#witchofillusion

It was easy to hide blood in certain drinks, Bella's glass of strawberry meade poured at Blood, Sweat and Beers was half filled with the man she had slaughtered by the docks earlier that evening. The blood had mixed in with the puree poured aesthetically at the base of the glass and each time Bella sipped she got a mixture of strawberry and blood that made her smile softly to herself. Sweet and savoury all at once.

Merry had yet to arrive for his performance and so the drink was a perfect excuse to amuse herself, though, it was not all that held her attention.

The young vampiress was touching at the letters of her friend that had been written to her over the past week, the edges of some of the papers damaged with fire. She had yet to see him again, not since he had been in her place of work and yet each evening when she rose it was a battle not to ask the young delivery boy where he was taking her letters each evening so she might drag him to his bed and give in to things she had promised herself she would wait for.

Eyes leaving the paper she took another sip of her drink, pallid green eyes catching a glance at the person beside her, able to smell smoke upon his person. Tapping him on the shoulder with a long nail she attempted to seek his attention, and perhaps advice. "Are you a djinn?" she asked, words not quite slurred but evidently affected by her drinks - how many had she had now?

It was only once she spoke she realised many in the bar had that smokey smell to them, her eyes shifting from the man beside her to others in the bar. The vampire was unaware they had likely all been at an earlier performance by the very djinn on her mind.

Asvari had no need for weapons. He'd never liked them, he'd never supported their use, and he'd always found that carrying one made him even more of a target. Instead he counted solely on his illusions - sometimes the illusion of carrying a big weapon was a good way to avoid conflict.

However, his run to a shop that sold these particular items was merely because he'd found Destarin to be far more dangerous, violent, and unpredictable than he'd accounted for. Especially for a witch living on the streets - and the occasional night in someone's company - who was thieving his way to a better life, such could be dangerous.

The smile that appeared on his face when the weapons smith took his shirt off was more one of longing and appreciation than that of a costumer looking to buy a small dagger. He pushed the illusion around him, since he was already looking less like a beggar, he further extended his lashes, gave a bit of glow to his cheeks, and smoothed his voice. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm interested in commissioning you for a dagger," he added. He was also interested in other things, but he tried to keep his head on.

@witchofillusion

There was something soothing about the repetitive nature of striking hammer against hot metal, the flare of sparks shooting out and landing on his sweat slicked skin.  Sure he was only making sword blanks which didn't require much thought, but it was part of what he loved about his job.

Pulling away and shoving the partially forged blank back into the fire, Kanaloa stepped away for a swallow of water before turning to the customer that approached.  “Howdy.  I've got a number of daggers already made if you have an idea of the size and shape of blade you're looking for.”

Dear sweet little thief,

Since our last meeting I have felt something in connection to the energy you exist with in this universe and worry on you. I hope that you are alright. Please reach out to me, even if it is to simply give me piece of mind.

Tajhana of the Teahouse.

It was rare Tajhana was not wearing something opulent when she left her home. Over such a long time, and having helped so many find their way down their truest path - not to mention the silly deal she had with the pirate - she had come to find herself with quite a lot of wealth. It was not something she tended to care for beyond prettiness however, she did not buy a menagerie of carriages to escort her around, and she did not buy mansions, no, she just liked jewellery and clothes and pretty tea pots and cups.

This day she had stepped out into the trade market with jewels practically dripping off her. The simple red chiffon dress she wore was paired with golden clips in her hair that features a variety of stones in a myriad of shades, her wrists covered in bracelets half way up her forearm, fingers complimented by golden bands. The nath she wore within her nose and above her lip even featured a small stone that seemed to shift in colour as light touched it. In short, there was nothing on her sort of worth.

"This looks so lovely," she spoke to one of the vendors in the market, picking up one of the teapots with script on it that Tajhana could not read. She knew of the text from most Northern continents, and with the shade of the teapot being near white like snow she assumed it belonged to somewhere South. "Does it come with any cups?" she asked, the vendor giving a nod and seeming to duck down into a space Tajhana couldn't see from her vantage point.

Since the death of the most recent council member the succubi had been spending more time at her apartments. There was a worry in her for the man she had been bedding, aware of his mortality each time he pushed himself beyond it when they took one another to bed. He could die at any second. A thought that had been but a fleeting thought regarding her own control at first, but now, that the outside world decided it had intentions to harm him had seemed to linger in her head.

The woman shifted within the soft sheets, lower on the bed than the man beside her, so horns did not hit the headboard, her cheek finding the witch's chest and lips finding his throat. Plush pinkness somewhat swollen and soft due to the meal she had made of him throughout the evening, sun having yet to fully rise but hints of it's warmth showing in the sky outside the window to the apartments, purples and reds coming through thin curtains. Her affection continued, hand wrapping around in core, age to her palms that no amount of feeding could hide, defined lines to them.

Evelyn was unsure how to word her worries, trying to find their organisation as she kissed his jawline, and her hand pushed up his chest to his shoulder, outlining his various muscles with the prints of her fingers. He wouldn't see her worry, she hoped, if he was distracted by other things, but in truth he had probably seen it on her face each night she was there since the deaths had occured. The way she checked her guards were nearby now, that she remained longer in the apartments, checked the cupboards and ice box for food.

Soon her kiss was lowering again, pressed to the shoulder closest to her. "Don't die, please," Evelyn whispered against his skin. "I would hate if you died."