[Closed] The Night We Met

Benton probably deserves to have his night ruined.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Benton Borteillo
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Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
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Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Mon Oct 14, 2019 5:11 pm

Sunset - 3 Loshis 2719
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The sky over Old Rose Harbor blended seamlessly into the sea in a painting of swirling orange, red, and pink, even as the dark clouds of a storm rolled in. Tonight’s sunset was one of the few pleasant ones of rainy season, and it was almost beautiful enough to wash away the coldness of the previous night’s rain that still glistened in the puddles that flooded the cracks of the chipped cobblestones. Despite the dark clouds that had entered the scene disguised in the pink of the sunset, Old Rose relished in the fortune of the night as the sight warmed the spirits of the streets and alcohol warmed the bellies of the people.

As the sun set painted the waters of Tincta Basta, the lamplighters of Old Rose waved back, setting their flames ablaze down the waterfront in the tall, salt-crusted poles that marked the edge of the wooden dock as it met the cobblestone. The waterfront was alive tonight with decorative boats with bright red and green sails showing off their elegance like schools of tropical fish, a different song and tempo spilling out of every tavern in a chorus of mumbled joy joined by hundreds of drunk voices that either couldn’t enunciate the words or didn’t know them, dozens of impromptu stalls from all over Vita anchored with jingling necklaces and bells, roasting meats, seasoned vegetables, fresh pastries, exotic fruits, and sticky sweets, and teams of hip-high children running around after anyone who vaguely resembled St. Grumble.

Benton Borteillo enjoyed this time of year. He smiled as he watched the sunset and the festival as he rested an achy right leg and his simple black cane. He was dressed simple enough to fit in with the crowd- a white canvas shirt left open at the top and simple, black trousers, and a simple grey waistcoat. St. Grumble’s Feast made Old Rose Harbor seem almost inviting, almost safe enough to raise a family in. There was always the threat of pick pocketing, of brawls, of Silas Hawke, but, tonight Benton could blend in and push business and fear aside for a few hours and enjoy himself as much as a man so alone in the world and within himself could. Ten years ago, the then 24-year-old Benton would’ve enjoyed this with his friends, Olin and Grif, and he would’ve enjoyed it in a drunken state for a week. Yet, Grif had a family in the Stacks now and Olin had been missing for years, probably dead. Now, it was just Benton and Mordecai, and, even now the 17-year-old wick whom Benton loved like a son was drifting as boys his age begin to do. He supposed that was just the way things would be. Everyone would always leave except for him.

That was okay for Benton, though. Sure, he wished now that a decade ago he would’ve wanted to settle down and have kids instead of growing a drug business, but it was what it was. Perhaps he was still young enough for it all, but he didn’t have the time. As loud as his loneliness was, his hunger was far louder, and Benton, subconsciously reaching his hand tentatively into the pocket of his open coat to check how his coins were fairing against greedy hands, weaved his way between the people of the evening to follow his stomach to the source of wherever that wonderful smell of roast would lead him, eyeing the open air vendors before the rain would force him inside. He was sure to enjoy the night.
In hell I'll be in good company.

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Aziza
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Wed Oct 16, 2019 1:43 pm

Loshis 3, 2719 | Sunset
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It was the Feast of St. Grumble and so it would be a crime to be clocking sober! That had been Aziza's reasoning at least. All sobriety was to be intensely avoided and so the young woman had both alcohol and drugs in her system, the festivities moving around her rather more than they were in reality. Everything had extra bit of sway to it, the colours were fantastic, whirling around her and sometimes bursting intensely across her vision. It was all quite wonderful and lovely. The Mug couldn't quite remember what she'd taken, having found herself in the possession of more than one gift of the narcotic variety and of course, many of her people were all about sharing on a night like this.

Everyone was so full of the generosity and good will of the festival that she'd had no issue finding some wicks who her mother could stay with, some of them a little less able for the festivities because of age or infirmity. In the case of some of them, they'd overdone things during the first two days and were now dealing with a serious bout of illness. It was the sort that would more than likely evaporate over the next day or so and then they'd get up to old tricks again, making the same mistakes all over again.

The young woman had been enjoying herself immensely, the responsibility of Nazia clean off her shoulders and so she'd had a chance to indulge in every sort of diversion, including a number of amorous encounters. The witch wasn't all play though, worming a little work in with her pleasure. Sort of.

A tiny satchel stretched across her body so that it couldn't be set down and displaced, all too easy in the excitement of events. The satchel contained worn, hand drawn cards that allowed her to gain a glimpse into the futures and fortunes of others. Ordinarily, such readings would have been part of her working life, a pseudo-magic as far as the galdori were concerned but important to her - and many others had faith in such methods of prognostication. Given the occasion, she'd been giving such readings out to people who wished to have them, a simple gift that she could give and which were eagerly accepted.

