Copper Kisses

The stories and lives of the Grim. ((Roleplaying Stories and In Character Interactions))
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Baalthemar
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Re: Copper Kisses

Unread post by Baalthemar »

*************Warning Adult content *****************

(( The music is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cPG1t52GgI ))

Nathandiel came home to the cabin, his body ached after work. It was late and the children were in bed and their ‘mother’ was likely getting rest while the two babies were quite. He looked around for Baalthemar, he found dinner waiting for him by the fire but his blond lover wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He picked at his food with a fork, then a sound softly crept up to him..

“Music?” Nathandiel tilted his head to hear the barely audible sound. It came from somewhere in the study… Nathandiel picked up his plate and went in search of this music. He entered the study and knew immediately where his lover must be.

“What are you doing in the basement?” he asked himself before he flicked a hidden switch and entered the basement. As soon as the door to the basement swung open the music became louder. Nathandiel grinned and walked toward the sound picking at his food lazily.

He passed their guests, each cell held a soft-skinned elf woman. Some were awake, most were unconscious and unaware of their fate. Nathandiel walked to the entrance of the main chamber, the place where Baalthemar worked.

An old goblin record player was belching out music as loud as it could. An old human song... A love song, full of joy. It invited people to swing their hips and dance. It was very out of place in the dark, cold and stone hell he was standing in.

Nathandiel leaned against the entrance to the chamber and watched Baalthemar, the blond elf was half-naked and stained with blood it splattered his chest and his hands were wet with gore. He held his favourite blade--and old and worn fishing knife. Nathandiel ate slowly as Baalthemar worked, he seemed to be cutting one of the girls, her face must have needed to be changed. Or so Baalthemar must have thought.

Baalthemar tapped his foot to the music and started to sing along, as he pulled at the lips of the girl. With a careless joy he tossed the soft flesh over his shoulder and continued his work. “These lips need to go, my sweet. Then we can see about making that smile nice and wide.” he said as he pulled on her upper lip, cutting into it, careful not to slip and slice into her nose.


With a sigh Baalthemar removed her lip and tossed it toward its sister on the ground. “There we go, now you can’t pout and stamp those feet to get what you want anymore.” he said with a grin.

She gasped and fought against the blood flooding into her mouth.

“I know, talking is going to be hard, but I’m sure you’ll scream just fine.” Baalthemar added as he started to slice into the flesh of her cheek. On cue the screaming started, it sounded wet and thick, the blood in her mouth made breathing hard let alone screaming out for help or yelling curses at Baalthemar. Nathandiel grinned and finished picking at his food before he walked over to his lover.

Nathandiel slid his hands around Baalthemar’s waist and held him, swinging his hips with him as the two danced to the music. Nathandiel felt Baalthemar’s warm skin and the wet blood as he ran his hands over his chest. “Thank you for dinner, my sun.”

Baalthemar grinned and leaned back into Nathandiel’s embrace. “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait to get down here and start working again.” Baalthemar said as he put down his knife and turned to Nathandiel. “Dance with me.” he asked as the two swung their hips to the music.

Nathandiel sighed and let Baalthemar move them to the tune, he was glad to be home again, glad to be against the warmth of his lover… even if he was currently covered in blood. Nathandiel pressed his face to Baalthemar’s chest and closed his eyes. The two danced in the dimly lit chamber enjoying the music and the small moment spent with each other.

Baalthemar leaned down and kissed Nathandiel softly. Nathandiel smiled and pulled him close. “Let’s get you washed up, you smell like a butcher.” Nathandiel said with a sly grin as he tugged Baalthemar toward the exit. “She can wait. Let her enjoy herself while we take some time for a hot bath.”

Baalthemar looked back at the woman and nodded and followed his dark haired lover out of the basement.
Nokokomah
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Re: Copper Kisses

Unread post by Nokokomah »

     "Someday you'll see your daddy again, Jeho. He loves you very much. He misses you, I'm sure of it."

     Siané was changing Jeho's diaper, speaking softly to her, when the knock came at the door. The door was open, as it always was, and when she turned she saw it was Baal'themar there. It was a relief that it was him and not Nathandiel, though, she thought upon reflection, Nathandiel probably wouldn't have knocked. "Hello," she said.

     He smiled one of his kind smiles and said, "How is she?"

     "Oh, she's lovely," Siané said, automatically placating. "She's a nice, easy baby. Of course, so is Kieran. They're both good babies." She paused, worrying over what he might have heard a moment ago. "I only said that about her daddy because you said something about visiting, once. I didn't mean..." His eyebrow rose, and she hastened to explain. "I'm not... I'm not going to try anything.."

     Baal'themar rubbed his chin, then crossed the nursery to stand next to her at the changing table. Siané's hand was resting on the wiggling Jeho, and she realized she had moved when she'd first become of his presence to partially maneuver herself in between him and the baby. His gaze, however, was focused on her and not her daughter. "Tell me, Siané. Would you stay with us if I let Jeho be with her father?" he asked.

     Siané froze. It sounded like a trick question to her. If she said yes, she was admitting she was unhappy and that they had reason to be suspicious of her; if she said no, she would seem like she didn't care about her daughter's safety in the face of the threats that Nathandiel had made and continued to occasionally make. The facade only worked so long as the threats were never directly confronted. She tried to think of what to say. "I... I'm not unhappy here..." she said lamely.

     Her captor raised his hand to gently touch her face. "But you would be happy if she was safe with her father... I can see that even with only one eye," he said.

     Siané looked down. "I'm just... afraid..." she admitted. "I know you wouldn't hurt me, but Nathandiel... he threatens her all the time..."

     He nodded, a grin coming to his features like he was about to offer her a treat. "If there was a way for you to send little Jeho back to her father and you to still be bound to us, would you be willing to do it?"

     She looked back up at him, searching his... eye. "I'd do anything to make sure she was safe..." she said softly, tentatively.

     "Anything... I can work with that." His voice had become huskier, and he moved closer to her. His hands shifted to rest on either side of her neck, slowly drawing nails over her skin under her hair. Siané remained frozen, not daring show any reaction that he might construe as either rejection or encouragement. But then Jeho made a little sound, she half-turned to the baby, and Baal let her move away from his grip. "Finish up with Jeho," he said, "and we can talk about how you will be bound to me."

     He walked out of the nursery, and Siané set about finishing redressing Jeho. Carrying the baby over to the crib, she cuddled her for a moment. Jeho had started smiling more and more often, and it pulled on Siané's heart every time the little baby girl did it. She would do anything to let Jeho be able to smile forever. "I love you," she whispered as she laid her down in her bassinet. Giving the swing a small push, she watched long enough to ensure the baby would be happy drooling and staring at nothing in particular for a little while before turning to follow Baal out of the nursery to where he had gone into the dining room.

     The dining table was already set up for a dinner for two. A small brazier kept several dishes warm in the center of the table. "Come, sit and eat," Baal said. "We can talk over a meal."

     He watched her until she chose a seat, and then took the seat next to her rather than across from her. Siané served herself a small portion of food, even though she wasn't hungry; Baal left his plate empty. "Thank you..." she murmured.

     "What do you know of blood magic?" he asked.

     Siané blinked. She had come across more than a few kinds of magic in her life, including the rare feral and twilight magics, but blood magic, while not as rare, was one she had never associated with. "Not very much, actually," she said.

     Baal leaned against the table. His form somewhat dwarfed the chair in which he sat, but he seemed at ease. As he spoke, he watched her. "I know some magic that could bind you to my will. You would be safe, but if I needed, you would be mine to control... If you want, we can see about setting up this ritual, and then once complete, we can hand back Jeho without worry about you fleeing."

     Bound to his will. Siané's eyes widened as the memories hit her. Vionora waking alone, the sense of something terribly, terribly wrong... the realization that her ability to control the one thing in her life she could had been taken away. The capitulation that had followed. Becoming aware she was touching her side, Siané dropped her hand, but she was too stunned to respond.

     "Speak your mind, Siané," Baal said. "You have a voice, please use it."

     Jeho. It would mean Jeho would be safe. Siané focused on Baal, speaking immediately. "Of course. Yes." Then, worry hit her again. She had just effectively admitted she was afraid for Jeho's safety. What if he was just testing her? Testing to see if she trusted them yet? "I mean, I know you wouldn't hurt her... and Nathandiel means well of course, he's not a bad person..."

     He nodded, seeming unconcerned. "Then you will be under my control? You understand what that might mean?"

     "Yes, I do," Siané said. It wouldn't be the same as that. No, it would be more like what Accalia had done. Malhavik had trapped Vionora's soul; Accalia had bypassed Tassha's will. Those memories were older, and had been semi-healed by the time Siané got them. Whatever happened, Siané would be able to make peace with it in time. "I... I've... seen similar things done before," she said. "Just not with blood magic." And even if it was worse, it didn't matter, because Jeho would be safe.

     "Your will would be your own, but your body would be like a puppet," he told her. "I could make you do lewd things for hours and you would have nothing but a smile on..."

     Siané dropped her gaze, her face reddening in embarrassment at the idea. She poked at the food with her fork. "If that's what you want from me..." she said quietly.

     "Want, yes," he agreed lightly, "but what I need is a caring mother for Kieran." After a moment he asked, "Do you think you could make a life here with him?"

     She glanced back up at him, trying to read his face and guess what answer he wanted. He'd said before that all he really wanted a family. That was what all this stemmed out of, for him. He just... didn't understand that this wasn't how it worked. "I could..." she began, only to realize she didn't want to risk trying to explain to him. "I could," she said instead, more definitively, like a statement.

     He smiled his gentle smile, pleased. "So be it. I'll see about getting things ready. You'll be bound to this place... Travel will be allowed, but I'll ensure that any attempt to speak of it will be stopped in the most entertaining way I can think..."

     Siané felt herself blushing again. She had no doubts that what he would find entertaining would be mortifying to her. But at least he wasn't threatening to cause her pain or harm. Trying to seem as acquiescing as possible, she nodded obediently.

