yukie: (Default)
[personal profile] yukie
with his scary crabby pants on


The fall of New Avalon, and what happened after Thassarian left the inn to cause a rucks so’s Koltira and the Ebon Commander (in this case, Kyl's amazing elf badass Nocturne) could get out safely.

Orbaz Bloodbane, Ishandarr, and a conversation about feelz–DK-style. Violence incoming, and douchebaggery. And profanity. They’re both disagreeable dingbats, really. If you don't know who the NPCs are, it's fine. Just enjoy boys being stupid.


Orbaz felt the danger signs of “incoming Ebonrooke” before he heard a footstep on the stairs. Normally the skinny goatee’d assistant-instructor-and-interrogator (and creepy ass) didn’t radiate murder, but when he did, it felt like that moment in a ghost story before the shit hit the fan:

Cold air like the breath of some arctic tomb creeping up the stairs of the inn.

Goosebumps rising on the back of Orbaz’s neck.

Little electric shocks sparking along his nerves going RUN RUN RUN RUN.

The wooden floor actually FROSTED OVER ahead of Ebonrooke’s steady tread and Orbaz had half a second to watch the ferny whorls creep up to his feet before Ebonrooke’s gauntleted fingers found his throat and squeezed.

Orbaz couldn’t strangle but this still really fucking hurt, especially once the elf–smiling pleasantly all the while-slammed him up against the wall.

“So,” he said, still smiling, “tell me why I shouldn’t put my blades up your nostrils and ask for the King’s forgiveness later, you insufferable baggage-bearing insecure fuck.”

Orbaz said something like “scrogg,” and then tried again as Ebonrooke loosened his grip a bit so as not to be squashing Orbaz’s larynx. Once his vocal chords were behaving, orbaz tried again: “What the hell are you talking about, you lurking freak?”

“Everybody knows how you feel about Deathweaver, Orbaz, and everybody also knows how you feel about elves,” Ebonrooke said, low and pleasant. “I don’t know if you ever thought you were subtle, but that’s neither hither nor thither at this point–everyone knows, full stop. Moving on. Every time I tried to teach you, every time I tried to help drum Razuvious’s lessons into your ever-so-dense cranium, I could taste your contempt–and even if I wasn’t a heart-seer, that’d be the case. I’d be a piss-poor teacher if I didn’t know my students, and I’ve been watching you.”

“You admitting you’re a pervert voyeur, sir understudy instructor?” Orbaz sneered.

Ebonrooke quirked an eyebrow and Orbaz felt his ego shrivel. That’d been a weak shot combo, and they both knew it.

“Yes, I am a pervert and a voyeur,” Ebonrooke said, “but you shouldn’t flatter yourself thinking I’m pervert-ing at you. You don’t interest me beyond my need to understand the damage someone with your sad little breathing-days hangups could do.”

He let go of Orbaz, who didn’t move; rather he did his best to save his dignity and meet Ebonrooke’s steady stare. It was creepy how the guy half-blinked and still “won”, how he let Orbaz try and fail to outstare him, let Orbaz get watery eyes and twitchy brows. Every damned time, and Orbaz fell for the bait every damned time.

Elves were creepy; Ebonrooke was double-creepy. He knew too much shit…and he kept it to himself and gave everyone another chance and another chance, let everyone wonder when the other shoe would drop. Obaz knew he got his jollies knowing they were squirming.

“I know why Deathweaver’s squadron found itself in territory that’d turned hostile on a copper,” Ebonrooke said. “I know who was there before him. I know who in this many-part equation wasn’t doing his job on purpose. While the King knows how much I also like messing with Scarlets and toying with their little zealot heads, playing like I have a broken wing and letting myself get quote-quote caught? He also knows Deathweaver isn’t fond of that routine, and I know that too. You can’t pass this off as part of a plan. Thassarian doesn’t run off like that if an agent getting detained is a planned endeavour.”

“You can’t prove I did shit,” Orbaz snarled, and then backed up in a hurry when he saw that hungry-cat gleam burn bright in Ebonrooke’s eyes. Fucking creepy elf… “Even if I had, it’s on Deathweaver for getting caught. Just like it was on you when you got caught.”

Ebonrooke sighed and rolled his eyes. Orbaz, stung, went on.

“Yeah, I know about that. Everyone knows about that. Everyone’s seen how the Scarlets look at you, everyone’s seen them try to get back specifically at you, everyone’s seen that fucking barracks with the frost cracks in the walls and shit. You fucked up, Instructor, and you left a monument to it acting like you meant to do it–you think I don’t see through it, you think the King didn’t feel you panic and flip your shit?”

“Of course he did.” Ebonrooke’s blink was on the edge of guileless and Orbaz wanted to take a swipe at him. “Of course he knows. There’s nothing he DOESN’T know–unless he doesn’t care, in which case he still knows, but he doesn’t care. He felt my fear, and he took it in, and gave it back to me as power.”

