06.18.3013: Cold as Ice
Summary: Devon comforts Nitrim during his withdraws and provides him a space to talk.
Date: 18 June 2013
Related: None
Nitrim Devon 

Nitrim's Apartments
A small two-step set of stairs lead into this recessed room that is lit by hooded, indirect lighting that casts a somber, golden glow over its mostly red and black features. Various pieces of art, both photography and moving hypervisual, line the walls. Darkly shaded marble flooring stretches out to a small seating area with a pair of sofas in front of a mounted InfoSphere videoscreen that serves as the centerpiece of the room. To the left of the entryway is a comfortable chair seated next to a table and bookshelf that rest near a wide balcony that overlooks Volkan below. Along the far right wall is a snake habitat on a raised platform tht is protected by a mostly transparent energy shield.

The rear of the room supports another small two-stair reach that leads up to a lavish bedroom setting with a draped four-post bed in black and red dressing. Lastly, a small double door off to the side of the bedding section leads to a washroom with a walk-in shower and a large soaking tub set next to a window.

June 18, 3013

Night has fallen over Volkan and the dim lights from the city below wave their way in through the windows of the Blackspyre. The air in Nitrim Khournas' room has been dialed down, casting a cool chill over the stone-floored room in its gloomy, late-night darkness. The recessed lighting has been dimmed to a mere crack of light, and the only sound in the room is the faint hum of the energy shield that keeps Daliah in her habitat.

In his large, expansive bed, Nitrim Khournas does not sleep. For the last few hours he's tried, oh gods has he tried, but the bitter agony of his addiction has left his skin soft and his hair slick with sweat, laying above his sheets clad in a pair of black, drawstring pants. With one knee propped up, his elbows are bent and his hands are over his eyes, sighing softly.

With nightfall comes the Ash-Witch of the Pit. She has spent much of her day training and working with the Khourni House Military down in the barracks, and so she has not changed out of the matte black underarmor and floor length vest of charcoal grey. Embroidered across the back of the vest is a large orange ouroboros — a serpent consuming its own tale in a loop of eternity. Her steps are soft, almost ghostlike, as she strides through the door of the Khourni's apartments. She glances toward Daliah in her enclosure, though her attention drifts slowly over the room until she spies the supine body.

"Sleep has not yet come?" She inquires knowingly as she steps up that pair of stairs into the segregated bedroom.

Sensing her presence, Nitrim slides a hand from his face and lulls his lidded eyes to watch her body block the soft, gold lighting of Daliah's enclosure. His brows begin to lower, seeing her dark clothing and sensing an intruder, but then he catches a glimmer from her blue hair. By the time she speaks, everything makes more sense to the man. Devon has returned.

He pushes himself to sit cross legged on the bed, motioning for her to sit with him before he brushes his hand over the slight sandpaper scruff of growth on his cheek, over his hair, and down the side of his neck with a sigh. "It'll come eventually." He replies quietly, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on his nightstand. He hangs the cigarette from his fingertip, unlit, over the side of the bed as he turns his dark, green eyes back to her. "I read that there's anxiety. Small scratching sounds, the settling of the crossbeams in the ceiling, thinking that my sister has told my father…" He shakes his head. Anxiety and fever indeeed. He looks as if he's been outside all afternoon, and yet the room is rather chilly.

There is barely a pause from the young Grantham as she steps to the side of his bed. She sits slowly, ensuring that she barely disturbs the man's body as she turns slightly toward him. Gently, she captures the unlit cigarette from his fingers, and unless he resists her, she places it on the bedside table. "From what little I know about Young Lady Anabethe, she is not prone to tattling." Those crystalline blue eyes softly cloud into vague whiteness, and a soft fiery aura glows around her body — save for her hands. They are bluish white, and when she sets her palm against his forehead, it is as cold as Niveus. "Calm," she tells him softly.

Sometimes, after having taken too much alcohol, nothing is better than the feeling of a cold, tile floor. At other times, after a hard day's work, a cold shower is far better than a warm, hot one. Nitrim learns, at that very moment, that when fighting through the fevers of Red Eye detox, nothing is better than a cold hand to your forehead.

His eyes roll back and a pleased little sound rumbles from the center of his chest as he leans forward into Devon's ice-cold hand. His eyes close and he takes in a deep breath, which he then releases down the inside of her sleeve.

