Open Deception by Moonlight

[Ilara Vangelis]

The evening gloom provides favorable cover for treacherous deeds, and she watches the frivolity unfold where she stands, loitering on the sidelines. With a roughly-hewn mug of spiced wine cradled between delicate fingers, she looks as inconspicuous as the next young, fresh-faced tavern wench, save for that her eyes burn with an intensity that theirs does not.

Her prospects are plentiful. With the hour growing late and the weather remaining balmy, the men gathered in the street beneath the stars are ruddy-faced and in good spirits— and all too susceptible to feminine guile. That becomes abundantly clear the moment she begins to make her rounds, flirting openly with a tall, sandy-haired sailor first, and receiving all manner of drunken flattery in response. It's easy enough to brush his arm with a hand that makes a point to linger a moment too long, before flashing him a coquettish smile and leveling him with green eyes that catch and hold his beneath the natural curl of her lashes. His turn hungry, and he makes a vague comment about her lips that she doesn't hear. Too preoccupied by the warmth and weight of his arm where it snakes about her waist and draws her against him. She resists the urge to wrinkle her nose in distaste, and only offers a girlish giggle instead as she presses closer still against the solidity of his muscled frame. He's made her job that much easier, and she has to will herself to suppress a triumphant grin as she dips her fingers into his coat pocket, filching a small coin purse whilst keeping her attention avid and on him. Placating him with false promises of a clandestine rendezvous in his room as he angles his head and leans in closer, intending to steal a kiss. But she isn't ready to fold so quickly, and certainly not for someone with only a few silver pieces to his name.

She slips off despite his protests and weaves her way ever deeper into the crush of bodies that have come together for a dance, though she loathes to consider it as much with how awkward and bumbling the movements of its participants are. Still, their laughter is admittedly infectious, and it provides ample opportunity to pick out other prospective victims without rousing suspicion. Partners are exchanged in rapid succession as the beat of the music quickens and intensifies, and she catches herself dissolving into a flurry of genuine laughter as she's passed to the next pair of hands.

This one seems promising, she decides, falling seamlessly into step with them as the merriment carries on. She tilts her head to one side with a look of amusement, the gemstones and silver chains woven through her hair glinting as they catch the lamplight.

"Well," she begins, slipping one of her hands into theirs and lifting her chin with a raised brow. "So far you're definitely the best of the worst."​

 

[Hawkflesh]

Hawkflesh had been drifting through the days and weeks again.
Places had blurred, memories faded and he once again found himself in a place with lots of people and even more drinks.

He even started dancing.
Blackest hells had he really forgotten himself so?

So it was in his half-cut state that into his path and into his arms fell a woman with the greenest eyes he had ever seen. This led him to come back to himself and snap out of the fugue of his life with a sharpness that hurt his ears and eyes.
Elf senses were sharp and his were sharp even for his acute kind. This caused him to pause a moment while the woman spoke and of all things it was a compliment she had for him.
He did his best to let his dark hair hang over the burn on his left cheek and smiled a smile that looked like someone dragged a knife over pink flesh.

He was from the north by his complexion and wore a frayed red cape and a longsword at his side with the kind of ease that spoke to his ability to use it, this was supported by the course skin of his hands that rested easily in hers. His eyes spoke of a great willingness to escape himself and his sharp features, while elegant, were pretty in the way that a tree burned and ruined in a solitary place was pretty. It radiated from his being in a cacophony of tells that this was a man who knew death and killing intimately.

"You are kind to say so." He replied in a voice that was like running sand.

He let her lead him a bit in the dance. Recognizing that she knew exactly what she was doing. It was effortless for her to unleash her grace as if she could have done it blindfolded.

"But I am afraid looks are all I have going right now."
It was true enough, he was never a fine dancer, only having good footwork in a fight, which was only made worse by his drunkenness. As he tried to keep up and failed by putting one foot almost entirely over his other one and tripping only gripping her hands tighter stopped him from loosing his balance.

"Perhaps you'd have better luck with, someone else."
He offered, not wanting to saddle himself on one so clearly out of his league on the dancefloor. There were absolutely better dancers than he out tonight.

@Ilara Vangelis

 

[Ilara Vangelis]

She takes note of his battered cape. Of the sword sheathed at his waist. Of the feel of his rough, calloused hands in hers and the fleeting uncertainty in eyes so blue she can't help but lose herself in them a moment longer than he might have found comfortable. Nothing about him suggests he enjoys any manner of wealth or celebrity. And yet she can't help but find his self-professed inadequacy strangely endearing. There's something else there too. Something haunting that doesn't quite rise to the surface, but instead, ripples beneath the surface. Something that resonates with her in a way that's indecipherable and startling, but that piques her interest in a way she can't really explain. And she doesn't let him go.

