Calysta had spent much of the stormy evening hopping from tavern to tavern, searching. For what, was always the same. Entertainment. Something that struck her muse, that made her body and mind and her dark little soul sing with enthusiasm and vision. Though she much preferred to keep her clothing at a minimum, she wore a long, formidable heavy-wool cloak, lined with body-warmed velvet within and dyed a deep shade of red. It went along nicely with what she wore beneath; crimson thigh-high boots with slight feathered accents at the ankles and knees, held up by thick black belts around the highest part of her leg. A matching red, stylized thong held by thin straps left little to the imagination, along with a strapless bikini top and tight gloves that reached up to her shoulder, with the same feather-like embellishments at the wrist.
The bikini bottom allowed for her long, red tail to move comfortably beneath the cloaks, but it stayed still nonetheless, the tip only twitching slightly every now and again, peeking out from beneath. It wasn't as if she were trying to hide it, but if she ever felt it would help, it was more than easy to make it 'go away' with a quick and simple illusion. The same way she currently made the small red wings look like nothing more than normal human ears... Though she hardly felt threatened in a place like this, having drunkards pull on them was never pleasant and only ever served to make her murderous. She was looking for a fuck not a fight.
Though, that wasn't to say she was entirely opposed to the idea of a good brawl. So long as it was primarily the brawling of others, and she was allowed to observe in good amusement. In a place like Zantaric, it wasn't hard to step on a few toes, and with a body like hers it was equally as simple to bow out looking all the innocent party. Ah, well, no, there was most clearly nothing innocent about her. Illusions could help, but her eyes would betray her otherwise.
She'd found herself a dingy table in a smoky corner near the fire place where a few cut-throats were glaring daggers at one another over their poker hands, a small pile of fortunes at the center of the table in front of her. Somehow there had come an unspoken belief that she would be given along with these largely worthless trinkets to the winner for the night. What an insult. It'd started with her entering and finding herself 'at a loss' about this weather and giving small glimpses of herself as she aired out her sopping cloak. Some tried -although their efforts were quite dismal- to come across as gentlemen. A laughing matter, which even the attempt of which to each actor was clearly a joke. She did so enjoy it when she could get others to play with her though. Pretend to be polite, even though you haven't even the smarts to know the definition of the word, let alone a crooked eye that probably couldn't have read it if, indeed, you could read. It was amusing though, the games men would play for a womans body.
Showing her to the chair nearest the fire place, receiving glares from the regular whores - and she could always spot them, for they were usually the first with their eyes on her, fearful, bitter, angry glares - she settled herself in cozily amongst the men, acting far too lost for them not to resist. Sure she was clearly no innocent, but as far as they knew, she was a stranger to Zantaric. Oh but who could be stranger to Zantaric? It'd been several dozen years since she'd been here, she'd changed her wardrobe a touch, so it was unlikely if anyone would recognize her, if they'd even survived this city. These men didn't know her though, but she sure as hell knew them. Their sort. Smiling and bumbling with faux innocence so thick it reeked of sarcasm, helpful, rough and dangerous, but they knew women usually liked that. Really, she wondered what amusement she could possibly derive from them that she hadn't already. Sighing, she rested her face in her palm, pouting in boredom. Some of the men noticed this and started yacking at her, but she was only feinting interest, scarcely listening as they tried to leap-frog over to each other into her attentions, their tones slowly rising, and she began to stare at the dully twinkling tiny gems and scant coins piled in front of her. She began to think that she might punish them for their insolence and nerve. She began to think if something of interest did not come, if a man worth her time didn't approach, she'd change her intentions from a fuck to a fight, after all.
