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Nicharion had anticipated it would take quite some time for his and Crow's paths to cross again; after all, the most delicious of treats are only made better when savored in moderation. But on the contrary, the charming criminal sought him out again not long after their last meeting, and came bearing an offer - a night out in the capital, seeking out information on a mark. The major knew it wouldn't be pragmatic to offer aid in a job with no strings attached, and yet... the other male has accurately sniffed out an opportunity in his desperate need for a change of pace from his current duties. So, just once, what's the harm? The red brute didn't dislike to think of himself as generous.. for those who were lucky enough to earn his favor.
And so he wound up here. The night was chilly in a crisp, refreshing way, at least until the air filled with the stench of the city's dark and obscure alleys... and blood. Nicharion smiled pleasantly at the string of curses that the thug pinned down beneath his paws was throwing at him. His other paw moved to the wolf's throat and he distributed his weight evenly between the two. The hoodlum tried to trash and resist, but his hold was mercilessly secure. Only when the struggles started to grow feeble did he let his victim speak again. It was quite the spectacle, to see the potential danger of a wolf who has only ever been docile in his company, disarmed by desire. To some, it could perhaps be unnerving. Nicharion, on the other hand, found it seductive. It wasn't in his nature to respect someone weak or spineless. No, he liked to play with fire, and it was such a shame they never got to fight during the war. Once their business was wrapped up, he wasted no time in his approach, stopping only when he was close enough to feel the heat of physical effort radiating from the other brute's body, breaking through the winter cold. |
so we'll run to the sea— There was never an inopportune time to put on a show. And there was an added note of exhilaration in the idea of an audience, especially one whose approval dangled its own bounty like a carrot on the end of a hook. He felt himself willed to provide, to exceed expectations, to solidify himself as the one true source of fulfillment for all things – pleasure, company, entertainment, desire. It started and ended in him. The hunt and ensuing mutilation his prey would endure would result from that will. Bastien knew every nook and cranny in Rionna intimately. Having been on both sides of the law granted him unique knowledge few others could boast; he knew the areas that were either avoided or populated due to the police presence. There was nowhere a mark could hide from him for long, and once they were within his grasp, there was the chase... Sick and twisted, there was no greater high than to get close to your prey and let them slip away, try their luck at escape and survival, only to meet a bloody end. Perhaps that was what made it so difficult for Bastien to turn that leaf over. He simply enjoyed the thrill too much. Did he enjoy it more than what domesticity tempted him with? And how long could he continue masquerading his bloodlust as righteousness – a way to cleanse the world of its evils for the sake of his daughter – before the two became indistinguishable? Who was he serving, truly? Vela? Adamh? Or was this all for himself, and he too reluctant to acknowledge the atrocities he's committed? Perhaps the hope was that a bloody baptism might conceal the stains on his soul. Whatever the reason... Bastien was done thinking about it. "Faster now," the command snaked down the alley. "I've somewhere to be." Fear slithered down the spine of the mark, urging him further down a premeditated path. The crow knew where this path would lead them, so he did not hurry, ambling at his leisure in the direction the wolf fled. When the cowering brute would come into sight again, a smirk stretched the shadows across Bastien's face, crimson eyes flicking from the realization dawning on the thug's face to his companion and the unconscious body beside him. Whatever resolve the thug might have had left fled and reduced him to a sniveling mess bargaining for his life. Unfortunately for him, he was stuck between two devils and the deep blue sea. "I'm glad you enjoyed it." Bastien preened under the approval as if it was a hand he could arch his back into. Blood spattered his coat at random, most concentrated on his muzzle and legs from holding his prey down. His lover's voice was a refreshing contrast to the agonized screams of the desperate man, thrashing for another chance to comply but only causing himself further damage, and the deafening silence that followed in the absence of those screams. "A pity to not see the horror in their faces when they awake, but how could I resist such a tempting offer? Lead on then." Last time they'd been together in a bar had ended in a night most memorable. Bastien would be lying to say he wasn't hopeful for a similar conclusion this time, too. It was into a nondescript tavern they stepped. Bastien preferred the types that stayed off everyone else's radar; he couldn't chance being too bold in soldier country, after all, even with one at his side. As a result, it wasn't too densely populated, and the few glances that did turn their way were disinterested. Funnily enough, one of the many that didn't deign the pair of newcomers even a moment of his attention happened to be the one mutual they'd discussed in their last encounter. And because fate has such a twisted sense of humor, the two seats on either side of him were vacant. Bastien passed a look that needed no explanation at Nicharion and sauntered to the one on Savard's left. "Bartender!" he waved down the server, slinging an arm across tawny shoulders, "We'll have what he's having. Good to see you again, mate." No, the quiet certainly didn't stay quiet. —and find no captain waiting |
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The red brute chuckled mirthfully at his companion's comment. So, the little bird had some sadistic proclivities.. who would have thought? Perhaps he should have named him Shrike instead.
