Gao
[sad jester jingle noises]
THE KINGSLAYER.
scroll
่นไบ ่ฎ
FUNAI REN
ใ
ใ
MOOD
MISBEHAVING IMMEDIATELY
LOCATION
DECK
MENTIONS
VAS, MAGNUS, ARI, DANTE
BAD IDEAS โ THE 5:55.
scroll
HERETIC BOY,
you should know: hate misshapes even the most woodland into something that would rather die in captivity than domesticate.
CHAPTER TWO.
A tango in perpetual limbo, heโd made a game out of pestering Vasariah.
A game that was not inherently malicious, but a silent demand of attention when tired of telling half-lies to haughty snobs or trying to convince married women into keeping him as their favorite boytoy. Eclipsing to pluck the jewel from bundles of golden hair, it would be only a matter of time for the blonde to locate and interrupt irises.
โLooking for this?โ Ren would wave the metal like a feather taunt, asked conversationally as if not the very source of their ire. Perched smug in a place he most likely shouldnโt be with reflections flaring in his eyes, heโd be a willing culprit if it means coaxing the unfortunate napkin out of the shadows into entertaining his boyish antics.
Admittedlyโ even if Ren was not the type to ever admit to it โthere was an earnest appeal to the blonde. Mistaken for a drunk concoction of intrusive and conceited, they wear patience like a second skin and Ren is in urgent need of those that can tolerate his attention-seeking indiscretions.
How utterly starkly apart they are, Vasariahโs imperial spine to Renโs lax form, always lounging; how silently appreciative Ren is to have someone outside of all the droning pomp.
Come daylight he is found at starboard, leaning at the railing with face turned up to the sun. Gorging with half-lidded eyes, the narcotic warmth has him drawing comparisons to the labyrinth of Zenithโs cobble streets. Chilled damp stones bathed by looming scaffolding, sunlight like this was hard to come by. Warmer climates comply with him, and he supposes he has never made peace with the gray skies of the capital anyway.
But something cold lounges in the air, an apparition he cannot ascertain. Feels it often, a hive of discomfort that slathers nape and ices frost down the spine. There is something important sheared from context, something folded out of view like a dreadful stare on the demarcation of his vision. Finds himself habitually chasing eyes over the darkest corners to divine what sharp-toothed predatory shift has sewn itself into the shadow, all while loathing the vessel for its dangerous confinement.
Then Ren recollects himself, disregards it as the caution of not being where one should be. He is no stranger to that feeling, knows that this is something different, must plead a willing ignorance because there is no other option. Sometimes people go mad at sea, and dovetailing baseless paranoia seems a sure way to join them.
In the polite prattle of the deck he remains languid as velvet, lost in a swell of satin waves and coveted sun. The periphery is where he hears it, the yelled BITCH.
Oh? Who calls? A blink to sober the opium of the sun, and Ren is worried his time aboard The Leviathan has finally been severed short. Heโd been lucky thus far, unnoticed by using the skilled and awfully rare parlour trick: Not Starting Problems.
A second blink and a turn to locate the spectacle settles the matter: He is not The Bitch. Not this time.
Locating the maelstrom of anger is easy when guests cede to the shouting with no resistance at all, a well-built man rivalling a familiar face. Ren stills when pupils recognize the victim. He knows Vasariah can be an acquired taste, their first impression was equally as poor, but that does not mean he thinks Vasariah deserves to be attacked.
Heโs also wearing a little bow today. Itโs hard to stay mad at people who wear little bows.
Getting involved would draw unwanted attention that Ren wanted to desperately avoid, but staying idle feels like a twisting bone. Blistering with reluctance, rationale is screaming to let it be. If he were a man of any less mettle heโd have turned away and ignored it, but urgent shoes are already betraying him and moving towards the scene.
There is no plan, never is. Just improvise the little fool out of being mauled.
But there is nothing like a collision to make you more cautious of your surroundings, the outside hum of guests and ache fragmenting into his head. Careens a step back and redirects an annoyed gaze towards the clumsy proprietor in accusation, heโd been good lately, but blundering snobs with no consideration for others have that restraint splitting by a seam.
โYou fโ!โ Heโll ordinarily snap at any old balding idiot for being too insolent to watch the orbit around their spherical guts, instead puncturing his tongue with sharp crescents to find no such thing. He thinks he tasted blood.
A rich man. Handsome.
โYouโฆโ signature waltz, Renโs ire unfurls into a sheepish redemption. A nervous flutter to scrabble for something to say. โ... You are new.โ
Nevermind that he was moments off trying to scalp the stranger with words alone.
Heโd have noticed someone like this sooner. Chrysalis eyes, Ren is learning there are many green-eyed beauties on this boat. Lets a languid gaze rake the upward stretch of sienna fabrics, slicked hair and a jawline; no wonder the collision hurt, the stranger has a calcified helmet of hair product.
But the thief knows old money when he sees it, when they pull a warm smile and a well-placed Sorry. Ren has no interest in politesse veneers. Hello, how are you? The weather is good, letโs map each other's tonsils. It is all very boring to navigate one's way through shallow small-talk.
They gesture to what he can assume is Vasariahโs nearing death. Renโs head lilts a fraction to the side, listening for the debacle, yet otherwise makes no other display to look at or continue on his way. He wants to whip around and yell at Vas to stop prodding the feral beast. Not now sweetie! Mommyโs found a trust-fund!
โPlaying hero?โ Behave, he can feel rationality holding him back by the scruff and trying to force him back into a gilded cage that contains his brain cells. It is not entirely his fault, thereโs something ethically wrong in placing a nicely dressed man before Ren and expecting him not to shake them like a gift. Whether through bedroom propaganda or purely conversational, there is always a habit to circle to the composed ones and paw them around.
โI'm Dante, it's nice to meet you.โ
That is what dawns Ren with the audacity. Donโt, something warns, but the thief is preoccupied and something amused is upturning his eyes.
โNice? Bit eager, calm down tiger.โ The first of many taps against their enclosure, it is difficult to dissuade from his usual habits of not saying whatever leaps to the forefront of his mind.
He looks to their offending hand which is extended for a handshake. While an opportune moment to check cufflinks, he can already see a butter-yellow tinge to their fingers. Smoker. Takes the hand in his own, marble cold and just as smooth, yet does not nurse it with the common greeting. Not a point of contention or a mockery, he gently turns till Danteโs hand is in view, baring the point of interest Ren had inconspicuously checked. Eyes flash to Danteโs in curiosity of what dissuades him.
โNo ring.โ
Which meant something was wrong with him.
Ren wants to know what kind of wrong.
โWell, wedless Dan,โ he invites himself to the nickname and withdraws his hand from theirs. โIโm Ren.โ A smile, all teeth and mischief. โWe can be friends, since it was nice meeting me.โ
โกcoded by uxieโก