The Witching Hour [Lion]

[glorilyss]

The time was here and now, but it was also midnight.

Rich waves of silver-plated moonlight fell between the ink-black, staccato shapes of branches; dappled pools of midnight and quicksilver spilled over the ground, the thin lines between bush and tree and sky blurring the spaces between breath and beat and blood.

Blood.

The world had been quiet, but now was broken by a wild ululation, throat shaken by a feral cry that tore itself from bone and lung and heart. The faint shapes of birds, previously asleep, exploded from the fading canopy, twisting into a nearly-indecipherable horizon stretching farther than the eye could see, but not one single ruffled feather nor shrieking caw could shake the concentration of the slender figure, robed in light and etched in shadow, in the center of the clearing below.

Evergreen pines had sketched an irregular shape around the glen, but the thick back lines of any good witch-space never wavered in the perfect symmetry as they curved in a near-perfect circle around the dark-booted feet. A fallen log made for a make-shift altar, decorated with a single black candle and a bone bowl that nearly shimmered in the light. The wicked curve of a blade glittered in one slender hand, throwing a reflective glimmer on the fiercely-curved cheekbones, the deep hollow of throat and shoulder, the gentle slope of arm and chest. As her head tipped back, black and aqua hair fell in a tumultuous shiver down the wide expanse of silvered back; the wide turquoise gleam of eyes in moon showed a ferocious delight, at the exact moment that the cold blade swept down in a vicious arc, slicing deep into the meat by her thumb.

The elfin girl nearly fell to her knees, a liquid grace flowing into collapse as she thrust her hand over the bone bowl. The moon once more caught a glint in the ripple of her hair, tracing a path down the plane of her cheek, touching on the thick, dark river that dribbled from her clenched hand into the ivory-colored cup beneath her. The avarice sketched between the spaces of deviled grin and arched eyebrows spoke of anticipation; the vibrant tension in the set of her shoulders belied the calm facade she wore.

It was midnight. It was the witching hour.

[Lion]

Time was running out.

The last droplets of his serum still lingered at the base of the vial.  The last one, now gone from eager consumption. However long it would last, Quinlan couldn't say. A week, two, maybe a month at most?  For now it would stave off the burning sensation of pins traveling down his veins, his blood congealing and flaring in an agonizing sensation.

He could take the pain, but this attack had been worse than one he'd had in months.  And if he didn't find more ingredients soon, there wasn't any telling if he'd survive the next burn when it came. He wouldn't allow himself to be ruled solely by desperation, though. He knew where to get most of his ingredients, thankfully certain places in the forest were ripe for the picking.  Others...were more difficult to come by.

Something nearby was happening, he could feel it in his blood. Quinlan looked up to the moon and breathed heavily and the branches, it seemed, parted on their own, pointing to the way.  There was blood nearby, he could feel it.  Not just any blood, blessed blood, the lifeforce draining and boiled in ritual. Somewhat figuratively speaking.

He wasted no time, bolting toward the sensation, where it was growing stronger.  He could see images of blood dipping into the facet of the moon. Blinking hard, he pushed the voices from him, the whispers of his curse, the owner of his soul. Not tonight, he wasn't going to die tonight.

Maybe tomorrow, after a good shag and a beer.

Quinlan pushed through the brush and bramble, stopping short of a clearing where a lithe figure stood.  He held his breath, watching, feeling his heart race in the absence of running.  With their back to him, he watched onward as blood dripped into the top half of a skull – human from the portion of it – tipped upside down like a bowl.  The blood dripped down into it, and he held released the gentle hiss of his breath with a rustle of oncoming wind.

Slowly, he whispered in his mind.  More than the blood, he eyed the hair that draped down the figure's back. Elven...  He hadn't seen a pure elf in months and none recently with hair like that.  He knew a few people that would be interested in such hair....  For now the blood was momentarily forgotten. Quinlan drew himself out from his hiding place, stepping painfully slow from the branches and brush until he cleared the edge of the circle of trees.

The daggers under his jacket.  Fingers slipped around a roughly hewed handle, pulling it out as he slowly crept up behind the figure, dagger facing forward in hand and he reached up to grip just the end of her hair, blade reflecting in the breath of a second until it was within millimeters of cutting it.

[If this makes no sense or needs editing, let me know! I'm kinda loopy at the moment.]

