They weren’t strangers to verbal discipline. His kind of parenting was far more abrasive, stern, sometimes snapping just as he did but moments before-- so when Osy comes to reprimand them… the girls are not overly sensitive. Little voices do not rise in the typical teenage fashion to argue against what appeared to be sound rationale, no butting in of her words, instead they compose themselves with a quiet dignity and listen with little touches of startlement colouring their expressions.

Insensitivity.

It was one of those traits people got when life exposed you to prolonged isolation, the ability to talk whilst accidentally jarring the other person’s soul with unfiltered opinion. Rois did it on purpose because provocation was fun and entertaining, but by the time Osytha has finished her bout of gentle scolding it is extremely clear that the two kittens hadn’t meant it at all--

“A-Apologies, syr! No… you’re right, yes.” Feliene nods frantically with a beat of a pause to get her thoughts in order, making sure the next sentence is true to feeling, “We… shouldn’t demonize people to uplift others. I just wanted to make you feel better, so I automatically went with that…”

“Farming is a noble job. Without farmers we’d all go hungry, right?” Alaera turns to her sister and gives her a little nudge against the arm in good faith, letting the corners of her lips uplift into a small, quaint smile, “So… it’s almost like, farmers are the unsung heroes of society. Potatoes are super important, after all.”

“Aahhh… sorry, Mr Eldræd, wherever you are!! Thank you for being a shining star of hope in such dark times!!”

It is exclaimed with the tails of dusty-blue hair grabbed in minor exasperation, louder voice rising like a prayer that somehow this stranger would be able to hear afar, and the ‘grandiose fable’ aspect still somehow prevails between them even with the teeth of reality coming to sink into their shared little bubble of mythos and whimsy and tales spun of heroes and villains and magicks and monsters! ‘Peasants definitely aren’t nobodies’, the want to express that line of thinking is strong-- something holds the sentiment back. That something, that particular peasant rises from the ground inexplicable emotion contorting the lines of his outwards visage and a new cigarette in his mouth, differentiated from the last by the coloured band, former but comes to rest evermore in the cruxes of burnt out wood--

“No you don’t.” Grumbled to Osy, “You wanted to talk, so now is the time to talk. You two can help Safya.”

Now that is something they want to argue-- washing dishes was a gross and tedious punishment, was it too harsh a punishment for their uncouth statements?!-- but… they don’t. Guests shouldn’t be washing dishes, even if that isn’t his reasoning; the man has his eyes downturned upon them in a way that keeps their whining locked up within their chests, but it does not stop them from pouting childishly,

“Yes, Crocodile.”
“As you wish.”

… She’d done a good job there, Rois thinks. In the not-so-distant past he himself had loaned her a tale of the well-known suffering that came hand-in-hand with winter and the whims of the greedy upper class, it is not a pleasant memory what-so-ever, but to hear her say it with the dignified strength of someone that understood… it meant something. Quiet understanding. It is what allows the harsh edges of his previously spikey form to soften a touch (plus, the tobacco really helped) amidst the hazy realization that maybe freaking out over things the knight hadn’t said was a little dramatic, jealousy aside-- whatever. The butcher lends his gaze to the scuttling pair as they begin to make off with their unfinished plates and empty glasses, reaches down calmly with both hands to snatch the ends of their wraps for himself (no wasting food!!) and in doing so causes them both to begin to chitter in a bout of pitched snickering; it’s a little unspoken moment that says, ‘no hard feelings between us’.

“Come on, then.” Osytha is spared a head-flick in the direction of his room before stuffing one of the end into his jaws, he needed that hand to cradle the precious box against the span of his chest, and without fanfare begins waltzing off to subject her to the dark innards of a temporary lair... it’d be mostly shadowy within; the curtain only a quarter pulled, its singular shaft of light like heaven-glow as it catches the flitterings of dust amidst the remnants of heavy smoke.
 
Farming? Noble? People on both sides of that particular line would have Opinions on hearing it called such, but Osytha holds her tongue. She knows what the kids actually mean, and their heart is in the right place. That’s what matters.

Gods — now there’s a though. She would pay good money to watch these two try and work a farm. One day. Just one day so she can see how they handle waking up before sparrow’s fart to go muck out some pig-pens, wading knee-deep in cack so foul the stench could bowl a grown man right over. Osytha wonders how ‘noble’ Alaera would find it to reek of pigshit for days on end.

She keeps all that to herself, too.

Well, turns out Fel and ’Era aren’t to be entirely spared from the plight of the proletariat. Osytha has only stacked up Rois’ empty plate with hers when he orders his girls to the scullery. Filly gives them an apologetic look, which she reinforces with an apologetic shrug, and slides the dishes she has over their way. The twins are busy scurrying about for a few moments after that, while Rois is likewise distracted with pilfering their leftovers, and so she’s able to step back and just… watch. For a few moments, she can marvel at this domestic scene and see nothing beyond a simple family unit. Maybe their circumstances are … stranger, than most, and its individual components are admittedly not without their dysfunctions. But the connection between them — there’s the same sort of fond shape one can find in many a home across Khurun.

“Come on, then.”​

And with that, Osytha’s little reprieve is over.

She follows after Rois into his den, away from the foyer where Safya has gladly welcomed in every scrap of morning light the day has to offer. By contrast, Mr Crocodile seems to have deliberately cultivated a blanket of gloom for himself. Not an impenetrable dark; something tempered with just enough a slant of light to make looking at it blinding and at everything else appear as half-seen, vague shapes in the murk. A gloom which is only made more cloying by the persistent fug of cigarette smoke. Maybe a hint of that attar of his, too, clinging to cast-off clothes and bedsheets, and the immured remnants of sweat lingering on the edge. Hell, Osytha wouldn’t be surprised to catch a whiff of brimstone, though you’d be hard-pressed to pick it out from everything else.

Rois’ eyes are a lot easier to follow in here. It takes her own vision a second to adjust, but she quickly finds their dull glow in the dark. Almost seems a trick of the light at first, or some dancing after-image yet to fade away, but no. The longer she looks, the stronger Rois’ shape resolves itself through this darkness, and the more pronounced grows that sullen red shine.

Osytha closes the door behind her, and finds somewhere fairly unobtrusive in which to stand. Or, as best she can tell in this demi-light, anyway.

“I gave it some more thought,” she begins, “and you don’t need to bother making me any promise. I’ll help you. All I’m going to do is ask you a question—”

Osytha’s hands leap up, supplicating Rois before he has a chance to protest over this new pothole.

“—it don’t matter what answer you give,” Filly assures him, “or if you don’t even have an answer. I’ll help you regardless. It’s just… it’s something I feel is worth asking, and I’ll trust you to think it over. For your own sake, and in your own time.

“Is that acceptable?”
 
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The flow of time is a spider-web of choice and consequence steered by diminutive motion, if the clocks tipped backwards and such a scene were to play out under the moonlight of the before-night no doubt the darkness give way to the bristled form of an animal content to sling words like glass with claws high in giddy anticipation; fun could be had. Upon a different stand entirely it is worse, it is confrontation, it is driving her into a corner and radiating with explicit rage. The threat of nails becomes reality, they seek her skin with worrying delight, Osytha is just a woman, a cunt needing to be taught a lesson in the way of pain, an exchange for terror wrought upon the relative peace of their lives…

… But things have changed.

Sure enough Rois is still half shadow and bloodied half-moon eyes till adjustment settles the knights even staring, yes, the little den is comprised of decaying smoke and the denial of light producing a blue-black gloom touched by harsh highlights of white-gold, but it does not feel like a trap. It doesn’t feel like a spot away from innocent eyes to come and toy-- or worse-- with her, it just feels like a room because it’s temporary owner is not occupying the space with any semblance of rage or danger… the smoke box placed upon a desk the spitting image of her own parchment covered one (and the last wrap end meets its demise with a scoff). It contains the black glass of oil attar and its ever-companions, a silver comb touched by thin slivers of discarded red and a circular hand mirror upon a wooden stand. Plucking tweezers and black leather sling-bag, a wooden hinge-box that women kept to organize jewelry within its plush fleece interior lined with tiny jutting pegs. The little array is wonderfully organized as opposed to the mess of the bed, all askew pillows and crumpled up covers dashed lazily to one side-- this is where the large figure decides to perch as Osytha talks, the blazing emotion of the dead fireplace is simmered down by the cooling waters of happiness as the knights admission… not entirely gone of course. It’d probably be a smile Rois wears if he still wasn’t grappling with being pissed off, instead, it manifests as a lilting smirk-- it’s a little playful--

“Ahh… that is good.” Pleasure almost turns rumbling into a purr, the butcher lends those big arms backwards with palms flat against the dipped surface to lean slightly, “I was going to go buy the biggest sword I could today just to piss you off.”

The shameless truth isn’t without a little humour in its incredible pettiness, the notion of him waltzing into the room with a great-sword three quarters of his height with the keen intent to actually use it on people… but. But he does not stop there, the smirk fades a little as eyes slide from the woman’s far-lingering form to let those wide, diamond pupils concentrate on her boots instead.

“I’ve thinking, too… you know, I was only pissed off about your little rules because I figured you just wanted to spar to show off. Get your rocks off beating someone like me easily, because I’d never win.”

