03.21.3014: In Your Arms, Solace Be Found
Summary: In a quiet hotel on The Ring, Cyrielle tends to Nitrim's wounded pride.
Date: 12-11-13
Related: Nitrim Gets Beat Up
Cyrielle Nitrim 


Hotel, The Ring
See log.
Friday, March 21 3014

It's late on the Ring, and the news of Nitrim being attacked has already made its rounds through the InfoSphere within mere hours. At nearly two in the morning, local station time, the dark cowl and somber air of self-loathing that is Nitrim Khournas slinks in through the WayGate. Pulling off the soft, plastic hospital identcard from Willowtree and tossing it into a rubbish bin, Nitrim keeps to himself as he weaves his way towards the room Cyrielle's rented under an assumed name.

Of course, with the Ring, this means a lot of maneuvering. The place is huge and the people are many, which makes the cowl over his head necessary in many ways.

Now, with the hotel within viewing distance, the elevator doors open and Nitrim steps onto the long, busy street. Vision still blurry from the rubbing alcohol in his eyes and his face ever-sore from the remnants of his broken nose, a cut to his head, and a distinct numbness from the missing molar in his jaw, the man is in poor shape. Very poor shape indeed.

His passing goes mostly unnoticed, passing through the lobby like he belongs there until his knuckles come to the door for a knock.

There are times when Cyrielle moves quickly as of late. When those preternatural powers she was blessed (or cursed, dependent upon who you ask) with come in handy. She'll be weary later, but fury and worry can drive a woman to supernatural feats never to be repeated even in the most dedicated of laboratories. Even now, the crutches rest against a wall further within the room. It's a small room; not a lavish suite. All the more to cover tracks and dissuade suspicions.

She's learning.

The door opens even before the first rap can be made upon the surface and Cyrielle is standing there; white-eyed and her aura a living, writhing thing around her form. The edges of the leaves and blooms upon the vines crackle. Still in the attire she wore to the Warehouse, she smells of the place. The crushed velvet of the bodice shows even more red under the brilliant lights in the hall and her cybernetic leg is at odds with the black of the skirt — his skirt — and boots. The only thing she isn't wearing are the hair pins; her hair instead in a braid of Catriona's doing. Which makes it somehow messy and sexy all in one.

She's backed by shadow, the room kept dim. Reaching out, Cyrielle captures his wrist in her hand and starts to tug him inwards, eyes narrowing as she takes stock of the battered man. Upon seeing him, the fury in her mien is slowly tempered with concern… but not washed away wholly.

The puckered, angry gum tissue in Nitrim's cheek is evident as he opens his mouth to speak, but before he manages to say something witty or bitter for the moment he is pulled into the room and trapped inside. The bright lighting of the hallway is replaced by the flickering gloom cast by Cyrielle's shadow, blanketing the Khournas in a hard-to-read darkness. It's the kind of darkness he's thankful for; the kind that doesn't highlight his injury.

His hand falls to the thin line of skin at her hip; a wedge of tanned skin with the faint outline of her firm, flat stomach. His fingertips punch through the illusory light of her aura, and for the first time, Nitrim slumps in against her chest in a search for sympathy and safety. He tries to make it look like a hug.

"It's all over the Sphere." Nitrim murmurs to her, words barely slurred as his teeth fight against the swell of his cheek. "And this can't be made any more public. He gave me a dropper."

There is an anger somewhere far beneath; something to be fought against by the subconscious. Something that may fester and dig. He gave in to temptation. It wasn't the drug, but it may as well have been. Cyrielle knows it isn't the time or place, so she lets her concern for him and anger at the Arborenin lord take over. Her arms go around him and those vines that surround her seem to wrap them in their embrace as well. Vines that do not touch the bottom half of her right leg.

Even so, the Awakened powers do their job and she remains steady. The pain kept at bay; made into mere static within the echelons of her mind. "Shhh." The soft hiss is followed by gentle murmurs of support as she angles him towards the bed. There's no sofa in the room. Other than the bed, a single chair with a table is the only available seating.

"Between this and the rumors around Brienne," Cyrielle starts, the anger coloring her tone and making her aura flare brighter — brighter than the dim lights in the room. "I am almost embarrassed to be a vassal. Perhaps we ought to continue the fight for me to become Khourni."

At the bedside, she pushes him to it with a firm, but gentle press. Any resistence? Met with a soft growl and a flash of those still-white eyes.

