Participants:
| Scene Title | Mountain Made of Hookers and Diamonds |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sometimes Logan disproves all theories that he's not a nice guy. |
| Date | November 17, 2010 |
Throne Room of the King
Along the dusty road there are no streetlights to guide the way, nothing but the pale moonlight as a beacon to weary travelers still trudging the dusty road. The fork some miles back had pointed to several different places in only two directions, the one the redhead is following happens to be called 'Hisway'. Bare feet pad softly against the hard packed dirt, leaving no footprints behind, nothing to ever mark that she's been there. The closer she walks, the finer everything becomes.
Barren landscapes turn to lush fields of golden wheat, pale under the platinum moon (silver isn't expensive enough). The dirt becomes cobbled stones, patterned in swirls of multicolored crystal that sparkle in the light. With every few dozen paces, a large white-ish structure grows into view. If one were naive, they might believe it is a mountain but no mountain on earth has ever been this clear, this brilliant, this exact hue of fish belly white. A familiar color but at the same time the memory is too faint.
Two Valkyrie guards, dressed in gold and turquoise bar the entrance to the path up the mountain. No one dares to enter, their purpose is merely decorative, until today.
There's the distinct ring of metal against metal as guards halberds cross each other in front of Delia's face. The block is only effective enough to startle her and giving the two a quizzical glance, she ducks under and passes them by. Either by sheer stupidity or the fact they've never had to deal with such blatant disobedience before, the two guards confer amongst themselves as to what course of action to take next. All the while Delia climbs to the top of the diamond mountain to see the King of All.
The stairs cut into the epic semblance of natural land are of the same stuff the mountain is made of, glittering its many facets beneath a platinum moon and deeply black velvet sky, catching any light it can with the purpose of flaring it back in dazzling prisms. But it's not motionless — every now and then, something glimmers in the corner of Delia's eye, a woman's face or silhouette, like beings beneath ice save for these move more like shifting reflections in the depths of the diamond mountain. Maybe it's just her own visage, and the light is playing tricks.
Maybe not.
Massive doors of black, shining wood cut into the surface of the mountain by the time she's gained altitude, with a chilly wind tugging at her clothing and her hair, a scent of incense on the wind, and it only takes a minor push for the massive portal to give, silently easing open. The floor is paved with white, gold-veined marble, immense pillars holding up— apparently— the rockier peak of the diamond mountain, and the walls of the cavern are left raw, jagged and glittering. Enough candles in golden holders fill the room with light of the same tone, almost warm. Incense burners hang from long silver chains, wafting exotic smoke from metal cages.
The throne that takes its place within the centre of the room is an elegant thing of twisted precious metal, almost delicate and deceptively sturdy, with its backing growing tall and shaped into something resembling a peacock feather, with sapphire and emerald and other precious gems used to decorate it. Legs thrown over one arm of the throne, back and bent elbow resting against the other, the man occupying it doesn't glance her way just yet, preoccupied with inspecting his fingernails. Out of comfort, fur is used to buffer between himself and silver thrown, tawny, with the flattened head of dead lion hanging over the edge.
With her hands clasped tightly against each other and held tight to her stomach, Delia cowers slightly and steps into the elegant, yet garish, throne room. The scent that hits her nose is the first to awaken her senses and within a few steps, she's straightening and almost speedwalking toward the throne. The cologne worn by the lounging man is so distinctive and inherently his that no other could ever hope match it. It's the one thing that sets him apart from anyone else, at least by her standards.
With a title such as the King of All, how could it be anyone else? Comparatively, her dress is a simple fare. A white cotton thing decorated with tiny eyelets around each hem. Spaghetti straps that shimmer like mother of pearl are used to hold it up, rather than sleeves. Her feet are bare and it is quite possible that aside from undergarments, the dress is the only thing she's wearing. Her scent is a delicate mingling of mint and lavender, a soothing combination.
Twisting her head around and in turn, her body, Delia searches for the man's companion that she's become acquainted with elsewhere. When the dog, Cheza, isn't immediately spotted she focusses her attention back to Logan with a soft clearing of her throat. Not daring to speak out of turn.
It gets his attention. No part of him is dirty and certainly not his nails, so there isn't much to take his attention from. Eyes a brilliant shade of cut emerald green— different from their usual pallid tone or even when they glow brighter jade in warning— turn towards her, sweep a look up and down. With a rustle of satin, Logan shifts, shining black boots setting heels against the marble floor, legs clad in crisp white fabric, a cummerbund of golden satin cinching his waist along with the clean white satin shirt. Thin chains of gold wrap both tight and loose around his throat, matching rings on his fingers, bracelets on his wrist, and last but not least, a circle of beaten gold that makes up a crown to signify his station.
