then she's dropping and striking at his ankles... beneath his descending chop -- was it really as half-hearted a motion as it seemed? He's falling backward and she stays down, perhaps for a moment too long...
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
"Gratha! Two! Baghiira's jabbing, and she's scoring over Tareth's sweep!"
It's a "jab" with her own sense of the attack; her claws are fully extended and the fingers tensed when her hand slams forward to punch through his defenses.
Lost within the beat... for what place has a better sound system than one's mind?... the music halts like a skipped CD when her claws sketch silvery lines of pain down his forehead. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.. and a slight frown mars his features until the tune comes back on line. Funny... this wasn't the same soundtrack -- live with it. He just hopes the scratches don't bleed into his vision.
And now the tang of blood is added to the heat which presses against her skin. She's still pressing inward, staying close, reaching out...
"Gratha! Three! Baghiira's wanting to flip, Tareth leaps away."
Enough... her scent is too sweet, and so he simply bunches as she moves forward again, sliding low and sailing high... a puzzle of movement in attempt for some space.
"Jabs are the scoring maneuvers in Gratha, it seems." Nevermind the failed reach, she continues moving in; palm flat, he simply halts his backward movement and allows her own momentum to carry. She was dropping, but not fast or low enough to save her face from the heel of his hand. Nevermind that, too; the pain is mutated into a pleasurable tingle by high levels of adrenaline; she goes with the fall, rolls and is on her feet again, balanced
in a low, four-point crouch with teeth bared.
Who ordered the fifth movement? Damn.. ah well, what works will work...
"Baghiira's brutal! Tareth gets hit with his second gene-stopper of the night!" This time, those razor claws are bundled safely inside a fist -- but that blow is not only timed with his jumpkick, but aimed, and the force of her entire body was behind it.
At the very least, he learned from his last match... his outer thigh accepts the force and directs it to his hip, which gratefully spins him around enough to land mostly on the good leg... his hiss, though, nearly equals hers.
She continues in the explosion of movement which carried her out of her crouch, landing and whirling to face him again.
A clash of cymbals... a flash of cannons... that's more like it. Despite a limp, lips split in a grin... oh my.
She's low again, bare feet tamping once, twice against the mat. The blood is singing now -- both that within her own veins and that upon his face. She's not aware of her surroundings.. just the blood... and Him. When he reaches to grab and flip, she dodges again -- once again, not away from him, but far too close to allow leverage of any kind.
Distraction... will he ever get over the last move? Think in the now. Mentally cursing, he uses his forward rush to step by her.. she's behind him, but at least it's different this time...
That purr floats, disembodied, in the space forged by his motion. And they dance; he dodges, expecting an attack and attempting to blur his motion, and she, also expecting an attack, uses her gathered crouch to facillitate a nearly vertical leap, landing her, once again... near him. Around a bicep, inked thorns writhe in anticipation; apparently, she's not the only one here high on bloodsong. Her next strike is the favored jab, but this time
those flexed claws streak over cheek and jawbone instead of forehead.
Silver finds the strike even as he crouches... a quick head jerk and he's able to once more save his eye... which opens again to scowl parrotlike at his attacker.
"I dub thee 'neosporin girl.'" After all, he's going to need a lot of it. But the look in silver eyes is missed by his opponent; she's focused on the frail flutter and determined pulse of the jugular, and her ears pound with a rhythm more His than her own.
A small mental note: next time, make plans a little less painful.
When she kicks next, his arms accept her foot into the good graces of his ribs, but with a twist that's sure to leave a mark as he slaps the edge of his hand to the inside of her knee. And she should have known better than to kick -- she'd always felt most comfortable with both feet on the ground -- hell, she felt most comfortable on all fours, as low to the ground as possible. But now she gets as close to the mat as she could possibly want,
catching herself with her hands as she falls and pushing herself back to her feet. Pain? There's no pain here... she's beyond the point where she can acknowledge it. There's only an anger that borders on lust - maybe bloodlust - and she wades in to slam a nasty right hook toward his face, fingers tense again, claws extended...
The bare hint of a grin, he finally leans into a narrower stance.. and again he accepts the force of her blow - but this time, simply spins on his good support and redirects it toward the mat behind him. It's her own momentum that carries her down and the music stops... silence golden, as his ears receive the thumping of his opponent to his old acquaintence, the mat.
This time, the landing is far less controlled and she pushes to her feet, muscles strung on white wires of exhilaration.
"Funny... I thought all cats landed on their feet." Oh, that smirk was delicious.
Luckily, the flush of the fight is in her skin; for all appearances, the comment slides off -- water from a duck's back. There's no need to broadcast how that does truly irk her. But that anger bubbles forth in her only response: an attack, claws extended and striking visciously. This time, they score his flesh in time with his twirl to carve open his shoulder. He halts then, any pretense of any sort of hint of even *considering any sort of
amusement gone.
"You.. ruined.. my uniform." But she offers no response - again just the loosing of another purr, torn silk between them, and a heightening of the fire in eyes already too bright.
Sidling, edging, leading her toward the edge of the ropes... cajoling, even... taunting with the smell of blood... even a thrust-out fist seems half-hearted.
And perhaps that taunting is working. It's the strong pulse at his throat that she's watching, the rhythm of his heart that she's hearing, and the steps that slide her around his thrown punch are dreamlike, graceful in a way that seems alien to her compact form.
But then she's dropping and striking at his ankles... beneath his descending chop -- was it really as half-hearted a motion as it seemed? He's falling backward and she stays down, perhaps for a moment too long...