"Maybe this is the year of the Arboren and I'll finally get this off of my back." Nitrim protests near the bed, only a little. Between her growl, her aura, and the no-business look in her eyes, he weakens at the knees and lets the shove do its worst. Despite the grunt as his body hits the mattress, Nitrim learns that not all cheap hotels have terrible beds. "That or everyone's catching up and I'm way before my time."

It's a bad joke, but Nitrim always seems to find a way to get one in.

Pulling back the cowl of his coat, Nitrim reveals the mess. A butterfly bandage is propped over the swollen, purpling bruise that lines the bridge of his nose, and his right eye is a minor wreck of angry, red veins and dried ocular tissue. As the doctor said, it needs to breathe, which has a terrible way of also saying people need to see it.

Coat shrugged off quickly, Nitrim pushes himself up to his elbows to pull his knee towards him, reaching for the buckles of his boots.
"This is my fault, Cyrielle. I took Soleil from him and he didn't want me to take Evey, either. Just like Advent doesn't want me to take you."

As he leans forward to reach for his boots, Cyrielle swats at his hands. "Let me." It's a ghost of future. The hint at what a mother she could be. Her aura remains to manage whatever her right leg may be trying to tell her as she focuses instead on him. Though the video did not show any injuries to his legs, the Hollolas is still very tender in the removal of the boots.

"Soleil took herself away. It's a risk we all know every time we dose up on something. Every time I put the hypo to my neck, I know that the wrong molecular structure or the dosing meter could spell the end. We do it anyway."

Moving back up to his side, she sits on the edge of the bed and starts to remove the coat as well. White eyes shift up to his features, taking it all in. "What do you mean, how Advent doesn't want you to take me? He barely knows me, 'trim."

"I know Soleil took herself away. She was that girl that would retaliate on herself for shit other people did. We had a fight once and days later she was showing up in pictures bled-out, surrounded by bottles and some guy she probably slept with." Nitrim replies, helping her remove his coat by brushing the lapels aside and sliding his arms free. The simple, black shirt he wears against is tight enough to give hint to his musculature, but it's rather covered in kicked-up dirt that stuck with the sweat and gutter-water.

"As for Advent, I meant…it's the worry people have about me." Nitrim continues, shifting out from beneath the coat to sit against the headboard of the bed, pillows trapped beneath the small of his back. One-by-one, he plucks his rings away and sets them on the nightstand. "Your father worries for you around me for the same reason others do. I meddle. The truth is that Soleil was far more damaged than ten of me combined, but outward appearances don't know that. All they see is I was there and she died. I show up and things change, and I'm sure Advent is just lonely but I'm starting to get the impression that people believe I leave a stain everywhere I travel."

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Perhaps some bitterness at him, for giving into temptation does seep through. Cyrielle pauses, removing the scale-maille bracelet so she doesn't catch his skin. It's set alongside the rings on the table. "To be seen as someone who cares only about partying and women?"

"As for worrying for me…" Fingers, gentle, reach for the bottom edge of the shirt he wears and begin to work it upwards. "Anyone who does can fuck off."

Lifting his arms over his head, the shirt comes off easily enough, though the Khourni lordling gingerly uses his hands to work his head through the neck of the shirt to mind his sore face. He relents, allowing her to do her work, leaving his hands to rest against the black, angular skirt she wears where his eyes and hands can ruffle the fabric in an uneasy peace.

"I can't do that and be a good husband at the same time, and let's not fuck around with it anymore, Cyri. It's not working. It's doing more damage than good. It's gotten out of my control and the more I try to reign it in the harder it gets." A bitter swallow grates against his throat as Nitrim turns his medically uneven eyes to hers. "I tried to tell him no. I told him no four, maybe five times, he pushed the dropper into my hands. He put it in my hands Cyrielle."

Shoulders sagging, unable to hide his shame, Nitrim turns his eyes to a dark shadow in the corner and bitterly shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

The belt of the skirt does bridge the distance between itself and her bodice, but at the right angles, the flesh beneath is revealed. The apology brings a wince and Cyrielle halts in shifting to his pants. Instead, the woman slides in closer on the bed and leans in to wrap her arms around his shoulders and pull him in towards her.

