It was all fun and games until the shaitan who recognised who exactly Lut was. What threw the fox off the most was the fact that his grandmother also trained her. Despite the jovial atmosphere of the bar, things started to feel tense as he scolded him for his behavior. He took a quiet deep breath and took a few awkward moments to think.
Lut wanted to depart from the awkward conversation that he caused. Then they both can go on their own paths and never bump into each other again. However, that wasn't a realistic outcome. The nokhoi had this sinking feeling that this awkward conversation was going to follow him. He had to stand his ground and think of a way out of this mess.
“Yeah. That was pretty stupid.” He admitted. “Though my original offer still stands.”
The fox carefully watched for the shaitan's reaction. He was expecting her to stand firm and continue with her intense glare. Despite that, he couldn’t help but admire Zubiada’s beauty. Her delicate elven features were perfectly framed by her white strands of hair.
“Your hair is natural isn’t it? It looks nice.” he added, glancing away.
Lut wanted to depart from the awkward conversation that he caused. Then they both can go on their own paths and never bump into each other again. However, that wasn't a realistic outcome. The nokhoi had this sinking feeling that this awkward conversation was going to follow him. He had to stand his ground and think of a way out of this mess.
“Yeah. That was pretty stupid.” He admitted. “Though my original offer still stands.”
The fox carefully watched for the shaitan's reaction. He was expecting her to stand firm and continue with her intense glare. Despite that, he couldn’t help but admire Zubiada’s beauty. Her delicate elven features were perfectly framed by her white strands of hair.
“Your hair is natural isn’t it? It looks nice.” he added, glancing away.
Lin Xueqing wrote:
"It doesn't leak sparks or get broken as long as you treat it properly..." The girl patiently explained. "...Like, don't eat it, it might blow up in your stomach. Don't smash it too hard, it might stop working and need a repair."
Then, she shrugged. "You can try your hand on it first, to familiarize with it."
The heat switch was on "handwarmer", to prevent accidental harm.
Then, she turned around to observe the surroundings, ... Was that a woman and a fox having some sort of conflict? (This might not be accurate, as I only skimmed through these messages.)
Then, she shrugged. "You can try your hand on it first, to familiarize with it."
The heat switch was on "handwarmer", to prevent accidental harm.
Then, she turned around to observe the surroundings, ... Was that a woman and a fox having some sort of conflict? (This might not be accurate, as I only skimmed through these messages.)
Xib listened. Most of it went in. Some of it fell out and hit the floor. “Okay. This one not eat box.” Xib nodded fast. “Box in belly go boom.” He held the heater like it might run away. “This one also not smash it. Smash make it dead. Dead box no warm. You say treat proper. Xib try.” Xib poked the warm setting. He jumped a little when it did the job. Then he pressed it to his cheek for one second because Xib always do face-test first. “Ha. Warm-paws. Good. Led-ie melody quiet. No scream. No angry sparks.” He stared at the switches and scowled. “Too many little choices. Xib like only two choices. Bonk. Or more bonk.”
The girl looked around. Xib followed, still holding the box like a baby turtle. He saw the woman and the fox-looking one doing the stiff-body talk. The kind that meant trouble soon. “Uh oh. Woman and fox doing growl-talk.” Xib muttered. “If growl-talk become bonk-talk, Xib do warning rock.” He patted one of his rocks like it was a pet. “Chungus go boom on floor first. Then everybody remember manners. If not, then log come.”
Indemira’s expression did not soften at his yawn. If anything, it sharpened. Her nose wrinkled with aristocratic offense, and her rabbit ears dipped in an unmistakably petulant droop, as though the very concept of “perhaps both” had personally inconvenienced her. “Do not purr at me like that,” she said, clipped and sweet in the way of a woman used to having obedience served warm. “It is not persuasive. It is aggravating.”
She shook him again, this time with vehemence, a brisk, scandalized rattle that made it abundantly clear her patience was not a renewable resource. Indemira pouted, genuinely displeased, as if he had chosen public spectacle over private order. “Mischief. Gossip. Darling, I did not marry you to become tavern entertainment.”
Her grip tightened into something proprietary and final. “Change back,” she warned, voice velvet over steel, “or I will take you upstairs, fill a basin, and give you the most thorough bath this establishment has ever witnessed. Soap. Water. Scrubbing. In front of a mirror. And I will not stop until you smell like propriety and regret.”
She shook him again, this time with vehemence, a brisk, scandalized rattle that made it abundantly clear her patience was not a renewable resource. Indemira pouted, genuinely displeased, as if he had chosen public spectacle over private order. “Mischief. Gossip. Darling, I did not marry you to become tavern entertainment.”
Her grip tightened into something proprietary and final. “Change back,” she warned, voice velvet over steel, “or I will take you upstairs, fill a basin, and give you the most thorough bath this establishment has ever witnessed. Soap. Water. Scrubbing. In front of a mirror. And I will not stop until you smell like propriety and regret.”
Watari held the cup close, as though it were a coal cupped from a dying fire. Steam curled up and touched his face. It carried a bitter clean scent. Leaf and smoke. Something root-deep. The warmth did not rush him. It worked its way in by patience. It found the small hurts the cold had hidden. It found the cracks in the knuckles. It found the stiff places beneath the nails. He let it. He did not hurry.
The counter’s amber sheen threw back a softened image of his hands. Gloved. Travel-scored. He eased the leather free with slow care, as if each finger were a hinge that might complain. Pale skin showed. Weather-dried. The faint tremor of long hours. He wrapped both hands around the cup again. Not for comfort alone. For proof. Heat belonged to the living. Heat was a language the winter could not counterfeit.
He breathed in once more, deeper. The steam fogged his lashes. His fox-ears tilted, then settled. Frost that had clung to their rims gave up. It melted. It ran in tiny threads into his hair. He did not shake it away. He let the house take what the storm had claimed. He felt the tavern’s breath around him. A low, steady warmth. A held boundary. A refuge that did not boast.
The first sip burned his mouth in a way that pleased him. Dark tea. Strong enough to bite. Honest enough to leave no doubt. It cut through the taste of road-dust and cold air. It chased the numbness back from his tongue. He swallowed. The heat went down like a quiet oath. It settled in his chest. It made a small hearth of him.
