Post by Shipfish on Feb 19, 2012 20:46:14 GMT -6
What special level of hell was reserved for this punishment? By the high Ra, who made the sun rise and who killed the darkness-serpent with nightly rigor, he wanted to scream. With very careful movements, Kemorabi adjusted one of his pins a minute amount. Oh, how he hated this with a passion.
"Second, are yyou quite prepared? We are a bit late." Kyachril poked her head into his quarters, uninvited and unannounced.
Slowly, gratingly, he turned and faced her. "Of courrse. I've been rready forr a while." He allowed his feet to trace two, three steps to the door. He let his hand touch hers on the door, not too much. Ra, that was enough for now. When there were other people, then he could react, finally.
"Good." The only way he could tell she hated this as much as he did was that way she clung to his fingertips. She was so hard to read, others wore their emotions all over their squished faces.
Kemorabi pulled her arm closer, putting Kyachril's over his own, in a gentlemanly fashion. His suit did so complement her dress, even if she didn't know quite how to properly wear it. He had tried to give her a few pointers on how to move properly, how to dance lithely like she did when she was training, but she didn't get it. Kyachril kept on walking stiffly and awkwardly.
Hell but that it took too short a time to reach the cruiser. Kyachril went to talk to their pilot, and Kemorabi simply stood where he was left, by the door. His eyes did not leave his own Catalyst, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when the pilot's finger brushed that of Kyachril's. He musn't get too edgy now, only a few more minutes.
When the gentle hum of the cruiser's engine cut, Kemorabi thought he could hear a pin drop. His shoulders wanted to shake and his fingers ached to close around the hilt of his arakh. The loading door started to open, leaving a ramp. Kyachril took his arm again, and they walked down into the waiting crowd.
"Second, yyou are altogether too tense. I don't want anyyone seriouslyy injured here." Kyachril remarked. She let go of his hand, which promptly dropped to the handle of his weapon. He shadowed her every step.
It was late. No nut had yet approached his Catalyst, but it was simply a matter of time. Still he shadowed her. She greets a colonel. He stops over her shoulder, inspecting the colonel for sudden movements. He has his own shadow, and you flick her a brief acknowledgement. She nods back, and the Catalyst parts from the colonel and they move on.
Oh yes, there it was. That smooth dance that did not quite mesh with a crowd's movements. That fluidity. Kemorabi stopped Kyachril with a hand on her shoulder. Pointedly he ignored the dancer, turned slightly away as if inspecting a nearby waitress. Closer he came.
"Kem..." She saw the danger now too, but still he waited. He wanted that man close. Kemorabi would allow another step-- too late, act now.
He had heard that delicate snick and launched himself before his concious mind had processed the drawing of a knife. His senses narrowed, everything the dancer did was bright in his mind against the lull of the gala. The insidious scent of fear mixed suddenly with the movements of determination. Kemorabi's right hand caught the wrist aiming a short dagger at his Catalyst. He recognized the two-layer glint of a poisoned weapon. Some familiar wall in his mind broke.
There could be no thought when your senses overlapped. Kemorabi bent the dancer's arm back, too far, even as the assassin scrabbled for the backup knife. There had to always be a backup knife. The satisfying pop of his shoulder dislocating threw red rings into Kemorabi's eyes and a spicy taste on his tongue. The dancer stopped trying for his other weapon, he simply shook with pain and surprise and it was like a snare drum.
It was over but still Kemorabi wanted to move. He needed to work off this contradiction, this invigorating but inconsistent strangeness. Only just now the molasses generals and the quicker but still slow bodyguards reacted to the entire exchange. He pitied their poor minds with a pity that tasted of pepper and felt like cold wind.
Ah, so this one was good at faking! Kemorabi felt that change in posture, as intimately as he held the dancer's dislocated arm behind his own back. The dancer's good arm squeezed the hilt of another dagger and prepared to gut Kemorabi with it.
