[F01/PP]Branding Issues

[Oscar 0]

The shop had become something of a bustling enterprise as of late. Ever since Oscar had ceased charging for food, it seemed as if every evening was spent serving the entirety of the entirety of Aincrad. Every seat was packed at dinner time. The cacophony of voices filled the air, the din heard plainly over the chaos that was Oscar's kitchen. The man looked out of place. Dressed more as a butler than a cook at a diner. But it was all part of the experience. His patrons found it a source of endless entertainment to watch a man in slacks and a dress shirt toiling away over a grill. They took bets to see if the grease would splatter on his clothing, if an errant drop of relish or ketchup would stain his finery.

But it never did.

Oscar was, quite literally, a master of his craft. It helped that the game kept such blemishes under control. From the early afternoon until just before sunset, Oscar toiled away. The crowd trickled in ceaselessly, rising to a fever pitch before slowly ebbing away. And when the last patron left satisfied, Oscar would allow himself a moment to breath. A heavy sigh to signify a job well done as he fliped the sign on his door to “Closed” and locked up for the evening.

He lived for the calm at the end of it. As the fading light trickled into his shop, casting their golden shafts of light over the black and white checkerboard decor, he retreated to the back of the house. Oscar realized that he could have automated the process of cleaning the dishes for the day. It was a game after all. But the labor kept him centered. A moment of quiet meditation, crystallized and separate from the chaos. There was always a mountain of work at the end of the day, but it was soothing in its own way.

The plates clacked together as he moved them. The prelude to the orchestra he was about to conduct. He liked to find beauty in the mundane. Even if his default was over-the-top. One could not maintain that level of energy if they did not find a palette cleanser. This was that. A time to clear the mechanism.

Oscar worked steadily, handling the task just as he always did. He chipped away at that porcelain mountain bit-by-bit, washing and drying and stacking each individual plate neatly in their homes. His kitchen, his work stations, were meticulously maintained. Nothing was out of place, everything had a place. And finally, at the end of it, Oscar treated himself to a cup of coffee.

His kitchen opened to a back alley and it was there that Oscar would end his day. Sitting on an overturned crate with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a smoke in the other. The latter did nothing. The System prevented any sort of effect from substances. But it was more about the routine. Oscar rarely smoked in the real world, but when he did, he found particular pleasure in doing so while drinking coffee. There was something about the way the flavors blended together. The bitter liquid seemed to compliment the robust taste of tobacco.

Oscar sat upon his crate, staring out into the middle distance as he slowly sipped at his drink. Every so often, he would take a drag off of his smoke. It was liberating - a necessity to boot - to simply not think. To simply turn off his brain and drink in the moment.

Sadly, this was not the occasion for that.

“Can a man drink his coffee in peace,” Oscar asked to no one in particular.

For a second, if anyone was around to overhear, one might think the man had lost his mind. But only for a second. From the shadows stepped out a man. A red diamond over his head would manifest before him. Then, he would approach. It was a young man, perhaps only barely an adult. Bright blue eyes bored holes in Oscar's frame. He scowled as he approached, running his hands through the mess of braids at the top of his head.

“We got a problem,” he replied to Oscar's query. 

Oscar's reaction was subtle, raising an eyebrow as he took a long drag of his smoke. He held his breath for a moment and then exhaled a white cloud wreathing his face before flowing skyward in thin wisps. “Oh? Do tell.”

Tyson and Oscar had a very tumultuous relationship. But they had settled into a sort of partnership. United against a common enemy. But Tyson did not like Oscar and Oscar didn't quite care about that. What mattered was their goal. The young man pinched the bridge of his nose, a look of annoyance flashing across his face.

“I got word there's some Player running around Floor One with a skeleton theme,” Tyson said.

“Think it's Laughing Coffin?”

“Does it matter?”

Oscar took a thoughtful sip from his coffee as he weighed the issue. There had been something of an unspoken understanding with that Guild. They keep the fuck away from Floor One and they get to live until Oscar found them somewhere else. They had a measure of limited freedom so long as they didn't conduct their business in his house. Word of what Oscar had done to Tyson's old group had made its rounds through the underworld and no one wanted to see if it was a one-and-done thing.

But at the same time, no one gave Laughing Coffin a reason to show up, either.

“Nope,” Oscar finally replied as he rose to his feet. “Probably some edgy nerd. Still an issue.”

“Should we handle it?”