The warmed water came after. A shallow bowl set near his cup. It steamed faintly in the honey-light. Watari lowered his hands into it as a man might lower them into a remembered season. The ache answered at once. Then the ache loosened. He flexed his fingers under the surface. Slow. Deliberate. He watched the water bead on his skin. Watched it gather at the lines of his palms. Watched it slip away again. It felt like a river that had decided, for a little while, to be kind.
Around him the hall continued its winter-busy life. Voices rose and fell. Wood creaked. Cups clicked. Laughter flared and softened. All of it held under the comb-vault like wind held in a pinewood. Watari did not seek their faces. He did not hunt meaning in every sound. He simply listened. He let the noise become a shelter of its own. He let his hands drink warmth. He let his tea send its steady fire through him. Outside, the snow kept working. Inside, he remained. Quiet. Present. Held.
The counter’s amber sheen threw back a softened image of his hands. Gloved. Travel-scored. He eased the leather free with slow care, as if each finger were a hinge that might complain. Pale skin showed. Weather-dried. The faint tremor of long hours. He wrapped both hands around the cup again. Not for comfort alone. For proof. Heat belonged to the living. Heat was a language the winter could not counterfeit.
He breathed in once more, deeper. The steam fogged his lashes. His fox-ears tilted, then settled. Frost that had clung to their rims gave up. It melted. It ran in tiny threads into his hair. He did not shake it away. He let the house take what the storm had claimed. He felt the tavern’s breath around him. A low, steady warmth. A held boundary. A refuge that did not boast.
The first sip burned his mouth in a way that pleased him. Dark tea. Strong enough to bite. Honest enough to leave no doubt. It cut through the taste of road-dust and cold air. It chased the numbness back from his tongue. He swallowed. The heat went down like a quiet oath. It settled in his chest. It made a small hearth of him.
The warmed water came after. A shallow bowl set near his cup. It steamed faintly in the honey-light. Watari lowered his hands into it as a man might lower them into a remembered season. The ache answered at once. Then the ache loosened. He flexed his fingers under the surface. Slow. Deliberate. He watched the water bead on his skin. Watched it gather at the lines of his palms. Watched it slip away again. It felt like a river that had decided, for a little while, to be kind.
Around him the hall continued its winter-busy life. Voices rose and fell. Wood creaked. Cups clicked. Laughter flared and softened. All of it held under the comb-vault like wind held in a pinewood. Watari did not seek their faces. He did not hunt meaning in every sound. He simply listened. He let the noise become a shelter of its own. He let his hands drink warmth. He let his tea send its steady fire through him. Outside, the snow kept working. Inside, he remained. Quiet. Present. Held.
Lut Devante wrote:
It was all fun and games until the shaitan who recognised who exactly Lut was. What threw the fox off the most was the fact that his grandmother also trained her. Despite the jovial atmosphere of the bar, things started to feel tense as he scolded him for his behavior. He took a quiet deep breath and took a few awkward moments to think.
Lut wanted to depart from the awkward conversation that he caused. Then they both can go on their own paths and never bump into each other again. However, that wasn't a realistic outcome. The nokhoi had this sinking feeling that this awkward conversation was going to follow him. He had to stand his ground and think of a way out of this mess.
“Yeah. That was pretty stupid.” He admitted. “Though my original offer still stands.”
The fox carefully watched for the shaitan's reaction. He was expecting her to stand firm and continue with her intense glare. Despite that, he couldn’t help but admire Zubiada’s beauty. Her delicate elven features were perfectly framed by her white strands of hair.
“Your hair is natural isn’t it? It looks nice.” he added, glancing away.
Lut wanted to depart from the awkward conversation that he caused. Then they both can go on their own paths and never bump into each other again. However, that wasn't a realistic outcome. The nokhoi had this sinking feeling that this awkward conversation was going to follow him. He had to stand his ground and think of a way out of this mess.
“Yeah. That was pretty stupid.” He admitted. “Though my original offer still stands.”
The fox carefully watched for the shaitan's reaction. He was expecting her to stand firm and continue with her intense glare. Despite that, he couldn’t help but admire Zubiada’s beauty. Her delicate elven features were perfectly framed by her white strands of hair.
“Your hair is natural isn’t it? It looks nice.” he added, glancing away.
Each time the door opened, a blade of snowlight cut across the hexed floor. Wind followed like an uninvited accountant, tallying warmth, stealing it where it could. Patrons answered with the same small rites. Boots struck timber to shed ice. Gloves were shaken. Fur collars were tugged higher. Conversation thickened again once the latch caught, as if the room itself exhaled relief.
The Drunken Bee held together by stubborn craft and hotter stubbornness. Its honeycomb chambers did not merely shelter. They constrained. Heat from the central hearth traveled the ribs of the structure, climbing resin-hardened seams and returning as a low, constant radiance. Smoke hung in disciplined layers, peat and char, brine and wet wool. The mire’s sharpness rode in on clothing and hair, then surrendered to tallow and spice. Dice clacked over bone-inlaid tables. A musician worried at a stringed drone that sounded like wind taught to sing through teeth. Laughter arrived in bursts, loud enough to prove lungs still worked.
Service moved with eerie competence. Undead thralls threaded between stools and elbows with trays held level by habit and some quiet binding. Their seams were neat. Their preservative scent was clean, medicinal, almost polite. They carried bogwater brewed black and bitter. Spirits that warmed like a reprimand. Platters of smoked fish. Black bread. Mussels when the frozen mire allowed it. Meat charred until it tasted more of fire than beast.
In the middle of that crowded geometry sat Zubaida, unmoved. She was stillness carved from fire and flesh, a mausoleum amidst a marketplace of indulgence. The red silk of her gown clung cruelly to her body, baring one shoulder to the hearth’s dry heat and the tavern’s smoke, and yet not a thread seemed to belong to this world of frost-bitten pragmatists. Her gloves, black as cooled obsidian, bound her arms like ritual bindings; her silver cuff gleamed each time her wrist shifted against the stem of her glass. Her hair, a sheet of white flame against bronze skin, curtained her features in straight lines. Beneath its edge, her eyes glowed molten gold, unyielding as dawn.
