#torchwiick

It had, apparently, taken the sound of her entire body smacking against the door to get him to hear her. That was annoying. But really, she normally would have texted, except her scroll had died trying to argue with an associate who would remain nameless about using dust in makeup.

(Emerald could say anything she wanted, dust nail polish was innovative and she was just jealous.)

“Doesn’t look happy” may be the understatement of the century. It may be difficult for the untrained eye to see, but to anyone that knows her, the silent little enforcer is, very clearly, far beyond livid.

Neo withdraws a dust crystal from the inside pocket of her coat, tossing it idly in her hand as she looks for a place to throw it so that she or Roman can shoot it for maximum damage. However, after a moment, she appears to shatter out of existence, tossing up an illusion so that she can creep closer for a better vantage point.

Tyrian tried not to laugh as he watched the king comb his hands through his hair, voice tense and expression filled with stress to spare. After a moment, even he couldn’t hold in a bit of a chuckle, finally stepping just behind the man and carefully reaching a hand to adjust the crown gently laid upon the crest of his forehead.

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It wasn’t as if Roman’s life was in any real danger--the fool who had tried to kill him was completely inept, showing his entire hand of cards without realizing that his eyes had given everything away. He moved too obviously, stuck out from the crowd of people that otherwise occupied the bar across it’s filled tables and chairs. 

Tyrian and Roman were at one together, sipping at drinks in a habit that they could have almost called a tradition--it was at least something more substantial than what Tyrian had ever experienced with an employer. It was nice to sit and talk, though their conversation constantly fluttered about useless topics and half-truths (though he could hardly call himself surprised).

He was buzzed, hurrying his way to being drunk when the two of them were on their way out of the bar. The man, so stupid, so incredibly foolish, followed them. Tyrian was no idiot even if he was intoxicated--he saw the flash of an unfamiliar aura out of the corner of his eye and knew precisely the intention of it. He bided time for half a minute, letting Roman step out of the doorway as his thoughts bubbled up of how to deal with the situation.

Kill him? Despite the fact that he was coming at Tyrian’s employer with intent of harm, there was a distinct pause to such a thought. The man was young, obviously new and, more than likely working off the prospect that Roman was simply a man with plenty of money (there was a flash of some lien at the table as the two of them drank, after all). He wasn’t connected with any larger group that Tyrian was familiar with--there was no point to kill him, no lesson to teach and no message to toss out into the dark, crime-filled sea.

If anything, the only thing on the man’s mind was robbing Roman--did he not see that Tyrian was with him? Did he perhaps only catch a glimpse of the redhead on his own, the few seconds that he had waltzed to the bar for the first round of drinks?

God, amateur, completely amateur--Tyrian could have worked through such a challenge at half the man’s age. Regardless, there was a problem and Tyrian was the man hired to solve it.

He let Roman lead the way down the street for a time, the unknown assailant just a dozen steps back, attention solely focused on the redhead. When the two of them came up to an alley Tyrian thought perfectly of a plan--one that was rushed and perhaps a little selfish, a plan that could have been done so much simply but, well, he was feeling the heat and heaviness of the alcohol rushing through his veins and he certainly couldn’t help himself.

He quickened his pace just enough to wrap his arm around Roman’s waist and turn them both around the corner, deftly pressing the man against the wall and smothering any noise of protest or confusion with a hot, hard kiss.

It wouldn’t take but a few moments for the man to see the two of them in the alley--he would see the redhead pressed to the wall by Tyrian, scarred and marked with countless fights he had won, a glint of blades on his wrists and, clearly, a moment of hard, daring gold eyes peaking out and near-glowing from the dimming light of the setting sun.

Suffice to say the man didn’t stick around, quickly changing his course of action and his choice of victim as he ran off into the streets, leaving Tyrian at last to pull away, a mischievous smirk on his face.

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Tyrian can often seem like a vulnerable sort when he’s truly relaxed, especially since it’s often difficult for him to truly feel at-ease. He’s used to having his guard up, at least a little--there is no telling what could happen at any moment, whether that would be the chance at stealing a wallet when he was a child or if Salem had a need for him as an adult. For a large portion of his life, Tyrian didn’t exactly have places or people he could feel relaxed with so, of course, it’s a bit of a rarity to see him let down his walls.

The biggest tells for a relaxed Tyrian is to see him with his hair loose and his tail waving about. His hair can be very long and a bit of a mess when otherwise not braided and, in most situations where he has to be ready to move, to fight, to survive at any moment you’ll never see him in this way. He’ll get tangled in his own hair, it will fall over his eyes--it’s just a nuisance, really.

The same can be said for his tail. Though he originally learned to keep it tucked around his waist from a young age as a way of hiding his faunus trait, he’s done it largely as an unconscious gesture of fear. In the same way that someone will hold an injured limb close to their body, so too does Tyrian with his tail after his singer is cut off. It’s not a completely useless limb but god, does he have a fear that someone is going to try and cut the whole damn thing off (His aunt tried to do that when he was a child but that’s another story).