An assumption. In the long stretch of the night at some point Rois had come to the conclusion that maybe he was wrong, maybe it was not in Osytha’s nature to do something so… mean spirited. And the morning only bolsters this notion, it now seems inconceivable that that was her intention, even if it seemed so clearly to be the case the night before-- how annoying, he hated being wrong, with a dramatic sigh the butcher lends the bed his back with a ‘harumph’ and lays halfly off of it with outspread arms like a bested child--

“... I will get a trainer, though.” Eyes trace the overhead beams in the way of gnarled wood, “It only makes sense. It will just take me a little longer to find someone to deal with someone like me.”

A double entendre, someone like him, unfairly hotheaded and prone to becoming a bastard the moment he is not instantly good at something, all attitude and outburst… and someone like him, who fears sparing and it’s open ask to strike someone against the head, even if the swords are but wood. The frightening prospect of a metal helm. A trainer that would not begin to freak out if, mid-session, he suddenly fell, would not allow vile words to tint the air with horrid sentiments of disgust, who would not carry those same words to others and cause a network of whisperings to stay away from him. Rois does not sit up. It’s a little easier to keep looking upwards than to allow Filly to see the sublest beginnings of sadness that draw his lips downwards in a frown and spin vibrant reds a little duller.

“Ask away.”
 
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“I was going to go buy the biggest sword I could today just to piss you off.”​

Rois is met with a bark of laughter from out the dark; the wan figure before him, palest of all in the shimmering stripe along her crown, turns her head aside as she pictures that sight. Three-quarters? No, try taller than he is himself. Something that was designed to counter the bristling points of a professional pike-soldier formation, where death could claim you twenty feet before you’ve even reached their first rank. A sword so large you have to carry it sloped against your shoulder like a polearm. They don’t even make sheaths for the things, they’re so big and awkward.

How delightfully Rois, that would have been.

“You still could,” Osytha chuckles. “Not like I can stop you. I just wouldn’t recommend it — zweihänder are a pain in the arse to lug about. I reckon we can find you somethin’ better.”

“I’ve thinking, too… you know, I was only pissed off about your little rules because I figured you just wanted to spar to show off. Get your rocks off beating someone like me easily, because I’d never win.”​

That badger-stripe flashes again as she turns back to Rois. Her eyes don’t give their own light, not like his do, but the whites almost seem to glow regardless. Wide, and glimmering the white gossamer line of a reflected window slit. Osytha’s face is made an ambiguous thing in the penumbra between that searing strip of light and the true, untouched shadows yet lurking about. But her expression is at least clear enough to show that all its humour from before has fled.

“… I will get a trainer, though. It only makes sense. It will just take me a little longer to find someone to deal with someone like me.”​

She stares at the figure spawling himself over his no-man’s-land ruin of sheets and pillows. It feels like something of the fire has left Rois, here, in this moment. Osytha knows what’s happened when she’s forgotten herself before, she knows that reaching out is just asking to get burned again. But when she sees him like this…

“Sorry.” Spoken soft enough to match the dark. “I didn’t mean— ah, fuck. It would have sounded like that, wouldn’t it?” Hands clasp each other; sorrowful little shapes. “I thought… with what you said about understandin’ things through action, I thought if I showed you how much difference a bit of trainin’ makes, then you’d be better able to see how well it would serve you. Or, who knows — maybe you’d have thrashed me, and I could rest easy knowin’ your confidence was justified. I wasn’t about to rule it out.

“Either way. I’ve no interest in doin’ any such thing simply to try’n humiliate you, Rois. Sorry about that.”

Osytha, gently swishing in her skirts, pads over to the bed. Rois feels the mattress buckle at his side as she sits herself down. Props herself up on an arm, and leans slightly toward him.

“By the by… I think you’re sellin’ yourself short.” She smiles for him, a smudge of compassion amongst the other half-seen things. “Sure, you’re a bit prickly. I actually kind of like that. You can be pretty fun company, and all — I mean it. And you’re sharp. Well, also a bit bloody-minded about some things, which is both good and bad. But you’re remarkably… perceptive, even so. Determined, too. Any schirmaister — er, instructor — worth their salt will be glad to work with all that, whatever else comes with the package.”

A foot nudges his, playfully. “Besides. Most of ’em appreciates a challenge, you know? And you’re good at keepin’ people on their toes.”

Except me, Osytha reckons to herself. Gods know why I keep letting my guard down with you. Must be a sucker for punishment, I guess.

Has she seen him look so… so sad as this, before now? Osytha has witnessed his distress, sure; last night at the table, had seen him driven to near-frenzy with pain. Here, he seems to have gone the other way, falling so still with the leaden weight of his feelings. Maybe the poor light is making Rois’ expression into something it’s not, and she’s just imagining things. But her hearing’s as good as ever, and whatever she thinks she can see in his face, she’s even more sure that she noticed it in his voice, as well.

“My question…” Osytha regards the faded twin glows beside her, then, looks away. “… well, it doesn’t matter any more.”

Perhaps it’s one he’s asked himself enough times already. From the look on his face, Osytha could believe it. She simply doesn’t have the heart to go ahead, after seeing that. Rois seems burdened enough already in this moment without her adding to his heavy thoughts.
 
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He isn’t sure why she’s apologizing about an assumption, sure, utterances were the thing that drove it solidly into existence but it was not exactly her fault he thought so lowly of the knight… or, of anyone, really. It was starting to become a little apparent that jumping to the wrong conclusion about people wasn’t always a tried and trusted method when building barricades to halt the progression of the enemy, eventually you’d stumble into scenarios in which you, mud-stained, hauling post-and-sheet with an ever loosening grasp upon splintered materials from dawn to dusk became nothing more than… exhausting. It was a trifle to pretend it wasn’t, but it was always pretend-play. When the torches burned long into the soggy night and the chill fogged your breath and you took a moment to just breathe, the past could be a reminder, you must keep going, or this will be your downfall.

This didn’t feel… like a downfall.

She leans down, he leans up in response a tad on likewise propped arms, all tumbling curls and slightly rounded eyes framed by thick lashes, the glinting of golden jewelry sparkles like star-fall amidst the darkness of night… the closeness does not phase the man. But in that moment, just for a heart-beat, he is compelled to spare the white stripe of her skull a glimpse with boyish curiousity-- it comes before the slightest, smallest puppyish tilting of a head,

“... I know you didn’t mean it. Well, now I suppose I do.” Breathy admission, eyes the shade of sun-touched bluebells unlock from the spire-points of divided red as they dart away to the wall behind her in the usual, explicit avoidance of eye contact.

“You shouldn’t apologize for assumptions, though, or you’ll spend your life doing so. Besides… I am self-aware enough to know how terrible I am at fighting. If you saw, you’d… well. I shouldn’t assume.” Quietly, gently--

Wait.

Distraction-- oh! Oh! He knows that foot thing, remembers a dingy kitchen nestled amongst the marshlands in which a certain Lamb had leant him a foot beneath a rattling table over burnt coffee, he hadn’t understood it then (poor fella had mistaken it for a game, when it was supposed to be…) and didn’t understand it now, people were such silly things. Kicks were violent actions, an extension of a limb to harm or connect with something of force, since when did its softer, gentler version mean…? A call to action? A signal to get up? Or was it really just a playful nudge that was less personal than one that came with your hands, is that why the foot was used, Rois almost loses himself in a bout of silence simply thinking about the motion and decides not to be a hypocrite. No psychoanalysing. No assuming it meant a hundred things in a vague attempt to predict the future, just, take it at face value. It was for the best.

And so, in a sluggish manner akin to a house cat getting ready to hit something with its paw, a titanic arm casts a shadow over her pale visage… a neutral expression… andddd shove.

It is actually a little (lot) more than a shove, because he did not intend to actually ragdoll Osytha-- her body is so solid, there is very little girlish ragdolling in fact, it’s more like pushing a pillar over-- against the bed with a-typical strength, sending her suddenly careening against the covers by way of the opposite shoulder so harshly that the woman actually does bounce off the mattress a touch in a flurry with colour. He should feel a little bad about tumbling her so… but he doesn’t. Actually, the first thing she sees when she composes herself is a wicked grin and playful eyes dancing with amusement, a cackle escapes him,

“Stop complimenting me, I’ll get a big head.” The butcher purrs deeply with the upwards rolling of his eyes, now curved upon his side with the prior motion and assuming the look of lounging lion as easily as he always did. The words are touched by sarcasm-- as if he doesn’t already know he is perceptive and determined and sharp and prickly and big-headed-- but in reality, Rois is simply one of those people who does not know how to deal with people actually being nice to him. Filly was being sincere, what do you do when someone is compassionate and at the very least, acting kind--

I’m… fun company…?

--The man supposes he should say something nice back… but wasn’t that a little fake? Were compliments handed to you simply due to a response call phoney? Easily remedied, little things, baby steps, why did he tell her to stop acting like a damned corpse, it was easier then somehow, words, words and their power, a lip quirk flashes her a single fang in its bashful unevenness… a tentative smile…

“... I thank you, though. And I suppose even if I’m not getting a zwi-handler, it is you who knows best.”