Slowly, or at least so in Kemorabi's perspective, he used his left hand to still the dancer's right hand. The assassin rolled the knife in his fingers, attempting to scratch Kemorabi's wrist.
He tired of this subtle game. His instincts screamed at him to rip out the throat of this person who threatened his sworn protected, but another more advanced portion of his brain told him the bureaucracy would be more satisfying in the long run. If he was very lucky, he may even get to do the execution personally.
To the end of causing this assassin further pain and humiliation, Kemorabi let go of the dislocated limb and grabbed one of the dancer's horns. He bent the troll back until he quivered in pain. There could be no faking this. Still the assassin was trying to stab anything in reach with the second knife. With a deft motion, not even looking, Kemorabi relieved him of the weapon and left his hand numb.
He sniffed the blade. Standard issue nerve toxin, simulated a neurotransmitter responsible for muscles movements. Symptoms were convulsions and foaming at the mouth, before death by over-excited heart. Interestingly enough, it was harmless unless it was introduced directly to the bloodstream.
With a smile that showed every single one of his teeth, Kemorabi wiped the blade on the exposed neck of the dancer. The assassin struggled with renewed vigor, making such piteous noises and nearly crying. His back was spasming now, much longer in this position and the muscles would fail. Again, Kemorabi's hind-brain wailed for death and the mixed taste of poison and life's-blood. Again, the fore-brain silenced that cry with promises of drawn-out agony for this prey.
Just then, Kyachril gently touched his side. With a base snarl, Kemorabi could not help but to clutch his prize closer. The dancer could not draw enough breath for a proper scream, but the breathy squeal that issued instead was clear enough.
"Kem. The guards are here to take him awayy." She uncharacteristically left her hand on his back, as if she was trying to pull him back from the assassin. Suddenly, dizzyingly, the world shifted again and his focus centered around his sworn, rather than that meaningless other. Kemorabi was too close to that other, bent over him as he was.
"Yes. Rright." Two waiting guards, a male and a female, slipped a pair of snap-cuffs onto the offender. Kemorabi released the dancer, noting to the female guard that the prisoner's shoulder was dislocated. She nodded, doing absolutely nothing to fix the problem.
Kemorabi realized he needed to breathe. He could no longer smell every twitch of the dancer's skin, and the first scent after being so locked in was nauseating. Thankfully, most of that scent was Kyachril's own special blend of the texture of oil and the sound of a flute. He stood again to his full height, as he had not done all evening. Head and shoulders above everyone in the crowd, he surveyed the gala floor. To his practiced eye, no other slowling moved out of sync with the dance of the banquet. He could relax for a moment.
Kyachril grabbed one of his hands and rubbed it, white and yellow sparks. She guided him back through many halls, some full and others empty, until they were back at the cruiser. She keyed in the opening code, led him into the craft. She was shaking.
"He got too close, Kem. Much too close." She paced back and forth along the upper rim of the ramp. Slowly, oh so achingly slowly, the tension bled from Kemorabi's shoulders. He slumped. Kyachril paused in her circuit.
It was only a single step until he could hold her about the shoulders, and another small one to fit her body into his. Kyachril stiffened, but he didn't care. Kemorabi stuffed his face into her shoulder, he needed to forget how that imposter smelled, tasted, felt. He did not want to taste blood he did not want to kill and ravage. This was not him. A pressure built in his throat. No, he could not cry.
"You'rre rright. Too close. Sorrrry." Kemorabi stopped pulling her close, but he did not quite let go. She would probably want out of the embrace. Tentatively, Kyachril put a hand on his head, over his horns, and pulled him in a bit closer.
They stayed that way until that invisible, intangible wall reasserted itself in Kemorabi's mind. His senses disentangled, and the world became simple again, and he was slow. Suddenly, he had absolutely no energy. He stumbled, although he had not been moving. Perhaps, he can't quite remember, perhaps Kyachril helped him to his cabin, perhaps she got him into the bed and sat on the edge waiting for him to fall asleep.
