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Salvation Lost : Sins of Salvation -> The Town Square -> Payday
Post Info TOPIC: Payday
Baroness DuMorne


Demonic Nobility

Posts: 53
Date: Nov 21, 2008
Payday
Permalink Closed

Peter was a no-show.

Unless, of course, being two hours late was "being on time" for the priest.

Two hours wasted. And after all the trouble she went through to even be at
this meeting?  While sitting in an open air cafe, drinking  fantastic coffee and reading a book would have been an ideal way to spend an afternoon for anyone else, Rowan had places to go, things to do Every minute lost cost her money. Granted some in her line of work would have said that meeting a client in person wasn't a smart thing to do, but this time, Rowan was willing to make an exception. They were meeting in a public place, she was in disguise, and he was paying very, very well. Or he would have been if he ever showed up. Five more minutes and that was it, she told herself.

Peter was a dead man.

Too bad someone had already beaten her to him. A week later during breakfast, the demon inside sniggered in amusement while Rowan read the news article in annoyance. She supposed being dead Peter was a pretty good reason not have shown up for their "meeting."

"The body of Father Peter Lombardi was discovered at an abandoned
construction site in Civitavechia..." Rowan read out loud in a sing song voice.
"Something, something, something...three days out in the open, blah, blah, blah. Ah! Due exposure to the elements, the cause  of death remains to be determined.  However, authorities believe that Father Lombardi's death was due to natural causes."  Mewlin Rouge seemed unimpressed with the news, and simply blinked his big green eyes at Rowan in a silent query of whether or not he should give a damn..  Having that a death of another human was far beyond his concern and that he did not in fact, care, the cat simply returned to licking his testicles.

With a shake of her head, Rowan folded the news paper and resisted the urge to launch it at the overfed Persian, grooming himself on the floor. Instead she set the newspaper aside and stood up. Part of her wanted to be furious, she was out of a paycheck, and a rather substantial one too. But the other part of her felt only curiosity. Father Lombardi, was barely pushing fourty. He seemed in good health last she saw him, but then again... What the hell was a priest doing all the way inCivitavechia? And if he didn't die of natural causes, who the hell would off a Priest? Okay so maybe a list of "who coulda done it" wasn't as short as all that, Rowan didn't think Peter was the kind to incur that type of rath.  Glancing at her reflection in the polished silver coffee carafe, Rowan watched as her reflection grinned back.

Leaving Mewlin Rouge to his grooming, Rowan made her way to her office. Once upon a time the room was a library. A getaway from the rest of the world where Edgar could enjoy his books and a nice drink while getting lost in the land of make belief. Now it was her office, where reality of the world was a permanent fixture. Stacks of bills and blue prints, and a stand covered paint and fabric samples. The large antique desk sat dominantly in the center of the space. Aside from the papers there were only two photos on the polished top. One of her mother and one of Xander.

It was one she took herself when he wasn't looking. It was the expression on his face that day that made Rowan reach for the camera. Somehow he came off looking both thoughtful and amused, as if he couldn't believe what he was looking at. And somewhere underneath all that, was hunger. Maybe that's why she kept this one photo out. That look, he looked at her like that too. Hungry. Shivering, Rowan picked up the picture and set it face down on the desk. There were good days and there were bad days, today she didn't want to dwell to much on the past. Being in Edgar's house was enough. It was her home now, but it felt more like a step-child that was left over from a marriage. The parent died and she was left to take care of it.

The house was fantastic, but more fantastic was the amount of neglect that it suffered. The main rooms were maintained within an inch of being perfect. The rest of the house hasn't faired as well. The plaster was chipped, the paint in need of a new coat. But give Rowan lemons and she had the ability to whip up Lemoncello. Aside from it's flaws, the house had it's secrets, and the biggest one was Rowan's favorite.

The small room did not exist. On blue prints or in anyone's memory. At one point she suspected it was destined to be a closet. But that destiny was lost along the way in favor of practically. One of the walls seeped moisture, and rather than re-do the wall, the space was walled off instead.  Forgotten and omitted on the blue prints.

With no doors and no windows, only Rowan had access, and thus it became her treasure chest.

