— RUINATION

He gazes down at her, pleased she has decided to stand. His height will be an advantage, as it often is. And from this angle, he can truly take her in, admire her lithe form and the way her curves are accentuated as she looks up at him. 

Estarossa can feel the shifting of her magic, held close against her skin. In response he lets a bit of his own out. Invisible tendrils lick against her neck, her wrist, her hip. He feels a tightening inside at this little touch, and allows himself just a moment to wonder what covering her body would feel like.

He takes one last graze along her jaw, his power barely dusting her skin. “I’ve come for myself, of course,” he answers.

          Oh, he’s bold, his magic as intimate as a lover’s caress, as though she is something for his amusement and pleasure. Refusing to cower, she waits patiently until he withdraws, letting her face fall into an expression of polite interest. If he expects something other than basic courtesy, he will have to work for it. 

          “I’m afraid there is little to offer for a warrior. We do not participate in petty skirmishes, and whatever grievances the other Clans might have with each other are their own to sort out.”

Slowly Estarossa steps back, straightening up to take another look. She is nothing what he had expected: some mixture of magician and warrior, with dark robes and painted eyes, wild hair and an air of mystery. But this woman is young, and confident, and her easy smile from earlier now seems more secretive than friendly.

                     “My apologies, my lady,” he murmurs. “I did not expect a creature                                            of such beauty.”

He tilts his head to the side, folding his arms to flex his arms a bit. This will make things easier in the end: he knows exactly how to use his charms.

                    “You are wrong, however. I was not sent by the king. I am here of                                    my own accord.” 

Estarossa allows the corners of his mouth to curl up, his emotions under tight control. “And I happen to know a great deal about your clan.”

          “Is that so?”

          She cocks her head to the side, considering his words. Flattery is not new to her; almost all who pass through her halls attempt to beguile her with emptily pretty words out of some misguided belief that doing so will have her dancing on their strings. Unable to decide if he is one of those or simply someone who sees no point in not speaking what is on his mind, Moth decides to disregard his compliments, focusing instead on the revelation that he is not an envoy.

          Standing, she lets her body graze his. Gods above, he’s tall — she barely reaches his shoulder, and that’s being generous — and the heat radiating from him soothes the ever-present chill of her own magic, making it hard to resist the urge to relax completely. 

“Your city?” 

At that Estarossa throws back his head and laughs, the sound echoing through the hall. This witch clan is full of surprises, and so very unlike the demon realm. He is going to have fun here.

The demon walks closer, chuckling to himself, until he stands before her. Then he leans over, grasping the arms of the chair with both hands, caging her with his body and pulling his face a few inches from hers. Slowly his eyes drag down her face, her neck, her body, then back up, allowing his amusement and desire to be plainly known.

“I’m rather confused,” he murmurs, his gaze returning to hers. “I’m looking for the queen, not some common girl playacting the role. Are you so insolent to sit in her place and answer for her? Or is the queen so weak she would allow such boldness?”

          “Do I really look like a commoner?” Moth glances down at her clothes, still muddy from her early trek into the forest, then shrugs. “Well, no matter. You’ve made three assumptions about me, so it’s only fair that I do the same to you.”

          She props her chin in her hand, returning his scrutiny with a fair bit of her own. He’s not unattractive — quite the opposite, handsome enough for it to nearly be unfair — and she lets her gaze idle on the broad expanse of his shoulders and the tantalizing glimpse of his chest for longer than is appropriate. She wouldn’t say no to having him warm her bed for a night or three, but, as he said, business first.

          “First,” she drawls, “you are related to the king, presumably by blood. That is the only excuse I can find for your arrogance. Second, he has sent you here on some errand, presumably about an alliance of some sort. Third,” here she grins sharply, “you have absolutely no knowledge about my Clan.”

Estarossa grins. The girl is beautiful, dark hair and pale skin, lovely curves and delicate features. Immediately his imagination is assaulted with all that she could offer to him. The Commandment of Love, she would find, is a fitting description.

But first, business. “I’m very sorry, pretty thing,” he answers, turning on the charm. 

Slowly he approaches the throne, a smile dancing on his lips. It would be so easy to just snatch her up, and again the temptation is strong. He wonders what she would taste like, what her soul would taste like…  He licks his lips just looking at her; she could be quite nice for a little snack later. 

“As delightful as you seem,” says Estarossa, “I will speak to the queen, and the queen alone.” 

He drops his chin as his brows draw upwards. “Although I’d be happy to speak with you once my business is completed.”

          She laughs at that, melodious and cheerful; it’s the first time someone has been so liberal with her in what feels like eons, and she isn’t prideful enough to deny that his compliment, suggestive as it may be, pleases her. Still giggling, Moth leans back in the throne, crossing her legs daintily, and claps her hands once.

          “Very well,” she answers pleasantly, “the rest of you are dismissed. We’ll continue our discussion in the morning.”

          The courtiers grumble, but do as they are told. Once the room is empty, she takes a few moments to simply observe her guest, taking in the pale hair and dark eyes and mark swirling on his temple. One of the king’s ilk, then, she muses, a brother, maybe, as their marks are the same. Then she lifts her chin, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

@crowsinned

Estarossa enters Cailleach with a confident stride, the boredom set on his face as he takes in the very ordinary busyness of the castle grounds. People move about with purpose, ignoring him for the most part, except for those who get too close and instinctively shrink away from his tightly held demon magic. A part of him wishes to let his powers out, perhaps cause a panic among the witches. 

