14 Vhalar 722
Evening
Maxine leaned her back against the wall of the dim brothel she spent far too much time in. Dancers, bouncers, and staff accustomed to her presence avoided her as of late. Perhaps it was something to do with her bloodshot, animalistic gaze or the tight coils that seemed wound beneath her skin in every muscle ready to snap. Whatever it was she certainly didn't mind being left alone. She was entirely consumed with her own mind and what was to happen here tonight.
Tristane Dorrick would be here.
The shadows draped her where she fiended. Her fingers itched for her pocket and she could feel the weight of the vials and papers she'd collected in place of real nourishment. Often her gaze slid toward the entrance, checking and re-checking every few moments of passed time. People started to file in. Most liked to enjoy a drink, loosen up, and catch sight of potential fancies for the evening before the candles were snuffed for the show that followed. If he was coming it would be soon. It had to be soon. It had to be tonight.
She sipped on her rum but it did little to settle her nerves. Bits of adrenaline wasn't the only thing coursing through her veins or feasting on her hungry mind. Just when she was about to find Sabrina, yank her aside and demand an explanation for their target's absence, she heard the sound of a group of heavy foot steps. Her head snapped to the sound. A small entourage of clean, well-kept specimens of masculinity thundered through the door. A golden-haired lion moved at their head.
You.
"Welcome, gentlemen," one of the older women of the brothel, a whore who graciously eased into a role more host-like in recent arcs, smiled as she met the soldiers. "Please make yourselves comfortable. We recommend a drink from our stores and a seat over there." The woman's long, painted fingernail pointed toward the seats before the modest stage. "The house sees to the desires of all our most special guests. Allow our performers to properly and very warmly thank you all for your service."
They grunted and murmured their gratitude before taking the advice. First they made their way to the bar for ale and liquor. As they moved Maxine's gaze was glued to their leading personality. As his golden head flitted into and out of the light, she caught strange glances of him. This was not the same patriarch she spied inside the estate. His bright eyes had dimmed and deep circles rested beneath them. A heaviness and ferociousness was in his stature all at once. Instead of an aura of superiority and raw power, there was a tension in the air he occupied. She didn't read into it. It didn't matter.
The puppet is in my reach...
"I know you ain't exactly light in heart, brother," one of the soldiers pointed out as the group received a round of filled shot glasses. His grey eyes found Tristane while he spoke. "Bad luck not to say some words though. A cheers, to something..."
"Aye," another agreed solemnly.
"Here, here! Whether we toast or pour the liquor out, it's the way."
"Fine," Tristane answered hollowly. "I'll say the words." He stood still while expectant eyes glued to him. He raised his glass and the others mirrored his gesture. "Those of us here didn't come from the same lot. We're patriots, but that likely wasn't what got all of us to sign the papers. War and blood made us brothers, and the things we've done afterward to crawl toward the light and get what we're owed...now all of that? That made us true kin." Heads bobbed and grunts of affirmation rose. "This world will still be ours if we stay the path. Our enemies will be dragged from the shadows yet. When they are...we'll make them suffer as no man or beast as ever been made to suffer for hindering our cause. Spilled blood will be answered with blood. Only that I'll drink to."
The men tossed liquor back and a couple of the men clapped their hands on Tristane's shoulder. Then they made their way toward the chairs before the stage, whispering about the staff that caught their fancy they hoped might entertain them later. The Dorrick patriarch fell heavily into his seat facing the dimming stage. Dancers began to snuff candles around the outside of the room. A violin began its whine. Like a wraith, Maxine's slender frame eased down into the chair directly behind Tristane's.
Maxine's head tilted as she eyed the vulnerable back of her mark's neck. One of her fingers trailed the shape of her knife handle tucked in her waist. She took a deep inhale. Her hand forgot the knife and dipped into her pocket to caress the vial resting there instead.
The first performance began. It was a warm-up by all accounts. Fresh blood sent out to ease the crowd moved slow and sensual, their movements accentuated by coy stares and boasts with their supple bodies. The second was more of a show. The performers played roles meant to tantalize the fantasies of the crowd. They had true costumes and roles that coincided with their character. Women in tight red ensembles teased and enticed well-dressed men that shared the stage, leading them closer to a metaphorical flame in the center of the stage. A woman in white chased after a man clad in black, following him in their elusive dance until he turned and seized her in a powerful display of skill and effort. On and on such clichés went, amateurs certain at least one trope would hit.
The men murmured when they noticed the stage became slick with a thin layer of water, which allowed dark flickers of reflected flames of distant candles to flit about its surface. The violin slowed. The stage went vacant. Two men with torches marched stoically up to the stage until they stood at either end. The crowd glanced about with furrowed brows. Then the torch-bearers spit fire forth, the flames roaring overhead the stage while Sabrina appeared in its center like a shadow manifested from oblivion. She smiled toward the crowd for one kind, brief second of time. Then her expression turned cold and the dance began.
All who had come before were forgotten in an instance. The nimble dancer owned the entirety of that stage, the slick surface making it appear as though she were dancing on black glass. Another burst of spit fire and the other dancers appeared, a wardrobe change for the occasion putting them in baggy, clean-yet-torn blouses that hung over their bodies.
Water from the ceiling began to trickle over Sabrina while she serenaded the brothel with her art. The other dancers followed her about the stage, reaching for her just in time for her to dance away or embrace another. Their blouses began to hang heavy on their bodies. The edges of Sabrina's dark hair became slick, the droplets of rain glistening across her features and catching the light as her movements spun it into the air. Another burst of spit flames roared in the eyes of the audience. When the firelight died the dancers had collapsed on the stage in their thirst for the performer who had vanished from their midst. The torch-bearers turned expertly on their heels and began to make their way to the back of the room. Only then did candles begin to burn brighter to illuminate the brothel.
When Sabrina appeared she was already in the crowd. Men and women alike reached for her, and she indulged them both effortlessly without script. Fingertips hung off her soft skin as she passed wanting customers by. Lips whispered her name but her feet did not stop when it reached her ears. Hawk-like eyes settled on the being that radiated power and dominance over the other men he brought here with him. Tristane's hands didn't move from the arms of his seat to ward her off. She made his lap her throne.
Maxine adjusted her jaw and her vacant stare was fixated on what was right in front of her within literal grasp. Sabrina moved her hips, framing the Dorrick man's face gently with the edges of her fingertips.
"Do you feel that?" Sabrina's red lips whispered in the golden lion's ear. "Their jealousy?" Life came to the man's eyes. He leaned back in his seat and watched her tease him, appreciating the form that chose to grant him this attention. One of his hands divorced the safety of the chair arm trace her exposed spine. Sabrina bit her lips and giggled at the affirmation. "Every sad, sorry soul in here...wishing they were us?" Her teeth found his ear and his breath sighed from his lungs. "I can show you a power you've never tasted...but I can make that yours, too."
Sabrina lifted her eyes and found Maxine's staring straight through her. The dancer looked back down at her quarry, smirked at him, and then dismounted him to continue working the rest of the crowd. Tristane's head snapped to follow her wherever she went. His fingernails gradually began to dig back into the arm chair the further she moved from his row. At every new plaything she took the time to look his way, toying with him as she offered herself to someone else with just a little less enthusiasm than he was gifted. The cadence of the song began to change.
Maxine rose silently from her seat and returned to the darkness from whence she came.
Continued.
