Today is of the Cycle Of The Seventh Moon.
Current Season & Month:  , Year: 543 A.R. (ref)

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The Bedroom of Lord Callon Syltamul


Lassroyale
(@lassroyale)
Patron Saint of Hawtbois, Catboys, & BAMF Babes Noble
Joined: 8 months ago
Posts: 654
Journey starter  
beautiful castle interior in living room with red color accents also
Spoiler
Lord Callon Syltamul
Lord Travion Winterlow(Elf Noble) 4

The bedroom of Lord Callon Syltumal is the typical lavish affair born of generations of old money and prestige.  A parlor tastefully appointed with dark hardwood furniture and richly colored drapes, sits attached to the spacious bedroom via a short hallway.  The bedroom itself is large, yet comfortable, with plush colorful rugs, finely woven silk tapestries, and ornate wallpaper with intricate guilding reflecting the Lord's predilection for beautiful things.  Dominating the center of the room is a truly enormous bed swathed in black silk sheets.

(Pictured above) Lord Callon Syltamul

═ ✽ ═

DAETH

[OOC: From the Bedroom of Lady Amarice ap Nudd-Syltamul ]

"Never trust the version people give themselves – it is utterly unreliable."–Robert Greene

 

═ ✽ ═

 

It’s early in the evening when Daeth finds himself ensconced in the sitting room of Lord Callon Syltamul, sharing a drink, his company, and later (perhaps), himself.  (There was no shame attached to the thought, and though Daeth has been idling comfortably at the Syltamul Estate on what’s basically an indefinite invitation, his hosts have never had any expectation of payment from him.  And if he chooses to make his own individual private arrangements with either the Lord, Lady, or both? Well, Daeth always was an equal opportunity guest.)

At the moment, Daeth is content to stand quietly at a large bay window that overlooks the western estate grounds, one shoulder propped against the smooth mahogany frame as he wordlessly sips bourbon from a crystal whiskey glass.  The room is filled with companionable silence, though as it stretches on Daeth can feel a thin ribbon of some unnamed tension begin to wend through the air like the precursor to an oncoming storm.  

A corner of his mouth twitches up and he takes a quick sip of his drink to cover his smirk.  Daeth briefly meets Callon's eye before turning towards the window without a word.

He lets the silence linger.

Behind him, Callon sucks in a noisy, anxious breath and shifts restlessly, but ultimately doesn't say anything.  Daeth knows that it's only a matter of time until he does, until Callon cracks and breaks the silence.

It’s partly why Daeth does it, why he lets the silence around them grow, and why he lets Callon suffer beneath its weight: he likes breaking the tightly wound Elf, likes fracturing all of that carefully constructed discipline. He derives a sick sort of pleasure in breaking people, in taking them right past the shaky edge of their mental limits and straight into ego death.  The rush he feels when they finally, willingly, give themselves over and cede full control is almost orgasmic in its depth and intensity.  

Was it a bit cruel? Probably, though Daeth is inclined to call his actions more callous, than anything.  After all, he’s never claimed to be especially nice, but he's not cruel without reason, either.   

He's actually pleased that Callon's lasted this long and decides to reward him.  Daeth turns back to the other man, settling a bit more comfortably against the windowsill before relaxing back into a casual slouch.  He openly studies the young Elf Lord over the rim of his glass before looking square into their eyes.  He holds their gaze, his own sure and steady as he deliberately takes a long, slow swallow of his drink, never breaking eye contact. He takes a moment to relish the strong flavor and sharp burn of the aged bourbon as it slides down his throat, before setting the glass down next to him. 

Finally, Daeth goes over to the other man, who is breathing hard in an attempt to calm their nerves.  He places a hand on the warm skin of Callon's back, making him jump under the unexpected contact.  Daeth chuckles in response and briefly trails his palm across Callon's flank, before adjusting the tension on the intricate latticework of ropes and knots that's keeps the Elf bound and restrained.  He bends and speaks into one of those pointed ears, voice brushed with amusement.

"You're always wound so tight, m'Lord," he mutters with a subtle and teasing tone.  He tightens a knot and watches the brief flutter of Callon's eyelids before he relieving the tension.  Daeth waits until Callon blinks and comes back to himself, smiling when those forest green eyes refocus and meet his own.  He reads disappointment, anticipation, and plain, unabashed want in the heavy-lidded gaze, but it's the undercurrent of honest and wholehearted trust in the Elf's green irises, that gives Daeth pause and sends a fissure of electricity shooting down his spine.

