higher demand

"I like nature." Cain nodded. Cliche for a wolf maybe, but he had an affinity for the wilderness that was just in his blood, part of his very being. It was inescapable, so he wouldn't mind having his walls lined with art of forests, plants or animals.

When she mentioned painting the pack, Cain's eyes lit up a little. "The pack? Now there's an idea. Don't think you'd get 'em all to pose for a painting, but a scene of wolves, I'd like that. Could even tell you want a few look like, so you can paint 'em in. I think they'd like spottin' each other in a painting." The alpha smiled.

Aspen's smile doesn't fade - only seems to grow that much larger. She'll blame it on the sugar, later. "Yeah, that'd be real fun to do I think. You could get me.. I dunno, maybe a list and stuff? I'd really like that. Try and make you guys look nice."

Down here, where saltwater and freshwater mingle in an ebb and flow of tidal whirl, Vaine has lived out the last three years quietly. The walls that carve out this great cylinder of void in the earth are treacherous - sheer past a point that simply climbing out isn't often an option for the unprepared. Vaine has sustained herself on the exact sort of unfortunate whose lungs she now fills with breath.

She leaves her, webbed hands dragging a shape in the water, a bubble of air wrapping itself around the pitiable thing's features, keeping the drowning away before Vaine slithers away into the murk; the girl can choose her seat for the moment.

Her pursuers, up above the surface, bicker and moan as they descend, one more bravely than his other, louder, bossier friend. This nervous fellow's foot slips on the rock, dripping with the rainwater and ocean spray that so often slicks this side of this corkscrew cavern, and falls, past his hapless friend, and a sick shout of a bone fills the echo chamber with its crack and his anguished screams and baleful curses follow.

His friend, spurred by the cursing of his fellow, hurries the rest of the way down, slipping on the rocks as he rushes, but as he tends the other bandit's broken leg where it soaks in salty water, he spots them, two lights in the black of the pool.

When Vaine strikes, it's like a whipcrack, a horrible tail's sharp fin lashing open a throat and sending him face first and choking into the water, red ribbons oozing from his torn throat, his gear pulling him down to rest with the rest of the dreg and treasures that litter the floor of this cave. The shouts of his friend die similarly as he's dragged into the water, screams rendered little more than burbling, quiet bubbles. The pool will brine then, and soon she'll pick their bones clean.

The bright lights of her eyes twist in the depths, then, searching for the girl. When she finds her, Vaine is upon her quickly, pulling her up and onto the edge of the pool; there is not much space for comfort though, and so the landing is likely rough. Vaine, for her part, recedes away, out of the shaft of light that spotlights from the cave's entrance high above, staring from the dark water. Even voracious, she cannot eat three, but she is struck curious now. "Who's this, sitting in my home, bringing me food?" It's a whispered question, made clanging by the echo.

And then she's thrown up out of the water. It bruises her thighs and back when she lands and she exclaims, short and choked, while she tries to scramble into something of a sitting position - or some way she can get away quickly.

The darkened space doesn't provide much comfort, even though the curses and shouting voices of the men are gone now. She can't see the woman who saved her, and she's not certain she wants to. The eyes just above the water makes her stomach twist and turn into fear.

Among the many paintings that could be found in the Galerie de Désir, one of them had a peculiar way of drawing the eye, birthing rumors with every glance.

A moonlit balcony stretched across the canvas, silver light spilling over marble balustrades and through the open glass doors behind them. Intricate shapes of dark stone and cold iron adorned every surface. Beyond lay a lavish chamber frozen in another century: a neatly made bed with an ebony wood frame, a writing desk littered with yellowed papers, shelves crowded with dripping candles that had been burning endlessly and books whose titles had long since faded from memory.

And standing at the center of it all was the man himself. Nestor. Or so the small plaque beneath the gilded frame claimed.

Dressed in dark brocades and impossibly composed, he leaned against the balcony railing as though he had been standing there for years. His expression carried the sort of quiet melancholy that artists loved to immortalize, the kind that made strangers wonder what tragedy lurked behind a handsome face. Most visitors passed by after a glance; some lingered. The latter were rewarded.

At first, it was easy to dismiss it as a trick of light: a subtle shift of posture, the slightest tilt of his head. Then, a slow blink and the rise and fall of his chest as he took an empty breath.

Nestor’s gaze settled upon whoever stood before the painting, and for a moment, neither moved. The corner of his mouth curved upward, something close to a smile that invited conversation. Or perhaps temptation.

Interestingly enough, this night, she comes by for a chat.

She perches on a nearby stool, crossing one leg over the other, and allowing herself to get comfortable. The wolf and the faux-sister will wander upon this painting at some point, she supposes. Best to make conversation just in case the worst scenario comes to pass. Vorace would hate for his own things to be destroyed in a mongrel's tantrum.

