#elusivia

Oops.

"Ah, Prince Alcryst." Zelkov greeted him in a low, breathy tone, aware of the late hour, and less aware of how mysterious he sounded. "I see we are *coworkers* now." With Alcryst's skill, Zelkov almost pitied anything that dare attack the monastery. "Should you *require* any medical attention, stop by the infirmary any time. I even have many of my *homemade* potions on hand." He pulled an unlabeled vial out of his coat, presenting it to Alcryst with an unreadable smile. "For you."

(It's lavender essential oil.)

The sudden appearance of a tall, dark figure stops Alcryst in his tracks—there's no time to question how someone managed to sneak up on him. One hand reaches for the knife, prepared to defend himself... but a certain memory from the Brodian borderlands gives him pause. He nearly killed the Divine Dragon in a situation like this...

Alcryst raises his head, watching this figure warily. They look... oddly relaxed. And oddly familiar. In this dim light, it takes a minute to put a name to their face, their voice. "...Zelkov?" He answers uneasily. An Elusian in league with Ivy, but an ally all the same. Alcryst forces himself to relax as Zelkov does, despite this man being as suspicious as ever. His mannerisms. His smile. That 'potion' in his hand.

Alright. What the hell.

"Let me make myself *clear.*"

Zelkov went in for a harsh kiss, one with sparks akin to those flying from blades rather than tongues, kissing with the intent to sear, to overwhelm, to shut up, and if his suspicion was right, maybe to even be giving a first kiss.

He broke it with a harsh gasp, looming over Sain.

"Leave Queen *Ivy* alone. Women should be given financial *compensation* for whatever you types get up to."

Oh? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh?

Sain smirks. He thinks he knows what he's seeing here. Zelkov can have his fun with him for the duration of his kiss but the second that man pulls away, Sain twirls a loose lock of goldgreen hair and stares at him like a cat. He is busted.

"I think I finally see it now..." he muses in a sing-song voice, stepping closer to bridge the gap the Elusian had created. "You don't want me to bother this queen..." his fingers walk up the other man's shoulder, stopping at his cheek to give a light flick, "because you want me all to yourself."

Before Zelkov can get out another word Sain pulls him in close, giving him a taste of the lips he so clearly desires. No teeth gnash, no hair falls in the way--there is just Sain and his deft expertise, used against the assassin. When he's sure the initial shock of his approach has worn off, he smooths a thumb over the other's cheek. The lasting imprint of his finger says that he's not giving up on this poor sap, and Zelkov can forget about winning. Every slight against him has a double-meaning as a flirtatious response; any attention is good attention. He would take being beaten half to death as a confession, so long as the other party stays to see his broken smile. But pain isn't what he hopes to provide for Zelkov: only pleasure. Only sweet joy as the heat from his breath flows into his mouth, stealing some skin from his chin to nibble on during a brief pause. And then it's back to smacking against the other's face, head turned sideways for a better angle. This lasts as looooooong as Sain can drag it out, his feet shuffling closer and closer with each attempt of Zelkov's to get away.

And when it ends, the hand that had gone up to his face returns to his sleek shoulder. Sain still isn't intent on letting him out of his clutches, not when there's still more he has to say.

"I don't believe we've *met*." Zelkov held out his hand for a handshake, fulfilling his obligation towards the night's game of elements. His eyes immediately turned to the sweets. "Those look *delightful*. Artistic, even. Might we *indulge* together? There is no way to go *wrong* with bread based pastries."

"We haven't—this would be our first encounter," a low voice returned coolly, the eyes above it gauging the tall stranger with a suspicious stare that traveled up and down then gravitated toward the middle. One look recognized the proffered hand as belonging to a foreign greeting ritual; the highlight of every novel encounter conducted between humans who met for the first time.

Rafal was no human, to be certain, but kindness was an ideal which held his interest even greater. The act of exchanging touches- germs and sweat- with another living existence was surely nothing if not a foremost act of said kindness. So his fingers reached out in turn, moderate gripping force applied to their handshake as a strange sensation weighed upon his neck, like the vine-composed necklace there had grown just a little heavier. This feeling was determined harmless and therefore shrugged off in favor of the more intriguing topics at hand.

"As I said it is the first we meet. With that knowledge in mind, you are undoubtedly a most audacious man to request for a dragon to share in his hoard of treasure."