The absolute trust, the utter surrender in Callon's expression hits Daeth like a sucker punch.  Desire sweeps through him as sudden as a flash flood, leaving his head muzzy as he fights against the torrent of his worst, most basic impulses pounding through his veins and demanding action.  It wakes something primal and dark in him, calling back to a place where violence and pleasure were indistinct, interchangeable, and so d*mned good.

He's got a handful of Callon's hair wound tightly in his fist and his neck bent back at a painful angle, before he manages to get ahold of himself.  He eases up slightly, but the after echo of aggression thrumming just under his skin makes him feel slightly off-balance.  Callon is panting harshly in his grip and Daeth realizes it's not from pain or fear - quite the opposite in fact. 

For a moment he stares down at the other man's face, his expression inscrutable as he toys with the idea of letting Callon really see what he's dealing with; let him see the creature that Daeth truly is.  Sometimes it's tempting; would they be as willing to place so much trust in someone - something - like him, if they gleaned even a fraction of the truth of his nature? Most people wouldn't, overcome with some deep, primordial fear and repulsion, their most basic instincts screaming at them to get as far from the feel of death as possible.

Still, there's been a few who've known, who've seen the truth behind his eyes and loved and trusted, regardless.  But that was a long time ago, on a different Ufaerian coastline, in a different time before The Brand and the horrors it comes with...in a different life that Daeth couldn't go back to, even if he wanted it.  

He forces aside the thought and the memories - they had no place in his current life, not anymore.  It took so long to let go of what could have been, that Daeth no longer lets himself get that close.   He  needs the young Lord to really understand this, needs him to know that this will never be anything more than domination and physical pleasure.  Daeth brings his face close to Callon's and fixes him with an intense, somewhat discomfiting stare.

"I've told you it's dangerous to trust me, haven't I?" he murmurs, more statement than question.  Although his tone is soft, his words are brushed with an undercurrent of quiet danger.  "And yet you still persist.

He roughly yanks Callon's head back just far enough to see his pupils dilate and his face tighten with pain; he keeps a merciless, uncompromising grip on the Elf's dark hair, and tightly winds the soft strands around his fist.  Daeth's eyes are suddenly bright with intention, his rich purple irises almost glowing in the half-light.  When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerously soft, pitched in such a way that seemed to imply more threat than promise. 

"Perhaps you need another reminder of what I require from you, m'Lord.  Or maybe I should show you what trusting someone like me really gets you."

Then Daeth kisses him.

The kiss is aggressive and unrelenting, filled with the sharp edge of his teeth; he bites and tastes the tang of copper in the back of his throat.  Daeth kisses like it's a declaration of war, like it's a promise to raid, pillage, and burn every bit of who Callon is; like a vow of revenge that promises to leave nothing behind but a smoldering, burnt out husk.  It's a punishment, a promise, and a threat; it's selfish, all-consuming want that burns through the system like a fever. It's messy and harsh and Daeth simply takes without giving anything in the exchange. 

And that was exactly what he needed both Callon and Amarice to understand: this was always going to be a one-way affair. 

When Daeth eventually pulls back, there's blood on Callon's bruised lips. He lets go of the Elf's hair, then stands.  He eyes the other man for a minute, before suddenly leaning and forcibly pulling him up and onto his knees.  When the other man starts to ask a question, Daeth hushes him with a sharp, "Tsk!" He starts to twist and pull at various knots to adjust the latticework of ropes, forcing Callon's back to straighten and his shoulders taut as Daeth re-tied his wrists. The golden bands around his bare arms, hum against his skin like an electrical current ran underneath the metal.  The Kingship Bands excelled at magick dealing with trapping, and this, although unorthodox, was no different than trapping a Minotaur in the winding pathways of a maze.  (More or less.)

"I was planning on rewarding you earlier," he comments in an offhand tone.  "But now I think I'll make you wait even longer."  His pants make a soft noise as moves around to stand in front of the kneeling Elf, the leather well-worn and pliable as they ride low on his hips.  He crosses his arms over his naked chest, the gold Kingship bands around each bicep gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight.  "Still, you were such a good parebant earlier…"  Daeth thought for a moment, unconsciously running his fingers along the edges of the heavy gold bands and feeling their unnatural warmth seep into the whorls of his fingertips.  He decides to give Callon a reprieve from the silence he knows makes the other man increasingly anxious.

