09.15.3013: Angels To Some
Summary: Cyrielle asks Nitrim for a time and place to return his camera to him.(Warning: Implied sexual situations)
Date: 15 September 2013
Related: TNP Rave
Nitrim Cyrielle 

A seedy club at Landing
Room description included in scene
September 15, 3013

It is nearing mid-day at Landing when a surprise video feed is locked in over the InfoSphere and sent in Cyrielle's direction. The feed, coming openly from Nitrim's address opens to…sunshine and open city streets. Having escaped the Ring and the vultures that lined his hotel room, the camera bounces softly with his footsteps as he navigates the streets of Landing, heading through the WestEnd towards a clutch of shops and businesses on the shadier side of the district.

The view of the camera expands as he turns through a crowd of bodies and into an all-day club, one she recognizes as the outside din of voices is replaced by the deafening speaker-rattle of drum and bass music. Passing through the door after paying an entry fee, he walks along the outer ring of the sparsely populated club to the private suites. The fifth on the left opens, the heavy curtain pulled aside by a gloved hand. There's a mirror on the far wall that catches sight of the plain, hooded jacket he wears in a low cowl to conceals most of his face. The camera's view turns as he closes the curtain and flips the hood over the top of his head and drops to the crescent-shaped soft and coffee table combo. The feed kills as he puts his boots up…

The Ways do speed matters up, but it’s not an instantaneous thing. One must go to them, travel, and then complete their passage at their destination. Cyrielle sends, after the message feed, a simple: ‘See you soon.’ No video, no images. It would seem she is certain of wishing to see his reaction to anything else she has to provide. So the Khournas must wait, but at least the club provides good music and drinks.
When the curtain moves aside next, it’s not one of the serving girls clad in their tight little dresses. Instead it’s a brunette wearing a long, burgundy red skirt that hugs the curves of her hips before spilling loose down towards the floor, brushing past the tops of her boots. A black coat hugs her torso; the front clasping with hooks across her abdomen, while the back is long and flowing much like a trenchcoat. Cyrielle’s hair is braided, the end falling over her shoulder. It’s an almost understated outfit, but she’s removing that coat as soon as she lets the curtain fall closed behind her. Dark eyes regard Nitrim as she slides free of that outer layer, tossing it to an available hook. Beneath she wears a fitted, sleeveless top of silver-blue that catches the light as she moves.

“I find myself imagining what lies beneath,” she says by way of greeting, eyes tracing from his features down over his neck to his upper body. “And that is purely your fault.”

Nitrim has been in the club for hours, having already had a few drinks with an old, condensed stain on the coffee table about the size of a bowl of soup that has been whisked away some time ago. He rises, eyes tilting over the sight of her as she enters, with an almost arrogant smirk as he tugs off his coat. "I cause chaos in my wake, Cyri, I assure you that it wouldn't be hard to find people that say everything is my fault."

Reaching over her shoulder, he looms close enough that the scent of his cologne falls over the wind as he hangs his coat on a hook. Revealing himself to he wearing a baggy, red tank top that shows off his tattoos, he steps back to the sofa, beckoning her to follow. "Did you like the video trail of breadcrumbs?"

“Everything? So the next time I steal baked goods from the kitchens at the Hand, I can say it wasn’t me, but Lord Nitrim that was the culprit?” Cyrielle’s lips curve in bemusement as she speaks. Her eyes are on him, fairly intently and when he leans past to hang the coat, there’s a slight shift to her posture. A bit of an arching of her back for those few seconds. Follow she does towards that sofa.

“I did. It was a nice touch, putting it in such a perspective. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to find the place.”

"Everything," Nitrim replies as he heads to the center of the crescent-shaped sofa and lowers himself to sit. His head cants at an upward angle to watch her approach. "Baked goods at the kitchens, the ungodly screeching of first time violin players, hurricanes." His lips part into a wide smile as his eyes remain on hers, serpentine and mischievous.

"It wasn't hard to find at all, no." He continues, his eyes lowering over her neck and down the side of her body, stopping at her hands as he looks for the obvious camera. "I've been here before. There's a few places like this but the address confirmed it."