Bashful… him! Worn with the uncertain coyness of a grisly vagabond suddenly subjected to sweetness-- it is immediately wiped clean from his expression as something Rois would not allow himself to display for more than a few seconds, stupid, stupider still is the way the butcher decides to reset himself back to the usual. The familiar sharpness. A silly self tumble upon his front with hands curled up against the tip of his chin, regarding her with the half-liddedness of deviousness as the clean shapes of the yellow bangle gleam bright against rouge,

“I am glad whatever I did or said ruined your awaiting question; I hate suspense.” … The butcher is mostly talking to her legs and the ghastly colours that cascaded over them, a sudden veer in an unexpected direction. Very good at keeping people on their toes.

“Come on then; off with your clothes. Give us a little spin.”

… It doesn’t seem like he has any intention of looking away! Kindness, and kindness in turn, the future, it would come,

“I’m not allowing you to walk about with me dressed like that. I’ll dress you.”
 
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That slow, exaggerated wind-up of Rois’ hand has Osytha a little trepidatious at first. It feels a bit too reminiscent of the tortuous movements from when he’d wrapped her fingers around his throat… and as she watches through a frozen smile now, a part of her honestly has no idea what’s coming next.

Well, it turns out a little rough… but, on the whole, much better than another blitzkrieg grope up her skirts.

Osytha felt some of his strength before with their hug, but she’s still not entirely prepared for the ease with which he topples her over; feels as though Rois pushes her from stock still to terminal velocity in a heartbeat, butterflies in her stomach and everything, and she lands hard enough to whole-body trampoline a few inches right back up again. When she stops bouncing — the majority of her, at least — Osytha pushes up on her elbows and grins anew at Rois’ self-pleased laughter.

“Stop complimenting me, I’ll get a big head.”​

She can’t help but giggle along. And the joke’s so obvious to them both, there’s no need for any retort.

Can’t deny she’s basking in the warmth of her own pride, now, either. Whatever melancholy was creeping over Rois before, it seems like she’s managed to help shake him out of it. Is that… odd? Feeling glad about that? To say he’s given Osytha few reasons to care is a bit of an understatement. The Crocodile Butcher, the man who’d told her every grim, vile thing he’d like done to her… he’s still there, still a very real part of who Rois is. How little reason would he need to finally enact those wishes, even now?

But he’d looked hurt, and Osytha couldn’t bear that. Maybe he doesn’t deserve compassion. That’s fine. She’s already told him she’s not big on giving people what they ‘deserve’. The badger has long since found she prefers giving people what they need, instead. So having the huge man lounged there and purring happily away once more, it makes her happy, too. Simple as that.

“Come on then; off with your clothes. Give us a little spin.”​

Oh.

Well, uh, maybe she spoke a little too soon—

“I’m not allowing you to walk about with me dressed like that. I’ll dress you.”​

O-o-h. That’s what he means? Right. That’s… OK, that’s still a bit iffy. Osytha has to take a little more time to process that, staring back at his lock-swept face from across the bed. A memory of something he’d said last night pops back up in her head, no doubt flagged by current context. What was it again…? Oh, yes: “I was, sadly, born without any sexual desire for others at all.” So — this isn’t actually a proposition? Why had he bothered with hiring a courtesan yesterday, in that case? Then again, he’d seemed just as into the bedspread as the prospect of Osytha’s own body, so, maybe… and she knows he’s not much of a liar, either…

Well. Osytha doesn’t really understand. The idea of a sexless existence honestly sounds like a special kind of hell to her, but such a thing is theoretically possible. At least Rois doesn’t seem too upset by it. And more importantly, it means this really is solely an attempt to fix her wardrobe disaster, if only to avoid catching second-hand embarrassment from being seen in public with her.

“Um. Right.” She sits up; hesitates. “I’ll just, er…”

Osytha finishes swinging her legs off the bed. Stands up and, still faltering some in her movements, takes a couple of steps away. Then she begins to undress.

Shoes get neatly kicked off first. Then comes that horrid apricot surcoat, roughly folded and tossed onto the foot of the bed. Progress slows a little once Osytha hits the kirtle, as she has to untie the sleeves and peel them away, before tackling the side-rear laces of her bodice. She’s briefly swallowed up by the voluminous burgundy folds of her dress when she rolls it over her head, then off, and drapes it over her other cast-off raiment.

This leaves Osytha in but her linen shift and undyed wool hosen. Another moment’s hesitation when her hands go to un-gather the chemise’s neckline. And, as her flesh is slowly bared before the Butcher, with thoughts of that first encounter still swimming in her mind… an odd kind of thought.

“Say… Rois?” Fingers work the final lace, and the neckline loosens enough to slip it off her shoulders. The shift falls away, and she’s more or less naked, save for those hosen anchored to a simple girdle at her waist. “A different question for you.”

That belt comes undone easy. Osytha leans forward to roll those long wool stockings down to her ankles. She’s fairly solid with muscle, that much is clear to see — especially in those well-honed legs and glutes. But their definition is softened by her supple skin, almost becoming lost entirely beneath the padding of her belly, her thighs, and rump.

“If you had the chance,” she presses on, freeing one leg of its wool casing, while her bent-double body reshapes in various ways to the call of gravity. “Um. How… would you eat me? Like — is there a cut you’d look forward to the most? A way of cooking me…?”
 
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He had expected a little protesting.

The sort of arms up, blustered, half-chirped retort many women caught off-guard by such a sudden announcement would resort to, a performance for the ages, oh, the indignity of it all! Out of wedlock, good sir, I have a family, what if they knew? Well… that is what Rois always imagined they’d act like, seeing as the women he usually asked to undress were already well and truly over the gate and heading speedily into pasture with tits swinging before he can even finish the request. They were expecting him to do the same, after all.

Rois watches Filly’s little display with the same heady eyes of a lowly man treated to a private show in a black room, lights fixated upon a languid dancer as she teases away items created with the sole purpose of privacy, in slow motion they find themselves dropped to the ground as metaphors for barriers lifted… except, all he is innocently thinking is,

Why are there so many layers?

Why are there so many layers, what could they possibly be for…? To hold form, as under armor, as fashion statements for whoever awaited their hedonistic release, because what was the point if they weren’t to be seen…? Why was the top part and the dress not one? Why was everything laced, was it the kinky sort of lace designed to be caught against fingers feverishly searching for their ends or the tightening kind those of a heavier set wore, she was not of a heavier set, so…? Was there a world where a kinky Filly existed, a slave to baser desires of the odd sort?! Perish the thought, shove that entirely away, it could not be so for as much as he knew. For a long moment the idiot is actually just staring at every item she removes in wonderment for its purpose besides the obvious, culminating in the simplistic girdle curled about her belly. Osytha bathes in the puzzlement of unanswered questions and he in turn would not be amiss with a giant ‘?’ above his head at the woman’s choice of under-attire--

“That’s a little un-sexy, you know.”

A sharpish head-nod to the hosen with a bout of seriousness that rouses the giant from the bed with the easiness of a being true to his word-- as the butcher often and wholeheartedly was-- she is not subjected to the callous pouncing of a beast ensnared in the throes of lust, no change of tone, no little mockery nor compliment of flesh, just easiness. Casualness. Rois has moved because he has yet to consult his wardrobe, of course for even a stay of the shorter kind it had to come with him, the large box of furled leaves and pretty iron cross-hatch upon its doors is opened cooly to regard the plethora of materials within in neutral shades outshone by the odd streak of blazing red… and that is where the man would have stayed, if she hadn’t had asked that--

“... You don’t know how many people ask me that question.”

Surprise is displaced by a sneaky rumbling, the kind that lead words rolling off of his silky tongue with non-sexual pleasure. A different kind of want. The kind that did not come easily to men and women alike, eyes like semi-precious stones catching the glint of her harsh spotlight roll away from the excess of fashionably to her--

To be looked at as not a person.

To be looked at by the animalistic slits of a great beast glowing with the desire to slather your skin with drool as it tested pointed teeth against your tender skin, to feel the puncture ooze and drip blood about the winding of your natural shapes, blessing every clean spot with the impurity of such a prohibited act. Consideration. Bright-white stretches of taught skin and strong muscles wound against sturdy bone, the intimate flashes of blue veins like spring trails against the blue earth, there one moment, gone with movement. A curled hand to lips as the silence stretches and the predator keeps her pinned upon the spot unblinkingly, there was a gentle fullness every woman carried in their lower-halves that were delectable when flushed pink and Osytha was no different, one could imagine a thumb press against the crux of her thighs and pelvis to sink, but not too far; there was substance there. The give of hard work rewarded by way of a delicious thickness that he knew would be coated by the non-selfish kind of fat, the golds of natural leanness, the sizzle in a pan sort of-- suddenly, an admission.

“I’ve worked many different jobs in my life, but sadly I’ve only ever been good at two of them-- the one I have now, and the one I held the longest before turning into an affront to nature itself. Just another man-whore in a brothel, but I was a very popular man-whore.”

Chuffs the ex-prostitute suddenly with a feral grin and a side-step, to get another angle of her form, higher now, rib-press with every breath, those curled bones were not the bird-like kind that kissed skin because of thinness… elegant arches giving away to the firm press of an inviting belly slope that promised the bump of abdominal muscle, lulling into the soft ravines of a pelvic dip that he (mindfully) does not spare much consideration.

“After I became part Shroud-fiend, after I stopped brothel-work, people would ask me that question… as if they wanted me to return to those days, as if inviting me to do something true to my perceived nature. Sexual fantasy. They always expect the answer to be ‘raw’. Sometimes I take up that invitation, if I’m fucking them and they have a thing for pain.”