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/14/1999 10:53 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
Good enough. As he falls backward, the ropes cushion his fall... for a moment until he overbalances backward... and falls completely out of the ring. In a blur, if she was still watching, she might have seen the nubs of fingers grasp the ropes, then the edge of the ring for a split-second each... and the flash of a grin as out of her vision he curls, and slips beneath the curtain hiding the support of the mat she
still crouches on.
Oh, but she was watching, and didn't stay crouched for long. She's leaping after him, teeth bared, and is over those ropes as soon as he releases them, landing in hot pursuit with a wildcat's scream to shake the rafters -- and she overshoots him completely. If she currently had the mental faculties to do so, she'd be damning the loss of patience needed for those last few seconds of the chase... she knows this quarry, knows his scent as well as
her own, and should be able to wait him out. She pivots as swiftly as she's able and dives into the shadows into which he disappeared.
Ahhh... blessed be the instincts of animals, to attack what's before them and think little of surprises. He awaits her arrival after claiming the weapons that he lay beneath his first ring of the evening, and as she arrives, the very first thing she finds is the rather small barrel of a cocked gun against the smooth skin of her forehead.
There's too much adrenaline, too much bloodsong. She's lost the ability to differentiate between the blood that sings in her own heart and the blood that cries out from his, a damnable shortcoming of a twisted rebirth. She presses against the barrel, the snarl lashing its path up from her gut again, one arm balancing against the floor while the other stretches, testing his reach and the steadiness of that gun-holding arm.
Which was indeed the only un-rent limb of his tonight. Silver flares brightly in what little light seeps in from her entryway. "Ah.. ah.. ah.. down, kitty... " The insurgence of more pressure from his end of the barrel would seem to indicate a desire to more out of that darker place, back into the light.
The snarl still toys with her lips, roughs its way through her vocal cords, confused though it is with the purr that seems part and parcel with the act of breathing. After a long moment, golden-green burning into silver and vice versa, she inches reluctantly backward, not allowing the pressure against her own forehead to slacken for even a second. After all, she prefers the dark.
He inches forward carefully on bruised leg and torn one... nearly grateful that she does all the work of keeping his threat in place. Lips purse as he considers simply pulling the trigger here and now, saving himself the trouble of the act... however, how can he claim anything of a soul after that? No... that was a job for his sister.
"Move!" He grates needlessly, doubting she even wishes to stop anyhow. "Good pet...."
Oh... bad choice of words. But he continues without realizing his error.
"You mentioned something about running away? I would suggest that as a good idea for you just now..." And still the crimson runnels continue to mark slick trails down the black fabric.
She bares her teeth again (oh, poor teeth, so straight and even), his words setting her course. She lunges without warning, an arm sweeping up to knock that barrel away -- and he gives that defense up far too easily, to pursue the other arm rushing up behind her head and pushing it rather ungently into the side of the ring. He never asked her to lunge.
Her head rings and her vision shakes with the impact; she curls and tries to roll away, pricking her claws out of his shirt (close call, there) like a kitten from a screen door.
He falls back, his poor posterior used once again to his disadvantage as the gun trains once more on a larger target, her chest. Unfortunately, his breathing seems to be a bit too wet for his liking now.
There's a gasp through the pain of a suddenly screaming head -- even that gasp is unable to be drawn without the accompanying purr -- and she's forcing her head upward, eyes narrowing in attempt to focus. When the gasp is released, it is with a growl crashing over that purr. Be damned, she can still track him by scent.
"Ah... hell.." He scurries forward, too much of an advantage to lose, and as she loses attention to perform her inner diagnostic, he fires a round off just close enough to really rattle that wonderfully sensitive hearing of hers. Only a moment later, he and his injured body are hauling toward the shower room in back.
And that's what does it -- she'd held her nearly overwhelming fear of guns at bay until the shot went off -- which damaged not only her hearing and already aching head, but simply dumped the adrenaline from the aforementioned fear into her system. To put it bluntly: overload. Crash. She startled sideways with the shot and slumped, collapsed almost immediately as he dashed out, curling into a protective ball.
A crimson trail leads to the tiled entrance near the south wall... all that remains of his presence for the evening.
It's a long time before she emerges from beneath the ring, time spent wavering in and out of consciousness, with a frightening sensation of cotton-packed ears. She can't hear the noise from the rest of the Outback. When she does move, it is carefully and with little apparent balance. The damage wrought by such an impact of sound against delicately tuned hearing -- whether that damage be temporary or no -- does much worse than simple
deafness. She staggers out, barefoot and unsteady, and collapses into the
darkness of the massive carriage provided by her... benefactress.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
Good enough. As he falls backward, the ropes cushion his fall... for a moment until he overbalances backward... and falls completely out of the ring. In a blur, if she was still watching, she might have seen the nubs of fingers grasp the ropes, then the edge of the ring for a split-second each... and the flash of a grin as out of her vision he curls, and slips beneath the curtain hiding the support of the mat she
still crouches on.
Oh, but she was watching, and didn't stay crouched for long. She's leaping after him, teeth bared, and is over those ropes as soon as he releases them, landing in hot pursuit with a wildcat's scream to shake the rafters -- and she overshoots him completely. If she currently had the mental faculties to do so, she'd be damning the loss of patience needed for those last few seconds of the chase... she knows this quarry, knows his scent as well as
her own, and should be able to wait him out. She pivots as swiftly as she's able and dives into the shadows into which he disappeared.