What he does remember, though, is fetching another blanket when he woke to find her sprawled all over his bunk, shivering in that dress.
"Second, are yyou quite prepared? We are a bit late." Kyachril poked her head into his quarters, uninvited and unannounced.
Slowly, gratingly, he turned and faced her. "Of courrse. I've been rready forr a while." He allowed his feet to trace two, three steps to the door. He let his hand touch hers on the door, not too much. Ra, that was enough for now. When there were other people, then he could react, finally.
"Good." The only way he could tell she hated this as much as he did was that way she clung to his fingertips. She was so hard to read, others wore their emotions all over their squished faces.
Kemorabi pulled her arm closer, putting Kyachril's over his own, in a gentlemanly fashion. His suit did so complement her dress, even if she didn't know quite how to properly wear it. He had tried to give her a few pointers on how to move properly, how to dance lithely like she did when she was training, but she didn't get it. Kyachril kept on walking stiffly and awkwardly.
Hell but that it took too short a time to reach the cruiser. Kyachril went to talk to their pilot, and Kemorabi simply stood where he was left, by the door. His eyes did not leave his own Catalyst, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when the pilot's finger brushed that of Kyachril's. He musn't get too edgy now, only a few more minutes.
When the gentle hum of the cruiser's engine cut, Kemorabi thought he could hear a pin drop. His shoulders wanted to shake and his fingers ached to close around the hilt of his arakh. The loading door started to open, leaving a ramp. Kyachril took his arm again, and they walked down into the waiting crowd.
"Second, yyou are altogether too tense. I don't want anyyone seriouslyy injured here." Kyachril remarked. She let go of his hand, which promptly dropped to the handle of his weapon. He shadowed her every step.
It was late. No nut had yet approached his Catalyst, but it was simply a matter of time. Still he shadowed her. She greets a colonel. He stops over her shoulder, inspecting the colonel for sudden movements. He has his own shadow, and you flick her a brief acknowledgement. She nods back, and the Catalyst parts from the colonel and they move on.
Oh yes, there it was. That smooth dance that did not quite mesh with a crowd's movements. That fluidity. Kemorabi stopped Kyachril with a hand on her shoulder. Pointedly he ignored the dancer, turned slightly away as if inspecting a nearby waitress. Closer he came.
"Kem..." She saw the danger now too, but still he waited. He wanted that man close. Kemorabi would allow another step-- too late, act now.
He had heard that delicate snick and launched himself before his concious mind had processed the drawing of a knife. His senses narrowed, everything the dancer did was bright in his mind against the lull of the gala. The insidious scent of fear mixed suddenly with the movements of determination. Kemorabi's right hand caught the wrist aiming a short dagger at his Catalyst. He recognized the two-layer glint of a poisoned weapon. Some familiar wall in his mind broke.
There could be no thought when your senses overlapped. Kemorabi bent the dancer's arm back, too far, even as the assassin scrabbled for the backup knife. There had to always be a backup knife. The satisfying pop of his shoulder dislocating threw red rings into Kemorabi's eyes and a spicy taste on his tongue. The dancer stopped trying for his other weapon, he simply shook with pain and surprise and it was like a snare drum.
It was over but still Kemorabi wanted to move. He needed to work off this contradiction, this invigorating but inconsistent strangeness. Only just now the molasses generals and the quicker but still slow bodyguards reacted to the entire exchange. He pitied their poor minds with a pity that tasted of pepper and felt like cold wind.
Ah, so this one was good at faking! Kemorabi felt that change in posture, as intimately as he held the dancer's dislocated arm behind his own back. The dancer's good arm squeezed the hilt of another dagger and prepared to gut Kemorabi with it.
Slowly, or at least so in Kemorabi's perspective, he used his left hand to still the dancer's right hand. The assassin rolled the knife in his fingers, attempting to scratch Kemorabi's wrist.