The 'how would you eat me' question always-- in his experience-- stems from some sort of muted, fantastical sexual desire, hence the brothel confession... maybe 'kinky Filly' wasn't such a far-away thought after all. Hands meet her now-naked form; gentle claw-take at the underside of her arm to lift it for examination, sun-light strikes her unblemished skin like lightning glow in the softest have of orange. Nails are never invasive, they never threaten to harm or delve too deep against precious flesh, but their tips are felt in the way of this subtle pressure with an unmistakable drag as the limb is turned ever so slightly-- his expression has turned neutral, clinical, investigative. And he makes sure first and foremost not to be too close, the perks of being large and having an arm-span like that is that these actions could be performed a little away from the body the part is attached to,

“But even if I am known to bite, I get no pleasure from causing people pain.” A murky chuckle with eye-lines dragged to her shifting throat, the echos of a pulse… Rois makes no attempt to hide the way his pointed, shimmering tongue slides against those thick, dangerous teeth. “I do prefer people dead, but there are occasions… and if they are still warm…”

… Only a slightly suspicious statement.

“Before rigor sets in, but after is good, too; I'd eat you. I think you’d lend yourself well to the carving rack with a little resting. Top of the arms to the elbows, pelvis to knee, thin cuts like wafered ham or long cutlets, not dissimilar to bacon. You have a low body-fat ratio, it’s the perfect kind of meat for searing or sealing.”

The butcher doesn’t know what she wants to hear… this is simply what she’d get for the effort of asking, and it isn’t sexy. It isn’t tainted by pleasure. This is food-talk, and she is food--

“... A little too lacking for flank steak, you’d be better as a pan-roast; old fashioned glass and a vegetable bed to soak up all the moisture. I’m an enjoyer of calf and I’d probably steal rib-skin to wrap it off as to not detract from the thigh cut, then steam it with garlic butter…” A little rub of his chin in thought, “I’d imagine your organs are 'clean'. Liver and heart is better raw, but I’d lend the rest of you to slow-boil in your own blood… sort of like a black stew. Just a lot thicker. The meat of your lower arms and strips off your back would be stuffed into the casing of your intestines for sausage, probably ground up with the rest of the offal, I prefer to pepper and spice that lot. No-one likes to eat heads. Heads are terrible.”

Ew, eyes! Ew, ears! Ew, hair!

“As for my favourite… it is a little typical that I enjoy the thighs most of all,” Comes the sullen sigh, as if this is a great disappointment, “Rump is always fatty in the soft way and I like to chew on things, so after your femur removal I’d stuff the space left with soaked bread-crumbs and go a little barbaric with the spit, medium-rare. Crispy outside is always better.”

Why hasn’t he stopped talking.

“And then for the finale I’d suck out your marrow and swallow down your bones like a starved dog. The other pieces not mentioned I do not bother with unless I am dangerously hungry, like feet and hands,” Rois pulls a face of displeasure, “Or cannot be sold… like feet and hands, but also the skull and the throat. Everything else would be burned… and you’d be no more.”

A curled hand meets his hip before the poor naked girl subjected to his performance of almost giddy words and sparkling eyes of great interest-- and there is one question still unanswered. He obliges Osytha to save her the trouble of bringing it up, voice suddenly humorously flat,

“... And if you’re wondering about how I worked in a brothel, let it be known that the wonders of herbal medicine still flourish to this day.”

Incredible.
 
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“That’s a little un-sexy, you know.”​

Osytha follows his gesture toward the tan hosen dangling from her hand. Not the well-fitted, fine, colourful long stockings so valued by nobles wishing to show off the fine form of their calves (and, admittedly, the kind Osytha also wears when in her knightly attire). These are simple peasant’s hosen — more like baggy potato sacks for one’s legs.

“I know?” Osytha looks a little bemused by the statement, like someone has just said that her shoes make for poor sewing needless. “They en’t s’posed to be sexy,” she adds, laying them atop the rest. They’re s’posed to be… warm…”

Her voice trails off upon seeing the way he’s looking at her. His back now to the wardrobe, hand lifted in thoughtful pose over mouth, and his eyes — unblinking. Cold, appraising points of crimson through the gloom. For a while there, he’d simply been… Rois. A bit of an arsehole, nicotine-dependent, awkward with intimacy, and all very human. But then Osytha asked her question, and now, she can see he is back. The Butcher.

Osytha has encountered exactly one crocodile in her life: a derpy, taxidermied abomination that was part of a university museum’s collection. But, even knowing that the real thing is much more fearsome, the comparison doesn’t truly do justice to that hungry stare in front of her.

Oddly, though… while his eyes make their thoughts clear enough, Rois doesn’t start with the answer to her question. Not exactly. As the hulking shape prowls slowly around her, considering her flesh from different angles, he begins with an admission.

A brothel? Osytha wonders.

Well, she really oughtn’t be surprised. Before all this, Rois had been one of the dispossessed masses, so impoverished that his first taste of human meat had nothing at all to do with the Shroudfiend. People in that situation resort to sex work all the time in order to get by. It’s a tale at least as old as the history of man itself. Gods… how old had Rois been when he’d had to—

“I do not want to be pitied…”​

—She stops that thought there, before it can really soften her expression. Rois probably doesn’t want to be seen that way; as some powerless wretch barely scraping by. He’d done what he had to to survive. There’s no shame in playing the shit hand you’ve been dealt rather than just folding. Besides, it’s a bit premature on Osytha’s part to jump into feeling sorry or angry about it on the man’s behalf. She doesn’t know a thing about it yet.

The confession certainly hasn’t left him looking troubled for it. He’s smiling now, is Mr Crocodile, and it’s not an especially nice one to be on the receiving end of. He seems quite pleased at whatever he’s seeing in her chest, down the sweep of her stomach. Osytha is treated to a small display of those too-keen pearly whites, with an inhumanly large canine tucked at the corner. An image from the day before appears before her mind’s eye, of that jagged, red-weeping circle perforating the poor girl’s belly.

“After I became part Shroud-fiend, after I stopped brothel-work, people would ask me that question… as if they wanted me to return to those days, as if inviting me to do something true to my perceived nature. Sexual fantasy. They always expect the answer to be ‘raw’. Sometimes I take up that invitation, if I’m fucking them and they have a thing for pain.”​

Osytha goes stiff. She watches Rois with fresh wariness as he steps in closer. His form swims through that beam of glaring sun through the gap in the curtains, first lighting up the warm bronze hues of his hand, followed by a brief, blinding flash off his gold bangle. She blinks away the pulsing after-image, only to feel his talons close around her arm in her moment of blindness. Not pressing hard — simply enough to guide it up and turn, slightly, for closer inspection under the light, while his black claw-tips prick gently against her skin. And yet Osytha can’t avoid remembering what he’d said before, about having the strength to tear people apart limb from limb.

If ever there was a time for him to try…

However, that thought isn’t the real cause for her sudden uneasiness. What’s truly got her feeling uncertain is the way Rois has decided on answering her question — framing it as some sort of sexual fetish. And for a moment there Osytha is worried that he’s going to make things weird.

So, she visibly relaxes when he veers away from that direction, and instead answers the way she’d hoped for.

Arm and thigh meat, sliced so thin as to be nearly translucent, or nice and long like bacon — if he threw that in a pan, would he need to add any oil, or would she cook nicely in her own fat? Flesh seared or sealed… like when the outside cooks so well it almost caramelises, wonderfully browned, rich with little crunchy black flecks. Not enough on her belly for proper steaks. But, Osytha notes with some pride, worth roasting over vegetables (ee by gum, but it’s hard to beat a good roast). Big hunks of potato, onion, maybe parsnip and pompion, all cooking up nicely in her juices. Calf is a little harder to imagine, although the addition of a bit extra skin and garlic butter sounds pretty good, she must admit. Then Rois goes into her organs, and while she’s not eaten raw flesh herself, she’s gralloched enough beasts that she can at least picture the texture of heart and liver. As for stewing the rest in her own blood? Osytha respects that choice, being a fan of the old black pudding and schwarzsauer herself. He’d even put her guts to use for sausage casings. Throw them in the pan with that ‘bacon’, maybe?

Hah! she crows, internally. You weren’t good enough to be used for half of that, were you, Gilles? How d’you like them apples, eh?

Nothing from the head, though. Apparently, people don’t lend themselves well to brawn.

“As for my favourite… it is a little typical that I enjoy the thighs most of all. Rump is always fatty in the soft way and I like to chew on things, so after your femur removal I’d stuff the space left with soaked bread-crumbs and go a little barbaric with the spit, medium-rare. Crispy outside is always better. And then for the finale I’d suck out your marrow and swallow down your bones like a starved dog… Everything else would be burned… and you’d be no more.”​

“… And if you’re wondering about how I worked in a brothel, let it be known that the wonders of herbal medicine still flourish to this day.”​

Osytha finds herself nodding along. Mostly to his closing statements on her culinary worthiness, though she also spares a moment to puzzle out what he means by ‘herbal medicine’. Given his insouciance for the ‘act’, presumably he’s talking about something to get his tent-pole pitched.