     A wolfish grin was coming to his face as he continued entertaining the thought. "Hmm... it might take work, but I think I can craft a spell that would work..." He bit his lip as he thought. "Yes. Something that would show off your assets and keep you from talking." Apparently this was enough to start causing him embarrassment, however, as he coughed and changed the subject. "What of Zak -- he will demand to know where you have been. Are you willing to push him away to stay with us?"

     "I... pushed him away before. He respects me, he won't interfere," Siané said. It was true. If she phrased it as her own wishes, he would respect them. He had always been good to her.

     "Good," Baal said. He leaned back. "Would you like to try out something that will give you a taste of the control I speak of?"

     Siané paused, dubious. Whatever it ended up being like, it wouldn't change her mind. It was her only option to see to Jeho's safety. But maybe seeing what it was like briefly now would help her be prepared for when it was permanent. She nodded. "I... I guess..."

     Baal grinned again and got up to go into his and Nathandiel's bedroom. Siané waited, no longer bothering to pick at the food. It was quiet in the nursery, both babies asleep at the same time. She'd normally take the opportunity to sleep or bathe, but she wasn't about to tell Baal she wasn't interested in his company.

     He returned with a small vial, handing it over to her and retaking his seat. "Drink this," he said. He watched as she unstoppered it and carefully sipped it down. It tasted a little coppery, and she didn't feel anything different after it was done. Setting the vial down, she looked at him uncertainly. He smiled and leaned against the table again, clasping his hands atop its surface.

     Then she felt it. Strong, warm hands clasping her waist. She gasped and jumped far enough to bump the table, making the dishes rattle. The feeling didn't abate, moving to stroke her neck. She raised a hand in shock, feeling nothing there but her own skin. "Oh... oh!" she said. Baal'themar, still smiling, spread his hands to show her that nothing was in them, and that they were definitely not touching her. "How...?" she said.

     The phantom touch moved down her shoulders, stroking gently. It made her shift in her seat. "You drank some of my blood," Baal said. "I can use it to make you feel things that are not there... or control your body."

     "I... I see," she said. The way he just watched her, as though he were doing nothing else, was unnerving. The invisible touch moved down her arms, stroking gently. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do with her body.

     Baal laughed. "Nathandiel has felt these... 'hands' as well. But I won't do that to you unless you ask me nicely." His grin returned, slowly and wickedly.

     Siané ducked her head, blushing at the thought of asking him to do anything like what he was implying. She tried to focus as the touch moved all the way down to her hands, then back up to her shoulders. "And it... it sounded like you could make compulsions... for even when you're not around?"

     He nodded. "That is what the ritual will be for. I will give you more of my blood, and make this effect last longer and be much stronger. Then, a ward to stop you from telling others and make you... use your mouth in a better way than telling secrets."

     Light, it seemed his life mission to make her blush. She couldn't stop. But this... this wouldn't be bad, not compared to what he could have done. He wasn't unkind. She would have done it anyway, even if it had been Nathandiel who would have had control of her, if it meant Jeho would be safe in Zakael's arms; but Baal at least seemed to want her to be happy, if in a way that didn't understand why it wasn't so simple as this. 

     Her gaze landed on his hands, still on the table. The skin was stretched tight over claw-like fingers, tipped by talons. She had never asked him why his hands looked like that, but at times she found herself inadvertently staring, like now. She looked away, but he had already noticed.

     "Ask," he said. 

     The invisible hands moved to her neck again, tracing gentle lines up and along her jaw before sliding down her sides. Siané fidgeted, biting her lip. "Ah..." she said. "Oh, I just... it's none of my business..."

     He laughed again. "If you are going to be living with us, you'll need to get into our 'business' and get to know us."

     Did that go both ways? "I don't like to pry..." Siané said uncertainly. He raised his eyebrow, and she hurried to say what he wanted. "But, um, if you want to tell me..."

     He smiled, pleased. "Do you know of the trials supplicants must complete to become full members of the Grim?" he asked.

     The touch had slowed, but was creeping over her hips. Siané clasped her hands in her lap. "Oh, um, not really."

     "There are three, but for this story the only one that matters in the Trial of Sacrifice."

     "Sacrifice?" she asked. She looked down at his hands, wondering what he had sacrificed to cause something like that.

     He nodded. "We give up something of ourselves for the Grim... I gave them my afterlife."

     Her head whipped up to look at him in shock, the phantom touch momentarily forgotten. What he said shocked her to her very core. She herself had narrowly escaped such a fate, and to hear that he had chosen it stunned her. "Your... soul?" she said.

     Seemingly wanting to keep her attention, the hands stroked downward, over her thighs. Siané winced a little, but Baal'themar spoke as though nothing were happening. "A part of my soul and an eye to bind my soul to an object, yes." He tapped his eyepatch.

     "To an object?" she asked, distracted again. Vionora's soul had been bound to a soulstone. It had both been the reason for her death, and what had given Siané a chance to live. Yet Baal had done this to himself, willingly. She almost couldn't believe it. Why would he have done that to himself? Why would he make such a sacrifice? Didn't he think he deserved better...?

     "An item to allow future Grim to summon me from the afterlife," he said. "But that isn't what did this." He wiggled his fingers, and Siané blinked. "This was an experiment on the effects of a drug... Wreave. A demonic drug that eats away at the soul of the user and twists them into a demon."

     Siané had known of Wreave. She had helped in the battle that had taken down its distributor, Mr. White, and in the beginning Kex'ti had consulted her regarding the Twilight about it. But she didn't say anything about that. Instead she asked, "Is there no way to reverse it...?"

     "Not that I know of," he said. "And I need to be careful around fel energy too. Too much and the changes could start again."

     The touch of the phantom hands had settled into a rhythmic stroking. It was almost relaxing, like a massage. Siané found herself keenly focused on the problem Baal was presenting. He was hurt, and she wanted to help him. "I used to be fel-tainted... more than the average Sin'dorei, I mean," she said. "But I was able to be cleansed of it. The monks at the Peak of Serenity helped."

     It had been Xandric who had taken her there, and helped her confront her fears and erase the taint that Malhavik had forced onto her a lifetime ago. The thought of Xandric brought a pang to her heart. He would be so worried about her, now, having not heard from her in so long.

     Baal'themar rubbed his hands together, tracing the outline of bones under skin. "Sadly this corruption is part of me now. Removing the demonic part would be like taking what little soul remains."

     Siané paused, remembering when her soul had been barely a shred either. But Xandric had helped with that too. "My problem was similar, but there were some entities willing to help me..." she said.

     "What happened to you?" Baal'themar asked curiously.

     The hands brought themselves back to her attention as they moved over a sensitive area of her legs. "I.. ah..." Losing the thread of the conversation, it took her a moment to find it again. "I died."

     He blinked, taken aback, then smiled. "It didn't stick, it would seem."

     The hands trailed lightly, suggesting a very distracting destination. Siané took a breath, unable to stay focused on the conversation, her replies becoming rather unilluminating if correct. "Most of my soul was devoured by an Ancient. I had to get help to become a... whole person... again..."

     Her gaze focused on him watching her, and in that moment she remembered that he knew exactly what he was doing to her. Her face tingled with the strength of the blush that hit her. 

     "How did you get into that?" he asked, his head tilting with innocent curiosity. "Ancients eating souls? Sounds like a good story."

     "It's... a long story..." she said, shifting in her seat. A small whimper escaped her throat, involuntarily, and she avoided meeting his eyes.

     He watched her squirm for a moment longer before asking, "Would you like me to stop?"

     "I.. um..." Was it another trick question? What if he didn't want her to say no? Would he be angry? Would he start to think that the happiness he wanted was impossible, and decide to sever loose ends? She swallowed. The only way to show him what it was supposed to be like would be to be honest. She wanted to believe he would appreciate that. "Yes, please," she said softly.

     The touch faded away. Siané slumped a little in relief. Watching her, Baal said, "Perhaps another time when you are feeling better we can resume this little game... I do enjoy these types of games, watching a partner squirm and fight to control themselves."

     Her blush hadn't abated and with statements like those it wasn't about to. She didn't reply, looking down at the table and fidgeting with the cloth of her dress's skirt. Just like Vionora always did. The realization made her stop. 

     Vionora had been in compromising situations before. A part of her had relished it. The same part of her that had led her down the road of self-destruction, and taken others with her. Siané never, ever wanted to be like that, yet certain things still made her... react. There was a reason she'd been drawn to Xandric, with his temper and brute strength. But that had been safe. Xandric would never, ever do anything to her without her clear and enthusiastic consent. Siané didn't seek out situations where her will would be compromised, where she had to surrender. Did she? She had accepted Baal's invitation to meet, to bring Jeho... Was that why? Because part of her knew it would end up like this?

     I'm not her.

     Baal leaned back again. "When you are ready, write a letter to Zak and tell him you are going to let Jeho stay with him. We can arrange a meet up after that."

     Jeho. Jeho should never have gotten mixed up in this. Nothing else mattered but fixing that, making sure the baby was safe. Siané nodded. They spoke briefly about the details of how such a meeting would go, before Kieran started fussing in the nursery. It was time to go back to taking care of the babies. Siané let herself focus on them. Whatever she was, whatever happened to her, didn't matter, so long as she didn't get anyone else hurt.
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18:41:20 [Lilliana-TwistingNether]: I don't know how to play the game, just rp.
21:31:21 [Ulrezaj-TwistingNether]: What are we without the bw?
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Nathandiel
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Re: Copper Kisses

Unread post by Nathandiel »

Nathaniel pushed down the front of his pants, released himself and put his hand to work. It was forced, but he was determined to make it work again. It worked just fine, the problem was that once he got to the peak, he got stuck on a plateau--if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, which was often, he went tumbling back down the mountain into the valley of the sexually unsatisfied. 

He hadn't touched a woman in a proper way since Drinn, at least not in a proper way that also aroused him. He couldn't look at the woman he and Baalthemar kept, she was too motherly, though he had come to find that Baalthemar took a liking to her. That made him a little bit jealous, but in a fun sort of way. If only he had also found her so enticing, it would have made an interesting game to watch them together while he grew angrier and angrier until he took them both. But he couldn't look at her like that, not when she held the baby so tenderly and not when she was clearly so very sad. Sad women were fucking downers. 