Oscar merely shook his head. “Naw. I don't think a bunch of mooks showing up out of thin air is the play. If it's Laughing Coffin, I'd much rather handle it myself.”

“What's the plan then?”

He drained his cup of coffee and tossed away his cigarette. It was rather simple, though he knew Tyson would hate that simplicity. Swallowing, Oscar let out a yawn and shrugged. “Run around the floor until I find someone dressed for Dia de los Muertos and take it from there.”

Spoiler

"Name: Oscar

True Tier: 10

Level: 34

Paragon Level: 58

HP: 960/960

EN: 128/128

 

Stats:

Damage: 24

Mitigation: 127

Accuracy: 3

Evasion: 1

Battle Healing: 

Loot Die: 8

Stealth Rating: -5

PHASEREC: 4

HLY: 16

BLI: 32/-20 

 

Equipped Gear:

Weapon/Armor/Trinket: 

  - <<DIVINE RANCOR>> T4 KATANA - HOLY/HOLY/PHASE/BLIGHT

Armor/Trinket: 

  - <<TACTICAL UNDER ARMOR>> T4 HEAVY ARMOR//MIT/MIT/MIT/REC

Shield/Armor/Trinket: 

  - <<IVORY GOLD LEAF RING>> T1 TRINKET//ACC/ACC/EVA/EVA

 

Combat Mastery:

  - Combat Mastery: Damage R3

 

Combat Shift:

  - AOE Shift

 

Familiar Skill:

  - 

 

Custom Skill:

  - 

 

Skills:

  - Battle Healing R5

  - Charge

  - Energist

  - Extended Weight Limit

  - Heavy Armor R5

  - Katana R5

  - Lock Picking R3

  - Quick Change

  - Searching R5

 

Extra Skills:

  - Concentration

  - Forgotten King's Authority

  - Meditation

  - Parry

  - Survival

 

Inactive Extra Skills:

 

Addons:

  - Ferocity

  - Iron Skin

  - Precision

  - Reveal

  - Stamina

 

Mods:

  - Impetus

  - Night Vision

 

Inactive Mods:

 

Battle Ready Inventory:

  - <<CRYSTAL OF DIVINE LIGHT>> ID: 236066 x

  - <<DARK SERAPHIM>> T4 HEAVY ARMOR - VAMP.D2/HOLY BLESSING 2 x

  - <<GLOVES OF CAERUS>> T1 LIGHT ARMOR//3 LD x

  - <<Kyūketsuki>> T4 KATANA//ABS.ACC/PHASE/VAMP2  x

  - <<RHINO'S HORN>> ID: 236068 x

  - <<SANCTITY'S RUIN>> T4 KATANA - FROSTBITE/BLEED/BLIGHT/BURN x

  - <<TELEPORTATION CRYSTAL>> x

  - <<TROLL'S BLOOD>> ID: 236067 x

 

Housing Buffs:

  - Basic Kitchen: Increase the effectiveness of a single food item consumed in a thread by +1 T1 slot. This can exceed normal Cook enhancement caps. Ex: A perfect T2 MIT food gives 35 MIT instead of 30.

  - Storage Closet: +1 Battle Ready Inventory Slot

  - Living Room: Increases out of combatHP regen by (5 * Tier HP) and decreases full energy regen to 2 Out of Combat Posts.

  - Attic (Bedroom): +1 Expertise to declared utility skill. Cannot boost a skill without ranks, or increase a skill past its maximum rank. Cannot boost a skill the user has not learned yet. Ranks obtained using this buff will make the mods of that rank available for purchase. Mods obtained this way are unusable if this buff is removed until the skill is returned to the appropriate rank by way of SP purchase.

  - Basement: Gain +1 to LD, Stealth Rating, Stealth Detection, or Prosperity to one post in a thread. Can be applied after a roll

  - Guest Room: Players can have one «Amenity» in a «Guest Room» and the «Amenity» cannot be recovered. Players are allowed to change which «Amenity» is in the «Guest Room». Multiple instances of the same «Amenity» do not stack. This buff affects the player and their choice of up to two party members.

  - Master Bedroom: -1 energy cost for the first three expenditures of each combat

  - Master Bathroom: The first time you would suffer DoT damage in a thread, reduce damage taken from DoT each turn by 25% (rounded down)

  - Extended Workshop: +2 Crafting EXP per crafting attempt and +1 crafting attempt per day

  - Ornate Fishing Pond: +2 Fishing EXP per Attempt and additional +1 LD & CD to fishing attempts.