Even when he proceeds to trip over his own feet, she does nothing but laugh sweetly and reassert her grip on him, twining their fingers tighter together in wordless encouragement as she takes the initiative to correct their course and pacing.

Kind. It isn't a word she'd ever use to describe herself. In fact she makes it a point to be anything but kind. Kindness gets people killed. She's seen it time and time again in this cruel, pitiless world. But she doesn't dismiss the sentiment.

She dips into a practiced curtsy instead before bouncing to her feet again, lifting their joined hands into the air so that the couple next to them can scurry underneath amid gales of breathless laughter before she guides him swiftly back into position. They aren't the only two to have lost their balance or fallen out of sync. Several of the other dancers have wobbled unsteadily or collided with one another in their drunken stupor, and she throws her head back, dissolving into a flurry of giggles. Only when she straightens up does she make it a point to catch his eye again.

Without a moment's hesitation, she presses herself in close and tilts her head, forced to tip her chin up to look at him directly. "You don't wish to dance with me anymore?" Her bottom lip juts out in a childish pout. "But I'm enjoying the way your hands feel in mine." Then, with a resigned sigh, she turns to glance over at the blonde sailor from before, whom she notices is now watching her intently. Broodingly. "Would you rather I dance with him?"
​

 

[Hawkflesh]

Hawkflesh could not help but look and when his eyes fell upon the leering sailor across the crowded room of dancers and revellers he felt his hands tighten on hers. The man had a look about him that promised unpleasant things and that was putting it lightly.
"I, no I don't think that would be a good idea."
He replied with a weak smile that did not disguise his concern half as much as he hoped it might. He did not wish for the kind woman who liked his hands in hers to be anywhere near the sailor and it was then that a thought struck him in his beer soaked mind.
"How about we just, sit and talk?"
He liked that idea very much, for him it was all gain and no loss at all and it also meant that he could put his back to the wall and not get blindsided by men who felt they were owed people when they drank too much and their own craven loneliness overcame their good sense (if they ever had any to begin with) leaving the world with more scarred bodies, terrible nightmares and unwanted children.
Right now it seemed that if he might spare this kind woman that attention, even if only for the moment, then it would be a night well spent.
"You can still hold my hands if you like."
It cost him nothing to let her and he found the warmth she had pleasant. Her hands were strong in their own way, lean and still... still as stone. Her pulse came through their interlocking fingers, a human may have caught it but his sensitive touch let him hear it through his own hands, loud as a drum in his ears. It was calm and steady.
He wished then that he was sober, that he might see clearly the thought trying to claw its way from the primordial soup of his faculties.

 

[Ilara Vangelis]

She watches him study the tall, muscled brute who's staring at them openly now, and bites back an amused smile as her companion's expression inevitably falls. The flex of his hands around hers is a tell that surprises her however, and she shakes her long, silvery hair out behind her with a self-satisfied flourish. There's something refreshingly innocent about the man's shy demeanor. She wouldn't go so far as to call it noble, but it is courteous and he seems polite. But then, she's met a great number of men who have played the part of the chivalrous gentleman before. She's even fallen for it, once or twice. That's why she doesn't let her guard down. Even now. Even regardless of his kind, well-mannered behavior.

But she hides her suspicions well beneath a mask of gratitude, her dimpled smile widening as they pass through the final sequence of the dance without further incident. "That's all? You just wish to talk?" Still, her voice is tinged with that same underlying amusement, but it isn't malicious or mocking. Simply pleasantly surprised. "Well, I am quite thirsty. Let's go and get a drink, and then we can stand outside where it's quieter and get to know one another better."

She only relinquishes one of his hands as the music fades, and it's overcome by applause and whistles of approval as everyone takes a moment to catch their breath and remark on their partner's grace (or lack thereof).

"You aren't frightened of him, are you?" She adds, tugging him gently along behind her. "He may be large, but he isn't all that scary." And then, with a conspiratorial wink sideways: "Don't worry. I won't let him hurt you."

It doesn't take very long before they each have a mug in hand, though it does require some jostling and clever maneuvering to make their way up to the bar, where they flag down the bartender's attention.