[glorilyss]

She had always been like this in the middle of a particularly satisfying ritual: deaf and blind to the world outside of the painted lines of her circle. For her, right now, the outside world was just an illusion; the thrum and beat of blood in vein was the only reality that she chose to acknowledge. Tonight, perhaps because of the fullness of the moon, that reality had been even stronger, to the point where her skin had been numb until the instant that steel split skin and blood burst forth, and there was no sound but the ragged breathing and the gentle plash of liquid smashing into the curved base of the bowl.

As soon as the blade bit deep into her hand, she felt the sensations of the world reach out to her. The faint whistle of wind through trees underlaid the cacophony of crickets singing out in a symphony that felt deafening in her ears. The wind wrapped loving fingers over and along the edges of hip and waist and throat, lifting playful strands of hair in a two-second dance before swirling away again. Everything seemed brighter; the moonlight lanced in silver spears that sank jagged ends around her, lighting up the slender curve of her shoulder and the firm strength of her knuckles, slim fingers wrapped languidly around the silvered pommel of the knife in her hand, reflecting in each singular drip of red-black blood that slipped into the bowl beneath.

The world had seemed so beautiful. At least, it had until it happened.

Her uninjured hand had just stretched toward the bowl when she felt something meet in her hair. Instantly, her entire body froze; her finger hovered suspended over the rich puddle of liquid within the bone cup, turned as dark as ink in the contrast of the moon. Not moving a muscle, the elf remained on her knees, eyes reflecting the faint glitter of starshine caught in the cup of blood. "Who are you?" Her voice was cold, masking the thin layer of fear underneath. Her mind just felt so blank; normally, she would have thought of four different spells to give herself the upper hand, but right now all she could feel was the weight of the hand in her hair and the faint heat of a body behind her. "Let go of me, now." She forced as much confidence and bossiness into her voice as possible. For a possessive type, she couldn't stand losing control; it was the only thing scarier than being at the mercy of an unknown stranger.

[Lion]

In the stillness, he could hear his heart beat faster, heavily resounding in his ears.  Quinlan had to hold his breath to keep himself steady enough to keep from knicking the hair by mistake.  Except it wasn't a mistake, and maybe he just didn't want to cut himself unintentionally.  There were plenty of scars left from intentionally intentional cuts.

Oh, then came the questions.  Of course.  There was always questions.  He inwardly rolled his eyes.  Why did there always have to be questions? Ugh, why couldn't they just get on with it?!  Maybe Zahi was right.  Ugh, why did she have to be right!?  Quinlan rolled his eyes, but this time it was mostly at himself.  Chatterbox all right, and it only delayed the inevitable.

He kept his grip firm now, even as the person made their demands.  He sniffed.  "Listen Mister Sister, it ain't anything personal," he said.  Even in the moonlight it was hard to tell.  Elves tended to be lithe, whether male or female.  Whatever this person was into was no skin off his nose.  He just needed the hair.

"Don't. Move," he said carefully and didn't waste any time before the edge of his blade wicked off the sliver of hair he had in his grip and he quickly turned to bolt away, dashing for the clearing's edge.  His heart was already threading adrenaline through every inch of his body. 

But he didn't care, he was going straight to the bank.

[If this is too far, and needs some editing, just let me know. (:]

[glorilyss]

Estelle's breath caught in her throat, every nerve tense as she waited for the body behind her to move, bracing herself for the swift attack that might come at any moment. But nothing had prepared her for the soft snick of the blade through hair, and then the sudden freedom of movement. One moment, chained - the next, set loose.

She gave herself no time to think, just to react.

It was as if in the instant that she was no longed caged, her clarity of mind returned. The elf twisted, whip-like fast and graceful as a snake; with the hand that held the knife, she lashed out aggressively, watching the edge of the blade, slick with her own blood, graze the skin of the figure's arm. She could tell, once she got a moment to look at him, that he was male, with none of the defining characteristics of a different species other than human, and tall - but beyond that, she didn't have time to take notice of. She was already standing up, dainty booted feet nearly flying over the grass as she took off after the man, knowing she had to get to him before he got to the woods.

As she ran, she lifted her cut hand to her mouth; her lips pressed over the cut, sucking hard as a blossom of blood exploded into her mouth. Eyes still latched onto his fleeing form, she willed every ounce of her magical prowess into the hasty spell. The wellspring of life force, that fickle friend and violent enemy, blood, tasted of salt and copper on her tongue; it was one of her most constant companions. "Under moon and under stars, I bid you stop right where you are! Under moon and stars that see, I bid my blood - come back to me!" Her voice was wild and bright, full of the icy clarity of starshine and the vivid fury of the victim.