The atmosphere wouldn't have been the same anywhere else, her presence wouldn't have been taken so well, not in Anaxas at least. A wick could have a good time in the Stacks, there was no denying that but at this time of year, they were flooded with galdori students and that didn't always mean good things for a wick. In Old Rose, those of different races and nationalities mixed freely and hardly anyone cared who or what you were, especially not after they were three sheets to the wind.

Now, Aziza wasn't the sort to have issue with people. She was leery of Bad Brothers, sure, but you couldn't always spot those on sight. However, she was usually agreeable and easygoing and happy to make any old person her friend. That did not mean that she didn't have grievances with certain individuals although those were few and far between. There were very few people who could have pulled her out of her good humour during the Feast, especially given her condition but when her eye caught a familiar face, she paused, staring so that she could focus properly, so that she wasn't mistaken. If it was who she thought it was then her mood was definitely not going to remain a happy one.

It had been a couple of years since she'd seen him last and perhaps he was a pina bit more aged but the smile hadn't changed, the almost boyish grin. At the moment, it was basically absentminded, a mere indication of his own enjoyment but Aziza remembered how it looked when it was turned on someone, how it would intensify. She remembered when it had been turned on her.

Her features changed to a scowl, the witch finding herself marching in his direction, which was no mean feat in her present condition when she would be more at home with a leisurely amble. She managed to keep her dark gaze on him, even if everything else was rather out of focus. Inattention and intoxication meant that she bumped more than one person, mumbled apologies sliding sluggishly from her lips. The speed of everything was wrong, the tempo of movements shifting and changing as she walked but she got to her target anyway.

"Eon! Oes, s'ye. I ken i's ye. Ye plowfoot bas'ard," the Mugrobi spewed out as she stepped right into his path, the human-aimed slur coming out without any thought. She was hardly articulate, her words slipping and sliding against each other even more than normal but the young woman was loud and the sentiment behind her speech was certainly clear; it wouldn't be lost on him.

"Hav'ne seen ye since ye had some laoso scare th' shit outta me. An' oes, I ken ye set it up to leave me afeard, y'ersehole!"

The witch would aim a shove at his chest, her glamour unusually unsettled, mona snapping irritably within. "Are ye gonna play mung? Say ye dint 'member me? Dint ken scarin' me? I dare ye t'try," Aziza snarled. Oh he'd remember her all right, whether he wanted to or not and she wasn't going to give him room to play pretend. He was the sort of ersehole who had no problem with lying but the Mugrobi certainly did. She took particular offence at having been lied to and given that he'd set her up and then hadn't had the balls to own up to it, she was particularly pissed off.

With a furious huff of breath, she moved to slap his face, coming swinging at him with both hands, not having to reach up too far to do it; they weren't that different in height.
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Benton Borteillo
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Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
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Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Tue Oct 29, 2019 11:49 am

Sunset - Loshis 3, 2719
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Aziza.

Benton recognized her immediately, and the hunger in his stomach dissipated immediately into the strangest of feelings, of both guilt and the relief of seeing someone he had once lov- known in good conscience. It had been- gods, he wasn't sure- four? five? years since he had last seen her, had pushed her out of his life. It hadn't been a long time by standards of time, but it had been a long time. He had been alone since he had asked Blasten to harass Aziza and scare her out of the business. He had, for his credit, done it to try and keep her safe from his business. He had, well, he had cared for her too much to get her wrapped up in his business. He couldn't see her hurt by his ventures.

Yet, he knew that her anger was warranted, knew there was a pain in sudden separation. So, as she approached him in a rage, he stood to bear it, anchoring his feet as she collided with him in a mass of limbs and angered words. She shoved him in the chest, and, involuntarily, he took a step back as the air left his lungs. He inhaled sharply, but stood still as she snarled in his face. In any other festivity, the outburst may have drawn the eyes of the crowd, but, with alcohol in the veins of every man and woman of Old Rose Harbor, this was only the norm. She slapped him hard, and this time, he reacted.

"Fuckin' ticks, Aziza!" he hissed, and he tucked his cane into his arm before grabbing her wrists and bringing them down sharply between them, holding them as still as he could in an attempt to have a conversation without waving hands between them.

"I may be able to lie about a lot, but I could never lie to you and say I didn't remember you or remember what I did to you. I fucking regret it, okay? I regret pushing you away like that- or at all- every clocking day. I didn't want to lose you, I just wanted to keep you safe, but I frankly was an absolute bastard about it, I know," his words spewed quickly, and he searched her face for any change of heart that he knew almost certainly wouldn't come easily, if at all. He wanted to make her understand, but understand what? That he was an asshole who pushed people away by making them hate him so at least he knew he would not have to see someone he loved get physically hurt by him or his dealings? Yes, that was probably it.