He tired of this subtle game. His instincts screamed at him to rip out the throat of this person who threatened his sworn protected, but another more advanced portion of his brain told him the bureaucracy would be more satisfying in the long run. If he was very lucky, he may even get to do the execution personally.
To the end of causing this assassin further pain and humiliation, Kemorabi let go of the dislocated limb and grabbed one of the dancer's horns. He bent the troll back until he quivered in pain. There could be no faking this. Still the assassin was trying to stab anything in reach with the second knife. With a deft motion, not even looking, Kemorabi relieved him of the weapon and left his hand numb.
He sniffed the blade. Standard issue nerve toxin, simulated a neurotransmitter responsible for muscles movements. Symptoms were convulsions and foaming at the mouth, before death by over-excited heart. Interestingly enough, it was harmless unless it was introduced directly to the bloodstream.
With a smile that showed every single one of his teeth, Kemorabi wiped the blade on the exposed neck of the dancer. The assassin struggled with renewed vigor, making such piteous noises and nearly crying. His back was spasming now, much longer in this position and the muscles would fail. Again, Kemorabi's hind-brain wailed for death and the mixed taste of poison and life's-blood. Again, the fore-brain silenced that cry with promises of drawn-out agony for this prey.
Just then, Kyachril gently touched his side. With a base snarl, Kemorabi could not help but to clutch his prize closer. The dancer could not draw enough breath for a proper scream, but the breathy squeal that issued instead was clear enough.
"Kem. The guards are here to take him awayy." She uncharacteristically left her hand on his back, as if she was trying to pull him back from the assassin. Suddenly, dizzyingly, the world shifted again and his focus centered around his sworn, rather than that meaningless other. Kemorabi was too close to that other, bent over him as he was.
"Yes. Rright." Two waiting guards, a male and a female, slipped a pair of snap-cuffs onto the offender. Kemorabi released the dancer, noting to the female guard that the prisoner's shoulder was dislocated. She nodded, doing absolutely nothing to fix the problem.
Kemorabi realized he needed to breathe. He could no longer smell every twitch of the dancer's skin, and the first scent after being so locked in was nauseating. Thankfully, most of that scent was Kyachril's own special blend of the texture of oil and the sound of a flute. He stood again to his full height, as he had not done all evening. Head and shoulders above everyone in the crowd, he surveyed the gala floor. To his practiced eye, no other slowling moved out of sync with the dance of the banquet. He could relax for a moment.
Kyachril grabbed one of his hands and rubbed it, white and yellow sparks. She guided him back through many halls, some full and others empty, until they were back at the cruiser. She keyed in the opening code, led him into the craft. She was shaking.
"He got too close, Kem. Much too close." She paced back and forth along the upper rim of the ramp. Slowly, oh so achingly slowly, the tension bled from Kemorabi's shoulders. He slumped. Kyachril paused in her circuit.
It was only a single step until he could hold her about the shoulders, and another small one to fit her body into his. Kyachril stiffened, but he didn't care. Kemorabi stuffed his face into her shoulder, he needed to forget how that imposter smelled, tasted, felt. He did not want to taste blood he did not want to kill and ravage. This was not him. A pressure built in his throat. No, he could not cry.
"You'rre rright. Too close. Sorrrry." Kemorabi stopped pulling her close, but he did not quite let go. She would probably want out of the embrace. Tentatively, Kyachril put a hand on his head, over his horns, and pulled him in a bit closer.
They stayed that way until that invisible, intangible wall reasserted itself in Kemorabi's mind. His senses disentangled, and the world became simple again, and he was slow. Suddenly, he had absolutely no energy. He stumbled, although he had not been moving. Perhaps, he can't quite remember, perhaps Kyachril helped him to his cabin, perhaps she got him into the bed and sat on the edge waiting for him to fall asleep.
What he does remember, though, is fetching another blanket when he woke to find her sprawled all over his bunk, shivering in that dress.