Ahhh... blessed be the instincts of animals, to attack what's before them and think little of surprises. He awaits her arrival after claiming the weapons that he lay beneath his first ring of the evening, and as she arrives, the very first thing she finds is the rather small barrel of a cocked gun against the smooth skin of her forehead.
There's too much adrenaline, too much bloodsong. She's lost the ability to differentiate between the blood that sings in her own heart and the blood that cries out from his, a damnable shortcoming of a twisted rebirth. She presses against the barrel, the snarl lashing its path up from her gut again, one arm balancing against the floor while the other stretches, testing his reach and the steadiness of that gun-holding arm.
Which was indeed the only un-rent limb of his tonight. Silver flares brightly in what little light seeps in from her entryway. "Ah.. ah.. ah.. down, kitty... " The insurgence of more pressure from his end of the barrel would seem to indicate a desire to more out of that darker place, back into the light.
The snarl still toys with her lips, roughs its way through her vocal cords, confused though it is with the purr that seems part and parcel with the act of breathing. After a long moment, golden-green burning into silver and vice versa, she inches reluctantly backward, not allowing the pressure against her own forehead to slacken for even a second. After all, she prefers the dark.
He inches forward carefully on bruised leg and torn one... nearly grateful that she does all the work of keeping his threat in place. Lips purse as he considers simply pulling the trigger here and now, saving himself the trouble of the act... however, how can he claim anything of a soul after that? No... that was a job for his sister.
"Move!" He grates needlessly, doubting she even wishes to stop anyhow. "Good pet...."
Oh... bad choice of words. But he continues without realizing his error.
"You mentioned something about running away? I would suggest that as a good idea for you just now..." And still the crimson runnels continue to mark slick trails down the black fabric.
She bares her teeth again (oh, poor teeth, so straight and even), his words setting her course. She lunges without warning, an arm sweeping up to knock that barrel away -- and he gives that defense up far too easily, to pursue the other arm rushing up behind her head and pushing it rather ungently into the side of the ring. He never asked her to lunge.
Her head rings and her vision shakes with the impact; she curls and tries to roll away, pricking her claws out of his shirt (close call, there) like a kitten from a screen door.
He falls back, his poor posterior used once again to his disadvantage as the gun trains once more on a larger target, her chest. Unfortunately, his breathing seems to be a bit too wet for his liking now.
There's a gasp through the pain of a suddenly screaming head -- even that gasp is unable to be drawn without the accompanying purr -- and she's forcing her head upward, eyes narrowing in attempt to focus. When the gasp is released, it is with a growl crashing over that purr. Be damned, she can still track him by scent.
"Ah... hell.." He scurries forward, too much of an advantage to lose, and as she loses attention to perform her inner diagnostic, he fires a round off just close enough to really rattle that wonderfully sensitive hearing of hers. Only a moment later, he and his injured body are hauling toward the shower room in back.
And that's what does it -- she'd held her nearly overwhelming fear of guns at bay until the shot went off -- which damaged not only her hearing and already aching head, but simply dumped the adrenaline from the aforementioned fear into her system. To put it bluntly: overload. Crash. She startled sideways with the shot and slumped, collapsed almost immediately as he dashed out, curling into a protective ball.
A crimson trail leads to the tiled entrance near the south wall... all that remains of his presence for the evening.
It's a long time before she emerges from beneath the ring, time spent wavering in and out of consciousness, with a frightening sensation of cotton-packed ears. She can't hear the noise from the rest of the Outback. When she does move, it is carefully and with little apparent balance. The damage wrought by such an impact of sound against delicately tuned hearing -- whether that damage be temporary or no -- does much worse than simple
deafness. She staggers out, barefoot and unsteady, and collapses into the
darkness of the massive carriage provided by her... benefactress.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/14/1999 10:56 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
She would have spent the entirety of the journey back to the jungle curled into a ball on the carriage's floor, moaning at each painful jostle and bump, were it not for the aid of the faceless footman. When she collapsed into the carriage, he lifted her limp body the rest of the way, then clambered up behind her to lift her once again, laying her on the deep, cushioned bench before exiting the carriage and taking his
place at its rear. She paid no mind to the unfamiliar hands; indeed, her vision still spun -- and not only with pain. She could still smell blood, His blood, a scent more sweet than sharp to her senses. She cracked an eye, moaning (not that she could hear even herself) as she did, and examined the claws which had rended his flesh so many -- and yet, far too few -- times that evening.
His blood decorated her claws, painted her fingers, and she moved her hand closer, sweeping streaks of thickening blood down her face like warpaint. When that hand passed before her mouth, her tongue flickered out and cleaned her palm, her fingers, her claws.
Now she knew his taste as well as his smell, and it was nearly intoxicating enough to drive back the wall of pain that advanced within her skull.
Now she knew where to find him.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
She would have spent the entirety of the journey back to the jungle curled into a ball on the carriage's floor, moaning at each painful jostle and bump, were it not for the aid of the faceless footman. When she collapsed into the carriage, he lifted her limp body the rest of the way, then clambered up behind her to lift her once again, laying her on the deep, cushioned bench before exiting the carriage and taking his
place at its rear. She paid no mind to the unfamiliar hands; indeed, her vision still spun -- and not only with pain. She could still smell blood, His blood, a scent more sweet than sharp to her senses. She cracked an eye, moaning (not that she could hear even herself) as she did, and examined the claws which had rended his flesh so many -- and yet, far too few -- times that evening.
