’ then can you show me the proper way? ‘

               And lightly calloused digits seize the combat blade,
          apexes of said digits probing against the trigger to
          release the pin that holds the serrated blade in place.
          It visibly loosens before a thumb rises to embrace it,
          lowering it into slumber.

          “—You realize you’re doing it wrong, don’t you?”

 ”Am I really in your way..?”
 ”I’ll do better! I’ll try harder! I’ll——”
                 “—We’ll toughen you up.”
                 “I’m sorry.. about before.”


❝ Perchance—though it can be a goodly endeavor to find seek some facet which makes even mundane days fulfilling.
     But I mean not to preach, especially to a stranger. ❞


          “I take whatever comes my way during patrols.”


❝ Are not most days? ❞


          “I guess it just depends on what takes place.”

          “A pretty fulfilling day.”

Ride on!

Ride on!


             The viking refuses to follow ; not until he’s sure that even then,
             he’s fed up. What once was a pleasurable escape, watching scenes unfold
            before his very eye now turns pleasure into annoyance. Violent flashes and
            day dreams of merciless killing until the annoyance is lifted from his
            shoulder ooze in for all but a moment and then —- 


          Almost a sputter releases. No eating the customers, the commercial says so.
          He can hear Pam’s voice, clear as day in a reverb within his mind, the
          sarcasm laced old tone filling each and every last space.
                    He can no longer stand it.
         Pushing himself up, the eternal makes a brisk walk, passing through a
         stickered off door into his office.

                          “ Fucking music. “

               And optics lift to the viking that enters in a frenzy, his own
          tolerance having been tested by the consistency that would no
          doubt be broken by change within a matter of twenty-four hours.
          Her gaze, ultramarine and of crystalline resplendence, is analytical
          and purely scientific as it follows the other. Booted appendages shift
          and a simple breathe is released in lieu of easing tension midst one’s
          own self, breathing out the frustration as though it were never there
          to begin with. All of her patience has been tested throughout the past
          few days.

               The late night patrols have become more daring, creatures
          piling from the woods only to be taken down. But before the doors of
          Fangtasia had even opened, she had done a round. And there was
          nothing. Nothing at all in the woods beyond.

               His words are taken heed of, and respected with simplistic silence.
          She says nothing for it is not necessary. Aside from an acknowledging
          hum that reverberates midst militaristic build’s torso.

"You're all I have."

                     I know I’ve got my problems and it’s probably me,
                                                                                  so hold on to me..
                                                                                                       hold on to me.

          Alone are they, together as one. The way that the water beats down on the roof above like a merciless fury. The way that oceanus oculi rippled with each pitter and patter, the roar of surging waters that once caused the Mighty Flood. It’s calming, an ease, a welcoming embrace of the storm that still rages within her that shall never be conquered. There is lightning and there is thunder in those veins, fire and ice that edge in fringe. A maelstrom of hardened, warring perpetuity. But tonight.. tonight it is different in the midst of a welcoming, humbling storm. The way that silence has taken her as it usually does, but she is not alone.

          It’s all slowly melting away, falling into nothingness with masculine, calloused appendages that begin to slip over porcelain hombres that merely held up straps to a top that served concealed slumber’s purpose. Digits that push beneath those straps and enforce their collapse, their tumble down the curve of lightly scarred hombres. It causes a revering part to supple grooves. Rearward is her glance that is halted by the nudge of a crown.

          Considerable is their difference in height, but all the more accommodated with each passing moment. The way a broadened, chiseled mandible works its way from roseate magistrate’s crown’s peak, to the nape of alabaster flesh (large digits moving aside stray clusters of roseate), to the curve of her neck. She moves not, for her reluctance would be for naught. For she is human, she is a still as human as those impulses are from days long passed. Though her powers be in a domain of the gods, her body and mind and soul hold dock in a harbor of humanity. She’s fought him for so long, for even now she wants to yank away and deject him. For how many times has he left? This is not a forever chance. Forever means nothing to a soldier because nothing ever gets a chance at forever…
                                                but maybe she wants to try.

          So she doesn’t fight it. She lets it occur, lets it ensue. When will she ever see him again, anyway? And by this time, his hands have etched tiny circles down slender, porcelain-turned-steel obliques. Those familiar digits that slip beneath the fabric and begin to rise once more, scaling that flesh once more. And she can feel the rows of flawless ivory graze across her shoulder, causing electricity to surge through her. A crown of roseate magistrate teeters in reverse, a breath expelling in a sort of delight. Ebon lash flatters, oceanus oculi become concealed. And she loses herself to the breath that mars her flesh with a splotch of pink from the tease of teeth. But slender limbs rise and he takes the privilege given to him, slipping the tank from her frame.

          Tonight.. just for tonight. She would be his, and he would be hers.
                                                                                            Toy soldiers.




             A moment ; two before the viking throws himself against
             the throne in a fit of rage. Front legs rising just for a fraction,
             they slam down with a force that sends the club into a brief
             silence. The world — as those in the bar know it — stops as the
             attention glances to him for only but a second and then… The beat drops,
             the bodies move, the drinks are served 
and it’s back.

                            ” Sunday? You’ll have to elaborate, Lightning. “     

               But suddenly, statuesque build is lifting from her own throne of sorts.
          Irritability has set in and she can no longer handle the unfavorable beat
          that strums through the chests of all present. Gallant footwork carries
          her wayward in retreat. A lateral appendage molds over the door handle,
          heading back to an office known as a domain to the owner of this development.
          Northman himself.

               Just silence. For not even the inquisitiveness of the viking had been heard.
          But this is not new to her, this retreat. The smell of alcohol and blood and sex
          and drugs—it stiffened her morals. So here she stands, spine aligned with the
          wall and waiting for the night to pass. Her sleeping patterns have had to adjust
          with the creatures of the night, save for patrols she dare take in the day.




            Piercing and steely azure eyes narrow as they take in the
            scene before. Scattered bodies spread throughout the bar
            just steps below where he’s perched on a royal throne. The music
            overpowers the noises and thoughts around. Shifting, he glances to the
            side before a gentle scoff forces it’s way through his lips. 

                      ” Business is slow today. “

               It’s all drowned out, honestly. The beat that reverberates through
            her chest from speakers all ‘round, the hypnotic flurry of disturbed
            air by exotic dancers yonder way. She cared not for what occurred
            in this edifice owned by the beast that held placement at her side, the
            viking that a valkyrie has found herself favoring company of on the
            wing of logical reason. She is foreign to these lands—who else is she
            to trust when all else know not of her? So let oceanus oculi flit to her
            flank, acknowledgement befalling unto the king. Tufts of roseate quiver
            for but a moment.

                        “Consider what tomorrow is.” Easter. That voice rises
                                                                                                      in liquid steel.

               Most humans that would occupy the bar were currently absent to
            convince their interest in the morrow. But her own interest in the now
            is of nothingness.