The night-turned-day took a turn for the unexpected when they walked into an acceptable establishment and spotted a mutual acquaintance. So much for waiting for more information to fall into his lap in order to carefully orchestrate an encounter... As it's been a while, Nicharion had half a mind to put on a not unlikely act of pretending not to recognize the little rat, on the off chance it'd rub Savard's meager ego the wrong way... but Crow clearly had a different idea. The red brute smiled and shrugged, signifying he was fine with playing along, then followed to take the seat to Savard's right. Alas, it would seem they were too late to get any quality entertainment out of their friend. Savard could barely form intelligible words... and called him lieutenant? Interesting... for a man trying to get him assassinated, he took surprisingly little care into keeping his intel fresh. Well, Nicharion saw no need to correct his mistake. |
so we'll run to the sea— Bastien could blame his rashness on the trill of adrenaline still in his veins infusing with his overt desire to antagonize Savard at the first opportunity. Fortunately, it didn't appear he would be punished for acting rashly, if the wolf's rancid breath was any indication of how deep into the bottle he'd sunk. "Good call. I'd assumed the stench was someone's vomit, but... I suppose benefit of the doubt is sometimes too generous." Over Savard's shoulder, he made a dramatic show of wrinkling his nose distastefully. He was made more grateful for Nicharion's last minute order change when the drink arrived and didn't immediately intensity the somersaults his stomach was doing, courtesy of the aforementioned odor. Plus, it gave him something to occupy himself with while he was being pointedly ignored. Not that it could keep him at bay for very long, just for as much time as it took for him to choreograph a dance on Savard's last nerve. "I don't see why you're looking so glum, chum." Bastien's breath snaked against the wolf's cheek, his head coming to plop on the shoulder his arm had previously coiled around, but his eyes were on their mimic's. "Wasn't it you that told me I could have him? Or are you feeling left out?" —and find no captain waiting |
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It was quite apparent that Crow was far more invested in this interaction than Nicharion could ever muster to be, which was curious in its own right; the major couldn't help but assume now that the business disagreement was merely a prelude to a larger fallout, one that was more serious for Crow than Savard's attempt to hire an assassin was for Nicharion. That, or he cared about that attempt far less than the typical response would be...
