09-15-2018, 06:14 PM
Cheers of adoration or demands for his head: Jaxen would equally revel in either. Myriad reasons charged him with the risk of tonight. More than he could describe, honestly. He was scrubbing the stage-makeup from his cheeks when the door burst open. It was a great exhalation when the ancient power diffused from his grasp at the end of the show. Not to mention the physical exertion of the dance; his traceur’s physique bred endurance over raw power, but it was not to say that he didn’t take a breather at the end.
The ancient power was not in his grasp when the interruption broke the barricade of a neatly closed door. He dabbed fresh cheeks with a towel and looked in the mirror. If Brandon’s goons were already here, he doubted they’d let him finish the pampering.
Luckily for all involved, it was Boda Oszkar, the theatre’s owner. The 72-year old Boda was an old friend with a sordid past that Jaxen didn’t pry into out of respect. They’d met years before, when Jaxen was a sapling teenager and Boda someone that stood up to institutional injustice. That was to say, he told the CCD to fuck themselves and found ways of doing shows the way he wanted. It landed him in jail for 2-years, but given the specific tattoos that peeked from the wide-open collar of his shirt and curled around his knobby fingers, Jaxen wagered Boda’s experience with the correctional system was more extensive than anyone knew.
Boda slammed the door behind him, the wry old wizard could make noise when he wanted. Jaxen felt a brow quirk up as he stood erect. Water dripped from his chin, trailing beads down the throat in the motion. Still sweating from lights and pomposity, he welcomed their cool trickles upon his chest.
He half expected Boda to swing an arm despite everything Jaxen warned the man would play out on his stage. Instead, Boda tipped his head and laughed voraciously.
Jaxen grinned.
When the shared victory subsided, Jaxen swelled with a deep breath and set out to change his clothes. Modesty was not even considered.
“You sanctioned this spectacle, but it was my name they applauded. I’ll do what I can to shield you from Custody retaliation.”
Boda balked at that. “If I feared Custody retaliation, I would not have moved to Moscow and opened a cabaret at a time the Duma outlawed “our” propaganda.”
Jaxen gave him that. The city’s pink shade was bright these days but speaking against his holiness the Ascendancy was punishingly forbidden.
Black (vegan) leather slipped up his legs, a snake-skin pattern that buttoned low on the hips. Real leather was fucking hot and had no flexibility for movement. He slipped on a sheer shirt, long-sleeved with a deep collar at the throat. Chosen specifically to flaunt the serpentine tattoo coiled around his shoulder and chest, serpent’s twin fangs ready to punch their prongs upon meaty pecs.
“Boda, you are the ballsiest man in this city.” He grinned at the reflection as he put the finishing touches on the wild peaks of his hair.
The old fart shook his head, “No my boy. I take second place. Why did you do this?”
Jaxen's lips twisted wry. His answer cryptic. “It's just time, Boda. Let’s get some fucking vodka,” they departed in one another’s company, destined for the theatre’s lounge.
The lounge flowed from the theatre’s plush lobby where guests were plunged into a semi-ironic anti-western atmosphere. Red script highlighted neon glow above the entrance: SANCTIONS BAR. Within were decorated oil-drums and oil-rigs across vast desert-landscapes. Dollar bills were the toilet paper. Menus featured faces of past American presidents crossed out with spray-paint and in the case of President Dawson, added horns, Ruby Red smudged lips, and long green hair.
Waltzing in with the owner of the cabaret was not unnoticed. Boda wore a long white coat that trailed the floor like a cape, white (vegan) leather pants and a white shirt. Jaxen was a black jewel alongside, but when Boda shoved him forward, he took another sweeping bow to the sound of applause.
The ancient power was not in his grasp when the interruption broke the barricade of a neatly closed door. He dabbed fresh cheeks with a towel and looked in the mirror. If Brandon’s goons were already here, he doubted they’d let him finish the pampering.
Luckily for all involved, it was Boda Oszkar, the theatre’s owner. The 72-year old Boda was an old friend with a sordid past that Jaxen didn’t pry into out of respect. They’d met years before, when Jaxen was a sapling teenager and Boda someone that stood up to institutional injustice. That was to say, he told the CCD to fuck themselves and found ways of doing shows the way he wanted. It landed him in jail for 2-years, but given the specific tattoos that peeked from the wide-open collar of his shirt and curled around his knobby fingers, Jaxen wagered Boda’s experience with the correctional system was more extensive than anyone knew.
Boda slammed the door behind him, the wry old wizard could make noise when he wanted. Jaxen felt a brow quirk up as he stood erect. Water dripped from his chin, trailing beads down the throat in the motion. Still sweating from lights and pomposity, he welcomed their cool trickles upon his chest.
He half expected Boda to swing an arm despite everything Jaxen warned the man would play out on his stage. Instead, Boda tipped his head and laughed voraciously.
Jaxen grinned.
When the shared victory subsided, Jaxen swelled with a deep breath and set out to change his clothes. Modesty was not even considered.
“You sanctioned this spectacle, but it was my name they applauded. I’ll do what I can to shield you from Custody retaliation.”
Boda balked at that. “If I feared Custody retaliation, I would not have moved to Moscow and opened a cabaret at a time the Duma outlawed “our” propaganda.”
Jaxen gave him that. The city’s pink shade was bright these days but speaking against his holiness the Ascendancy was punishingly forbidden.
Black (vegan) leather slipped up his legs, a snake-skin pattern that buttoned low on the hips. Real leather was fucking hot and had no flexibility for movement. He slipped on a sheer shirt, long-sleeved with a deep collar at the throat. Chosen specifically to flaunt the serpentine tattoo coiled around his shoulder and chest, serpent’s twin fangs ready to punch their prongs upon meaty pecs.
“Boda, you are the ballsiest man in this city.” He grinned at the reflection as he put the finishing touches on the wild peaks of his hair.
The old fart shook his head, “No my boy. I take second place. Why did you do this?”
Jaxen's lips twisted wry. His answer cryptic. “It's just time, Boda. Let’s get some fucking vodka,” they departed in one another’s company, destined for the theatre’s lounge.
The lounge flowed from the theatre’s plush lobby where guests were plunged into a semi-ironic anti-western atmosphere. Red script highlighted neon glow above the entrance: SANCTIONS BAR. Within were decorated oil-drums and oil-rigs across vast desert-landscapes. Dollar bills were the toilet paper. Menus featured faces of past American presidents crossed out with spray-paint and in the case of President Dawson, added horns, Ruby Red smudged lips, and long green hair.
Waltzing in with the owner of the cabaret was not unnoticed. Boda wore a long white coat that trailed the floor like a cape, white (vegan) leather pants and a white shirt. Jaxen was a black jewel alongside, but when Boda shoved him forward, he took another sweeping bow to the sound of applause.