Sad. He was sad too. That was the real axe that went into his wood. He was missing Drinn, just as he missed Clara. He missed the women he was comfortable with, whose pleasure he'd held above his own. He always made a point to ensure his partners went first, but often it was for his own satisfaction that he satisfied them at all. Pleasure to his partners could only be offered freely when he felt great love for them. He loved Baalthemar and their pairings were lovely, though often they were just the savage rough-and-tumbles of two men just looking to get off (those were damn nice too), but he wasn't a pure nancy, he never had been; he'd always liked women, always wanted them, and certainly always wanted them more then men. 

But there is no woman and I've gotten nothing but ass for months. I'm forgetting what its like to sink into the tenderer of the meats. 

He tried thinking about Clara's generous bottom, he tried thinking about Drinn's perfectly-sculpted lips, he even dug back to Elaine and her expert use of her frontal ballistics descending upon his face--but then there was Clara's tears and Drinn's hidden sadness. He tried to salvage the climb, grasping at rocks and any shoots that emerged from the slope of the burg; tits, thighs, eyes, and nipples as sweet as sugar cookies, but still he tumbled. 

He turned onto his front, one cheek swallowed by the pillow as he used his hips against the mattress, but he bed didn't buck back, it didn't swallow or even scramble away when the most natural of dances just got too damn good. He nearly found his way back to the top, the sun visible and the image of an eager tangle between his wife and the elven woman he'd come to love conjured from the desperation of his deprived mind, but then they looked at him, together, and they were both angry with him, their lovely features tainted with scorn and disdain. 

He cursed, stopped, and beat at the pillow several times in frustration. He wasn't going to get off, not tonight. He laid on his belly and let his birch roll back into the swamp down in the valley below.  
WrA: Nathandiel, Mharren
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Nathandiel
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Re: Copper Kisses

Unread post by Nathandiel »

---For Faylea---

"Come, come skitter bug. Skitter bug, skitter bug, skitter bug boo." Nathandiel beckoned the tiny eight-legged creature towards him from where he squatted at the end of the table, the lip of the old wood under his nose and his eyes wide.

He reached over the table and lowered his hand slowly until just the very tip of his middle finger touched the coarse bristles on the top of the creatures ungainly midsection. From where he was positioned he could see it's tiny, terrible little mandibles clack quickly together and apart again as it was touched. It's facial projections undulated as if searching for the offending source of stimulus as he pet it with reverent affection.

"This is my table Skitter Bug Boo." He murmured, eyes wide as he watched the tiny monster from the very plane upon which it stood.

The spider started to move towards him and he fancied that his gentle pets enticed the creature in his direction, made it eager to meet the godly giant that tickled it's back bristles. Here came a new friend, someone to spend time with.

He cupped his hand against the edge of the dissection table as the spider reached it. It was light, nearly weightless in his hand. He lifted it as he stood, offering his other hand, one-over-the-other and creating an endless length of palms to flee across as it tried to keep running. He examined it under the light, ignoring the balded head of the dead man on his table as it pressed into his groin when he bent over to get a better look at his catch.

"Hello Skitter Bug Boo." He said softly. "No getting away now. Dropping in on me unannounced just won't do."

He opened his mouth wide, the hinges of his jaw crunching and the tendons creaking over the joints, and brought his hand to his mouth. Skitter Bug Boo ran into his mouth, over his tongue and collided with his uvula. When he closed his mouth he fancied that he felt those little back bristles of Skitter Bug Boo's against the roof of his mouth, right before he crunched.

Skitter Bug Boo was in pieces, a spurt of something a bit warm amongst the harder bits, like the cherry goo in a fancy chocolate, oozed from his tongue to his teeth as he moved the broken pieces of his new friend around. Skitter Bug Boo was full of tingly stuff that felt a little like menthol medicine and tasted just about as good.

"Bye Skitter Bug Boo." He said, speaking as he chewed. He swallowed, cleared his mouth with his tongue, and swallowed again. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. "Drop in again sometime. Bring more friends...."

I like friends.

He went back to work.
WrA: Nathandiel, Mharren
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Nathandiel
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Re: Copper Kisses

Unread post by Nathandiel »

“Hey! Look at me! I'm not a dentist either but this our fucking job so we're going to do it! Yes?” Nathaniel looked up at Mharren, his eyes wide as she shouted at him over the cries of their patient. “Open. His. Fucking. Mouth, please!” She tapped her finger towards the patient's mouth with one gloved finger. Even with her lower face hidden behind her surgical mask her green eyes were sufficient to convey her irritation. Her long white eyebrows furrowed into a V that came to a head between her eyes, accentuating the irritation in her eyes. “Do it now or I'll stab you with the anesthetic.” She jabbed the needle at him; a long slender syringe, it's sharp so long it looked more appropriate for a spinal injection than anything involving one's face.

“Why are we using anesthetic again?” Sidus Tel’thar asked from his place at the head of the patient’s table. He would be assisting and had been all too eager to attend the procedure—Tel’intgar admired his cougar mentor, Mharren, and delighted in playing nurse for her.

Mharren cast an even more displeased look upon Tel'Inthar than she had on Nathandiel. She's squirted some of the anesthetic at Tel’inthar. “Have you ever removed a whole set of teeth in a patient with no juice? No? Neither have I!” She was plenty irritated now. “Hold him down! Open his mouth! Put in the block! And let's fucking do this!” Her eyes widened as if she had favoured them with an excited smile, sans humour.

Nathandiel and Tel’intgar exchanged a glance and gave each other a curt nod. It was time to get on with it, if only to make her happy. Tel’inthar held the patients head, one arm around his neck and the other across his forehead. The patient fought so hard against his restraints that the whole table shook and for a moment, just one, Nathnadiel was glad that Tel'Inthar had come to hold down their patient.

Nathaniel pulled at the mans lips and the teeth came down, nearly taking the tips of his finger off. Shit. The screaming stopped, replaced with a high pitched muffled mewling as the wide-eyed patient clapped his floppy pink lips together and put his oral cavity on lockdown.

Angered then himself, Nathandiel snatched at the mans nose, plugging the cartilaginous nostrils and earning a squeal so high in tone that it hurt his ears--but still the man didn't open his mouth. Nathandiel twisted. “I will break your nose, cut your lips off and knock out you fucking teeth of you don't open the fuck up!” He shouted st the man.

There was a beat of silence.

The mouth opened.

Nathaniel deposited the bite-block into the wedge of the mans back teeth so quickly it was over before he realised that the man had tried to bite him again, his attempt stopped by the wedge. He'd felt the jaw compress, but the teeth hadn't met. Once the block was installed, the three surgeons were granted a three-finger clearance into the tender and defenseless mouth of the man before them.

"One might say this one is all bark and no bite," Tel’inthar said with a little chuckle as he relinquished his hold on the patient—who began to struggle more, panicking fully and bucking in the chair. He shook his head from side to side, sweaty black hair flying.

“Suction you moron, he's chocking on his own saliva because he can't swallow.” Mharren said, her voice almost lost over the racket, but not so diminished that Nathnadiel didn't hear the boredom in her tone.

Nathaniel did as he was instructed but passed the duty off to Tel’thar. Nathandiel was a miserable nurse, he relied on them very heavily during procedures of his own and had always failed to retain any of the handy tricks they had tried to teach him. He only ever got in the way of other physicians and much preferred to work alone. In this case, he was present only to perform the extractions. Mharren had injured her elbow while away from the Undercity and she hadn't thought that she'd be of sufficient strength to yank the teeth free of the bones in the patient’s jaw. She wouldn't let Tel’thar do it because “he's still only a fellow,” or so she'd said when she'd slunk into his office earlier that day.

He'd rorted with a snort and “yes. And a fully licensed fellow at that. It's just teeth, make him do it.”

But no, she'd wanted him to do it, as if he'd done anything more than the basics of dentistry. There was a reasons that dentists were different creatures with different colleges--they did different things. He'd spent the late morning reviewing procedural manuals on field and rural dentistry, looking for an approach that would allow him to do what he needed to do without being too complicated.

Now that the patient couldn’t close his mouth, Nathandiel fit him with a lip re-tractor, exposing every single one of his long whitish teeth and all of their imperfections. From the nose down he looked like a skull, just a death’s gr--regardless of his distress. Individual’s with lip re-tractors in always looked morbid to Nathandiel, he’d take a gutted patient over grinning one any day; one just wasn't meant to see that many teeth on a face.

“If you don’t stop fussing I will bolt your head to this table.” Mharren informed the patient. He only squealed, but became very still. “Good. Stay still or this will go very poorly.”

Nathandiel smirked behind his mask. Mharren was always somehow remarkably impatient but humane, she detested waiting but would insist on it to ensure a patient's comfort. Contrary woman if ever I met one. She must have driven Drinn insane, and Drinn her, in return.

Thinking of Drinn made him sad so he focused on the teeth. The bright, white, drying teeth.

He watched as Mharren aimed the needle tip at the back of the patient’s jaw, angling down into the webbing towards the ear-line down deep in the back. When she pushed the needle against the delicate pink tissue--so pink it reminded him of a labia--the patient let out a whine like an abandoned kitten. “It'll be over soon.” Mharren murmured, her attention on applying the nerve block depsite that deep hidden nature of kindness bubbling up in in an attempt to betray her cold exterior. “I don’t have topical, they didn't’ have any at the chemist's closet. I’ll be fast.” She spoke absently, the way physicians often did when they were only distantly monitoring the distress of their patients, focused instead on performing their procedures properly.

Nathandiel was a bit of a shit anesthetist when he needed to be one; putting a patient out was fine, he only ever had to do the math and then have someone else watch his patients. Nerve blocks though, they were something else, they were precision work that required both excellent luck and pristine knowledge of anatomy, for almost all blocks were done blind without imaging; blocks were done based on a best-guess, and they were only done by those with the licenses to guess well. A license he had, but still knew that he'd only barely earned. Bedside anesthesia was not his forte.

