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Welcome to the world of Fortuna, a land of fantastic proportions. This is an original fantasy roleplay that takes place in a world developed over nearly a decade of work and collaboration. We aim to encourage all participants to have a hand in the stories of the characters here, and the world around them. Your choices are key - so make them with pride. You decide who wins the wars, you decide who becomes King, the world is ours, and together we will bring it to life!
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 11, 2017 20:26:24 GMT -7
He had to smirk when she offered her own neck. Oh no, his tastes were far too dangerous for such a tender place. He enjoyed her company, he had decided, and if he were to sample her flesh he would select a less deadly locale. But, if she offered again… He might not have the willpower to say no.
He narrowed his eyes at her story, never losing his smile, yet… He wasn’t impressed. The tale she told was short, succinct, to-the-point. The idea behind it was interesting, yes, but what was he supposed to do with a mere idea? He needed structure, feeling - experience. Who was the woman, and how did she kill him? Ichabod began imagining the ways. She might have stabbed her to death, her blade finding purchase between rib cages, into organs, through arteries. Blood would have been everywhere - and she would not yet have known to consume it. He imagined her covered in blood, a dish served extra rare… And then he imagined that she had choked her. Hands around the woman’s throat, staring into eyes as they lost any semblance of life. Nails cutting into her jugular, bruises shaped like fingers tenderising the flesh.
He needed to stop imagining, his mind was getting away from him and he was becoming hungry. Not just hungry. Excited. If he were alone, he might have found himself breaking down the door of the house and ravenously taking what he needed… But he was not alone. And his company was pleasant - even if she was a terrible bard. Her explanation would need to be enough for him now. A taste, not a meal, of a tale he would later learn more of.
“And this curse,” He came back to his senses and grinned, his own sharp canines not a match for her’s. He pushed off the wall and closed in towards her. He was close - but not as she had been to him earlier. No, he kept less than an inch between them, enough space where the heat of her body and the cold of his could bounce off of one another; enough where her breath tickled his chin. They weren’t touching - not with their bodies. “Might it be... contagious?”
The voice realized Ichabod’s plan, then. Even she had to admit - he wasn’t always foolish.
Last Edit: Jan 11, 2017 20:27:08 GMT -7 by Ichabod Afof
One thing was becoming apparent. You see – Solana believed in two kinds of grown people, victims and villians. With enough time, each person fell into one category; if your parents were killed, or your lover stolen from you, or you were tortured, cruelly, and you cowered, and hid, and wept; you were a victim.
But this man was no victim, she knew. And yet, when she offered him her flesh, and there was that spring of desire in his eyes, that bright sheen of the monster within, a monster she knew intimately, he held his composure. And it was in that pivotal moment that she realized that the power she felt from him, this man who was at once ravenous and serene, was a power over himself.
Himself, and the voice inside, her only friend, who tells you to fight, hunt, kill, consume.
She loved him and she hated him in that moment. She wanted to learn from him and she wanted to tear him down, to be the sole reason for his unraveling; and so that smile of his incited something within her, something deep, something that had stirred only twice before, and she itched to grip his neck again, to bring him to that point, so close to tasting the fear of death. Maybe he would piss himself, as her father had. Maybe he would sob, and sin would seep from his pores, like her husband.
But she liked him, too, and she wanted to kill him as fiercely as she wanted to cradle his neck with gentle hands. She wasn’t used to being a woman in that way, fragile and soft. But next to him, that’s perhaps what she was.
It was a terribly contrary feeling, the one she wrestled with now, and so, when she told her story, she lied. Knowledge was power, she knew, and he knew much of her and her little of him, and so she told him the wrong story, someone else’s story.
He listened, but the greed in his eyes faded, and she knew she had lost him. Well, there was truth in one thing; she had never found success in telling stories, unless she was in a dream, and she could paint it in the sky, or write it in lilies across rolling hills, like her mother.
Or maybe he knew she told him lies. But that couldn’t be. No one was that omniscient.
"What kind of man are you, darling?" She stood, abandoning her offhanded lounge against the house, stepping towards him, just a tad, shoulders rolling back to hang her hands at her sides, cloak once again hiding her history, eyes flickering. He wasn’t really listening; he was distracted, some heavy thoughts hanging behind his careless visage. “Tell me what you want.”
