Worldly

[Laszlo]

In the middle of a slow sip of lager, Laszlo visibly brightened at the prospect of visiting the Crooked Playhouse, or at Ifran becoming a regular; it was open to interpretation and either possibility seemed likely. Laszlo recovered his breath from a wet throat as the mug was lowered into his lap, and he turned his burnt amber eyes back to Ifran. He had already let go of what the Eypharian had said to him. His lack of rebuttal had struck a chord of guilt, and he wondered if he overreacted. "Indeed." One clawed finger traced thoughtfully around the rim of his drink. A lazy smile appeared as his head canted to the side. Ifran was truly a pleasing sight, something exotic with all of his arms. Did they move independently, or were they connected, like the ring and little fingers? Laszlo inwardly wondered what he'd do with all those limbs if he had them. "I remember you mentioning the Crooked Playhouse before. I always meant to stop there but I never found the chance to. Eventually it just slipped my mind. You perform there, yes? You should give me a date and time. I'd love to watch." Laszlo glanced over his shoulder behind the bar anxiously. The lager in his cup was already growing warm, and he felt more insecure about it than usual. Ifran had made his high standards clear before, a fact that the Ethaefal had noted but not really thought about at the time. Now that he was settled, he was reminded of the desert creature's elitism, and worried for the quality of the drink he'd given. "Perhaps we are the strange ones, choosing to stay in a city like this. For instance, I'm supposed to be the Spider, but you're the one with eight limbs." He sipped his lager again, trying to quell his needless neurosis. "My face might be strange to you, but I'm still Laszlo, the Ethaefal. I suppose I'm more pleasant looking in the day time. You're still beautiful as ever. I'm a little intimidated." A static appearance. Must be nice.

[Ifran]

"I perform there," he agreed, "and we perform in repertory, day and night, so you can come at your leisure, in whatever form you prefer. I think you will enjoy it. You look like the sort of man who likes to watch." The last was said with an almost testing air, as if he were not sure the humor he could have easily expressed in Arumenic would properly translate into Common. With a smile, he put a hand on Laszlo's bony shoulder, another hand mimicking a spider on the countertop with remarkable facility. "Be careful, Master Spider, or you will get caught in my web." He chuckled, but in most jests resides a kernel of truth. "Now tell me again how beautiful you find me. Sometimes it is easy to forget here, where I am considered more of a freak or curiosity than anything else."

[Laszlo]

The tune of the conversation had changed. Laszlo's hairline and his expression shifted as he became aware of a more sultry note to Ifran's accented voice. The Eypharian appeared to be choosing his words wisely, twisting them in a curling, smooth desert drawl. It made Laszlo curious to hear the creature's native tongue, and he wondered if it sounded at all similar to the silken charm of Symenos. "Did you like that?" Laszlo perked an eyebrow as a cautious smile spread on his pale face. Lifting his mug to his gray lips, he took a measured sip of the bitter drink, using the convenient pause to collect his thoughts and shift tracks. Small talk was over. He was glad for that. "I can certainly understand how it feels to be looked at as an oddity. Even in Kalinor the Symenestra regarded me as if I were trying to deceive them." Setting his drink down, Laszlo leaned on the bar with an elbow, finding a more relaxed position in his seat as his violet gaze wandered curiously around Ifran's unfamiliar anatomy. "I do think you're quite stunning, particularly compared with the travel-hardened humans I've met here thus far. They lack your grace. To be honest though, I can understand the perception of you as a curiosity. Looking at you makes me curious about what a man can do with so many hands." His eyes slanted back upward, catching Ifran's again. "I doubt I could ever keep up with you."

[Ifran]

Honestly, it was a relief to have Laszlo's open admiration. Ifran did not hate many people, certainly none of them because of their race, but he could not help but think his own superior. After all, they had multiple arms to keep track of, which made their brains more agile too. They had divine blood and such history, such splendor, that even its ruins outshone most places he knew. It did not have to rely upon illusions such as those here. His smile was the widest, most sincere one any had seen on his face in a long while. "Thank you." It was graceful and polite to accept compliments without false modesty, and Ifran had always been careful to do as his master Taharqa had bid him and discipline himself against ever needing the praise of others. It was all well and good to accept, but one must not have to rely upon others when suitable others were not available. Ofttimes one's own self was the only support, and one had to make do. "I have trained at grace since I was very young. My body is the instrument of my art, and I keep it sharp and shining. And you might not be able to keep up, but there is joy and pleasure in the attempt." He leaned in closer, his smile once again amused, fully aware that he was attempting to perfect sleaze, to raise it to high art, and share that with his shape-shifting friend. "You should not worry overmuch about the hands," he said quietly. "They are dexterous, but mere distractions from that which would most impress."