Mharren though, that cunt’s hands were only steady when she worked. She was a miserable but functioning drug addict—a character type not totally uncommon such institutitional environments—but once she was in theatre, one couldn’t tell what afflictions might reside in the good doctor.

“Shhh.” She whispered behind her mask as she pulled back slowly, depressing the rest of the punger and leaving a trail of anesthetic as she withdrew, a last minute deposit. A thought occurred to him that was as intrusive as unwelcomed penetration: he imagined leaving behind such a trail inside a woman after having her.

She withdrew the needle and handed it to him. He took it and dropped it into the kidney dish on the table next to him and handed her the next syringe so she could repeat the block on the other side of the man’s lower jaw. The nerves in the lower jaw were easy . . . they were all innervated by a single nerve. Applying the block under the ear on both sides took out sensation from the entire mandible, giving the oral surgeon plenty of free play area.

“You can do the top ones.” She said. “They’re easier.”

When she was done she got up and moved around to sit next to him, she would be his nurse while he did the extractions. But before he could do them he had to take care of the top teeth and block each of the maxillary nerves—fourteen in total in this particular man—with tiny little jabs of anesthetic, each one fiery and unwelcome in the absence of a topical rub before hand. He opted to move quickly as he jabbed, the patient was in tears. He was only on the fifth tooth when the monitor’s alarms went off and the three physicians looked up--in his case with a needle still inside the the patient's gums. The man's heart rate had jumped up significantly, as had his respirations.

Such alarms and red numbers no longer elicited fear or anticipation from Nathandiel. Sensitivity to such dire things as a failing heart or a hypoxic chest had been worn away from his repertoire fairly early. People died, they died in bad ways--all of them--and where he was, they didn't heal anyone. They only took to them to that dying place, often in as much pain and agony as they could. When they did bring someone back from the beyond the veil, it was only to hurt them again, and so if those alarms elicited anything from him it was hope that his patients were dying, and that they'd go so far beyond that he wouldn't be able to bring them back.

“It's just the epinephrine in the shot.” Mharren assured him. “He was already upset, keep going.”

He snapped his fingers for the buccal mirror but Mharren already had it waiting for him. He took it in hand as if he really knew what to do with it—the undead had little use for dentists so it fell to the surgeons to deal with such things and more than one had admitted to making it up as they went along—and he inspected the first of the molars he desired to remove. He stuck a finger inside the man's mouth, feeling the prominences of the tooth and noting how strange that was, to put a finger into something so soft and hit cusped bone--none of the other orifices presented a finger with such a find. He turned returned the mirror to Mharren and went to work, using a levator to dig down into the gum line around the tooth and hook it. He flexed as he gained purchase and began to rock the tooth, loosing it from its socket. The gums wept blood as he moved the flat head of the levator around the tooth, dipping below the gum line and twisting, rocking, and lifting, loosening the tooth from the bone as he moved.

Four minutes of wrenching and rocking had earned him a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and arms. Tel’Inthar was good about suction and it made it much easier to tune out the patient and the people around him and just focus on the work. The back teeth would be the worst, anchored in with more legs around the root. When the tooth finally unlocked form the socket it was audible, a sound so wrong that it my his stomach lurch.

“Ugh.” Tel’Inthar groaned. Nathandiel popped the tooth and it fell onto the patinet’s tongue, anchored only by a thin, twisted string of bloody tissue. He removed the tools and went to snag the tooth with forceps when the patient sucked it down, swallowing it.

Nathandiel sat back, perturbed. The patient laughed, a strange, strangulated sound ruined by his opened dry mouth. ". . . ught not to have done that friend.” Nthandiel said, meeting the patient’s eyes finally. “We need all twenty-eight of those. . . .”

“Isn’t it thirty-two?” Tel’Inthar asked.

Nathnadiel shook his head. “He’s had his wisdom teeth out. Thirty-two teeth in a bundle is part of how they’ll figure out which son they’ve lost.” He leaned forward and jabbed a thumb into the patient’s belly. “I’m content to wait for that tooth to make it's way to the rear exit . . . but if you swallow any more of them I’m going in directly to get them back.” He dragged the gloved tip of his finger over the man’s tummy as he eyed him, a gentle touch that was almost fond in its longing to go right through the soft belly meat and into the sac of muscular tissue that now held the bit of bone and enamel.

There was a beat of silence and the patient looked away.

Nathandiel smiled. “Hold still now. . . .” He tucked into the table and set in on the next tooth. “Thirty-one teeth more to go. . . .”
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Re: Copper Kisses

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"Bad things are happening," Nathandiel said. "It hasn't come to Northrend yet, and it may not, but I just want us to be safe." He explained to Siané as he packed up Kieran's things. She only stared at him, silent, as usual.

That's not quite fair, sometimes she talks. Maybe she's depressed about her baby.

Maybe, and somewhere deep down he was sorry for that, but she had opted to let the kid go. He would have been quite happy to have let her keep the little girl with them. Now she was resigned to mothering Kieran, and he wished her to do a better job. He'd thought that if she had her baby she'd do a better job just as a side effect of having her own baby, but then she'd sent the baby away. And Baalthemar had agreed.

"Get your things Siané, please." He tried to use an even tone with her. She hadn't seemed worried about the invasions in Azeroth, about the world at large, or about anything beyond her bedroom and the contents of her own head. He wondered if she regretted letting Jehosamine go: she'd gone to her father. Was his home as free from demonic invasion as Nathandiel's and Baalthemar's?

Siané got her bags and followed him out of the nursery, down the main stairs, through the house, and down into the basement. It was colder down there, and while he'd down his best to make it more welcoming it was still bare and indicative of the previous tenants. "I'll make it nicer soon." He promised again. He'd kept promising to make the ugly basement a decent place to stay.

He'd removed the girls and the tools and the supplies--all the things that had made the basement sinister. He'd brought down furniture and candles and sacks of dried goods. Once she was settled with her things he'd bring down the crib and her rocking chair. The beds he'd brought down would accommodate the three of them if they needed to stay in the safety of the basement. He'd seen the demons and while he wanted to pretend he wasn't worried, he was. They could really end up stuck down there. Worse, Siané would end up stuck at the cabin when neither he nor Baalthemar was home. He wanted her to be safe, and he wanted Kieran to be safe. They needed to be able to hold-out on their own if the cabin was compromised.

She sat on one of the beds and held the little boy. Kieran was desperately fond of her. Kieran loved him and Baalthemar, but he also loved her, and that had done much to ameliorate the impatience that Nathandiel often felt with Siané. Things hadn't gone quite the way he'd planned, but she had turned out to be just what he'd wanted: a loving mother figure for the child. He'd gotten the feeling that there was magic in Kieran, something he couldn't nurture and neither, really, could Baalthemar. But she could. He wanted her to.

He took in the surroundings, the dank atmosphere and the small windows. He intended to craft removable covers for them so that she could have light and air, but shield herself if something bad came. There was plenty of food and she was free to go upstairs if she wished. The bathroom was stocked and he'd done his best to add little flecks of light-hearted decor, but she was still in a basement and he'd told her to stay there until further notice. When he and Baalthemar were home she could spend more time upstairs, but "a tear in the sky could come any time. Its best you stay down below, best you be ready," he'd told her.

"I'll...I'll make tea." He offered, not sure that would help the look on her face but not sure what else to do. He'd stay downstairs with her for a bit and then get back to moving things. When Baalthemar came home he'd have to explain why he'd moved her. Hopefully Baalthemar wouldn't object.

Hopefully agrees and we stay closer to home.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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Baal’themar and Nathandiel had enjoyed a night at the pleasure palace, Nathandiel had felt unloved and worried that Baal’themar had ran off with someone else… or worse, gotten hurt fighting demons. Baal’themar did his best to show Nathandiel how he felt, and promised to be at home more.

The cool night air softly whipped around them as they flew over swamp-land and gnarled trees toward their home, Baal’themar had taken from as a large stone panther, a form that he used to travel with Nathandiel. The two men had chosen to fly home enjoying the time alone, in the crisp Northrend air.

Nathandiel sat on his back lazily watching the horizon. A sound like thunder shook him from his daydream and he sat upright and looked toward the direction of the sound.

A soft whistle was the only warning Baal’themar got before something large and fast shot past him toward the ground, he had to jerk his body to avoid the object.

Whatever it is, it lacks the fel-green glow of a Legion weapon. Baal’themar thought.

Nathandiel held on tight and let slip a curse as he fought to keep his grip. His curse was followed by a thunderous crash as the object slammed into the swamp under the two men.

Baal’themar dove down toward the impact site, Nathandiel leaned into the dive keen to see what had disturbed his daydream. Baal’themar landed in the mud and waited for Nathandiel to hop off his back. In a cloud of smoke the tall blond elf stood next to his lover, and the two men headed toward the object that now rested in the soggy muck.

Twisted and cracked steel met the two men as they approached the strange metal box, Nathandiel walked over to the box and kicked at it, a low hollow sound rang out, followed by a soft whimper. “There’s something inside this thing!” he yelled to Baal’themar.

Baal’themar frowned and helped Nathandiel pull the metal box onto it’s side. “This thing has hinges…” Baal’themar nodded to two thick metal hinges and what looked like a bolt holding a door shut.

“If this is a door then we better get it open and see what’s inside,” Nathandiel said with a grin.

The two men worked on removing the pins for the hinges with the few items they had on them and anything heavy from around the area. In time brute force and stubbornness won and the door gave way to what was inside.

A grease covered goblin woman lay unconscious, her small body had bounced around inside the steel coffin when it came to an abrupt stop in the swamp. Nathandiel’s doctor instincts kicked in and he started to check on her.

“She’s still alive… but she needs to be taken care of fast.” He turned to Baal’themar. “She’ll need to stay with us.” Baal’themar grinned. “How often does it rain cute girls? I think we can make an exception for her…”

Nathandiel carefully picked her up in his arms, she was limp like a tattered ragdoll. Soot and grime covered her face and clothes. Together they activated their runestones and the soft green light enveloped them all.

As the green light faded they stepped out into the basement. Nathandiel had taken the time to change the hearth stones summoning point, the safety of the basement being the logical choice.