"No need to be so coy, Nestor. We're friends here."

Her eyes fall to her hands, Aria's fingers grazing over her hand, turning it over and doing the same thing again - the soft touch makes a similar stroke of sensation roll down her spine - it's a sort of sentimental touch that she hasn't known in years. It finds its way into her shoulders next, and she looks up to Aria again.

She should resent being lectured this way, but there is something in her stare and her touch that seems to chase the resentment out, or dull it, or something.

A question rises immediately, but any attempt to ask it earns her patronizing hushes that simply bow her head and bed down her inquiries. When curtains fall, at first she moves to leave, before Aria keeps hold of her. The question Aria asks, instead of resentment, fills her with a sort of shame, and she finds herself looking at their hands laced together again. "I don't know how to not be..."

One hand lifts and brushes some of Autumn's hair back, tucking it behind her ear, and traces a thumb along the shell of her ear as she does so. "If you don't know how to not be tense, then allow me to help you relax." Her smile becomes mischievous. Her hands move once more to her shoulders, pressing thumbs into the knots on her shoulders.

The girl stares into her eyes, and Autumn stares right back - her struggles are dying - her strength bolstered by the curse running through her veins overpowering anything her opponent could really hope to muster.

She scans her, trying to figure out where to stick the knife that will take her down, but not out - it's a rare moment of giving a shit - but the hesitation is interrupted when the girl plants a kiss on her lips.

Autumn stares at her after pushing her off. "What the fu-"

Kicking Autumn away from her she collapses down onto her knees, chest heaving and hands covered in wolf's blood. Whispering softly, she offers something of an apology: "I'm sorry - I'll make it up to you."

The crowd roars around them. At least she's made up for the first round's mishaps, even as her arms hang limp at her sides - nose already swelling purple, and blood trickling down her lips.

She was supposed to be someone else, that much was clear to her when a woman had hugged her and called her by a different name. Summer. Ever since she'd woken up with the witch, Oberyn, it felt as if Avery was learning everything all over again. How to speak, how to move limbs in her body, how to swallow, even. Everything felt so foreign that when she realized how much the person -- was Autumn her name? -- clearly loved the body she was in, Avery had chosen to allow her to take the lead. She'd pretend to be someone else, if it meant she could better orient herself to the world she was brought back into.

And fuck, had the world changed.

No longer was the sky shades of grey, but bright blue and orange at night. The air was easier to pull into her lungs. And every time Avery saw food or water, she immediately wanted to grab it for herself. Echoes of her old life poured into this one; dangerous species that still walked among them and The Haven. A place that had been one of neutral standing, even one hundred and thirty years ago. Except now, it looked different.

And it was much louder.

The moment Autumn had brought them into the Slaughter Ring -- a place that had not been there when Avery had previously lived, Avery had secluded herself into the farthest corner from the Ring. Away from as many people as she could. Away from the apparent slaughtering of people.

The very name of the business had caused Avery's stomach to twist. Someone had thought that it was a good idea to put a place, in a neutral and safe territory, that pushed and promoted fights that killed people.

Avery let out a shaky breath as she ran her hands over her face. Get through today. Just get through today. But then what? What was her plan? What was she supposed to do, now that she had been brought back to the world of the living?

Her eyes lifted, just to peak towards the Ring, and then snagged on a familiar face. The person she'd asked Oberyn about. The Demon that had taken her from her first life. Aria. When she'd first woken up, that was the only person Avery had wanted to see. Now? Now she wanted to be no where near the Demon. And yet, she had no choice in the matter.

The glass she offers 'Summer' is simply water. There is no need to ply her with alcohol and no need to lie to her. After all, she's experienced what comes after a deal is made and made good on.

Her own drink is brought to her lips as she studies the way this woman carries Summer's body around. The fear, the skittish nature of her, the distaste for the fights. There are many other things on her min - of course - but this little nugget of entertainment calls to her.

"You know the truth, though. Is this not enjoyable for you?"

The girl sinks low, and pulls out a knife. It brings Autumn's hand to her waist, where her athame is gone. Her body snaps its angles hard as she strafes opposite the other girl when she moves and her firsts raise, their feet tracing a circle in the sand. Autumn's feet fail to keep their footing solid and whether it's observation or a lucky guess, the servo-girl sees it. Autumn lifts her leg, trying to move away from the attack, but the effort fails, and she falls to her knee before her back hits the ground.

When the knife goes into her shoulder, there's more a growl than a yelp, and she makes no bones about staring directly into Aspen's eyes. She pushes up, into the knife, sucking it into her shoulder to the handguard, and uses that to headbutt her in the face before scrambling to her feet. Foolishly, she tears the knife free, letting it hang sorely at her side as she backs Aspen towards a corner - when the girl fails to keep herself out of it, Autumn lunges after tossing the blade to her other hand, pinning Aspen to the wall and puting the girl's knife to her throat.