But he didn’t; not yet, anyway, because he would have if he had known how very successful she was at giving men what they wanted, but cooled the flame hiding behind with expert strength, eyes dulling, but here he was, with her again. Her lips tugged downward.
“And this curse,”
He grinned, an almost infectious look, if ever Solana was known to grin, and lurched forward, his sudden nearness forcing her back to her wall; he wanted her to submit in that moment, and she would. And yet he kept coming, thrumming frame distressingly close; and she could smell him again, and how she yearned to close that gap, bury her face into the crook of his neck, find that spot again, leave two more tacks of ownership, fight, hunt, kill, consume.
Instead she stilled her desires, leaned her head against the wall to look up at him, exuding nonchalance.
“Yes?”
“Might it be... contagious?”
Ah; here it was, his endgame, although there was no thrill in his eyes now, at least, not like there had been just moments before. Out of pure instinct, forgetting his desires were different, she arched her head just enough that her lips were naught a breath from his, eyes trained on his green ones.
“Contagious?” She let out a short huff of air, sardonic. “No; or I would have spread it to half of Fortuna by now.”
She let those words hang in the air; she wanted him to feel the disappointment – or anger, maybe – she wanted to see who he was, and she wanted him to feel dissatisfaction of hearing the wrong answer before she gave him the right.
But, finally, when she saw what she had been looking for, or, perhaps, didn’t, she gave.
“But I stole more from him that night then his life, and the life of his lover,” she teased him, stretching the words, detached and unconcerned, “I stole his cursed blade.”
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 12, 2017 15:23:43 GMT -7
She wanted to feel his disappointment, anger, and there it was.
His face twisted, his grin still there, but no longer holding amusement. His eyes flashed and seemed to lose the glint that eyes would hold, the look being replaced instead with unpolished emeralds. Only for a moment - the briefest of seconds - they seemed to turn to harsh rubies instead. His teeth formed to points and his brows caved to sharp angles. His hand raised swiftly - his fingers having been turned into stalactites with deadly points - and seemed aimed for her throat, but he consciously adjusted him aim and slammed into the wall next to her head instead.
He then pressed forward, his body a rock crushing her against the wall, keeping her in place. His breath was soil and sand as his grin no longer held teeth, but sediment, and his sandpaper skin was pressing against her face.
And she seemed pleased.
He slammed his other hand into the wall, breaking through the drywall with a crash and a crumble. And then his visage slowly returned to normal, his stalactite hands drifting to flesh as they held him steady against the wall; the hair at his temple softening and matting there with sweat; his eyes turning to bright green mortal ones again; his skin suddenly soft as it pressed against her… And he was laughing. He leaned in, obviously tired, his face drooping into the space to the right of her head.
“Tease,” He told her in a quiet whisper, his breath - now lacking the scent of earth - washing over her cheek and ear, and he laughed again. One hand pulled out of the wall and found itself resting at the place where the woman’s neck and shoulder met. Somewhat threatening - but moreso, offering a touch of hunger.
And it took quite a lot to surprise a woman as old and – she would have chuckled at this word – wise as Solana Heiralei, but butter her biscuits, was the stunning elf surprised.
This man, who had her pressed up against the wall of a house unlike any other man had ever done, was a straight-up, from-the-gates-of-hell demon.
Hell yeah, she liked it.
But she was terrified.
He was rock, diamond and earth; and sand and wind and sky and the whole world touching her, and she was overcome and she wanted more.
She thought, for a moment – and who wouldn’t? – that he was going to slice her head right off of her body with his harsh fingers, but he was only testing her, so thankfully she didn’t let it show that her 93 years had flashed all at once in front of her eyes, mostly the great loves of her life, lost and mostly forgotten. She shoved them, again, to the abbesses of her mind, knife burning a hole in her thigh.
And she might’ve thought to slip out of his grip then, out of sheer survival instinct, but he pinned her up against the wall; and she was glad, because she wanted to look like she enjoyed being here, him pinned up against her, some ironic play on two lovers embracing. And: she did enjoy it. She did. In truth, it was a little bit of a turn on, but she was also scared as hell for her fucking life.
So Solana did the only thing she knew to do, the one thing that had, without fail, gotten her out of every hard place she’d ever been stuck.
She whipped out her bedroom eyes; tilting her head downward to gaze up at him from under heavy lashes, rattling a heavy breath out from parted lips.
And she took that moment of pause, in which he seemed slightly surprised that she wasn’t screaming bloody murder at his display, to reveal the weapon bound to the outside of her right leg.
