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[Cezanne Abella]

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“Ugh, why doesn’t ANYONE have valorite stone chairs?” Cezanne flipped the pages of an advertisement she’d picked up in Luna, looking in vain to replace a chair that had been broken in her bedchamber. “Guess if I want one, I’m going to have to take up the trade myself.” She closed the advertisement and tossed it onto the table with a sigh.

But as she stood to go downstairs, she became acutely aware that something was terribly wrong. A sound behind her, nothing more than cloth on cloth, a nearly silent rustle, alerted her to danger, a split second too late. The razor-sharp edge of a dagger pressed against her throat, and a face rested on her shoulder as someone held her around the waist, pulling her tight against his body.

“Hey pretty thing. Got any gold?” the assailant whispered in her ear.

Cezanne shook her head quickly, knowing that she still had the uncashed checks from the Vampiric Order stashed in a pocket of her pack. She tried to steady her voice, but it came out shaky anyway. She wasn’t used to being the one caught by surprise. Usually it was the other way around. “I’m afraid not.”

The man tightened his grip, the blade’s edge burning her flesh as it bit. “What do you have then?” With his dagger hand, he reached into her pack and pilfered as he held her fast against him around the waist. She could feel the dampness of his sweaty clothing penetrating her own against her back.

The man pulled out a small, heavy pouch and shook it, hearing the gold inside clink and jingle. “I ought to do you for lying.” With that, he released her, but held the dagger toward her threateningly as she turned and backed away. He followed her closely until she was backed up against the table. He gave a gap-toothed grin, looking her up and down, and using the point of the dagger to cut the laces of her blouse. “Hell, I should do you anyway. Such a tease.”

Cezanne bowed her body against his insinuations, allowing the blade point to press against her chest. “I am expecting company, Sir.” She spoke with conviction and emphasis, narrowing her eyes. “And if you are still here when he arrives, I can assure you that he will flay you alive just to hear your screams before he snuffs out your miserable, greasy life. So I suggest that you find your way out of my theatre before he arrives. And if you should desire a return trip in the future, know that he will be waiting for you. But this time he’ll have had time to plan your torment.”

The rogue blinked, somewhat unconvinced, but apparently unwilling to take the chance. He released Cezanne, and she stumbled out of his grasp. Without a look back, he descended the stairs from her chamber, gold pouch in hand. His final words floated up behind him as he took to the Umbran night. “Thanks, Miss! I’ll eat good tonight!”

Cezanne smiled in spite of herself, and spoke softly. “Unless Kay or Ancyous catches up to you first…”

[Arahim]

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True to his word, Arahim did not sleep, but sat quiet, and vigilant against the unpredictability of Night's small hours.

Cezanne had drifted, unwilling, into what seemed to him a fitful sleep fraught with dreams and visions. Tiny moans her nocturnal song.

For so fair a woman, and how dear she had grown to him, Arahim had great pity to watch over her so, for she slept on a rough bedroll laid out on the cold wooden floor. Her shoulder pressed against the closed door of her guestroom. A dark worry pressed heavily upon her sleeping features, which in these weeks past, he had only ever seen smiling, and alight with a carefree joy.

He liked the change not one bit.

Her Kaylor was guest within, but loathe was Cezanne to speak about what had passed between them, or what things prompted her to go without bed, and set her will resting just within earshot on the hard floor.

And so, Arahim let the matter pass, and contented himself with being watchful, and of a mind to treat her privacy with candor, and respect.

Now as he crept to the Bramble Rose Theatre's courtyard, just beyond it's only entrance, wide and inviting, his thoughts turned to his Songbird's most recent trial, and the assailant who had accosted her in this, her own home.

Bile rose and caught in his throat to imagine such vermin going through their lives without paying some fell price for their misdeeds, and his fists clenched upon themselves of their own accord.

Here was a thing he would rightly rectify if only given one chance at it.

No hands like that should have ever claimed such filthy dominion, however fleeting it's touch, over one such as she!

Her heard her speech, and drank in her laughter, and thought it a gift beyond reckoning. The warmest of comforts to him, as Arahim had felt the melancholy fingers of loneliness prick upon his skin more often as of late. For as great his longing to see his Sylvan again had grown, greater still was his desire to see Cezanne Abella contented, and free of all cares unbidden.

And so resolved, Arahim stood alone in the chill night air, of a day long forgotten.

Forgotten...but for a small swathe of cloth he had nestled within his leather sleeve, folded over twice. A home for three poppy flowers pressed flat, but still new.

A starless sky above. The slanting light of the moon shining bright, but broken. Scattered by the jealous eaves of scudding purple clouds.

Cezanne within, Arahim without, they awaited the Dawn together. But apart.

[Cezanne Abella]

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(Out of Order - Occurs between Posts 1 & 2 of this thread.)

“It’s all over, no blood spilled. At least not much.” Cezanne talked to herself down as she descended the stairs with a tray of glasses. She was acutely aware of the single thin cut at a diagonal across her thoat. No more intrusive than a papercut, and every bit as annoyingly inflamed. The tiny cut made by the point of the dagger against her breastbone didn’t hurt at all, and that one was her own fault.

Suddenly, a dark figure at a corner table moved a fraction of an inch. Cezanne startled, causing the glasses to clink against one another as she laid the tray on the table with a sigh of relief.

“Kay!” She smiled and dashed to the table where he sat. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders tightly, as he didn’t rise like he normally would. Something seemed off.

“Hello Cezanne.” Kay smiled slightly, but his eyes seemed unfocused and distant.

Cezanne furrowed her brow. “Are you all right, Kay?”

Kaylor nodded vacantly as he watched the flickering candle flames around the room. They painted his face gold and shone brightly in his glazed eyes. Something was terribly wrong. His gaze returned to her face, his cheeks flushed, and he spoke slowly and deliberately. “How was your day?”

Cezanne’s mind raced. She couldn’t tell him, not yet. Not when he was like this. She forced a smile and hoped he missed the thin cut on her throat, though it wasn’t likely for him to miss anything that caused her pain. “Was fine. I shopped for furniture. Are you well, Dear?” She felt his forehead gingerly. “You don’t feel feverish.”

“I’m fine.” Kay returned to watching the candles’ flames, seemingly enraptured by their fluttering light.

Cezanne nodded and tried to think of something – anything to talk about, but she felt a wrenching fear in her gut that something was desperately wrong. Without warning, Kaylor swayed, and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead.

“It’s so hot…” Kay spoke suddenly as Cezanne poured him a glass of water. He drained the glass and stood. “I need to lie down…”
Cezanne had never seen him this way, and panic began to take hold.

“Please don’t try to go home. Rest in a guest room here. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Kay nodded and stumbled as Cezanne caught his arm to steady him. Step by slow step, she helped him up the stairs to the guest room and guided him inside. If he wasn’t better by morning, she was going for a healer. If he got worse in the night… Cezanne shuddered and shook off the thoughts. He was stong, stronger than this. Besides, she wouldn’t let him get worse. Carefully, she helped him lie back. The small elven bed was dwarfed by his muscular form.

“Cezanne,” Kaylor began. He watched her eyes and lifted his hand to her cheek as she leaned over him, but darkness claimed him quickly, and his hand dropped to his side. Cezanne brushed his dark, sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead, then covered him with a light blanket. Silently, she crept out of the room and shut the door behind her with a soft click.

Inside, in his slumber, Kaylor groaned and Cezanne placed her open palm against the warm wood and rested her forehead against the door. She wished she’d never made the promise not to stay too near when he slept. She felt there was no danger tonight of any darkness rising within him, but she held fast to her word, sinking down onto the floor against the door. All she could do now was wait.