Benton let go of her wrists against his better judgment and readied himself for an onslaught of slaps and blows to sequel the first.

"I don't expect you to forgive me for what I did- you'd be a fool to completely forgive me for that," he sighed. "I just needed to protect you from my business, and I wasn't sure how to get you to stay away unless you feared my business and, well, now hate me."

"What else do you want me to say, Aziza?" he asked gently.

Thunder electrified the air from above, and Benton looked up and cursed himself silently. The clouds had finished their aerial take over, and now Old Rose was covered by a dark storm. Some of the festival-goers began to retreat inside, and many of the shop stalls quickly were secured and the items for sale packed away safely from the coming rain. Yet, there were still some partiers who rushed out from the taverns to see the rain, and still some that calmy awaited it. Benton naturally would go inside, but he felt he had unfinished business with Aziza. He had known her at one time too, and known her to be one to relish in the feeling of the rain on her skin. He sighed, took off the waistcoat which would only weigh him down if he wore it in the water, and awaited the oncoming storm.


In hell I'll be in good company.
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Aziza
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Sat Nov 02, 2019 1:26 pm

Loshis 3, 2719 | Sunset
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The man stood and took her ill treatment. Impassive, that would have been a good descriptor for how he acted as she bleated at him, shoved into him, stood before him in clear rage. If he hadn't been so unmoved then maybe she wouldn't have slapped him. Then again, the witch could be bloody fiery sometimes and when she was like that, her supposed pacifist outlook was shunted out of the way. The slap was something that she needed so that she could get her feelings out of her system. Aziza slapped him because he needed to feel what she felt, damn him!

And true enough, when she hit him, his impassivity melted away and he reacted, locking her wrists in his hands. She made a half-hearted effort to pull free but the movement made the world around her spin a little too much for comfort. Her eyes shut briefly while she waited for her equilibrium to settle. While she was waiting for that, he started talking. He certainly wasn't drunk and every word came out quite clear, sincerity behind the hastily spat response. The young woman's eyes opened, gaze finding its way to his face and Eon's own searching eyes.

Her head cocked to the side, the Mug considering his words carefully and wondering if he really meant it. The drug dealer could lie after all. That he remembered her, yes, she could believe that. He remembered quite a bit it seemed. That surprised her; Aziza had expected him to deny it. But the rest... Hulali's Tits! He hadn't wanted to lose her? What had she been to him? What utter chroveshit!

The human released her and she looked him up and down, attempting to be disdainful as she gave him a once over. She noted the cane that he carried, something she had missed in her approach given how focused she'd been on his face as she marched over. Formerly, she had teasingly called him an old man; it appeared that he'd grown closer to that in fact.

"Forgive ye? Are ye fuckin' mung? Why would I?" she snapped, scowling at him. He'd probably never seen her so ill-tempered. Hell, he'd probably never seen her ill-tempered before and he wouldn't have been alone in that. She was the easygoing and personable witch who was fun-loving and high-spirited. People thought they could walk on her because she would allow it to roll off her, shrugging it off as readily as a camel shrugged off sand. She was no pushover, despite what others might think, despite what Eon had thought.

"Protec' me? Ne, protec' yer bus'ness more'n like. Can ne have a loose-lipped witch gettin' too friendly wi' th' wrong sort an' gettin' ye cott by the King an' his kin," she hissed out, leaning close to him as she spoke so that she ended up spraying him with spittle. Aziza sniffed, folding her arms.

"Ye could say sorry. Y'ent done tha' yet an' why ne? 'Cos y'ent. Oh ye regret, ye say but yer a lying laoso. Ent nothin' worse'n a liar. Ye could try saying wha' ye really fuckin' feel, ye chen?" she spat out, turning away from him.

Everyone had scattered and she could feel the heavy dampness on the breeze, the static in the air that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She squinted up at the sky, taking in the heavy sky that was ready to drop its burden upon their heads. At another time, she might have stood and turned her face up to receive the cool waters of the storm. She would have relished it, enjoyed it but now she was distracted and flustered. What was more, her anger had cooled and she actually regretted slapping Eon now. In fact, if she parted ways with him now, leaving things as they were at present then Aziza knew that she'd be more upset in the long run. Besides, he looked as if he was awaiting the onset of rain with a grim resignation.

The girl sighed, reaching out to grab his arm.

"Set tha' there stick down an' come 'way wi' me, ye mung bas'ard. An' dint be strippin'. 'Sides, I thought ye dint like t'take yer clothes off in public?" she remarked, some of her more usual humour breaking through. There was a glint in her eye and a touch of a smirk as she tried to guide him towards the nearest tavern.