“Ah, my dear Nitrim. Has someone blamed the weather as of late on you?” Despite the coddling nature of the words themselves, Cyrielle’s cadence implies mirth even as her lips twitch in a small smile. The young woman seems to consider for a few beats before settling to the couch beside him, leaning back into the cushions. She crosses one leg over the other as she reaches into her pocket.

The camera is revealed and held to the Khournas. “I particularly love this place for the private suites and the music. You can -feel- the music back here, but it’s muted enough that you can still conversate.”

Reaching out with both hands, he'll need them to filter through the pictures, Nitrim rests his shoulder against Cyrielle's and settles in against her. "That and I like the way those heavy curtains hang to the floor and that dumb-waiter door where drinks can be air locked through. The bass gets through the seats, hitting the center of the chest so well. Speaking of which," he turns his head in their close proximity to look to her face. His eyes drop briefly to her lips. "While this is booting up can I get you anything?"

For a short pause, he leans his body forward to a club-anchored datapad, which already has the drink menu logged into on it. He leaves the datapad balanced on her hip and then settles back against her, his knee resting against the cross of her legs so that she can watch with him. He sets the camera on the opposite side of him, connecting it to his personal datapad so the images can be larger, more life-like. The screen on the datapad flares to life, in millions of high definition pixels.

It’s a moment of adjustment. Like the first plunge into cool waters- Cyrielle tenses briefly, but once the initial flood of signals from her nerves passes, she relaxes.
The brunette settles in comfortably, taking the pad with the drink menu. She starts to flip through options, studying pictures and descriptions. “Music is so full of life and to let it vibrate through you…” She shifts her shoulder faintly in a shrug.

The images are largely from The Spine and Beacon. The former are captures of tree-top escapes and buildings. A stall-style market within the trees, wooden walkways winding around massive trunks while the canopy lets splatters of light filter through. The latter is a beach-side town, only vaguely reminiscent of the resort escape it must once have been, like the islands between the two continents. Largely now, it’s clear to be a naval place. Still yet, there are images of piers jutting into crystal blue waters, trees that drape low showing that blend between land and sea.

There are, however, those daring images scattered in between of Cyrielle herself. Some selfies and some in which the timer was used. None are too scandalous, though they do toe the line between artistic and something a young noblewoman would not want to find its way to the tabloids. None show too much, but it’s clear she has an idea of ‘leave some to the imagination.’

As Nitrim flips through the images, every one of them draws a stir from the man, eyes widening over the bright lights over green trees and oceans, and the heart-twisting images of flesh draw a soft breath every time, a bite to his lip. A new level of weight settles into the air between them as he continues to flip. His jaw lowers, head tilting towards her chin so that he can breathe over the neckline of her top. "Your work is…very good." His smoky voice curls over an accent at the tip. His eyes dip to her shoulder and then to her own eyes as he flips to the next image. His gaze dancing over a view of her ribcage, he squirms. "These places make back home just look like a blasted, ruined thing. The rest of them…" His teeth clamp down on his lip as his forehead leans, pressing softly against his temple. "I want to see these places with my own eyes." Which places he doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have to.

There’s a slight shiver at that breath and Cyrielle’s eyes half-close for a moment. Focus! She does recover, smiling absently. She reaches out and touches the screen, bringing up an image of waves crashing against a fortified wall. “The Hand,” she says, naming her home. “I took up photography so I could resist becoming inured to beauty like so many. I returned home and saw with new eyes how it could be. I want to capture the same in other lands, too.” A pause, perhaps a brief thought. “Even yours.”

She glances sidelong at him, even as she lifts the tablet with the menu. “Well, perhaps I could convince you to spend a day or two in The Spine with me. There are some lovely treehouses one can rent for a few days or so.” She places her drink order and leans forward, folding easily at the waist to set it aside. Out of the way.

"Perhaps you could, and if that does happen I want to see this," Nitrim presses the screen, that fortified wall. "The thing that draws me into art like this is that it makes me want to stand on that exact spot, reenact the same circumstances, be there and understand why." Nitrim murmurs, his eyes turning back to the screen. With a flash of images, some of them Cyrielle's well-placed enhancements, he returns to the tree houses. "I wonder what it would be like to sit out in the morning there…breathe in the air."

