Zhahn lifted his eyes from the smooth skin and soft curves of the woman sat in his lap as the sound of a voice, aged and soft, with an edge that spoke to an inner hardness, like steel wrapped in aged parchment, touched his ears.

"My name is Lena, I am the proprietor of the Dusty Rose," Her tone was warm, but false. The same as any other hostess who needed to wear a mask of friendliness she nether felt nor cared to. "Philbin, a drink on the house for this gentleman, please. May I ask your name and business?"

The young seeming man, dark and dangerous, smiled a practiced, easy smile. “Lena? My lady you are nearly so famous as this rose which you tend to. Your reputation does credit to your establishment, perhaps more-so than that of these…” He ran his hand along Ellie’s thigh beneath her skirts. “Lesser flowers… that grow in your garden.”

Zhahn continued to smile, curiously warm considering his dark demeanor and obvious weapons and tattoos. His finery, his reserved demeanor and dress were but a beautiful and unassuming sheath for a razor sharp blade, and Zhahn already knew that the woman would see with crystal clarity through any honeyed words he offered her. A woman of Lena’s age did not live so long in the world that she did without learning to see, as Zhahn had learnt to, through people’s masks to the heart of them.

Zhahn hoped that Lena would not deign to look too far into Zhahn, lest what she see consume her.

“Forgive me, both of you. I feel a fool for not introducing myself, especially to two fine ladies such as yourself. My name is Zhahn… and my business, Lady, is my own.” He smiled softly. His cold eyes met Lena’s, and a warning passed between them.

He could sense something between the two of them, and wizened elder and the younger girl stepping out of her mentors shadow and into her own limelight. He wondered for a moment if Lena would attempt to warn her young friend away from him. It mattered not, for Zhahn suspected that the young lass nestled in his lap held little inclination any more to pay heed to her teacher.

“Forgive me, my Lady, and please, I am more than happy to pay for my own drinks. I would hate to take business away from you when I am more than happy to pay for quality services. I am, you could say, religious… and my lady goddess does not take kindly to those who share her secrets. Mayhap she is already displeased at me for sharing so much.” Zhahn said with the first touch of genuine emotion he had shown since he walked through the door, though they could never know such, an impish smile, such as that of a little boy who knows he is trying his mothers patience.

“I see… Then I shall press you no more on the matter. I should not think it wise to pry into a mans faith when he so clearly brings business, of one kind of another, to my door.” The old woman said, her still sharp eyes falling on the small diamond that still rested on the counter, making a note of that wealth for future use.

Lena's lips curved upward in the semblance of a smile. A worthy opponent with a deeper level of understanding than most faced her. Her adopted daughter splayed across his lap, a fact of which he was not unaware she noted.

A dangerous man --- a dangerous woman. Lena could remember the effect that could have on the libido. But, oh gods,[/i] she thought,[i] the potential for disaster not just to Ellie and this stranger but to everyone around them was huge.

Lena felt past passions stirring and firmly shoved them aside. I wonder when I got so old, she thought. Dangerous, she thought again.

A note of coolness entered her voice as she said, "Your business may be your own. But if it concerns the Dusty Rose be forewarned that it will be my business as well.*

Lena turned her eyes toward Ellie and any observer could read the warning therein.

Ellie froze like a statue at Zhahn's words. Lesser . . . lesser flowers! How *dare* he!

He was only spared her instant vengeance--a curse to make all his bodily fluids burn--by the continuing conversation between him and Lena. The past months had taught her much about what lay between man and woman--and what could be conceived with mere words--and what she found between those two startled her.

She saw, across the way, that Mags was there. Their eyes met, and even from this distance, she could feel the angry tension.

"Pardon me, oh wise gardener."

Whether Zhahn protested or no, Ellie slid away from him as easily as breathing and crossed the room to Mags's side.

"We need to talk," Mags said.

They moved into an isolated booth, curtained from the rest of the Rose. This was one of the personal dancing booths, and so there were mirrors all around. Ellie made to sit, but Mags only stood firm as a statue.

"Come, come." Ellie sat on the table and wrapped one leg around Mags, teasing at her arm with the toes of her foot. "Let us go upstairs and rut the hells out of this fool--like we always do. Or . . . or it can just be the two of us, and he can just watch. We'll give him such a show . . ."

