The Serpent's Coil, continuation of "into theserpent's den."

[Sascha Slyveski]

“Sascha,” he answered without tone, too apathetically. She had wanted to know his name. And he hadn’t wished to say it. And yet still he worded his intentions with a grim statement: his name. Sascha. It was uncommon, recognizable, and very contradictory to what he was. Sascha was a smooth name, like sighed from the voice of a venerable priest in admiration, or in praise by a mother who could give her life for her child. Not like it didn’t symbolize something of what he actually was. Of course not. “Sascha Slyveski,” in a hiss only a Slytherin could possess. And yet her very own voice rivaled his usual dark drone of tired words, which he spoke only to himself in the confines of his room. And suddenly here he was, in the center of The Sword and The Skull, letting his voice lower to a deathly glare of a growl and no longer the manic babbling which would overtake him when surrounded by others. The Hazelwyr drink was taken by stealthy hands before he urged the woman forward, overlooking everything that could have stopped him from taking her outside. This included the man perched in the doorway.

He handed the woman her drink, half expecting her to tip it over into the alley as some sort of rejection. But still, he led her on, stopping only a few shops away when he reached a door quite familiar to him. It was crooked in the dark, welcoming, but twisted all the same. There was a shackled old sign that read “Polynice’s Potent Potions,” in crossed, archaic lettering. He had paused, hand pressing against the gnarled wood of the entrance.

Looking to her, he wondered if she would leave. The privacy of this place would have been threatening to any other lonely witch. But he was a creature of solitude himself. But the nights were still long in the winter rain. Just steps away from the overhang of the alley, water poured from the skies onto crooked cobblestones. He uncoiled his arm to reach out into the rain, briefly wondering if she was as intrigued as he. If it wasn’t for her uncanny behaviour, he would have murdered her when he first set eyes on her. But now he found he couldn’t lay a violent hand upon her. Either it was her combative demeanor or her alarming beauty, he couldn’t tell. His amusement in watching her was slowly fading into something of admiration. To ruin this would be devastating. She was what he admired in a being. She was not fraudulent in appearance, but her eyes told that she was as stealthy and as cunning as a snake.

He could have let her alone right then. But he would not be the first to walk away. So he opened the door, but did not move inside the dark apothecary. The only light that shown from inside the place was from the hall upstairs, illuminating the intricately crafted spiral staircase across the room.

“If the drink isn’t to your fancy, love, I could very well concoct another.” It was stupid to ask. He had no excuse to converse with her any longer, but wanted to anyway. She was not the company of Maurice or any of his promiscuous women, and the hag upstairs was no rival. The only thing she would talk about with him was blood and history: both subjects intriguing to him, but to hear the old woman’s voice rasping insults and to feel her crawly little hands about his face as she cursed him was not particularly inviting. The woman upstairs, and Maurice, both were gone. The place was eerily quiet. There was nothing bubbling in scientific contraptions or questionable cauldrons.

He had plans for the night, and yet nothing was going accordingly. He found himself drifting from his disgusting inclination. He would not be surprised if he turned his back on her now. But yet, he didn’t. She was worth something, he knew, to someone, somewhere. He didn’t want to ruin her anymore, like he had wanted to with that first, single glance in the pub. But the creature inside him did not let her go so easily, which was why, despite all his thoughts; he still stood opening the door to her, inviting her in with hollow words.

[+ Eleiunbora Moody]

The name crept up on her senses then unfurled itself in an exotic fashion, in dead whispers and chilly sly glance. It was an uncommon thing painted in hues of a certain foreign climb that was attractive to the ear and mildly pleasant on the senses. So much more intriguing than the plainness of the name Eleiunbora. She said nothing as they moved through the doorway and out into the night. Her curiosity had reached such a peak that she was less than paranoid as she should have been, the deepest sense of urgency to detail something that her uncle had tempered in her life a fine blade on a forge’s fire. There was discomfort in leading both men out into the night where fingers of dampness pried at their clothes, seeking to slick their skin with a cold caress. Darkness was a maw with hidden teeth. Her eyes scanned the street this way and that, making note of the few stationary figures on the street, knowing that none of them were connected to this man who was called Sascha. Secure with that, she proceeded out onto the wet cobblestones, her bootfalls making little sound.