Of course, that had been about the time the man looking like a fight himself had entered. She took note as the others took him in carefully, and watched him herself as he moved to the bar. Her fingers drummed on the table, a tell-tale sign of her interest, even if no one else ever took note of it. Her tail twitched, sweeping the dirty ground beneath it. He looked like an absolute menace. A curiosity. Ah, and she was a cat that loved to find a thing that tickled its curiosities. Her muse hummed softly behind her ear, a pleasant tickle that sent a small reverberation of electricity down her spine and would slowly, she knew, make her body buzz as the muse lifted its voice. Slowly, the hum would become a tune, the tune would become lyrics, and the lyrics a grand symphony, an elaborate drama, an unfolding epic. It was gorgeous, it was magnificent, every time. It never failed her. Yes, if there was anything she delighted in this world, it was assuredly this.
She thought she might walk up to him, trail her index and middle fingers up the long journey of his spine. Ah, but he seemed the sort who might sense such an approach, think it a danger, and break her wrist. A repercussion she certainly would not fancy. Did a man like that apologize for such a misjudgment? It was clear he wasn't the same as the rest of these, but he was just as wild and dangerous as any of them... No, that was entirely wrong, and she almost shamed herself with the idea, shamed him. He was far more dangerous than these, and that excited her further. The muse whispered.
Unable to suppress the small giggle, the men around her took slow note of her shifting interest, and she took note of theirs. Oh? Would they attempt to stop her? Would they dare to confront a man like that? She didn't care either way, moving slowly and deliberately as she rested her palms against the table and lifted herself up from her chair.
"I'm afraid I won't be able to stay to see how this ends, boys," she excused herself, though she hoped she would. She hoped it ended in their skulls cracking. Of course, she didn't doubt that if things didn't go that way, she couldn't give them all a considerable nudge in the right direction. One way or another. A few spoke up, but others were still regarding the new stranger carefully. Did they know each other? Both were strangers, there was that possibility, right? Calysta ignored them, making her way through the crowd and unfastening the more concealing clasps of her cloak, keeping the one at her neck tied to keep it over her shoulders, but leaving much of the rest of her attire revealed, even as she sat down at the bar with the cape falling down behind her. Smiling shrewdly to the tender, she drummed her fingernails along the surface of the bar as she spoke.
"Get me whatever he's having," she said with a nod to the man she'd purposely sat so close to, despite the fact that most would have undoubtedly gone out of their way to keep their distance. From between where her fingers had moved, there was a sparkle of silver, as if my magic the coin appearing. The tender clearly did a double take, lifting the coin in his hand and looking at it a little more carefully than he might have usually, but apparently finding it in good quality and continuing to serve her the drink. She smirked a little. It was always so easy with these trivial things. The barkeep had coins passed to him day in, day out, the shine of a coin was known to his eye, the feel familiar to his hand, a simple thing to take advantage of.
Turning in her seat so she faced the large, imposing man presently, she folded one leg over the other with mug in one hand, her face cradled in the other, elbow propped on the bar. He looked different from most men she approached, but then again, he was clearly different from most men irregardless of that small point. There was one thing, though, that all men with a look like his in a crummy little bar such as this shared though, and that was greed. Lust. Gluttony. All sin was the same, after all. Indulgence. Devour, rape, take. He looked like a man who'd done his fair share of stealing. Stealing life, in the very least. In her long years she had an eye for that... Oh, but that was a simple excuse. It was more like... recognizing someone who shared something in common with oneself. Yes, but he and she were very much different, to be sure.
"How interesting," she pondered aloud, "To be forward, because all night I've been so indirect with these low-lives that I've become quite tired with such frivolities, I must admit I take pleasure in men. Their voracious lusts, their consuming vices. And I usually have an eye for the... 'good ones', too. But once in a while one comes along that takes me wholly by surprise." Taking a drink, she sat back. Most whores might have leaned in, drink entirely disregarded. Trailed a hand up the inside of his thigh, let him know just precisely what they were intending. And the thought had, indeed, crossed her mind. Instead, though she relaxed. She loved to indulge herself in every possible way. Though he may have looked different from most of her targets, there was one thing he most assuredly held in common with her favored 'type'. He looked strong. Powerful. She admitted softly, "I can't help but be consumed by it. The... curiosity."