She's sipping at her wine as they reach the exit, and warm firelight floods out into the street as they finally emerge from the tavern. "There. Much better!" A pause. "What's your name?"​

 

[Hawkflesh]

He was greatly relieved to hear the kind woman agree to his request. So much it showed on his sharp features.
"I'm afraid I'm fit for little else until I sober up!" He responded to her playful inquiry. Somewhere just shy of his awareness he was certain that this response qualified as flirting but the moment passed very quickly and only earned him a giggle and to her little barbs at him about the sailor he only smiled his weak, crooked grin at her for as long as he dared, which was not long.
Once they got outside the cool southern night hit him like a sack of flour and he feared for a moment he might spill his wine but he simply leaned against the wall in a moment of almost perfect problem solving.
"My name? It's Hawkflesh."
He said and waited for her eyes to widen, for her to step away from him and his frightening name and his blood red cloak and his very used longsword.
"And you?"

 

[Ilara Vangelis]

She laughs at him in his sufficiently drunken state, feeling her own face begin to flush from the copious amounts of wine she's indulged in. The vintage is all she can taste now, and it's left her mind buzzing and her fingertips tingling pleasantly. It's the first time in a long while that she's felt comfortable enough to enjoy the hazy glow of inebriation, though somewhere in the back of her mind - where there still remains a shred of sobriety - she reminds herself to keep her wits mostly about her.

"I wouldn't have expected you to be such a lightweight! Is that only your second?" Her voice is light and teasing as she watches him prop himself up against the outer wall, far enough away from the rest of the commotion to actually be able to hear one another without straining themselves. She feels her brow furrow as he offers his name, and she tilts her head to one side, moving to stand alongside him. Several of the other patrons are stumbling their way back inside, some of them leaning on each other just to keep themselves on their feet. For such a backwoods little town, the people here certainly know how to have a good time. "Hawkflesh?" she repeats, turning to face him directly. She's never heard a name like it before.

"I'm Ilara." There's a long, comfortable silence as she sips at her wine, green eyes studying him intently in what little light spills out from the embossed glass of the tavern's windows. "So what do you want to talk about?"

 

[Hawkflesh]

"No this is my..."
Wide eyes searched inward for the number but he had lost count, he always lost count after five or so.
"... sixth, I think, maybe eighth or tenth?"

It was then he noticed that she had not moved away. In fact if his special awareness was right (and that had come into great question on the dance floor) then she had gotten closer. Almost shoulder to shoulder as she seemed to become serious for a moment and told him her name.

Hawkflesh felt that Ilara was a much nicer name than his own but everything about Ilara seemed nice as he took a sip of the wine. He preferred beers but this was the drink of choice in the area. Still it was pleasant and tingled on his lips.

Huffing while he thought of a topic of conversation Hawkflesh decided to be honest and asked the only question he could think of.
"I was hoping you'd have one, heh. Wait, tell me honestly."
His eyes locked onto her in a stern gaze.
"Am I the worst dancer you've ever been with?"
It was not nearly as serious as he let on but he had long since gotten out of the habit of making any kind of joke. The rust was caked in at this point.

As he asked a cat stretched on a low rooftop across the street and settled to watching them. The dim from inside was lower and one or two of the patrons were coming and going but this was for their purposes as private as anywhere at the moment.

 

[Ilara Vangelis]

"It was your idea to come and talk, but you didn't have anything you wanted to say or ask me?" She can't resist the temptation to continue teasing him, even though it feels somewhat unfair when he's clearly so intoxicated. But then, so is she. She just happens to have a great deal more practice downplaying the extent of that drunkenness.

"You also said you'd hold my hand," she carries on, pouting as she makes a point of looking offended that he isn't.

The question he does eventually pose catches her off-guard, however, and she's in the midst of swallowing a mouthful of wine (that she struggles not to choke on) when he levels her with a look that's far too serious and completely ill-fitting considering the topic at hand. But she schools her soft, delicate features into an inscrutable mask - as though she's actually giving his query some very serious thought - and exhales on a long and overdramatic sigh.