She hoped the spell would work - she knew that she had broken his skin, but she knew that his body didn't contain enough of her blood to physically force him to come back. She figured that he would merely feel the deep need that sang within the veins, like an addict struggling to stay away from heroin. Surely, with every elevated beat of his heart, her own blood would mingle with his, naturally more magical than any human's could ever be. It was manipulative, it was compelling - but she didn't care. He had stolen from her. She would rob him in kind.

[Lion]

The blade's edge did bit into his flesh. Quinlan had a taste for pain, enough to keep him from being distracted by even the slightest discomfort.  There was a time and place for its recognition, and in fight or flight, now was not the time. He stuffed the fistful of hair in his pocket and ran for the hills.  Or as far as the hills as he could get.

It seemed, however, he was not destined to go far.  The nick on his arm, contact that had torn open a part of his sleeve - he'd have to kick her ass for that later - and he felt the burning contact of an open wound. His blood did not favor parting from his body.  Then again, whose did?  Fiendish fire engulfed in his chest.  And he heard the echo of those words far off from him.

He resisted their call, but something was happening and he felt a drawing behind him.  He fought against every step, but his legs seemed to get heavier and heavier.  Those words, they itched at the back of his neck, poked into his mind until the beads of sweat were from dread and not adrenaline.  He frowned, scowling heavily, he didn't like being a slave.  Not even those in a feeble attempt such as this.  But he did stop, eventually just at the edge of the clearing, not more than a few trees in.

And the blood on his arm.  He reached down to taste it.  The iron made his whole body shudder.  He looked down at his own blood that was leaking and smeared it across his hand.  She wanted to play?  He was game.  Quinlan felt his palm grow cold, his anger taking hold of him.  He did return, calmly and looking directly at this 'thing' in a dress before him.

"You gotta light?" he asked, drawing an already rolled smoke to his lips and resisting the urge to step closer.  Quinlan let his smoke hang in his lips before tapping the end of it with a bloody fingertip and it smoldering until it ignited the tobacco inside.  A long drag and he hissed at her, blowing out the smoke between closed teeth.

And his blood, coiled in his hand droplets of willingly collecting until he flung his wrist out, spatters of blood striking the ground and spice of ice five feet long thrusting up from the ground at the base of her feet.

[glorilyss]

[ooc: very short, sorry]

Estelle felt the vicious flame of pride flare within her chest as she saw her spell begin to take effect. She hadn't expected such good results, really; she hadn't known how much blood she'd been able to stick him with, and it had been a bit of a Hail Mary when she'd cast the spell. Either she was getting stronger than she realized (which was always a pleasant thought,) or she'd just gotten more blood into him than she'd expected.

Estelle flitted across the grass after the man, not slowing down until she saw him slow, stop, turn. She felt herself slow down in turn, teal eyes fixed intently on him as she moved under the first shadows of the trees that had ringed her clearing. She watched him lift the hand-rolled cigarette to his mouth, the edge of the stick flaring with light. She froze, eyes suspicious and hard. She didn't trust how easy he had given up.

"Why did you cut my hair, you little creep-" Her words were cut off as the man flung his arm out wide, blood spattering the ground and instantly transforming into jagged spires of ice that shot straight toward her. Estelle threw herself to the side, hitting the ground hard on her shoulder and rolling with her own momentum. She scrambled up to her feet with the inhuman grace of an elf, light eyes nearly spitting fire in her fury. "That's it," she snarled, taking a few short steps forward. Tensing herself, she threw herself toward him, frustration and recklessness throwing caution to the wind. The knife was still held in her hand; she had no intention of stabbing him, just of pinning him so she could try and carve him up and cast a spell.

[Lion]

[This will probably be very short as well. Super sleepy and about to pass out.]

Quinlan was filled to the brim with annoyance, which would often very easily border on anger.  In moment's like these it hurt to be kind. Not when a witch cast a fucking spell that attempted to control his will. What she didn't know was that it'd be easier to kill her now and cut off the rest of her scalp without further trouble. She'd be just another body in the forest.  Nobody would come looking for her. Nobody important anyway.