His blood decorated her claws, painted her fingers, and she moved her hand closer, sweeping streaks of thickening blood down her face like warpaint. When that hand passed before her mouth, her tongue flickered out and cleaned her palm, her fingers, her claws.
Now she knew his taste as well as his smell, and it was nearly intoxicating enough to drive back the wall of pain that advanced within her skull.
Now she knew where to find him.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/15/1999 9:20 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
She was conscious by the time the carriage arrived in the Realm of Thorns, and able to make the torturous trip from the carriage dismount to the House -- though as she made her slow way down the glass-domed path, there were moments when she wished she had not, in fact, awakened from her deaf stupor.
The air inside the Gallica Path was thick and still, the scent of Rosa gallica cloying, heavy as a hand. In the vine-encrusted darkness it seemed those neatly trimmed, leafy globes and their dark blossoms leered at her. The thorns tattooed around her biceps writhed and gnashed their fury until blood spilled down her arm, dripped from the point of her elbow to decorate the cobblestone with a crimson-black mockery of Hansel's bread crumbs.
In the foyer the serpentine marble was cool against her bare feet -- she had left her boots at the Outback, but would most likely never think of them again -- and some distant corner of her mind was aware that the blood still dripping would quickly congeal there on the floor. In the rest of the House, however, the air was every bit as thick and still as it had been in the domed path -- as if the House were holding its breath. Was it anticipation
she sensed charging the air around her, or did the House mean to stifle itself -- and her along with it? The same muddled shadows of her consciousness that had recognized the coolness of the floor knew that, were she to look back now, her blood would be gone from the foyer. The House did not approve of waste.
In the Robsart Study a grimed hand reached out to twist aside a candlestick, revealing that without which no dark House would be complete: a secret passage spiralling into the depths of the earth below -- beyond basement level, beyond sub-basement, plunging down to the very catacombs that so riddle Rhydin's sub-structure.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
She was conscious by the time the carriage arrived in the Realm of Thorns, and able to make the torturous trip from the carriage dismount to the House -- though as she made her slow way down the glass-domed path, there were moments when she wished she had not, in fact, awakened from her deaf stupor.
The air inside the Gallica Path was thick and still, the scent of Rosa gallica cloying, heavy as a hand. In the vine-encrusted darkness it seemed those neatly trimmed, leafy globes and their dark blossoms leered at her. The thorns tattooed around her biceps writhed and gnashed their fury until blood spilled down her arm, dripped from the point of her elbow to decorate the cobblestone with a crimson-black mockery of Hansel's bread crumbs.
In the foyer the serpentine marble was cool against her bare feet -- she had left her boots at the Outback, but would most likely never think of them again -- and some distant corner of her mind was aware that the blood still dripping would quickly congeal there on the floor. In the rest of the House, however, the air was every bit as thick and still as it had been in the domed path -- as if the House were holding its breath. Was it anticipation
she sensed charging the air around her, or did the House mean to stifle itself -- and her along with it? The same muddled shadows of her consciousness that had recognized the coolness of the floor knew that, were she to look back now, her blood would be gone from the foyer. The House did not approve of waste.
In the Robsart Study a grimed hand reached out to twist aside a candlestick, revealing that without which no dark House would be complete: a secret passage spiralling into the depths of the earth below -- beyond basement level, beyond sub-basement, plunging down to the very catacombs that so riddle Rhydin's sub-structure.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/15/1999 9:38 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
Baghiira had a strong appreciation for Rose's private quarters in the catacombs. Once beyond the marbled entry, one was in the native, ancient tunnels of the catacombs, steeped in their drafts and faintly musty odor. She hadn't been nearly so fond of Rose's chambers at either the Morkai Consortium or the Emporium - those were man-made, nothing more than glorified graves to Baghiira's sharp-tuned sensitivities. Here,
Rose's chambers were arranged in natural caverns which stretched back from the main chain of the catacombs, through which a breeze blew almost constantly -- occasionally, it was warm air that curled around one's feet like a serpent, licking and kissing; other times, it was a chill wind that sang along the ceiling, whispering and tickling, lifting nape-hairs like a ghost's touch. Both at least partially washed away the scent of Rose's undead nature
-- a stench that had and would always raise Baghiira's hackles, send disgust shivering up her spine at the same instant that lust stroked warm hands down her tingling nerves.
She didn't pause when she turned a sharp corner to walk into an apparent barrier of wavering blood -- simply sighed (the cotton-packed deafness was becoming a ringing whine of mosquitos and a painful thud of rushing blood) and lifted a hand, brushing aside the central drape and disappearing behind.
Twin whines greeted her as she entered the Camaieux Crypt itself; Rudolf and Gregor, Rose's prized Dobermans, lifted themselves and padded silently toward Baghiira. Black, soul-less eyes fixed on the muddied green of her own pain-filled orbs, they sniffed and drew back their lips in silent snarls. They knew the scent that mingled with her blood.
Just a few more steps -- a few, faltering steps -- and Baghiira pushed aside one insistent dog with a knee before collapsing on the large, empty bed. As always, there was the hush of a thought that barely dared to whisper -- where was Rose? Why hadn't she returned - and what if something had happened? Baghiira groaned the thoughts away and rolled to her back.