The book was still there. Wrapped in waterproof canvas, it still gave off the odor of old leather and ozone. It was an old thing, and it reeked of power, although with its blank pages and rusty hinges, Rowan could only wonder why a priest of all people would want a book that was locked in a warded room in the middle of nowhere Scotland. But for a paycheck of $2.5 million euros, she was willing to put her own questions aside.

Now, however, with the priest dead and no other leads, Rowan was stuck with the thing.  It was trouble and a half to get the thing in the first place.  The tomb, as she called it, had been warded, trapped, and hidden so deep it took hours of wandering through a maze of hallways to find. Still, she had gotten her mark as she always did, and now she was stuck with it.

With a sigh, Rowan re-wrapped the book to protect it from moisture, before tossing it into a steel foot locker, with a little grunt of frustration. She was so close a large paycheck, and instead she had to find a new buyer and probably end up taking a pay cut. The demon would have liked to burn the book. Get rid of it before it brought trouble to her own doorstep, but Rowan's practical side had won out. One thing was a constant in the world. If someone wanted something, there was always someone else who wanted it more. Waste not want not.



__________________
Bringer of Death


Effing God Moder

Posts: 33
Date: Nov 22, 2008
Something Amiss
Permalink Closed

Something was amiss. Guuyd'on couldn't quite put his mind to it, however. He swept the sanctum with his golden gaze once more, trying to discover the source of that odd prickling sensation. It had been a few hundred years since he'd even stepped within the room, but he knew the alcove better than the edge of his blade. Thinking of...he turned and moved to his left, roughly removing Yx'kaelbyr from it's perch and pulling the sword free from the scabbard. The soft song of the blade echoed throughout the room as it glided free, and he inspected it closely. The sword of Lugh was just as it should be. Guuyd'on replaced it and moved to the door that led to the tomb of the boyking and the grave of his wife. A mere glance was given within, as was all it took to see that all was well.

Once again, he turned back to the sanctuary, tilting his head. He was old, even for Fae, and he wondered if finally Father Tyme was finally infecting his mind. The sword was fine, still gripped in his pale hand. As perfect as the day it had been forged. The Book of the Wyrd still sat on the altar just across. Guuyd'on flexed the Power of his Hands through the weapon, something he had oft did as a Commander of the People. It helped him think, and was a habit that remained even after many millennia. He supposed it had started the very day he'd been presented the blade, the anniversary day of his twenty-third year of Lyfe.

It had been a glorious occasion for the People. The war had raged for decades, twixt the Humans and the People. Neither of the two armies were gaining ground, nor were they truly claiming victories in battle. It was an atrocious affair for Gaiae, and how she mourned at the iniquities that were performed by both the children of Men, and the chyld of Fae, to one another. The weeping sky was more constant than the smile of Lugh. Yet on that day, when presented with the sword, Lugh had beamed brightly upon the People and their celebration. Their tentative hopes had culminated that day, coming to rest on the shoulders of Gyuud'on, who was but a young Tuathan at the time.

It hadn't been just then either. It had started when he was born and Named. The very fact that he was the seventh son of a seventh son had been well enough for some to accept that he was the one they awaited. The one prophesized to save the People and their sacred lands. From the moment he could walk, Guuyd'on knew was taught to fight. Fight after fight, from mere fists to spears and knives, it was all he had known. He had been five when his Hands revealed themselves, watching as something appeared, murdering his instructor in the middle of their mock ritualistic combat, and then turning on him. To this day, he could not remember exactly what happened. It didn't matter, he knew. The past was the past and it was done.

In his reminiscing, his gaze had lowered to the floor, and it was only then that he saw the footprints that were not his own. They were barely noticeable, a Human wouldn't have been able to pick them out if the correct magic spell had been cast for them. He was Guuyd'on V'ryk, however, more powerful than any of the People of his time, and so it wasn't so hard. They were small and delicate, possibly belonging to one of the People. Guuyd'on took up the sword in both hands as he crouched, bouncing his Powers back and forth through the metal. Golden hues narrowed as he eyed the evidence.

No...they didn't belong to any of his after all. They appeared to be more Human than anything. Guuyd'on followed their trail with his gaze, casting a web to overlay the area. Trails of black and pearl lingered along the footsteps, and Guuyd'on straightened, surprised. A glance to the Gateway and the bright blue shield he had seen the last time he'd tested the doorway had a hole, but not torn. No, it was as if someone had slowly and persistantly pulled at a hole until it had grown large enough for a person to slip through. He smiled at the cleverness of it. Whomever had stolen into his chamber had done so quite carefully and with great patience. That person must have realized that brute force, mystic or physical, would have alerted him immediately. Clever indeed.