She owes her, for the gas station. For the food. There's no surrender here now. But she's tired, running on rapidly fading adrenaline as the soreness of sling-shotting between shapes builds into every inch of her.

"Give up and I'll make it shallow." She spits it out, quiet but deathly serious. "But I'll kill you if I gotta."

Fully panicked as she's pinned against a corner - her own knife pressed against her throat - she can't think of any way out of it. If she tries to wrestle it away from her, Autumn can overpower her. If she tries to kick at her legs again, it probably won't do much. Human versus wolf. In all cases, the wolf wins. A spark of an idea starts in her mind. What does she have that Autumn doesn't? Not.. much.

But, maybe. Maybe she can surprise her.

Pushing against the knife, she kisses her and tries to ignore the blossom of pain in her face from the broken nose.

Slaughter Ring Slasher: Round 2 Steppenwolf vs. Wayfarer; @morsreliqua

The thing that gets shoved back onto the sands is a a half-formed creature, mostly beast at first, but it's jerking, snarling form contorts as the borrowed rage from it's owner ebbs out after the bout with the manic fae.

It's with confusion and frustration that rational thought ebbs back in, alongside a murky understanding of what's happening here. Autumn's fur falls in wiry mats from her skin. Teeth sink into her jaws. Bones shed and snap and burn away layer after layer inside her, shrinking her down and down until, relieved of monstrous nature, she's practically panting on the sand, skin still stained with fae blood, hair near a foot longer, the story of her life these past however many years a roadmap of scars on her body as somebody throws the shreds of her pants into the ring after her as her name is called out to the uproarious spectators.

The heat of her body wafts faint steam from her shoulders as she cools into a painful fatigue from the turn back, and its almost a struggle as she pulls the breeches on, tying them with the ratty drawstring as she turns to face her opponent. There's a spark of memory - the girl that haunts the gas station - she'd seen her in the same ratty place as the Fae. Her bones pop as she takes a first, exhausted step forward.

Autumn spits blood from her mouth onto the sand, turning, more fully to face Aspen. The mostly naked, disheveled remnants of the turn cut a strange silhouette as she crosses the ring. The girl's heart's pounding, she reeks of fear. Autumn almost feels guilty as she comes wordlessly to a stop a few paces from Aspen.

The girl is pushed into the ring and immediately, Aspen recognizes her. Her lips twist into a frown, but her half-transformed state can give her a bit of an advantage. Maybe she's sore. Out of sorts. She doesn't say a word, but drops down into a crouch.

She looks like she is about to be sick. The Sight, (un)helpfully, confirms it: a small green future in which she puts last night's dinner on the boards in front of a paying crowd. Ah, Callum thinks. No. Not that. Not now. Not on these boards, which someone has to mop.

"Oh, hey," he takes a step toward her, hands out. "What? Hey. How about we just breathe for a moment, huh?"

Futures flicker as he does this, the sight unhelpfully showing him a flipbook: a few where she does not throw up, considerably more where she does. He folds them down as fast as they arrive, the kind of triage a man does when he is rapidly running out of free hands. Callum's juggling futures, while giving an unexpected pep talk at an unexpected time. He powers through.

"No, you didn't fuck up, you were doing great. I wasn't expecting that. I didn't see it coming." He says it earnestly, even though there is the potential for it to be a little tongue in cheek - a thing he can clarify later, if there is a later. Which, coin toss. "You're not a fuck up."

He keeps his hands open, where she can see them, the way he was once taught to approach skittish horses. The lesson is, apparently, transferrable. He gestures toward the knife, still buried in the post behind him.

"Look - how about you try again? That was great."

Around them, the crowd is doing what crowds do when a fight pauses without their permission, which is to say: getting bored, getting creative. Someone behind him hollers something Callum elects not to translate. Someone else is already wagering on the vomit. He keeps his eyes on her.

It takes a second of her breathing, and she's also confused by how his gentle tone is helping her, despite her best efforts to try to not become weighed down by the idea that if she wins this, she's facing werewolves, demon, merfolk. The green doesn't come, but the nausea of anxiety doesn't fade either. The crowd has started to jeer, and if one of them doesn't act soon - they're both probably dead.

She glances to the knife. She stands up straight. She circles him, and moves closer to the post to grab her knife. It's a little thing, but a thing that she cherishes - it's helped her get through tough times out in the wastes and the fields. It'll help her get through this.

Her hand wraps around the handle and it takes her two tries to yank it out of the post, and she nods at him. "I'll.. I'll try again." It almost feels like they're starting the fight over, and this time she doesn't throw it or charge at him. "Thanks." She murmurs, and truly means it. Maybe, after this, she'll have to find him and actually have a conversation.