Reaching up and over Cyrielle's shoulders, Nitrim rests an arm over the back of the sofa behind her, tapping at the datapad with one finger. Cycling the images back forward, more slowly this time, he laughs softly and tilts his eyes to her chin. His breathing runs long and slow, letting the weight between them settle until it is unbearable. That's where he likes it, shadowy and uncomfortable in the best ways. "There's a place at Volkan where the wind scatters the ash like snow. It has life, too, just…more of a struggle for air."

“It’s lovely,” Cyrielle says, with a glance sidelong at the Khournas. She settles back, leaning against the back of the sofa and inevitably; his arm there. “The morning air is a bit damp, due to the dew and the condensation that holds to the leaves of the trees until the sun fully rises. There’s a cleansing quality to it. Everything feels so clean and fresh.” She closes her eyes for a moment, taking the measure of her own breath and keeping it steady. Without purpose or realization, it almost falls into line with his.

“I would be happy to show you around and let you relive the places I took the photos. But only if you promise to show me your favorite places in Volkan.”
"I could do that." Nitrim replies, nodding slowly as the two seem to point their heads at the same spot. "You might have seen some of them in the camera; the wall of ash, the fields of bones where the drakes picked everything clean. It's like a haunted land, fear taking over in places."

A beep sounds near the wall as the drink arrival comes. Plucking the tablet from his lap and setting it aside, Nitrim rises, though not before trailing his fingertips over the back of Cyrielle's neck on his way up. Standing beside her, he slips away with his back to her to head over to the wall. He opens the latch to reveal the drink tray, and starts to assemble it. "Then the Hand and Spine it is. I've never shot much there, not in the wilds. It sounds like —- fun."

“It sounds haunting. Like a lone medley in the midst of a long orchestral piece.” Cyrielle’s work on keeping her breath steady is dashed to pieces at the trail of his fingers. The air catches in her throat and she has to swallow to regain composure. Eyelids flutter and she mutters something to herself. When dark eyes rise again, they’re more focused. Tracing his movements where he stands by the drinks. “Days of art and excess it is, then. Wine, food, and lovely weather.”

Back still turned to her, Nitrim lowers his head to gaze across his shoulder to the outline of her leg-clinging skirt near the coffee table. His eyes flash over into a field of white as he pulls the tray from the wall, and the lowering drawbridge of a dumb waiter snaps back into place. A small smirk forms at his cheek as the plans are settled, and his white eyes turn to her as they uncloud, returning to green. He's looking to her face, and as he turns to set the tray down before her he places a hand to her knee as he lowers back to the sofa.

"Do you remember when we met, how I told you that they see me as a paranoid, a skulker?" He asks, sitting on one hip to turn his body to hers, though his hand remains. "Before we leave here, I want you to decide if you really want to know why they say that." His voice lowers and he wets his lips with his tongue. "Because I think I should tell you, but…consider it a chance to not know things that no one should. A bit cryptic," he laughs sloftly and lowers his head, his eyes falling to her side where the fabric clings to her ribs. "But the way I see the world isn't always like those pictures I'd hate to steal the color from your world with sharing it all."

Though her hand rises to reach for the drink, Cyrielle is forestalled by the hand upon her knee. It captures her attention well and thoroughly. Eyes remain upon the man as he settles in beside her, eyebrows rising as she listens. Though her focus does briefly fall to his lips as his tongue briefly appears. A breath is drawn in as she listens, taking it in with a measure both of disbelief and interest. At the last, there’s a soft laugh. “I drink in the art around me, for otherwise it would be nothing but shades of grey.”

Her eyes flutter as if at war with indecision. Finally, one is made and she adjusts, letting her shift towards him. The Hollolas tilts her head in to let her lips find his. A brief kiss, really- perhaps even a tease for those few seconds. Cyri barely parts before speaking again: “There. Should you manage to well and truly frighten me away, I can at least go secure in the knowledge that I won’t regret having not let my impulses have the better of me for a moment.”

The press of Nitrim's lips is brief. With the forward movement, the shift of her body it could have only been one thing, and he was ready for it. He cants his head to receive her, and as she pulls away just a little, he doesn't. His lips hover near hers as his fingers curl against the fabric of her skirt, drinking in her scent. "You should let me teach you about fear. That's where I thrive. There's nothing better in life than sticking your hands into fire and find out it's painless." His lips brush against hers as he whispers. With a little, toying smile he leans in with a brush of his nose to the side of hers before his lips press to hers boldly; a press to the side of her mouth before drawing her lower lips between his.