"Dint ken if ye're worth hatin' but I do ken tha' ye'll catch yer end if ye get a soaking... old man. An' ye'd prob'ly have t'take more'n tha' 'coat off an' wha' a shock that'd be fer everyone!"

If he didn't protest then she'd lead him indoors, pulling him in among the press of bodies, one arm occupied with him and the other concerned with holding her bag against her body.
Last edited by Aziza on Thu Nov 21, 2019 6:54 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Benton Borteillo
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Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
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Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Sat Nov 09, 2019 11:20 am

Loshis 3, 2719
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A softness had returned to Aziza's voice, and Benton felt a sad relief bloom within his chest. He gathered himself and his belongings and allowed her to slip her hand into his arm and lead him into a crowded tavern. They would have to fight there way in for seats as bodies pressed in to get away from the rain, so, instead, Benton opted to take a left and lean against the wooden wall.

Ye could try saying wha' ye really fuckin' feel, she had said in her anger. Benton watched her as they navigated the crowd, the feelings he had quelled for so long resurfacing as he looked down at her. She was still so young, and he felt guilt seize his lungs as he realized how much he had truly hurt this woman. He wasn't entirely sure if he could love her again the same way he had loved her before. Things had changed. Benton's entire world had changed in those few long years. He slid his arm out from hers, stepping back far enough to speak to her comfortably, but not far enough to have to yell over the crowd.

All this, and she still doesn't even know my name, he thought, the games of his trade weighing on him.

"Aziza," he started, if only to get her attention on him. He sighed, his hand absentmindedly rushing to his neck as his mind whirred. He spoke slowly, deliberately, and gently, the words easing their way from his tongue like someone trying carefully to walk downstairs in the dark. Should she turn to look at him, he wouldn't look her in the eyes, instead his grey eyes floating to the floor. "You said I should try saying how I really feel. Maybe I should tell the truth, and I know- gods, I know that it's hard to sift through my truths and my lies- even I have trouble sometimes." He was losing steam, quickly.

"Let's start here," he stammered, and, this time, he looked at her. He sighed. "My name is Benton Roderick Borteillo." It had been so long since his full name had fallen from his mouth that it felt awkward and heavy on his tongue. He could remember Aziza criticizing his inability to give her a real name so long ago. It felt like he owed her this. "And just a few summers ago I realized I was deeply in love with a witch on an abandoned beach, and I was scared to be in love." He could remember that day vividly, swimming in the orange waters of sunset in a quiet inlet of the bay.

"Everyone I had ever loved- my parents, my brother, my best friend- they had all been taken from me over and over again. It's easy to convince yourself that love is not real when all it has ever done is abandon you without your control. And, you- I cared for you so deeply, but, for once in my life, I wanted to take control before something else did, before our deal did, before the Bad Brothers did, before something took you away from me without my asking." If she'd let him, he'd take one of her hands in his.

"At the time, it felt better to push the people I loved away from me and my business. I was prone to danger, prone to getting myself and others hurt permanently. The pain of pushing you away and hurting you then seemed less than the pain of you getting hurt without my control" he motioned with his other hand to his bum leg, a mishap of another old run-in.

"Now, to my understanding, there is always a risk that comes with love. There is always a risk of losing someone, always a risk of being hurt or hurting them, but, love is being able to heal together after hurt and making sacrifices to minimize that hurt," and he thought of Mordecai, and the draining efforts he had been putting himself through to make sure Mordecai could grow up without the stain of Benton's business on his life. He dropped her hand and turned back into the crowd, his eyes stinging slightly with threatening tears. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and let the emotions threatening him drip away and drain into the crowd.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Aziza
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Thu Nov 21, 2019 12:13 pm

Loshis 3, 2719 | Sunset
Some Tavern, Old Rose Harbor
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They pushed their way into the tavern, the witch letting out a whooshing breath as they crossed the threshold and she encountered the heat. Fair clocking hot in here! It wasn’t surprising really given the number of bodies pressed together in the limited space, activity and alcohol also working to heat people up. There was now a definite nip in the air outside, the chill added to by the dampness as the wind picked up and it provided a sharp contrast to the temperature of their new shelter. Such a contrast that the young woman felt as if she might suffocate because there didn’t seem to be a breath of cool fresh air in the place. Aziza was certainly glad when the drug dealer chose to drift to one side to lean against the wall instead of trying to battle his way through the crowd because it meant that they were still relatively close to the entryway.

The wick didn’t want to lean against the wall beside him, preferring to have some distance between them now, even though she’d veritably dragged him in here. She didn’t want to almost lean against him because it was hardly helpful if they were going to talk. It wasn’t like they were friends or even friendly anymore. Although she didn’t entirely feel that he was an enemy either; it was very difficult to remain angry at him, especially as there was something almost pathetic about him. The girl had a soft spot for the weak, the downtrodden, the underdog… anybody that she could take care of honestly. How was she meant to be nasty to that boyish face? He didn’t make staying angry with him easy, even if he was an ersehole.