The one known as Rafal to part from even a single crumb of his painstakingly acquired sweets? To do so was an action that beggared belief, the question of whether or not this fell dragon was in good health or right mind. However. His usual selfish nature toward the safekeeping of his treasures lapsed for a moment, filled with begrudging respect for not only the stranger's bold request but the accompaniment of its solid reasons.

@elusivia

continued from here “*Queen* Ivy.” The correction was automatic, though unnecessary. The manifestation of anything that he disliked seemed to be what Griss would hone in on. He felt some satisfaction that Ivy’s presence had an effect on Griss, though his work was far from done. There was a sort of passion in war, though it wasn’t the sort he could lose himself in peace in like a hobby of creation. He begrudgingly admitted that there might be an inch of common ground between them. Zelkov was compelled to play the fiery game of risk, cloaks, and daggers, even if he itched to go back to his quarters and do an impression of an old cat lady minus the cats and with far too much yarn. He expected some sort of egging on regarding stabbing, but Griss blew his expectations out of the water. Zelkov blinked. He stared, blankly. Griss had so much metal on his face that he wondered, vaguely, if the piercings ever got infected. Whoever I need to pray to to make sure that he never comes to *me* about that, I’m praying… “You’re so *desperate* you’d pay for me to gut you like a fish the way some people pay for daily eggs and milk.” Half whispered, confused awe, and if anyone had been wondering what they were talking about, he doubted they could’ve guessed. He was surprised enough that his revulsion didn’t quite make it through. However, he was always on the clock, and Griss knew how to hit the alarm. Ivy. “You wouldn’t *dare.*” Zelkov leaned close as he could without making actual contact, only having to move an inch or two, eyes narrowed with a leer. “*Two* can play at *this* game, Griss. I do not know how you and your master *cheated* death, but if I can elude even *you*, would you wager *Zephia* against my blade?”

Desperate. Griss would’ve argued but, yeah, maybe it was true. The battle earlier had done little to sate his appetite for punishment, and in fact had the opposite effect - he was starving for more, and Zelkov just kept dancing around promises like words had any cutting power to them. Was he gonna stab him or not? Honestly, he couldn’t tell now if the man even wanted to get rid of him, but Griss did delight in the way the proposition finally seemed to put him at a loss for words.

“Is that a yes? ‘cause you could start right now unless--”

The cool professionalism snapped back into Zelkov’s eyes far too quickly for Griss’ liking. He should have guessed that Ivy would have been a red button word, but maybe now they could finally get somewhere. A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat as he met those piercing gold eyes without so much as a blink.

“I have an *antidote* on hand for the aftermath of our trading of blows.” He took his combat stance. “You will *need* it.”

Venin Edge Sunder Roll: 6, hit, Sunder, crit damage, -2HP to Scáthach. Inflicts minor poison, -0.5HP. Zelkov HP: 6/6

They are locked on each other, this moment is between their swords and their skill. Scáthach has never enjoyed these one on one scenarios, he was much more acquainted with the slashing of faceless mobs. Still though, he would not disgrace his home or Prince Seliph with anything less than his best. His resolve bolstered once more, he readied the Killing Edge in his hands near head, finally prepared for this bout.

"I appreciate the concern, really." A smile washes over him and fades as quickly as an actual wave against the coast. "I've faced much worse than poison, though, so no need to hold back. I won't!"

Pleasantries are thrown to the wind now, and it takes but a moment for Zelkov to accept the invitation. His sword is pointing directly for any Lethal points it can find at a speed that is hardly normal. Scáthach attempts to derail this strike with his own blade, but he is not fast enough. He feels the stink of metal piercing skin, and this feeling kicks him into overdrive. This is war once again...

Now that his opponent was in range, he took little time readying his blade as well. He would put power behind this strike, even if where he had been struck still stung unusually.

Scáthach counterattacks with Killing Edge. 1d20 = 14! Scáthach deals -1.5 damage to Zelkov. Scáthach is inflicted with minor poison and takes 0.5 damage; HP: 2.5/5. Scáthach attacks with Sunder Killing Edge. 1d20 = 16! Scáthach deals -3 damage to Zelkov.

This is already tiring, the air stinging in his throat as he took shallow breaths through his mouth. The sweats bead down his forehead and trickled off his nose to the grass beneath them. He has not tried like this in a very long time, and it brings him joy. "You're very skilled, Zelkov! I could stand to learn a thing or two from you."