Guuyd'on straightened, and made his way to the Book, following the trail. The intruder had been single-minded in their task, whatever that had been, for his sword hadn't even been regarded. The tracks went straight to the Book of the Wyrd and then back to the Gateway. A heavy shade of blue encased the Book, and he reached out to touch it, his suspicion raised. As soon as his tapered fingers grazed where the cover should have been, the illusion fell away in a heavy wisp of smoke. For a moment, he just stared, unable to grasp the idea that someone had not only been able to steal through his seals and wards, but they had been able to steal the Book of the Wyrd and place a rather convincing illusion in it's place. He, Guuyd'on V'ryk, had been fooled by an illusion! How absolutely delightful.

For the first time in centuries, he let out a chuckle. Well, he supposed he deserved it after spending so many eons in the 'tween, and passing through the crypt without a second glance when there was chance of warring in the world. Guuyd'on lifted the baldric of Yx'kaelbyr aloft his head and rested the pillar of steel upon his back, as he always did when he was to venture into the world. He picked up the strange object that was the anchor for the illusion spell. It was small, he could easily balance it on the tip of his pinky finger for certain. The edge of the two dimensional circle was ridged, and from the feel of it, it was mostly copper with a dash of nickel blended in. There was not enough of either metal to be able to use it as a decent spell component. On one side there was a tiny relief of a what appeared to be the silhoutte of the head of a brownie, and the other was a relief of a depiction of a torch with some branches of some kind. There was strange lettering that he was sure he'd seen before, but couldn't quite place where. At termination of the neck of the head on the first side, there were some numbers, 1,9,7 and 4. Guuyd'on turned it over once more, testing the Power encasing it. Still humming, so it hadn't been long since the Book left the altar. He studied it a moment longer before he placed it within the pouch at his side. Absolutely worthless, except for the taste of Power that was on it. Anything could be used as an anchor for an illusion spell, really, and so he wondered if the metal circles were now crafted in the world just for that purpose. Those thoughts pushed aside, he moved towards his looking glass, studying his features.

He beheld the old Fae that was presented, contemplating his features. His eyes were a guilded shade of aurum. His flesh, more achromatic than the first snow of winter, had creases and edgings that had become more prominant in the past centuries. His hair was just as lacking, the silvery alabaster strands were long enough to reach his waist. The milky coloring was a gift of ancestry, a trait exclusive to the People. He was still handsome, Father Tyme treating him harshly, but regal and noble features were hard to mar with passing eras. Still, he would be quite a site walking the world. With a swipe of his hand, half his hair fell away, leaving the length at just past his shoulders. He took up the severed locks and tied them with a ribbon, hanging them next to the looking glass. Power thrummed from his left hand, coursing through him, and the next image he saw was a glamour. His flesh was now a mixture of brown and pale pink, like any seasoned Human, and his hair, now a darker shade of wheat, was cropped close to his skull. He had darkened his pupils so now they were reflections of Gaia's earth. Satisfied, he turned to leave, taking one last glance to the alcove before sealing and reinforcing the closure of the Gateway.

This last time in the 'tween, he'd finally come to a complacent balance of spirit, and he had planned to lay to rest with his wife and the boyking. Until he had Seen the sanctum, and found something amiss.

__________________
Bringer of Death


Effing God Moder

Posts: 33
Date: Nov 22, 2008
Tracking and Reflection
Permalink Closed

Guuyd'on stepped into the Gateway, and let the ether envelop him. The sensation of weightlessness overtook him for the all too brief seconds it took to traverse the Divide. It was such a wonderful sensation to experience, one not oft felt, lest one traveled the Divide. By doing so with his level of ability, he manipulated the Divide to drop him at the edgings of it's reach, where the trail of black and pearl continued on it's path. The tracks had crossed over themselves times aplenty within the caves, letting Guuyd'on know that the thief had only an idea of where to go, but knew exactly what to obtain once they had reached their destination. He reached up to grasp the hilt of the sword a moment, pulling it free an inch or two before releasing it once more. The hum was higher pitched than if he'd pulled it completely free of the scabbard, but it was a sound of the weapon all the same. It was always good to start a journey with a song, and that was his.

With that, Guuyd'on made his way towards the civilization he could see in the distance, and he idly wondered if the Humans still called it Rome. He could have easily appeared within the city, but he liked the idea of the hike. Besides, what use were your legs if you never used them? As he walked, his thoughts returned to the past, reflecting on what had made him who he was.

Guuyd'on had joined the war, leading entire contigents into battle on his first campaign. He was the symbol of inspiration, with Yx'kaelbyr a mere bonus, to the troops. He was fierce and unrelenting, showing no quarter for any Human. His belief in the righteousness of his position and actions were unwavering. Everywhere he went, death was there, surrounding him and embracing every Human he laid his gaze upon. Many victories were achieved, but both factions were still losing, if not in warriors, then in grace. With every striking blow, Guuyd'on could feel his grace and compassion slipping further and further away. He was all consumed with defeating the Humans once and for all, and he spent many a fortnight trying to devise a way for more People to join the battle. In his thirty-second year of Lyfe, he'd realized just how the Hands of Power functioned. And so Guuyd'on took up the stylus when he was not wielding sword and magic, and began to scribe the Book of the People, the very first Book of Shadows. He laid out basic rituals and chakras of the body so that anyone, even the People with out a Hand of Power to their lineage, could brandish magic. And so their armies increased threefold, and the tide turned back from the brink. It seemed they had finally begun to win the war. For this great deed and the actions of previous battles, Guuyd'on recieved a Second Naming, and was known as the Bringer of Death.

It should have bothered him, for it was a near insult. His line was known for their belief in the sanctity of life, but after all the bloodshed he had witness, had caused, it meant nothing. Guuyd'on was quite certain he would be useless once the war was over, and he actually did not care. Until he met her, Ev'gya. She was not wary of him, as so many were because of his reputation. She was frivolous and teasing, and she awakened the spirit he believed to be dead from all the slaughter, both mystic and physical. A light in his life, his redemption from the brink. It was love like he'd never heard tell before, indescribable with the language of the People, but of the Old Tongues, the sounds were there. It was only a short time before they were Unified in the eyes of the People, and Guuyd'on went into battle with renewed vigor. She helped him see the sanctity of life, all life, Human and People alike. His compassion was discovered within, and he began to spare the women and children, killing only those that fought and endangered he and his men. As the war waged, he Named some of those on the Counsel, and offered advice to many. He began to bring the People together for the war, but mainly for after the war, in time of peace. He knew, hoped, the day would come when the People and Humans could live side by side. Ev'gya helped him believe in not only himself, but the ideals he could help incorporate into the creatures of the world.

It was when she was pregnant, near to birthing their child, that the Gods raged against him, and Eris stirred her finger into his life. They were camped on the outskirts of Dinas Emrys, laying seige to the town. A peace conference was near, Guuyd'on was sure, as for the first time in centuries, the Humans had agreed to a meeting. But a small group of extremists had different plans, and it was they who sparked Guuyd'on's fury. Somehow a group of Men had infiltrated the lines, and found his tent. It wasn't too terribly difficult, as his tent was marked as that of Commander. He'd returned from war planning to find Ev'gya's still and mutilated form within. His reaction was near instantaneous, laying a web to detect the trail, and seeing it clear to the sieged city. Fae Fyre like none had witnessed before raged up from his form, a black wrath the source of his power. The magic called to the earth, making her tremble and shake, and then to the sky, raining hellfire. Mere moments later, nothing was left of the city but a small pile of rubble. Thousands had died as the flaming rocks crushed buildings, and the buckling earth shook and restructured itself. That had been the last major battle between the two races. The few survivors that had managed to escape, if not with their limbs, their lives, fled and told the Human generals of the complete and utter destruction at the hand of a single Fae. Only then, had a true Truce been called.

By the time he reached the city, his legs ached. He enjoyed the sensation, surprised at how good it felt to actually move about. The trail had disappeared a mile or so back, but Guuyd'on hoped to pick it up once he was in the city. At least now he knew what the pearl of the trail represented. His little thief could relocate. He found the trail again, moving down a busy road, before he came upon a mess of overlapping tracks, and it disappeared again. Guuyd'on turned, trying to see if he could spot it again from his vantage point, but to no avail. Now he had really lost the trail.