She lost consciousness once again just as the Dobermans settled themselves to either side of her on the bed and began licking clean her wounds. The cuts began slowly to heal beneath the long swipes of their tongues, though they snarled and snapped occasionally at each other over the drying remnants of her blood.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
Baghiira had a strong appreciation for Rose's private quarters in the catacombs. Once beyond the marbled entry, one was in the native, ancient tunnels of the catacombs, steeped in their drafts and faintly musty odor. She hadn't been nearly so fond of Rose's chambers at either the Morkai Consortium or the Emporium - those were man-made, nothing more than glorified graves to Baghiira's sharp-tuned sensitivities. Here,
Rose's chambers were arranged in natural caverns which stretched back from the main chain of the catacombs, through which a breeze blew almost constantly -- occasionally, it was warm air that curled around one's feet like a serpent, licking and kissing; other times, it was a chill wind that sang along the ceiling, whispering and tickling, lifting nape-hairs like a ghost's touch. Both at least partially washed away the scent of Rose's undead nature
-- a stench that had and would always raise Baghiira's hackles, send disgust shivering up her spine at the same instant that lust stroked warm hands down her tingling nerves.
She didn't pause when she turned a sharp corner to walk into an apparent barrier of wavering blood -- simply sighed (the cotton-packed deafness was becoming a ringing whine of mosquitos and a painful thud of rushing blood) and lifted a hand, brushing aside the central drape and disappearing behind.
Twin whines greeted her as she entered the Camaieux Crypt itself; Rudolf and Gregor, Rose's prized Dobermans, lifted themselves and padded silently toward Baghiira. Black, soul-less eyes fixed on the muddied green of her own pain-filled orbs, they sniffed and drew back their lips in silent snarls. They knew the scent that mingled with her blood.
Just a few more steps -- a few, faltering steps -- and Baghiira pushed aside one insistent dog with a knee before collapsing on the large, empty bed. As always, there was the hush of a thought that barely dared to whisper -- where was Rose? Why hadn't she returned - and what if something had happened? Baghiira groaned the thoughts away and rolled to her back.
She lost consciousness once again just as the Dobermans settled themselves to either side of her on the bed and began licking clean her wounds. The cuts began slowly to heal beneath the long swipes of their tongues, though they snarled and snapped occasionally at each other over the drying remnants of her blood.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/16/1999 8:32 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
((Author's Note:
The "Rose" referred to in this thread is Blood Red Rose, a character no longer visible in Rhydin.
Realm of Thorns was/is her abode, and was created by her player. More on the Realm of Thorns can be found at:
http://www.bloodredrose.com/thorns.html
Realm of Thorns, Blood Red Rose and all contained therein is © Barb Smith 1998/99))
From: Baghiira
((Author's Note:
The "Rose" referred to in this thread is Blood Red Rose, a character no longer visible in Rhydin.
Realm of Thorns was/is her abode, and was created by her player. More on the Realm of Thorns can be found at:
http://www.bloodredrose.com/thorns.html
Realm of Thorns, Blood Red Rose and all contained therein is © Barb Smith 1998/99))
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/18/1999 12:13 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
Another night, another fight; she couldn't stay away, it seemed, and every time she had so much as thought about the Outback in the past weeks, fury rose in her like bile. If asked, she wouldn't be able to explain what made her so full of hatred for Him - but that was beside the point. She had never been one to question her own motivations - more often than not, she wasn't even aware of them. She was, if nothing
else, a creature of impulse. If pressed on the question, she would most likely mutter something about Blood Red Rose, the Morkai Consortium and the mayhem caused by one destructive man.
But tonight would be different than the last; she could feel it. She'd woken up at dusk (not that one could tell the quality of light from the depths of the catacombs) and her first conscious inhalation had crackled like static electricity across her lips. The void was singing to her, waiting for her, seducing that part of her which was still human… promising Power. Her body had already forgotten what happened last time they met, and Kain's
remembered teachings were already beginning to ease the events from her mind, as well.
By the time she got to the carriage block, there was a cool distance resting upon her features, and her upright strides were more smooth and natural than they'd been for months.
None of this was apparent, however, when she arrived at the Outback. She scorned the door, as so many cats will, and chose a less probable entry point - a high, narrow window in the side of the building. Once through it, she slid down a tiled wall to an equally slick-surfaced floor - the men's bathroom, unless the Outback had taken to installing urinals in the lady's room. Already, there was a scent that burrowed deeply into her nostrils, flared
them and twined its seduction into the folds and recesses of thought muddled with animalistic instinct...His scent, the same which so frequently draws her back here, teeth bared and hackles raised as if in denial of that draw. Of course - being in the particular area she is - there are other, less pleasant odors, which mingle with and corrupt His. For this reason she sidled quietly out - do not see, do not hear - and into the larger, common area,
around behind a few rings to drape herself in the shadows, a natural cloak with which she is intimately comfortable.
He emerged almost immediately after her, and almost immediately accepted an offer for a duel. She settled into a low crouch, fingers trailing the floor, and prepared to watch - for now.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
Another night, another fight; she couldn't stay away, it seemed, and every time she had so much as thought about the Outback in the past weeks, fury rose in her like bile. If asked, she wouldn't be able to explain what made her so full of hatred for Him - but that was beside the point. She had never been one to question her own motivations - more often than not, she wasn't even aware of them. She was, if nothing
else, a creature of impulse. If pressed on the question, she would most likely mutter something about Blood Red Rose, the Morkai Consortium and the mayhem caused by one destructive man.
But tonight would be different than the last; she could feel it. She'd woken up at dusk (not that one could tell the quality of light from the depths of the catacombs) and her first conscious inhalation had crackled like static electricity across her lips. The void was singing to her, waiting for her, seducing that part of her which was still human… promising Power. Her body had already forgotten what happened last time they met, and Kain's
remembered teachings were already beginning to ease the events from her mind, as well.