When Lut Devante approached, all fox-smile and affected grace, the Bee did not quiet for him. It sharpened. Nearby faces turned a fraction, then returned to their drinks. In Winterwake, attention was a finite currency. A few glances measured him. A few measured her. The hearth popped. A mug struck wood. Somewhere a knife was drawn to cut meat, then slid away again, ordinary as breathing.
His heterochromatic eyes, his fish-print deel, his merchant’s charm. They were parchment spread upon a table, and Zubaida’s gaze was the scalpel.
She did not answer him at once. She sat silent, her presence a weight that bent the air around it. Only the faintest twitch of her nose betrayed that she had registered him at all; a gesture almost feral, more fox-spirit than woman, as though she had scented the nervous sweat already rising off his skin.
Her eyes slid over him, slow as a sundial’s shadow. They did not look; they dissected. Each flicker of his glance away, each tremor hidden in his hands, each falter in his breathing; all were unwrapped, exposed, pinned in place beneath her calm. In her eyes, he was not a noble heir, not a son of House Devante. He was a cadaver, laid bare for study, annotated in silence.
Lut’s charm faltered. The cheer drained from his lips, leaving the raw chagrin beneath. He confessed his folly, admitted the stupidity of his attempt, and yet clung to bravado with one last thread. The offer of a drink, the balm of flattery, the remark about her hair. His voice tried for lightness, but the weight of his own shame dragged at it.
Zubaida raised her glass, slowly, deliberately. The wine within caught the torchlight like clotting blood. She sipped, then set it back upon the table, her pendant of turquoise glinting with the movement. When she finally spoke, her voice was velvet wrapped over iron.
“You cover your unease with flattery,” she said, tasting each word before releasing it. “It does not suit you.”
Her eyes held him without release, the way fire holds parchment just before it consumes.
Then, after a silence deep enough to unnerve, her fingers brushed a lock of white hair over her shoulder. “Natural. Yes. Not gifted. Not chosen. Burned into me. A mark I carry, not a thing I sought. In that sense, perhaps, I am as you are.”
Her stare narrowed, golden irises kindling like coins in a funeral pyre. “We share the plight of defects written into our flesh. Yet it is not the mark itself that condemns; it is how one wears it. With discipline, or with shame.”
She lifted the glass again, letting the liquid tremble against the rim as if it too were caught in her judgment. Her eyes sliced through him once more, steady, merciless. “Tell me,” she said, her voice low, inevitable. “Do you wear yours as a banner… or as a burden?”
The Drunken Bee carried on around them. Dice. Boots. Smoke. Heat. Winter held at the walls like a siege. But between them there was only silence and fire.
For a married man, there were fights you picked and fights that had to be conceded. Casimir’s mischievous nature earned him a grumpy bunny. Even his gentle purr was seen as fault and his mischievous nature earned him another shake.
The nekomata felt dizzy as his cat ears continued to hear her scoldings and threats. To threaten a furred man with a bath. No doubt she was going to let him drip dry in this establishment. He could feel the icy water on his skin already. He shivered.
“Alright. I hear you. Put me down and I’ll change back.” He said with a sigh.
The nekomata felt dizzy as his cat ears continued to hear her scoldings and threats. To threaten a furred man with a bath. No doubt she was going to let him drip dry in this establishment. He could feel the icy water on his skin already. He shivered.
“Alright. I hear you. Put me down and I’ll change back.” He said with a sigh.
Zubaida wrote:
Each time the door opened, a blade of snowlight cut across the hexed floor. Wind followed like an uninvited accountant, tallying warmth, stealing it where it could. Patrons answered with the same small rites. Boots struck timber to shed ice. Gloves were shaken. Fur collars were tugged higher. Conversation thickened again once the latch caught, as if the room itself exhaled relief.
The Drunken Bee held together by stubborn craft and hotter stubbornness. Its honeycomb chambers did not merely shelter. They constrained. Heat from the central hearth traveled the ribs of the structure, climbing resin-hardened seams and returning as a low, constant radiance. Smoke hung in disciplined layers, peat and char, brine and wet wool. The mire’s sharpness rode in on clothing and hair, then surrendered to tallow and spice. Dice clacked over bone-inlaid tables. A musician worried at a stringed drone that sounded like wind taught to sing through teeth. Laughter arrived in bursts, loud enough to prove lungs still worked.
Service moved with eerie competence. Undead thralls threaded between stools and elbows with trays held level by habit and some quiet binding. Their seams were neat. Their preservative scent was clean, medicinal, almost polite. They carried bogwater brewed black and bitter. Spirits that warmed like a reprimand. Platters of smoked fish. Black bread. Mussels when the frozen mire allowed it. Meat charred until it tasted more of fire than beast.
In the middle of that crowded geometry sat Zubaida, unmoved. She was stillness carved from fire and flesh, a mausoleum amidst a marketplace of indulgence. The red silk of her gown clung cruelly to her body, baring one shoulder to the hearth’s dry heat and the tavern’s smoke, and yet not a thread seemed to belong to this world of frost-bitten pragmatists. Her gloves, black as cooled obsidian, bound her arms like ritual bindings; her silver cuff gleamed each time her wrist shifted against the stem of her glass. Her hair, a sheet of white flame against bronze skin, curtained her features in straight lines. Beneath its edge, her eyes glowed molten gold, unyielding as dawn.
When Lut Devante approached, all fox-smile and affected grace, the Bee did not quiet for him. It sharpened. Nearby faces turned a fraction, then returned to their drinks. In Winterwake, attention was a finite currency. A few glances measured him. A few measured her. The hearth popped. A mug struck wood. Somewhere a knife was drawn to cut meat, then slid away again, ordinary as breathing.
His heterochromatic eyes, his fish-print deel, his merchant’s charm. They were parchment spread upon a table, and Zubaida’s gaze was the scalpel.
She did not answer him at once. She sat silent, her presence a weight that bent the air around it. Only the faintest twitch of her nose betrayed that she had registered him at all; a gesture almost feral, more fox-spirit than woman, as though she had scented the nervous sweat already rising off his skin.