[Laszlo]

An eyebrow perked, then Laszlo leaned back to warmly laugh. He took his mug in both hands, holding it as he stared thoughtfully downward, as if deciding what he was going to do with it. The side of his long thumbnail scratched idly at the wood, and after a comfortable moment, he lifted it to his lips. "Now that, I'd have to test for myself." Laszlo took a long swig from his cup, then turned and placed his empty mug back upon the bar. Someone called from across the tavern, wanting a refill, but Laszlo didn't seem to hear. Leisurely, he paid a curious look to Ifran's many limbs, trying to imagine an entire race of people like that stashed away in some sandy corner of the world, the Crumbling Ruin. He wished he could have a moment with Ifran, to talk more privately, without distraction, and perhaps get to know him a little better—in all the best ways. Unfortunately the Eypharian was visiting Laszlo at his place of work, and that would have to wait. Laszlo slid from his seat, choosing one of Ifran's hands and patting it reassuringly. "Excuse me, I'll be back in a moment." With the utmost Symenestran grace, Laszlo made several long strides across the uneven wooden floor and visited the shelves behind the bar. As he had done at least a hundred times before, Laszlo crossed the tavern and did what he was expected to do: refilling cups, making pointless small talk, asking pointless questions and moving onto the next patron. A quarter of a bell later, the false Symenestra returned. He flashed a soft smirk to Ifran as he walked by him again, taking his mug without a word and refilling it to the top. Feeling bold, he drew a light sip from the drink before passing it back to him. "Your drinks are on me tonight. I'm afraid my profession doesn't lend itself toward much free time. I'd still like it if you stayed a while, drank some more, and kept me entertained with conversation. In another hour or so, Victor will be coming to relieve me. Then, if you like… I can give you the full tour of the place. I live just upstairs, you know."

[Ifran]

Ifran was patient while Laszlo tended to the other patrons of the bar, observing this new form he wore in action, noting similarities and differences, learning a thing or two about him that he had not known before. There were the other patrons to observe as well, and he did so, always seeking to broaden his understanding of what most called the "human" experience, though he found his own to be superior. Their oft interrupted conversation began to run the gamut of other topics, though a steady war of flirtation was waged. It was not verbal fencing in High Arumenic, but Ifran was enjoying himself, his smiles wider, more amused, and sometimes less aloof. He found that he liked Laszlo, and the Ethaefal was in a strange position, both as a somewhat divine creature that he could view as more of an equal, and a person with no importance whatsoever in Ahnatep. He did not want anything from Laszlo other than his time, his mind, his conversation, and later, perhaps, his body. Ifran was patient until a man he assumed was Victor appeared, but he hung back while they performed their changing of the guards, assured he could meet Victor tomorrow. "Upstairs, I think you said. A few steps closer to the Ukalas. Lead the way, then."

[Laszlo]