But instead, it was Savard who started mumbling some kind of drunken rant. It wasn't worth the effort to focus on it enough to distinguish every word, but bits and pieces were clear enough. It would seem the rat was so convinced of his moral high horse that he couldn't think of anything else even when he could barely think at all. It was a pitiful sight, really, that someone so fixated on principles was misplacing the basis for them so severely. Some sort of idealized image of the Guild that couldn't be further away from the truth. Nothing is ever worth loyalty on an institutional level, and there only two paths a wolf can really tread. Either walk over anyone and everyone to get what you want, or try to treat well those who treat you well in turn, or at the very least those who can be useful. By the looks of it, Savard had a knack for burning bridges with allies while sticking his neck out for wolves who didn't give a fuck about him. Not even the little bit to keep him company while he got drunk. Maybe on some level it's what he thought he deserved. Back when Nicharion had called Savard a gutter rat, he only mocked the nature of his line of work. But Savard seemed to be genuinely convinced everyone is inherently a rat, including himself. The piece of fur has finally dislodged itself from his teeth and Nicharion took a break from chewing his bone to spit it out to the side. Just as he was getting back to the bone, Savard erupted with a mixture of his suspect drink and bile, a horridly smelling concoction that also severely contrasted the pristine white of Crow's fur. The major stared in shock for the first couple seconds, then felt immense relief for the bone that occupied his mouth and stifled his snorting. As much as he pitied his companion's circumstances... he couldn't help but find the situation at least a little amusing. But he also quickly realized that it'd be a hassle if Crow caused a scene. As a soldier, Nicharion couldn't just sit by during a murder attempt, and it'd be even worse if the ensuing racket attracted a patrol from the street. So, with a harder bite he snapped his chewing bone in half, before roughly shoving Savard off of his seat. If he had any more in him, better that he aims at the floor this time. Then his eyes turned to Crow. Nicharion cast a glance at Savard next, his nose wrinkling at the stench coming off from the rat now. |
so we'll run to the sea— Far be it from Bastien to disregard the amusing imagery his companion's remark evoked. He was just amused enough that the unsavory implication did not infuriate him–and mischievous enough to remain seated, his chest pressing firmly against Savard's back, ghosting breaths across the side of his face, rather than succumbing to the outage of his possessive heart. "He's been modest for as long as I've known him," he cooed, running a crimson claw down the ex-con's throat. Perhaps if he spared half a second's notice, Bastien might have noticed how, beneath his nail, the muscles tightened and released, as if pushing down something stubbornly trying to escape. But he thought he had an alcohol-assisted advantage, and gave the matter no further thought than that malicious grin and enough generosity to restrain the urge to dig his claws in deeper. "A tough nut to crack. That is, if you don't know which buttons need pushing." As if to demonstrate he let his claw meander through the tan, brown, and russet bands of fur until he mistook a withdrawn breath for the reaction he was hoping to elicit. "No need to be so shy, Savvy. We won't judge too harshly if you aren't as well-endowed." Though he'd prefer to leave that to the imagination. Bodies still flush, his right ear's proximity to Savard snared him two undesirable prizes. First, the incoherent babbling was that much clearer than if he'd been sitting upright. Second, and possibly the more egregious of the two, it filled his nostrils with rot, as though the other half of Savard's ramble had curled up and died there long before they'd arrived. He couldn't help but to lean in. After all, a drunken man was often more honest than most priests. Curiosity, the merciless bitch, would certainly come for him, but Bastien couldn't afford to fear her scythe until he felt its cold steel on his scarred throat. At least his beverage came post haste and was strong enough to suffuse his senses, so long as he nursed it close to his maw. A more introspective wolf might have the gall to be offended by the baseless nonsense in the seconds before they took to heart the breakdown of their character. Bastien was not an introspective wolf by any means - not while he was sober, at least - and instead found the whole spiel to be nothing short of entertaining, so long as he didn't spill anything Nicharion didn't already know. It was among the risks he was taking by provoking Savard. Newly anointed by the blood of an unholy hunt- high on it - he hadn't stopped to consider what the consequences would be... and now the time to do so was long passed. Ah, well, hindsight and all that. At least his gall went, seemingly, unpunished. The two marbles sloshing around in Savard's flooded brain seemed to only be competing his utter disdain for Bastien and Nicharion against the fragile moral superiority he, by the looks of it, was struggling to maintain. He must have been clinging too tightly when it shattered. Impressive, considering Savard couldn't even get a hold on his drink... Bastien was starting - no, he had already fallen into the pitfall of his own arrogance, so convinced that he forgot the most important tenets, one he abided by strictly: To never let his guard down. It was low enough that the deluge of fermented bile crashed over it before he could extract himself from Savard. As it spread through his fur, the liquid contents leaving behind a revolting residue, the monochromatic man fought back a similar reaction- one that rapidly devolved as he gradually took in the situation, Savard strongarmed out of his seat by Nicharion, his lover barely restraining laughter. His features collapsed, unbridled rage deepening the intense shadows. "Oh, he's going to make it there because I'm going to drag his sorry ass and drown him myself." —and find no captain waiting |
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