He took a long drag on his smoke, shifting it on his lips to keep it steady as he watched her move out of the way of his spires.  Well fuck if she-man wasn't flexible!  At least he filled out the dress quite well.  He gave a smirk at her and flicked the smoke from his lips, stamping his boot on it and grinding it into the ground when her irritation got hold of her.

"Oh, the little imp has a temper," he smirked and turned toward her as she lunged in his direction. He side-stepped and reached up to catch her wrist-blade in a strong grip. He snarled and flung her off away from him.  His own blade still firmly in his other hand and he cut across his own palm.  Deep inside he could feel her blood, the rapid speeding up of her pulse, and the adrenaline that was pulsating through it.

"Back off and let it go, witch," he said.  "You don't get a second chance." The cut on his palm burned and he felt the curse tingling for release.  Maybe this bitch liked fire.  Oh, well, she wouldn't get the option to refute it.

Clapping both of his hands together, the blood splattered between them and he blew out a great deep breath, transforming the blood droplets from his fingertips into long tendrils of fire.

[glorilyss]

If Estelle could have spit sparks from her eyes, it wouldn't have been that unexpected. There was a violent glitter in the mediterranean depths of her eyes as she felt his hand clasp around her wrist, then fling her bodily away. True, Estelle was an elf - therefore stronger than most humans - but she had always turned her mind toward magical prowess, not physical. She knew how to use a blade in self-defense, but her body had not the hardened, toned physique of a professional athlete. That much was clear in the way he tossed her aside; her body briefly crumpled against the ground, but she was twisting, pushing herself up with her arms, looking half-feral as she crouched on hands and knees, hot eyes staring up toward the man with fury clear in them.

She didn't think she'd ever met someone who had gotten under her skin more. Conversely, she needed to own him, to control him.

She had little warning to combat the fire, except for what her own eyes told her. His words seemed to slide in one ear and right out the other; she heard them, paid heed to them, but distracted herself instead with his movements. The image of him slicing deep into his own skin was strikingly familiar, an obvious sign of the magic she used. Her eyes widened, flickering toward him - then narrowed as his hand smacked together with an audibly wet thwack, turning the drops of his blood into fire.

She had never fought another blood mage before, and certainly not one so adept at thinking on his feet. She crushed her own hand together until a small shower of blood spattered at her feet; a single word of protection in the language of the ancients threw up a quick and dirty barrier against the worst of the flames, shimmering like heat haze in front of her as each string of fire thudded into it, though one curling tendril snaked around the edges of her shield and laid a burning path of heat against her shoulder. She stifled her cry of pain, all too used to the sensation from her line of work.

"Stop," she called, hands raised behind the flickeringly transparent barrier between them. Did she think she could win against him? She wasn't sure. He was good - quite good. But she had no desire to harm another who worked in primal magic as she did, not now that she knew. "You have enough of a grasp on your magic to make money at what you do. Why are you stealing hair from the first stranger you find?" She paused, a slender finger tapping her chin as if in thought. "Well, unless your spell requires hair from the most beautiful creature you've seen. I suppose that would make sense." Leave it to Estelle to be invariably vain, even in the most desperate of situations.

[Lion]

Well, shit, wasn't she clever.

The fire from his fingertips died away when he saw her barrier appear in front of her, the fire spreading about it like water rolling off the edges of a stone. What little it did break away, she seemed to remained largely unscathed.  Quinlan growled and kept his distance, prepared to freeze his blood again should she have anything special up her not-sleeves.  What was her beef anyway?  It was just hair. The mop on her head would grow back at some point.

Quinlan was ready to continue, but kept himself paused. What did she think was going to happen?  That he would just easily back off her? She was itching for a fight and she got one. The magic in his veins begged to be released, to reach for her blood and bring it to a boil. Even in his pain, he felt his rush of adrenaline.  His hands were shaking, although he hadn't been focused on it.

"You have a lot of questions for someone standing in a brushwood clearing, afixing blood in a ritual," he growled back, stepping away from her, ready to run when he had the first opportunity.  Still he resisted the influence of her initial spell, breathing hard and planting his feet firmly.

"I guess every man has got a right to be beautiful, she-male," he said, looking her over.  He still couldn't be sure it was really an elf.  "People pay good money for a mop like yours.  I can shave off the rest of it for ya."  Hrm, she must have thought she was real funny with that 'making good money" crack.