Her eyes slid over him, slow as a sundial’s shadow. They did not look; they dissected. Each flicker of his glance away, each tremor hidden in his hands, each falter in his breathing; all were unwrapped, exposed, pinned in place beneath her calm. In her eyes, he was not a noble heir, not a son of House Devante. He was a cadaver, laid bare for study, annotated in silence.
Lut’s charm faltered. The cheer drained from his lips, leaving the raw chagrin beneath. He confessed his folly, admitted the stupidity of his attempt, and yet clung to bravado with one last thread. The offer of a drink, the balm of flattery, the remark about her hair. His voice tried for lightness, but the weight of his own shame dragged at it.
Zubaida raised her glass, slowly, deliberately. The wine within caught the torchlight like clotting blood. She sipped, then set it back upon the table, her pendant of turquoise glinting with the movement. When she finally spoke, her voice was velvet wrapped over iron.
“You cover your unease with flattery,” she said, tasting each word before releasing it. “It does not suit you.”
Her eyes held him without release, the way fire holds parchment just before it consumes.
Then, after a silence deep enough to unnerve, her fingers brushed a lock of white hair over her shoulder. “Natural. Yes. Not gifted. Not chosen. Burned into me. A mark I carry, not a thing I sought. In that sense, perhaps, I am as you are.”
Her stare narrowed, golden irises kindling like coins in a funeral pyre. “We share the plight of defects written into our flesh. Yet it is not the mark itself that condemns; it is how one wears it. With discipline, or with shame.”
She lifted the glass again, letting the liquid tremble against the rim as if it too were caught in her judgment. Her eyes sliced through him once more, steady, merciless. “Tell me,” she said, her voice low, inevitable. “Do you wear yours as a banner… or as a burden?”
The Drunken Bee carried on around them. Dice. Boots. Smoke. Heat. Winter held at the walls like a siege. But between them there was only silence and fire.
The Drunken Bee held together by stubborn craft and hotter stubbornness. Its honeycomb chambers did not merely shelter. They constrained. Heat from the central hearth traveled the ribs of the structure, climbing resin-hardened seams and returning as a low, constant radiance. Smoke hung in disciplined layers, peat and char, brine and wet wool. The mire’s sharpness rode in on clothing and hair, then surrendered to tallow and spice. Dice clacked over bone-inlaid tables. A musician worried at a stringed drone that sounded like wind taught to sing through teeth. Laughter arrived in bursts, loud enough to prove lungs still worked.
Service moved with eerie competence. Undead thralls threaded between stools and elbows with trays held level by habit and some quiet binding. Their seams were neat. Their preservative scent was clean, medicinal, almost polite. They carried bogwater brewed black and bitter. Spirits that warmed like a reprimand. Platters of smoked fish. Black bread. Mussels when the frozen mire allowed it. Meat charred until it tasted more of fire than beast.
In the middle of that crowded geometry sat Zubaida, unmoved. She was stillness carved from fire and flesh, a mausoleum amidst a marketplace of indulgence. The red silk of her gown clung cruelly to her body, baring one shoulder to the hearth’s dry heat and the tavern’s smoke, and yet not a thread seemed to belong to this world of frost-bitten pragmatists. Her gloves, black as cooled obsidian, bound her arms like ritual bindings; her silver cuff gleamed each time her wrist shifted against the stem of her glass. Her hair, a sheet of white flame against bronze skin, curtained her features in straight lines. Beneath its edge, her eyes glowed molten gold, unyielding as dawn.
When Lut Devante approached, all fox-smile and affected grace, the Bee did not quiet for him. It sharpened. Nearby faces turned a fraction, then returned to their drinks. In Winterwake, attention was a finite currency. A few glances measured him. A few measured her. The hearth popped. A mug struck wood. Somewhere a knife was drawn to cut meat, then slid away again, ordinary as breathing.
His heterochromatic eyes, his fish-print deel, his merchant’s charm. They were parchment spread upon a table, and Zubaida’s gaze was the scalpel.
She did not answer him at once. She sat silent, her presence a weight that bent the air around it. Only the faintest twitch of her nose betrayed that she had registered him at all; a gesture almost feral, more fox-spirit than woman, as though she had scented the nervous sweat already rising off his skin.
Her eyes slid over him, slow as a sundial’s shadow. They did not look; they dissected. Each flicker of his glance away, each tremor hidden in his hands, each falter in his breathing; all were unwrapped, exposed, pinned in place beneath her calm. In her eyes, he was not a noble heir, not a son of House Devante. He was a cadaver, laid bare for study, annotated in silence.
Lut’s charm faltered. The cheer drained from his lips, leaving the raw chagrin beneath. He confessed his folly, admitted the stupidity of his attempt, and yet clung to bravado with one last thread. The offer of a drink, the balm of flattery, the remark about her hair. His voice tried for lightness, but the weight of his own shame dragged at it.
Zubaida raised her glass, slowly, deliberately. The wine within caught the torchlight like clotting blood. She sipped, then set it back upon the table, her pendant of turquoise glinting with the movement. When she finally spoke, her voice was velvet wrapped over iron.
“You cover your unease with flattery,” she said, tasting each word before releasing it. “It does not suit you.”
Her eyes held him without release, the way fire holds parchment just before it consumes.
Then, after a silence deep enough to unnerve, her fingers brushed a lock of white hair over her shoulder. “Natural. Yes. Not gifted. Not chosen. Burned into me. A mark I carry, not a thing I sought. In that sense, perhaps, I am as you are.”
Her stare narrowed, golden irises kindling like coins in a funeral pyre. “We share the plight of defects written into our flesh. Yet it is not the mark itself that condemns; it is how one wears it. With discipline, or with shame.”
She lifted the glass again, letting the liquid tremble against the rim as if it too were caught in her judgment. Her eyes sliced through him once more, steady, merciless. “Tell me,” she said, her voice low, inevitable. “Do you wear yours as a banner… or as a burden?”
The Drunken Bee carried on around them. Dice. Boots. Smoke. Heat. Winter held at the walls like a siege. But between them there was only silence and fire.