  - Dining Hall: Turn 3 identical food items (same quality, tier, & enhancements) into a Feast. A Feast contains 6 portions of the food items sacrificed. Feasts created this way cannot be used outside of the thread they are created. Limit 1 item created per thread.

  - Mega Slime Farm: +10% EXP to a thread. Limit one use per month. Must be used on a player's first post in a thread. Cooldown begins counting down when used in a post.

 

Guild Hall Buffs:

 

Scents of the Wild Totem:

  - Kumatetsu

Wedding Ring:

 

Crafting Profession:

 - Cooking[5280exp] R10

Gathering Profession:

 - Fishing[100exp] R2"

 

Edited March 11 by Oscar

[Kisodeth 0]

 

Spoiler

Name: Kisodeth
True Tier: 2
Level: 11
Paragon Level: 0
HP: 220/220
EN: 40/40

Stats:
Damage: 13
Mitigation: 60
Accuracy: 2
Stealth Rating: -3
BLD: 24 
PARA
QTY: 2

Equipped Gear:
Weapon/Armor/Trinket: 
  - Sombra Osea
Armor/Trinket: 
  - Armor of the Dead
Shield/Armor/Trinket: 
  - Frozen Rose

Combat Mastery:
  - Combat Mastery: Accuracy R2

Combat Shift:
  - 

Familiar Skill:
  - 

Custom Skill:
  - 

Skills:
  - Heavy Armor R3
  - Quick Change
  - Straight Sword R4

Extra Skills:

Inactive Extra Skills:

Addons:

Mods:

Inactive Mods:

Battle Ready Inventory:
  - Acero Sagrante T2, 2 Bleed, 1 Paralysis x1
  - Field Rations  x1
  - Spy glasses x3
  - Tireless Perfect HP Recovery Potion x1
  - Water Canister x3

 

Kisodeth lay curled up in the narrow bed, her lithe frame folded in on itself as though trying to disappear into the thin mattress beneath her. Her arms wrapped around her knees, dark strands of hair clinging to the damp sheen of her tattooed shoulders. The inked roses and skulls winding across her skin stood stark in the dim light, monochrome blooms trapped forever in a bloom of death. Her warm brown eyes, too deep, too tired…stared blankly at the wall opposite her. Unblinking. Empty.

Still in the game.
Still surviving.
Still… alive. Somehow.

Each day was the same: the grind, the survival, the blood-soaked victories, the hollow nights. But today…today was different. Why? She didn’t know. A quiet wrongness settled over her like smoke, curling through her chest, thick and heavy. Her breathing came soft and even, but her eyes were hollow, that dull flicker beneath them whispering…

Give up.
Quit.
Stop.
Let it end.

Her long black hair fell forward in dark veils as she finally stirred, limbs unfolding with a reluctant slowness. A sigh escaped her lips…soft, tired, lost. Her gaze drifted toward the window, the thin white curtains fluttering listlessly as the sky beyond darkened. Low gray clouds pressed in like a weighted hand, the static hum of a coming storm curling in the air.

An omen, maybe. Or a warning. Or nothing at all.

Kisodeth sat up, her spine arching in a languid stretch, arms lifting over her head as the tension in her body shifted and uncoiled. The muscles along her stomach and thighs tensed beneath the dark fabric of her black sports bra and shorts, the exposed skin a map of ink and scars. Her bare feet met the cold wooden planks of the inn’s floor, and a shiver crawled up her spine at the contrast. A sharp inhale followed. Then a yawn, wide and unbidden, slipped from her lips.

She rose with the fluid grace of a predator, languid but sharp at the edges. A few slow steps carried her to the mirror fixed to the wall. The woman staring back at her was Abigail. Dark eyes, high cheekbones, olive skin—haunted, tired, human. But that flicker in her gaze; the hollowness, the emptiness…was deeper than the glass could reflect.

Then a blink.

…and the woman in the mirror shifted.

The Skeleton Maiden stared back at her. Face painted stark white, dark hollows cut beneath her eyes, her lips painted into a cruel rictus of bone. A single long braid fell over the shoulder of her deathly black armor, silver etchings gleaming in the low light. A warrior dressed for the kill. Ruthless. Dangerous. Alive.

Another blink.

…and the mirror showed Abigail again. The tired woman with shadows beneath her eyes. The line of her jaw tightened. Her breath slowed.

Abigail needed to disappear now.