"Heard any good gossip lately, m'Lord?" he asks, grinning wryly when Callon's head snaps up in excitement.  The Syltamuls were drawn to gossip like moths to a flame, and not without good reason.  True to form, the young Lord Callon Syltamul didn't need to be asked twice.  He began to speak, filling the space between them with the low susurrus of his voice as he shared all of the most up to date gossip circulating within the noble houses of the Kingdom Bridgeways.

 

═ ✽ ═

Spoiler
OOC: Content commentary
Omg, what even is this? This started out so...different.  And then it grew and now Daeth has a definite D/s (Dom/sub) predilection. At least with those who consent & are into that sort of thing. 😘 ]

TOM-CAT: Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ☆Try Again - ★Powder Keg - Soft,soft - ★Stupid Little Tom-Cat - ★Miiya & Cat-Tom - ★Sparring - ☆The Great Tipsu Hunt! - Stolen Kiss - ☆Not Cheshire - Returning to Her - ★Baths & Comfort - ☆Wings, Tails, & Love - ☆Cave Storms - Climbing the Walls - ★Their 1st Kiss - ★Makeouts & Memories -Laughter & Kisses
───────────
DAETH: Breaking Callon - Pleasure w/Pain - Sensing Death - ★Kissing Fate 2/2 - Precariously Balanced Nature - At Long Last, Eddellyn - Precipice - Entering the Hedge Maze - ★The Minotaur & The Labyrinth - Into the Aegis
───────────
RISQUÉ: Fun with Fisticuffs!
[Chatte] Chat w/Castor - Proposing the Race
──────────────────
[ ☆ = favorite / ★= extra fave]


Quote
Lassroyale
(@lassroyale)
Patron Saint of Hawtbois, Catboys, & BAMF Babes Noble
Joined: 8 months ago
Posts: 654
Journey starter  

DAETH

in The Bedroom of Lord Callon Syltamul

"Humans are the only animal that blushes, laughs, has religion, wages war, and kisses with lips. So in a way,

the more you kiss with lips, the more human you are.And the more you wage war.” - Jonathan Safran Foer

 

Daeth wanders back to the open window as Callon begins speaking and looks out over the estate grounds below.  He keeps an eye on the darkening sky, listening absently as the Elf Lord bridges the distance between them with the low hum of his genuinely adroise voice.  He's content to simply relax and listen, a  shoulder pressed against the shadowed window frame as he looked out, seeing far beyond the estate grounds to some point in the middle distance of the mind's eye.  His thoughts are a mess, chaotic with residual aggression, impatient desire, and the recent memory of his pathetic loss of control.

Gods, is he really that starved for real affection?  Needle-sharp teeth gnawed at his nerves and made his muscles coil with empty hunger.  Hooked claws with razor-edged tips carve looping paths into his flesh, and creates burning latticework of fire across every inch of skin.  A sudden want, no, need to brutalize, take, and use, had surged through him so powerfully that he was thankful he hadn’t outright snapped Callon’s neck.

It's been ages since he's felt a heady mix of violence and stomach clenching desire this overwhelming.

It harkens back to his time with War and the battles they used to wage between the sheets.  It was less bedsport than skirmish; the only language War knew was violence.  She marked her passion across the tome of his body with the ink of bruises, bites, and scratches; he still bears the imprint of faded battle scars from that savage affair.  It pitted his tolerance for abuse against the endurance of his body, pain and pleasure vacillating in shaky lines until they became one in the same; the two fused so completely that he couldn’t experience one without the other.  

The aftermath of those trysts always found him sated, sweaty, and covered in blood not entirely his own.

Of course, all of that ended when War crucified him on the shores of Kioko Rinn and left him to bleed out in the glittering sands.  Getting crucified officially took the shine right out of the relationship.

Aside from War, Daeth can only remember one other time he's experienced pain so exquisite and intense that it became indistinguishable from pleasure: Slaan.  

He grits his teeth against the image of the she-Daemon as it flashes, unbidden, through his mind.  He doesn’t remember much of the assault, the whole ordeal a blur of half-recalled sensations and images smeared behind his eyelids like paint spilled across a canvas.  He’d been half out of his mind when she came to him, assaulted him, delirious with exhaustion and beaten down in both body and spirit.  He'd barely known where he was, blood flowing from a thousand and more cuts he'd received during his battle against his own sister; a battle in which he'd been prepared to kill his own sibling if he couldn't prevent her fall from grace.  (He'd failed on both fronts; he'd failed in every way possible.)