Still, she could have done with something to lean against because she did not feel quite steady, not while she was trying to remain in one place. She felt strangely adrift, moving in currents that nobody else could see. There were others close to her though, jostling the Mug every now and then, which added to the sense of being untethered and out of control. It wasn’t bad but it was difficult to enjoy when she was meant to be focusing on the man’s face.

It was a very troubled sort of face.

“Why’ve ye got a face like a slapped erse?” she questioned, one eye shutting while she squinted at him through the other. Didn’t look like he was enjoying the holiday but she supposed that that was her fault. Aziza wasn’t enjoying it too much herself anymore either and that was her own fault too; no one had made her go after the man to yell at him after all.

He began speaking and the woman did her best to focus on him, trying to listen intently to this truth he thought he should be telling. Unfortunately, she stumbled on the first hurdle.

The human dropped his name on her — his true name — and the witch started snorting with laughter. “Hulali’s Tits! What kind o’ name is- Ha! Migh’ stick wi’ Eon,” she admitted between snorts, some distant part of her aware that she shouldn’t be laughing at his name. It just sounded like so much from the way he’d said it and-

How was she supposed to flooding take that seriously?

But she pressed her hand to her mouth, doing her best to stifle the sound so that her laughter wouldn’t prevent her from hearing the rest of what he had to say. Aziza need not have bothered; she wasn’t laughing for very long after all.

Her hand dropped slowly, her glamour oozing emotions in a sluggish manner but still managing to cycle through a range of feelings at the same time as her face. Honestly, her glamour probably conveyed more because ultimately, she just ended up staring at him with her mouth hanging open.

She went from confusion to disbelief to something approaching abject terror but beneath it all was a wild incomprehension.

Love? Love? What was he-

What the flooding fuck? What the actual-

He’d been in love with her? Was he off his head? What the flooding fuck had he taken?

The Mugrobi was aware that the high she’d been experiencing from her substance use was no longer a pleasant one. In fact, this had become a very bad trip and she wasn’t enjoying it at all. This was not the sort of mindset that she needed while she was off her head. She couldn’t understand what was happening and for the first time in years, she was actually feeling the heightened paranoia and fear that drugs could bestow.

He’d taken her hand, something that she’d passively permitted and hardly noticed but which she was suddenly panicked by, repulsed but he released her before she had to try battering him. The young woman had to move to the wall, placing her hands against it for support as the world seemed to tilt and shift too much, a high, nervous laugh escaping her lips.

“Ye’re off yer head. Off yer floodin’ head,” she giggled, a high warble that wobbled close to hysterical. “Mung bas’ard. Love an’- Y’ent right! Ye’re ridic’lous, ye’re moony. Y’ent ever l-l-loved me,” she almost wailed, trying to shrink away from him and succeeding in stumbling sideways into people. She hit a wall of bodies, arresting her fall but shoving her right back so that she was almost hurled on top of him. Her stomach lurched unpleasantly, hands clutching at him blindly — she thought it was him at least — while a series of moans escaped her, tears beginning to flow as she tried to return some sense of rightness to the world.

Equilibrium wasn’t returning and she found herself starting to cry and hiccough, unsure if she was choking on tears or was on the verge of throwing up.

“I dint feel benny,” she whined.

He couldn’t love her, couldn’t ever have loved her. He’d hardly known her and besides, she wasn’t someone that you loved. She didn’t go loving people, not like that, not the sort of loving with feelings and shit. Aziza couldn’t deal with this spitch and her body was making that abundantly clear.
Last edited by Aziza on Mon Jan 13, 2020 1:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Benton Borteillo
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Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Mon Dec 23, 2019 1:23 am

3 Loshis 2719
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Benton's stomach and lungs burned as the hurt and loss and missing he had smothered with excessive work for years seeped into his body like a plague in Viendan slums. He watched Aziza transition from laughter to confusion, to pain, to sickness, to tears, to every negative emotion overwhelming her at once as if he were a bug trapped under glass, unable to move, to escape, to help. His love, however old and underdeveloped and expired and gone it was- had still made her physically sick. It had spun her into the crowd with tears and delirium and confusion, and Benton was disgusted with himself. He had tried to truly show his heart, whatever there was of it, tried to be vulnerable and not hide behind a well-practiced smirk and mechanical laugh lines, and it had taken the world around them and made it claustrophobic and gargantuan all in one. He had tried to have affection for someone. He had tried to be honest. He had tried to tell her how he really fuckin' felt just like she asked, and it had done this.