The drywall crumbled when he smashed a granite hand into it, flaking in her hair and eyelashes. She didn’t react more than fluttering her eyes to rid them of the dust, expression blasé.
And his demon form faded away, giving way, again, to the deceptive mortal; and she found herself sad, in a way. Like she was seeing something that was only a part of him, like she had some connection with him, now.
But she shoved those thoughts away; back to the abyss where her mother and husband lie rotting. It was his blood in her talking. She had been confused by these post-suction thoughts, once. She knew better now.
And he laughed, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. She rolled her eyes, the threat of a smirk twitching on her lips.
“Tease,” She smelled the scent of him; familiar, but not, wash over her, his sodden hair tickling her shoulder, and let out a soft snort, the closest to a laugh she ever allowed.
His hand was on her other shoulder, and she took in a hard breath through her nostrils, instinctively taking in the perfume of his blood that tantalized her, now, hand gripping unconsciously at his back.
“Oh, I’m the tease,” she drawled, but parted her lips and touched purring canines to his neck... she didn’t pierce him, not yet, but she played, dragging her teeth along his neck, up and down again, wondering how long she could resist, the scent already beginning to drive her mad with craving.
It wasn’t long. She bit him without warning, gripping him to her possessively, but stopped herself almost as quickly as she had started, chanting internally that gluttony was a vice.
Well – maybe that’s exactly what this was. A demon’s sin.
“You know, I kind of like you better that way.”
She didn’t see his reaction to that, face still buried in the soft skin of her neck, but she imagined he was amused.
“Shall we test it?”
And she grinned, then, only because he couldn’t see her.
N O T E S So I kind of cut this off because I know my posts can turn into novels; but if for any reason this isn't enough to respond to, definitely let me know!! I can always add more aha
TEETH
MADE BY VEL OF GS + ADOXOGRAPHY 2.0
Last Edit: Jan 12, 2017 19:37:56 GMT -7 by Deleted
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 12, 2017 23:45:42 GMT -7
She was hungry, and he could easily accept her savouring of him. He had more than enough to offer... Though he would not simply permit her to feed so desperately if that blade worked. No, he would need her to follow him. Serve him. And in return, then - and only then - would he offer her the taste she wanted. He smirked as she fed, knowing that it would only make her hungrier. Knowing that it would only make her want what was in that house even more.
"Shall we test it?" He whispered, and as he pulled off of her, he could see the grin that was an answer enough to his questions. He did not bother to adjust his collar, instead sliding away from her, and going to the back door of the little home he had been so interested in. He didn't waste any time in slamming it open. If anyone cared about the noise, they would have come to investigate the sudden thud and crumbling of drywall. They were all too terrified. Just as Ichabod preferred it.
With the door splintered and hanging open, he looked back to the woman and offered a single finger with a come hither posture, and then he was in the home. The lonely woman who lived here had already heard them. That was fine.
He followed the faint sounds of panicked breathing, and eventually stopped in front of a closet. His hand drifted across the door, and then he started laughing. "My my, I do believe she's trying her very best to hide," He stomped his foot as he spoke, an uncontrolled shriek meeting both of their ears, followed by the sound of someone struggling to get away.
"Now now, sweet one. Our intent is not to kill you. Come and play with us."
Last Edit: Jan 13, 2017 0:09:59 GMT -7 by Ichabod Afof
He beckoned her with a solitary digit; come, come. Solana thought mildly that, were he any other man, he’d find himself short that digit.
But this was Ichabod, and so she came.
He seemed to have a defined path, ordinary rounded ears following the spats of frenzied panting through the single-story house; yet she had her own route, meandering lazily through the kitchen, sharp eyes wide with perception, flicking briskly from one mundane object to the next, eyes lingering briefly on a small canvas, sketched with a crude likeness of Sriae.
Lips tugged upward, briefly, and Ichabod’s cooing, a room over, to his sobbing target brought her from her reverie, twitching fingers hovering over the knife on her left thigh, the one she’d never unsheathed.
Something, a voice, of reason, or fear, something small and faint, which never spoke in words she heard, whispered, but she left it behind as she left behind the small goddess on the canvas, and she gripped his knife – her knife, as she joined the demon.
He was laughing when she entered, and she rose a brow, smile just a shadow hinting on dark lips.
It was odd. The things that amused him.