Kisodeth applied the grim specter through her menu, her fingers moving with mechanical ease as she painted her face, white death mask, dark jagged eyes, cruel smirk of bone along her lips. Her hands were steady. Too steady. The kind of steadiness born from a lifetime of violence and survival. When the paint was finished, she equipped her armor, the dark and steel weight of the skeleton plates pressing familiar against her body. She summoned her swords from her inventory, criss crossed against her back sheathed. 

The woman in the mirror now?

Kisodeth. The Skeleton Maiden. The survivor.

Abigail was gone. Kisodeth was awake. And it was time to move.

The low murmur of the town square drifted through the early morning haze, thin beams of pale sunlight cutting through the mist hanging low over Aincrad’s cobblestone streets. Kisodeth stood at the edge of the square, the stone lip of a shallow fountain pressed lightly against the back of her legs. The water trickled behind her in a quiet, steady rhythm, the soft lapping sound at odds with the razor-sharp tension curling beneath her skin.

Her fingers hovered midair, the glow of her status menu casting faint blue light over her skeletal gauntlet. Her gaze flicked lazily over the numbers…And yet it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Her mind kept circling back to that fight. The flash of steel, the impossible speed, the moment her blade had been turned. 

Impossible.

It shouldn’t have happened. But it did.

The memory of that robed player lingered like a splinter beneath her skin. The cold precision of their movements. The way they’d read her attacks, adapted to her strategy like they’d known her mind. 

A low growl slipped from between her teeth. She flicked her wrist, the menu dissolving into shards of blue light. Her other worldly blue eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, turned toward a group of players passing by.

They froze under her gaze.

Kisodeth didn’t move…not much. A subtle shift of her weight, the lazy tilt of her head as her eyes cut toward them like a blade. Her lips stretched wider beneath the skeletal paint, the white grin. The players shuffled faster, heads ducking as they passed, tension crackling through the air like the moments before a kill.

Buenos chicos, she thought darkly, her smile sharpening. Como ratas corriendo de las sombras.

The rumors had already begun to spread, whispers of the Skeleton Maiden, the ruthless woman who fought like death incarnate. Players claimed she’d slaughtered entire PK squads. That she’d turned on her own party and left their bodies scattered in the fields outside town. Most of it was rumors, of course. 

Her grin widened beneath the paint. Let them fear her. It kept them out of her way.

Fear was leverage. Fear was currency. Fear kept her alive.

A breeze stirred through the square, ruffling the long braid down her back. Her gaze slid toward the distant edge of town, where the path stretched out toward the wilds of Aincrad. Her jaw tightened. She could almost feel it…the pull beneath her skin, the itch of unfinished business.

She had a trail to follow.

“Voy a encontrarte.” Her voice was low, sharp. Deadly.

Kisodeth pushed away from the fountain, her armored boots striking the cobblestone with a quiet, measured rhythm as she stalked toward the edge of the square. Behind her, the sound of shifting feet and hushed voices.

WC: 1039

@Oscar

[Oscar 0]

Between all of his obligations, it was a wonder that Oscar had the time to devote himself to such pursuits. The Orphanage, his shop, any social calls one of his many confidants required of him. It was a wonder he had time to sleep. Much less check in on someone with an odd fashion sense.

Maybe I should hire a secretary, he wondered as he walked from his comfortable, tucked-away section of the Town of Beginnings towards the central square. It was unusual for him to simply take a stroll through the town. He kept the NPC merchants paid with how liberally he used Teleportation Crystals to shave a few minutes off of his commute home. You would find him around the Platform, sure. His shop, most definitely. The entrance to the Black Iron Dungeon? Whenever he needed to drop off the trash.

But you would not find him wandering the streets. Not unless he had business to attend to.

It worked out for the best. His status as a stable fixture within the settlement was not without its flaws. It was not a well-kept secret what his business was. One look at the Monument would lay his activities bare for everyone to see. He was, perhaps, more lethal to the Players of Aincrad than any Floor Boss at this point. So it was difficult for the people still living in the Settlement - at least the ones who didn't know him - to hide their trepidation whenever he was one the move.

But he didn't mind.

This was always going to be a consequence.

Their polite smiles in greeting were shadowed by something darker. Oscar couldn't call it fear. Perhaps disapproval? They tried to hide it, of course. But there was always something in their inflection - their tone a bit too flat. It was in their eyes, too. Judgemental looks they hoped - he assumed - would be obfuscated by their outward expressions.