Daeth had been weak, drifting in and out of awareness and slowly bleeding out when Slaan had her way.  He was too weak to fight her, his mind too exhausted to resist her mental manipulation.  She'd straddled his hips, entrapping his mind as her magick oozed through him like  him like toxic waste as she reduced him to nothing more than his base, primal instincts and raw, animalistic need. 

Adrenaline, lust, and black rage had filled him and gave him an overcharge of energy that had no outlet except for one.  She had her way with him, or he had his with her; at that point, it didn't matter.  All that mattered was consumating, fulfiling his need.

That’s not to say he remembers nothing.  Although the broad strokes are indistinct and hazy, now and then he’s able to glean bits and pieces in surprising detail. They’re only quick snapshots, nothing concrete or distinct, like torn images snatched from the visual flash flood of a fever-dream: '...the burn of claw-like nails sunk deep into the muscle of his shoulders; the white hot agony of flesh and muscle tearing as she gouged an uneven path down his back; the wet warmth of flayed skin; the all consuming hatred he had for her, even as they came together again and again...' 

And he hated - hates - Slaan.  She took his dignity, took away his free will - and so much more.  Sure, she'd taken her pound of flesh, so to speak.  But Daeth doesn’t like to think about what Slaan truly took, what she truly begot from him, even if deep down he knows he'll someday have to acknowledge the consequences of that spiteful liaison.

He gives a quick, decisive shake of his head as if to dislodge the ugly memories that have taken root and forces away the images.  He’s disturbed by how easily those dark moments were able to storm up from the past, despite how deep he’s tried to bury them.  It feels like the demons of his past were reaching into his present, and he did not like it.

More than anything, he's perplexed; he hasn’t thought about War for longer than he cares to remember.  His time with her had been before he’d failed to usurp his Father, before his banishment.   And the last time they’d actually been face-to-face, she had ambushed him as he answered the incredible psychic cry of a dying soul…

...Daeth almost physically pulls back from the memory, abandoning it before he’d even neared its conclusion. He sucks in a sharp, albeit quiet breath and feels something uncoil itself from the tightly woven knot of his control, the edges fraying imperceptibly as it slips through the empty spaces that pull heavily within him.  He hasn’t let himself think about that day in a long time.  Even now, he doesn’t know why he did it, but he does know this: he doesn’t have any regret over the decision he made that day.

At the thought, a vicious, vital ache winds in his chest, although the sharpness of it has faded over time into a dull, gnawing pain that bleeds infection into his bloodstream.  He used to relish that pain, dwell on it, and at one point couldn’t imagine living without the feeling of it sliding through him, a tangible ache that hurt so good.  He used to think he needed it to keep the darkness at bay, a jagged wound closest to the truth of him seeping poison into his veins - poison he needed to help balance the deadness inside.

He’s let go of the intense anger and the suffocating sense of self-loathing that fisted in his chest like something cancerous and black, for so long.  He’s forgiven, or at least something close to it, and he’s acknowledged his own responsibility in the matter.  Everything else that he couldn’t move past or make peace with, he buried, even though he knew that this particular wound would never fully be closed; not really.  Still, he’s content enough - or at least he thought he’d been.

Daeth rubs a hand over The Brand on his neck in an unconscious and self-soothing gesture.  His mind was racing too fast, small coincidences, reawakened feelings, and of course, his dreams of late, all pointing towards a conclusion he didn’t want to consider.  It was probably nothing except the shadows of his past creeping into the present, triggered by the smell of the Ufaerian air.   Maybe coming to Ufaeria had been a mistake, after all; here, there were too many ghosts that called out to him.  

With some effort, Daeth fully pulls himself back from the past and tries to ground himself in the present.  He allows himself a brief indulgence and closes his eyes, letting the smooth cadence of Callon’s soft voice roll over him, through him; he feels the shape of the Elvish words press against the edges of his mind like a soothing balm of white noise.  He stands there for several long minutes, taking comfort in the stillness and shadows, Callon’s soothing cadence the only sound he focused on. For some reason, the melodic hum of spoken Elvish had a calming effect on him, helping him slow his mind and steady his thoughts.  

Slowly, he’s able to get a handle on the clutter of thoughts racing through his mind.  