A sword, too, leans against the throne, a physical thing of shining steel and gem-encrusted hilt, and a hand places on the latter to hold as one might hold a cane rather than a weapon.
As far as Delia can tell, they are alone. Maybe being at the top is, as they say, a lonely place to be. "You've come for a purpose," he deduces, in an English drawl, although too lower class for a King. "Out with it, then, before I have you killed." Though a speculative sweep of a gaze for the second time speaks of finding more uses for her than even a good old fashioned beheading. And also, glimmering and belated recognition.
Her own eyes, a shade outlawed in most regions are averted from the man on the throne, humbled by his presence, she dips into a low curtsy before daring to address him. "I— I've come to trade, something I was told you'd lost for something that I…" Memory is fleeting when it's being dulled by the minute. It takes her quite a few of them before she's able to complete her thought, simply staring up at him with a frighened grimace of confusion. "I.." Maybe its him that strikes her dumb.
Unlike his brilliant green eyes, her once vibrant blue ones have faded and grown a shade or two dustier since being trapped. With every spark of recognition, they brighten some, only to lose it again when she forgets something else. Earlier, she forgot her own name.
Without making her bargain, she holds out what she's been hiding in her fist over the course of a few dreamers. It would either be returning, or gifting him with something new. Regardless, when her fingers uncurl, she holds up a solitary pearl. The gem laying in her palm could never be classified as ordinary, the shimmering black color of it and its size set it apart from any other. It is easily the size of an eye, perhaps why the woman it was stolen from coveted it so.
"I know you…" she emits softly, the lilt of fear distinct in her voice. "But I don't know where I am. I'm lost."
In a world of precious metals and rock, maybe she's using the right lure.
Rising from his throne, Logan takes a few steps forward, taking sword with, one of those medieval deals that looks like it would weigh him down, but of course it's easy for him to wield — no one would make a weapon for a king that he can't carry. His foot steps are loud, which highlights the silence of the cavernous space. His expression is one that is schooled into careful disinterest, but there's no mistaking green eyed intrigue, coming to a stop beyond arm's reach of her and the offered gift. "Then you've come to the right place," he tells her, imperiously, flicking a glance towards her face. "I know every path, every corner, every face. You are, after all, in my kingdom.
"Give that to me." His hand opens, ringed fingers splayed. She had come to him once before; there's familiarity in favour and exchange, although whatever it was he'd taken from her the first go around, in the mirrored dance room, was a lot less tangible than the small, dense pearl she's holding out.
Cradling the pearl with her fingers, Delia takes one step closer to Logan, not out of disrespect for his personal space but obviously because she doesn't trust herself not to drop the bauble she's holding. Using both of her hands to cup the sphere, she drops it delicately into the palm of his hand while watching it carefully. She hovers there for a moment, making sure that it won't fall to smash on the marble flooring before she takes a step back to her place.
Once there, the redhead's blue eyes find his brilliant green ones and with every deep breath of cologne they grow a touch more vivid from regained memory. By now she's not asking for exchange as much as the simple act of being in his presence. There's a twitch to the young woman's eyebrows as she stares at him and then a quirkish shake of her head. "I'm…" she breathes, finally remembering her own name again, "I'm Delia… I can't find my way home. Do you know how I can get there?"
The pearl is rolled around in his palm, tracking it along the dips and lines that make up the flat of his hand. Less caution than she held it, but at least Logan doesn't drop the thing. Instead, he closes his hand around it, before bringing sword around, flipping one side of the hilt up ceiling towards in favour of the other. He presses the sea-sprung gem into the beaten steel and gold of the sword's handle, and as he takes his hand away, it stays embedded as a centre piece. Pad of his thumb circles around the half of the pearl still visible, before Logan glances back up at her as if coming out of his own dream.
As it were. "Delia," he repeats, as if tasting the word. "Maybe you should redefine your ideas of home. What's so good about home?" His sword comes up, flashing silver, and the blade comes to hover above her shoulder, a few inches from her throat, but it never does touch her. Tendons in the back of his hand stand out against pale skin from the weight of the weapon.
"Don't you like it here?"
The redhead's breath quickens with the flash of light and the blade near her pulsing neck. It's so sharp that a tendril of hair splits off from its length and spirals through the air and down into a crimson wisp on the floor between them. Remaining otherwise motionless, her eyes flit around the room, drinking in every detail around the two of them before her lips part and her head angles sideward to eye the edge of the sword.