__________________
Bringer of Death


Effing God Moder

Posts: 33
Date: Nov 22, 2008
An Old Friend
Permalink Closed

Guuyd'on had settled himself on a bench, to stay from the path of the Humans rushing about whilst he thought. The anchor to the illusion spell did not belong to the thief. They had touched it, of course, but they hadn't cast the actual spell, so he couldn't use that as a directional. And it was gone too long from the original caster to be of much more use anyhow. Guuyd'on watched the strange carriages travel past at high speeds, and people trek on their own paths while seemingly talking to themselves. It was very strange indeed. A lot had changed since he'd traveled among Humans, and that hadn't been too terribly long. Of course he hadn't done much social interaction when he'd waged war half a century or so back. Or had it been two centuries? He wasn't entirely sure, as he didn't really care about the passage of time.

Guuyd'on stood, and begain walking, trying to watch the Humans and learn their customs. It all seemed utterly ridiculous! Why were they all in such a hurry? He was trying to observe a particular couple when something caught his gaze. The web he had cast lingered, but now that he percieved something ethereal, he strengthened it once more. Guuyd'on stared, trying to place the particular path he was looking at. It was a mixture of green and white, but a forest green, like that of a Lesidhe, but not as pure. It was a track set he knew well, and he began to follow it. It was only when he reached what looked like a tavern did he realize who the trail belonged to. The music of the tavern, resembled a string instrument of some sort, accompanied by a raspy voice. He looked around, spotting a music box as the source of the cacophony. It took up a rather large portion of the wall, and he wondered at the size of it, as far as music boxes went. When he had been a commander, they had music boxes that could fit in one's pouch. It seemed that Humans weren't as yet as clever as the People. In due time, Guuyd'on was quite certain, they would be.

He looked back to the bar, giving a nod to the barwench before he settled his attention on the drunk at the end of the bar. Guuyd'on made his way over, taking a seat next to him. He was a black man, and with the scruff on his face and the misshapen hat upon his head, it was impossible to determine his age. He was slovenly dressed and had the aroma of a man in need of a bath. After a few minutes, the drunk seemed to finally realize that Guuyd'on was looking directly at him. Blearied umber hues lifted from their directionless gaze on the bartop to meet Guuyd'on's own.

"You're quite disgraceful. Do you realize that?" Guuyd'on informed him and inquired all at once. The man scoffed, and lifted his tightly clutched glass for another drink. "Who is you? Fashion police?" He croaked, a tone of heavy disinterest in his words. "That I am not."

The drunk eyed him again, setting his glass down. "Whatchu want?"

"Has your grammar dilapidated along with your hygiene, or did one follow suit?" Guuyd'on asked pointed, slowly lacing his fingers together in front of him. The drunk scowled, and turned a bit away.

"If yous gonna harrass me, leas' gimme some money or buy me some booze. Other than that, go away old man."

"That I am not. And I can not do. I need your help."

"Ha! You must be crazy. Who is you to ask me for help?"

"I am Varrick Goodwind of the People." Guuyd'on gave the name he always gave the children of Men, as they were hard pressed to pronounce a Name correctly, and it was never wise to let your true name slip anyhow. For the first time, at his words, the drunk smiled and chuckled.

"Yeah...I knew the real Varrick Goodwind once. He carried the sword, tutored Merlyn. Dangerous individual, fo' sho'." The man took another drink of his beer, eyeing Guuyd'on for a moment, and then he shook his head. "You ain't no Varrick Goodwind. You bossy 'nough to be though." The man nodded to himself, finishing off his beverage.

"Look at me Parsifal, and see me True." His voice was soft, but the tone of unmistakeable command was there. He couldn't help but look at the old man, and Guuyd'on let his Glamour slip to him for a mere second. He was taken aback for only a moment before his eyes narrowed to slits.

"You son of a bitch! Where the hell have you been?" At that reaction, Guuyd'on felt the misery lift a bit from his old friend. He let out a hearty laugh, a smile resting on his lips before he spoke.

"Well Parsifal, it's good to see you too."

"It's Percival. And I'm ain't kiddin."

