–––– macabre.

The waves crash upon the docks, rotten wood holding even as it croaks. Moonlight beckons the sea close. Firelight flickers from the torches, and laughter and shrill screams of delight twists together both, the ruckus from the dockside’s taverns enough to make one’s ears buzz. A cloaked figure stands there, alone, peering at the signs on the stone. Looking curiously and lost. They turn to one side, straining their neck as if hoping to glimpse something, then the other side, where they catch a stranger’s gaze. Adrian stills, then, like prey. Then, their mouth curls into a tight, awkward smile. “Uh. Hello.” She curtsies. The edges of her clothes sweep the thick wet grime of the stone below, and she grimaces. “I—uh. I appear to be lost.” The tight smile widens, looking ridiculous. “Do you think you could help me out? I’ll—” Their dark eyes flicker over the stranger’s frame, lacking any lust, full instead of cautious hope. “I can… give you a reward?”

did the ocean not speak in tongues? with each syllable hidden in the vast waves of the sea’s unwilling ribs. riddled, like the songbird of sailors. she looks at the stranger, cloaked and hidden, like a treasured jewel fallen on the seabed. tilting her head, morgana blinks. " you’re at iuana harbor. " says she as if the answer was written in the sand; easy to read, gentle enough to decipher. and when she looks at the giant in the sky, it was granting each ship direction. yet as the wind trails with a cutting edge, there’s a blast of a firelight not far off; a drunken magi’s spell gone wrong most likely. yet, morgana only glances, eyes flickering downwards to the sweep of grime that hangs on the stranger’s clothes. with the word treasure, her ears perk, and morgana wonders when she’ll stop being predictable.

so she nods once, though tentatively, and lets her footfalls close the gap between them. her boots are heavy on the pavement, with a few charms dangling off her shoelaces. as the waves crash, a slow still of the night followed, as if the ocean water was listening for something to obey. but it never had been a softhearted sovereign; for it was ancient and violent, a mere lover to the pale moon’s dominion. when morgana finally speaks, it’s not unkindly, though it's laced with a refined steel. spine held straight, guard held up. " well, speak then. where do you live? "

dark curls, frizzy from the steam are brushed and tied back and away from his face which he covers with a simple mask made of birch wood and painted chalky white, apart from three dark red dots (with an eerie suggestion of the paint being blood, and the brush being the tip of a blade, though he's always left it up to interpretation) under his left eye in the shape of an upside down triangle.

it is certainly fortunate, to find spike alone, and away from the cattle. it's amusing, to be threatened as soon as he makes himself known. "I'm more than aware of your price." his body is exposed, though there aren't any recognizable scars on his skin, only ones that every other person has in the lower districts. nevertheless, he counts on the steam concealing them, should spike grow curious all of a sudden. with his robes discarded and body submerged in water, he settles on the other end of the pool. "despite my immensely colorful imagination, I haven't thought of the two of us meeting this way and yet... fate is ever bountiful when least expected, is she not?"

the mask comes from the shadow into the light, and it makes spike raise the hook of his brow. as the realisation sets in like seasalt in the steaming water, he measures rook by a hunter’s calibration. the mask itself looked like antique severity, hellenic in mere suggestion, with birchwood painted in white chalk, red dots and a triangle, bearing the cruelty of bloody pale bones, and behind it, the man wearing it only breathes. spike regards it as one might regard a relic. and when his gaze lowers to rook’s chest, it is not hurried, nor is it with any crude suggestion, but as a solitary prey, put and held under a light. spike had often worked under his orders, sought out his sight for labor and gold. he does not blink when his smile comes forth, lips widening to display his teeth.

spike tilts his head, and his shoulders roll backwards only once as the steam of the bathhouse thickened with cedar and rosemary smoke. spike points a finger, wagging it back and forth, dewdrops skittering with each movement. " ah, yes!  you would be. funny, i was just thinking of starting to charge interest. "  a breath. a poke. " usually i tend to reserve generosity for the ones worth looking at. " looking at the mask once more, his mouth is coaxed upward. it’s a gentle tease, scarcely more than a breath that’s given shape as it’s held with no true meaning except for the slight jab. still, he lets it settle where it falls. spike squints and looks at the mask once more. " you however don’t look like you qualify. "

as he drags his palms back into the steaming water, he cups it before dragging it across his face and neck, wetting the skin. the scent of herbs fills his nose. " i’m not in the habit to credit others, but it does seem like she knows how to arrange her meetings. but i’m an easy man, rook, i could always make an exception, " easy, in some pleasures, perhaps. " depending on how this one continues, of course. " 

She supposed that was how it had started. That smile. Her eyes trace the lissome lightness of it, like a wave breaking recklessly against rock. Free. Unburdened. Hungry for the shore. Common salt can be trusted more than gilded words. Lenyra reclines further, cheek resting on her knuckles, and responds idly, “Your assessment is much appreciated.” The smoke continues to curl into the air as a slight summer breeze whispers through the leaves, further stirring the faint fragrance of blossomed lust. The cries climb and reach a crescendo, accompanied by the lyre's strings.