"You have…absolutely…no idea how amazing that is." He admits with a flash of a smile before he lets the muscles in his neck uncoil, calming just as she's asked. Once again, he lets out a calming breath and hangs the soft weight of his head against her fingertips. "This is what I do, you know." He murmurs. "All of my thinking in the dark, where I can hear myself better."

"Good," Devon murmurs as he relaxes under her cold palm. She is artful with controlling that glaciating magic, ensuring that his skin does not become damaged under the pressure of the touch. She tilts her head a bit, casting a soft smile down at the Khournas Lord. "I don't wish to intrude upon that silent darkness, my Lord," she murmurs in reply as she continues to hold her cold hand steadily against his skin. She brushes her fingers down his cheek before she leans forward, hovering over him through the fall of her blue hair. Her lips touch his forehead, and they are just as cold as her hand. "Should I go?" She murmurs as she graces her lips down his nose and then hovers them over his own.

The teasing brush of her blazing, blue hair against his cheek prompts Nitrim to open his eyes to gaze at the hollow of her throat as her lips find the warm skin of his forehead. His fingers splay on the mattress beneath him and he leans up to brush his nose against her lips, welcoming her presence in his room. "No." His lips brush against hers delicately, fingertips reaching through her blue hair to peel a lock of it away from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. The kiss lingers until he breaks it, painstakingly slow, to offer her his cheek. "Room. Set heat to default."

In response, the air recyclers slow, no longer flooring his room with the refrigerated air. Nitrim scoots back to rest his lower back against the three pillows he's stacked in place, and reaches for Devon's hand, guiding her closer where she can choose just how comfortable she wants. He just wants her closer. "So what brings you here this evening, my ever-mysterious shadowsoul?"

The kiss is cold, though that is solely due to the ice that she sends across her skin. Her eyes remain vaguely white, her aura glowing in the dim. Devon lifts her gaze up toward the recyclers as they shift, but it is a brief gesture as she returns her attention back to the young Khournas. She smiles comfortably as she sweeps her legs up on the bed to sit close beside him. "I came to check in on you, to see how the withdraw is faring. Not well, I have come to see, but nothing worthwhile comes without trials." Then she returns her hands to his forehead and cheeks to offer more coolness to his feverish skin.

"Yeah well, I got myself into this mess and there's only one way out of it. I don't think there's actually a way to peel off some of this, but it's important that I remember what this feels like so I'll never go back." Nitrim presses his cheek against the palm of her hand, pressing a soft kiss to the heel of her thumb. He lowers his arm to her leg, balancing his forearm over her knee, wrist up, fingers curling into a resting position like a dying spider on its back. "I read that some people kill drugs with other drugs, but it just leaves them victim to another addiction. Now we couldn't have that, could we?"

"Depends on the addiction, my Lord," Devon murmurs with a serene smile on her lips. She brushes her thumb across his lip before she lowers her cold hand to touch the center of his chest. She presses her hand firmly over his heart, sending another wave of chill through his body. Her eyes become whiter, and her aura a touch brighter, as she feeds more ice against his skin. "As a dutiful member of a House allied with yours, I feel it is my duty to ensure that the child of the High Lord Khournas is given all the comforts I can offer," she says, though there is a touch of deep-seeded amusement in that serious series of words. She brushes her frosty hand down his exposed wrist, cooling more of his skin.

Calming. It's what Devon has told Nitrim to do, and before her very eyes he melts into a figurative puddle of pliable clay. His head lulls back against the pillows, and a sudden, sharp grin splits his face in half as her hand finds his chest. His well-toned abdomen rises and falls quickly, resisting the urge to turn, as she's tickled him. "That's fucki—Gods…" He sighs softly, cooing a word of absolute enjoyment. He's found heaven. "Well, as a Lord of Khournas, Vassal House to the Saveur, I assure you that this higher seated, drug addicted, terribly pleased child of Jevon Khournas is quite comfortable in your care." His eyes crack open, matching her teased tone. After a few seconds of focusing, his eyes level onto hers, sharpened, but dancing with unspent laughter.

"That night, at the club, you said the Gods told you that you would find a gift there." He says softly. "Are you sure you didn't hear it wrong, and that you'd be providing one instead?"

