[m] fake sounds and plastic feelings

freckles and skins all peeling

POSTED: Tue Feb 19, 2019 2:46 am

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

the highlands are not a suitable place for sleeping

Feet, unbidden, had carried him to those rings time and time again to watch the scuffle and feel the tension in the air, odd and calm amidst the clash and overlap of roaring conversation, crowd jeers and shouts of encouragement to fighters that circled and tousled and clashed to the beat of the masses. The foreigner was still amidst the froth of the gathered, watching with half-feigned interest in the tangle of teeth and cheap shots.

Half the time he wondered if one of these days, he would see her there in the ring, again, run away from oppressive feelings to blow off the steam of existence, all wild hair and angry eyes with the power of tropic storms behind thrown punches.

Tiamat was never there, no, she had not been for weeks, for what could have been months, time was bleeding and bruising out without even Griffin to stem what he now recognized as loneliness - brushed shoulders with strangers did not sate the quiet Mongol's hunger for interaction, but he took it for what he could, simple passed glances, mumbled apologies only to substitute the rest with the rare bottle between visiting haunts where his friends had once lingered.


She still was not here, split knuckled with fingers framed into vicious curls - Tsolin found himself drowning, slowly, and quietly in his mistakes and transgressions; why did he kiss her? Why did he hurt over it? She had taken pieces of him to stuff the slits and cuts of old wounds beneath the surface of her skin in the tiniest ways, and perhaps that's what had driven her off in the end; It was stupid. It was fleeting.

And it was terribly dizzying.

"Hey, big guy," a stage-whispered voice drew the foreigner in, and the wily, stringy dog was wiping his hands off with an old stained rag, and pale blue eyes found those digits, one missing, while the stranger grinned wide and feral and thin. "You look like a fella who can handle himself, you ever give fightin' thought?"

Without second thought, he took the offer.


Tsolin had abandoned the finery in his look for the practicality, started low before building something of reknown for efficiency, ruthless and rough while taking beatings all the same and staying standing in a ring. The fights hardly ever seemed fair, on either end, organized by seedy fellows and tended by the desperate with bets and odds matched and stacked in unfavorable ways - a man with a rough voice and a rasping cough with wild and determined eyes had the will but not the fight, and folded fast into their tangle until Tsolin had to practically escort him away to the edges of the crowd where he collapsed, heaved, and shuffled on home. He hadn't taken the time to worry over that, so long as he could feel nothing while throwing fists and getting lips split, collecting the bruises like badges. It was a welcome distraction, as ever, while he collected meager scraps for rough fights that broke upon his skin, only to leave it behind on the ship, and vanish away into the waiting nights.

The woman waiting at the edge of the ring had been there before, an odd and familiar face, too thin and sharp and rough looking at her edges but she smelled like the sea and always made her bets on the copper-gilded foreigner and batted long lashes his way. Tsolin was not so receptive - but offered over soft and polite words whenever she had found his side, and hooked long, thin fingers around the curve of his arm, his responses candid and curt despite her honeyed words and offers to help him with his cuts, his bruises, attempts at small talk and conversation that she rattled off quicker than he could understand.

He was dumb enough to lament over his scattered friendships to her once broken down by the persistence. He had talked about her, and felt his aches renew while this strange woman gently dabbed at a split in his brow and wiped the blood away from his face.

"Seems like she was just using you, sweet thing," she tutted, hardly hiding the contempt in her voice. "Faking it." He had knit his brow at this, and found his mind a jumble when lips planted gingerly between his brow.


It was one way to stifle and suffocate his loneliness, but he hated it all the same, loathed how he simply laid her out and she would keen such sweet nothings and he would let her believe each and every one of them for one night, one night, one night more. She would curl those fingers sharply against the tangled curls of his hair, parts of her warm and soft and inviting in ways that women who had not known hardship could only be, soft and plush at those thighs that wrapped him tight while she pleaded Tsolin stay, only for him to leave her all over again.

"Where do you go?" came the song-like warble from her while fingers walked the lines of his arm, and Tsolin shrugged.

"Around. Places. Does it matter?"

"Well... No, but... Why don't you leave something behind? Just... For me, as assurance that you come back to me?" Her words were spun, oh so sweet and sticky while she smiled something soft and knowing and confident. Cool eyes slipped down to her face, her big saucer eyes, rich and brown, a sharp contrast to her affections while she tested her boundaries.

"Because I do not care for you," Tsolin had replied to quickly, bluntly. The shock had not settled well, sinking beneath the awestricken look on her face while he gathered his things to head back to home, that didn't feel so much like home anymore.

He did not see her at his fights after that.

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