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Darkseeker
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Though he shouldn’t have been surprised given the noble’s evidently volatile nature, Vivian did find himself taken aback when the kittenish touch was pried from his shoulder. He’d expected a mere eye-roll at worst, maybe an embittered remark about the noble’s pleading being rudely interrupted, but not only had the subject of his superficial affections been essentially chased off, he’d been ordered to. . . to. . .
Oh no.
The witch’s nails curled into the underside of the front desk, marring the polished wood as though it was made of naught but warm butter. Nevermind being regarded as common; the public would now be made aware of the noble’s proposal, and because he couldn’t leave the noble in his shop alone in order to set things straight, there wasn’t a thing Vivian could do about it. Oh, how his late lover must be rolling in her grave with stitches in her metaphysical sides. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to handle this brute after all.
And just when he thought he couldn’t possibly be any further aggravated, a paper was dropped before him—a paper that had previously been stashed away within the now violated safety of his desk. He was barely able to snuff the urge to wring the noble’s neck, not only for going through his things, but for having the audacity taunt him with what he’d stolen. Even years of practice in the art of deception could not cloak the hellfire in his eyes.
And still, regardless of this newfound rage, Vivian refused to so much as breathe in the other man’s direction. It was only once Koren drifted out of the shop that he turned to his familiar and finally allowed all of the savage thoughts swarming behind his face to leak through. “I wish Ana would’ve taken me with her,” huffed the witch as he reached up to begin retying his hair, searching for anything to busy his trembling hands with. “Hell cannot possibly be any worse than dealing with men.”
A ripple of contempt rolled through his body when the noble called to him from atop a handsome steed. Vivian could feel fire at his fingertips—just one tiny flick of the wrist and he’d light his insufferable suitor’s coat ablaze. . . but he wouldn’t dare. He only stared, glaring until the nobleman’s figure was out of sight, and it was as his freed gaze began to wander once again that he came across that gap on his shelves. The bastard hadn’t even bothered to pay for those stolen trousers. Gee, what a gentleman.
However tempted he might have been to simply close shop early and completely ignore the proposed rendezvous altogether, Vivian now had a point to prove, that he would absolutely not allow someone—regardless of status, mind you—to drive him mad without consequence. So yes, he was going to attend this meeting. And yes, he fully intended to dress up for it as requested. Just because he was considering murder of the first degree did not mean he wasn’t going to look his best. He’d just have to pick something red. . . you know, just in case.
In order to wind down his nerves, the tailor got to work on sewing yesterday’s client’s wedding dress, busying his mind with lace and frills instead of all the ways to commit mariticide. He figured that he’d make something for himself as well; it was a special occasion after all, was it not? Whether that be because it was the first time he’d be speaking to his. . . betrothed. . . outside of work, or because it’d be the night that he would be coerced into confessing to a human of his blasphemous practices, he figured a new outfit would be necessary in order to properly commemorate the occasion. That, and he felt he deserved to feel pretty after being so horrendously antagonized. So off went the wedding dress, and in came something far more his style.
He fashioned this new garb of his with blood red silk and black leather. The dress itself reached to his ankles, but the fabric was slit just above his hips on either side so as to be fashioned somewhat like a sophisticated loin cloth, allowing a slit for his legs that one could only describe as either infuriatingly immodest or tastefully risqué. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately?—he wasn’t insane to expose so much skin within the home of a noble, so he did pick out a pair of black hosiery to cover up. Reluctantly.
There were no sleeves; the dress instead connected around his neck, fastened together by a strip of gold cut into an upside down triangle. A strip of leather was then used around the waist, again fastened by a similar gold accent. Masakh warned him that he wasn’t doing a very good job of arguing his case, because no God-fearing mortal would bear their arms in public with such form-fitting cloth, but Vivian reminded her—and himself—that there was little chance he wouldn’t be coming clean if pressed again. One can only argue with a brick wall for so long. So, you know, might as well look the part.