Zubadia’s surgical words and gaze cut through Lut’s persona. He felt exposed and regretted his actions as this painfully awkward conversation started to feel exhausting. The fox couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy towards the other patrons who were enjoying the atmosphere and their vices.
He let out a soft sigh with a smile as his wandering eyes appreciated Zubaida's natural form. Her curves looked better close up. Then it finally dawned on Lut as to why his father deals with his two wives. Having this beauty beside him wouldn’t only be pleasurable, but also a sign of power to be able to appease a difficult woman.
“Nothing is going to get past you huh? I have the feeling you're the type to sniff out lies very quickly.”
Lut’s ears listened to the shaitain’s voice as she spoke. Her words were eloquent, and held mysterious undertones as she lamented her hair. Her golden eyes bore right through him. In a way Zubaida was right, they were born with a defect. Lut picked up a few strands of his black strands and ran it through his fingers. It bothered the fox that he wasn’t monochrome. He thought his reflection looked silly, unfocused and divided. He also held suspicion that others thought less of him for it. However, Lut couldn’t prove it.
“Burdern I guess?” He said rather unsure of himself. “My hair isn’t something I can really change. Even if I dyed it, I would also have to dye my tail too. Then I have to worry about staining expensive fabrics, and furniture with unset dye. I just accept it for what it is. My parents think it’s rather endearing or something like that.” he said, brushing off the issue.
The nohkoi looked over the Zubaida with a warm smile, his pink tail shifting its position.
“So how did you find training with my grandmother? She can be rather intense at times.”
Casimir Debussy wrote:
For a married man, there were fights you picked and fights that had to be conceded. Casimir’s mischievous nature earned him a grumpy bunny. Even his gentle purr was seen as fault and his mischievous nature earned him another shake.
The nekomata felt dizzy as his cat ears continued to hear her scoldings and threats. To threaten a furred man with a bath. No doubt she was going to let him drip dry in this establishment. He could feel the icy water on his skin already. He shivered.
“Alright. I hear you. Put me down and I’ll change back.” He said with a sigh.
The nekomata felt dizzy as his cat ears continued to hear her scoldings and threats. To threaten a furred man with a bath. No doubt she was going to let him drip dry in this establishment. He could feel the icy water on his skin already. He shivered.
“Alright. I hear you. Put me down and I’ll change back.” He said with a sigh.
Indemira’s eyes narrowed at his surrender, as if she distrusted compliance on principle. Her nose gave a single, sharp wiggle. Her rabbit ears snapped upright with immediate, smug attention, and the tiny green cotton tail at the base of her spine twitched with pleased certainty, an indecorous little tell that she very much enjoyed winning. “Mm. Sensible,” she said, as though granting clemency from a throne.
With a dramatic roll of her eyes and a huff of cultivated irritation, she dropped him onto the floor with minimal ceremony. Then, with languid precision, she produced one of her enchanted war-fans and began to fan herself as if the room’s air had become insufficiently tailored to her comfort. Her posture was immaculate. Her overreaction, frankly, adorable. Her arms folded again, fan still moving in a steady, dismissive rhythm as her foot tapped like an impatient metronome.
“Well.” Her voice sharpened into that patrician sweetness that promised consequences. “What is taking so long. Honestly, Casimir, you are causing me stress. Real stress.” She leaned forward a fraction, eyes cutting, fan snapping open with a crisp flourish. “Do you have any idea what that does to a woman of my station. I might develop a wrinkle. Or a grey hair. Perish the thought.” Her lips curled, scandalized by the very premise. “Not that it would ever truly happen, given I am jinniyah. But I resent the attempt all the same. Now, change back… or I will take my frustrations out on Myan.” A slow, menacing grin. “Cheerfully.”
Xueqing quietly listened.
...She had a feeling Indemira was some sort of a pervert. Yet, she shook that off, and went to a stool, or rather one of those that were for single individuals to sit on.
Then, she just sat there, and if there were windows, she would stare out of one and admire the winter scenery. Not quite scenery, but still.
...She had a feeling Indemira was some sort of a pervert. Yet, she shook that off, and went to a stool, or rather one of those that were for single individuals to sit on.
Then, she just sat there, and if there were windows, she would stare out of one and admire the winter scenery. Not quite scenery, but still.
The honeycomb chambers held a measured warmth that felt earned, not indulgent. The central hearth spoke in steady pops and slow breaths of heat. Resin-hardened ribs carried that heat outward, tempering the cold that tried to creep through every seam. The air was a ledger of Winterwake. Wet fur steaming off shoulders. Tallow from candles. Peat smoke. Brine tracked in from the frozen mire. A faint medicinal tang clung to the undead servers who threaded between stools with trays held level, their seams neat, their movements competent in a way that made the living look clumsy by comparison. Cups clinked. Dice snapped on bone-inlaid tables. Laughter came out sharp, as if it had been hoarded. Music was not fevered. It was low and stubborn, a drone that sounded like wind taught manners, with a rough rhythm tapped out on a table edge by knuckles that had known cold too long.
Zubaida sat untouched at the heart of this mortal chaos, her stillness a sanctuary of flame amid corruption. Her presence bent the air around her, the Lord of Light’s echo burning through her veins like a sermon whispered by the sun itself. The gold of her eyes caught the glimmer of firelight and held it, twin sanctuaries of judgment that turned every man who met them into a penitent.
“You see much, Lord Devante,” she said, her voice smooth and low, yet carrying the resonance of a temple bell. “Lies tremble before the Light. The faithful know this. The tongue may hide, but the soul cannot veil its smoke before His flame.”
She lifted her glass and turned it slowly, the red wine catching the glow of the torches until it shimmered like blood offered in worship. “Your grandmother taught me the dance of blade and spell, where each step is a hymn and each cut a verse of prayer. From her, I learned the purity of precision. The Light favors those whose hearts strike true.”
Her eyes drifted toward the far wall where skeletal musicians played their hollow instruments, their song a dirge to the living. “From Florentina, I learned the dance of the body. The art of command through motion. She taught me that pain is not an affliction but a revelation, that strength is devotion carved into the flesh.”
She turned her gaze to Lut once more, her words softening into something dangerous in its quiet conviction. “And from the Lord of Light, I learned the dance of spirit and faith. The fire burns without remorse. It blesses those who stand within it and reduces the false to ash. In its brilliance I was reborn, and all weakness was consumed.”