“And what,” Cyrielle’s voice comes breathless in that pause. “do you know of fear?” Her leg shifts at the curl of his fingers in the fabric; responsive. The one uncrosses from the other and there’s the soft tap of her boot settling on the floor. When he catches her lip between his, a soft sound comes unbidden. It is her undoing and in that moment any pretense of remaining aloof falls as she lets the ambiance drive her. That thrum of the music of the club that pulsates through the walls, the heavy curtain that shields the outside world. The brunette leans in then, lifting her hands to his arms. Fingertips slide up over shoulders, finding the back of his neck.

The rumble of the music driving up through their hips sends a shiver through Nitrim's neck, through her fingertips, and back up his spine as his head tilts to deepen the kiss. Finding the time between tasting her soft skin, his eyes close and his hand draw up from her knee to her hip where his fingers explore the contour of her hipbone. "I had dreams that I'd lose control and burn everyone I love." He murmurs against her lips, gasping as he presses in once more, hungrier than before. "I know how they intend to kill us all," His mouth gapes as he comes up for air. His breathing quickens as his tongue finds hers. Brutal honesty. "—are you afraid right now?"

To use the term ‘melt’ might be a bit overstated and incorrect. Perhaps a better term is pliant. Malleable. Cyrielle is as much this as responsive to Nitrim’s movements and touch. One hand remains upon the back of his neck, fingers curved about and pressing gently into the skin. The other rises into his hair. Grasping where she may. Her mouth is soft and open; desiring, yet drinking in the experience. The scent of the man so close, the taste of his mouth upon hers.

Chest rises and falls, sending color scattering from her top as the light catches it with those movements. “Afraid?” She tastes the word, much as she was tasting him. “No. I sometimes think I forgot fear in my years away. The nights are dark and long, with no Knights. No armies. No means of defense save one’s own mind.” Meaning, perhaps, the abilities of an Awakened. “I know fear, but I reject it.”

“Fear kills…” Nitrim laughs softly against her mouth, rushing in for another kiss…

~ ~ ( fade ) ~ ~

Though the loud, booming music and the absolute privacy that comes from the heavily curtained, rented booth, not a single sound of the noise within permeates through the club’s atmosphere and heavy, booming music. The air inside of the booth has become stifling and hot, the sweat of the hour becoming a tangible, freely flowing thing that has left the two sitting without a stitch in each others’ laps. Cyrielle atop him, the two collapse against each other in a sweaty mess with mouths gaping, fighting to catch their breath. Through the fog of heavy panting, a thought slips over Nitrim’s mind.

You know I’m not immortal. I’m not designed to survive this war… Nitrim murmurs, a vision of the mine-cart that nearly took his head from his shoulders rushing towards him in slow motion filters over his mind.

You will, Cyrielle insists, even her mind-voice breathless as her lips press to his, her tongue tasting the sweat — her sweat — upon his mouth. Her hand slides along his arm, briefly catching in the sweat that pools there. A streak draws across the skin as she finally leans away. I love your confidence. Don’t give that up now. The white intensity of her eyes as they open increases, aura building around her as vines bursting with softly hued flowers wind around her naked form. If you don’t? You don’t. But fuck if I’m going to let you go in with that assumption.

It’s an intensity that she speaks with across their minds. A fire building within. He’s hit a chord, perhaps and there underneath lie glimpses. A storm- not just the storm of her current emotions, but a big one. In flashes of lightning there’s a ship. There’s lives lost. There’s a blinding flash of pain and- she draws it back in, holding it tight. There’s a trickle of uncertainty as she starts to withdraw from him. She hadn’t meant for that.

Like the mine cart, Nitrim understands the pain, though he doesn't know why. He just knows. Hey…hey… He soothes out to her mind, reaching for her wrist. Only then does he notice the blood as he looks down to his arm with a frown. A near-laugh escapes him as he places her fingers to the scar on his collarbone, where the cart hit him. In turn, he leans in to press his kiss to hers and rests his hand over her ankle, fingertips brushing softly. It's okay. It's — okay. I want to survive this war, I just get in over my head. I half expect to get stabbed in the back but…I won't lose my fire. I am a drake. We endure. He tries to lure out to her some of his confidence, the hell-or-die-trying as he misses her. What do you need? Tell me, Cyri.