Hiccupped cries, pathetically failing to be muffled, emanated from the rickety floorboards. She heard him, and she was terrified; had probably already pissed herself, the poor, sad, stupid fool.
Because she worshiped kind Sriae, the god of beauty and truth – as evidenced again by the trifling, pitiful attempt at godly protection that was the sun-shaped charm on her bedside table – and thought they were malevolent thieves, come to steal her precious, lonely life from her. How pathetic.
This game was one Solana detested playing.
"My my, I do believe she's trying her very best to hide,"
Ichabod launched a foot into the base of the board, eliciting a frantic scrabble backwards, jostling the board; she couldn’t re-secure it all by her lonesome, from underneath, so had prayed to her gentle god to hide her from those who would harm her.
It seemed so simple, the words she had to say, and yet how Solana hated to be the angel.
"Now now, sweet one. Our intent is not to kill you. Come and play with us."
His words were sharp, mocking, the words of a killer, of a monster, of a demon. They were the right words, she thought, for a different game.
Solana lifted the hood of her cloak, obsidian sitting dark and heavy on her brow, and lifted just the edge of the wooden plank that their human pet hid under, sliding it, slowly, the shriek of wood-on-wood prompting another wave of hysterical weeping as their sad human realized she had been discovered.
The petrifying sight of Ichabod, emeralds shimmering above a wolfish smile, was the grand revealing of her captor. She began shaking, pale eyes wide, rimmed with red. In both hands she clutched a kitchen knife, likely the deadliest tool she could find.
Solana nearly laughed.
But, no. This was the moment.
Solana drifted into her line of sight, carefully pushing back her cloak, shimmering silver eyes filled with... what was it she wanted to convey here?
Forgiveness.
“We mean not to harm you, child.” She knelt, right hand extended, a kind offering; and she knew what the lonely woman saw in her, or hoped she knew.
The foolish throng who worshiped the Pantheon of Light were taught that the beauty in the world was to be celebrated and worshiped, an indication of good. Solana was nothing if not beautiful, and, now, the opposite to Ichabod, eyes shining with that gleam she had, that hint of the Lamini’s Enthralling Gaze, she must look like a savior.
All the woman needed to do was abandon her sad knife and take her hand; and, when finally she did, Solana turned it, palm up, and floated a soft thumb over it’s wrinkled mounds, smile hinting on her lips.
Her left hand closed around the hilt of her dagger.
“Good girl.”
And now she lifted her blade, singing in her hand; and the voice she ignored whispered louder, and her heart thrummed, and her eyes flashed.
“We are your gods, now.”
Solana had her, now, and, just in case she didn’t, she held tightly to her pet’s wrist, thumb no longer a comfort, but a shackle. The woman seemed to realize the trap she’d staggered into, too slowly, like a doe suddenly caught in a snare, but it was too late; and Solana cut, two deep incisions, a black X welling up past sagging skin. For a moment, the woman was frightened, welled tears overflowing in fat drops down her cheeks, but Solana was done with her, and released her hold on the human’s dainty wrist, the deed done, eyes flat once more.
She spun, grey orbs locking with Ichabod’s emerald for one telling moment.
“She’s going to be very thirsty.”
She ran her tongue along her humming steel friend, clearing it of the sweet blood of her innocent pet, and sheathed it once more.
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 15, 2017 20:08:47 GMT -7
When the woman reappeared, he had already gotten the floorboard out, and frightened the poor thing inside. It was fun, for him. He always dealt in fear. His companion, however, seemed to have other plans. She approached with gentility. Coaxed the girl out from under the floor. If he thought for a moment she was going to do anything other than what the two had planned, he might have found it annoying. Instead, he found it exciting.
She watched as their target climbed out from under the floor and into the welcoming arms of his vampiric mistress. He memorized her face, remembering these moments to retell later. She seemed so comforted, so calm. As if in the arms of a mother. He would never know such a feeling. Perhaps it made him feel a bit of jealousy. His birth mother was long dead, and his real mother was not a physical presence he could enjoy. He imagined the warmth of the embrace, and he smiled.
The smile turned into a grin as his companion wrapped her spidery fingers around the girl's wrist, holding her tightly. The fear crossed her face as quickly as the grip had tightened, but it was too late. The woman was strong, the girl was not. The blade sliced flesh, and Ichabod salivating at the scent and sight of blood. He had been waiting so long for a meal... But he would need to wait longer. This girl was not a meal. Just as the woman was not a meal.