 

 

TOM-CAT: Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ☆Try Again - ★Powder Keg - Soft,soft - ★Stupid Little Tom-Cat - ★Miiya & Cat-Tom - ★Sparring - ☆The Great Tipsu Hunt! - Stolen Kiss - ☆Not Cheshire - Returning to Her - ★Baths & Comfort - ☆Wings, Tails, & Love - ☆Cave Storms - Climbing the Walls - ★Their 1st Kiss - ★Makeouts & Memories -Laughter & Kisses
───────────
DAETH: Breaking Callon - Pleasure w/Pain - Sensing Death - ★Kissing Fate 2/2 - Precariously Balanced Nature - At Long Last, Eddellyn - Precipice - Entering the Hedge Maze - ★The Minotaur & The Labyrinth - Into the Aegis
───────────
RISQUÉ: Fun with Fisticuffs!
[Chatte] Chat w/Castor - Proposing the Race
──────────────────
[ ☆ = favorite / ★= extra fave]


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Lassroyale
(@lassroyale)
Patron Saint of Hawtbois, Catboys, & BAMF Babes Noble
Joined: 8 months ago
Posts: 654
Journey starter  

DAETH

in The Bedroom of Lord Callon Syltamul

“Information holds its value better than any currency and can be traded anywhere.”

                         - one of the tenets of the Noble House Syltamul of Liathlidor

 

A cold breeze drifts in through the open window as night chases away the day, and Daeth returns his attention to the lands beyond the open window.  He keeps the pleasing burr of Callon’s voice at his back and watches the long fingers of darkness stretch and reach across the sky, as if attempting to grasp the last rays of light as the sun makes its escape below the horizon.  The shadows deepen around the edges of the chamber at the onset of full night, hovering at the perimeter like wolves prowling the darkness just beyond the light of a dying campfire.  Daeth ignores them for the most part, though he still finds some small comfort in their presence; they were like loyal hounds, ever attentive, ever waiting, and just waiting for him to have need of them.  

 

Absently, Daeth wonders if anyone in the estate had noticed the slight dimming of light in any room he  entered.  Probably not; the effect was so subtle it was almost unnoticeable, unless one knew to look for it. Certainly the Lord and Lady Syltamul were usually too preoccupied to notice much beyond the slope of his shoulders, let alone the subtle darkening of the room.  As Daeth let’s his thoughts wander down these for more pleasant paths, he turns around and once more regards the young Elf Lord, currently in the midst of relaying something involving the Lavish Hand and the establishment's esteemed proprietor. 

 

He pushes away from the window and pauses, taking a moment to knead his left shoulder, digging his fingers into the tight muscle in an attempt work out some of the tension. After a minute or so, he pads over  to an oversized divan situated by the fireplace and drops into a graceful sprawl, artfully draping himself across the sofa. He lets out a pleased sigh as the fireplace heats his skin, relaxing into the warmth as he settles back onto his elbows.  He throws a leg up onto the cushion, knee bent, and lounges lazily, looking for all the world like an overindulged housecat. Callon hasn’t noticed that he moved, lost in his own world of gossip and intrigue, his pretty face serious and animated, all at once,  Daeth takes his time as he studies Callon at his own leisure, half-listening to the actual shape of his words as he mulls over what he’s learned of the young Lord Syltamul and the Syltamul Family in general.

 

Daeth had very quickly learned that gathering and imparting gossip was like second nature both Lord and Lady Syltamul.  Callon, however, had an impressive capacity for remembering the up to date minutiae of whatever court intrigue, political conspiracy, or personal scandal was the current hot topic of conversation circulating amongst the social circles of the rich and powerful of Liathlidor high society.  

 

The Syltamul Family were connoisseurs of information:  they collected secrets, traded in gossip, and turned the weaponization of information into an art form.

 

After all, it’s an unspoken truth that in noble society, gossip and secrets were a more powerful and influential currency than a vault full of malda.  In the right hands, the right (or wrong) information had the potential to be a more devastating weapon than the supposed superweapon rumored to be secreted away in Naith Tullin.  

 

And if information can be crafted into weapons that cut more deeply than any blade, those of House Syltamul were masters of their craft.  They wielded secrets as weapons, shaping words into daggers with sharp edges that they kept pressed tightly against the throats of friends and enemies alike.  They used information as a leash kept tightly looped around the necks of those who were in positions to help raise their social standing or allow them to achieve their political interests.  

 

Of course, a leash is just a rope by any other name, and a rope around the neck can easily be tightened into a noose. 