"Proper grammar my dear friend. It suits you much better than this butchery you let fall from your lips. I've been out of the world a long while. I need to walk it a spell."

"What for? You're usually happy just to lock yourself away in Avalon, unless you see a war raging." Percival was glaring at him, wanting answers. Quite an understandable reaction from any Human that would be stuck in his situation.

"True, very true. I was going to lay to rest actually, but I fear Eris wants me here a while longer."

"What for?"

"Someone has taken the Book of the Wyrd, and I need to retrieve it."

A mixture of anxiety and shock entered his gaze. And if Guuyd'on wasn't mistaken, there was a bit of excitement there too. "You mean to tell me that book is out there for just anyone to-" Guuyd'on shook his head, stopping him before he could finish his sentence.

"No, and yes. The Book is blood bound to me, so only I can read it's pages. But, as it is true of all things, nothing is impossible, so I suppose someone could figure out how to pull the script from the pages. So for that, I must retrieve it. Additionally, it has great sentimental value."

Percival released his grip on the glass, and heaved a deep sigh. "What do you want me to do?"

"First, let's get you cleaned up and sober, and I'll tell you all about it, if you'll explain to me why the Humans talk to themselves now, and are in such a hurry..." Guuyd'on suggested, pushing himself off the stool. Percival nodded with a chuckle at his words, and followed suit, wavering a bit from the alcohol in his system. Guuyd'on took his elbow to assist him, and the duo made their way from the bar.

__________________
AnarchysSpawn


Poison Candy

Posts: 11
Date: Nov 28, 2008
RE: Payday
Permalink Closed

The suit was Valentino, in a color of blue so vibrant it seemed to be screaming at you. Slim grey pinstripes ran along the fabric complementing the color in every possible way. Farragamo shoes in that same dark gray were on his feet, the watch tucked beneath the blue jacket and grey dress shirt was a Rolex, its shiny face edged in diamonds. It all smoothly resembled the uniform of the elite. Of the upper echalon of society for whom such status symbols were only a beginning of the ritual that went into proving who they were.

Five hundred sit-ups a day. One hundred push ups. Weights five days a week. Five miles a day on the treadmill. All this and more kept the body beneath that suit as close to perfection as possible. Moisturizer with lamb placenta and exotic oils kept the skin on his face smooth after he shaved. The salon on the Piazzo Del Atrio kept him beneath a lamp for twenty minutes every second day giving his skin a natural looking glow even though he abhorred the sun. Manicurists, hair stylists, and facilists were all on his speed dial for any occasion that might warrant a visit to their individual establishments. He was as polished, plucked, and poised for perfection as it was possible to be without being one of the statues carved from marble that the Italians were so endlessly fond of.

In one moment Rowan was alone in her little hidey-hole, but in the next he was simply there, filling the room with an electrical charge of power. As the sound of the book clanging into the foot locker reverberated through the small space he shook his head and made small tsking sounds of disapproval. From where he leaned against the wall he watched her spin around to face him. His gaze cut by the strong edge of her bone structure. A man could lose a pint of blood to those cheekbones alone. Taking her in he pressed his fingers to the latch of one hemetite and diamond cuff link on his left sleeve. Adjusting it momentarily where it always wanted to loosen before straightening to stand.

"Temper, temper Baroness. What would the people say to see you in such a pique?"

The motion of his mouth as he spoke was a beautiful thing. His lips always curled into a secretive sort of a smile. It was difficult to look at those eyes and not want to know what was behind it all, what secrets lay in the depths of those eyes like steel. The voice that spoke was so perfectly cultured that it would fool any linguist, never for a moment showing that Italian wasn't his native tongue. He could just as easily have blended his accent to match the streets of Dublin were he in Ireland, but when in Rome....

Standing in front of her he looked over her shoulder and towards the package she had tossed into the locker. One plucked brow rose in a slight arch of amusement as he shifted his gaze back towards her face. Something there in her eyes made him angry. It was the same thing that was always inside Rowans gaze. A strange sort of superiority that she was born with, or so it seemed. He had tried everything he could to beat it out of her with the fierceness of his own personality, but that look persisted. It was a look that said that Rowan would always be better than he, and that he aught to know it. The problem was that he did know it. He knew only too well that try as he might he would never be what she was. He would never be born to the world that she had been. No one knew who he was, or where he came from, but she did. That knowledge was there in her eyes.