By the time she got to the carriage block, there was a cool distance resting upon her features, and her upright strides were more smooth and natural than they'd been for months.
None of this was apparent, however, when she arrived at the Outback. She scorned the door, as so many cats will, and chose a less probable entry point - a high, narrow window in the side of the building. Once through it, she slid down a tiled wall to an equally slick-surfaced floor - the men's bathroom, unless the Outback had taken to installing urinals in the lady's room. Already, there was a scent that burrowed deeply into her nostrils, flared
them and twined its seduction into the folds and recesses of thought muddled with animalistic instinct...His scent, the same which so frequently draws her back here, teeth bared and hackles raised as if in denial of that draw. Of course - being in the particular area she is - there are other, less pleasant odors, which mingle with and corrupt His. For this reason she sidled quietly out - do not see, do not hear - and into the larger, common area,
around behind a few rings to drape herself in the shadows, a natural cloak with which she is intimately comfortable.
He emerged almost immediately after her, and almost immediately accepted an offer for a duel. She settled into a low crouch, fingers trailing the floor, and prepared to watch - for now.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/18/1999 1:51 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
A deep breath is drawn and held when he steps from the ring; that purr, a natural part of her breathing, it would seem, ceases. Silence hands its anticipation around her shoulders and, along with that silence, heat and tension crackle their burnt-ozone tang through taut muscles… she's statue still, and yet it seems jungle voodoo beats (the sensuality of palm to stretched goatskin) erupt from her very skin. Is it hot
in here, humid?
He plucks an icecube from his glass, pressing it against a torn lip; her own tension breaks her - the sudden sensation of heavy, moisture-dripping leaves that snaps through the bow-string vibration that is her only motion and sends her sidling along the wall, through those shadows and around the room's perimeter. He only settles further into his chair's comfort, arms crossing before him as vacant slitted silvers regard the rings.
She's fixated on those silvers as she moves in her round-about path, golden-green flared wide - and when His eyes narrow, for a moment that tension winds its coils through her muscles again. Nonetheless, smooth movements continue, slow and sure until she is around behind Him, and then it's not too long before she's easing, yearning, forward. His smell is in her nostrils and His taste is in her mouth, a phantom tang of blood from their previous
meetings. Toward the edge of shadow she slinks and, for a moment, no further.
He stirs, squirming just a moment before settling sedately again; in response, her tongue flickers out, tasting the salt on her own lips and the air along with it. She eases forward another step, from darkness into light - not too close, not yet. Soon. He shifts again, and this time the tiniest click accompanies the movement.
Oh, yes. She heard, and one mustn't forget her opponent's toys. For a moment she is frozen… until a smile crosses her lips, small and completely incongruous - too cool, too affected, at all odds with the feral being whose expression is graces. Her next motion is a gentle shiver that courses across her flesh, raising goosebumps. It had taken a few minutes and a great deal of concentration (and releasing of that same concentration) but she
has the Void now - and now it's not tension that sings and crackles through her air, but a chill distraction. Power.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
A deep breath is drawn and held when he steps from the ring; that purr, a natural part of her breathing, it would seem, ceases. Silence hands its anticipation around her shoulders and, along with that silence, heat and tension crackle their burnt-ozone tang through taut muscles… she's statue still, and yet it seems jungle voodoo beats (the sensuality of palm to stretched goatskin) erupt from her very skin. Is it hot
in here, humid?
He plucks an icecube from his glass, pressing it against a torn lip; her own tension breaks her - the sudden sensation of heavy, moisture-dripping leaves that snaps through the bow-string vibration that is her only motion and sends her sidling along the wall, through those shadows and around the room's perimeter. He only settles further into his chair's comfort, arms crossing before him as vacant slitted silvers regard the rings.
She's fixated on those silvers as she moves in her round-about path, golden-green flared wide - and when His eyes narrow, for a moment that tension winds its coils through her muscles again. Nonetheless, smooth movements continue, slow and sure until she is around behind Him, and then it's not too long before she's easing, yearning, forward. His smell is in her nostrils and His taste is in her mouth, a phantom tang of blood from their previous
meetings. Toward the edge of shadow she slinks and, for a moment, no further.
He stirs, squirming just a moment before settling sedately again; in response, her tongue flickers out, tasting the salt on her own lips and the air along with it. She eases forward another step, from darkness into light - not too close, not yet. Soon. He shifts again, and this time the tiniest click accompanies the movement.
Oh, yes. She heard, and one mustn't forget her opponent's toys. For a moment she is frozen… until a smile crosses her lips, small and completely incongruous - too cool, too affected, at all odds with the feral being whose expression is graces. Her next motion is a gentle shiver that courses across her flesh, raising goosebumps. It had taken a few minutes and a great deal of concentration (and releasing of that same concentration) but she
has the Void now - and now it's not tension that sings and crackles through her air, but a chill distraction. Power.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/18/1999 1:53 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
When He moves again, his hands come free from the jacket shroud. One seems crawling with a living… thing… all cords and frozen scrollwork. Alive… but not moving, a gauntlet of some sort.
"No." There is Power in that utterance; it slithers over His skin and presses itself into His pores. Spirit. Somehow, he stirs once more… shifting muzzily. Fingers wrapped in strange iron curl and meditatively tap a small, familiar object against the chair's arm.
