Sinew drips. Humid, here below the earth, beyond it. The walls of this place slip and shudder with breath. In, out; a queasy heat mirage. Between them he's perilously still. A dead thing, not quite the shape of a man —
The years make you stranger. Power does. Something hinges in his throat, pressed bony against corpse-skin. Hunger too deep to hide entire. Isin yanks a tooth to examine, needle-sharp, flinting for the light.
It is an honour, in the form of an insult, to attend Grazz't tonight. But he wasn't ever here for love of the leash. Slithering out has been the work of some centuries; may be yet. He can be patient. He has time, however crudely borrowed. Others?
"Xey'leth," Isin props fang between thumb and finger, and drives it in sharp. Ichor dribbles. "What a pleasure."
It is hardly a pleasure, in this moist, festering place, a celebration of the organic and wet. It feels thick, like a weight pressing in from all sides, and the Blood Red Sainted does not look quite pleased to be here. Oh, there was the bonus of like-minded individuals with a... more flexible morality involved. They can handle that. That's grand in fact. Kelinil knew that there was strength in numbers, particularly when facing large number of... oh what would they call themselves? Adventurers? Kel called them hypocrites, personally.
Their lips curl, when addressed, and they held a glass of something red and too-thick to be wine to their lips when they turned. It left their lips ruby-red against perse skin, and their eyes widened in appraisal — curiosity.
"Isin, was it?" they asked and held out a hand in greeting — the request for implied supplication, a tip of their head. "I have heard a great deal about you, what a fine...location to meet, don't you think? This... what did they call it?" a tip of their head, and a smile. "Moist gala? How fitting."
For his own part, dry. Isin reaches for the hand, and doesn't bend: Where one might kiss a ring, he instead twists their wrist; sharp. The blind eye squints brief across their palm. Isin lifts his stuck thumb to smear a black mark across it. A signature, of sorts. Having read between the lines.
"There," He pats a purple knuckle, and drops both hands loose. "I trust the Geometries would manage more formality, but,"
He shrugs. The ghost of a joke, tonight's celebration.
"You may consider this conversation in confidence," Though he sees no need to specify consequence. Intent will do. Contracts are the domain of order; demonkind the emotional sophists. "From even our host."
Can't do a fucking thing for the elf's mistress, but this is, in the end, only a token courtesy; they've been turned loose to the work because no one gives a damn how it's done. Still: A man under surveillance isn't unaware of its weight. The illusion of reprieve is yet,
Kinder than what else has been said of him tonight. If Kel's heard much at all of Strand, it's that the upjumped warlock is altogether bloody-minded.
They do not flinch, but sharp red eyes watch the motion of him taking their wrist and twisting it, smearing a signature against their hand. They do not hiss in pain, but merely watch him, and the motion, with interest. (Despite their abysmal ac.)
Intent made, Kel's head tipped to the side, their hair fanning over an eye as they regarded him with even more curiosity than before. The man was a curiosity, because he wasn't spoken much of at all, which if they have learned anything over the past few months, meant something. It always did, if a relative unknown was invited to something like this.
After all, for all of Kel's flaws, it is people they know most of all. The way the crowd parts, the way it moves, the way eyes flick and move away, who they do it to, whom they don't. The individuals at this gala were hardly mortals, but they were still as a whole as petty and routine as the mortals that they all derided. Kel loved that about events like this. The one thing they learned from being attached to the Snarl, and for having their eyes held wide open to the expanse of everything beyond what ordinary mortals could see — was that these forces were merely powerful, but not any more difficult to deceive, or be led astray.
They smiled, and tipped their head toward a direction more private, request for confidence met, it seems. "I do not see why our host has to monitor every conversation held, of course. Why, is this not a celebration of those whom hold their secrets tight?"
They pulled aside a curtain, their other hand, leaving the black smear unmarred, indicating some place off from the rest of the milling individuals. "I notice how they look at you," Kel said, lips curling in curiosity. "I wonder what they think, seeing us walk away together?"
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no subject
Sinew drips. Humid, here below the earth, beyond it. The walls of this place slip and shudder with breath. In, out; a queasy heat mirage. Between them he's perilously still. A dead thing, not quite the shape of a man —
The years make you stranger. Power does. Something hinges in his throat, pressed bony against corpse-skin. Hunger too deep to hide entire. Isin yanks a tooth to examine, needle-sharp, flinting for the light.
It is an honour, in the form of an insult, to attend Grazz't tonight. But he wasn't ever here for love of the leash. Slithering out has been the work of some centuries; may be yet. He can be patient. He has time, however crudely borrowed. Others?
"Xey'leth," Isin props fang between thumb and finger, and drives it in sharp. Ichor dribbles. "What a pleasure."
Hardly sounds one, here in its domain.
no subject
Their lips curl, when addressed, and they held a glass of something red and too-thick to be wine to their lips when they turned. It left their lips ruby-red against perse skin, and their eyes widened in appraisal — curiosity.
"Isin, was it?" they asked and held out a hand in greeting — the request for implied supplication, a tip of their head. "I have heard a great deal about you, what a fine...location to meet, don't you think? This... what did they call it?" a tip of their head, and a smile. "Moist gala? How fitting."
no subject
For his own part, dry. Isin reaches for the hand, and doesn't bend: Where one might kiss a ring, he instead twists their wrist; sharp. The blind eye squints brief across their palm. Isin lifts his stuck thumb to smear a black mark across it. A signature, of sorts. Having read between the lines.
"There," He pats a purple knuckle, and drops both hands loose. "I trust the Geometries would manage more formality, but,"
He shrugs. The ghost of a joke, tonight's celebration.
"You may consider this conversation in confidence," Though he sees no need to specify consequence. Intent will do. Contracts are the domain of order; demonkind the emotional sophists. "From even our host."
Can't do a fucking thing for the elf's mistress, but this is, in the end, only a token courtesy; they've been turned loose to the work because no one gives a damn how it's done. Still: A man under surveillance isn't unaware of its weight. The illusion of reprieve is yet,
Kinder than what else has been said of him tonight. If Kel's heard much at all of Strand, it's that the upjumped warlock is altogether bloody-minded.
no subject
Despite their abysmal ac.)Intent made, Kel's head tipped to the side, their hair fanning over an eye as they regarded him with even more curiosity than before. The man was a curiosity, because he wasn't spoken much of at all, which if they have learned anything over the past few months, meant something. It always did, if a relative unknown was invited to something like this.
After all, for all of Kel's flaws, it is people they know most of all. The way the crowd parts, the way it moves, the way eyes flick and move away, who they do it to, whom they don't. The individuals at this gala were hardly mortals, but they were still as a whole as petty and routine as the mortals that they all derided. Kel loved that about events like this. The one thing they learned from being attached to the Snarl, and for having their eyes held wide open to the expanse of everything beyond what ordinary mortals could see — was that these forces were merely powerful, but not any more difficult to deceive, or be led astray.
They smiled, and tipped their head toward a direction more private, request for confidence met, it seems. "I do not see why our host has to monitor every conversation held, of course. Why, is this not a celebration of those whom hold their secrets tight?"
They pulled aside a curtain, their other hand, leaving the black smear unmarred, indicating some place off from the rest of the milling individuals. "I notice how they look at you," Kel said, lips curling in curiosity. "I wonder what they think, seeing us walk away together?"