It is hard for the blue-haired woman not to laugh in a soft, rolling note of amusement. "How pleased with the Lord be to know of your satisfaction," Devon murmurs, though she cannot resist the dangerous quirk to the corners of her pale mouth. "The translating of dreams are not always perfect, my Lord, though I am wondering what the Gods have in mind. I must confess that Ignis is not so distant as to not hear tabloid whispers. I am not threatening the wrath of our so Royal lieges by providing comfort to a young Lord of the Paramount of Khournas?" She quirks a brow. "I would hate to see if the Princess Janelle is protective of her Lady-in-Waiting's… conquests?" There is a slight lift of her brow at that question.

Nitrim's wrist turns over, brushing his fingertips softly against the low inside of Devon's thigh aimlessly like a pianist quietly trilling on a piano in an empty lounge. His eyes lift to her brow, then back to her own crystal eyes as he pauses, waiting to answer. His tone is soft, but there's enough solidarity in his jaw to suggest that what he's about to say is honest, at least from his point of view.

"No, you're not threatening anyone's wrath. The king's dying and there's this…split in society. Will it be Janelle or Emund, know one knows" He says with a light upturn to his voice, just like they make it sound on television. "My house are avid supporters of Prince Emund, which by proxy makes me small fish for Princess Janelle and whatever power struggle's going to come of this." A beat passes, he reaches for her wrist to place her cold hand back to the center of his chest. His eyes roll softly, and then close. "Soleil is a sweet, troubled soul. A kindred spirit really, but Janelle hears the tabloids too and has made it clear to Soleil that she doesn't approve. There's chaos. It's confusing." His eyes open, head tilting softly in an attempt to show her that he's being honest. "I understand her from inside of her mind, and there was a night we got into eachothers' subconscious like you and I do, when I was on Red Eye. It was personal, deeply personal. There's nothing I've experienced good or bad that I didn't tattoo onto my soul, and so…I guess you can say she's been influential. She's one of those girls that's so hardened, you know? But she's soft. I don't pray often, but if I did it would be to see her happy, because I worry that night with the Red Eye has put her in danger; knocked her off of her balance."

He wets his lips and arches his back into her hand while settling himself back down against the large clutch of pillows that hold him up at an angle. "I asked her once if she wanted the match to be considered, and she told me no. That was the night the tabloids saw us." His eyes focus onto Devon's, simple and unguarded. "Now part of me hopes that she'll find a match that won't ruin her that she can be comfortable with, because it's not often our kind marry for love, and she deserves love more than service."

Devon listens. It is a skill that she has always possessed — a calmness that must be from her Volen blood. She does not allow any of her own internal reactions to betray her features as the young man shares, perhaps more than he expected to, about this delicate relationship between the Khournas and Sauveur. "I know little of the Lady Soleil, but I am certain that her father will see her rightfully matched." She is quiet for another moment, leaning back into the pillows beside the man. She brushes those frigid fingertips down his chest, slowly circling his navel before they dip just a shy lower against his skin toward the waistband of his drawstring pants. "Perhaps, if you desire her, I could help her see the error of her ways."

One of Nitrim's eyes narrows slyly up into Devon's as his skin prickles at her cooling touch. The allure she presents his body, despite the fever, suddenly brings a smile to his face. His head tilts back, eyes to the ceiling, and a nearly inaudble, throaty chuckle rumbles up from the center of his belly. His arm pulls in beside her, bends at the elbow, and slides along her hip until it finds itself comfortably trapped by her side. His head shakes softly, and once again, he slicks his free hand through his damp, blonde hair. He opens his mouth to speak…and for the first time he doesn't have a quick-on-the-draw, well thought out, response. This one takes some thought.

"I don't want to be impulsive anymore." A vague, but honest reply. "I look back and see so much waste, so many people I've affected by my thoughtless actions. Breaking. Rendering. Dosing. When I try to force fate, fate shuts doors in my face. It's said that when you're on the right path, the doors open before you even have the chance to knock." He reaches to her forehead, brushing a finger down the center of it down to the bridge of her nose, and then back up again. "I just want to see what fate has in store for me, for a wife, for a life, for my death, all of it. Does this make any sense?" He laughs softly, drawing his fingertip down over her lips. "Or is the lord son of Jevon Khournas delirious with sickness?"

Glass-colored eyes lift to meet his at the soft touch of his fingertip to her forehead and nose, and it inspires the softest of smiles. "There is nothing wrong with what you seek, Nitrim… you must just be strong enough to be in command of your own fate."

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