No one was ever happy to see Oscar. But they were happy to benefit from his work.

The Town was a bit too bustling for his tastes. No one treated the game like a nine-to-five. People were always grinding, always hawking their wares. But it seemed like this was one of those moments where it all just crystallized. Everyone’s paths intersected here and now. It was impossible to predict that ebb and flow. One could only be annoyed by the inconvenience.

The inconvenience here was the fact that he had to deal with those judgemental stares. As the crowd parted around him like a river around a stone, they could not keep themselves from lashing out with those stinging glares.

Oscar might have been offended if he wasn't so distracted.

He was an oddity enough without the inside knowledge. Impossibly tall, yet more impossibly graceful. Oscar seemed to glide over the cobblestone pavement. The heels of his loafers clacked against the stones ever so slightly. One would expect his steps to be heavier. Thundering, blundering down the path before him. But he was a man who delighted in ruining preconceived notions. 

A behemoth need not be loud. A giant need not be clumsy. A beast need not be ignoble.

And he had an image to maintain. His mannerisms, his style, all subtle nods to the carefully controlled wrath roiling within.

It didn't take long to find his target. Even amongst a sea of people, you couldn't miss a walking skeleton. He spied her making her way towards the field from the other side of the plaza. His eyes blazed with gilded light. The crowd and the ground melted away into a blue landscape. Buildings morphed around him, deconstructed down to their wire-frames. In the infinite empty, people were replaced with criss-crossed lines of green. Where they were going, where they had been. Each reduced to a trail to be tracked.

And she was no exception. Oscar focused his skill, sifting through the visual chaos to lock onto her line. Once he did, the line took on a golden hue - an outline encompassing the green. Afterwards, he ended the skill. <<Tracking>> would let him find her whenever he desired. Best to let her conduct his business for now. His curiosity was piqued, though. What would possess someone to dress up like that and meander about Floor One?

But more importantly, he wondered if it worked for her. An investigation was in order.

Having witnessed her exchange with the group, Oscar wanted to get a feel for what they thought of her. Did her mask work on them? Were they afraid or merely pretending to be. No sooner had they left earshot did Oscar appear before them. A gust of wind heralded his arrival. Easy to do when you can move quick as lightning. He towered over the group, but held nothing but the brightest of expressions. His demeanor was relaxed, hands in his pockets. Not a weapon or a tool in sight.

“Gun to your head,” Oscar began, his voice chipper. “What do we think of our new resident  skeleton ?”

The Players exchanged nervous glances. Oscar wondered what effect brushing up against infamy twice would have on them. He could see their resolve wavering as they struggled to come up with an answer he would find acceptable. Which wasn't the point, really. There was no right answer, but people’s instincts leaned towards the binary when they were uncomfortable.

“No filter,” Oscar reassured them. “Call it an interview, if you must.”

“She's fucking terrifying,” one of them blurted out.

Oscar cocked an eyebrow. That one statement unleashed the floodgates.

“I heard she killed entire PK Squads,” one said. 

Unlikely. All one needed to do was check the Monument - her name wasn't on there. He'd just been that morning.

“Yeah and she kills her party members if they fuck up,” a third piped up.

Her cursor was green.

“She fights like a demon,” the final Player offered.

She’s level 11.

Oscar took in the information, nodding respectfully to each as they offered what they knew. It was a struggle not to laugh at their assertions. All were caught up in her mystique. They were a single neural connection away from putting the lie to her curated image. But Oscar wouldn't be the one to wreck it for her. He was certain she had her reasons for wanting things like this. Let it  never be said that he was the one that ruined someone's bad bitch persona.

“Many thanks,” Oscar replied. He gave them a wave and he took a step towards the gate.

“Are you gonna take her out?”

Oscar stopped cold at that question. No one ever alluded to his activities. They didn't know it, but they had his back against the wall. He had to tread carefully lest he wind up ruining one or both of their images. “I’m thinking about it,” he lied. “Gotta separate fact from fiction first, y'know? If I were you, I wouldn't worry too much about it.”

And then he was gone.

It was prudent, he thought, to take a lap before making contact. Oscar had no issues with anyone's choice of dress, even if he did think it was funny. But Laughing Coffin would. He wanted to make sure that they weren't skulking about. Yet, at least. If her myth was growing, itt was only a matter of time before someone in that group took exception to it. Which was why Oscar chose to look into the matter, rather than send Tyson. The boy had no sense for nuance.