Absently, an upper lip curls - but it seems more a reflex than a manifestation of emotion ormood. She is deep in that Void, and the weaves of Spirit twin ever-so-gently, tightening, tightening - not any physical restraint, simply Spirit, settling past his husk and twining his being in the embrace of an enamored cobra. It is only once that net of Spirit settles into place that the first weave of Air is felt, licking gently at the gauntleted hand
and the marble held there. She eases her first, silent, half-step forward, foot dragging gently across the ground as that small weave of Air twines and wraps. Go ahead; drop it.
It was too familiar a tickle, and with the tiniest perk of one reluctant eyebrow, he speaks. "Why don't you just finish it already? I'm really not in the mood to play…"
"Who asked your mood?" And though those words are indeed a response, and are indeed spoken in her typically rough purr, still they seem distant, as if projected from elsewhere. She completes her step.
"Someone gotta be asked to do something? I'm not one of your playboys." There is barely the tilt of a head, scanning his surroundings for a hint of leather.
"Who said you are?" Indeed, she never said he was; never thought it, either… and, oh, she's so close… close enough to be within the twist of his periphery, just a blur of dark leather or tanned skin.
"Just explaining why I don't need to be asked for my opinion."
She finds that humorous - and oh, for a moment that net of Spirit weakens beneath her humor… until it is corralled once again, humor expelled with all other emotions, the Void both cradled and cradling. He offers just a warning, another rap of glass against wood. It really didn't do much good to see her… feeling was enough. The battleground was where he sat, that was already decided.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
When He moves again, his hands come free from the jacket shroud. One seems crawling with a living… thing… all cords and frozen scrollwork. Alive… but not moving, a gauntlet of some sort.
"No." There is Power in that utterance; it slithers over His skin and presses itself into His pores. Spirit. Somehow, he stirs once more… shifting muzzily. Fingers wrapped in strange iron curl and meditatively tap a small, familiar object against the chair's arm.
Absently, an upper lip curls - but it seems more a reflex than a manifestation of emotion ormood. She is deep in that Void, and the weaves of Spirit twin ever-so-gently, tightening, tightening - not any physical restraint, simply Spirit, settling past his husk and twining his being in the embrace of an enamored cobra. It is only once that net of Spirit settles into place that the first weave of Air is felt, licking gently at the gauntleted hand
and the marble held there. She eases her first, silent, half-step forward, foot dragging gently across the ground as that small weave of Air twines and wraps. Go ahead; drop it.
It was too familiar a tickle, and with the tiniest perk of one reluctant eyebrow, he speaks. "Why don't you just finish it already? I'm really not in the mood to play…"
"Who asked your mood?" And though those words are indeed a response, and are indeed spoken in her typically rough purr, still they seem distant, as if projected from elsewhere. She completes her step.
"Someone gotta be asked to do something? I'm not one of your playboys." There is barely the tilt of a head, scanning his surroundings for a hint of leather.
"Who said you are?" Indeed, she never said he was; never thought it, either… and, oh, she's so close… close enough to be within the twist of his periphery, just a blur of dark leather or tanned skin.
"Just explaining why I don't need to be asked for my opinion."
She finds that humorous - and oh, for a moment that net of Spirit weakens beneath her humor… until it is corralled once again, humor expelled with all other emotions, the Void both cradled and cradling. He offers just a warning, another rap of glass against wood. It really didn't do much good to see her… feeling was enough. The battleground was where he sat, that was already decided.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/18/1999 1:56 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
Surely she's not close enough to ever-so-gently run extended claws along the back of his neck… surely? Then what was that, exactly - and was it felt or only implied?
"Why don't you sit down and have a drink?" If only he knew where they kept the poison. In response, there is only a pause - perhaps he doesn't comprehend the conflict that draws her to this hunt; she does not understand it herself, and it is she who by it is moved. This time, there is no question as to whether the touch is felt or imagined… this time, there are no claws - just fingertips, slightly calloused.
This is… new. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a seat, instead of having one thrown at you?"
"Would you like to throw something at me?" She has to ask, you know - of the Void does. It hardly seems to be the Jungle Cat forming these aimless questions.
"Not yet," he smirks. Her fingers ease away, but it is only to allow for a further forward sway of her position. Beneath the cool distance of the Void, there is heat. And yes, this is new; as if there is no real interaction, only the concepts and theories thereof. She is lost in the Void; the weave of Air is thicker now, splitting into several tendrils. One continues to lick idly at the marble and the hand holding it; the others twin over his
arms, the arms of the chair, around his shoulders and the back of the chair. Distantly, she recalls something of him disliking magic (the Void whispers), but the thought is sucked in and whirled away by the edges of a black hole.
For the first time, he can really look her over. A slight furrow settles across his forehead as he notes her appearance, her posture. "You don't look so good."
Is it the relaxation that throws him, the ease that rests in her muscles? As the weaves of Air tighten around him and his chair (oh, and don't forget that marble), she drifts beyond his turned gaze and toward the pushed-out chair. Or perhaps it is the dilation of her pupils that so disturbs; that distant, farseeing gaze is every bit as out of place as the earlier smile was. When she faces him again, those wide eyes slide down his seated form,
head to toe. A thought breaks the surface for a moment (indeed, a thought… how rare) and again, those nets and weaves weaken - for just a moment, before tightening again. Razorwire, anyone?
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
Surely she's not close enough to ever-so-gently run extended claws along the back of his neck… surely? Then what was that, exactly - and was it felt or only implied?
"Why don't you sit down and have a drink?" If only he knew where they kept the poison. In response, there is only a pause - perhaps he doesn't comprehend the conflict that draws her to this hunt; she does not understand it herself, and it is she who by it is moved. This time, there is no question as to whether the touch is felt or imagined… this time, there are no claws - just fingertips, slightly calloused.