Pain better forgotten, but unable to do so. A harsh lesson learned that took years to fully show its results and how it shaped her into the woman she is today. Cyrielle’s fingers trace that scar, etching out the shape of it. Her own angle has scars on it- not directly visible, but those dips and ridges in the skin that speak of deep wounds. Time has evened out skintone, but it cannot change what was lost. As their lips touch — in a kiss less needful, but of a different kind of intensity — her breathing slows again. She barely moves now, more resting within his embrace.

I need to… be. To serve a purpose. She laughs then and it’s near frantic- not quite bubbling over to her physical voice, but it seems nearly. Ahh, I am ruining the moment. I’m sorry.

Right because visions of Hostile are totally conducive to this sex we're having, Me and my not surviving, Nitrim laughs inside of her mind, stealing a kiss before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to his body into his embrace. It's okay, you're ruining nothing. I need the same thing. Without a purpose I'm just some brat noble with too many skeletons in his closet.

He pulls back to look up to her face with his white eyes and slips a lock of her sweaty hair behind her ear. The emotion of affection and trust bubbles to the surface of the quicksand from him. I will try to help you find that. This group we don't share names, we don't pull titles, we work together and we listen to each other. Six, I am half afraid to scare you with what we know but we would be there to protect each other. You, me, Rook, the others. He smirks. They're all girls it's horrible. A laugh, a real laugh follows, trying to infect her with his joy. I've got to have you again before you go. I just — need a break.

You may be right there, Cyrielle muses, nestling into him as he pulls her near. She closes her eyes, but they fly open seconds later with a gasp as he shifts against her. There’s a shiver and she grasps at his arm. Nails tight as a tendril of pleasure runs through her. We can help one another find that purpose, she decides, studying him as he leans back.

Those emotions that flow forth are embraced and taken in. Each returned to him, her aura expanding a bit as it fills her. The remembered fear of her accident is pushed away and she lets those warm, good feelings infuse her. All girls? She laughs, tilting her head in to let her forehead rest against his. You’ve a harem.

No, don't say that please don't say that. Nitrim laughs, grinning broadly as he closes his eyes to rest his forehead against hers. That would scare them and I'm just the big, dumb, paranoid boy that's put this all together. If I know women, you'll do well to make sure my guy-stuff stays on an even keel. That and — I don't know if you care — but of them There's only two I've been with. You're the second. The first is obvious and Six, I want it to stay that way. I'm not as sturdy as farm equipment.

It’s a jest, but she shifts all the same, moving to rise away from him. She’s been in one position so long that she can’t quite straighten fully. Instead she just falls to the couch beside him, slowly and languidly stretching. Shall we order more drinks, then? To refresh ourselves before the final play of the night?

As she stretches out, his eyes turn to gaze down the front of her. He reaches out to brush a hand over her firm, flat belly and plant a kiss to her temple before he rises and reaches out for the drink menu. Water and more water… he muses, adding a bottle of scotch to the water order. Content, he flops back to the couch beside her and wraps his arms over the top of his head, utterly spent for the moment. The clock on the wall reads 11:43, and the club is going to be open for hours to come.

While they wait for the order, Cyrielle works on stretching. Getting limbered up and blood flowing again. When the door finally slides open with their order, she’s ready enough to stand and make her slow way over. Most of her limp is obvious then- the ankle doesn’t flex and it gives a bit of an odd motion to her gait.

Good choice. Her aura is like an ethereal, fantastical article of clothing. Vines with blooms wrapping around her torso, neck, and limbs. Soft hints of green trail behind her as she moves, bringing the tray to the table. She carefully pushes aside the one with the broken glass, moving around any visible shards. One of the bottles of water is passed towards the Khournas and the other is held for herself.

Bringing the water to his lips, Nitrim drinks heavily, his eyes tilting towards the Hollolas woman while his throat rises and falls with his repeated swallowing. There’s a brief, knowing moment of eye contact as the bottle lowers from his lips. No one is reaching for their clothing just yet. A small, demure smirk flows over his lips as he raises the lips to his bottle again, and he casts a sly wink to Cyrielle, as if to suggest she replenish her body. She’ll need it.

The club isn’t going to close for a few hours yet.

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