Satisfied that they were in the clear for the moment, Oscar finally made a move to blow the lid off this thing.

He appeared seemingly from nowhere. Stealth wasn't his game, but speed was. Oscar stood behind her - same relaxed, open stance. Same bright smile on his face. He really didn't pay attention to what she was doing. He really didn't care. “Whatever you've got going on, it's working,” he said to announce himself. “Everyone I've talked to is pretty fuckin’ terrified of you. Bravo.”

He removed his hand from his pocket, extending his index and middle finger out in her direction. With those two digits, he pointed down at her feet and slowly dragged them upward and stopping at the top of her head. “I never woulda thought Sugar Skull could be so intense. But, unfortunately, you're scaring the noobs. And I'm really gonna need you to chill out.”

Oscar's hand moved to scratch the back of his neck. As he did, he finished his thought. “Cause you and I both know you're pretty much just an edgy nerd playing at Betsy Badass. Might oughta get the numbers to back that shit up before you get yourself killed. There's some dudes who might have an issue with you aping their shit.”

 

 

Edited March 12 by Oscar

[Kisodeth 0]

Kisodeth stopped mid-step, the subtle scrape of her armored boot against the cobblestone hissing through the square. A cool breeze curled through the narrow street, thin clouds dragging over the sun and bleeding the light from the air. The pale sky dimmed, casting a soft shadow across the angular planes of her face. The painted skull markings stretched across her cheeks and brow seemed to sharpen beneath the muted light, the dark hollows of her eyes taking on a deeper, more unnatural depth.

The weight of Acero Sagrante on her back hummed low in her bones. She didn’t turn immediately. Didn’t even flinch. Her body was still, the kind of stillness that only came from control, the blade-balance of a predator before the strike.

When he spoke, something in her skin crawled. A slow, festering ache like something sick trying to root itself beneath her flesh. She hated his tone. Casual. Relaxed. A casual fucking smile, like he had the right to stand. To speak to her. To think he knew her.

“Hijo de puta…” Kisodeth hissed beneath her breath, the words slipping like venom past her lips.

Finally, she turned. The slow pivot of her body was measured, deliberate, the dull weight of her plated armor shifting with a muted scrape of metal over reinforced leather. Her skeleton pauldrons were matte black, carved with jagged, thorn-like etchings that gleamed faintly under the fading light. Her chest-plate was fitted, streamlined, lacquered bone-white beneath a dark ribcage motif that stretched across her torso and down to her hips, but exposing the smooth belly of her flesh. Her gauntlets creaked as she folded her arms beneath the swell of her chest, the worn silver accents at her knuckles flashing darkly.

Her eyes swept over him from head to toe; cool, assessing, and completely unimpressed. The fuck? How tall was this pendejo?

Her jaw clicked, molars grinding together hard enough to sting. The skeletal paint across her face seemed to deepen under the dim light, the hollows darkening as her lips curled in a thin, humorless smirk.

“Que?” Her tone was sharp, cutting the air like glass. “What makes you think I care about your opinion, asshole?” Her gaze sharpened, a slow predator’s smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I’m not in the mood for your policing. Don’t tell me to chill out. Who the hell do you think you are?”

The clouds above shifted, dragging more shadow over the square. A soft ripple of cool air stirred the edges of her long, black skirt, the leather whispering faintly as it brushed the sides of her armored legs.

“I’m a grown-ass woman, little boy,” she continued, stepping forward. The dark metal of her sabatons struck the stone with a low, rhythmic sound. Sharp. Deliberate. “I don’t take orders.”

The tension in the square was palpable now, the air hanging thick and charged with it. Whispers floated at the edge of her hearing, players pulling back toward the walls of the square to watch the unfolding scene. Kisodeth didn’t care. Let them watch. Let them talk.

“Do you think I care who thinks I’m ‘aping their shit’?” Her tone was low, venomous. Dangerous. Her blue cold  eyes gleamed through the shadow, glinting beneath the dark curves of her skull paint. “If someone’s got a problem with me, they can come find me themselves. But no one’s said shit. And I’m not going to die.”

Her step forward was quiet this time. Measured. Close enough to feel the heat of his presence. Her lips parted in a smile that wasn’t a smile, the sharp gleam of her painted teeth flashing beneath the dark hollows of her cheekbones.

“Not today. Not tomorrow. Not fucking ever.”

Her smile darkened beneath the shifting clouds. “And I’m going to need you to chill out.”
 

WC: 637