"It's okay," she murmurs and in her tone… it's the truth. It's not simply a platitude. It's an absolution. "I would likely fall quicker were someone to hand me AMP right now. I… it'd be a lie to say I'm not disappointed, but I don't fault you."
A pause, then, as she leans back somewhat, lifting a hand to brush fingers through his hair. To study the damage to his face better. "The blame is on his shoulders and I find myself damn glad I didn't take him up on his request for a date, even if I was just going to fuck with him anyway."

"Well, I'm disappointed in myself." Nitrim replies grimly, tucking a pair of fingers in the waist of her skirt to press against her skin; his other hand reaching for her cheek to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. "You almost got me to do AMP that night at the club, but…I'm learning the only thing I can do anymore is when someone breaks it out I have to leave. Not go to the other side of the room, but leave. I cannot afford to even know. It was months between the last time and when Reena died. Months. I was doing so well."

Leaning in past the observant screen of her eyes, Nitrim helps himself to a press of his lips to the corner of her mouth. At first, the kiss is a quick, slight thing, but he leans into it as a means to heal both of their souls. "I love you, Cyrielle." He pulls back, her face returning to focus in his vision, as best as it can. "This self-examination is because I'm starting to love myself, too. It's part of the healing."

"I'm glad you resisted," Cyrielle murmurs, tilting her head in for a soft, quick nuzzle in the wake of the kiss. "I still miss it sometimes, but I shouldn't… need it anymore. It was a way to manage the pain in my leg for the longest time, but now…" She has a new leg.

The hand that had brushed through his hair shifts, carefully cupping his cheek. There's a soft smile from the woman and she leans in to press a soft kiss to the Khourni lordling's forehead. "You should love yourself. You're brilliant, capable, funny…" She leans back, letting her Awakened state recede as she casts a look over him. "and dead sexy."

Rising from the bed, she steps away and braces herself against the wall. "I'm going to start the bath. This room may not have much, but it has one of those fantastic, large tubs. Let's get you washed up, mm?"

Quieting, Nitrim's mossy, green eyes follow the sway of her hips on her way to the wall, and as he looks up he finds her eyes watching him…watching her. Her compliments are all things he knows that he appreciates, but under the heavy weight of shame, they're things that can only be filed away for later enjoyment. For now, there's just her and their time together. Still, his eyes travel to her base shoulders and the new pendant she wears that meets in a leather-corded 'V' at the swell of her breast. His blood.

Straining under the weight of his sore arms, Nitrim rises from the bed, and the dim lighting catches all of his scars in a series of recessed creases that line his skin. Against the firm muscle and young, rebellious tattoo work, a moment flashes where he simply looks tired in a way he should not. He's run himself very hard, for many years.

"Please tell me this involves you getting into the tub with me," Nitrim speaks, moving to stand before her and tug and the thick, wide tongue of the belt of her skirt. "And if you say it sweetly, I promise I'll stop this wounded dog language and replace it with some kind of glow."

She wears it easily; like it belongs. His blood, nestled near her own heart. Cyrielle watches him rise, concern in her gaze. Lips remain tugged slightly downward. She couldn't dissemble if she tried, her worry too great. Lips part, but the offer to assist dies on her tongue. Her leg is too unsteady.

So Cyrielle grasps at wall and counter, edging her way from his tugging fingers. Teasing, perhaps: old habits die hard. The bathroom does, indeed, have a large tub. Offering what luxury they can, perhaps, in the limited space of the station.

As the water is adjusted to a temperature just shy of 'unbearable,' Cyrielle lifts her hands to where the braid is secured on her head. "Of course I'll be joining you," she finally offers, unable to contain something of a smirk. It does start to shatter the mask of worry.

A smile of understanding finds its way to Nitrim's lips. Catching that all-familiar look in her eye as she pulls away, the young man understands that she hasn't spurned his advances, only delayed them. Though it's necessary to turn his head and watch her walk; to see where she's going.

"Your hair looks great, you know." Nitrim comments, stepping out of the gloom of the main room and into the light of the bathroom. An old habit as well, his arms rise to grip the moulding over the door and use it to lean forwards with propped elbows. He looms, watching her hair fall down over her shoulders as she works her braid. "You look great tonight, I'm sorry I missed seeing you out on Volkan," He pauses. "Red. Look at you, being seen where my father can know…"

Allowing the train of thought to peter off into nothing, Nitrim's arms fall to his belt, tugging the tongue free of the buckle to hang before the button of his black trousers. Next, he yanks the sheath of his personal dagger, setting it beside the tub. "Has your father noticed my red on you, yet?"