Nathandiel rushed over to the now clean and unused stone operating table and set the woman down. He worked quickly to remove her clothes and clean up her wounds.

“She’s got a haemothorax, I’m going to need your help,” Nathandiel said as he waved him over. “Will you check on Siané and Kieran while I get her ready please?” He asked.

While Baal’themar checked on Siané and the baby, he palpated the tiny woman’s chest. He turned her onto her side, small green breasts slumping, and raised one arm over her head. “Baal’themar! I said check on, not linger!”

He didn’t have a full theatre, but he had the basics. The little green woman was unconscious--which was lucky for her. Travel had taken too much time. He went to the cabinets and took out supplies. Sadly, the nature of what Baal’themar’s basement had been created for had not been the comfort and cleanliness of a standard hospital. It took some searching, but eventually he found a local anesthetic. He wondered momentarily if Baal’themar had stocked that by accident; sparing his playthings from pain seemed counter intuitive.

Baal’themar returned while Nathandiel was washing the little woman’s side: up her arm and down to her waist. He put on gloves and palpated the area he intended to cut into again. “You’re my nurse, come assist me.”

Baal’themar frowned but came to his side. “I said you’re my nurse--you don’t stand on the business side of the table. Go on around.” Baal’themar did as he was told and stood opposite him. “Hold her please,” he instructed, dipping the needle of anesthetic into her flesh. “This will help a little bit, but once I cut through muscle...well...she might wake up.”

“Wake up?”

“Wake up. I’m gonna cut into the space between her lungs and her ribs and drain the area.” He looked at Baal’themar. “If that doesn’t wake her up, we’re looking at a head injury.” He smirked.

He performed the placement of the tube quickly. It wasn’t a proper tube, but the procedure was ancient and could be adapted to suit one's needs. The poor girl did wake up, right when Nathandiel jammed his gloved fingers into the wound he’d made to poke around and spread the incision. “Hold her…” he repeated calmly. “Hold her…”

When the drain was in place he held the opposite end out to Baal’themar. “Open your mouth,” he demanded. Baal’themar shook his head. “Open.” Baal’themar took the tube in his mouth. “Now suck.” Baal’themar frowned but did so. When the blood and debris made it to Baal’themar’s mouth he spat, sending up an arch of purple and red that splattered across the floor with a heavy thwack.

“Good.” Nathandiel took the drain back as Baal’themar wiped his chin, and let it drain freely to the floor; he’d find a bucket or a jar after. He sutured the tube in place, hushing the poor woman and assuring her that she was alright, that she was safe, that things were looking good, and that while she’d been in a terrible accident she was a very tough, little cookie.

When he was done he wasted no time in setting up an intravenous line and administering pain medication from his travel bag. He gave her a sedative and set to cleaning her up. When she was out, he had Baal’themar carry her to one of the beds and cover her up. “I’ll need you to go to the Undercity to get some supplies,” he told Baal’themar as he filled a large bucket halfway with water. He brought it over and set it beside the bed and redirected the free end of the tube into it. The water seal would prevent air bubbles from tracing back up the line and into the woman’s chest. “I’d go, but someone that knows what to do should stay with her. We might even need Siane to do some of her--” He wiggled his fingers. “--magic.”

Baal’themar looked over the wounded woman and nodded. “Tell me what supplies you need and I’ll get them for you.” Nathandiel left the bedside to write a list for Baal’themar.

“These should all be in the same place where we did your physical exam,” he said as he handed Baal’themar the list.

Baal’themar read over the list and sighed. “I’ll be back shortly. It shouldn’t take me long to steal this stuff and leave,” he said as he readied himself to head to Dalaran. “I’ll get Siané to come in on my way out.” Baal’themar turned on his heel and headed out to Undercity.

Siané appeared shortly afterward. “Kieran is sleeping,” she said hesitantly, her gray eyes moving to the unconscious goblin female. Whatever she inferred was going on, she didn’t object to. “You needed me to…?”

Nathandiel made a grimace of distaste. “Heal her,” he said, indicating the goblin. He went over to the basin to wash his hands, as though that would help with the taint accrued by asking for magic to be performed. “I don’t want all the effort we went through to be for nothing. Make it quick so you can get back to Kieran.”

“Okay,” Siané said in that dull way she did, and went over to the goblin. Nathandiel watched her covertly while pretending to be busy cleaning himself up. She did her best to summon the Light but Nathandiel had seen better healers. Still, it was better than nothing, and the unconscious goblin’s breathing seemed to grow easier.

“Now get,” Nathandiel said, making shooing motions that also doubled as air-drying his hands, and Siané lowered her gaze and went back to the cell that was currently outfitted as a nursery for Kieran.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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(The following takes place near the waterfall above Orgrimmar)

Baal'themar sat down after Fayleah had vanished, his world seemed to spin, his mind still raced. He had told her so much about him... had she been listening when he cried out to Elora? The thought of her brought with it a fresh wave of pain and sorrow. He looked into the water as it rushed off into the depths below the cliff. "Elora..." he whispered to the dry air.

He looked at his hand, and slowly made a fist with his gloved fist. He had changed so much, it seemed like a life time ago that she died but there were times where it would come back to him with a rush, and it would overwhelm him with the depth of the sudden pain. He dreaded the times that he was able to remember... but then. "People change" he remembered Fayleah's words. "You are right, we do. And not always for the better..." he removed his glove and looked over his twisted flesh.

"You're a monster!" the thought of Hendrick and his how he suffered brought a clarity to him. "Yes... I'm sorry Elora, but I have changed... I'm a monster. But I'll keep working... I'll be something to fear, I'll be the thing that would make even the filth that hurt you would be afraid of." Baal'themar closed his fist tight, he felt the tips of his finger nails break the skin of his palm. "Forgive me Elora, but I can't be the same boy you loved. He died with you in that hell." Thick lines of blood ran down his arm and the pain from the wound burned as Baal'themar clenched his fist harder. "And I'll not pretend to be him." he un-clenched his fist his palm was wet with blood it coated his fingers and palm.

*In the depth of his mind*

The woman with golden eyes, watched in horror as her work started to come undone. "No! You can't give in!" she screamed into the void. Slowly, a sound met her ears, she turned in a panic and hoped that her fears weren't coming true.

In the distant darkness of Baal'themars' mind a huge shape slowly rose up. A wolf like beast, massive and corrupted took its first steps. Its thick fur slick with oil like tar, its filth dripped into the void. The woman watched as the beast took in a deep breath, the sound of air as it rushed into the beast’s lungs gripped her with horror. She knew well what this meant, she had failed... her attempts to turn Baal'themar from his darkness had only caused him pain and confusion, his will and his soul so misaligned...

The beast finally howled, the sound was deafening it rolled out from the void like a storm cloud over mountains, endless and indomitable. The woman crumbled under the overwhelming power of it. Her failure was complete, her form splintered into shards and scattered be the monstrous howling.

*In the real world.*

Baal'themar watched the blood drip onto the dry soil, the ground so parched for water in spite of the running water only a few meters away. He felt... free, his choice to embrace what he had become was long overdue. It was time to share his new found perspective with Nathandiel.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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"Just remember, you asked me for help. Not the other way around." Mharren said, eyeing him from the other side of the table. A man-sized mound covered in a sheet was before them. "So whatever is under here, we're gonna deal with it my way." She aimed on bone-thin finger down at the heap.

"Yeah," he said lightly. "That's the idea."

He stood and raked one hand through his hair, coaxing it back on his skull so he could secure his skullcap. He'd had it cut recently and he didn't want any bits of his fringe shaking loose over the coming hours and peeping out to look over his brows and bother him. Without nurses they were on their own for itches and he didn't dare touch his face once he got started. He secured his mask and put on gloves. Mharren went to the record player in the empty operating theatre, the pews above them empty, and she put on a record. After a few bars he noted that he'd heard it before, it was one he didn't mind. Music would be good, they had a lot of mindless work to delve into.

"Now...shall we see what's under this cover?" Mharren asked, swaying absently as she approached the table, tying off her white-blonde hair before pulling a bouffant cover over it.

"It's not great...." he murmured, waiting. He knew what was under the sheet. He'd seen it become the way that it was and he still didn't quite believe it. That Baal'Themar of mine is into some very bad voodoo.... He'd travelled with it to the Undercity and he'd had plenty of time to acclimate to its ness.

Together, they took back the sheet and Mharren's brows pinched at the bridge of her nose, her green eyes large with surprise and revulsion. A wordless exclamation left her mouth as the thing was revealed. "What...in the name of the good Gods, is this?" She asked.

On the table lay the dried outer covering of a man-sized cocoon, dark and red-brown in colour, like the shell of a meal worm. It wasn't smooth like chitin, but rather it was rough and flaky, already fragile petals of the husk littered the metal table around the pupa. It tapered towards one end and jagged abruptly to one side about two feet in like a crooked pepper. Feet.And to the other end was a more rounded top--a single, fleshy, wet gash in the centre. It oozed slowly, seeping clear fluid. Face.

"That...looks like a cunt." Mharren said, aiming one finger in the direction of the slit. "So, I ask again. What is this?"

"Something magical...." Nathandiel said with an air of annoyance. Their eyes met briefly. She too disliked magic, it was a shared trait amongst surgeons. You couldn't trust magic because you couldn't explain it and what you couldn't explain was best left alone.

Mharren unaimed her finger, opened her palm, and slowly put it on the centre of the pupa. "It's not as hard as it looks...," she murmured. "This outer shell, it's like old, desiccated bark. And this...," her fingers approached the gash. "This still looks like a cunt. What is that?"

"I think its for whose inside." He offered. "So they can...breath or whatever is it her kind does." He shrugged.

"Do I know whose in here?" Mharren asked. She approached the gash with her fingers, but rather than probe it directly, she prodded around the opening. He thought of the stories some boys told of their first encounters with a similar looking orifice and how they had both wanted nothing more than to poke it with a fingers, bury their faces in it, and run away as quickly as possible on error that it might bite said finger or face. Mharren didn't look interested in sticking her face in what was before them, but she did look interested in maybe risking a finger.