As the woman told Ichabod the girl was hungry, he chuckled and pulled over a chair, sitting in it with a fluid motion. He rubbed his knee and pulled his collar down, ready for his new subject. The motions were enough for the newly transformed girl, who stumbled over and crashed into his lap, her mouth finding his neck mid-motion and latching on like a babe desperate for milk. He groaned a bit as she bit, her teeth not as specific as the woman's, and moved his head to one side. "That's it, sweet one," He moved one hand to pet her hair gently. He knew she would not feel full from his blood. It would only make him hungrier. And she would only want more.
While the girl drank, he moved his eyes to the woman, his eyes glinting at her. She would prove to be very important, indeed. "My name is Ichabod," He finally told her, "What might I call you, dear mistress?"
Jade eyes held no tremor of surprise at her words; though Solana’s did, signature brow quirking as he chuckled.
Well. He had this all played out in his head, hadn’t he?
And her pet transformed quite quickly; much more quickly than she, though she had fought it, Necromantic magic fighting against the curse surging through dark veins. The soft human had looked on the demon with the terrified eyes of prey just moments ago, a skittish squirrel cornered by a hungry dog.
Now she was thirsty.
Now she was one of them.
And she smelled less appetizing, too, a fact which made Solana’s captivated expression fade as Ichabod sat, patting his knee, affectionately, as if to a favored daughter. Bronze elf, the image of apathetic disinterest, leaned casually against one wall, eyes lidded and brows high as grey eyes drank the woman’s hysterical desperation, mouth locked wetly and clumsily on his neck, hands grasping at every bit of him she could get; as if that would get more of his lifeblood into her system, kickstart the lifelong bloodlust.
And yet; that had been her, hadn’t it? There had been a night she drained two men before her lucidity returned to her.
She wrinkled a nose, one edge of her lip curling up, distaste clear in the line connecting nostril to lip, her sharp granite eyes. She hoped, at least, she’d been more graceful about it.
"That's it, sweet one," he managed, after a groan – which she assumed to be from discomfort, but, truthfully, how was she to know? She’d never heard him groan in the other way before, and vaguely wondered if he had the same dreams as mortal men, or if his dreams were as his reality; bloody and carnal.
But, as her eyes had been trained with loathing on the human, his eyes, apparently, were on her; when she rose them to meet his, shining brightly in victory, they halted in their studying of her.
"My name is Ichabod, what might I call you, dear mistress?"
And she nearly smiled at that; she was tempted, because it absolutely tickled her.
Mistress. How bloody poetic.
“Heiralei.” She started with her last, the name that started her journey. “Solana.” Her true name. Her chosen.
Curious, that he’d asked her story before her name. Wasn’t that usually the other way around?
She strolled forward, now, after kicking off the wall, sauntering with a lazy sense of confidence up to the two; and hovered just above the woman’s shoulder, sweeping long fingernails gently, just a brush, across her back, to push the hair away from the half-exposed stretch. She’d ripped her shirt, either hiding in the floorboards or emerging from them. It was plain skin, dull, but brightened at Ichabod’s intoxicating blood.
And yet, she did not gain bloodlust from her touch.
Solana would have lied if she said she wasn’t a bit jealous.
But of course she wouldn’t admit that out loud.
“And my payment for my services, darling?” Grey orbs flicked back to his, smirk playing on her lips. She teased, but did not jest. “Or... should I expect carte blanche?”
He may not be so amused as she was at this, she knew; but that was why she said it.
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 17, 2017 10:22:08 GMT -7
Solana was her name. It didn't hold the darkness he had expected, the malevolence. Instead, it floated off her tongue like candy, held a lightness to it like rays of sun in the middle of the afternoon. She corrupted the name, he thought. And he liked that. Just as he had taken the curse of his and made it his task to defy it, she had a name that she could twist to her own purposes. They were alike, he and Solana. A perfect sister.
Do not get attached, child. You are the only of your kind. She does not share your purpose, and will always serve her own, the Voice seemed unhappy with Ichabod's distraction, no matter how much she knew it was for serving her. She worried, perhaps, that this Solana would distract him from his course. She thought, just maybe, he would forget what his life was for. Serving her. It was all the more worrisome as Solana made her expectation clear. Something in return. There was always something in return. Nothing was free.