For an instant--a bare instant, never to be repeated in the world they knew--Mags looked tempted. There was a wanting fire in her eyes, a *need* to be rid of this tension, to have that sort of release and let these things between them fall into the past. But it lasted only an instant, and then it was gone.

"You really don't understand, do you." It was not really a question--not even that hopeful. Mags slapped Ellie's hand away. "Farewell, ellove. I hope you find someone you don't hate so much."

And with that--without another word--Mags the Rat turned and was gone.

Ellie stood, stricken, for a long, long moment before she even realized what had happened. Mags was gone, and would not come again. All those months of fighting--of Mags threatening to leave--and she really had done it.

She looked in the mirror, shocked at how calm her face appeared. True, her eyes were sunken and hollow, her lips vivid against cheeks and jaw pale from something other than powder, but there was nothing of emotion in that face. It was a perfect, pale mask.

Then, as she watched, her eyes grew wet and tears pooled at their lining. They trickled down in sudden streaks, hitting the carved stone counter between her white-knuckled hands.

The tears weren't coming because Ellie mourned Mags’s departure--quite the opposite, in fact. Tears born of anger streaked Ellie's face: anger that she felt nothing. Absolutely, positively *nothing*.

"Why didn't you stop her?" she demanded of herself in the mirror.

What *was* this? The woman she had laughed with, danced with, slept beside, and with whom she had shared more than anyone, lover or not, was leaving her. True, whenever Mags had spoken of love, Ellie had merely reflected the words, but that did not mean she did *not* love her--it was the closest Ellie, who had no conception of love, could come to such a confession. So why, now that Mags was leaving--why did she feel nothing?

"What is *wrong* with you?" Ellie asked. "Why don't you care that she’s gone?"

Malcan’s words rang in her ears, meeting her questions with the same answer. "Because you don't."

Ellie wiped the last tears from her eyes and turned to go back to the common room.

Even through walls the dark looking young man, the would-be priest, felt the rush of pain that passed between Ellie and one other, presumably the one the whore had been trying to irritate using his company.

With a soft word and a kindly smile, Zhahn excused himself from the bar, offering Lena one last glance, a slightly mocking smile between two people who knew just what game the other was playing, to a point.

His steps were fluid as he passed through the common room, trailing the path the girl, Ellie? He couldn’t remember, had taken. None who dared to look at him did so for long, feeling a chill in their very souls as he met their eyes in turn, for all the world seeming a simple, charming young man, but even his practiced mask could not hide all of what he was.

He nearly walked into Ellie as she stepped through the doorway, returning to the common room of the Rose. He pressed a finger against her breast, smiling a soft little smile as he pushed her, with surprising strength, back into the private room, closing the door behind them.

“Seeking privacy already, my lord? I had not thought you were one who would settle for such a… lesser flower, was it?” Ellie quipped, her composure already returned.

Zhahn ignored her, calmly pacing, watching her for a moment like a predatory cat who has finally caught its prey.

“You have been crying.” Zhahn stated, obviously not a question. “I take it then that your homely friend tired of your games? I doubted I was the first you had tried to use as such a pawn…” He stalked towards her, in this closed in room his presence hung thick in the air, and there was something, changed, in his demeanor.

“Or perhaps it was something different this time?” he asked, not really expecting an answer as a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“You don’t kn-“ Ellie began as Zhahn moved behind her, anger starting to touch her words.

“Or perhaps...” Zhahn cut her off flatly. “…Even a woman so plain as her simple grew tired of being a self indulgent little whore’s second choice.” His fingers brushed the smooth curve of her neck even as his other arm circled her waist, drawing her back against him.

“Now that has the ring of truth about it, don’t you think?” Zhahn mocked softly, in truth more pleased with the aura of pain that lingered in the room, fresh from the bloody ruins of one woman’s dreams of romance, than he had been by the courtesan’s obvious overtures.

At the very least, perhaps if she chose to bring whatever power burned inside her to the fore he would be afforded some small entertainment for a while, perhaps even a challenge, by the feel of her, before she broke.

All of his toys broke in the end.

"You don’t kn--" she started, but he moved close against her, cutting off more words with his body as much as with his own reply. She smelled him--an old smell, far older than one a man his age should have: a smell of blood and pain and wonder.

He held her pressed back against his front, caressing and grasping tightly, mingling pleasure with pain. His touch awakened her skin--made it crawl and dance at once. There was a deep, deep anger inside him, and she drew close to it as though to a flame that would destroy her, but only after she had tasted beauty.