How was he supposed to feel? How was he supposed to really fucking feel? Because, how he really felt wasn't the right answer. It wasn't right when he felt it years ago, and it wasn't right now. She was a witch, free-spirited, young, naive, and he was, what? Unable to love? Was that what made her sick? She collided with him, and he stepped back, letting her motion continue to carry her away as it always did. From where her hands hit him, he felt a coldness erupt under his skin, spreading like rings on a pool. The heat of emotion- of lost love, of shame, of confusion- cooled down, froze as the bottom of his stomach was filled with coldness. It overflowed into his lungs and heart and arms and shimmied shiverishly up his spine and into the steadiness of his hands. He felt tired, felt the tiredness that pulls at the skin the morning after a night of endless tears and rattling sobs and trying to figure out what to do with a newly empty heart. It was the tiredness and coldness that rushed into a person after the fever of their emotions broke and feeling wasn't an option.

Disgusting, his own voice whispered to him. It was the tiredness and coldness and emptiness that allowed the voices of doubt and shadows echo at their loudest in his head. He wanted to go home, to lock the door and lay facedown in his bed like he did as a gangly teenager who could not woo a red-freckled young lady.

The crowd around them towered higher and higher, bending spindly shadows onto the ceiling, and he tried to anchor himself to logic and not emotion, not regret, shame, anxiety. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, pulling out a crisp white handkerchief with dainty white lace on the edges, flicking it to unfold it. He thought better of even touching Aziza in a state like this, but, against his judgment, he placed a hand on her shoulder. His throat ached too much to speak. Instead, he would hold out the handkerchief, idling between the want to go home and the knowledge that he could not possibly leave her here like this. The rain fell in heavy but soft drops outside, the smell of precipitation cooling the air of the bar ever so slightly. Still, it was sweltering and uncomfortable. He looked at her as she stopped functioning, and he remembered how much she loved the rain.

"Aziza," he started gently, stepping back from her. "Please, we should go outside. The rain is- it's nice." He was struggling, grasping at memories that had been distorted by time and emotion to seem sweeter than they were. He was so exhausted, emotionally expended, and he just needed to get away from the crowd, the noise, the heat. He hoped she would be able to make it out the door in her state, the open air much safer for a fit and more calming, too.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Aziza
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Tue Jan 14, 2020 5:53 pm

Loshis 3, 2719 | Sunset
Some Tavern, Old Rose Harbor
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The witch had had bad trips before, it happened from time to time but they’d always just been a bit miserable when they occurred rather than the nightmare that other people seemed to experience. Aziza had always been lucky or maybe her mindset had been bright enough to see off the worst of what could have crept into her brain. This time though, this time she understood how awful it could be. The alcohol and the drugs she’d imbibed seemed to have mixed and curdled within her — certainly soured — and it felt horrible; it certainly wasn’t fun. It was unclear if the nausea or the urge to bawl her eyes out was stronger, but she did feel like curling into a ball, ideally with someone’s arms around her. Funnily enough, in spite of what she’d just said to him, in spite of how she’d — unknowingly — upset him, the Mugrobi would gladly fall into Benton’s arms. If she tried, the drug dealer probably wouldn’t take kindly to it.

Not that the young woman was considering how the man might regard her in this moment. His words had perturbed her but the rather violent physical sensations were a far more pressing concern. Aziza whimpered and partially curled in on herself, wondering if she was going to throw up.

A light, almost hesitant hand on her shoulder and the flutter of a handkerchief before her grabbed her attention, the girl accepting it with a sound that might have been an attempt at thanks — if thanks sounded like a gurgled groan, that is. The young woman pressed the cloth to her face, covering her nose and mouth. She ended up pressing it a lot more firmly to her lips as if that would ensure that her stomach contents would stay in there if they made a break for freedom.

The dark-skinned girl tried taking deep breaths, the handkerchief acting as something of a filter for the many scents that pervaded the air but it wasn’t enough. Her breathing sped up, hyperventilating and feeling her skin prickle with heat and moisture.

Too hot. Too crowded. Too full of the odours of sweat and alcohol and gods only knew what else all mingled together.

It was all too stimulating.

Her human companion suggested that they go outside and even in her distress, Aziza could see the appeal. She made a flailing grasp at Benton, intending to drag him out with her, feeling as if she needed the support of his arms. In truth, she was frightened, terribly frightened and she wanted something safe and familiar in the midst of her discomfort. That being said, the witch didn’t try too hard because she was too desperate to get outside, some part of her mind distantly believing that he’d follow although that same part also had some doubts about his mood; on some level, she’d recognised that she’d wounded him deeply but she couldn’t seem to determine what was wrong.

