a messenger bird, brilliant in the shades of near-black blues and varying hues of darkness, should have found it's way to the formidable King of the desert sands. if all had gone well, he would have found it ignorantly, blissfully, perched on his windowsill as it trilled out a happy tune in the rising sun's warmth. it hadn't liked the chill of the winter's night and so it flew quickly through the new day's hours to reach its destination without much fanfare. tied to its leg with a satin red ribbon was a letter and, unsurprisingly once he knew who it came from, a single red rose--freshly cut, spritzed with water to keep it alive through the night, overly saturated like newly spilt blood. it was her symbol, of course, the one whose ink was written in that parchment, and there was no doubt he would recognize it instantly; for though their interactions may have been few and far between, even she could remember the incessant draw of danger in his eyes, the intoxicating pull of the promise for thrill and even greater bounties. surely he would picture her as she was then (as she was now) with shining tri-colored eyes and a body that lured men and women alike to their death without a second's hesitation; she was the ballerina assassin, after all, and who could forget the seduction of an alluring woman that could slit your throat in a heartbeat?
so it was with a gentle kiss that she sent the bird off to find him, letter strapped tight, as the sun was beginning to set on their day. from her room in the morally-grey establishment she let nostalgia take over from better days before her last mission sent her into hiding. how much had she missed during that time? what antics could she had gotten herself into if she hadn't been betrayed? she fumed at the thought, and some deep part of her begged to find out who was responsible, to exact revenge... but buried the voice instead; it wasn't worth the effort. she had to focus on what was to come.
and so the bird chirped its song, and when he would open her delivery (gently, for it was but a sliver of paper) he would find these words written in a neat cursive sprawl:
Raum, the Red Rose is back. you can find her claiming space at the White Scarab. she knows you frequent often; she has been watching you. do make sure you take the time to say hello.
and written in smaller letters underneath, scrawled so finely they were almost illegible:
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
Raum enters the White Scarab with little fanfare. His skin is black as pitch and how the shadows reach for him, swallowing him up until there is nothing to betray where he stands.
The house is alive, the sound of laughter and merriment, of wealth aplenty wafts to him carried upon a breeze of liquor and perfume. Raum studies everything and nothing. This is a scene he has seen before, where men and women charm and patrons throw too much money upon tables and watch it disappear in a moment of bad luck.
Why is the Blood King here? Why is a creature who does not drink, nor gamble, come to a place of excess and indulgence? As he stands in the dark, in the shadows of everything, he listens and watches. He hears utterances of Solterra, of a monster there. He hears worry and love for a queen they have not seen in too, too long. He hears rumours and truths aplenty and as each spills like golden thread from the lips of those rumour and gossip mills, Raum remembers each of their faces.
Yet this day he is not here to merely listen. Neither is he here as the Scarab VIP, though his name is upon the list, though they welcome him with hospitality and not a shred of care for how he is ruining a corner of their world. He listens, when he comes as a VIP to the voices of those who recognize him, he listens as they carry their witness out into the streets and wonders how fast it would get to their Queen that Solterra’s Blood King was spotted, safe, within Denocte’s borders.
Slowly he turns in the darkness and weaves like a serpent through tables upon tables. He reaches the back, where rooms lie along lavish halls. In one room a girl waits for him, her soul as bloodstained as his. He knows her door and knocks, still dressed in black, still utterly unidentifiable as himself. She will not recognize him when she answers, but he does not think that will matter much for in his grasp is a letter and a crimson rose, only just beginning to wilt.
we don't have to worry bout nothing 'Cause we got the fire and we're burning one hell of a something
It was a living, thriving thing, the Scarab--to those who looked in awe at the grandeur architecture from the inside (instead of merely standing meekly from the opposite end) could swear that the walls danced with the entertainers' shows; it held its breath as the fire breathers, all lit up from both within and without, swallowed flames whole; and even listened with pricked ears at every secret that was whispered between occupants, voices nearly inaudible from fear of being overheard. But the Scarab knew--it came alive with every beating heart that entered its throat as they too were extinguished like the burning fire in a performer's act. For really, wasn't that all they were, simple puppets on a string being guided by invisible hands?
She would have been naive to think otherwise. Those that called the dim establishment home, whether for a couple hours or longer than any could remember, were all out for one thing: they craved a sense of belonging, they all wanted to be part of something more. They found their way into the Scarab because, at some point in the building of the foundation, the idea of 'we are all the same here' was inscribed in tiny letters; and of course they flocked there, the broken-hearted, the thrill-seekers, the ones that tread on thin lines and called out for some sense of fulfillment.
It's why she was there, after all, and why he would soon be as well.
The room she occupied during her down-time between outings and missions sat tucked away in a corner of the hallway, the path leading off from the stairs descending from the Den. Candles lined the walls with tapestries of sinful desires covering the spaces between the doors that were interspersed here and there, some marked and others completely unadorned. Any that knew what the rose on the last one in the order meant would know it was hers, and would know that was the only place she would talk.
One couldn't be too careful in a place with eyes and ears that belonged to none so savory willing to sell them out for but a moment's worth of pride.
The taps on her door calling for rapt attention drew a smile across her features, velveteen lips curling in a soft girlish grin. It had been about the amount of time for a letter to reach across the continent and have its recipient travel the same distance back to her. She would be lying if she denied her heart skipping beats, the coolness of it warming at the thought of the danger he brought. She was a creature of raw deception and impure intentions, laced up tight with the desire for revenge; and whoever it so happened to be taken upon was of no consequence to her. In that appetite they shared, a full-course meal for two as they sat on opposite ends of the dinner table. And for dessert...
In a whirl she removed herself from her seat upon lavish silk cushions, roses filling every inch of wall space along the perimeter. A singular window was open and curtains billowed longingly against the brush of winter's breezes. Silver hair was let loose to play against the tendrils of air that whispered through the rather large enclosure, both crown and necklace sparkling against her flickering red skin. Before she reached the door with her symbol illustrated on the outside, she composed herself with face relaxed and body soft. Swinging the wooden barrier open lightly, her tri-colored eyes only saw blackness; the image was surprising and she almost shut it again in a huff when she realized the glint of a red rose against the parchment she clearly recognized. The sign of her smile returned and she stepped back to allow the shadowy figure to enter.
Behind him the door was shut with an inaudible click, and she looked at him expectantly, awaiting his greeting. "Nice detective work, sir King." Her voice filled the room in the way the sun's rays would spread across the land after waking from sleep. "It pleases me that you came." Softer, softer then, a sincerity she rarely showed anyone working its way to twist in between each syllable.
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