This is… new. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a seat, instead of having one thrown at you?"
"Would you like to throw something at me?" She has to ask, you know - of the Void does. It hardly seems to be the Jungle Cat forming these aimless questions.
"Not yet," he smirks. Her fingers ease away, but it is only to allow for a further forward sway of her position. Beneath the cool distance of the Void, there is heat. And yes, this is new; as if there is no real interaction, only the concepts and theories thereof. She is lost in the Void; the weave of Air is thicker now, splitting into several tendrils. One continues to lick idly at the marble and the hand holding it; the others twin over his
arms, the arms of the chair, around his shoulders and the back of the chair. Distantly, she recalls something of him disliking magic (the Void whispers), but the thought is sucked in and whirled away by the edges of a black hole.
For the first time, he can really look her over. A slight furrow settles across his forehead as he notes her appearance, her posture. "You don't look so good."
Is it the relaxation that throws him, the ease that rests in her muscles? As the weaves of Air tighten around him and his chair (oh, and don't forget that marble), she drifts beyond his turned gaze and toward the pushed-out chair. Or perhaps it is the dilation of her pupils that so disturbs; that distant, farseeing gaze is every bit as out of place as the earlier smile was. When she faces him again, those wide eyes slide down his seated form,
head to toe. A thought breaks the surface for a moment (indeed, a thought… how rare) and again, those nets and weaves weaken - for just a moment, before tightening again. Razorwire, anyone?
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
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Re: Hunter/Hunted
Date: 7/18/1999 2:00 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Baghiira
"Where is your gun?" It's command as much as question, and made all the more compelling by the tightening of woven Spirit.
"In my belt, where else?" Of course he felt it; his skin prickles, his lungs tighten. But there were other places to expand to get air, as one learns in his line of work. The plan remained. Perhaps his tiny grin was a bit too stretched… perhaps not.
She does not sit, but remains facing him. Her head lifts for a moment; a deep breath is drawn before she looks directly at him again.
"Withdraw it. Put it on the table."
"My gun. You can't have it." His lower lip pokes out, a pouting child.
"Put. It. On. The. Table." The words, quiet and almost apathetically stated, rip nonetheless from her tongue, directly into the woven net of Spirit. Put it on the table.
Tap… tap… tap… tap… halt. The silence was palpable between them… silvers narrow against golden-green. He knew all too well he could not, it was hers to doubt her own mind.
"No."
When the weaves tighten again, it is not upon organs or mentality or emotion - nothing so substantial, nothing so palpable. It is upon his Self that it constricts, upon whatever it is he calls Spirit or Soul. She does not doubt.
So much for a quiet evening. Backup plan enabled… time to test out this gadget that Dae gave him. It wasn't the drop that mattered, it was the taptaptap that should have warned her. With the snap of a wrist, he crushes the delicate glass against the chair's arm. The ensuing blast slams against the gauntlet… but true to form, it holds. The chair's hold on its stable position, however, does not - and the energy both scorches floor and pants, but
throws him and his air-bound body… well… air-bound.
When those weaves of Air do their job - the licking and wrapping did have their purpose - he is indeed flung skyward… until the weaves of Air jerk to hold. Woven around wood, yes, but first around Air. He may remain suspended. She eases closer; she always did like to dance too close to the fire. He can't help but grin. Even if he couldn't break the chair by impact, one has to admit that the view is wonderful from up here.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."
From: Baghiira
"Where is your gun?" It's command as much as question, and made all the more compelling by the tightening of woven Spirit.
"In my belt, where else?" Of course he felt it; his skin prickles, his lungs tighten. But there were other places to expand to get air, as one learns in his line of work. The plan remained. Perhaps his tiny grin was a bit too stretched… perhaps not.
She does not sit, but remains facing him. Her head lifts for a moment; a deep breath is drawn before she looks directly at him again.
"Withdraw it. Put it on the table."
"My gun. You can't have it." His lower lip pokes out, a pouting child.
"Put. It. On. The. Table." The words, quiet and almost apathetically stated, rip nonetheless from her tongue, directly into the woven net of Spirit. Put it on the table.
Tap… tap… tap… tap… halt. The silence was palpable between them… silvers narrow against golden-green. He knew all too well he could not, it was hers to doubt her own mind.
"No."
When the weaves tighten again, it is not upon organs or mentality or emotion - nothing so substantial, nothing so palpable. It is upon his Self that it constricts, upon whatever it is he calls Spirit or Soul. She does not doubt.
So much for a quiet evening. Backup plan enabled… time to test out this gadget that Dae gave him. It wasn't the drop that mattered, it was the taptaptap that should have warned her. With the snap of a wrist, he crushes the delicate glass against the chair's arm. The ensuing blast slams against the gauntlet… but true to form, it holds. The chair's hold on its stable position, however, does not - and the energy both scorches floor and pants, but
throws him and his air-bound body… well… air-bound.
When those weaves of Air do their job - the licking and wrapping did have their purpose - he is indeed flung skyward… until the weaves of Air jerk to hold. Woven around wood, yes, but first around Air. He may remain suspended. She eases closer; she always did like to dance too close to the fire. He can't help but grin. Even if he couldn't break the chair by impact, one has to admit that the view is wonderful from up here.
^^Baghiira~~"Don't insist on "just a little respect." Demand the devotion and worship of all those with whom you come into contact."