The knife comes zinging at him; that gets a sidestep, the blade burying itself in the post behind him with a small private thunk the crowd is too loud to notice. He turns his head back toward her. He has the next five seconds laid out in front of him the way a chessboard is laid out before a player. The play says: she will hesitate, you will close the distance, this will be over before either of you has to think about it.

She barrels.

This is what the Sight sometimes gets wrong. Probability lives in the gap between "fear" and "the thing fear makes you do," and Callum's gift has never been especially good at people who are too afraid to do the smart thing. Aspen (he registers the name a half-second late) comes at him with unteachable, unstrategic momentum.

He could still take her. He has, in the past, taken people exactly like her. But there is a habit twenty years old in his body, and the habit chooses for him before his thinking does. The shift of his weight is half a beat late. His guard drops an inch lower than it should. The sight unfolds a future in which he ducks her clean and ends this, and he folds it shut and lets it fall.

Callum says something and she can't quite make sense of it in the turmoil while she does not take advantage of the position they're in, and instead rolls away from him. She should keep going, should just end it with the knife stuck in the post, but there's a sick taste in the back of her mouth.

The usual anxiety worms its way through her brain, and she lets instinct rule her movements. Years of survival so far have led her to hit quickly and then run as fast as possible. His quiet words register as she's getting to her feet and it makes her stomach turn, the cold shock of reality sinking into her.

The shakes start in her fingertips, and she backs up away from him, shaking her head. Aspen feels herself start to say something, but all that comes up is a heave and a burp that she has to fight down lest last night's dinner come up.

“You have come right on time. An admirable skill.” A deep baritone praised, appearing almost as if out of thin air behind her while she gazed upon the impressive entrance to the Casino which, although open, was at its slowest daylight hours. At this time it did not even need anyone to keep guard outside of the entrance, security lurking only from within, making the place appear eerily abandoned. Appear being the key word there. Inside it was a bustling hubbub of constant activity, contained underneath cavernous walls.  He’d utilized one of the side exits out of the establishment, going out incognito, glamour shrinking his form to an average height, concealing any fae features behind carefully arranged disguise. He didn’t go to the lengths of making himself completely unrecognizable, just molded himself enough to become less memorable, more non-descript, more difficult to guess what he actually was. Pointy ears rounded, emerald eyes muted to black, wings gone. He could be anyone, he could be anything.  And for now, he was a pleasant acquaintance, smiling deceptively politely at his company for the late morning, arms folded behind his back as he sauntered over. “Are we ready for our little outing into the Grove?” He asked, in case she was having second thoughts, giving plenty of room to change her mind if she wanted to.

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm.. super stoked." She offers, and - as if having forgotten - she slings her pack off of her shoulders to rummage around in it. As he approaches her, she pulls out a shoddily made pouch for carrying flowers and berries and the like. She'd spent a few hours on it at a time, and she thinks it's beautiful - and can only hope he likes it, too.

She holds it out to him, her smile brightening a little. "I thought.. maybe you'd like something in exchange for listening to me blab. And all my questions, and stuff. I read somewhere that your people like gifts." She has absolutely no idea if that's true or not, if it was some kids' story or something from a history book.

The touch at her wrist disarms her - it shouldn't, but it does. The tension in her shoulders and chest unwind - the snarl blossoming on her face tempers. Aria pulls her, and she sits, slowly. Her gaze, which had briefly wandered to stare into the dark of Aria's eyes where they catch the stage lighting in a dark twinkling, strays back to the attendant, and then stays on him until Aria's next command.

Autumn takes the cup, bows her head, and then takes the drink, taking an uncouth swallow of it before looking down to the stage - some old story of a fish-girl falling in love with a sea captain.

She's a little resentful at the term mongrel; a sentiment that darkens her features. The fish-woman on the stage is singing, bellowing out sweet notes about destiny and fealty and Autumn's brows tilt in frustrated confusion.

"It is a part of the art form, Autumn. Some art comes in the form of spoken words, sometimes song, and sometimes writing." She shushes any other questions that come until the songs are over, though.

He idly wondered if she was from the Refuge, maybe an old friend of Boone's, Kit's or even Peyton's. A thought that made Cain realise he was seriously collecting Refuge rejects.

Setting the drink down in front of her, Cain gave a nod at her compliment to his bar. "Always lookin' for new art for the walls." Cain agreed, his own eyes dragging over the pieces already hanging and spaces where he could easily put more. "What's your style? Think you could paint somethin' for this place?" He asked casually.

Stunned, she looks down as if it - maybe - isn't real before gulping down twice more. Delicious, and not even a hint of burn as it goes down.

When she looks back up, her smile a little uneven but her shoulders definitely looser, she nods towards the Alpha guy. "I dunno what kinda style you'd call mine, but I draw a lot of.. like, nature stuff? Plants. Some animals.." She trails off and then sits up straight.