Ebonrooke closed his eyes then, reverent, and Orbaz had to admit that he was a little envious. All of the knights knew the King, deep in their souls, but…Ebonrooke had a deep connection, in the means of his death. Orbaz envied that.

“So he gave you panic-attack super powers,” Orbaz snerked, trying to squash the envy down so Ebonrooke couldn’t empathetically munch on it and fuck with Orbaz further.

Ebonrooke chortled. “More or less. Regardless of how much of a weenie I was, he approved of the hypothermia I was already giving the crusaders, and he gave me the encouragement I needed to freeze everyone in the barracks to death. Weakness can be your asset if you know how to use it.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“And that’s why you’re a lousy commander; everything you don’t understand is bullshit to you. You’re walking talking stagnation.”

“You and Razuvious are both full of shit with your philosophical woo-woo psychobabble.”

“You’re petty and jealous and immature, and that’s why you always end up airborne when the Instructor goes all-out.”

“You’re a chickenshit dagger-eared fang-toothed dickbag pervert overgrown tomcat.”

“You’re a snivelling, craven, envious lunk-knobbed clod-pated twit who doesn’t have the guts to speak his heart. I don’t give a shit myself if your envy puts you in the ground for good, but I resent the fact that you cause collateral damage.”

“You think the King will let you just kill me? Arrogant fucking freak.”

“I think the King lets me do this because he thinks it is funny, which is probably is from the outside. Anyway.”

Ebonrooke stepped back.

Orbaz stepped forward and loomed–slightly–over Ebonrooke.

“You think you’re hot shit because you’re an Inquisitor, but you cracked under torture,” he growled. “The King saw it. How’d you get back in his good graces, stringbean? How much lip-service did that take? How much did you–hurkph.”

Ebonrooke withdrew his elbow from Orbaz’s gut and let Orbaz stagger a bit before he answered.

“I told you. Weakness can be an asset. I let myself be weak and I gave them vague answers and they got arrogant and shot their mouths off–much like you’re so prone to doing–and the twitfaced zealot squadron gave me EVERYTHING. And then they died, and I got to sashay back to the King with a head full of their secrets, a skirt full of scamper and a song in my heart.”

Orbaz wheezed and then said, “You’re so fucked up.”

“Not as much as you are by your own hand. not as much as you could be if you don’t smarted the fuck up and stop jealousy from leading you around by your dick. You could be great, Orbaz, but you’re not because you fuck around and hold those sad little breathing-day thoughts close to your chest like they mean the world. You look like a fucking seagull out for blood over a mouldy popover. I look into your vault and you’re acting like slate pebbles are diamonds. What the fuck is it about this elves-are-stupid-bluh-bluh shit of yours that’s so precious to you that you have to ignore the King and keep holding on?”

The questions were honest, but Orbaz really couldn’t find an answer, and it annoyed him.

“Does the King know you turn your interrogation shit on your kinsmen?”

“The King is watching right now. Like always.”

The air went heavy, then, and cold. It was as if a cloak of icy velvet had been pulled over the inn’s upsatirs.

The King was watching. The King WAS watching. The King was WATCHING.

Orbaz shuddered a bit as the PRESENCE of the King settled on them both. (He noticed that Ebonrooke’s ears went a little funny, then, and heard him make a little “mrrnrrrnrrr” kind of noise, and felt less awkward.)

The King didn’t speak; he simply was there, and then wasn’t, but the implication was clear: stop farting around and get back to work.

Ebonrooke stepped aside and bowed flamboyantly.

“I’m glad we had this conversation,” he said. “I’m guessing Thassarian won’t be punished for loyalty to a kinsman.”

“We don’t need gullible weaksauce snob assholes in our ranks,” grouched Orbaz.

“Well, obviously we do–” Ebonrooke began.

Orbaz realized what was happening, that he had owned himself, and swung at Ebonrooke, who ducked and grinned. “Don’t even fucking–”

“–Else you’d not have been raised, ha ha ha ha, and you should have seen that coming.”

“Kiss my ass, Ebonrooke.”

“Buy me a couple tankards and some fish and chips first.”

Orbaz groaned. “You’re fucking insufferable. I don’t know why the King doesn’t backhand you.”

“He thinks I am funny, for some reason. Come on.” Ebonrooke punched Orbaz in the arm. “We need to get back to work. From the sound of things out there, Thass and Nocturne just annihilated a bunch of zealots; if we stay in here sniping at one another we’lkl miss all the hilarious murdercide.”

“Murdercide,” Orbaz muttered as they went downstairs, “is not even a fucking word. Also, Commander Nocturne is a dirty-fighting little shortass bastard and my spine still hurts from where he knocked me onto my fucking face last time we sparred and he turned my underhand shot back on me and wrecked me.”

“Did I not warn you about that riposte of his? There’s a reason he outranks us both.”

“No, you didn’t warn me about that fucking riposte of his, you dickhole.”

“Whoopsie. My mistake.”

“You’re SUCH a dickhole.”


yukie: (Default)

August 2017

202122 23242526

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 21st, 2017 12:18 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios