#iloam

As she lay in bed, Kharris ran her fingers over the smooth glass vial. It was familiar. It was habit. She rolled her lips before her tongue wet them. The medication in the little bottle was her own concoction, and she trusted it completely. It would do its job. It tasted of raspberry--just how she liked it. She put the empty vial back into the case, where several more waited, and just as many rested empty and ready for refilling. Reprisal never solved anything, but it did have a momentary satisfaction to it. Sometimes, for some, that was good enough. For someone who thrived in chaos, chasing those moments felt like a stone skipping across the water. Ripples met ripples and disrupted tranquility, even as the stone slipped into the deep. The meeting with Aelberyn had gone well. And she’d been right, Aelberyn was her ally in this. They were friendly enough these days. They had an understanding. The discussion had been amicable if not relaxed. Kharris had been touched by the stalwart response of the younger woman. Aelberyn was certain it would go about the way Kharris worried most about: violence. She loved Iloam’s passion, his depth of feeling. However, Asarel would not be meek, and Kharris feared Aelberyn was right about him, too: Asarel might take the opportunity to finish it all, if it came to that. And it was Kharris most caught in the middle. Her life rolling out in those ripples of reprisal constantly crashing into each other. She had time. It wasn’t as if things were in motion. And again Aelberyn and Kharris had agreed, now was not the time. She’d tell him later. Autumn was hard enough for both of them. @daily-writing-challenge Day 25 Reprisal/Immortal

(For the Daily Writing Challenge Day 4: Broken)

Go to the party, it will be fine, you have friends there who would be very happy if you attended. And it’s very likely they went to the efforts they did specifically to accommodate you. That’s what they’d said, that’s what he’d allowed himself to think for a brief moment of simple delight at being so cared for. Selfish.

The estate was brimful of elves, a sea of high-pointed ears and glimmering jewelry and perfect faces, or perfectly imperfect ones. It wasn’t fair that almost every elf he met--sin, quel, kal, shal, it made no difference--was so damned pretty. Aelberyn was gorgeous and commanded the attentive eye of everyone in the room, despite dozens of others striving to do the same. Iloam was smugly handsome as ever, dressing up nicely in spite of himself. Lecher.

Occasionally he’d catch a glimpse of someone who stood out, but none quite as aggressively sore-thumblike as he had. A black worgen in a suit he couldn’t be convinced did actually fit his topheavy frame, lost in a forest of mostly-red hair and soft-hued skin wrapped in fine cloth that hugged every curve and accentuated fine features. He’d found his way to a quiet hallway almost immediately. Coward.

If only he’d been able to change back, just be human, be normal for the night. He still would’ve felt out of place--he always did--but at least he wouldn’t be so blatantly obviously wrong as a simple human. Once one got past the messed-up eye, the stubble, the dark hair, the mild limp... He was easily missed. Naive.

But the wolf refused. He could never quite get a grasp on it, not when he felt so lost, so shattered. It had been an embarrassing way to be found, asleep in the hollow of a tree, reeking of booze and with a spider building a web on his head. Glowing. Dreaming, they said. And still, all the booze and running and dashing himself against obstacles hadn’t helped; still he remained trapped in the fur coat and the long snout and the glowing eyes. Monster.

And Valarin had been there, too. And that made everything ...complicated. As though it hadn’t already been. As though it wasn’t going to be, even if the wee doctor hadn’t appeared. Liar.

The conversation had been stilted. Fearful. Quickly ended and escaped. Once he was alone again, he wanted nothing more than to avoid being alone again, but he couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting himself on more people. So Aelberyn agreed to spar with him. Exhilarating, a rush he almost never allowed himself to feel anymore, the thrill of the hunt, of battle. And he was so sure he’d almost had her at the end, there, too. A good fight as expected of a Lady, where he’d given a good account of himself in turn. Arrogant.

The second conversation was worse. Pleading. Misunderstood. Bungled. Terrified. Angry. Defensive. Stupid.

At the end, what they’d had lay broken in the grass by a single tree among a thousand others, where nobody would find it.

The way it was always going to be.

Okay.

A rowan leaf, it turns out, is not a singular leaf. At least, not if one wants to make it recognizable as more than a long green blob. To make it register properly, one needed a rowan branch. Zayneth twisted the small branch he’d gathered for research in his fingers and pondered how best to recreate what had been requested. In the end, he needed a whole branch.

The sticks themselves were not necessarily easy. Dichroic glass was still a fairly obscure technique and difficult to get just right. It took him four tries to make something he liked. The hairsticks were a beautiful, translucent dark blue scattered through with planes of gold in the right light like fields of stars. The pointed ends were spiraled to make them catch on hair buns better and the tops were crowned with orbs of the same gold and navy stars.

But the leaf. The leaf was important, though he had no idea how. It needed to be properly incorporated into the design. And it couldn’t be just one leaf; in order to work, it needed to be several on a stem.

Zay twirled one of the cooled sticks between his fingers and studied it intently. He knew what he wanted to do, but how to do it without ruining the stick? He traced his fingers down the simple, clean lines and finally came up with the answer.

A few days after OwlFest, a dark-haired and smiling courier arrived at the delivery address Iloam gave. He presented a brown paper-cardboard box with Shadowglen Glassworks embossed on the top, collected his payment, and went on his way.

Inside the box was a pair of hairsticks, dichroic blue and gold, with a single branch of rowan curling down one from the orbed top to halfway down the stick, the five dark green leaves each no more than the length of a lady’s pinky nail. Three bright red berries sat at the top of the hair stick, nestled against the orb on top. In all, it added no more than half again the width of the stick so as to not overbalance it. It was one of the most delicate things the glasswright had ever produced, yet still carried his “if it breaks, return it for a new one” guarantee. He could only hope that whoever he’d made it for appreciated it.