“The haunch is a classic for good reason,” she remarks. “Spit-roasted to get that nice cracklin’, plus a bit of stuffin’ too? That sounds mighty fine, have to say.” Osytha looks up into the gleeful, bandage-wrapped, yet handsomely cruel visage twinkling back at her from the other side of the light. “Gosh… even the bones? Kind of flatterin’ that you’d want to use up so much of me.”

A thoughtful expression crosses her face. Once again, something Rois has said leads Osytha into another question.

“What about genitals?” she asks. “Lamb fries is pretty common back home, and deer testes are somethin’ of a delicacy. You much care for cock and balls? Or, not really to your taste?”
 

Oh, yes; she is totally into it.

‘Kind of flatterin’ that you’d want to use up so much of me’, how else was that-- and the plethora of thought given into the description of her own death-- supposed to be taken, as a normal beat of interest, as a run-of-the-mill slew of ideas that naturally occurred to people not possessive of a horny mind in the moment…? Poor simple people and their greedy desire for masochistic thought to be willingly dragged into a world where mere thought could not harm, but action could. Action could burst skin into a smear of beautiful colour fringed in heated red, yawning holes of pink and yellow and scraping white, tendons pulled up taught and snapped, broken globs of segmented fat, veins like wires stripped…

… Ominiously, and seemingly out of nowhere, Rois chuckles a little to himself.

Her face…! All screwed up with pain, all kicking legs and ghostly white, even if a scream was bitten down and Filly tried to see the brink of whatever training as a knight would take her too they never really understood… the unconscious reaction to cannibalism. The things that could not be tempered by weights or running or subjecting oneself to any matter of torture, the body had a mind of its own. It did what it wanted when suddenly missing a gaping part of itself, when feeling the breeze gently touch at things never meant to be seen… it's what made it all so interesting to watch. The lack of control spiralling out of ones grip after a perceived steadfast grasp upon it.

“Careful, Filly. You’re seeming like you enjoy this topic a little too much.” Comes the quiet (yet light-hearted!) muse, it isn’t quite a threat… and the man makes it clear the subject isn’t a touchy one, it’s just, she seemed to him to be a little wanting of-- “And yes, even the bones… bones are wonderful for teeth like mine.”

A gentle and innocuous turn to the awaiting cupboard, when stretched further its grand doors reveal the distinct sharp image of a mirror screwed against its innards, he is dutifully searching within one of the little segmented side cubes in order to bring something familiar forth. It is not the scratchy hemp of the poorer kind of blindings working women used to (gladly) deprive themselves of swampy underboobs, it is thicker, whiter, clean, brushed cotton lengths that would no doubt be familiar to her in its pricier form--

“Bind yourself.” Rois hands over with a tepid thrust, not needing to tell Osytha not to suffocate herself by drawing them too tight. He had them because ‘runners nipples’ was a blight upon barrel-chested men who took pride in routine jogging, and unfortunately for he, his damned tits were often subjected to the horrid chaffing as much as women were. An inward twinge comes at the remembrance of such horrid pain.

“... I am not a fan of genitalia.” … The butcher says this so tonelessly and openly it would almost be funny, if it wasn’t followed by the disgust that twists his expression following, “Human genitalia that is, animals have fur and fur is easily parted from skin. But pubic hair…? You either leave it on and let it burn and ruin the taste, or you sit there and pluck out every hair. I do not eat people for pleasure, remember. By the time I’ve sat there plucking some bastard’s balls or some woman’s muff I could have literally eaten anything else less hairy. Something with actual meat.”

There is an extreme effort not to say something very inappropriate in the moment, especially as Osytha is right there with all of herself out, but thankfully (for the knights sanity) it is swallowed down with a a dash of mental turmoil to not to be his usual crass self as that scurrying attention fixates upon his wardrobe once again. Things are being pulled out from clothing rack top, its bottom, investigated and returned, a little moment at the side again and then a soft gasp, oh, that, thank the heaven’s, he’d almost thrown it out-- with her chest now bound in white the fashionista is free to dress her as he sees fit, quite literally shoving something over her head… something soft. Something that feels expensive, and yet… there is a prevailing theme of no real importance, but interesting none-the-less.

That attire he wore in that very moment and the vast majority of this specific slice of his grand collection, were all almost entirely plain. The courts of the north saw themselves fit to demand attention with every colour under the sun from the simplest of yellows to the richest and rarest of blues, like walking stained-glass works they sought to dazzle with ruffles and pompous top-puffed trousers, stripes one place, circles another, gold inlays and silver fleur-de-lis in organized chaos; but this was not the way in the east. Overt pattern and colour were deemed appropriate for ceremony alone, weddings, funerals, rites and worship, though some of the nobility afar were absolutely taking notes out of westerly books on how to look like the jumbled mess of a painter’s smear-board many still retained tradition. Colours were not just colours. They represented regions, different patterns were heritage in the same way that kilts were but they were not every-day things to be covered in, they were flashes of meaning (by way of scarf, head or waist band, or against the hem of shirts and upon the tails of dresses) resting against the simple-cleanness of single-shades for the common folk. It was seen as ‘modest’.

And the articles of his gallery were styled like common-folk wear… but they were not composed of the same stuff, because Rois wished to seem modest himself. Great for blending in whilst knowing you could afford to be comfortable, not settling for the nastiness of peasant fabrics. Despite his uncoordinatedness in clothing Osytha, the shirt dragged over her head was gentle-feeling against her skin, composed of the luxury of blended cotton and silk, high thread-count, it’s large because he is large but it is easily rectified. Rois is purposefully slow and careful whilst maneuvering the woman (to avoid accusations, no doubt), black shirt with white mosaic trim goes past her waist in almost a half-skirt, the cut of the V is low (as all things ‘him’ were) but if she personally felt it displayed the groove of her cleavage too much it could simply be buttoned up. No collar, just the kiss of more hand-woven detail at either side of its neck line, hypnotic flowers in sharp squares. The process of shortening it all comes by the way of, what would to him, be wrist cuffs-- upon her they are lower arm bands in rich, oiled leather, pulled tight against the silver buckle enough to give the span of fabric before a slight puff as the ends of the shirts arms finally come against her wrist instead of flowing over fingers in its length.

And such top-wear isn’t supposed to keep you warm in its light, feather-touch breeziness… but it was a good thing the sun was in the dying throes of summer outside!

Similar glossy leather is wound carefully about her waist, pulled very taught-- realizing it was a little too tight in the way it forcefully squeezes the air out of Osytha’s lungs-- and then relaxed before a continued wrapping. The tied belt had a million names across the east, from the far-isles of spirits to the dryest of deserts, this one in particular is specifically plain due to the fact such sashes are usually fabric and not leather, and leather should always be noise-less…. another custom thing to add to the list. No snake-skin here! Though the thought of picking her up and forcing her into the pants makes the idiot want to chuckle a little, he hands her the sarouel pants possessing of a single white strip of henna-like floral design climbing upwards upon the side,

“These… might actually fit you.” The male admits with a sigh, the kind of exaggerated one that states wordlessly that what he was about to utter wasn’t really a bad thing, “I can’t wear them any more because my ass got too fat. But if they sag a little on you, they have a draw-chord.”

Indicated by the little black rope at the top snaked about the hem; he did not have the hips of women, it should lend them to come a little higher upon her… a step back. An inspection. Not done, but before the later half of this little game, a surprising thing to note is how clean it all smelled. The cigarette smoke could barely be parsed amongst the thin yet lingering scent of lavender, put against wash-board by a bath woman somewhere and scrubbed diligently with fatty soap,

“For the shoes… there isn’t any way to help you in that regard.”

Unless Osytha wanted to look like she was wearing clown shoes.
 
“But pubic hair…? You either leave it on and let it burn and ruin the taste, or you sit there and pluck out every hair.”​

Osytha spares an upward glance from her efforts with the chest-wrap. “That so?” she marvels, before tucking her chin down and making the final pass. “You know, I learn all sorts of fascinatin’ things from hangin’ out with you. Add that to your list of strong points — you’re a font of unconventional wisdom.”

Deft fingers quickly work the end knot and tuck; girl is no stranger to wearing a strophium, it practically being a necessity with her normal knight’s garb and knight’s activities. Osytha’s not aware of too many men who keep a length on hand for this purpose… but then again, Rois’ plunging neckline does a good job of revealing what the man has to work with, so she can understand his pain somewhat.

“I, uh, wouldn’t say I’m enjoyin’ the thought, exactly,” she explains, looking up just in time to see Rois approach with the first piece of outerwear. “More like ‘morbidly curious’… oh hey, easy, tiger—!”

Rois drags the big black shirt over her head with little regard for her protests. Blunt as he is, however, he’s not actually rough as such; simply gives Osytha little choice in the matter of having her limbs manoeuvred and being turned about, the way one might adjust a mannequin or play with a (perhaps slightly fragile) doll. Blackness consumes her vision for just a second before her head slips through the ample neckline, and its bagginess helps her… well, helps Rois… slip her arms through its voluminous sleeves.

It feels nice. Osytha doesn’t have the same aversion to ‘peasant fabrics’ as Mr Crocodile there, and she lives her life in near-persistent contact with coarse linens and scratchy wools. Cotton is an infrequent visitor upon her skin, and as for silk, she and it are near complete strangers entirely. This cloth, however, whispers over her like a refreshing breeze, light as the air. And it’s nicely scented, too. Just because clothes have been laundered doesn’t always mean they smell like roses; if the poor use any soap at all, it’s likely to be the stinky soft black stuff. This shirt doesn’t whiff of that. It whiffs, quite pleasantly, of lavender.