In the absence of AMP, Nitrim has become Cyrielle's new drug. She couldn't resist him if she tried. It's a burning, burrowing thing- her need for him. "Cat helped me with it," she says of the hair, glancing over her shoulder towards him. "She invited me out to the Warehouse." The mention of his father draws a considering expression. "Mmm, perhaps it will help. Seeing me adapting to your ways as much as you have to mine."

A wry twist of lips once her hair is down in a tangled mass about her shoulders. "If he even cares."

Pivoting on her good leg, Cyrielle watches Nitrim undress. There's a hunger in her eyes; one she can't suppress. Turning, the woman wordlessly presents her back to Nitrim; the zipper for the bodice is there. "I've not seen my father since you gifted it to me."

"I can almost see the two of you out together, drawing all of that attention." Nitrim replies, eyes on the grace of her bare shoulders as his trousers are collected and set aside. The simple, form-snug boxer-briefs he wears beneath are made simple work of as well, leaving a shameless view of his backside and the ink that lines his shoulders an open view to the ghosts in the hotel room behind him. "And there's something in the rotten child part of me that loves that you did it in my home. She's a good friend to us, to you, and I like that you go out without me."

Stepping up behind her, Nitrim places his fingertips onto her bare shoulder, brushing the outline of the leather cord from which the pendant hangs. Head lulling to breathe in her perfume and trace the milky perfection of her skin, he laughs a wave of breath down her spine. "Nothing is worse than a lover or a spouse that refuses, ever, to go out on their own, and I know where you want to come home to. That's all that counts."

The tight, rib-pressing bondage of the bodice slacks as his fingers find the zipper, separating the teeth as he pulls down on it. "Was it nice until you heard the news?"

"I left her to some… friends? Coworkers? After a bit. They wanted to dance. I still can't." And perhaps, she's saving the first dance for him. Cyrielle leans back into Nitrim as he steps up behind her, head tilting away from the shoulder his hand is on. A shuddering sigh escapes her. "Home is certainly wherever you are, my love."

She shrugs out of the bodice once the zipper comes free, baring her torso and her own tattoos to the room and the Khournas. "More or less," she offers, turning in his arms to face him. Arms slide around his midsection, one hand sliding to his bare ass. "I ran into the heir of Valta. Smarmy and cocky as ever."

As Cyrielle's body turns, Nitrim's fingertips press to the soft skin of her neck, leaving a trail of impression behind as she faces him. His eyes immediately seek hers; one clear and green, the other a network of unhappy veins and tissue robbed of moisture from the self-induced chemical warfare. Knowing well what he looks like, he flashes her a charming smile and stretches his arms out over her shoulders like a pair of wings, drawing her breast to crush against his with a subtle laugh.

"Kieran Valta's an alright guy, at least Reena thought he was, and apparently Lady Brienne does, too if the rumors are accurate." Nitrim leans in, cheek brushing hers until their ears meet and his eyes can stare down the sultry curve of her naked back. "But I think most women see men behaving the way they want to be seen, and we're all predatory creatures to some degree." His kiss to her shoulder is featherlight. "Did I come across as arrogant when we met?"

There's a laugh at the smile as she's pulled in and Cyrielle holds tight to Nitrim, savoring that press. She is, however, mindful of where bruising has begun to show. A kiss is placed to his shoulder and she exhales across the bare skin.

"He's a Valta, though. I'm required to dislike him, I believe." She's grinning nonetheless, pushing away from Nitrim and extracting herself from him. She lowers herself to sit on the edge of the tub, leaning over to start removing her boots. The skirt, clearly, will be left for last.

"Mmm… Perhaps, to a degree. Had we met at a club or a party, I'm sure you would have been nigh unbearable. You almost were at the rave."

"Plenty of us male nobles all do the same thing," Pressing his hands to the basin behind him, he leans with the front of his body in full view for the woman. Tattoos, scars, and tight abdominal muscles pepper his torso, pressed outward by the angle of his lean. "Look at me, very shining, a NOBLE what luck for you. I am a knight. I have very impressive pedigree." Nitrim teases, running through the typical attitudes. "I wanted to show people that I was something interesting, rather than another rich man's son. In my defense, it is who I am, the Hermeticism and the strange, spiritual things I believe in. At least I've got the brass to tell no lies while telling maybe a few minor, minor exaggerations at the time."