"It's very nice," she answers honestly. Though the faces inside the mountain did give her a bit of a pause. "Where would I stay?"
With regained memory comes the realization of mortality, the reason why she's always moving from place to place. Lifting her chin just enough so that her eyes meet Logan's again, she swallows nervously before asking, "Do you like it here?" Again, the pitch at the end of her question is laced with anxiety. Distress at the thought of if he knows where he is, will he leave or will he have the strength to stay.
Good question, and it seems to catch the King of All off-guard, sliding a green eyed glance away from her face to regard the ornate chamber, its high, bechandelier'd ceiling, swallowing once and shifting the fine tangle of gold that closes and hangs from his throat. "Oh, yes," Logan states, sword remaining where it is despite conversational tone of voice. "Prime real estate, especially in this economy. Very roomy, never damp. But it's quite lonely." The sword draws back by a span of a few more inches. Which could just mean he's getting swinging room.
No blow hits, the tension in that arm loosening a fraction. "We've some lovely dungeons, if you're int'rested. Or you could join the girls." Delia probably doesn't want to join 'the girls'.
"Hang on. I know this."
There's a distant rumble, like thunder, save for the fact it seems to come up from the core of the mountain. "I know you, and this— the shadow witch, did she send you?" Accusation narrows green eyes at her. "Hokuto. But no, she's dead."
"No…" The word is more a shuddered whisper, Delia's chest caves with the expulsion of breath. The accusatory nature of the question has her shaking her head. Her own eyes narrow with a pained expression and she tears her gaze away from Logan's face in favor of the floor.
With an audible swallow, her shoulders sink self consciously as she curls her hands into two fists. They never raise to strike out or block in defense, they do quiver as the young woman awaits the inevitable expulsion that comes next. At least with others. "No one sent me, I can't find my way home. I— I'm empty, my body is empty. I have to find it, but I don't know where to look. I don't know where I am…"
Where she is, is inside Logan's brain. Where he is is a completely different story. Unfortunately, brains don't come equipped with GPS tracking devices.
"I dunno either."
After questing for the eyeball-sized pearl and coming all this way, that's probably the least exciting thing that Logan could have said. But it's spoken with a sort of velvety honesty, glancing past her towards the slice of sky he sees past the massive doors of the castle in the diamond mountain. "And so I suppose you owe me nothing at all, for I have nothing to give." Except, maybe, the gem back to her, embedded as it already is in the sword.
Logan glances down at the weapon. Then, blade slices through the air, a swoosh that doesn't have the paper-sharp edge lodging in flesh, at least. Instead, he offers her the hilt. To take. "Have you tried the second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning? Or the Lord & Taylor on Fifth Avenue, has everything you could ask for. You should take this with you.
"It's not safe to go alone."
Taking the hilt of the sword in both of her hands, Delia gives Logan a rather uncertain grimace before carefully lifting it out of his hand. The tip swings down toward the ground and she manages to catch it before it hits and either chips the floor or the sword itself. "I never see the stars anymore or the sun, just the moon and it's always the same one."
There's a certain hopeless quality to the young woman as she tries to heft the sword without maiming herself in the process. Carefully, she lays it flat on the floor before stepping toward Logan again. Their first meeting ended with a brief hug, this time when she wraps her arms around the man it's for a longer span and in a tighter hold. "I'm going to forget again…" she utters into his shoulder. "I'm going to forget why I'm doing this." She hasn't begged anyone to stay since she was stripped away from her body and while the urge to ask is there, she doesn't. Closing her eyes and squeezing them shut, she hangs on until he begins to fade away. "Don't leave me here, it's lonely."
He said it himself.
Warm hands are coming up like they're about to clasp her face, upturn it, but he's already half gone by the time anything more detailed than ethereal suggestions of fingertips and smooth palms are gracing her jaw. And she's left alone. Very alone.
Logan wakes up like he's coming up for air, a wide and panicked swing of his arm casting bedsheets away from himself and pale eyes quickly roaming for blood, evidence of self-mutilation, but no. The Nightmare Man is the past and this wasn't that kind of dream — and it's already fading from his brain, bleached away by the sheer texture and realness of the bedroom he's in. That he's alone in. Swallowing dryly but not desiring to leave his bed, he rolls over and buries deep into the warm of the mattress, leveling out his breathing, his heart rate. Sunlight is pressing against the curtains of his room, but before he rouses completely, he does speak out loud the name niggling at his consciousness.
"Delia."