"Syreena...." he trailed off, thinking, "you know? I don't know her full name actually." He'd never cared to. Mharren only nodded. She knew some of the Grim, knew them because of her relationship with Drinn. "She was burned, or something, I don't know by what but when I saw her before she was put into this she was just twisted and black, like an over-grilled carrot."

...gross.

Mharren was inspecting the mass still, and still she skirted the perimeter of the oozing orifice. It crossed his mind then and he wondered if this older woman had ever met a longitudinal orifice she'd wanted to put her face in. That thought might have been sexy even with the pupa on the table if it hadn't smelled as poorly as it did. Sexy thoughts, like sexy fantasies in moving pictures, could be ruined when reality confronted one with that much neglected sense: scent.

"Well then...let's get her out of here." She took her hand away and picked up a trochar, he followed suit but with a tens-blade. "Dah'Lorei." She addressed him as she slid the trochar into the slit. It puckered greedily and his stomach flipped. She eyed him as she slid the metal in, angled down towards the chest. "If I lose any digits while we do this, I will be very unhappy with you."

He nodded and they set to work.

With the trochar they were able to probe inside and feel where there was a body and where there was just casing. She directed the cutting, utilizing his greater upper body strength to cut through the tough shell while she gave instructions, simultaneously leading the endeavour and assisting in place of a nurse. The shell didn't bleed, it was dry--until they got to the soft inside and it began to weep, spraying both of them with purulent fluid. Each surgeon took the spray to the chest and face with only mild annoyance. They had both been sprayed with worse.

Exposing the burned, twisted husk of The Shadowblade was easy once they got to the wet inside. She had been wrapped in wet, rubbery membranes the colour of white snot. They left behind a mucous residue that looked grey against her blackened body. Once she was out of the cocoon he thought maybe they had made a mistake, maybe Syreena was dead and what Baal'Themar had done had been for not. Surely the young man could have been misguided, by his own admission he knew nothing of medicine and how exactly did one know when an undead thing was finally, really dead?

But then she moved. Not by much, just a little, but enough that he knew he had seen it.

And now I know magic is truly, truly real because you don't open your burnt mouth and--

--grin.


"C'mon." Mharren prompted him. He stared, sure that the gnarled face had lifted at one side, a set of charred teeth peeking out to convey amusement. "Debridement. Now this gets fun. C'mon darling boy, if this really is the elf-hater we'll want to fix her up nice."

Three boxes of anti-septic soaked wire pads and multiple scalpel heads later, they had cut away the worst of the blackened flesh, leaving only sinew and grey remnants of ruined skin where some had survived. The bit and bobs of salvaged heroes from the killing fields would not be enough to fully rebuild Syreena, at least not to the way she had been before. While they worked Mharren remarked that while she could rebuild the compromised joints, she was rebuilding them from "shit stock," and so they wouldn't know if Syreena's functionality would return after they finished. That depended very much on the quality of her replacement components.

That's something for her and Baal'Themar to worry about. If I do this, if she "lives," maybe he'll stop being so reckless and feckless and loitering around this sort of trouble.

He could hope.

While Mharen worked on Syreena's face, he worked on her abdomen, and while he worked there, he felt Syreena's bone-tipped fingers curl into the loose fabric of his pants, tugging weakly. He wanted nothing more than to pull away, to flee in disgust, but he let her hold onto him. He set his teeth and ignored the molestation of the corpse. He would let her do it. Perhaps in that state she needed comfort, perhaps she was confused. Perhaps she just needed something to hold onto while she went through whatever it was like being rebuilt. Despite his distaste for her he would let her do it.

Even if it was just torment him.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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"Nice tits," Nathandiel murmured, nodding at the rack of racks laid out before him. Breast sets, big and small, green and pink, were spread on boards with item numbers on them. It was an impressive collection for parts so highly sought after by men.

"Fresh too," Garnard Plimbkin, the prosector that Nathandiel least liked doing business with, grinned as he added this tid-bit of sales information. "Got these 'uns off an orcish bitch with only one arm," he gestured to his own arm. "Titty bits was floppin' about, back and forth. Wild, them orcesses is." Garnard Plimbkin had felt the need to mime what the flopping breasts had been like.

"...are." Nathandiel's correction was absent as he reached out, hand hovering over the selection, as he assessed each set for colour, firmness, and tissue integrity.

"I recommend these 'uns, sir." Garnard Plimbkin put his own dead hand over Nathandiel's and pushed it down on a smallish, pale breast. It was cold and firm, but by no means rigid. He eyed the other of the two: the nipples were still Noblegarden-pink. "Elf," Garnard Plimbkin growled. "Turgid teacups ready for pinchin!"

Nathandiel withdrew his hand and eyed the other man. Garnard Plimbkin needed some work; his noise was half off and he'd lost a chunk of his lip somewhere. Odd that a man who was not whole was helping Nathandiel to put the final touches on Syreena.

"I . . . don't think the patient would appreciate Elven breasts." Wouldn't it have been funny if he did it anyway, though? Syreena, the Hatress of Elves, walking around with a bangin' new set of Elvish knockers.

"What'll it be then? Titties don't keep long. . . ." Garnard Plimbkin said.

That was true. They didn't keep long, not even with the best pastes and wraps that the apothecaries could provide. He exhaled sharply, taking in the valley of peaks and pert hilltops. "Those." He threw one finger in the direction of a large set with a smattering of freckles on them. One couldn't go wrong with a classic set of high beams.

"Human! Excellent choice, sir" Gardnard Plimbkin exclaimed. ". . . are these, mayhaps, for a special lady?"

"Just wrap them up, I'm in a hurry." Nathandiel snapped his fingers, irritated by the question. He didn't bone with the boneyards; the suggestion was offensive to him. As Garnard Plimbkin wrapped up the breasts, Nathandiel found himself to be very pleased with his choice. He thought that he would have very much liked to have met the woman that had owned them previously. He would have shown her a delightful time and treated her front plating with expert fingers, counting each of her orange freckles with his lips.

The way to a woman's heart. . . .

Smiling, Nathandiel collected his selection and headed back towards his office. He'd put the breasts on ice and go ready Syreena for the next surgery.
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His soup was cold.

Pointless.

Nathandiel pushed the bowl aside and looked away; he'd already reheated twice and both times he'd gotten so lost in his own thoughts that he'd forgotten about his hunger. It wasn't a nice hunger, it was a necessary hunger, the kind of hunger that was bad but made numb by a different need: the need for comfort. That was a need that wouldn't be filled.

He closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. He couldn't cry anymore, for now at least there were no more tears. A broken heart warranted sufficient crying fits to bring on dry spells and he was very, very dry. Baalthemar and Fayleah were thing which meant that he and Baalthemar weren't. He hadn't been so sad since Drinn had gone away. He tried to intellectualize it to make it hurt less, but really, it hurt very badly because logic didn't matter. He had loved the ragamuffin kid.

It wasn't going to work anyway. he was too young and too...long for this world. She's a better fit, and a 'she.' She's more available, more enticing, more ready to accommodate. This is a good thing.

His inner voice was calm and it's logic was sound--Fayleah was all of those things, cheap, easy, fast, and replaceable; just what a young elf really needed. Nathandiel was old, bagged down, and slow. He had responsibilities to eat up his time and didn't know anything about the hot new trend of being fel tainted. He'd lost his appeal. No matter what Baalthemar had said, he knew that was the truth and while he had been tempted to buy those placating lies about being a big family he didn't think he could. He thought that Baalthemar had meant them, that Nathaniel was his and that he loved him and that he was "Angel White," but he was a young man and young men didn't understand the damage they did with their idealism. That wasn't how Nathandiel was: cheap, fast, and easy had no worth to him and he would have no worth to her. The children should be together and he should go away.

Speaking of children....

Kieran yawned in his basket. The Undercity was no place for a baby, but it was the only other place he had rooms. Sleeping in Siane's room had been the loneliest thing he had done since leaving home. He had hoped that Baalthemar would come to him and maybe say all the things he had needed hear, but he hadn't. As much as Nathandiel wanted to make excused for this failure he knew that's all they were: excuses, and not real reasons. He had left Baalthemar a note to explain where to find the baby, if he wanted to. He thought that maybe Baalthemar would want to for a little while, but that youth and fast fun would win out and that would be the end of it. He would stay available as long as it took. He had no desire to steal the child. Maybe Baalthemar would have children of his own with Fayleah? "That's alright Dearling," Nathandiel murmured to the baby. "And when that time comes, I know where to take you. Where you can be happy."

Filled with anguish and desiring a comfort he couldn't have, he took vellum from his desk and began to write to Siane.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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Syreena had been a mess, one large, abraded, raw piece of meat comprised of grafts and replacement parts, not all of which were strictly of the meat variety. Nathandiel had commissioned some of the Lady's tinkerers to deal with some of the less replaceable bits Syreena had lost to the fire. The benefit of that had been getting the magisters in to fortify some of the parts. Syreena would be stronger in many ways, a sure benefit to the mandate, something he was caring more and more about as he faced the emptiness that love had left behind; love for Clara, for Drinn, and then for Baalthamar. They were gone, but the Grim were not, however distasteful they were they were a constant and like many a man before him, Nathandiel sought the comfort of consistency in his time of upheaval.

Nathnadiel looked down at Kieran, the other constant he had. The little boy had become a permanent staple of Nathandiel's appearance in the Undercity, if not directly hung on his person that tucked away safely in his bassinette. He didn't trust any of the nursing staff to give the little boy both the attention he deserved and [/i to]refrain from asking any questions about him. After all, how had the single doctor with the poor temperament acquired an infant? It could be his, but didn't he prefer the company of men? That wasn't true, but he let them think what they wanted.

Kieran suckled his bottle. It had taken some coaxing but the boy had gotten better about his feedings. He seemed to have accepted that the pillowy softness of a woman's breasts had been revoked and that he'd have to make due with a prosthetic: an inevitable lesson for all men. "And what a mighty suckler you are! Eater of Worlds, Muncher of Men!" Kieran kicked with delight.