 

Daeth has heard his own gossip, picked up in snatches of hushed conversation whispered in dark corners in the dead of night, and overheard in soft tones murmured behind the colorful designs of courtesans’ silk fans.  Gossip that chases the heels of Lord and Lady Syltamul as they pass and lingers in their wake; gossip that alludes to the cutthroat and devious manner in which the House of Syltamul rose above the other noble houses of the Kingdom Bridgeways to establish themselves as a powerful and potent political influence in Liathlidor.  Gossip that, if true, implies that the Syltamul ledgers are soaked in so much blood that it could never truly be wiped out, even over several generations.

 

Honestly, Daeth can believe it; from what he’s seen, gossip and information brokering came as easy to the Syltamul as breathing.  In fact, both the Lord and Lady Syltamul were connoisseurs of information in their own right, though from what he has seen their goals aren’t necessarily aligned.  Lady Amarice was far more politically minded than her husband, and Daeth could only guess at what sort of secrets she kept locked behind her pretty smile. And although not so interested in politics or court intrigue, Lord Callon probably had dirt on every noble family on the Bridgeways, as well as anyone who were even tangentially connected to any seat of power within Liathlidor. 

 

As exciting as political conspiracies or court intrigue sounds on paper, Daeth found all of it utterly boring.  Sure, over the course of his inconceivably long life, he’s probably done his part to  help shift political power here, topple a government there, and has helped to tear down the foundations of at least one or two societies.  Such things didn’t pique his interest anymore, and he was wholly uninterested in cleaving to anyone’s agenda, political or otherwise.   He’d learned over time that almost all of the machinations of those in power, those who wanted power, or those desperate to keep power, were really nothing more than the petty squabbles of those with easily bruised and truly fragile egos.

 

Still, Daeth finds Lord Callon Syltamul to be a compelling orator, soft spoken and verbose without pretense or glibness.  He spoke in a low and reserved fil di voce, quiet tones imbued with a passionate intensity that managed to make even the most banal news seem far more interesting that was warranted.  Besides, Callon had fine, expressive features that were more beautiful than handsome, and Daeth certainly didn’t mind the view - it helped when his mind wandered. 

 

The sudden absence of Callon’s low, animated voice rouses him from his musings over the enigmatic Sylatmuls.  Daeth settles his rich purple gaze on the now silent Elf lord, his lips twitching into a sly as he took in the sight.  Callon was staring at Daeth, or rather, Daeth’s bare chest, with a hungry, unfocused gaze; his pupils were blown so wide that his usually bright green eyes looked nearly black.  A rather fetching blush had crept up the young Lord’s cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears; Daeth purposefully let his eyes travel down the Elf lord’s still form, watching the way Callon’s throat moved as he tried to swallow past its sudden dryness with almost savage amusement.  As he slowly raises his eyes to once again meet Callon’s gaze, Daeth cants his head slightly to the side in question.

 

Like something you see, m’Lord?” he asks, feigning ignorance. The expression within his violet gaze, however, was anything but ignorant; he watched the Elf lord with the rapt attention of a cat who’s spied a bird with a broken wing.  He knows at he once again has the other man ensnared, and he himself was back in the mood; now it was only a matter of how long he would toy with Callon before giving in.  

 

Callon doesn't answer right away - or at all, for that matter.  Daeth Tsk’d in mock disappointment, before rising from the divan in one smooth motion.  He took a moment to stretch indulgently, relishing the roll and shift of tight muscle as he subtly observed the young Lord from half-closed lids.  He felt his lips twitch involuntarily into a quick smile, before pressing his mouth into a hard line.  Daeth turns and regards Callon fully, crossing his arms and raising a brow.

 

Now where have your manners gone, m’Lord?” he admonishes, when he still doesn't receive an answer to his question.  “That won’t do, now will it?”  His lips curve into what could be a grin, had the points of his smile not been so sharp.  Daeth stalks closer to Callon, though stops short of making contact as something the other man had said earlier, suddenly flashed through his mind.  