The light from the hearth cast her in gold and shadow. The Bee’s patrons did not quiet for piety, but a few glances angled over, then away again, the way hunters refuse to stare at a blade they cannot afford. Lut’s earlier ease thinned under her attention. A mug struck wood nearby. A server passed with smoked fish and black bread, the scent briefly cutting through wine and smoke like a clean knife. Zubaida remained fixed, as if the room’s warmth were irrelevant to her and the Winter outside merely an inconvenience.
She did not move as Lut’s eyes faltered, his earlier charm fading like wax beneath the sun. Around them, laughter rang from drunken patrons and the music grew fevered, but the Shaitan seemed beyond it all. Her silence pressed against him, heavy and deliberate, a silence that demanded the soul to answer what the tongue could not.
When she finally spoke again, her tone was quieter than before, yet it held the unmistakable warmth of amusement. “Your grandmother taught me to see truth in the smallest tremor, Lord Devante. In you, I see two halves struggling for the same name.” Her lips curved, not into a smile, but something near it. “Your groveling is… bemusing. How swiftly your confidence melts before the flame. How adorable the mortal heart becomes when it remembers it can still burn.”
Her eyes lingered, bright and unyielding, as though the Light itself watched through her. “Be still now. The fire will not devour you, not yet. But take care how close you linger to its warmth, for even the faithful are tested when they mistake illumination for favor.”
She leaned back, the glow of the hearth catching along her bronze skin like sunlight on a blade. “Now drink, Lord Devante,” she said softly. “The night is long, and full of terrors. Be not concernd for the Light sees all, even in shadow.”When she finally spoke again, her tone was quieter than before, yet it held the unmistakable warmth of amusement. “Your grandmother taught me to see truth in the smallest tremor." She concluded.
Zubaida sat untouched at the heart of this mortal chaos, her stillness a sanctuary of flame amid corruption. Her presence bent the air around her, the Lord of Light’s echo burning through her veins like a sermon whispered by the sun itself. The gold of her eyes caught the glimmer of firelight and held it, twin sanctuaries of judgment that turned every man who met them into a penitent.
“You see much, Lord Devante,” she said, her voice smooth and low, yet carrying the resonance of a temple bell. “Lies tremble before the Light. The faithful know this. The tongue may hide, but the soul cannot veil its smoke before His flame.”
She lifted her glass and turned it slowly, the red wine catching the glow of the torches until it shimmered like blood offered in worship. “Your grandmother taught me the dance of blade and spell, where each step is a hymn and each cut a verse of prayer. From her, I learned the purity of precision. The Light favors those whose hearts strike true.”
Her eyes drifted toward the far wall where skeletal musicians played their hollow instruments, their song a dirge to the living. “From Florentina, I learned the dance of the body. The art of command through motion. She taught me that pain is not an affliction but a revelation, that strength is devotion carved into the flesh.”
She turned her gaze to Lut once more, her words softening into something dangerous in its quiet conviction. “And from the Lord of Light, I learned the dance of spirit and faith. The fire burns without remorse. It blesses those who stand within it and reduces the false to ash. In its brilliance I was reborn, and all weakness was consumed.”
The light from the hearth cast her in gold and shadow. The Bee’s patrons did not quiet for piety, but a few glances angled over, then away again, the way hunters refuse to stare at a blade they cannot afford. Lut’s earlier ease thinned under her attention. A mug struck wood nearby. A server passed with smoked fish and black bread, the scent briefly cutting through wine and smoke like a clean knife. Zubaida remained fixed, as if the room’s warmth were irrelevant to her and the Winter outside merely an inconvenience.
She did not move as Lut’s eyes faltered, his earlier charm fading like wax beneath the sun. Around them, laughter rang from drunken patrons and the music grew fevered, but the Shaitan seemed beyond it all. Her silence pressed against him, heavy and deliberate, a silence that demanded the soul to answer what the tongue could not.
When she finally spoke again, her tone was quieter than before, yet it held the unmistakable warmth of amusement. “Your grandmother taught me to see truth in the smallest tremor, Lord Devante. In you, I see two halves struggling for the same name.” Her lips curved, not into a smile, but something near it. “Your groveling is… bemusing. How swiftly your confidence melts before the flame. How adorable the mortal heart becomes when it remembers it can still burn.”
Her eyes lingered, bright and unyielding, as though the Light itself watched through her. “Be still now. The fire will not devour you, not yet. But take care how close you linger to its warmth, for even the faithful are tested when they mistake illumination for favor.”
She leaned back, the glow of the hearth catching along her bronze skin like sunlight on a blade. “Now drink, Lord Devante,” she said softly. “The night is long, and full of terrors. Be not concernd for the Light sees all, even in shadow.”When she finally spoke again, her tone was quieter than before, yet it held the unmistakable warmth of amusement. “Your grandmother taught me to see truth in the smallest tremor." She concluded.
Lin Xueqing wrote:
Xueqing quietly listened.
...She had a feeling Indemira was some sort of a pervert. Yet, she shook that off, and went to a stool, or rather one of those that were for single individuals to sit on.
Then, she just sat there, and if there were windows, she would stare out of one and admire the winter scenery. Not quite scenery, but still.
...She had a feeling Indemira was some sort of a pervert. Yet, she shook that off, and went to a stool, or rather one of those that were for single individuals to sit on.
Then, she just sat there, and if there were windows, she would stare out of one and admire the winter scenery. Not quite scenery, but still.
((Lol. No, she is the mistress of spice (Drugs) and head of an assassination unit. Casimir is her husband he is a nekomata and is in his cat form to torture her and loaf around. She is rich and he is a poor lazy lump of fur. He hates being bathed in cat form, so she is forcing him to change.))
The bar has windows. Some of the honeycombs serve as portals to see the outside.
Indemira Debussy wrote:
Indemira’s eyes narrowed at his surrender, as if she distrusted compliance on principle. Her nose gave a single, sharp wiggle. Her rabbit ears snapped upright with immediate, smug attention, and the tiny green cotton tail at the base of her spine twitched with pleased certainty, an indecorous little tell that she very much enjoyed winning. “Mm. Sensible,” she said, as though granting clemency from a throne.