He had lifted his hand to stroke her cheek with the back of his knuckles, but in that moment with her eyes baring down on him his motion changed. That hand swept forward like the coiled strike of a serpant and he shoved his fingers deep into the coil of her heavy black hair. Fingers lost in the fabric of grey leather gloves clenched down hard in a grip on the back of her head so hard the it tugged her head back and exposed her neck to him. Seeing the dove white of her flesh and the spot where blue veins ran beneath the surface he breathed out heavily and yanked on her hair to turn her around.

His other arm wrapped around her waist and pressed her back into him. Their bodies made a solid line against one another and he could pull in the smell of her fine perfume in a breath. Left hand had claimed her hip to hold her in place against him, his right hand lost in her hair so he could keep her head pulled back to lean down and run the tip of his nose in a long line over the ribbon of her jugular vein.

"You didn't call me before you went. You were supposed to call me."

It was another voice completely. As his anger rose and his control faltered that perfect Italian sounded more rehearsed, and the guttural sounds of his natural Boston accent more prevalent. That voice was rough with passion as he kissed her neck softly just to feel the heat of her blood beneath the second. Before the gray leather gloves had kept him from touching her, but when his lips pressed firmly to her skin his power crackled like electric shock along her skin.

In that split second he entered her in a way that no other man could. His power gourged her and fed on her like she was a fine wine to be savored. In a quick whoosh of heat her energy flowed into him and he tapped into it quickly. Using her own power he disappeared only to instantly reappear in front of her, his body now between her and the foot locker which was still left open.

Reaching inside he grabbed the book wrapped in its waterproof canvas and began to peel back the wrapping to see the thing laying within that was calling to him in soft tones of power. Rowan was always so selfish with her baubles. Master theives were not known for their willingness to share. Then again none of their kind played very well with others. When his leather clad fingers curled back the edge of the cover and saw the book within his arched brow rose higher. What in hells name had she been up to while he was away?

"A book?"

Even as he asked, his voice once again under the control of that perfectly structured accent, he knew that this was more than a simple book. LIfting his hands to his mouth he bit sharp white teeth into the tip of one of the fingers and pulled down with his hand to peel off the cover of his own hand. With his hand freed he stroked fingertips over the books cover feeling drawn to do so in a moment of spontenaity. Sure even then that if he weren't secretly a street thug then he wouldn't have been quite so tempestuous in his decision making.

When he touched the book it was like touching a persons power from a distance. Through a long line of blood he felt......something. Something strange at the end of that line of power. Then, just as fast and unexpected his finger split open and blood gushed out to bathe the cover of the book. Jerking back his hand he made a hissing sound as he took in a long breath through his teeth. Lips peeled back in a grimace that showed those rows of perfect dentist assited teeth. The depths of his eyes glowed fiercely and he didn't try to touch the book again, but folded the canvas back around it. Turning he handed the book over to Rowan. This was one treasure she wouldn't be keeping in a foot locker at her house.

"The reason I came was to tell you that The Dark Lord calls us to the catacombs for a meeting. There is a mission for us."

As he spoke he paused to suck the blood from the open wound on his hand, watching as it healed before his eyes. Working his fingers in a careful way he shoved his hand back inside the soft gray leather gloves. Carefully he tucked the edge of the glove beneath the cuff of his shirt, then softly stroked his hands down the front of his gray dress shirt. Straightening the blue Gaultier tie, and generally doing the small insignificant things that might convince him that all was well even though something strange had just occured. Smoothing hands back through his hair he finally met Rowans eyes again, and his glance became deadly serious.

"Bring the book."

That cold statement was all he said as he swept past her and moved towards the door. He'd had enough of petty tricks for the moment. It was time to visit the Dark Lords Court and find out what they were being called to do. The book would be presented to the Cult and no doubt Rowan would be paid her thirty pieces of silver for finding it. She could probably get more in return from an independant buyer, but that wasn't his main concern. The something that he had felt through the book called to him softly from Rowans hands, and he wanted that book in the hands of people who could safeguard it. People who were easy enough for him to receive allowances from so that he could have access to the item when he wished.



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Salvation Lost : Sins of Salvation -> The Town Square -> Payday


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