 

Wait,” he says, the playful smile dropping briefly as his thoughts are momentarily sidetracked.  “What was it you said about, who was it? The owner of that fancy shop who’s making many of the costumes for the Masquerade Ball..."  Without thinking, Daeth brings a hand up to the Brand on his neck, his fingers absently tracing its raw, raised edges as he tried to recall the name of the shop or its owner.  Touching the Brand had become somewhat of a habit over the years, a reflexive self-soothing mechanism.  Most of the time, he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

 

Finally, Callon seems to find his voice, though it was noticeably more strained than usual.  “Ah, you must mean the esteemed Vincen Chemaux of the The Lavish Hand.”  The young Lord nods to himself, a few loose strands of auburn hair shifting as he shrugged his shoulders.  “Yesterday I sent my maidservant, Livi, to The Hand to drop off measurements for a costume that Amarice and I are having made for you.” Callon smiles, pleased with himself.  “I thought we might bring you down for a fitting tomorrow and surprise the esteemed monsieur.”

 

Daeth almost snorts; he isn’t fooled.  The Lord and Lady Syltamul want to stir things up and send the gossip mill into a fever-pitch right before the big night of the ball.  It’s a calculated move, which is no less than he’s come to expect from the pair.  He isn’t mad, however; he knows they’ll likely do the whole cloak and dagger routine, dial up the intrigue, and then let Monsieur Chemaux do all the work of spreading this new gossip about them. 

 

He fixes Callon with a steady gaze that’s filled with unmistakable intention. He turns, and there’s something undeniably predatory in his posture.  

 

Well, m’Lord,” he says, voice pitched low.  “I guess you should get some rest tonight - it sounds like it might be a busy day tomorrow.” He smiles, teeth straight and white in the low light.  “But not until I’m done with you.

 

With that, Daeth pounces, intending to make due on the threat.  Which he does and quite thoroughly, at that. 

 

He slips from the bedroom several hours later, sated and rumpled, leaving the young Lord Callon Syltamul sprawled atop the covers in more of an exhausted coma than sleep.  Daeth doesn't look back as he pads quietly from the room and starts down the hall.  Then, with a quick glance to make sure there wasn't anyone else around, he merges with the shadows and disappears.

 

TOM-CAT: Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ☆Try Again - ★Powder Keg - Soft,soft - ★Stupid Little Tom-Cat - ★Miiya & Cat-Tom - ★Sparring - ☆The Great Tipsu Hunt! - Stolen Kiss - ☆Not Cheshire - Returning to Her - ★Baths & Comfort - ☆Wings, Tails, & Love - ☆Cave Storms - Climbing the Walls - ★Their 1st Kiss - ★Makeouts & Memories -Laughter & Kisses
───────────
DAETH: Breaking Callon - Pleasure w/Pain - Sensing Death - ★Kissing Fate 2/2 - Precariously Balanced Nature - At Long Last, Eddellyn - Precipice - Entering the Hedge Maze - ★The Minotaur & The Labyrinth - Into the Aegis
───────────
RISQUÉ: Fun with Fisticuffs!
[Chatte] Chat w/Castor - Proposing the Race
──────────────────
[ ☆ = favorite / ★= extra fave]


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Lassroyale
(@lassroyale)
Patron Saint of Hawtbois, Catboys, & BAMF Babes Noble
Joined: 8 months ago
Posts: 654
Journey starter  

DAETH

Death Angel & Bearer of the Mark

╺ ✽ ╸ 

“Style begins by looking good naked. It’s a discipline. And if you don’t dress well every day, you lose the habit.

It’s not about what you wear, but about how you live your life.”

- Oscar de la Renta

 

 

True to his word, Vincen Chemaux, the esteemed proprietor of The Lavish Hand, has Daeth’s outfit delivered to the Syltamul Estate on the morning of the Masquerade.  It leaves no time for extra adjustments, but he doesn’t worry, only letting Amarice and Callon work themselves into a fret over it before reassuring them and offering them each (individually) a distraction that, at least for a while, left them unable to think of much of anything, let alone the fit of his clothing.  If he’s being honest, Daeth needed to distract himself, too; he’s been wound taut all day, a strange, almost excited tension thrumming through him ever since he woke. 

 

 Even now he’s keyed up and unsatisfied, the tension burning within him like a feverish, slow-crawling heat beneath his skin, building towards something he feels tug at his apex.  He can’t tell if it’s anticipation or boredom or both, and admittedly he knows in the back of his mind that his time at the estate is coming to an end.  He knows it in a way that feels less like his own choice and more like something predestined, like something else has already made the decision for him.  The thought, the feeling of it, agitates him, makes him feel like he’s on the precipice of something immense and unknown, standing at the edge of a yawning blankness and holding his breath, waiting.

 

The whole thing stinks of such fatalism that it makes Daeth want to curse the Fates themselves.

