Revenge is a Dish Best Served Sharp.

[Dawn Shadowsbane]

A chill, overcast night surrounded Psly, as he walked the distance between the city and the barn. A good night for quiet contemplation, no one around, not even a hint of breeze to distract him. With his hands in his pockets, Psly let his feet walk the well-known path, as his mind swirled around various thoughts. Yet another attempt for the Diamond, lost. The reappearance of Shard, and how much that had hurt. His feelings for Jaycy, and how their growth wasn't slowing down. The tentative friendships, people and places long thought forgotten. And so he walked, and thought.

***

This was a well-worn path, and Psly walked it often. Life had taught him many things, but all teachings may be forgotten in time. After his arrival here, he'd rarely had occasion to utilize the life's lessons that kept him alive in the 'Plex. Even more, after the "reformatting", less and less of his previous life seemed important.

Psly had grown. . .complacent.

Lax.

One might even say, careless.

***

“Mistress, he is alone and isolated.” A slim girl knelt before the woman’s chair, thighs held tight against one another and head bowed. Soft yellow curls spilled across her cheek and down over the red enamel band around her neck and her shoulder as she reported to her mistress. “He went for a walk not long ago, leaving his house.” The woman tapped well-manicured nails against the dark velvet that adorned the arm of the mahogany chair. “And the whore and her idiot girlfriend and boyfriend?” she finally queried.

“She left the City early this morning and is unreachable. She stated last night on the Isle that she did not know how late she would return,” the slave-girl whispered. Her hands remained lightly resting on her legs, palms touching flesh just below the hem of her brief violet silks. “The other woman is at the Twilight Isle. Her boyfriend is with her.” The woman lifted a hand, flicking the fingers toward the door in a shooing motion. “You have done well, Veran. You may go claim a treat from the Overseer.” The girl rocked back and to her feet. “Thank you, Mistress,” she murmured and then backed out of the room, careful to keep her gaze pointed at the ground.

The woman’s gaze followed the girl as she took herself out of the sitting room and remained at the door even after it had been closed softly. Painted nails drummed a pattern on the deep crimson fabric in an idle, random pattern. It had taken several weeks for everything to fall into place. Her quest for the proper weapon had ended in a painful and long process that involved her shifting into full dragon form – something she only did in the most desperate of times because of the agony – to surgically remove rib bones for the crafting of her daggers.

She sneered at the flames lazily licking upward in the fireplace. How dared he. He had given the whore a wholly undeserved gift; a life, a strength, a form she never should have received. The whore was an imposter dragon now, a mockery of true members of the kin. That woman presumed she should be as equal to her father! Worse, her current lover … toy … had agreed and given her the means to pretend to be one of them. She flaunted her new status too, showing … no, wearing … wings as if they were some accessory to her clothing. He needed to pay for such an insult to the kin. She had warned him. A slow, cruel smirk ticked the corner of her mouth upward. She had warned him and he hadn’t listened. He was alone. Idiot.

Long fingers curled around the arms of the chair and she levered herself up, rolling first one pale shoulder and then the other, wings lifting in time with the motions. Hips swayed slightly beneath the white sheath dress as she walked toward the fireplace, her destination the blank section of beige wall next to the mantle. The tip of her right index finger snaked out and ran down the wall before the hand ran across her body from right to left. The wall faded away, revealing a recess. Within lay a simple, low and long wooden box, plain and free from any markings or visible clasps.

The woman pressed palms to the dual ends of the box and pulled her arms toward her chest, drawing the container from its hiding hole. She turned and took steps toward a nearby short bookcase, the dark gleaming wood the match for her chair. She set the box gently down before drawing the fingertip of her left middle finger across the face of the box and then lifted the lid. Red-gold eyes gleamed as they lit on the contents within. A pair of long, lightly curved daggers nestled in a bed of black silk. The sheaths were plain; leather wrapped around oak. The hilts also lacked decoration, the dull silver lackluster – without ornamentation or the shine of polished metal.

Almost reverently she lifted one dagger from the box and set it next to the outside edge, on the wood of the bookshelf’s top. The mate remained within and she closed the rectangular vessel before lifting it and turning to replace it in the recess. “Xendon,” she murmured to the wall. The left edge of the hole began to shimmer and spread right, solidifying behind the leading line. Index and middle fingers from her left hand swept over the magicked wall, sealing it. She plucked the retrieved dagger from the bookshelf and strode for the door, swiftly exiting the comforting confines of her private space.