"Are you the worst? No. But you're certainly not the best I've had either." She leaves that with him for a moment, studying him over the rim of her cup, as though gauging his reaction. "Being inexperienced is nothing to be ashamed of, though, Hawkflesh." And she indulges in an amused smile that's clearly meant to antagonize him.​

 

[Hawkflesh]

"You're right."
He admitted and slipped his thin, rough fingers into her warm hand again interlocking their fingers into a knot before he could think about it and again her steady pulse tried to tell him something he was missing.
"There, you're stuck with me now."
He teased back with a grin that was so relaxed it almost did not look painful. The news of his bad dancing did not effect him at all but he tried to pretend that it did.
"I'm crushed."
His words held no weight, they were flat and featureless as he continued to smile. He must have been smiling a lot, his face felt tired in the cheeks.
"I'm not ashamed really."
The wall was a good prop for his head, so he leaned back against it, liking the cool plaster on his scalp as he looked down at her. In the dim light of the street the colour of his eyes faded to almost black.
"I just wish I had more of a knack for it. You dance wonderfully Ilara. Did you teach yourself or study?"
It did not really matter which answer she had for him. Hawkflesh was finding the sound of her voice much nicer now that he did not have to strain to hear it.

@Ilara Vangelis

 

[Ilara Vangelis]

"I don't mind being stuck like this for a little while," she answered with uncharacteristic sweetness, surprised by his boldness and entertained by his deadpan humor. She couldn't tell whether it was the wine or the infectiously cheerful atmosphere, but he was proving to be more interesting than most of the other men whose company she'd flitted between over the course of the evening. This was despite the fact that it was quite clear he had nothing of value otherwise to offer her. Only his attention. And even then that was impressive, considering the attentions of most men typically bored her.

She wondered vaguely how much of herself she should unveil to him. Or rather, how much of the truth. But she was far too drunk and giddy to give it more than a moment's consideration. "A little bit of both. I spent quite a lot of my time watching street performers when I was young and decided that dancing appealed to me. So I mimicked them."

Laughter spilled out onto the cobbled road as the door to the tavern flew open and a few of the patrons from inside stumbled by, unsteady on their feet. But she was lost in thought again, and something seemed to dawn on her. Something that had her moving to stand directly in front instead of beside him, fingers still intertwined. Wordlessly, she pressed herself to him.

"A few moments ago you said you hadn't given any thought to what you wanted to talk to me about, even though you were the one who suggested we find somewhere quieter to be." Her expression turned coy. "So what exactly did you have in mind coming out here with me, hm?" She paused long enough to guide his clasped hand to her hip. "Were you planning on stealing me away somewhere so you could flirt with me and have me all to yourself?"​

 

[Hawkflesh]

It was nice to hear someone say they did something because they enjoyed it but the recognition he got from her story told him perhaps more than she intended.
Street dancers were seldom only dancers and that meant poverty typically.
Ilara had grown up either in poverty or just above it.
Not that a homeless drunk like him had any right to judge.

"I'm glad you do it for yourself, not everybody has skills they enjo-oooy!"

A word or two later and she was all but on him. Body close, his hand on her hip, breath to intimate breath.
He had not felt such sobering clarity hit him in a long while. It was like being smacked with a sack of wet sand. His eyes went wide looking at her. He had taken it a given that she was forward so it did not catch him completely off guard.

"Well..."
He had the feeling that Ilara was going to judge him sharply on whatever he was about to say so he decided to go all in, to tell her that it was his whole plan and that he was about to throw her over his shoulder and be off with her into the night like some daring rogue from a story but when he pulled Ilara in tight by the waist he was suddenly overwhelmed.
She could no doubt feel his body heat but Hawkflesh could tap his foot to the beat of her heart, he felt every puff of air enter and leave Ilara's lungs, felt the loose strands of her hair play with his features, stick to his clothing and dance in the light breeze like lost threads of moonlight and his eyes saw every expansion and contraction of those sparkling green eyes in perfect clarity. Every part of her seemed a living thing all itself and all of it seemed marvelous under the stars.
Intimate was a poor word to describe how Hawkflesh felt then and beautiful was a woefully limp descriptor for how Ilara looked to him.

And he did look, with the kind of unblinking scrutiny one would use to observe a thing you could not quite believe you were seeing Hawkflesh took her in, not with want but with wonder at how anyone could exist this way and again at his good fortune that in the grand twisting schemes of Gods and Cosmos alike that in this moment he had the utterly remarkable privilege of holding her. Of her wanting to be held by him of all creatures.

"I swear I... I had something to say, I did but... it's gone. You blew it away from me."

He was breathing deeper now, the rush of sensation and drink swam inside his mind as potent a cocktail as anything in the world. His slim smile returned with a little huff of laughter.

"I'm speechless before you!"

And he laughed again at his own powerlessness to think of anything to say.

@Ilara Vangelis