 

Gods, he hates them.

 

Damn the Fates.  Damn their “prophetic” proclamations and their thread and their loom.  Damn their books.  Damn their stories; he doesn’t give a shi*t about literary symmetry or journeys or allegories.  He had his own book once, written in red ink and filled with the names of every soul he had and would ever reap.  He’s never needed theirs…and they despise him for it.  He’s ever been a loose thread in their tapestry, a page in their book that’s marked only by spilled ink; he’s a plot hole in their story that the Fates will do anything to try and resolve.  And they’ve tried.  It wouldn’t be so bad if the Fates didn’t try to be so goddamn clever about everything; they weren’t nearly as clever as they believed they were.  It’s just tedious at this point, their words dense and unnecessarily vague, anything even remotely worthwhile lost under layers of predictable and cryptic euphuism.  

 

It’s enough to bore Daeth to tears.

 

He hasn’t managed to shake this sense of kismet by the time he has to ready himself for the Ball.  It feels like a latticework of fevered heat has been laid over his skin, anticipation moving through his veins like magma, making him restless and overwrought.  He knows he’s distracted.  It feels as if his attention is suddenly being pulled in multiple directions as estate begins to fill with people, an influx of Life that brushes against his skin, making him aware in a way that few would understand.  As the minutes tick by the initial susurrus of the early arrivals begins to swell to a constant hum as more and more guests arrive, the initial trickle turning into a steady stream.  

 

Daeth feels them all, feels them before he hears them; the texture of each soul throbs through him to press their shape against the walls of his lungs.  It’s only a brief touch, just enough to make him aware, but each soul is individual, unique; each one strikes a note against the hull of his ribs, the deluge composing a seductive melody that makes something inside him ache.

 

It would be so easy to reap them all.  It would take no more than a clench of his fingers and he could yank out all of that vibrant potential before anyone knew what had happened.  The pain of dying their collective deaths would be nothing compared to the white-out bliss that followed….  The death angel shudders imperceptibly with the thought, with the unbidden memory that flashes through him of a mass genocide that’d left him punch drunk with the pleasure-pain of true death, that blissful nothingness that he felt spark at the base of his spine for days after.

 

Daeth ruthlessly quashes the thought and with it the distant echo of the memory that sifts through him.  He’s not– he won’t.  He presses his lips together for a moment and frowns at his reflection, noting absently that his costume fits him perfectly – it looks like he’s been stitched into it, the material falling exactly right to enhance his figure to the fullest effect.  With a small sigh, he closes himself off until he only feels the lightest, feathery touch against his awareness.  He misses the sensation as soon as he does, instantly craving the feel it pressed full bore against his perception.  Still, he needs to keep himself separate, detached; it’s just a party. 

 

Daeth is firmly back in control by the time he straightens and dons the velvet black masquerade mask.   With it on, his identity can only really be ascertained in his swash of dark hair, the defined shape of his jaw, and the careless, somewhat wolfish smile that curved his full lips.  His eyes give it away, however; the black mask calling attention to the startling intensity of his vibrant purple irises. He’s relaxed as he steps into the shadows, deciding to bypass the Front Entrance and the large amount of people he can just barely feel gathered. 

 

Instead, he heads straight to the Grand Tiered Ballroom to join the Lord and Lady of the Estate.

 

[OOC: Daeth to the Grand Tiered Ballroom]

TOM-CAT: Kiana Beach Battle (3/3) - ☆Try Again - ★Powder Keg - Soft,soft - ★Stupid Little Tom-Cat - ★Miiya & Cat-Tom - ★Sparring - ☆The Great Tipsu Hunt! - Stolen Kiss - ☆Not Cheshire - Returning to Her - ★Baths & Comfort - ☆Wings, Tails, & Love - ☆Cave Storms - Climbing the Walls - ★Their 1st Kiss - ★Makeouts & Memories -Laughter & Kisses
───────────
DAETH: Breaking Callon - Pleasure w/Pain - Sensing Death - ★Kissing Fate 2/2 - Precariously Balanced Nature - At Long Last, Eddellyn - Precipice - Entering the Hedge Maze - ★The Minotaur & The Labyrinth - Into the Aegis
───────────
RISQUÉ: Fun with Fisticuffs!
[Chatte] Chat w/Castor - Proposing the Race
──────────────────
[ ☆ = favorite / ★= extra fave]


ReplyQuote
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