After exchanging a friendly, irritating barb with Victor, Laszlo crossed the narrow floor and returned to the bar, near Ifran. As he cleaned off his slender hands on a cool, damp rag, the he reminded Laszlo of his earlier invitation. The Eypharian's boldness surprised him, and Laszlo paused, the barcloth still wrapped around the clawed tips of his fingers. Laszlo turned to Ifran, his cheeks touched with color as he set the cloth down and put on an impish little smile. "I wasn't sure you'd still be interested," Laszlo admitted shyly, batting a rebel lock of graphite-colored hair behind one pale ear. Careful violets flickered upward at his dark haired human compatriot across the room. Victor was a lousy tavernkeep, particularly when he was tired after his nights at the wager. To be quite honest, Laszlo didn't care. None of these drunks deserved much respect. Let them rot. Laszlo downed ale as a matter of course during his worknights. By the end of it, he was usually well drunk, and today was no exception. The booze swirled in his head and the room swayed softly as he stood leaned against the bar next to the bronze skinned Eypharian. He turned back to Ifran, renewing the smile had had faded and gesturing with his head toward the stairway door. "All right. To the ukalas." Just through this door, he thought with a certain, sudden bitterness. He realized quickly that he didn't like joking about it. Despite the ale in his belly, proficiently dulling his senses, Laszlo had lost some of his bravery with the Eypharian. The narrow door swung open with a creak of old age, the Ethaefal stepping aside to let Ifran through first. Playful flirting had turned into light conversation over the hour, and while Laszlo was glad for the company, he was no longer assured of what his spirit wanted now. The door shut behind them, and the stairs were dark. Laszlo's vision adjusted almost instantly. "It isn't much, I know." Laszlo's thin hand lighted delicately on Ifran's shoulder, and he leaned in close enough for his breath to smell of hops and barley. They ascended the wooden stairs, the souls of their boots loud against the creaking wood. The hallway above was hardly any quieter. The timber seemed to be as old as Alvadas itself. Light misted in from a window at the far end, illuminating three doors along the walls, all of them slightly ajar. "This place though… it kept drawing me here. I wonder if it's alive sometimes, this old building. It needed…" Clawed fingers nudged a door open, revealing a rather barren bedroom. The floor was peppered with discarded clothing, and the bed was nothing especially luxurious. Aside from the odd endtable, a trunk, and a wardrobe, Laszlo appeared to lack a sense of materialism. "So I bought it. It's mine now. It's all I have." Laszlo shut his door, then leaned against it. His eyes wandered across Ifran's form, bashfully wondering what he looked like under that shirt, with so many arms attached to his sides. Would he be strange? Suddenly Laszlo laughed in spite of himself. "I don't know why I brought you up here. Company, I suppose. Whatever. You're mine now, at least for the moment." Laszlo gestured to Ifran's shirt. "Take that off. I want to see."

[Ifran]

Laszlo talked a lot when he was nervous, or perhaps it was also mixed in with the weariness of a long day and the booze in his belly that made him so talkative, so cagey, so apologetic. Two hands reached out to steady him at the waist, not wanting to end the night nursing a bruised Symenestra unless it was a post-coital sort of thing. There were few good days in Alvadas, just days in which Ifran hoped he was closer to his goals, though as yet he had not earned any sort of favor from Ionu, and his network in Alvadas was just pathetic. Even Laszlo would not follow him to Ahnatep when the time came, and so he could only be a friend of the ephemeral type. "Careful," he murmured as Las almost tripped up the stairs. He wondered what it would be like to be inside an Ethaefal as one form bled into the other, whether it would be a moment fit for poetry or just some awkward transformation. Perhaps he would find out sooner rather than later. Though he was quiet, he was listening. But it was not until Las opened a door and let him in, closed it and leaned against it as if he could trap Ifran therein that he looked around, turned and spoke without judgment. "We are both of us not in the worlds for which we were made." Had he spoken in Arumenic (and had Laszlo the ears to understand such a switch), the fallen angel might have wept for the odd tenderness, the humble empathy, coming from such a proud creature as Ifran of the House of the North Winds, but he spoke in Common, the lovely nuances of his words and his soul lost in the in between, the aether. Instead he danced that intricate, impossible dance that was just a many-armed man pulling off his shirt, revealing much of what was familiar and much of what was not, the strange construction of similar parts, the perfect skin and cultured physique, the work of art that he had made of himself. He was beautiful and alien to Laszlo, just as Laszlo was to him. To the human-centered norm of Alvadas, they were both beautiful freaks. "Curiosity," he offered. "Lust. Comfort. Communion." He was not shy. The trousers came off next, and he was naked, on display, used to being adored and, on some level, feared. "Your turn," he said, beckoning Laszlo closer.