The whole process couldn’t have taken more than a couple of hours. Being able to move and use various tools without ever needing to put his hands on them often came in handy in this line of work- he could cut, sew, and brew tea with a handheld flame whilst never lifting a finger. Most of his magic was more or less muscle memory, after all; he’d stashed his grimoire away years ago, and the only spells he ever used nowadays were long since memorized. He feared that he’d have to go dig up the old thing now, though- the longer he thought about it, the more curious he became of the nobleman’s curse and the ancient magic it must’ve come from. Yes, perhaps he should have been more concerned over the fact that it was actively killing this renowned mortal and obviously that was. . .sad? for some reason, but the fact that it may be his only chance to witness something so elusive and fascinating was a much more compelling argument, and his adamance on keeping his secret was getting in the way of being able to study it. No one said he had to cure Koren for his sake; Vivian could very well only agree to help out of his own interest. Immortals are not exactly known for their empathy, you know.
And so the witch sat upon the edge of his desk, sipping gingerly from his mug whilst mulling over the pros and cons of compliance with his familiar. Masakh had apparently already decided that she would hold a grudge against the nobleman for the rest of his life—which, according to her, would not be very long—and thus was very displeased about hearing that her master was considering giving up the charade.
“I suppose it’s a good thing you aren’t invited then-”
The mage was barely able to finish his jest before the feline began attempting to shoo him away, remarking that she no longer wished to speak to him because he was, ahem, ‘the epitome of what it means to be an embarrassment.’ Which was true, he supposed; he was the one who’d gotten all dolled up for egotistical casanova who could very well end up getting him killed, not to mention he wasn’t even being adequately paid for his services. Sigh. The things one does for love. Or, well, curiosity anyway.
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Koren “I should have that boys' very entrails strewn across this courtyard.” A muscular, finely aged man caressed the thin hairs of his mustache, his cracked lips spreading into a frustrated grin; smooth as butter in a mere response to the rumbling guffaws of the men surrounding. “Cut him some slack. You know he’s already been through enough of the noble women- and men. Perhaps he’s just...experimenting is all.” -- “With a commoner?” Baron Dandes snapped, though it hadn’t been very long at all until his shoulders slumped and his breath escaped in a long, tired exhale. “Hoax or not, I refuse to allow Koren any more than housing and food. His allowance is cut off and I’ll have Marcus and Wren guard him day and night! I’ll--” “Father.” commented the son himself, interrupting the turbulent speech with the thrumming snap of his fingers. “Care to explain why you sent the guards?” Eyeing the broad men flanking his sides, a vexed curl of his eyebrows commenced simultaneous to his quickened gait. And as he advanced upon the petite throng of acclaimed friends, his fathers friends to be exact, they each received a special look. --Although wrapped all pretty with ribbon and bows, underneath was a near beastly glare. “You’ve brought an audience to watch my reprimand. Tell me if I’m right.” “Quiet boy.” --Was his first response. And although a fiery remark had already been cooked and plated in his throat, Koren had done as he was ordered. Baron Tinsmen had pressed forward, drawing a slow stare across his frame top to bottom. A tightened jaw and averted gaze was all the man felt he could do. Tinsmen was a terrifying opponent. To Koren at least. There had been too many times to count where the older would provide the most intricate and worst punishment while in the prime of his rebellious childhood. The very scars etched onto his hands, although not directly sourced to Tinsmen, had been a reminder of the scolding and special “treat” he had received when it had grown known on how he obtained them. How did such a relationship exist anyways?--Why would a proud father allow another to touch his child, his prodigy, his very heir. Well, Lord Tinsemen was his godfather and Baron Dandes greatest friend as well as comrade. The young noble gulped, a wry chuckle bundled with nervous trembles bouncing from his freckled lips. “Causing a distasteful ruckus, terrorizing the female population and fooling with the male, and creating a sudden engagement within a span of a day? Surely this behavior is coming from the manor chefs incompetence and not your own stupidity.” languid but equally unimpressed, his godfather spoke with crossed arms and a slightly slanted back. He stood tall, only just short of Koren, dressed in a dark brown vest and creamy white sleeves; long dark trousers slick to skin and fancy boots to match. Baron Dandes would stroll forth in a short stride, waving off the other men, a signal to let them be. And so it begins. The herd of pampered lambs began to disperse, of course the two most commanding men in his life had stayed behind, forming a silent unity which meant their intimidation had been modified, bubbling over in an expensive, refined authority. “Alright, alright. Before you both hammer away, let me explain myself.” He cleared his throat, trapping his mouth beneath slightly spaced fingers. Maybe it was to hide a cheeky smile, or maybe it was to veil the tremble of his jaw. No one would know but himself. “I’ve got this cur-”..