Her eyes follow Rois as he applies the armbands. “Um. Thank you.” She lifts her arms for him when he next moves onto the belt. “This is… it’s a good sark, I can tell that much. Definitely a bit nicer than I’m used to.”

No surprises there, I’ll bet, Osytha reckons.

“ These… might actually fit you. I can’t wear them any more because my ass got too fat. But if they sag a little on you, they have a draw-chord.”​

She catches the flung dacks — it’s not hard, there’s plenty to grab onto — and holds them against herself to gauge the fit. They’re long, of course. But low-seated, so if she undoes the leather belt, she can bring them up a good way. And they probably won’t fall past her ankles since they’ve got that tapering like Rois’ do. Oh, hey, guess they kind of match!

“Tell me about it,” she laments, stuffing her sturdy legs through her new kegs. “I’m allus packin’ on the pounds, only to lose them again in the field. My good hosen never seem to quite fit above the knee.”

Thank goodness for braies, is all she can say. Talk about room to expand.

And there. With the help of that drawstring, Osytha’s got a somewhat baggy, but comfortable, fit. While she reapplies the tall leather belt around her waist, Filly takes a little longer to appreciate her new look. Has to admit… she likes it. It’s comfy (for the current weather) and easy to move around in. The black feels pretty stylish, but those white floral motifs and geometric designs add some nice flare, plus, it prevents her from looking like she’s dressed for a funeral. Also, while there’s definitely some roominess going on with the fit, that belt’s doing wonders to accentuate her hips. Not to mention what this deep v-neck is showing off. Osytha’s in two minds about that one; perhaps Munas Kuvak isn’t the best place to flaunt those particular assets… but then again, she never really seems to get the chance elsewhere. Might be nice to embrace something different while she can.

Osytha opts for aesthetics in the end, leaving the top few buttons undone.

“I’ll just make do with my brogues,” she muses, regarding her feet. “At least they match the rest of the leather… pretty much…”

Then, Osytha looks up, and she has an impish grin for Rois when her eyes meet his. Her arms come up slightly at her sides, held straight, while she sets her weight over to one foot — and with that, she gives him that twirl he asked for. Spinning slowly around so he can get a proper look in. Gracefully, too, with nary a wobble as she completes the turn and faces him once more.

“What’s the verdict? Am I lookin’ presentable yet?”
 
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“You know, I learn all sorts of fascinatin’ things from hangin’ out with you. Add that to your list of strong points — you’re a font of unconventional wisdom.”​

“That is because you live in a different world.”

He is no position to chastise the knight for her want of freedom regarding the chest area; it would be hypocritical and somewhat controlling to tell the woman that maybe it was a better idea not to bare cleavage to the feral animals outside that would kill for a bite. That, and, Osytha actually seems delighted to be welcomed by the touch of luxury against her skin, the beings in their Heavens could testify that he knew something about the switch from the every-day scratch and itch of hard-wearing cloth meant to last long versus the silken treads of items that veered in the exact opposite direction; not fit for battle, but this was no battlefield! Rois pauses to consider her little twirl and would not give Filly the answer as to whether she looked presentable or not yet (and why was the stupid woman asking in the first place, did she not know?)-- not done. A hop-skip over to the old-wood jewelry box in its long, rectangular presence upon the desk, a careless flip, something instinctually tells the butcher she does not have her ears pierced but there were other places that needed furnishing,

“You live in the world everyone else lives in; I did not choose to abstain from society, but I do not regret it, either.” The sentiments towards epilepsy had barred him entry from the ‘normal’ world a long, long time ago… and it was better to revel in where you were rather than wish to return. Rois’s tone is simple, matter-of-fact, “I do not condemn your curiosity, I was just wondering what its cause was. I think… it would be nicer if more people took leaps into the unknown.”

A bark of laughter as something is dragged up from the box…

“Though, I doubt most would take it as well as you.”

The winding silver of a thin-snake chain bare of ornament, stones and smithed charms weren’t his style (and were very much for women), the fashion in which she wore her hair served to make adorning Osy’s exposed throat with the cooling touch of the pure metal easy as it skirted stark collar bone and sat just above. Even with nails like his the clasping is effortless-- it hadn’t always been, raising girls had made it so-- and it is not alone in its prettiness. It belonged to a set. Now, this was a little harder than the rest of her, tits? Fine. Ass? Fine. Entire vag out? No problem. But there was something about grasping people’s hands that makes him visibly stop for a moment to ponder them, it doesn’t halt his intent whatsoever, but someone’s hands represent something that make the butcher… uneasy? Shy? Whatever it was is quickly rectified, gentle claw pluck takes them with the softness of a cat’s paw, barely brushing, barely holding, her wrists are being ensnared one by one by duel bracelets to match their larger sister above at her neck.

“Almost…”

One last thing.

Once again raising girls has helped him in this aspect as well; without a care in the world those braids which she had put so much effort into styling… undone. Twist by twist, Rois treats her head as if he would his little spoilt babies, unwinding each lock with grace as they tumble from their halo’d hold against her crown to meet shoulders below, nail-point like comb, until the length of Osytha’s hair is entirely and utterly free like the rest of her in its loose, wave-like glory. A pause. A slow circle. Silence marks consideration and the gathering of thoughts.

… She’s lost about five years of her age. Shackles composed of taut lace and stiff undergarment have been stolen away from her to leave something-- someone-- new in it’s place, finally, Rois thinks (but wouldn’t dare say aloud) Filly looks like less of a stiff, cookie-cutter girl blending in with the rest of the hags roaming around in their diligent efforts to spurn attention and more like… a woman. Less like a knight, the power was not gone, it was simply hidden by divine femininity. It is just as her stony facade had come unravelled by familiarity, now, physically, swaths of fabric were both lifted from her muscles in mystery in some spots yet so snug against others to be true to the flow of the woman’s shape, dusty-blue eyes framed by dark wisps of a lengthy fringe, those very loose furls only adding to the curves of sun-lit cheeks. Shirt-skirt flared softly outwards by the breadth of hips, the dip of her throat silver-touched, herself first, her job, second. And Rois had known she was pretty before, but daresay now, reveling in the beauty of non-gaudy wealth and touched by the glowing warmth of that half snared window, in all his clinical thought he’d note that she had unexpectedly become… beautiful.

The desk is addressed one last time with the clink of bottles; he isn’t in possession of many oil-scents that are befitting a woman, but there is one that sprang to mind as suiting Osytha perfectly… black bottle, Suldazan writing, once open he’d lend a thumb to the bottle turned upside down and regard her with the squinted eyes of concentration and consideration-- hand comes forth, slides against the length of the good lady’s neck gently, one side than the other. The light, mint-kissed smell is petrichor. Solemn woods sparkling with the aftermath of cooling rain now reveling in a warming sun, earthen, natural, familiar. The butcher had been stoic in his attention throughout the entire ordeal, lips set in a firm, neutral line, but now his masterpiece was finished Rois allows himself a devilish smile with split pupils like swords through fire, bottle closed and abandoned with its friends in the desks heart he eagerly turns to the closet and with a lazy push sends its door creaking open… till the mirror is bared. Till it captures her entirely. He is seen like a shark lurking behind in his purposefully slow wandering, red eyes against red hair, garnet gleam--

“... Is she familiar…?”

The question given to her is introspective, it asks for contemplation. It is not just the dressing-up of another... it feels to him like phoenix rising from the ashes; but the man would give a pretty penny for her thoughts upon the change.
 
“I do not condemn your curiosity, I was just wondering what its cause was. I think… it would be nicer if more people took leaps into the unknown. Though, I doubt most would take it as well as you.”​

No, probably they wouldn’t. Then again, Osytha always has been a bit of a queer duck. Those attracted to the order often are. And perhaps it is an obvious question to ask, but still — there’s only one person who can actually answer it. Better to hear it from the horse’s mouth, than project her own imaginings onto him.

Osytha feels the pressure of his huge form shifting, carefully, behind her. Finely-manicured hands descend on either side of her vision, and suspended between them, a delicate silver thread which twinkles with second-hand sunlight. Cold metal snakes around her throat, though it warms quickly from her skin. Not as quickly as Rois proves with his hands; long fingers deftly bite the ouroboros down upon its own tail, adjusting the drape just so. Perhaps those black claws of his are a nuisance in some ways, but goodness, they must lend themselves well to finicky jobs like this. As they work so carefully against her flesh, Osytha finds herself wondering what other fiddly, minuscule tasks he’s developed a knack for.

Feeling how gentle Rois’ hands are right now, it reminds of another man from long ago. Funny. Their eyes are almost the same colour too. And yet, so different…

He steps around in front of her and, still with that feather-light touch, lifts Osytha’s wrists up enough to begin slipping matching silver bracelets over them. His eyes are fixed downward on the task, but Filly finds her own gaze breaking away from his manoeuvring fingers, upward past the pale open shirt and loose shawl draped over broad, looming shoulders, where the cotton’s silhouette burns with a white corona from the window light. Further, along the meaty curve of Rois’ neck, to his downturned face. She lingers on the little furrow between his angular brows, those creases perhaps delved out by concentration. That same tension showing ever-so-slightly elsewhere, too, in a certain tautness to the bevelling of his broad, curling mouth, and a narrow set to his thickly-lashed eyelids.