Tap tap tap

Nathandiel looked up, his face instantly sour. Syreena was tapping her talons on the rail of her bed again. Something about the silent attempt to not exactly communicate but to inform of one's presence made the tapping unsettling to him. His upper lip curled at the heavily bandaged head of the woman who hated all elves and he held the boy a little more closely. He could think of better reasons for her to hate him, but then she'd never struck him as particularly observant.

Nathandiel stood and Kieran kicked him in the arm, protesting the change in position. He went to the bedside and extended one hand towards the bandages. He ran the tip of one finger over the moist, reddish-brown wetness that made up the gash of a grin on the mummified face. "Good morning Syreena, you had some additional work done last night when I put you to sleep." The talons rapped more fervently on the rail. "Oh no, no nothing too extreme, just something to help you in your endeavours to serve the mandate. The Dentist Leicester owed me a favour--silly body I had to deal with for him--and he allowed me to give you the one thing I have never seen you have: a smile."

Nathandiel grinned, catching one of the sharpened points through the bandage. He'd had no intentions of letting the Shadowblade leave pretty. If she'd had lips left after the fire the new alterations would only have shredded them. "You can expect some drooling, but I think you'll get used to it."

Tap tap tap tap tap tap

He put his hand over hers and they fought briefly in the arena of small muscle jerks and joint twists until he pinned her hand. "There is no more work left for me to do on you Syreena, not at this time. In a few days you will be ready to leave if you wish, but I might suggest you remain to work with the kinesiologists, you may need some . . . rehabilitation. I will have other things to attend to." He leaned down and whispered to her, the smell of her ointments and healing skin bitter, sweet, and sour all at once. He nosed at the new ear he'd installed for her. "I did this for you because of Baalthemar, he picked the wrong time to tell me the truth but I finished for me: you owe me now. Don't forget that for however much longer you live your unlife." He kissed the bandages gently and she resumed her fervent protest of tappings.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

Nathandiel patted Syreena's hand, fingers light on the clenched appendage, and he walked away, turning his attention back to the tiny child in his charge. He had fulfilled his obligation.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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Life in the wake of heartbreak could become manageable, provided the broken individual experienced it enough times to know its tricks. Heartbreak hijacked the body and the mind, it pulled at the chest from the inside and stirred the contents of the abdomen like fingers in a bowl of noodles. The mind's inner pilot argued with itself and it argued with the Heartbroken. What Nathandiel found most exhausting was not the nausea, the sleepless tiredness, or even the tears, but the bargaining! It will all be okay if this; it will all be okay if that. Maybe its my fault for this and if I just fix that it can all be okay again.

It was just a parting of a ways, a discovery of incompatibility, and an event in which the Heartbroken was forced to face their insufficiencies. Nathandiel's fine lines seemed like fissures, his silver roots like iron rot, his midsection weak and rotund. Never was one as ugly in their own eyes as when that had been dropped for something prettier. "The only one keeping you away from Baalthemar is you," The Winner had said before calling him a terrible person with too small a heart. He knew that adulterers blamed the one that they had usurped. He knew. But still, that others had agreed that he should just settle for being one of many lovers had caused him great doubt and self-loathing. The balding troll, once a welcomed sight, had told Nathandiel that his heart was just too small and he didn't have enough love in it. "It's your fault Nathandiel. We've done nothing wrong." But that was always the message the blissful doers of betrayal sent to the ruined. Perhaps they were right though, about his heart, he thought it more likely that he just a man out of place and time. His kind didn't collect harems, his kind valued sanctity. But he wasn't with his kind and theirs became more and more distasteful the longer he was with them.

He stood naked before the mirror, bits of shaving cream waiting to be wiped from his smoothed face. His bangs hung in his eyes and down his nose; they had reached the point at which he knew he needed to visit the barber. He combed his hair back severely from his brow and frowned as he inspected his face. He pulled at his temples, watching his lines dissappear. They reasoned that the visible effects of aging were due to both use and to gravity, thus the sagging. Still, as he inspect his he felt the bottom of his stomach drop just a bit more. "Angel White" Baalthemar had called him, sweet sentiments for all of his angels surely. How could a grown man be so foolish as to fall for such silliness? Had his wife died and taken his maturity with her? A sour taste grew in his mouth and stopped poking. He was done with that nonsense and letting go of it, letting go of even the desire for companionship, was a promise of comfort. He still hurt to much to really feel the freedom of a commitment to solitude, but knowing that it was coming was a balm on a raging wound--it helped just enough.

The eyebrows were awful, long and foolish and of a length that had no point to it. He brushed cream over them and took up the razor again. Slowly he cut them away, black wisps of fine hair falling into the sink. When they were gone and the raw, pink flesh was all that was left he bared his teeth--and was pleased. So pleased that he laughed. Without those harbingers of expression he looked more like he felt; numb. What beauty he had was deeply displaced by the loss and he liked that very much. He would not become entangled with a pretty thing again if they didn't see him as pretty either.

He opened the medicine cabinet and took down a pair of dusty scissors; Drinn's scissors. She'd like to snip her own bangs and keep herself coiffed, not that her particular presentation to the world was all that extravagant. A plain and sensible ponytail had been the crown for her plain and sensible face; two things he'd loved deeply about her and still did. Clara had been plain too, blonde and freckled, but plain. Exotic things were for passing fancies, practical things with substance were for keeping. Baalthemar had been pretty under all that dirt and that, he thought, might ought to have been a clue to show some restraint in just how much of himself he bared to the young man.

Nathandiel was not a great barber, but he could manage. He messed his hair and began to cut, using his comb and forefingers to approximate the length. He had a deep desire to shear it all away and see himself bald and bare, a scrotal head with teeth, but he resisted. He could destroy his allure but he could not be truly ugly. Withdrawing from company was not the same as withdrawing completely and he needed to be acceptable to look upon. That much sense was still with him.

The fall of hair into the sink was soothing, like shedding, shedding bits of what he didn't like right then and there, bits of what others didn't like, and bits of frustration. He was aware that as he worked he was slipping a little into the madder side of grief and he welcomed it. The break that so many feared when laid out on the couch, holding desperately to sanity, was perhaps the kindest release the mind could offer. He felt each cut and slice as he resized his ears, blood raining lightly down upon the sheared off hair, and each cut was white fire, white, searing, cleansing fire. His blood was warm and he liked the feel of it on his neck and shoulders. When he was done the waist band of his pants were soaked. The raw ridges of his new ears were hot, swollen and need of stitching.

He closed his fingers over the lip of the sink, tips sliding through red and painting bloody tattoos on the porcelain. He examined his work and for the first time in a very long time he felt like he knew the man that looked back at him. He smiled slowly, revealing just how many teeth he had in his very smart head. Damned be to the consequences and damned be to sense. It felt good to give in to the break and even better to ride it down, down, down into the darkness where the drains of humanity went.

He turned on the tap and washed the debris away.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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“I'm not sure this is a fit place for the child,” Nathandiel said, holding Kieran protectively to his shoulder. “Particularly not with one of those here.” He nodded towards the wretched strapped into the chair before the incinerator.

“There is no need to worry, I assure you,” Howard Philip Glenn spoke from the platform above, working at a complicated looking control panel. Jets of steam escaped and coloured liquids boiled in large, glass vats. The smell in the room was surprisingly clean, if a little reminiscent of a country fire. “He is quite tied down.”

Howard Philip Glinn did not seem the least concerned with the quivering, babbling, soiled creature in the unwelcoming chair. It fought its restraints between bouts of distraction, eyes drawn to the releases of steam or the striking of iron. Whenever Glinn moved, the milky-white eyes followed and the babbling lowered in volume.

“I'd be happy to come back. . . . When I've gotten a nurse for the infant.” Nathandiel offered his voice needlessly cheery. Glinn dismissed this with an absent and irritated wave of one skeletal hand.

Sure, mana addict and monstrous machinery; quite the place for a child less than one.

Nathandiel pressed his lips to the small boy's head, soft tendrils of fine black hair like feathers against his own flesh. “Alright right then, it's all okay.” The little boy was silent, not asleep but near to it. Nathandiel didn't think that many elves were born in the Undercity. and that if Kieran could count himself amongst peers they were few and had not stayed long.

In a way their leaving the cabin had been a coming home for the child—back to the screams and the antiseptic and the dank dampness of life without the sun. But a sun child needed that great globe of warmth and as soon as he was old enough, as soon as the arrangements were made through Pascal in Stormwind, Kieran would go to the woman that embodied sunshine; He would go to Siané. There he would be cared for and watched over at the Bramblewaithe Grammar School for boys while Siané performed the duty of guardian. For this he would see her handsomely remunerated. That she had agreed had been a load of relief for him. Baalthemar had not come to see the child and Nathandiel had felt forced to resolve that the other man no longer held an interest in the baby, with that in mind arrangements had needed making. Until Kieran could go to school he would stay with Nathandiel. Unfortunately that meant staying in the Undercity--and being at the mercy of whatever insane studies the other occupants pursued.

He turned his attention back to Glinn. “So what's this about then, what's really going on here?” He asked.

“Finally, you ask.” Glinn lowered his wretched form down the ladder and joined Nathandiel on the same floor. Glinn’s dry, dead face, pulled into a hideous grin of pleasure as he approached, reaching out and laying one withered hand on Kieran’s back. “My my, he is warm. Elves and their sunshine, they are so warm to the touch. When they are wee are they hot like the flames of candles.”

Glinn came close and, without invitation, took the baby from Nathandiel. There was a moment of alarm, a twisting of the intestines, in which Nathandiel warred between snatching his ward back and showing his superior unquestioning trust. Trust won out.

“There is a good lad, yes.” Glinn held up Kieran for inspection. The child was cooperative, making no fuss as he was handled by the cold hands of the undead. “He’s not yours, I know that.” Glinn said, “unless you mean to tell me that Drinn Sel’Quar has born you a son. I do suppose he looks a little like her and she'd have made a very warm child.”

Nathandiel said nothing. That would have been a good cover story, what with Drinn missing and the resemblance, the time between her disappearance the birth of Kieran. He had a single photograph of Drinn, perhaps he could lead Kieran to think her his mother.