[Laszlo]

Laszlo felt his throat tighten as the rest of Ifran's clothing lighted upon the uneven wooden floor, allowing the moonlight to caress the features of his skin, highlighting the edges of every contour and detail. The Ethaefal's drunken bravery waned, and although he was certainly pleased and impressed, he was also intimidated. Ifran was so much more well-built than he was, and more confident as well. Laszlo had lost his edge and suddenly he felt as though, somehow, he were the inferior one. Perhaps in the day, he would not feel so nervous or lacking, but the Symenestra couldn't begin to compare with the artfully sculpted desert spirit standing in front of him. Yet, Ifran was kind. His accented Common, curling many of his vowels and sharpening his consonants, was warm and patient, and seemingly understanding—though that may have been the ale tricking Laszlo into thinking he was being understood. He so wanted to be, even if no mortal could possibly comprehend his existence. Delusion or not, it helped ease his mind, and Laszlo's mouth opened, working silently for half a moment while he searched for words. "There's really nothing to see," Laszlo said sheepishly with a forced chuckle, his clawed fingers hovering hesitantly over the top button of his shirt. The Symenestra were long, tall, and slender. Without clothing to mottle the appearance of their elongated limbs and grayish skin, it became more obvious that they weren't human. At least, human seemed to be a particular standard to compare to, if his day form were any indication. "This is my imperfect form, I… I'm sure you'd better appreciate me if the sun were shining." Then again, perhaps Ifran didn't care for humans. Look at him. Of the two men in this room, he was the furthest thing from it. Laszlo's eyes flitted toward the window as he began to obey Ifran's invitation and move toward him. He glanced downward and gave a bashful smile as his black, sharpened fingernails worked at freeing the buttons of his thin, linen shirt. The first, the second, the third, with deft and swift manipulation. Laszlo stood in Ifran's shadow, his keen eyes wandering the Eypharian's anatomy, both unusual and familiar in all the right places. "Forgive me, I… tend to be clumsy with intimacy. I've never really… well, I have, but… well, compared to you I'm sure I'm sorely inexperienced. Just a boy, perhaps." He shrugged off his shirt and let it slide from his thin arms. The tapered fingertips of his slender, bony fingers drifted outward to Ifran's skin, lightly sampling the topography of his abdomen, chest, and the joints that could be considered his second and third pair of shoulders. Laszlo's smile shifted into something more genuine, like admiration, or quiet appreciation for the moment. What a beautiful distraction. Laszlo's belt rattled as he worked at unfastening the buckle. His violet eyes were on the column of Ifran's neck, wondering what his skin smelt like. The Prince of the Crumbling Ruin. Laszlo was just the Bartender of the Musty Old Tavern. He must have been used to so much better. Laszlo sent a glance to his bed, a low lying mattress adorned in a few thin blankets. It didn't look remotely inviting. "The state of this room hardly befits either of us. I'm used to compromise, but you're sure you're not insulted?" Laszlo nudged away a bundle of fabric, the cold air greeting his unprotected skin. He gestured to the bed, as he was cold and impatient to become warm again. Another body would aid that perfectly.

[Ifran]

Ifran was silent in the face of Laszlo's nervous monologue, watching him with his quiet intensity, his razor blade gaze trained to lay a soul bare for examination and future mimicry. Perhaps someday Laszlo would see his soul given life on stage, channeled through the medium of Ifran's own body and spirit, the spark of divine creation. He had never bedded a Symenestra male, only the females, so nervous in their need, worried that their wombs would quicken with life, a life that might rob them of their own. There was a similar skittishness in Laszlo's behavior, and while Ifran was used to being the superior, even among his own kind, he was not quite sure yet what made this shape-shifting child of heaven so insecure. Eypharians were of mixed blood, divine and human, and so only their own race were quite like them, but they took their pleasure of many who were not. Laszlo's claws were made to rend and tear, but they would be used lightly to tickle and entice. His pallor was that of his subterranean people, just as Ifran's belonged to the desert. Different did not bother him. One warm finger covered Laszlo's lips. "A diamond improperly set remains a diamond, and I will teach you many things, my goat-head." Though the goat horns would only reappear with Syna, there was a remarkable growl of affection in what that batty statue had thrown as a curse. As the bed was offered, Ifran took Laszlo to the mattress, his skin emanating years' worth of desert heat. Those hands, all those hands, began to move over chilled skin, exploring and claiming. "I hope you are not tired."