With a dramatic roll of her eyes and a huff of cultivated irritation, she dropped him onto the floor with minimal ceremony. Then, with languid precision, she produced one of her enchanted war-fans and began to fan herself as if the room’s air had become insufficiently tailored to her comfort. Her posture was immaculate. Her overreaction, frankly, adorable. Her arms folded again, fan still moving in a steady, dismissive rhythm as her foot tapped like an impatient metronome.
“Well.” Her voice sharpened into that patrician sweetness that promised consequences. “What is taking so long. Honestly, Casimir, you are causing me stress. Real stress.” She leaned forward a fraction, eyes cutting, fan snapping open with a crisp flourish. “Do you have any idea what that does to a woman of my station. I might develop a wrinkle. Or a grey hair. Perish the thought.” Her lips curled, scandalized by the very premise. “Not that it would ever truly happen, given I am jinniyah. But I resent the attempt all the same. Now, change back… or I will take my frustrations out on Myan.” A slow, menacing grin. “Cheerfully.”
With a dramatic roll of her eyes and a huff of cultivated irritation, she dropped him onto the floor with minimal ceremony. Then, with languid precision, she produced one of her enchanted war-fans and began to fan herself as if the room’s air had become insufficiently tailored to her comfort. Her posture was immaculate. Her overreaction, frankly, adorable. Her arms folded again, fan still moving in a steady, dismissive rhythm as her foot tapped like an impatient metronome.
“Well.” Her voice sharpened into that patrician sweetness that promised consequences. “What is taking so long. Honestly, Casimir, you are causing me stress. Real stress.” She leaned forward a fraction, eyes cutting, fan snapping open with a crisp flourish. “Do you have any idea what that does to a woman of my station. I might develop a wrinkle. Or a grey hair. Perish the thought.” Her lips curled, scandalized by the very premise. “Not that it would ever truly happen, given I am jinniyah. But I resent the attempt all the same. Now, change back… or I will take my frustrations out on Myan.” A slow, menacing grin. “Cheerfully.”
Casimir was unceremoniously dropped to the floor. A little rude, but he was a tough house cat that knew how to catch himself properly with agile grace. He shook out his fur getting ready to transform back, but then she took out her fan. The feline watched for a moment to see where this was going to go.
The nekomata simply rolled her eyes at her complaints. He pretended to listen attentively. Ears sharp, a forward look, and a gentle nod.
He then transformed into his lion form. There he stood eight feet tall and with feline grace. He ran his fingers through his black mane with a sigh. The gemstones of his attire sparkled from the ambient light of the fire.
“There’s really no need to go that far.” He protested. “Besides, we are in a tavern. It’s the perfect place to blow off some steam and unwind. It’s the perfect place to make some fun happen. You just have to be a little open minded for opportunities.” he said with a mischievous smile as his forked tail brushed against Idenmera’s hourglass waist.
Evil bunbun.
Xib wandered off, confused why they left. Had he done something wrong? Didnt matter, he returned to his bogwater, drinking in the corner alone. very sad.
Lut listened as Zubaida spoke in her poetic language. Her gentle voice was easy for his fox ears to listen to. To him, even in these vastly different lands with miles of space in between the Obsidian Canyon and Hextor, somehow the world felt small. It was rather comforting to know that she was well acquainted with his family.
“Even aunty Flora as well? You’re a very well connected woman.” The fox added as he leaned against the table.
Amongst the music, Lut’s ears perked up at the mention of the Lord of Light. He didn't know anyone who went by that title, yet how she described him spoke volumes of his generosity and power. Perplexing thought, someone of his caliber would go completely unknown in the circle of nobles. Just who was this guy?
Yet the shaitian’s tongue was quick to critique the fox. He let out a pained sigh as his ears drooped back as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Raising fish, training and fighting monsters seemed far less complex than talking to a woman. To Lut, he didn’t grovel, he didn’t plead or beg for her divine attention. If anything, he was simply failing to regain control of the conversation.
The fox simply rolled his eyes at her statement and let out a little huff of amusement to mask his annoyance.
“If I was scared of fire, I wouldn’t be a pyromancer myself.” He said promptly.
Lut raised his eyebrow at Zubiada’s offer and poetic teases.
“And with this long night of drinking under the starlight, what terrors am I going to face?” He questioned. The nohkoi leaned in a little closer with a smug smile on his face. “I would definitely say it’s a little too early for any extracurricular night time activities.” he said with a swish of his tail.
He paused for a moment as he pulled back. “You keep mentioning this Lord of Light, who exactly is he?”
“Even aunty Flora as well? You’re a very well connected woman.” The fox added as he leaned against the table.
Amongst the music, Lut’s ears perked up at the mention of the Lord of Light. He didn't know anyone who went by that title, yet how she described him spoke volumes of his generosity and power. Perplexing thought, someone of his caliber would go completely unknown in the circle of nobles. Just who was this guy?
Yet the shaitian’s tongue was quick to critique the fox. He let out a pained sigh as his ears drooped back as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Raising fish, training and fighting monsters seemed far less complex than talking to a woman. To Lut, he didn’t grovel, he didn’t plead or beg for her divine attention. If anything, he was simply failing to regain control of the conversation.
The fox simply rolled his eyes at her statement and let out a little huff of amusement to mask his annoyance.
“If I was scared of fire, I wouldn’t be a pyromancer myself.” He said promptly.
Lut raised his eyebrow at Zubiada’s offer and poetic teases.
“And with this long night of drinking under the starlight, what terrors am I going to face?” He questioned. The nohkoi leaned in a little closer with a smug smile on his face. “I would definitely say it’s a little too early for any extracurricular night time activities.” he said with a swish of his tail.
He paused for a moment as he pulled back. “You keep mentioning this Lord of Light, who exactly is he?”
Casimir Debussy wrote:
Casimir was unceremoniously dropped to the floor. A little rude, but he was a tough house cat that knew how to catch himself properly with agile grace. He shook out his fur getting ready to transform back, but then she took out her fan. The feline watched for a moment to see where this was going to go.