“But he isn't, because he isn't a halfling. His warmth is too great.” Glinn’s eyes twinkled as he set them on Nathandiel who remained very, very still. The two men stared at eshcother, the corpse absently rocking the pink child. Glinn did this with a familiarity that, to Nathandiel, indicated that Glinn had been well-acquainted with children in his life.

“It's all right,” Glinn said finally. “I need your help.” Glinn turned his attention to Kieran, the tension disbursed. “Yes, yes I do. I need your new daddy to help me!” He held the child up and blew an awful, blasphemous raspberry in the babies tummy, making Kieran squeal with delight.

As Glinn explained what he intended, using the withered as an example, he kept Kieran in his arms. The baby was delighted by this new friend, this decrepit grandfatherly figure who knew all the best ways to make something even as uncanny and cruel as the administration of violent serums to the captive soul in the chair something fun. Kieran trumpeted his joy along with Glinn when the spent withered went into the fire, echoing the beast's screams with his own laughter. How innocent children were before they learned of context and subtlety.

“I'll need you to do the legwork of course, Silvermoon enjoys our resources as part of our partnership. You'll have all that you need.” Glinn gave Kieran back to Nathandiel and the child protested; he liked Glinn. “I'll arrange for larger quarters for you and your boy, I expect you'll be spending more time here, what with the loss of your dalliance--what was his name, the one with the single eye.”

Nathandiel nodded, relieved to have the child back in his arms. “Thank you, my room is a bit too small for the two of us. One really shouldn't sleep with an infant in their bed.”

“No, no they mustn't. That was one of the leading reasons for infant death in my village. I imagine you let him sleep in his basket though.” This was a question and not a statement, despite its positioning.

“Yes, of course. The room is just too cold, he's warmer next to me.”

“Then a bigger bed and rooms with a fireplace you shall have. Just don't tell your colleagues, they'll become dissatisfied with their single rooms and I don't care to explain housing rules to them.”

Nathandiel nodded. “I won't say a word.”

“Good. Go on then, Ill send on the data collected so far. That mathematical brain of yours should start chewing as soon as you receive it.” To this, Nathandiel consented and headed to the door, grateful to be excused.

"Nathandiel . . . " He stopped at the door and turned back to Glinn. "Do you know why Horsley, during his attempts to cure homosexuality, ended up using oestrogen, the female hormone, instead of the male? He found that while oestrogren resulted in the abolishment of the sex drive, testosterone resulted in an increase--be it directed towards men or women--and that homosexual men being treated with testosterone not only pursue more sex, but neglected their other occupations in life. That was a side note of course, as a man's productivity was never the question for Hosley, but I have always thought back to that footnote when, in life, I have found myself torn between my laboratory and what lays between the thighs of a supple woman. Sex is a wonderful vice, a miraculous vice that can make babies like that little one you hold in your arms, but it takes you away from your work, and it is in our work that we are truly free, fed, and find ourselves fulfilled. While you are bound here to the Undercity without the comforts of sex, I would encourage you to heal your heart in your work. You might find that the most satisfyingly active organ you possess in between your ears."

Nathandiel inhaled sharply, struck by the depth of Glinn's words, of his advice. At a loss for anything else to say that would prove an equal and fitting response he only nodded. He hurried from the laboratory with the boy, the smell no longer clean, but sweet with burning meat and the faint scent of his own anxious sweat.
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Re: Copper Kisses

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Nathandiel groaned as he set down the last of firewood by the hearth, kicking an errant log back onto the blanket he'd put down to catch the bits of bark that always fell from the lengths of tinder. He went back to the front door, leaning out into the street. Tarren Mill was bigger now, more boisterous than years before. Aside from the normal development of a healthy settlement that saw growth, Tarren Mill was now one of the nearer Horde outposts to the conflict in the Arathi Highlands to the East.

With the Undercity gone, its also one of the more popular refugee towns.

He frowned at this, eyeing a few of those said refugees by one of the water pumps, on their way to the cemetery. Towards the town's centre there would be more of them, crashed out under lean-to dwellings, filling the inn, and taking up space in any shoppe that would permit them. He pulled the door to the little flat closed, sure to turn the lock. It wasn't yet clear who had survived the attack, and while there were some who knew he had, he wasn't yet keen to make it apparent that he was still with the living--he had other things to attend to besides the Warcheif's ambitions.

The small flat was old, dusty, and he had yet to properly clean it. What equipment he had bartered for dominated the kitchen, a place that had become more a laboratory than a place in which he made food. In the cupboards there were canned goods tucked snug next to stock solutions and chemical powders with handwritten labels. Before the Undercity had fallen, he had been deeply engrossed in work, finding the solace there that Howard Philip Glinn had promised he would. He had been set back by the assault, but had salvaged his journals--along with his family.

Kieran cooed with delight in the single bedroom, a small space with a wooden stove, kept from view by dusty curtains Nathandiel had taken from the living room windows. He had replaced those coverings with linens. His new wife liked it dark in the bedroom, the light still too much for her. Kieran didn't mind, so long as he had her attention--and she was surprisingly good at giving it to him. He could hear her speaking softly to the child, encouraging him to eat more, to become stronger.

That should have been a happy moment, to hear his new wife speak to the child in their charge with such hope.

It is happy. I am happy--I am. We cannot always have things exactly as we want them.

He went to the fireplace, stoking the coals to rouse them in anticipation for more fuel. He wiped sweat from his upper lip as the fire grew hotter with each addition, the glow leaning more yellow than orange as the flames licked up the sappy wood, popping when it hit sugar. He stood, content with his work, and pulled the fire gate closed. He couldn't have Kieran crawling into the fire, that would be most troublesome. The tiny tot had already put his hand on the stove in the bedroom, earning himself a red and inflamed palm that Nathandiel had salved and wrapped, feeling no need to admonish the child; it had learned enough of a lesson from the injury.

In the kitchen he took off his shirt, wiping down his upper body and under his arms, removing at least the worst of the stink that enshrouded a man after a prolonged period of arduous labour; he would take a bath after supper. Without reclothing, he set to making the evening meal, pushing aside retort stands and moving glassware so that he could make enough space on the counter to chop vegetables. In the bedroom he heard mutual giggling; they were happy in there.

I either need to go hunting, or suck it up and purchase some meat from one of the vendors here. We've been living on vegetables for nearly a week, he thought, while he cut the potatoes. Before moving onto the onions he put on his laboratory goggles. They didn't work entirely, but they did help keep the tearful miasma from his eyes, at least enough that he could finish the task.

Once the pot was full, the water added, and the stock dispensed, he lugged the heavy iron receptacle to the fire and hung it. He took a moment to stoke the fire again before giving the soup a stir. It was thick this time, more like a stew. His mouth watered at the prospect of a hearty meal.

It would be better with meat....

With supper attended to, he headed to the bedroom, pushing aside the curtains and slipping in before any light would enter. Inside the small room was dominated by a rickety bed, dark covers draped over a slender form who was propped up with pillows, an infant on her lap. The stove was cold, they wouldn't light it until evening. The box that served as Kieran's cradle was next to the bed, making it easy for his wife to reach the infant when she so wished. Affixed to the headboard were IV bags, several of them, some small and some large, some piggy-backing on others while some had direct lines to the woman in the bed. He went to the bed and took each bag in hand, turning them over to check their volumes, frowning at each meniscus that met a line he didn't like.

"You need more blood," he sighed softly, biting his lip. While they had been in the bowels of the Undercity coming by blood had been no problem. Now though....

A cold hand closed on his forearm and he looked down. The veiled face was turned up to him, the child tucked against her covered breast with a bottle. "I feel much better," she said, her voice throaty and smooth like velvet. "You worry too much. This is where Melchisedech did his best work, and this is where you will do yours. The fall of Lordaeron is infuriating," her grip tightened. "But for us, this may have been best. Now...favour me before you busy yourself with my care taking?"

It was a simple request and he smiled. He lifted her veil, placing it carefully on her crown and leaned down, tipping up her chin as he kissed her. She was still so cold. He let his forehead rest against hers and she held his cheek with one slender hand. "Be stronger than the fear and doubt that wrest your heart. I have seen worse times in life, as have you. This space between life and something else does not frighten me; do not let it frighten you."

He kissed her again, eager for her even in her given state. He restrained himself, however, for despite her assurances, she was not well. His eyes met hers, the once-vibrant green gone, a pale violet looking back. Her cheeks were sunken and her lips were barely the colour of bleached roses. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, lank and really too long. Now, more than ever, she resembled the Queen she so adored, but she was not like Sylvanas or her kind, not entirely.

"I can smell soup," Drinn said. "I think I would like to have some. Would that be alright?"

He smiled, not sure that she really did wish to eat or if rather she wished to please him by appearing to wish to eat. "Of course," he said. "When its ready I'll bring you a bowl to go with Kieran's broth."

Drinn nodded, smiling down at the infant she had become keen on. "Eat yours in here with us," she said. "Take just a little time away from the work and care giving and be with us." She looked up at him. "Do you think after supper you could read more to us?"

Nathandiel nodded. "Of course."

Drinn lowered her veil, hiding her meekness. "Good. We would like that very much. You may tend to me now."

She did not like when he invited himself to administer her medicines and supplements, or to help himself to a bodily exam. Even in a nearly helpless state, she was not a submissive woman. He didn't mind this about his new wife. Her strength, even her arrogance, enamored him to her. When he'd finally found her, broken and drained, she'd still tried to kill him.

With her permission, he changed her IVs, flushed her catheters, checked her lines, and drew his samples. By the time he had her settled, the soup was ready. They ate together, and when they were done, he read to Kieran and Drinn until they were both asleep. He watched them, the way the baby lifted and fell slowly on Drinn's struggling chest. As much as he wanted to stay there with them enjoying the peace they had created in that tiny room, he had work to do.

In Memory of Drinn
Happy Birthday Drinn
October 16, 1980 to June 21, 2016
WrA: Nathandiel, Mharren
Grobbulus: Andhar
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