It’s strange to know this is the same man who’d once gleefully teased her with the hard iron of a cleaver, still slick with gore from the cadaver she’d just watched him butcher. The same man who’d let her fearful imagination run rampant in the hopes of evoking a response — to give him an excuse to use that savage blade as more than just a prop for his threats. Osytha believes part of him would enjoy it still, even as they become less and less strangers to one another.

Were Rois the type to enjoy hurting others purely for the entertainment of it, then she wouldn’t be here taking a chance on him. But she thinks there’s something deeper to it. She’s fairly sure that the world hurt him first. Badly, and over and over again. Maybe those scales have been weighed so heavily against him for so long, that paying back the pain only seems fair. Maybe it feels like vindication to him; like the closest he’ll ever get to justice. Maybe it’s just how he’s been taught to understand the world. The same way a dog who’s been ‘trained’ with kicks and beatings will learn to lunge at anyone who comes too near. Because experience says people will only ever want to hurt him, so, better that he bite them first.

It doesn’t make him less dangerous. Doesn’t make his fangs any less painful. But if the reason for his vitriol is something like that, it makes all the difference in the world to Osytha.

“Almost…”​

Rois slips behind her once again. More delicate, considerate handiwork tugs at her scalp as he undoes her compact braids. He doesn’t rush. His pace matches to the demands of her hair, expertly unwinding her locks, sharp nail-tips teasing between her strands to unfurl a snarl here or there. And when he’s done, he circles the fruit of his labours in a thoughtful silence. Osytha dares say he looks satisfied enough — but he isn’t quite finished. A bottle of scent is procured, and when it’s opened, she catches something unexpected. Unexpected, but not unfamiliar. Somehow, the parfumier has caught the smell of autumn’s first rains across summer-scorched soil; that heady, earthen, almost woody aroma that anyone would recognise in an instant. How curious, thinks she, as the attar is stroked down either side of her neck, her muscles there subtly twitching like piano strings beneath her tickled skin. The scent is quite different from her favoured citrus aromatics, yet, she doesn’t mind it at all.

That’s when Rois is finally done with her. He crosses to the wardrobe, smoothly swinging its door open to reveal a tall silver mirror set on its inside… and, reflected within it, Osytha.

Or at least, she presumes that’s the person looking back at her.

“… Is she familiar…?”​

She stares.

Some relevant context: Osytha rarely gets this clear a picture of herself. Large, good-quality looking glasses like this are an opulence she’s largely lived without; at best, she’s made do with those calm rain-puddles Rois had compared her to, or little handheld mirrors of bare metal, cloudy things which tarnish like buggery. So it’s always a little jarring to see herself so perfectly like she does now. A sight made all the stranger by how little of it she does recognise.

Osytha walks up closer, until her counterpart is filling the mirror from top to bottom. She turns to one side, then the other, inspecting her silhouette in this unfamiliar raiment with its fabric so light it ripples and reforms at every movement. A hand rises slowly up to touch the necklace at her throat, silver bracelets glimmering in sympathy there as well. She’s stricken with the realisation that she hasn’t worn jewellery before. Is… that right? Ribbons in her hair when she was younger, and a tiny chrysanthemum pin to mark her allegiance, which doesn’t really count, especially since she’s always keeping it hidden away. But actual jewellery? No. The only rings she’s ever worn have been the coat of mail variety.

Hasn’t seen herself with her hair down much, either. It bears a few extra twists and coils left over from its former braiding, so her wavy locks spill around her face in lazy helices, down across her shoulders and along her back. None of which stand out so proudly as the white al-ghurrah streaking through her right side.

“Hardly,” Osytha eventually replies. Her eyes flick toward the pleased grin glowing at her from beside the closet door, but invariably, the gravity well of her reflection drags her gaze back. “I look…”

Not like a knight, for the first time in a long while. Not hiding herself under a bulky, formless gambeson (or lost within a slightly ill-fitting and atrociously coloured surcoat), and not with her hair tied back in an unimaginitive, if convenient, ponytail. What would a touch of colour on her lips add to the look, she wonders? Or some kohl around the eyes…?

“… this is goin’ to sound bloody daft, but… I din’t think I looked this… sort of, um… feminine…”

Something about that seems to be embarrassing the poor knight. Maybe because, as she just said, it seems a bit obvious in retrospect. Maybe she feels foolish for being so surprised at what a relatively tiny transformation has brought out of her. Yet, beside the awkward touch of pink rising in her face, Osytha certainly seems to like what she’s seeing in the mirror. You can tell from the way she won’t take her eyes off the damn thing.

I should find something a bit, er, racier for my wardrobe, she reckons, inspecting herself with another twist. Could be time to finally pick up some cosmetics, too. Might be nice — seeing what Hector thinks…

“I look good. I kind of… feel good, and all.” Osytha stands with her hands on her hips, and meets Rois’ eyes. Properly, this time. “You’ve got a bit of a knack for this, don’t you?”
 

He figured it would be somewhat of a stranger standing there.

Osytha did not seem like the kind of woman who… ever ‘cut loose’. Ever adhering to one rule or another, whether it be sanctioned by a greater mouth above her level or as an unspoken, societal leash, in all her narrow-faced sternness it had been easy to parse the control that levitated about her in the way of phantom chains. People everywhere had them, Rois thought himself crazy for being the only one that saw the way they dragged heavy shoulders ever downwards, tugged on the skin in wrinkle lines, bent the backs of every man and woman longing to be discreet about their existence. To puzzle-piece into a larger picture. To have a home wherever they roamed in the faces of people exactly like themselves, complacent smiles, easy inclusion, slide together like peas in a pod, how lovely.

How monotonous.

He is critically aware the subdued of her blues are watching him, the butcher simply does not care, wherever the man went eyes were sure to follow him. Fitting in, living a life as another notch upon a pole as everyone else did, boring, tedious, what was life without the danger of fire? What was love without a fight? What was happiness without peculiarity? What was being without the little flecks upon your soul that marred you from the shadows of the ever shifting mass, stand out, his soul cried, you must stand out. You were born different so be… different. Take what is expected of you and twist it, take pre-conceived notions and defy them, be something like sand through fingers, never quite within the full grasp of anyone you came across. The edge is tiring, but it is thrilling. When he often caught the eager attention of the average-people in the streets gandering at him like the man was a rare bird rarely seen they came only pride and the willingness to ignore them, beneath me, beneath my heel, I am a sight to behold, those chains would not sink him down to their level--

And now she too… chain-less, if only for a day.

“You look free.”

The deep (and perhaps quizzical) statement is fact, free of responsibility, free of identity, like she could take to the hills and just keep on running with the life that has fizzled into existence in a once pale gaze, warm enough to tinge the skin of her cheeks pink. In many ways she is a stern reminder that maybe it was better to be born a little askew than to live under the hammer of normalcy, these little lessons came to the red-head so rarely that he was oft lost in false desire; a stagnant wish to join the masses oft spurned exactly by little moments like this. He’d keep it locked away in the little part of his head that reminded the man that, without the suffering, there would be no power. Without falling there would be no experience. Without the willingness to be different, there would be no money.

Without pain, he’d have a life like Osytha’s. And how terrible that would be.

“A ‘knack’... a talent?” An idle watch as she spins to him in a pose he recognised from his girls, shoving hands into deep pockets. It could have been praise that should have been eagerly taken in, but instead with a slightly downturned mouth the large male delivers onto her a nonchalant shrug of sorts,

“It is no talent. It is a learned play upon strengths; if you are beautiful, then why hide it just to escape the attention of others…? To visibly stand out with effortless prettiness, to make others greedy and jealous and wanting and angry in their insecurities and false in their presumptions; it is a thrill… only chased by the brave.”

After all, he was an expert in both being beautiful and destroying presumptions.

Because she’d have never believed he had any hand in knowing anything about beauty. Had not thought someone like he could ever speak words of love to children. Could do something as simple as adorn her with jewelry with the same hands that could rend flesh from bone and yet, there they stood… her ideas defied over and over again. Surprise. And then to be surprised again at herself, to defy her own perception of what she looked like, oh it was all so cleansing to the soul to see things play out so wonderfully in line with past-time predictions, a game of notions being proved right, society 0, him, three or four or maybe even five!! In his internal mirth Rois lends her a sporadic chuckle somewhere from the depths of a broad chest (that is not followed by any speech immediately, the sure-fire way to tell someone has been thinking something not spoken aloud) and swings himself to gather up smokes from the desk like a child plucking up toys,

“But now you must be brave, because there is no doubt that you will attract attention.”

One is placed against his teeth and the others dumped into his little leather man-purse, stuffed into a side pocket were noticeably some already lived (there could never be enough tobacco), the one clenched by strict jaws are lit with the lightest tipping of a head… a strong inhale sees the stick wag like a birds-tail before the exhale spills smoke about his lips. Through red curls she is addressed with the narrowed eyes of expectation,

“I don’t know… if you’ve ever been looked at so heavily before,” Rude, implying she had not been eye-catching before, the man rolls his eyes a little as if the next statement is tiring to him somehow, “But women have this way… of panicking. You know, freaking out over every little statement and noise swung their way.”