(( Written with Pslyder's player. Events take place approximately midnight ET on 1/26/10. ))

[Dawn Shadowsbane]

She held the dagger low against her stomach as she walked down the wide, elegant hallway. The distance from sitting room to bedroom was mercifully short and the woman stepped into the second room only moments after exiting the first. She turned the lock after closing the door behind her and then lifted the sheathed dagger in her hand. Fingers remained curled tightly around the leather covering and she twisted her wrist, sending the palm of the hand to face down and the hilt of the curved weapon parallel, pointed inward. She grasped the plain hilt with the other hand, allowing a soft hiss of breath to escape as she withdrew the dagger from its home.

She tossed the sheath carelessly onto the sumptuous, thick gold-embroidered red bedcovering. It bounced once off the roaring dragon design before settling just beneath the threads that outlined the throat of the elegant draconic image. A low, cool chuckle escaped as she noted the placement. “How fitting.” Her red-gold gaze slid from the bed and returned its attention toward the naked dagger in her hand. The long blade was truly of herself, ivory polished bone that hooked gently. Both edges tapered to thin, razor-sharp lines. The point on the dagger was delicate, thin, and would slip under the skin with devastating ease. Runes danced along the whole of the blade, the magic of ritual inscribed on its face to seal it within.

The woman slowly turned the dagger in her hand, angling an edge toward her left forearm. She dipped it lower until bone met flesh and ran the edge over the smooth, pale perfect skin of her forearm, breathing slowly. The dagger appeared to cleave skin but failed to leave a mark when she broke contact. The weapon, made of her own body, would be ineffective if it were ever turned against her. She pulled the dagger back with her right hand, gaze narrowed on the left. She suddenly plunged the dagger inward again, toward her other palm. It spiked through the open hand, sharp tip and edges clean after passing through flesh, blood and bone. She barked a laugh and withdrew it from the hand. She flicked her wrist and tossed the dagger onto the bed to lie near the sheath. It was perfect. Its mate would be saved for the whore herself but that was a death she wanted to savor. The death of her toy was merely the first step in the whore’s journey to hell.

She reached up, brushing smooth pale hands over her shoulders and sweeping the straps of her dress down her arm, first on one side and then the other. Stepping from the pool of white silk at her feet, the woman ran fingernails over her chest and dipped down toward her center in a lazy, mindless gesture. She strolled toward her clothes chest, stroking bare flesh as she walked. A low growl of arousal escaped from her lips. She trailed her hand down once more then pulled it away from her form, reaching instead for the handles of a drawer. She tugged the dual handles simultaneously and then reached within and pulled forth a long silken pantsuit, dark as winter’s midnight.

Carefully pooling the suit on the floor, she stepped into the opening and slid her legs through the pants, pulling up on the slick fabric. She planned to get close to him but didn’t expect the man to be armed. She knew, though, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be dangerous. She chose the suit because the silk would make it much more difficult for him to clamp a secure hold on her. She pulled the helm over her rear end and then pushed her arms through the upper half of the suit. Finally, she ducked her head and slipped the neck strap into place at the nape. Straightening, the suit pulled taut against her body, snug like a second skin. The opening in the back of the suit allowed for freedom of movement for her pale-violet wings. She flexed them experimentally and then furled them once more, satisfied.

The woman turned and swayed her way to her mirror, reaching up for her hair as she walked. She swiftly braided the red waves and pinned them in a crown around her head. She wasn’t going to give him anything to grasp onto while they were close. Finishing the hair, she patted it into place and turned, peering over her shoulder at the mirror to observe the outfit from all angles. Only two things remained: a belt for the dagger and a pair of shoes. She moved again, this time for the closet. Opening the doors, she peered within. Red-gold gaze passed over the options until they settled onto the pair of soft, low boots. She leaned inside the space and drew the boots forth. She set them on the floor next to her and lifted one leg at a time, pushing delicate feet into place. She shifted about until the boots settled firmly around her. Bending over, she tugged the tops of the boots over the pantsuit then stood.

