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Pawns in the game
#31
Jaxen didn't add to giving Manix a hard time. Kallisti looked like a brothel. And to a sailor, probably was assumed to be exactly that. Jaxen hadn't warned him about it either. Oriena got her feathers all huffed about the confusion, quickly snapping a correction to the judgement. Jaxen remained a silent witness. Must be a soft spot for her. For all they knew, Oriena had been the Ascendancy's call-girl; the guy had to get laid somehow. And bullshit on anyone that said he was above a good fuck; god or not.

He lifted his glass to toast the following mantra though. "The only good snake is a dead snake,"
he chimed and drank greedily. The intricacies of the plotting mind worked better with a bottle of good Russian vodka warm in the blood. She had a point too. Jaxen's lifestyle blew through cash quick. Luckily, his mother had her own fortune, and what mother could deny the big brown eyes of her littlest boy?

But even Irina Marveet's self-collected empire fell short of Scion's billionaire status. Jaxen liked to keep some things off the books. Not to mention Voxel had a reputation to maintain.

And damnit. He did like pretty things.

"What can I say? I can't resist something shiny. Besides. Baubles look better on me than you anyway."

He laughed and seized the Ancient power. It can a thousand times easier than it did the last time he was in the club. Ropes of light gently lifted the vodka bottle left by the server, and with it, Jaxen didn't even mind pouring his own damn drink.

"To the new gods."

A wicked smile drew across his lips, "Let's go fuck them all, Oriena."
His laugh was genuinely tickled with amusement.
"So?" said Loki impatiently.  "This isn't the first time the world has come to an end, and it won't be the last either."
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#32
She didn't disagree with him. Unless it formed part of a mask, Oriena had little use for jewellery anyway. Growing up it had been a liability, inviting the scrutiny of thieves, else making for an easy target. Earrings ripped from lobes. Necklaces scoring lines of fire across throats. She had little use for the frivolity of pretty, then or now, except when it had a purpose.

Ori laughed drily, watching as the bottle lifted from the table. It still irritated her that she couldn't sense the threads she knew must be responsible. "You've been practising,"
she observed, recalling the ice-bucket's knee-jerk flight across her club. It didn't entice her to show her own hand, though she could feel it humming beneath her skin in response.

Instead it was only a smirk that ignited, devilishly sinful. She clinked her glass against his. "Fuck. Them. All,"
she agreed. A promise.
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