Half-diving, half-staggering out the door, Aziza got out into the rain, hands using the building’s structure for support so that she didn’t fall over as she went out into the air, cool droplets striking her face. She let the handkerchief drop away, still managing to hold it in her hand but no longer using it to filter the air. Instead, Aziza tried gulping it in, cool and wet, refreshing. It cooled her down, chilled the sweat that had begun beading on her skin. The sickening scents were washed out of her nostrils, although ordinarily it wouldn’t have smelled too fresh on the Rose’s streets but the rain was working wonders.

The witch managed to find a wall to lean against while fat droplets splashed on her skin. She found herself bent over, hands on her knees, feeling weak and wobbly. She gasped in air and yet sobbed, feeling her insides continuing to churn.

“E-E-Eon!” she whimpered, one hand reaching blindly, grasping for the man who she couldn’t feel — no field. Her vision was a wet blur, a mix of raindrops and teardrops, no shape clear especially now that the storm clouds had changed the lighting. Not to mention that she was still high. It never occurred to her that he might not have followed her out despite it being his suggestion.

Gradually, the nausea ebbed and while she felt drained, the witch felt undeniably better. Quite wet but definitely better. Absently, Aziza plucked at the top she wore, wet cloth pulled away from her chest and flapped as if that would manage to dry it as the rain continued. Hands swiped at her streaming cheeks, the fortune teller doing her best to clear her vision despite the fact that she didn’t have anything dry to use.

“I… still dint feel benny but I ent gonna lose me spitch. Waste o’ drink an’ drugs tha’d be,” she explained, voice thick but loud enough to carry over the rain that seemed to cause a rushing in her ears. The Mugrobi grimaced, fingers roaming her features as she groaned.

“Ent ever felt like this afore, not on eh…” she paused, unable to remember what she’d taken, feeling that she’d taken more than one kind. They all had names, she didn’t know what the names were right now, a jumble in her head. Didn’t matter, didn’t need the names.

“Dze! Ent impor’ant. C’mere, I feel like a kenser pulled me from ‘ere to Vienda.”

The girl reached for him, seeking his embrace, ready to lean against his shoulder if he’d allow it. If he wouldn’t, she’d be utterly bewildered. The import of his words or her response to them hadn’t fully registered. She didn’t much care about this love business, she just needed contact with someone. She liked touching others, it was nice.
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Benton Borteillo
Posts: 99
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 11:15 pm
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Race: Human
Occupation: Mr. Drug Dealer Drug Man- retiring.
: aka EON, Roswell Godfrey
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Thu Apr 09, 2020 12:13 pm

Loshis 3, 2719
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Coldness seeped into his stomach. The rain wrapped cold fingers around his emotions. The red hot flush of embarassment hissed into steam. He looked for something hopeful in the rain. Nothing looked back.

Aziza was going on about something. There were drugs and alcohol on her tongue and words. He wasn't listening as she staggered around in the edges of his rain-blurred vision. She was so loud, and she only seemed louder against the sound of one billion raindrops stomping onto the sidewalk in anything but unison, one billion raindrops crying out as they fell apart and seeped into tapping puddles, one billion raindrops hitting the faces of a thousand people who laughed and guffawed and spoke and chewed and drank and moved and breathed too loudly. It was too loud, too overwhelming as the world overcomplicated itself when all Benton could think about was how stupid he was. He rubbed his face. He pushed his soaked hair back. He tried to see one sight. He tried to hear one sound. He tried to think one thought.

He closed his eyes. He thought.

Love, what the hell was he thinking? Love, Benton! He knew nothing of love! Nothing of sharing his life with another! Nothing of putting others before himself! Because if he had cared for her, if he really, truly, had begun to care for her before a sunset of golden of memories on a beach not far from here years ago, then-

He would not have changed a damn thing about the way he acted then, that was for sure. No, damn it all, he would let it happen the same way if he were sitting on a younger Benton's shoulder whispering in his ear. It was not his job to change the past. It was not his job to change how he felt about someone. Those were, like Aziza, vessels better left without the useless influence of tried change.

She was talking still, wasn't she? Something saturated in the same amount of rain as he was merged with his shoulder and he stiffened.

He opened his eyes. He observed.

She had laid her head on his shoulder. He knew stepping away would send her balance into the negative embrace of cobblestones so instead he stood stiffly, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming. He looked at her, looked down at the top of her head against his shoulder. He looked at her and tried to remember, tried to define what it was he had felt for her years ago. He remembered sand and summer and beads and bars and rain and running and laughs and linen. Yet, what did it feel like? Did it feel like love? Roses? Wine? Harps? Did it feel like the pages of a fairytale? Did it feel like the monotony of saying, "I love you," without meaning?

He sighed against her, letting her head float on his lifting shoulder. He pulled his cane out from under his arm where it had been forgotten against the hysteric chaos of the rain, the bar, and the rain again, careful not to disturb Aziza too much. The memories- they felt like grey memories felt by a grey man in a grey rain. That was it. Whatever he had felt earlier- it was just the stupidity of seeing someone he had once cared about and trying to woo her into not hating him, into forgiving him for something unforgivable.