-- Oops. How close was that? Hahaha..His brusque silence was only momentarily, he wouldn’t keep his dear fathers waiting. “--This course that..I’m interested in. My..fiance met..me through that course.” His pauses became less and less as he went on, gaining momentum with each stroke of confidence. “We talked some. And he proclaimed his love and admiration for me. I couldn’t help but accept. After all, I’m a single man. Well, was a single man.” He puffed, albeit proudly. Such blasphemy! He never thought he’d ever refer to being single in past tense. But here he was now, creating lies and manipulating them in a way that was believable. Ah, the repercussions of his own actions. What would he say to Denara now? He’d remain her escort but he doubted he could salvage any chance of intimacy after this. She was an incredibly proud woman. Maybe even more so than him. “Really, he’s nothing but a temporary fling. I’ll break it off soon. You know, I’ve gotta ease him into it.” Finished the young noble, his chin nonchalantly cocked back and hands worming their way behind his head of thin curls. “Hmph. Well..As long as my son isn’t marrying some standard couturier..I’ll allow it. But don’t think you’re getting let off easily. Your allowance will be cut and I’ll have both Marcus and Wren stationed at your side at all times. They’ll report back to me if you get into too much trouble. I can’t afford a crooked reputation right now. Not when the gala is right around the corner.” “Hmm..” Baron Tinsmen grumbled, eyes flickering between the duo. “If you need me, I'll be at Viscountess Farnleys for tea.” Ha, Koren’s known long ago the affections his godfather held for that woman. So watching him trot off, casually smoothing down his graying hair, he couldn’t help the slight smile that managed to breach his attempt at stoicism. Not long after the mans exit, the father and son would exchange glares, though his fathers was a great more fierce; a warning. “Alright. Love you too man.” Koren started, his lip furling along with his sarcastic tone, dramatically expressive. Watching his dads back sway with a gentle walk and falling shoulders, the young noble slapped a hand upon his eyes, tossing his head back in a fatigued groan. Dammit “Marcus!” The man hopped about his friend, a cheery, needy grin creasing his cheeks. He was aware of the time, aware of the invite he had given the tailor all the way back at his store. So..there had been a change of plans. With his father watching him like a hawk, he seriously doubted he could leave the premises undetected. “No.” Marcus boredly declared, sauntering off with speedy strides. But he was followed. And his follower was followed. Three men scampered down the palace halls, Marcus in the lead and Koren sandwiched between by the second guard, Wren. “You haven’t even heard me yet. C’mon. I just need a little favor..remember--” Cutting himself short, he’d cast a low look back at Wren, warily hooking an arm around Marcus’ shoulder and leading him further away from their observer. “Remember the curse? Hmm? Well this favor I need of you has a lot to do with it.” A hard, rushed whisper sprung from the tip of his tongue, but he must’ve been too close for a rough hand came firm on his lower cheek, pushing his face with a stern demeanor setting itself ablaze and yet it had considerably softened from what it had been moments before. “..Alright. Let's just get this over with.” His partner in crime had been dealt a minimal amount of information, as he could only really describe what Vivians shop looked like, but Koren had faith in the guards abilities, thus, not a spec of worry had wrinkled his head. Instead, the man had busied himself with preparation. Whilst Marcus would serve as the witch’s chauffeur and informant, he would be situating his...bedroom. Now it's not what it seems. Since his..grounding--How shameful-- His room was really the only space he had jurisdiction over. And why not? It was spacious, comfortable, and if things got a little spicy they’d already be where they needed to be. He chuckled through closed lips, his mind already beginning to salivate at the thought. Don’t get carried away. The curse comes first.. And most would think it sad how he had to tell himself that |
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Whatever little time the tailor had left to himself was spent with him glued one of his novels, finding solace in its familiar, albeit admittedly cliche plot. Anything to take his mind off of whatever onslaught of chaos was heading his way. His familiar, who’d either sensed the anxiety that had begun to fester within her master’s chest or decided that brooding with a companion was better than brooding alone, had come and settled upon his lap, soaking up the fading rays of sunlight dripping from in between the curtains. The calm before the storm, it seems. The book did not, unfortunately, prevent his mind from wandering back to his predicament. No matter what that exasperating blueblood seemed to believe, Vivian did have the upper hand here; not only was he the only one in the vicinity that could offer any assistance, but he could very well add onto the man’s affliction. Though they were not his forte, curses were no impossible feat, certainly not when his mark was already so. . . fragile. Weak. But what a waste that would be, to do away with something so pretty just because it could not keep its mouth shut. Hmm. . . If he was going to work with this man, he’d have to teach him some manners first. It’d be a shame if he had to shut him up by force.