She pulled a belt from the closet and drew it across her hips, belting it loosely. Crossing to the bed, she picked up the sheath and pulled it closer. She unbuckled the belt and slid the sheath into place, then tightened the leather band around her once more. She took the dagger in her right hand, holding it up to her face. “You will pay for what you have done,” she whispered to Pslyder across the vast space still between them, then slammed the hooked dagger into its protective covering. She turned and sauntered to the door and through, as if she had all the time in the world and nothing to worry over.

[Dawn Shadowsbane]

The woman crouched behind the ruined remains of a former wall. She had found him easily enough; the fool strolled along a path where stands of thick trunks edged the lane and provided cover for anyone who wished to spy on those along it. She sneered in disgust, waiting for him to come flush with her hiding spot. She’d easily passed by him after she caught sight, the natural sounds of the wildlife concealing the bits of noise she made in her hurry to get ahead and find a good ambushing place. He was nearing the city; she wouldn’t have long.

She closed her eyes and murmured. Even though the night was overcast, dull grey shadows lingered in crevices and against logs, faint echoes of the sleeping life all around them. They swarmed toward her in that barely-there command, thickening, roiling. She swept a hand through the swirling mass at her feet and scooped up a palmful of grey mist. She tipped the mist onto her hair and swept a hand over it. The shadow mist sunk into the red and a black-grey haze spread through the crowned braids. She took another handful and pulled the hand across her face and over her neck. The skin turned ashen, a dingy sad color.

She whispered again and the shadows rose, consuming her. Wings became cloaked in the mist, almost invisible in the background after their treatment. They faded into the silk suit, mottling the black and allowing her to blend in with the dreary surroundings. Finally, she opened her eyes and inhaled. Once red-gold irises became a blended grey. Her very scent was different; she smelled of darkness, of the coldest moments before dawn.

She dared a glance around the wall; he was coming and he was close. She breathed slowly, muscles tensed and unmoving. His boots crunched on the snow, heedless of how vulnerable to attack it made him. The sounds drew louder, peaking as he drew even with her position. She held her breath for that moment, waiting until he passed to exhale. The crush of snow underfoot lessened, the man walking past her without realizing she was there.

Her right hand closed tight around the plain hilt of her dagger. She stood and rushed forward, drawing the weapon from its sheath. The woman soundlessly raised the dragonslayer dagger and attacked from behind.

He never knew what caused him to turn in alarm. But seeing his attacker, he raised his arm in defense, snarling as his other hand grew talons. Scales blossomed over his skin as Psly shifted to his mid-form instinctively, thinking to rely on his natural resiliency.

Pain shot through his arm as it collapsed under the attack, the point of the dagger passing through his scales like water. Further pain radiated from his chest, where the dagger pierced through that flesh, and the bone beneath. Falling backward, swinging wildly with the talons of his free hand to dissuade the phantom assailant, Psly screamed wordlessly in agony.

She twisted the dagger cruelly inside him, rushing forward in his backward tumble and turning the blade ninety degrees before jerking it out. The talons shredded through her silk pantsuit and shoulder as easily as her blade passed through his defensive scales. She hissed and fell back, falling with a thud onto her rear. The woman scrambled up, low boots slipping on the crushed snow for a moment before finding purchase. Growling, she hurried away, shoving the dagger into its sheath again.

She’d struck true enough. Even with their link, the whore and that other woman wouldn’t be able to reach him in time. With luck, he would die in their arms. Snarling with the pain of his returned swipe, she fled the vicinity.

***

He lay there for some time, trying to heal as he'd done since being changed, and finding himself unable. He tried to shift, and found that didn't work either. And his bleeding wasn't stopping. The dagger's tip hadn't pierced his heart, but only by the merest fraction. He could feel that much. In his mind, he soundlessly called out, as he couldn't trust his voice. It felt bad enough just to breathe.

(( Written with Pslyder's player! ))

[Jaycy Ashleana]

The silver and black-striped dragon banked left, her muzzle and wings slicing through the low-lying clouds. The sheep and goats clustered below rested fitfully, clumped together as near the lean-to shelter as they were able to within the pen. She pondered her choices as she circled the enclosed area. Psly kept the sheep and she preferred goat, but she mused on the idea of mutton. A little variety in the diet was never a bad thing. Besides, tonight she craved something a little sweeter than the stringy beasts she normally dined on.