He’d pressed into her hands the small glass of highly specialised brew. With quick fingers, some would say too quick, too experienced, she plucked the small silver hip flask from a hidden, inner cloak pocket. It was empty, she would never dream of drinking heavily on the job, and she filled it with the enticing concotion. The original vessel was tucked away into a pocket for later examination once the flask was sealed. None of this lessened the pace with which she kept up with him, following his twists and turns into the darkness. When she glanced up at their arrival, she took note of the sign and found her wonder redoubled. She’d heard of this establishment, of course. Anyone who had ever held intimacy with the Potions Master had had its virtues extolled in a very brief enthusiasm, reserved for things that had truly interested the man.

A thrill shinned up her spine, though outwardly her mien remained calm. For a moment, she forgot that Junius was watching her back, drawn by the idle fantasy of what lay across the threshold. Almost as if she were ensorcelled, she took faint steps forward to the twisted entrance of the abode, uncertain what emotions passed through Sascha’s eyes. A quick hand gesture was meant to catch Juni’s eye and thus put him on a more defensive position. There was an alcove across the way in which he could remain warm and dry and still be within site of her if she was invited into the shop.

“I’d like that vera much,” she said, her brogue thick and warm as honey, casting a strange peace treaty between them, though it was obvious that she and Sascha were dancing circles around one another, wary at best and potentially violent at worst.

Let it never be said, however, that Eleiun was not possessed of nerves that resembled steel, for into the darkness she stepped, disappearing for a moment from the street only to reappear on the steps, the light in her hair fire and her eyes reflecting a grim enthusiasm when she cast their green gaze against Sascha’s face. “Up here, then?”

[Sascha Slyveski]

"Up here, then?"

The surprise that erupted in his throat was an audible gulp. His mouth was parched, throat dry, voice hoarse. His face must have paled as he watched her enter his residence with a boldness reserved only for few witches, he was sure. With her approval of his invitation, he grew even more intrigued. She was not some shallow witch that would come with him on a simple whim of a hopeful, save it for even a romantic, night. This witch had other things on her mind, and sad enough as it was, her intensity rivalled his own. For now he was more lethargic than none. It was almost as if he was following her inside his very home.

So he stepped inside, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him with a clang. He took a moments pause to lean against the thick metal hatch. It was a door to a dungeon, it seemed. And he was the one that blocked it, her only exit.

The veins were visible in his face now. They were like blue spider's legs, growing colder by the moment the longer he stayed his distance from her, and stretching like worms across his forehead, spreading across his hairline, daring to leave hidden skin, to show across his cheekbones and forehead. His eyes were surely darkened as if he hadn't slept nights on end. He gave the appearance of an anemic, as if on the verge of death. Little did she know.

"Upstairs -- no, not if you don't wish it. Empty anyway, all empty."

He floated towards her with the quiet steps of his boots against muted rug. Everything in this place was dusty. The very carpet was silent because all the accumulated dust. It was as if no one had lived here for years. His quarters were the same way. The only furniture upstairs in his own room that was not covered in cobwebs or dust was his chair, and beside that, his bookcase. He could picture his quarters now in his head as he watched her watch him. How she would look at it? Disgust, maybe. How someone could live in such solitude without movement...

He invaded her personal space then. His face hovered near her ear, hands close to touching her shoulders, but not. He smelled her like a dog would smell the ground. The scent would tell a story, and give away her facade. Then his hand fell onto her neck, and he recoiled as if it burned him. He stepped back from her hastily, backing into a table which knocked over various glass jars of specimens. He paid the mess no heed.

"I'm sorry, love." He apologized for his actions with wide eyes and a twisted mouth.

What he smelled of her was curious -- nothing he had ever sensed before.