His book did not seem to be doing him any favors during this pondering period, because the thought of playing into his proposed role of the infatuated suitor crossed Vivian’s mind more than once. It would make his job infinitely easier, truthfully; if he was to put on some sort of lovesick facade in front of onlookers, then so long as he didn’t come off as obsessive or unstable, he would be effectively alleviated of any suspicion should things happen to go awry. It was the inevitable humiliation that would follow in suit, however, that was deterring his confidence. No amount of sappy romance plots would convince him that cozying up to the nobleman, regardless of it being a mere ruse meant to save his own behind, would be anything short of spirit-crushing. He wouldn’t even spit in Koren’s direction at this point, and now he was considering wrapping himself about his arm like an awestruck schoolgirl? Gag.
Still, the more he thought about it, the more interested he became. It being the curse, that is- not the embarrassing front he might have to put up to protect himself. That topic still very much so had a twinge of distaste flitting about his features every time he reverted back to it. Perhaps he’d just have to be annoying right back. Surely that’d put the noble back where he rightfully belonged: underneath the sole of Vivian’s boot.
He’d gotten so absorbed into his book then and, consequently, his own thoughts, that he didn’t take note to the fact that his guide had arrived until Masakh informed him there was a yet another important-looking stranger at the door. A chauffeur, hmm? How fancy.
One could not imagine how quickly relief flooded through him as he was told the meeting would be relocated. Assuming he and his moribund accomplice would be given the utmost privacy—would you really want to barge in on a notoriously libertine man and his newest supposed plaything?—then he could scrap that mortifying plan and pretend he’d never conjured it in the first place. Yes, alright, being moved to a bedroom was suspicious, but given that the man’s life was in jeopardy, Vivian highly doubted his motives were suggestive. He preferred it this way, anyhow; the aforementioned privacy would give him more liberty to discuss what he wanted to without fearing any eavesdropping passersby.
The witch couldn’t help the way his jaw dropped as he was led inside the palace walls. While it was not the first time he’d been welcomed into such a prestigious abode, such majesty never ceased to amaze him, even as he was hurriedly ushered along to evade any unwelcome eyes. He was not here to socialize, after all, and it’d be best if he wasn’t caught for interrogating; as beautiful as the place was, he planned to be in and out of here before midnight, however flattering the earlier offer to allow him to stay the night happened to be.