While the Voice worried on this, Ichabod chuckled. "Oh nothing to fret on dear Solana," He let her name slip over his tongue slowly, "You'll find your favours do not go without gratitude."
He pulled the girl latched to his neck free, ignoring her whines as she lapped the blood from her lips, and reached for more. He found his hands tight at her wrist, squeezing until she calmed, "Now now, sweet one. Wouldn't want to spoil your appetite." With the girl dealt with, splayed on the floor at his and Solana's feet, he relaxed into the chair more completely, crossing one leg over the other and bringing his hands behind his head, one foot tapping in thought.
"I see what a vampiress like you might want for, but I see more than that," He could see what Diassei saw, but those secrets he would not share, "And should our desires meet - chaos, power, control - perhaps this is more than a night's deviation. Carte blanche seems a bargain in light of our partnership's boons. But... For this one," His hand dropped gracefully to the head of Solana's new pet, fingers moving gracefully through the strands tangled by panic, "I suppose I've merely offered a deposit." Adjusting his neck, her clean punctures were visible once more, the deposit he had made. It held none of the mess of the young pet's bite, none of the crusting of blood. No, her bite was perfect. "What need shall I fulfill to exact payment?"
Last Edit: Jan 17, 2017 10:23:30 GMT -7 by Ichabod Afof
There was a concerned sheen in his eyes when she spoke, which was better than she suspected, truthfully; but he masked it quickly and expertly, look gone with a blink and lips tilting upward, careless.
Bravo. If she hadn't been a master of the same trick, she wouldn't even have noticed.
His chuckles were as dark as he was, tinged with a knowledge of something, in the way some had of unnerving you. I know something about you that you don't want to tell.
"Oh nothing to fret on dear Solana, you'll find your favors do not go without gratitude." And that was enough for her. He was a man good on his word, she trusted, if it pleased him to be, and she suspected, now, that she knew how to please him.
And yet she said nothing. She waited, as she was known to do. Silence prompted promises, she had found.
The girl he swiped away whimpered softly, never satisfied enough, and she remembered.
He cooed to her, softly, as if it wasn't his lifeblood she craved, but sweets before dinner, and she, driven wild by the lack of options in her direct vicinity, writhed on the floor, head turning franticly, eyes closed, looking locked in some savage nightmare, when, in truth, the nightmare was her reality.
But Solana lived in nightmares, and she was perfectly happy.
The elf’s primary instinct was some combination of disgust and apathy, but a hint of pity tugged at her heart. What would she have done that night, if locked in a room with another of her own kind - useless in bloodsoaked eyes? But it was a fleeting feeling, gone as soon as her eyes left the human.
He was settled, now, a veritable King on his Throne, leaning back, eyes hazy in thought.
"I see what a vampiress like you might want for, but I see more than that. And should our desires meet - chaos, power, control - perhaps this is more than a night's deviation. Carte blanche seems a bargain in light of our partnership's boons. But... for this one, I suppose I've merely offered a deposit."
Solana's hand had drifted to her lip as he spoke, expression vibrant with some half-concealed emotion, silver eyes reflecting the light from the setting sun, orange and pink straining through the shuttered window. Her arm - the other - hovered half-crossed over her body, the shelf for her elbow. Fingers brushed along her lips, back and forth, thoughtful.
Her eyes touched her twin circlets of ownership, and then jumped back to his own green orbs, amusement clear; a silent, 'I know what you're doing, sweetheart'.
Not so say she wasn't still a bit tempted.
"What need shall I fulfill to exact payment?"
Solana had to ponder that. Her instinct had hopped initially, mind flashing to the wand shop, the ally...
But she knew better. She was no child, driven by a handsome man’s charming style or a pretty dress.
Knowledge is Power, she thought, and just as she hadn’t wanted to reveal her own story before, she’d convince him to tell his, now.
“Any good partnership starts, I think, with trust.” She turned a coy side-eye on him. “Tell me, Ichabod, why a demon is interested in fostering infant vampires.”
She tossed a hand casually in the direction of her new pet, who she supposed she’d give a new name later, if it amused her, and then her face fell into stone, intent. She slipped up to him, leaning forward at the waist, hands supporting her weight on the arms of his chair, face hovering inches from his. Dusky granite eyes leveled with shining green ones.
“And cut the bullshit. If I’m going to be your right hand, I need to know what I’m getting myself into.”
And that accomplished two goals; getting information...
And sitting herself cozily next to the man in charge.
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