RUDE.

“I am used to it, but I am aware you might not be; just lift your head up high and ignore them. No-one will lay a finger on you, Filly.” Cigarette rolls about his mouth with the deft flick of a tongue, “I’ll hurt them if they do.”

… Rois tries very, very hard to not sound giddy about that last part. Tries even harder not to let heaving shoulders lift a fraction and the tiniest beginning of a smile curl at the corners of his mouth, he hopes. He hopes with all his heart someone tries, someone dares reach out fingers, because if that happens the man gets to do terrible things to terrible people knowing that none would come forth to stop him. Towering giant, very visibly strong, it did not matter if knowing how to fight eluded the Suldazan, they didn’t know that… those flashing red eyes would gladly pin them before a boot pinned them further, oh, no, no it is too difficult! It’s not possible! Rois claps large hands together in an echoing snap and utters a pined half-whine, half-wheeze of delight, a dog eagerly expecting a toy, rocking a single time upon his heels,

“I do hope someone tries something!”
 
It still sounds like a talent to the badger; to see untapped potential and bring it forth with desired effect. This little glow-up is just a trifling example — a much stronger one would be his business enterprise. Osytha would not have imagined such an unconventional commodity to yield such impressive dividends, but Rois has accrued quite the little team to help facilitate its success, and if that pouch of gold yet slouched upon the breakfast table is any indication, then a most profitable venture it is indeed. He’d offered those funds like they meant nothing to him at all.

Then again… if the twins are to be believed, he’s not managed it all without a little nudge here and there. Could be that taking on the girls was also one of his more perspicacious decisions, intentional or otherwise.

“But now you must be brave, because there is no doubt that you will attract attention. I don’t know… if you’ve ever been looked at so heavily before. But women have this way… of panicking. You know, freaking out over every little statement and noise swung their way.”​

Osytha responds with a mildly reproving sort of look toward Rois.

“You do remember how we first met?” She turns back to the mirror one last time, and shrugs. “Gilles was far from the only one, and all. A little change in style en’t goin’ to cause anythin’ new to happen.”

Mirror-Filly jerks out of sight with a gentle swing shut of the wardrobe door. Once it snicks back into place, Osytha faces around and idly leans, with arms behind her back, against the closet. Little movements. Yet even so, a part of her revels in the sensation of icy-smooth fabric gliding across her skin. Her gaze seeks Rois out there beside an impressionist suggestion of a desk, where a third glow flares up into searing amber before settling down to a smouldering, cherry red to match the eyes above. Coils of grainy smoke appear for a flash as they pass before the curtains, and though they disappear from view just as quickly, she can smell the darkness soaking up their ashen notes.

It’s almost nice of him to offer his protection. As it stands, the man sounds like he’s more interested in having an excuse to meet trouble with trouble than in actually looking out for Osytha. Or… maybe he really is starting to develop a bit of a soft spot for her. In his own way, and coming from a distinctly antagonistic starting point. Whatever the case — she is not especially keen on seeing anyone’s arms ripped off. In fact she’s half a mind to back out from Rois’ plan altogether, or at least cover up so thoroughly as to render her sex unidentifiable, which would make all his efforts just now in vain.

But. “You look free.” Would it be so bad to try things his way? If only for a day or so. Just a little time as a passenger, with no back-seat driving; getting to see more of Rois when he’s behind the wheel. Isn’t that why she came all the way here?

Osytha lets out a small, defeated sigh. “Just… don’t hurt anyone too badly. Please?” Perhaps a little interference is warranted after all. A compromise, if you will. “That’s all I ask.”
 

He’s very keen on seeing someone’s arms get ripped off.

“Ah, you see… this is a good lesson on freedom, actually.” A lulled response, cigarette whirled by floating hand calmly pointed in the womans direction, “You are free to ask something of me… and I am free to simply ignore you.”

Antagonistic indeed!

Purse adorned in a loop about his shoulder, whatever quantity of money jangles noisily with the movement-- it was shopping time! Free hand sweeps the room’s door open to drag the acrid, sharp scent of smoke along with it to give life to the dancing rays of the aging morning, Rois regrets it just a little, the strain from the luxurious dark into the unforgiving blaze of light causes the man to scowl a little with screwed up eyes of displeasure. If the world could be eternally caught against twilight it would be a better realm indeed, as hazy adjustment brings a now silent room into view, crazed memories of whatever strangeness had encompassed the prior breakfast have now settled into silence with slipping shadows against the table in the vague form of people passing by eager to carry themselves towards whatever tasks were asked of him. It takes the butcher a good few moments to realize the statement spoken to Filly still captured by the darkness could be seen as rude-- and whilst Rois does not care about being 'rude', he does see fit to give reasoning behind it, it isn’t being sharp for sharps sake,

“I think… if I did not know Alaera and Feliene, there is a good chance I would care little about the subject.” An open statement stolen from the often consulted realm of self-reflection, it is a touch embarrassing to admit that their presence could sway him… it made the man feel weak. Such sentiment is briefly touched upon with a quieter voice that slips from him as smoke, eager to disappear into nothingness.

A perception of 'strong men' carved by history itself parroted.

“Many, many men wouldn’t give a damn about the feelings of females. It should be a primal want to lust after women so aggressively that we cannot stop our hands from simply… taking. It has been like that since the beginning of time. Women should be flattered.”

Rois exclaims with some exasperation (it outwardly bothers him that he himself is not like that), free-hand roams against the rolling coils of the back of his throat, burying themselves against unnatural red as he spies a kitchen now robbed of sound… they wouldn’t have left the building. Playing somewhere out back, most likely. Even the thought of them and this subject, it… it burns, and it makes logical sense why, but how did those feelings apply to Osytha? She was no child, she could defend herself and had done so and would continue to do so for the rest of her life for being born as she was, but aside from the easy, effortless joy of obtrusive violence… something else?

“... Yet… in my nightmares I see men touching them however they please and I imagine myself taking those men apart with a scalpel, piece by anatomical piece. So maybe it is because I am abnormal, or because I am soft--” ‘Soft’ is spoken with a distinct loathing, self-hatred, “--But now I cannot allow men to ‘be men’ to women that are in my company.”

This was the butcher’s way of saying that if he was at a bar and he saw a woman in distress, there would be no action. Maybe a grunt and a shallow utterance of annoyance, but no action. He wasn’t the glittering visage of kind-heartedness embodying the men of books, eager to dash in to save the damsel in distress from the monster and his wiry, groping hands insistent on the more tender parts of the flesh… Rois would also not be the man to defend a woman’s honor if cat-called in the street. But if those women are in ‘his company’, if they are known, if they are………………. c o m p a n i o n s-- if that word could be used, oh, how he did not want to use it!-- then it changed things entirely. The prodding thoughts revolving around such a foreign word causes the man to outwardly sneer with the kiss of his teeth, snorting smoke as he sees fit to hide an annoyed gaze beneath the fiery lick of a rogue fringe,

“It is a man’s duty to protect.” Protect what? He won’t say it out-loud, but Rois speaks that statement with a sort of innate pride, an assurance that if anything, that is right, men should protect-- “So you fill your little head with sword-thoughts, and I’ll… well, I won’t kill anyone. But if a hand is lost to lust, then that hand can never lust again... that is how I operate within my world; and if others trespass, it is upon them to face the punishment I feel fits them.”

It was the flaring of ego, yes, that’s all it was, the disrespect of actually knowing he stood in their presence and still following through with such perverse thoughts, oh, it could not stand! Ego, nothing more, sod all about ‘companionship’, it becomes very evident quite quickly that it isn’t a subject he wants to linger on (whether he probably should or not) and with the billowing of tan shawl-tails the half-beast falls into a two-step pace. It is the usual brisqueness of someone who so diligently preferred to run everywhere; oft others lamented Rois’s ability to effortlessly out-pace casual strollers. His speedy rush to exit is however briefly stalled when they pass the table and its leather pouch, tantalizing in it’s scantily bared coil of gold, warmed by the sun, untouched and unwanted… a bark of laughter!

“It’s a shame you wouldn’t accept my generosity… I suppose it’ll have to be a tip for the already wealthy inn owner. I’m sure he’ll be very thrilled.”

Wealthy get wealthier. If only there was someone about that would absolutely do more good with that money then he would…! He’d allow Filly a second, but a second to rethink her bad decision before marching forth to the entrance, a foot is used to kick-and-hold the door open swiftly in a barbaric manner, hand flinging the dead cigarette to the ground to join the mess of churned up mud and debris,

“I have to pick up something, first.” Ah, mentioned long ago, something commissioned-- “And then… we’ll put your mind to good use. High-end, seventy gold-- no lower than twenty, I do not want something cheap. Two handed, long, western-styled, no glamour. Also, I want the things that go with swords…the sharpening rock--”

… The whetstone.

“And a sheathe… I prefer black, or white, or red.” A low sweep of his eyes to her in a manner that is now dramatic and befitting of a man plucked right out of a romance novel in all heavy-lashed, sparkling glory, but what falls from his smiling lips is… not only not romantic, it’s just rooted in so much self-prettiness it’s laughable, once again how well the sword is balanced or his skills are completely forgotten in favor for appearances,

“... I want it to match my hair and my clothes.”
 
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