Lenyra blinks slowly, almost feline in the faint light washing over them both, rendering the pair in a play of silver and shadow. “Or you lack subtlety.” Her voice is threaded with faint humor. “You get a certain look in your eyes. It's how I know you'll be more susceptible to a demand.” She clicks her tongue. “You should be more careful with that. Someone, someday, might take liberties.”

He captures her foot. She lets him. Any other would find themselves removed from the premises immediately. There have been others who have tried, of course, thinking her part of the exhibit. Believing her a common daisy to be plucked and discarded by the roadside, the lowborn soil from which she sprang forever tainting her name. But Spike has never taken liberties in that way, nor does he dream of her dowry the way some of these patricians do. This is no threat. This is a test. And so she allows the gesture and returns the gambit in kind. Her foot joins the other in his lap, turning him into her private footstool. “Hm, you presume far too much.” Her voice is all watered silk. “There is no shortage of wasps in these gardens. Always patrolling, seeking prey, pollinating.” Lenyra circles him, probing. “Gathering honey until they're spent.” She sighs. “But you do know what happens when a wasp grows careless around the spider's web...” Her eyes glint, amused. Her foot glides upward, tapping Spike's chest, once, twice. “They get eaten.”

satisfaction cupped within the palms of his soul, a coruscating linger with a newly awakened sweetness. across from her, he felt the splendour of molten gold, of a rich amber and myrtle, draped over him like the richness of a king. but he is a wasp after all, and he’s sliding into the throat of a foxglove, a nest built in the belly of it all. still, spike’s eyes are cerulean and sharp, as if he’s looking through bramble and briar. the seen and the unseen. " putting yourself forward? you do look very tempted. " said with the tilt of his head and the purr of his tongue, and when his words echo around the distant peak of a labored sigh, the wind picks up, the scent of the orange blossoms carried aloft. 

here, he felt it; the ancient calling of his hunter’s soul, where the virtue of honey was no longer a bounty but a victory. not only beheld, but hunted. for beauty too, spike thought, was at times equally as elusive. tracked beneath the cedar and twilight, the woodland nothing more than a sleeping giant, a great beast he patiently would conquer. for he always did. when spike descended into his speech, his voice broke the wind and sank into a languid hush, his tongue indulging in an unhurried rhythm. " i confess, it’s flattering to know i keep your attention. " a breath, trickling like the sap of a heartwood. " so tell me what look am i giving you now? " he brings his face to a more neutral state, with his cheekbones the hills of a meadow, and when his tongue darts out to taste the lingering grape on his lips, it resembles steel on whetstone. " go on, then. you’ve come so far, darling. i’d hate for all your studying to go to waste. "

his smile widens with both her feet in his lap, sprawled out like a cat under the warm sun. so he brings out his calloused palms, and squeezes the bones of her ankles, dragging his hands up her legs before he reaches the straps. he glances at her once before he quietly starts to unlace them. " hm, the careless wasp gets eaten. " with her her sandals slide off, they fall on the painted stones and verdure below. " then so will the curious spider. " the silver glint of the moon deepens, and with it, the wilderness of his perception does as well. " but what a frightening creature you are. i suppose i shall have to be on my guard. " fingers brush upon her skin like paint strokes, far too gentle for a hunter’s grip. " only the real trouble is if you’re weaving a web for me, darling, i do hope you’ve aimed higher than you usually do. "

when spike feels the taps upon his chest, his smile only deepens, dimples playfully digging into his cheeks as he, with a hunter’s precision, slowly takes an ankle as if it always belonged on his lap. his thumb glides in a slow ascent along the arch from heel to sole, a trail of his very own pilgrimage. yet beneath her toes, comes a steadfast hold and a bow of his head, his lips barely brush on her skin, all soft like a dandelion’s bloom in the wind. his eyes glint, not wholly angelic. " but see all i’m getting is that you like to imagine me in very compromising positions. "

"four coppers for the bucket? quite the bargain from a pirate." rook isn't much for the docks. the wind, the endless cries of seagulls, the smell of salt and fish guts alone makes him feel uneasy. he grew up in dark caverns, the smell of the cool mineral air, the moist walls filled with glowing, eerily sweet scented fungi. all this fresh air brought from the seas would have him nauseous, if he stayed any longer than a couple of hours. not to mention the sun coming up over the horizon, shining brighter with each second. he shows none of his unease, though. he simply walks closer, circling around morgana to have his back facing the sun instead.

