10-23-2013, 06:14 AM
Here's hoping Jon never turned the frightful dish of cold revenge their way. Oh the horror! Jaxen laughed, entertained by the man's naivety, the sound free and rich as the diluted blood thrumming through his veins. He was warm with power and confidence -- not that he was ever without either -- and cradled between the posh hands of Oriena's service. In that very moment, things were pretty damn good.
Until a brisk of pain seized the soles of his feet. Already tense with chill, every hair on his body struck to attention, and he twitched just enough to satisfy Oriena's evil malice. The shock tried to knock his hold on the power free, and the more he grappled at maintaining control, the less he held. It felt like clutching for handholds on a crumbling rock wall but with less success.
Oriena's words fell flat. Jon might as well have retreated across the world for all Jaxen cared. His limbs slowly drew themselves from the table, taking advantage of their master's distraction to seek solace in the firmness of the floor underfoot. His body sat upright, drawn by the cords of instinct, and if the conscious entity that was Jaxen's soul realized his movement, he didn't care. His concentration was far from Kallisti's.
Seconds passed, but sheer determination slowly rose from the bubble of panic.
In that instant, the world snapped sharply back into place. The key to winning the battle of control lay in domination, he realized. Indeed, it was a battle. He had no idea what he was doing, but now that it was over, he hurled that matrix of strength forward.
Oriena's bucket soared off the table as sure as if he'd kicked it down field. Its crystalline contents fell from the arc of its trajectory.
It hit an adjacent booth, and his head tilted curiously to watch. The bucket clattered to the floor and rolled a few steps away. The noise of its ejection was drowned by that of the club. How very interesting.
He had no idea how he did it. Other than the volatile combination of strength and near panic erupted into some side effect he'd generally wanted to happen. At Baccarat, he wanted the lock broken, and it'd melted in his hands. In the undercity, he'd imagined cutting himself free of Mickey's ropes and so he fell. And now, the cold break in his former ease nearly knocked the power from his grasp. He was going to have to practice this. Good thing he was excellent at repetition.
Satisfied in the control, he went about the task of putting on socks and shoes. When he pushed to stand, he turned to Oriena, apologetically amused to have to close up the curtain on the ab-show. A wiry smile cut across his lips. However much of the last few moments she'd understood, he obviously didn't care about her judgement.
Somewhere from the gimmick of oblivion, Jaxen was cunningly excellent at illusionary acts -- of course he heard her, of course he knew how many steps Jon had paced while on the phone, thieves were ultimately masters of awareness after all; and not to brag, but Jaxen was probably the uncontested best in the world -- not that anyone knew his title, but fame wasn't the point. So without another delay, he summoned up a response to her earlier comment, a thoughtful hum born deep in his throat: Oriena definitely wanted to hear such an intoxicating sound nibbling her ear. He offered her a hand. Not because she needed help scrambling to her feet in those heels, but because he wanted to physically feel her acceptance to the forthcoming invitation. "You know, you're right. I have somewhere much more comfortable in mind. Get out of here?"
That of course being his apartment. He should probably check in on the place anyway.
Until a brisk of pain seized the soles of his feet. Already tense with chill, every hair on his body struck to attention, and he twitched just enough to satisfy Oriena's evil malice. The shock tried to knock his hold on the power free, and the more he grappled at maintaining control, the less he held. It felt like clutching for handholds on a crumbling rock wall but with less success.
Oriena's words fell flat. Jon might as well have retreated across the world for all Jaxen cared. His limbs slowly drew themselves from the table, taking advantage of their master's distraction to seek solace in the firmness of the floor underfoot. His body sat upright, drawn by the cords of instinct, and if the conscious entity that was Jaxen's soul realized his movement, he didn't care. His concentration was far from Kallisti's.
Seconds passed, but sheer determination slowly rose from the bubble of panic.
In that instant, the world snapped sharply back into place. The key to winning the battle of control lay in domination, he realized. Indeed, it was a battle. He had no idea what he was doing, but now that it was over, he hurled that matrix of strength forward.
Oriena's bucket soared off the table as sure as if he'd kicked it down field. Its crystalline contents fell from the arc of its trajectory.
It hit an adjacent booth, and his head tilted curiously to watch. The bucket clattered to the floor and rolled a few steps away. The noise of its ejection was drowned by that of the club. How very interesting.
He had no idea how he did it. Other than the volatile combination of strength and near panic erupted into some side effect he'd generally wanted to happen. At Baccarat, he wanted the lock broken, and it'd melted in his hands. In the undercity, he'd imagined cutting himself free of Mickey's ropes and so he fell. And now, the cold break in his former ease nearly knocked the power from his grasp. He was going to have to practice this. Good thing he was excellent at repetition.
Satisfied in the control, he went about the task of putting on socks and shoes. When he pushed to stand, he turned to Oriena, apologetically amused to have to close up the curtain on the ab-show. A wiry smile cut across his lips. However much of the last few moments she'd understood, he obviously didn't care about her judgement.
Somewhere from the gimmick of oblivion, Jaxen was cunningly excellent at illusionary acts -- of course he heard her, of course he knew how many steps Jon had paced while on the phone, thieves were ultimately masters of awareness after all; and not to brag, but Jaxen was probably the uncontested best in the world -- not that anyone knew his title, but fame wasn't the point. So without another delay, he summoned up a response to her earlier comment, a thoughtful hum born deep in his throat: Oriena definitely wanted to hear such an intoxicating sound nibbling her ear. He offered her a hand. Not because she needed help scrambling to her feet in those heels, but because he wanted to physically feel her acceptance to the forthcoming invitation. "You know, you're right. I have somewhere much more comfortable in mind. Get out of here?"
That of course being his apartment. He should probably check in on the place anyway.