He wound up placed before the bedroom door as it was knocked upon for him by his escort, and that was when the situation hit him. Oh Lord, what on earth was he doing? Disobeying his elders like this could get him dragged back home by his hair. He instinctively began to toy with the ends of his braided locks, grimacing outwardly at the thought of what might happen to him if he was caught sticking his nose in places where it most definitely did not belong. It wasn’t the humans he was worried about, after all. . . it was the witches. |
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Eventually, the congenial silence had grown to quell his salacious thoughts, the entirety of his room cleansed of any deformities. And yet not by his own personal doing, but a handful of maids, briskly brushing off cluttered dust or misplaced items. Lengthy fingers curled feebly into thin sheets, clutching the silky fabric whilst its person began a glutted glare about his surroundings. Koren dug a relaxed hand into his kinked mullet; respite for the kindling itch along his scalp. The process,--transporting his precious cargo, was taking much too long. In fact, who’s to say the man wasn’t making off with the dainty tailor at this very moment. His betrothed isn’t short on appearance after all, of course not. Why would a noble incite a marriage with little prestige if the other wasn’t some sort of winsome devil? But then again, it wasn’t of pure accord. He, backed into a corner; forced to declare the engagement to the public, and Vivian, well --roped into it all. And yet, one would think that publishing themselves as Koren Dandes lover would be a great deal of flattery. Not the witch. Though surely, he was just adding in some pull back, preserving dignity or however people do it. Soon, the tailor would come to his senses, there was little doubt with that. One knock and a guarded figure had pushed through the door, pale hand wrapping almost diffidently around the polished knob. And beginning a leisure scan about the muscular shoulders and dark gloved attire, he’d almost scoff, flapping his arms onto the thick rim of his mahogany headboard. Wren knocked his legs against the door, the light gray paint nearly chipping against the edge of his cutting boot. Surprisingly, the man had clothed himself rather casually, immersed in black, puffy trousers and a long dark green tunic; cinched almost tight to his form by a glowing, silver breastplate. Really, if the soldier wasn’t so uptight, he just might receive more than a bothered shift; something more flirtatious. Something more fun. Noticeably, the man had swiped at his sweat slicked lips, impetuously guiding a quick hand through his bed of brown locks. Koren, by then, had raised in a sluggish yawn, cracking open his screen laced windows with no more than two strides. How curious to be sweating so profusely in an adequately conditioned home. “You seem tired.” Piqued, hazel vision sprinkled meticulously about the man, brightening its glow in small realization. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken that maid up on her offer!?” He gasped, tapping his fingers against freckled lips; eyes beginning a few rapid blinks. “Wha-..no. No. It's just..something else. Something you don’t need to concern yourself with My Lord. And..I’ve been sent to supervise your antics..for now. But as soon as I find Marcus, I’ll switch shifts and you can be with your pal.” He muttered half-heartedly “And then you can discuss your secrets in the privacy of your own quarters” With warm ivory hands clenching fractiously behind his back, the man's chin had dipped, stare dripping onto the floor almost apologetically. Right, they weren’t particularly close, the kind of close where one could relentlessly insult him without falter. Then and now, the guard had formulated the idea that it had been a mistake, a questionable manner in which he could possibly be punished for. Though fortunately, Koren was a kind superior. His lips had squeezed in a loose pucker, eyes slanting roguishly with each advancement he had made. “I didn’t think you had noticed. Am I discovering an earwig in my chambers?” His tone had bounced a multitude of times with stifled snickering, palm pressing softly against his shifting mouth whilst toying with the dancing curl of his hair. It went on like that for a while, the noble tormenting the soldier until he expressed fatigue similar to the aftermath of intense training. His expression somewhat reminded Koren of his past lovers. --The face they’d make after drawling sensuous words in time with gentle nips at their ears. It only assured him that he had done his job--with Wren. Surfacing fierce rebuttals to the noble man’s cheeky accusations, the guard was more than tuckered out, cocking his head back with a lengthy exhale and a taut cross of his arms. For a moment a flicker of guilt had nestled uncomfortably in his throat, forming nothing but a lump;annoyingly hard to swallow. But a second later and it had been snuffed out at the relevant clap of hooves and creaking wheels neighboring from the outdoors. His bride had arrived. And now it was really time for Wren to go. Poor man “Alright, we’re both tired, you probably more than me. Let's just go our separate ways for now. It's practically night and I’d rather not have you staring me down in my sleep.” A series of considerations had passed near ghostly across the man's vision. Koren could tell, the way he fiddled with his fingers, wrinkled his brows, and glanced hopefully at the doors. And it hadn’t been very long until he was finally met with a decision, the neck of his chestplate pinched between delicate fingers. “Okay. I suppose a small break could be in order..” He’d clack his knuckles against the painted wood. “If I hear anything I’ll