a purse of her lips, then the hooks of it lifted upwards, then another yank of a fish gut splatter. " it truly was a bargain, wasn’t it? " says she, her arms widening in length as the intestine is pulled like some ghastly rope, as if it was salvaged from a dreadful cursed shore. as her eyes squint in the morning sun, her own gut grows weary, for this was no more than a cautious pace, a polite skirting of the true meaning of his visit. when morgana throws the fish into the bucket, her hands are wet and cold, with cerise remnants stained under each of her nails. the color almost seemed ceremonial, like crushed pomegranates against stone marble. eyes dissect as he walks closer, yet this time, her hands do not halt. this time, she simply follows him. the bucket lays there, filled with dead eyed herrings.

when her legs lengthen themselves to their true height, morgana stands tall, her boots heavy on the plank. she cleans the knife on her linen before pocketing it, and with two strokes, brushes her hands against the cloth around her midriff. her eyes find his again. with each of her movements, her jewelry dangles and her leather creaks. when morgana lifts her head, she brings forth the stone of her jaw, held high with her brows raised slightly as she catches the silver. suddenly, with the argent coin in her palm, she’s unimpressed. " so which of my innate skills do you believe you can afford? " a lilt of a tease, for if she could bargain her price, she’d make sure he’ll trail home far lighter than he came with.

location: a dark back alley in the lower parts of the city

her search had slowed, and the shape of her father’s jaw had become a curve she longed desperately to see. still, the darkness lingered, and each soul poured like an open wound amongst each other, all unbandaged, refusing to clot, like stones covered in old grime, soot stained hands leaving with the press of a fingerprint. as morgana walks, the air is heavy amidst them, and she could taste the warm skin that went sour; a fermented brine underneath the metalworks of iron and decay, all nestled with each other, expelling their notes like old forgotten wine. when she turns to walk away, observing a jar with half dried fig, thrown together half rotting, there’s a familiar sense of a body only a hairsbreadth away. stiffening, her chest rises in a quick taken breath. there, the deep blue eyes of alexei, and her chest deflates.  " offering me treasures one after the other? you must be desperate. " for if a blade and the bronze of a liquor were enough to purchase the sweetness of her company, morgana would have been bought a thousand times over.

after a moment, one of his gloved hands raises nodding towards her. "I'll speak." happily so, in fact. the other person between him and her winces as if caught off guard, not having expected him to be right behind. rook's gaze rests upon them, the raise of an eyebrow barely visible behind the mask, but the amusement behind his eyes evident. "move."

her movements halt. and morgana scoffs, the sound as light as a feather, yet edged with salt and storm as she shakes her head as the slight comes to quell with a deep sigh. how she could have easily parted with her fish, and found herself sweetening the deal with a salted bath after the heat of the day. now, her violet gaze follows the man’s retreating figure, a nervous tick lodged in his spine, and morgana longingly covets for him to retreat. back into her graces, with her hand heavy with coppers and the day’s catch whistling away with her whole bucket emptied.  " you owe me four coppers. "  deadpanned, her brows knitted together in a not yet hardened scowl.  " bad faith to cheat a pirate. "

as the intestine is thrown on the side, its insides gleam from belly to grill; the flesh scarlet, the bones glinting like wet long pearls, and the honey of its muscles. morgana thinks to throw the innards into the ocean water, like a modest sacrifice akin to a ritual, thanking them for the day's bait. but her eyes stay fixated on rook as she digs her fingers deeper into the herring.  " tragic fate for your vanity, then. to narrowingly survive the sunrise like that. "  her jaw juts towards the cloth hiding his face, and her violet depths deepen upon him.  " you’ll function. "  she simply says, for she has no interest in the color of his complexion.

Her mouth tilts faintly, fleeting. "Are you complimenting my cook?" She cocks her head, glossy black curls gathered into intricate braids falling over her shoulder, the pearls woven within them lucent in the light. "Or insulting my serving girls?" Taking in the faint flush of exertion, the mote of satisfaction glinting in his eye, Lenyra adds lightly, "Fortunately, it seems you've already found sustenance elsewhere."

Spike is a creature of simple hungers, but he pursues them with a red-blooded vitality she sometimes envies. She, a mere vessel for purpose, can only sink her teeth into the false flesh of fruit. Lenyra wonders for a moment how far to lift the veil. A flash of truth, like a glimpse of skin—enough to satisfy and leave one wanting—is her habitual ritual. But with Spike, words flow more easily, curling on her tongue in teases and jests.

"The little spider is counting the flies in her web and wondering why her little wasp is not out there pricking others." Her sandaled foot gently nudges his knee. "Has he lost his edge, or merely gorged himself too quickly?"