It had been a long day and she was looking forward to getting home. A quick hunt, a beast or two, then she would be able to fly the Manor and fall into bed. She wheeled lower, closer to the oblivious gaggle of domestic feed animals below her. Aye, sheep was definitely on order. Her keen gaze passed over the animals, gauging, weighing, and finding the perfect target. Ah, there. One particularly scraggly ewe tried without success to find a place within the group, seeking the warmth of the rest. She found herself pushed out, nudged away.

Lip flaps rose, exposing the long teeth at each side of her muzzle. She turned over, spinning once around in the sudden dive. Talons extended, claws wide, as she neared her prey. The ewe was far enough away that the herd wouldn’t be too disturbed when she struck. She grunted, crashing into the beast and claws digging deep into the tender flesh below thick wool. Leathery wings beat once, twice, and again, lifting dragon and ewe again into the air. She flapped hard, struggling with the extra wiggling weight.

She took her dinner to a clearing a short distance away, backwinging as she neared the ground. She refused to let the bleating ewe go, rather curling around the animal and biting into the back of its neck to break the spinal cord before relaxing her talon-grip. She dipped her head and tucked in.

***

Mmm. Eyes rolled up in pleasure. Mutton was a good choice. She’d eaten slowly, enjoying the more tender meat. It was a good end to a not-very-good day. Her long forked tongue flicked out over the muzzle. She lifted her left front talon from the ground, running the tongue over the bloodied claw. Claws curled inward as she cleaned, a peculiarly feline gesture that seemed at odds with her form. Her great head swiveled slowly toward the pen. One more sounded like a good idea. She was still hungry.

Jaycy launched herself up from the bones of her first course, gaining height once more. She selected a ram after several minutes’ observation. Gliding around the pen, she waited for the unlucky beast to be pushed just that much farther from the group. Finally the ram turned its back on the group and took a few slow steps toward the open air. She paused a beat and then pounced, snagging the animal before it could do more than bleat weakly.

The dragon hefted them both higher into the air and toward the clearing. This would do nic --- PSLYDER!

Her wings missed a beat and claws opened, sending the poor ram crashing to the ground. It screamed in pain as bones crunched when it met the solid unforgiving earth. She followed a moment later, landing hard. Her heart thudded as an echo of the pain from the attack raced through her chest. It didn’t actually hurt her, but she felt it. The sharp, sudden surprise of it caused her to lose concentration and spill into the snow.

The great head weaved in a figure eight as she sought to regain her senses. Silver and black-striped wings lay flat against her back and the ground, her legs crushed beneath her long, thick body. She struggled to stand. What had happened? Something. Pslyder… Psly! She clamored upright, tucking wings tightly against her back. Scaled eyelids dipped down over green-gold eyes as she sought him through their link. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open – he had been attacked by someone, something. She had to get to him. Crouching, she unfurled her wings, launched up and swiftly gained altitude, fueled by the intensity of her emotions.

In the air, she screamed her terror and anguish.

[PslyderFTA]

He opened his eyes, and saw white-streaked ebon fall to the side, as Kelathe slumped over into Neo's arms. Glowing ivory swaths cut the night, Neo's wings glowing against the pin-pricked sky. Eardrums reverberated from the shrillness of the keening, pouring from Jaycy's serpentine throat.

Everything was too much. Too loud, too sharp, too bright.

Especially the pain. The pain nearly caused him to vomit, every time he took in a breath, each time he thought to reach with that wounded arm. And that was nothing, compared to the deep-searing agony he felt inside, in his very spirit.

Whatever had hit him, whoever had hated him enough for this, it served to drive one point and one point only home.

Arrogance hurt. And he'd been that, in spades.

Suffering himself to be helped up, clamping down on the groans, he sat on Jaycy's back, while Neo picked Kelathe up off the ground. It wasn't until the lights of Riverview brightened his eyelids that he opened his eyes, nearly sliding down in a heap as Neo called inside for assistance. He felt a stab, of some kind of needle, before his wounds numbed, and he felt a gurney moving underneath him. Letting the drugs take him down into temporary oblivion seemed the thing to do.

But no matter what they gave him, there was that pain that no amount of medications could reach, that followed him wherever he went, no matter how deep into sleep he fell. . .

((Special thanks to everyone involved!!!)