Head tilting, his eyes travel down her smooth, somewhat bared legs to watch her work at her boots. The white shell of the cybernetic leg is taken in, prompting a shake of his head. "I know this may seem weird, but I find the sudden contrast sexy." He nods towards her leg. "You're such a beautiful girl, and like me, there's some stories just by looking at you worth passing down."

"And yet you are a rich man's son," Cyrielle offers with a soft laugh, glancing up at him. The overt pose and words are enough to off-set the otherwise alluring form before her and she can't help but grin broader. "Perhaps I was too caught up in myself, but when we first met, you were actually quite non-threatening."

A pause, thoughtful, as she tosses a boot aside. "Or perhaps so insistent on getting into my personal space that I subconsciously marked you as desperate."

It's all in jest, for the demeanor overall and once both legs are bare, she stretches out the right for inspection. Dark eyes dart up to regard the drake and she blinks. "It is weird and… I doubt I'll ever understand it. I'm glad you're not put off by it." She shifts to her feet again, hands moving to the belt for the skirt as she begins to remove the final piece of clothing. For, his groping fingers would have found; she wore nothing beneath. "As for stories… I've none of real interest. Certainly not the stuff to be passed down."

"Well, you can tell your children someday about how desperate their father was to be yours," Nitrim retorts with a tilt of his lightly-beaten face. She's undressing for him, and so without shame he watches as her skirt falls to the floor, and his eyes scrape over her skin like a sharp razor, leaving nothing untouched on their way back up. "And all society aside, love, we've fought some hard battles and have kept our heads above water so far. I'm sure there's pleny to be proud of in the future."

Unable to bear it a second longer, Nitrim crosses the distance between them and places her hand to her unrestricted hipbone. Fingers curling, they glide around to her backside as he steps in close, offering her hand. "You first."

"Oh come now," Cyrielle says, grinning as she accepts the hand and carefully climbs into the near-filled tub. "You were still betrothed when we met. You can't have been desperate for me." She gets settled in, exhaling a long sigh as eyes fall closed. Her right leg still aches so and the heat of the water is glorious.

"Really, considering how I approached you so soon after the betrothal was broken… I think the tale should be that I was the desperate one." She opens an eye, watching the drake. "But damn if I was going to risk you getting away from me."

"Okay, to be really fair?" Nitrim holds her hand as he slides in after her. Gentle with the water and that near-scalding temperature, he settles in against the back of the tub and offers his lap to her in a cheap attempt to draw her near. "No, I was not desperate for you when we first met. Things were…hell…with Soleil. I was in my place where I was quiet; trying to figure myself out but I could tell by the way you and some others looked at me that I wasn't dead yet."

A soft trickle of water pools into his hand, which he presses over his sore cheek and up through his hair to get it wet. "But the betrothal, the breaking of it, was announced weeks after Soleil and I had stopped speaking. I didn't expect her to do what she did, but I heard rumors that she'd tried moving on as well. It was the pictures, though, sharing our cameras? Weeks of getting a shot of just your eyes looking at me through the lens?" His head shakes from side to side, eyes unfocusing with the memory. "I never thought I'd know someone so deeply before I even felt as if she knew who I was. I had to have you, too. I didn't want to get away at all."

"You most assuredly weren't dead," Cyrielle says with a soft chuckle, shifting through the waters to join him. There's a soft thrum from beneath the tub; the cyclers working to keep the water at the chosen temperature. She settles into his lap, letting shoulders fall against his chest. "Perhaps, in a sense, we found one another at just the right time. I, released back to the modern world and not knowing what I was meant for… You, struggling through the conspiracy and a broken relationship."

She starts to work through the tangles of her hair, twisting slightly in his lap so as to be at more of an angle. The work on hair halts as she lifts fingers to lightly touch at his cheek. Hair is forgotten entirely as the Hollolas leans in, bringing her mouth to his. The first kiss is brief, broken only by words spoken so close, her lips still brush over the drake's. "I am so madly in love with you." And then it's a firmer, more passionate meeting.

It's a small, quiet room, in a section of the ring not oft frequented by the upper echelons of society and thus, fewer eyes. It's a night of respite shared together. A blending of passion and healing beyond skin-deep. When the day arrives and clothing is dry, they part their separate ways in that slinking into the crowd.

Beacon may wonder at the absence of its daughter for the night, but Cat will provide an alibi should any search into the story of being out clubbing with a friend.

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