" now that’s a terrible accusation. " the soft rose on his blushed lips curl, his cerulean gaze falling on the cluster of grapes once again. he does not take another, though his eyes linger as his lips stay curled, a leisure hunger blooming as it always did. for spike never had been a child of collected restraint. he had been a child of spirit, of a spear willed infestation.  " i’m only insulting the portion. "  he means it not, for it escaped as a light corinthian leaf, grazing the winds of an evening mist. the moon as their only witness.

dimples darken in their depth, eyes crinkling under the silver glint.  " gods, you have the eyes and ears of a hawk. " a jest in all lightness, though he knew the earth would shake with the silken sweep of her wings, surging like thunder, each dove and dear nettling into her own language of webbing.  "but every bird knows a hunter must eat, after all. even a spider. " 

when her foot nudges his knee, his calloused palm flash and grip the soft, tender bone of her ankle, and as he holds the weight of her foot in his palm, his fingers press against the straps of her sandal, keeping her locked against his thigh. when spike retorts, his quip is too easily spoken, as if he merely plucked it from an olive tree, too ripe and too easy for his taking, reaped for his own amusement.  " i have  pricked, that is. " a howl of an entendre. spike leans in more, breath still sweetened by the bright burst, the alchemy meddling with the spring in his mouth. his grip tightens around her ankle. " still, if i have to pierce every fool in this garden and atrium, i’d be here till dawn. and this wasp is spent. " too much interest in her prey, he thought, but he did not care enough to speak it, for the wasp could still sting, but he was clever enough to know that not every fly was worth the venom.

still, there’s a gentle tilt of his head, and a crease of fold in his cheek, deepening his dimple as he softly smiles. yet, his eyes stay hardened, sharp, like a maddening conflagration.  " fear not. "  thumb caressing her pale flesh that was still unbreached by a strap. " besides, you’d miss the buzzing if i stopped entirely. "

In the distance, a peal of laughter carves through the quiet night. Cries of delight soon follow. Lenyra counts each one as she would her silver, records the sounds and the faces attached to them, then locks them away within the confines of her mind, with  its many cabinets and hidden drawers.

Verdant pillars of cypress circle her, silver smoke curling between the leaves like ribbons, like a woman's sigh, a caress scented with orange blossoms and longing. Perhaps a tad too overwhelming, Lenyra notes. More an assault on the senses than a slow seduction. She will look into that later, as she always does, even if her audience is by now too busy exploring the pleasures of her garden labyrinth—and the pleasures of each other. One flaw, after all, can unravel an entire scene.

The moon silvers her ivory dress, its elegant spill of silk draped over the low divan. Away from prying eyes, she is less a queen holding court and more a luxurious cat basking in the contentment of a night well done. She does not lick her chops, mindful of her own claws—and those of others with eyes everywhere. Instead, she pops another grape into her mouth, taking her own small gratification in the way the skin bursts between her teeth, the nectar sliding down her throat; in not spitting the seed back into the bowl, but swallowing it whole—a reclamation of everything the world once took from her.

Only after the third grape does she turn her head, so slight a movement it can barely be called one, to softly ask:

"Are the festivities not to your liking?"

Her eyes slide, blue and clear as water, toward her guest.

"Or merely the dessert?"

as he had uncurled from the limbs of silken soft legs, and moved from thighs that were wrapped around him like a vine, spike had considered it a great defeat. still, he kisses the skin pressed right below her knee as he comes to stand, her presence lingering within him, fragmented like a poet still wishing for his lover. around him, he can hear the chords from a lyre playing, the filaments like threaded gold, an invocation of melody, like a laurel crowned king leaning against the architecture of cypress and myrtle.

when he dresses, he covers himself in a flat linen, as pale as an unspoken morning, clipped upon one broad shoulder as it falls like a river, the stream like linen pressed, moving like water around stone. with his belt now tightened around him, her breath still feels warmed against his skin as her wetness dries coldly upon him. he kisses her once more, then leaves her with a sorrowful sweetness. when he turns, she’s already forgotten in myth. 

with an invisible thread, spike can feel the nest of his spider, and as his feet carry him towards her, the glint of the moon slips through the oculus, and his cerulean hues fall on her darkened tresses. he feels it; the pull without any hands, the summoning without any voice. 

he sits beside her, taking the movement of her head as an invitation.  " the festivities are lovely. "  tease or confession?  " but i never did trust food that’s prettier than the serving girl. "  rising his own stakes, legs spread like a hunter musing a prey. still, she was anything but. eyes fall upon the cluster of grapes, and his long strong fingers steals a fork that’s laying near. when he pricks, the skin burst, and the juice gathers around it, like it was holding a compressed light, like a bottled dawn breaking into morning. " could give me indigestion. "  voice wrapped in a tease as his hand move before his thoughts could intervene.