be right up.” Koren would almost scoff at the watered threat, but truthfully, he had little energy left. The slight sting had rocked into a dull but active ache, pumping critically about the veiny stems of magic engraved in his flesh. He really needed Vivian. Perhaps a kiss to make it all better too. And almost as soon as his head bumped softly against his fluffy mattress, a curt rap at his door would capture his attention, driving his limbs forward in a weary leap.Concurrent to the crack of an opening, the man merely skimmed his gaze over the two physiques,--his trusty sidekick Marcus, and his tightly clothed Vivian. He grabbed only one of the two, snapping them inside with pale haste and falling jaws. “You really are a witch to be so fortunate as to trek in here unseen. I thought you’d be transported the other route.” The man kicked it off, dropping the tailor's petite wrist and snatching the open window shut against its frame. “And who told you to dress like that? Do you want to tempt every innocent bystander that lays their eyes on you? Is this some type of protest to the engagement?” He’d rake his vision across the man's dress and the figure beneath, his cheeks batted with a simple rouge despite his intricate experience. “Are you--are you trying to seduce me Vivian?” Have the tables turned!? “You know all you have to do is ask. We’re engaged after all.” Jumping to conclusions quicker than solving his problems, Koren advanced flirtatiously upon the tailors revealing frame. Afterwards, the man began a steady hook along the bottom of his shirt, peeling it up with slothful movements and then pausing at the chest. He uncloaked the source of his desperation, betraying the grotesque lines clinging to his tired skin. “--But, you’ve got to wait for now. Unfortunately.” |
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The bedroom was similarly extravagant to all that lay outside of it, certainly enough to draw the tailor’s attention away from his host. Oh, how he wished he had the time to explore- had he not been so set on his plan to leave as soon as this meeting concluded, he likely would have taken a moment to wander. Ah well, if this went well then he'd have plenty of time to give the place a proper once-over. His eyes did eventually return to the noble, flicking over Koren's figure and taking note of the sweet coloring of his cheeks whilst accusing his guest of attempting seduction. How adorable. Still, the witch only brushed him off, even going so far as to place a gentle but capable hand upon his accomplice's shoulder to keep him at a comfortable distance. "Don't flatter yourself. If I wanted to seduce you, I could do a lot better than this," sneered Vivian as he moved his hand to condescendingly pat the nobleman's cheek. With love, of course. He'd never want to patronize his dearest fiancé.
His gaze flitted to the markings inking throughout the man's skin then, and it was as if a light switch had been turned on behind his eyes. Would it be cruel to call them beautiful?
"Well, well. Look at you." The witch cradled his own chin thoughtfully. He assuredly could not back out now, not when a million questions began flooding through his head. Questions that demanded answers. He instinctively reached as if to touch the peculiar lines, only to stop himself, instead placing his hands at the small of his back as a curious hum bubbled up his throat.
The physical manifestation of a curse wasn’t exactly unheard of, though it usually came along with some sort of mutation. Vivian had crossed many a transfigured beast forced to bear the mark of their own personal hell, typically one that leaked from their soul and onto their skin. But this. . . he could feel the power radiating from the curse, something he'd never felt before. It sent a chill rolling along his spine, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether it was one of unease or excitement.
It worried him, that was for certain; he couldn’t imagine what sort of creature would be roaming around inflicting things like this upon mortals this day and age. How old it must be. Or skilled, at least. Had he not essentially agreed to help by coming here, his first priority would be to find the caster and interrogate them. . . from a distance, of course. Witches were not immune to being cursed. He, and many other overzealous apprentices like him, found that out the hard way.
Vivian came to righten his posture, a troubled furrow of the brow giving away anything he was planning to hide. Surely the noble was already aware that he was in deep trouble—he wouldn’t have contacted a witch otherwise, no?—but this being confirmed by a self-proclaimed professional would only make his condition all the more real. And even if he couldn’t say he was particularly fond of his supposed betrothed, the witch would not be so cruel as to push the man to panic. Not on purpose, anyway.
"Alright, listen." He paused to mull over his pending words. Lord, he hoped this wasn't a mistake. "If I am to help you, you will follow my rules. I am not asking for your cooperation, I'm commanding your submission. Is that clear?"
Though his tone was firm and calloused, his hands trembled faintly behind him. This was his very life that he was putting on the line here! He had witnessed with his own eyes what happened to witches who trusted humans with their secrets. If the trials were bad, one had not yet witnessed the banishment of a traitor.
Vivian, upon shaking himself from the grim thought of what might be a gruesome demise for himself, leaned down to get a closer look at Koren's chest as he continued on; "Do you have any recollection of what happened? Spare no details, now is not the time for jest."
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Fall 
Night Weather: 
Light Rain Moon: 