Yes, that was it. Certainly. Certainly he was not simply convincing himself to find a conclusion. He closed his eyes again, letting the rain wash her off his shoulder.
In hell I'll be in good company.
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Aziza
Posts: 81
Joined: Wed Jul 04, 2018 6:29 pm
Topics: 9
Race: Wick
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Tue May 05, 2020 6:00 pm

Loshis 3, 2719 | Sunset
Some Tavern, Old Rose Harbor
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The witch still didn’t feel completely all right but the worst of it had passed and she felt less like she was going to spew her guts up all over the pavement. She felt unsteady, like a weakened tree rocked in the wind. Even while she was standing unmoving with Benton as support, she could feel the world shifting but instead of being external, it had decided to crawl inside her head and throw off her inner equilibrium. It didn’t matter if she closed her eyes because she could still feel it. Up and down, around and around, more violent than the one time she’d been out on the sea on a boat. If she hadn’t had the drug dealer to hold onto, hadn’t had him there to prop it up then she might have had to lie down right there on the cold, wet ground. Aziza wanted him to put his arms around her, to hold her close and give her some of his strength. He was so much more solid than she felt right now, sure that her legs were wobbling under her.

She was drunk and high but the good buzz had gone and while she hadn’t sobered up, her mind was somewhat clearer. It wasn’t a good sort of clarity, the youth would rather be happily off her head again because at least then she might not be so bothered by how awful her body felt. Perhaps if she’d been out of it then she wouldn’t have realised that the human wasn’t merely stable and motionless but rigid. It seemed as if he might push her away at any moment.

Her arms curled around his waist, not holding on so tightly that he couldn’t make a move to escape if he really wanted to do so but showing that she wished him to remain. At least, she hoped that he got that idea. Here they were, standing in the rain, the woman feeling her clothing plastered to her skin and while Aziza didn’t much care about that, she realised that there could be a lot about this situation that the man didn’t appreciate.

If she concentrated then she could string thoughts together, threading them carefully like beads on a bracelet. It couldn’t be done quickly, but it could be done and the witch was willing to put in the effort. It seemed important to do so, important to carefully feel things out so that they didn’t scatter and become lost. Funnily enough, it was one of the few times that the Mug had actually thought things through before she said them instead of just hurtling along a path with little consideration for the consequences. Even at the best of times, she wasn’t great at registering such consequences while they were occurring, far too inclined to brush things off as insignificant.

The woman moved slowly, easing away from his shoulder with as much caution as possible, doing her best not to throw her painstakingly lined up thoughts out of alignment or upset her equilibrium any further. She did her best to straighten so that she didn’t have to look up to try to meet his gaze as rainwater pummelled her face, splashing down her cheeks and leaving her unsure if it was just rain running down over her lips or tears as well. She licked her lips but didn’t taste any salt.

“Epaemo...” Aziza whispered, quiet for a change, so much so that she hardly heard herself. Clearing her throat, she tried again, louder this time and more genuine. Creases appeared as her visage shifted to concern and contrition, the new channels in her skin the perfect place for rivulets to form.

“Epaemo, Eo- Benton. Dragged ye ou’ in this flooding spitch an’ I’ve got ye wetter ’an a fish up th’ Arova!”

A brief smile tilted her lips with a flash of teeth before they drooped anew, the wick’s glamour held close against her, tight and small.

“Ye’re upset an’ I… it’s on ‘count o’ me, ent it? I… I shouldna laughed… I dint mean an’thing by it but… is tha’ worse?” she asked, tilting her head. She regretted the movement at once. Her eyes squeezed shut and the witch groaned, the mona in her aura lurching as her inner sense of balance tilted sickeningly. She groaned an expletive, fingers digging briefly into his arms in an effort to steady herself. When she felt somewhat better, her dark eyes opened anew and fixed on him apologetically.

“I ‘spose neither of us ‘as been all tha’ benny today but we ent enjoying the caoja now, least I ent. I feel sicker ‘an a drunk kenser an’ I… Maybe I’ll go home, get ou’ these clothes ‘fore I chill.”

Even as she said the word ‘chill’, the Mugrobi had begun to shiver. The rain was far from being a relief now but seemed to be creeping into her bones.

“I’d ask if ye wanted to come wi’ but fer me daoa… I’d like t’ talk when I’m a bit less mung so if ye had somewhere t’ go instead…”

Her teeth pressed against her lip and she gazed into his face hopefully.

“If ye want. If ye dint...”
Last edited by Aziza on Wed Dec 29, 2021 8:18 am, edited 1 time in total.
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