Their first impression of your muse:

A hothead, ready to run off on his own half-cocked with no plan. Dangerous to himself and others due to his lack of self-control. She realizes he was feeling desperate and those around him were just making it worse, but her first impression was colored by the environment. She also saw him as far younger than he really is because of his attitude at the time. His particular loss of control in the kitchen and her subsequent binding of it hasn’t been forgotten either.

Current impression:  

Charming as hell and sexy to boot. Iloam isn’t her usual type physically, but his charm certainly is. She adores how devoted he is to her attention and the glimpses she gets of his devotion in relation to others. He knows exactly how to get under her skin and far from being offended by it, she eats it up. His wit and sense of adventure inspire her to try to match him. The way he treats her as if she deserved all she had when living is very flattering too.

Are they attracted to your muse?:  

There’s something electric and intense between them. For the level of attraction she is capable of feeling, she is wildly enticed by Iloam.

Something they find frightening about your muse:

His capacity to pull her away from her promises to her partner. Like many elves, she has no problem with having multiple lovers, but her partner very much does, so she refrains. But Iloam is just so tempting...

Something they find adorable about your muse:

Every once in a great while, he’ll get this pouty look about him. She doesn’t think he knows it and he’d certainly vehemently deny it. She may well torment him just to see him react when he can’t get what he wants.

Would my muse sacrifice themselves for yours?:  

It’s quite possible. She adores him a great deal and tends to put the needs of the living above her own. She’s more likely to simply put herself in great danger for his sake, but it’s not totally out of the question that she’d consider him on par with her little brother in terms of priority for saving.

Would my muse go on a date with yours?  platonic/romantic:  

They’ve been on a handful of platonic (but incredibly charged) dates already. She’s not an especially romantic sort.

One word my muse would use to describe yours:

Intense.

Would my muse slap yours if they could?:

Only in the sense that she enjoys causing pain and they’d probably both enjoy it.

Would my muse hug/kiss yours?:

((This RP between Iloam of @ourcollectivefantasy and I is backdated a bit, but needed to see the light of day! So many feels to follow in this multi-post RP (there’s a lot of writing, so there will be several posts). Obviously, not all of this writing is mine! -The description of Murder Row is all Iloam, and I fucking love it. ))

Part 2|Part 3|Part 4

It was a strange hour for Murder Row. The evening was late, but the night was young and the small strip down the belly of the city never quite knew what to do with itself in that liminal space between. Darkness had settled in to the crevices and filled sidewalk cracks with velvety shadows that slithered and skirted around oily puddles. A fresh, early Spring rain had come down in sheets earlier but was now spent and reduced to a panting mist that filled the city with a warm heaviness in the lungs. Bright, garish mage lights were lit in anticipation of the evening crowds that would soon stream out, looking for Friday night trouble to get into. A familiar neon sign buzzed on and off in hot pink letters at the large street window of Subliminal Glitch; a small vintage punk clothing store wedged between a laundromat and a Pandaran take-out. The shop front was narrow and skinny and Iloam hopped up the blackened stone stairs before pushing the door open. In lieu of a bell, a rubber chicken nailed above the door squawked as a fake ax descended and "chopped off" its head. The noise was lost to the blaring punk rock music on the overhead, and as Iloam shut the door behind him, he didn't bother looking up. He'd seen the prank a dozen times before.

His hand lifted to his short hair and he pushed copper bangs back, raking long fingers through the soggy mess to shake out loose rain water. His eyes scanned the downstairs for the face he was looking for. Spiral racks of leather jackets and ripped skinny jeans, vintage concert tour t-shirts and fetish wear. The walls were lined with studded boots and stiletto heels, belts, collars, and sunglasses. Half the wilted, curling posters were from shows his bands had put on. An elf with liberty spikes nodded a mild hello to him from behind the counter but didn't bother with more than that. She knew Iloam's face and pointed towards the back before flipping another page in her magazine and going back to nodding along with the music. "Cheers," Iloam offered as he breezed by, weaving through the racks and carrying a small, black velvet bag. At the very back of the store, he depressed the handle of what looked by all intents and purposes to be a broom closet. An unassuming door, painted chipping and scuffed black, and covered in faded stickers, posters, and graffiti. His favourite of which was a simple line at his eye level, written in silver ink pen, that simply said 'QUEL'FUCKLAS SUCKS DICK'. He smirked and pulled the door open.

Behind was not the small closet one would expect, or even a single loo, but a dark, narrow staircase lit by a single red light below. He took the stairs, letting the door swing shut behind him, without fear. Descending down and turn the corner, he emerged into the subterranean den. Equally long and facing the other direction, it extended well to the front of where the storefront was above. Between him and the back wall was a decent sea of couches that had seen better days, and low coffee tables; strewn pillows of various textures and sizes. Many of the coffee tables had large hookahs, gleaming in dark glass that reflected the red lights of the opium den. A small, single bar was set up along the right wall with a decent shelf of booze, beer and an espresso machine.

Iloam was well aware that the place wouldn't fill up until about 1 or 2am, when the bars were on last call and the shows were winding down. This was one of the best places to come and smoke up, chill out, and get a good cup of coffee. Plus, they didn't kick anyone out until the sun came up.

So that was exactly why, as he rounded the corner and stepped into the empty den, he was surprised to see anyone besides the shop owner down here. And he was even more surprised to see that it was a face he knew. A face that made him instantly regret every choice he'd made to lead him to exactly this spot, at exactly this place, at exactly this minute.

"Fekk," he muttered out loud.

I made a thing! Mood Board for OCF! @ourcollectivefantasy