The nekomata simply rolled her eyes at her complaints. He pretended to listen attentively. Ears sharp, a forward look, and a gentle nod.
He then transformed into his lion form. There he stood eight feet tall and with feline grace. He ran his fingers through his black mane with a sigh. The gemstones of his attire sparkled from the ambient light of the fire.
“There’s really no need to go that far.” He protested. “Besides, we are in a tavern. It’s the perfect place to blow off some steam and unwind. It’s the perfect place to make some fun happen. You just have to be a little open minded for opportunities.” he said with a mischievous smile as his forked tail brushed against Idenmera’s hourglass waist.
The nekomata simply rolled her eyes at her complaints. He pretended to listen attentively. Ears sharp, a forward look, and a gentle nod.
He then transformed into his lion form. There he stood eight feet tall and with feline grace. He ran his fingers through his black mane with a sigh. The gemstones of his attire sparkled from the ambient light of the fire.
“There’s really no need to go that far.” He protested. “Besides, we are in a tavern. It’s the perfect place to blow off some steam and unwind. It’s the perfect place to make some fun happen. You just have to be a little open minded for opportunities.” he said with a mischievous smile as his forked tail brushed against Idenmera’s hourglass waist.
Indemira regarded his towering lion form the way a duchess regards an overconfident courtier. With composed contempt and a faint, dangerous amusement. Her rabbit ears angled back in offense, then pricked up again as if she had decided he was not a threat, merely an indulgence. She let her enchanted war-fan bloom with a crisp snap and cooled herself with slow, imperious strokes. The very picture of patrician displeasure performed for an audience that did not deserve it.
“I am unwinding,” she said, bright and cutting. “Can you not tell. I have entered this place without demanding it be improved. I have tolerated the noise. The smell. The enthusiasm.” Her nose wiggled, delicate and disdainful. “Is this how you spent your time as a peasant. In swill-houses with that hungry look, hunting ‘opportunities’ like they are rations.” She swept the room with a glance that made the clientele feel cheaper by association. “What do they pour here. Judging by them, it will be low grade. Thin ale. Sour wine. Something that tastes like regret and bad linens.”
She stepped in close, all velvet malice and private ownership. The fan snapped shut with a decisive click, and Indemira promptly bopped him on the snout with it, brisk and scolding, as though correcting a misbehaving noble pup. Her mouth curved into a bratty grin at the audacity of it. “Stop posturing. You look ridiculous. Handsome, but ridiculous.”
Then her tone turned playful, wickedly pleased with herself. “Fine. Pick me something that does not insult my palate, and I might let you have your little tavern mischief.” She tipped her chin, eyes glittering. “But if you embarrass me, I will make you sit at my feet like my pampered beast and feed you by hand. Slowly. In full view of everyone. Now.” A prim flutter of the closed fan. “Go on, darling. Impress me. woo me like you did your peasant fangirls." She quipped with a yawn and smacking her lips audibly.
((When Cream does not read carefully, this happens. Lmao- But I reserve my opinion on the CatProblem1))
Xib might still be holding the small heater...
While gazing out of a honeycomb portal, the girl started to hum. Quietly, but still audible.
Now playing: Toby Fox - Once Upon A Time.
Nothing off tune, just her minding her own stuff.
Xib might still be holding the small heater...
While gazing out of a honeycomb portal, the girl started to hum. Quietly, but still audible.
Now playing: Toby Fox - Once Upon A Time.
Nothing off tune, just her minding her own stuff.
After a long day of tending to the hive, Zlata was a tall 7’6 ft queen bee. She was pleased to see that the Drunken bee was forged after her kind’s superior architecture. It seemed popular too. The inferior ants couldn’t craft something that was functional and elegant.
She walked up to Xuequing. They looked new and rather young. Lost in thought almost upset.
“Tell me child, are you alright?”
She walked up to Xuequing. They looked new and rather young. Lost in thought almost upset.
“Tell me child, are you alright?”
Lin Xueqing wrote:
((When Cream does not read carefully, this happens. Lmao- But I reserve my opinion on the CatProblem1))
Xib might still be holding the small heater...
While gazing out of a honeycomb portal, the girl started to hum. Quietly, but still audible.
Now playing: Toby Fox - Once Upon A Time.
Nothing off tune, just her minding her own stuff.
Xib might still be holding the small heater...
While gazing out of a honeycomb portal, the girl started to hum. Quietly, but still audible.
Now playing: Toby Fox - Once Upon A Time.
Nothing off tune, just her minding her own stuff.
Xib stared at the box. It made a little strange noise. A tiny whirr. A click. Maybe a sad beep. Xib’s nose did the thing it did when brain got scared. A bubbly snot-gurgle puffed out. Very dignified. Very Lord of Log. “HAUNTED.” Xib bellowed, voice bouncing off the hex walls. “THIS ONE HEAR GHOST IN BEETLE BOX. POOR LITTLE DEAD MAN STUCK INSIDE. CRYING IN LED-IE MELODY.” He jerked his head at the girl like she was the ghost’s jailer on accident. “It talk. It whine. It do machine-spirit curses. No good.”
Xib did not think longer. Thinking made head sting. Xib did action. He tossed the heater to the floor like a hot frog and grabbed his log with both hands. “NO FEAR, POOR GHOST.” Xib roared, and then started smacking the box like it owed him money. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Pieces went everywhere. “XIB SAVE YOU. XIB BREAK PRISON. GO FREE. GO HAUNT SOMEONE ELSE.”
The last smack turned the beetle box into a pile of sad little shards. Xib froze for a second, listening. No more strange noise. No more tiny whine. Only the fire crackle and the room doing the quiet stare. Xib lifted his log up high like a victory flag and puffed his chest out so big his shell looked even more important than usual. Bits of broken haunted box glittered at his feet like defeated enemy soldiers. He nodded once, slow and proud, like the job was done right and the world could breathe again.
“See.” Xib announced to nobody and everybody. “Ghost free now. Xib save poor spirit. No need thank. This one is Lord of Log. Protector of flatbacks. Breaker of cursed beetle boxes.” He planted the log down beside him and stood there like a hero statue, daring any other haunted thing to try him.
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