It would be entertaining, but certainly counterproductive to the reason                for this visit.                              It would also risk the wrath of his elder brother, a problem he                       is in no mood for today.

He heads through the open grounds just beyond the outer wall—what fools, to not have guards at every station—until he finds two standing at the door to the castle proper. “I am here for the new witch queen,” he announces, allowing a bit of his dark magic to slip out, just to show he is serious.

“The queen does not take visits from unannounced or uninvited guests,” one argues, shuddering as a talon of power snaps towards him. “Especially one of the demon clan.”

“Is that so?” Estarossa chuckles. He could snap both their necks in an instant; do they really suppose their idiotic bravery would shield them? Yet he chooses mercy, simply saying, “If you don’t mind, I’ll ask her myself.”

He ignores their further protests, pushing past them easily with his large frame. Estarossa enters the castle and proceeds straight ahead towards the open hall that serves as the throne room. He can see a figure sitting on a chair, but cannot make out who through the advisors that crowd around. 

“Greetings!” Estarossa calls, and all talking ceases. “I’m here to meet Queen Alessa. Has anyone seen her?”

          A moment of silence follows the inquiry, and Moth hides her smile behind her hand as she watches courtiers and nobles alike shrink away; another festival is to be held, and she has grown tired of the incessant demand for her attention, the petty, childlike squabbling of her court. And this one is brazen, sweeping into her halls as though he owns them, his only his power keeping his arrogance from seeming foolish.           “Well met,” she greets softly. “If you have business with the queen, then you may speak with me.”           One of the more irritating nobles opens his mouth as if to contradict her, and she levels a cool stare in his direction. If the demon is in such need of an audience with her, then he will have to convince her of it. Too many small lords have come lately, demanding her allegiance or her aid. If he proves to be another, then she will send him on his way, perhaps a few inches shorter. If, however, he has a better reason for being in her home, she may grant whatever boon it is he’s seeking.

All this rain lately has driven her cabin fever into an overbearing mode and Clary finds herself donning on her leather jacket as she walks outside the Institute; thunder booming overhead as the rain hits her covered shoulders. She starts walking, head down as the rain pelts her and she maneuvers in between the few stragglers on the sidewalks that decided to venture out into the night; completely oblivious to the redhead weaving in between them. She arrives at her destination before she even realizes where she had been heading and a smile touches the corners of her lips slightly as she rummages in her pocket for the single key that she carries with her constantly, the locking mechanism giving way to her entrance as she opens the door.

There’s a welcoming warmth that hits her frame as she shuts the door behind her and she takes a deep breath, the familiar scent of cinnamon hitting her senses as she sheds her jacket; fingers brushing through her now damp hair in an attempt to make it somewhat presentable. Her boots click against the hardwood floors of the apartment and she rounds the corner with a smile already in place for the familiar horned figure seated in the parlor. Alessa. The name is bright in her head as the other’s voice reaches her ears and Clary smiles, immediately taking up residence in the spot on the couch closest to the warlock.

“Oh, you know me; restless as always. And the rain doesn’t make being inside with nothing to do any more tolerable.” Fondness is bright in the emerald eyes that stare at Alessa and Clary smiles once more, relaxation settling into her limbs as she eyes the book on the table beside the older woman. “And what about you; what spells are you cooking up or researching during this storm?”

          were it anyone else, she would have hidden the book, denied its existence. there is only one tome denied to downworlders such as herself — and how she would love to read it, only once — yet most are wary enough of warlocks to treat any spell as though it is dangerous. but this is clarissa, who she has known since her first visit to new york as a child, her friend and confidante. smiling, she slides the book over, careful, as always, not to knock the other with her horns.

          that done, she curls up in her seat, leaning over to rest her head on clarissa’s thigh. there is no need to hide, to cover up that which makes her different from the rest. no matter what others might think ( there is a certain shadowhunter whom she tolerates strictly for her friend ) clarissa has always treated her fairly, and part of her believes that perhaps she views her horns as interesting rather than terrifying. a lazy wave of her hand has the tome opening to the page she was on, which depicts a rather interesting interpretation of a werewolf.

          rain. it is a constant presence in the city that never sleeps, looming over the horizon even when it is not falling; there is a permanent dampness to the air, puddles that never seem to go away. perfect weather, one might say, for staying indoors and perusing a newly acquired tome of spells that may be viable or that may result in yet another week of sulfur in the air. slender fingers flip the well-worn pages, pausing when the sound of a key in the lock reaches vaguely pointed ears.

          there is only one person who can come and go from her home as they please, and she shuts the book and sets it to the side, moving to make room on her couch for her guest. the familiar feel of a nephilim caresses the edge of her awareness, like a light seen from the corner of her eye, and it isn’t long before a shock of red hair enters her field of vision (like fire, like home, like safety), attached to the one shadowhunter whom she actually cares for.

She scowls. Her ‘love life’, or whatever part of it people imagine exists, isn’t just out there for discussion.

     “Talking from the ass, it’s not your business.”

   Shorthand for: go away before I kill you.

         she wants to laugh. maybe that’ s why a soft grin tugs the corners of her mouth upwards, why she ignores the obvious threat.

                  ❝ ‘ talking from the ass,’ as you said,                   whatever affects the ten commandments                   affects me. So, yes, it is my business.❞

               there is something melancholic about her smile — the kinship she feels for the other a pleasant sensation. enemies cannot be cordial, or so they say, but are the closest friends not the ones with whom you have crossed blades?