"Come, sir," she said. As she spoke, power drifted across her, making her more beautiful--more alluring--harder to resist. It saturated her skin and her voice both. (Cast Eagle's splendor, invoke Beguiling Tongue) "Enough of this play--I am not one of those women that must be wooed with caresses and soft words."

Darker magic by far boiled across her body then, a spell she sensed within him and made her own in a heartbeat (Cast Sadism).

"But I see that you are such a man, and I will do as your pleasure directs."

And with that she struck him. Black eldritch power formed around her closed fist and shot over her shoulder, directly into his face. Instantly, the dark blessing she had put upon herself swelled within her at his pain, increasing her power tenfold. Caught unawares, Zhahn stumbled back--his face beet-red from the blast, and anger flashing across his brow--and fell heavily into the chair in the private room. He made to stand, but Ellie set her heeled foot upon his lower belly, holding him in place.

The look she gave him--a look he returned full force--told him all he needed to know about her intentions.

"Let me show you a lesser flower," Ellie said, opening her gown to reveal her ripe, creamy skin.

Then she began to dance.

[OOC: Shall I consider the gauntlet thrown, C? :p 'Cos nothing says sexy like trying to burn a guys face off, Haha.]

Zhahn could have laughed, if not for the more serious display of power that overshadowed her attempts to cause him pain, to even use a crude parody of his own power against him.

He touched his face gingerly as she forced him into the chair, more concerned about the physical damage that the magic that had caused it. Loviatar would not be pleased if her soul-child became too ugly to effectively do her will, and as if confirming his thoughts, Zhahn felt a lance of agony in the back of his mind and clutched at his chest suddenly, choking as one of the lesions in his lungs ruptured, causing him to cough up his own blood, lending him a macabre appearance as he smile that same, unafraid and supremely calm smile as he wiped his mouth clean.

Zhahn listened to the woman’s repetition of his own words. Perhaps he had struck a nerve. An interesting thought, that. A woman who cares nothing for the loss of one of the truest loves she will likely ever know, but lashes out at a creature she cannot hope to match at the merest suggestion that she is less than perfection. He would have to explore that.

He inclined his head gently, as if giving his assent for the show to begin, and was well rewarded as she discarded her clothes, and Zhahn saw that this was a woman to whom such trappings, such masks did nothing but hamper her natural ‘gifts’.

The priest sat silently as she moved, sinuous motion and flawless, that would have burst the hearts of lesser men and sent them spiraling to a climax without the faintest of touches; All were lost on Zhahn. No woman stirred his blood with their physical form, for this man who appeared to all as a dark, sickly child, had lain with perfection.

His goddess, the Lady herself, perhaps as a reward for his faith, perhaps as a last, final way of marking him as hers, in body as well as soul. Had come to him, as a mother comes to the son of her spirit, and then as does a lover to her chosen mate, and had forced from him his love, his devotion in a single, agonizing night of passion, only after he had sworn his undying love, his everlasting devotion had she reached into his chest and crushed his heart, swearing for as long as he lived to never again embrace him as her lover. Never again would he touch her, or gaze upon her beauty, smell her scent or taste her skin. Such was the ultimate gift of agony from the Lady of Pain to her Chosen.

No, no womans physical charms could sway Zhahn, but that was not to say that he did not find himself wanting Ellie, fascinated by this otherwise common whore. Power burned in her, hidden from the world but to Zhahn it burned like a shroud of fire and beautiful shadow around her, caressing her every curve as she danced for him.

Perhaps in Ellie, Zhahn had found not quite an equal, for he had no doubts that a glimpse at the agony that dwelt within his soul would snap her mind like a dry twig, but perhaps one who could walk beside him, walk in his Faerun, and remain intact. Only time would tell, and for now… there was a dance to enjoy.

Lena watched grimly as Zhan met Ellie and backed her into the private room. She hoped the child knew what she was playing with. Very carefully she reached for and embraced her own special powers. She felt the flow of forces beyond her enter her, prying, nudging, trying to take over her mind. Ruthlessly she brought their power under control and subjected them to her own will.

She sensed the dark drama enacted behind the closed door and explored it. Yes ... there it was ... he was a Chosen. It made her skin crawl even as it inflamed her. No. She would not permit that. Ellie's darker passion touched her with tendrils of flame. So they would meet ... Zhan thought he held all the cards. Lena smiled bleekly and opened her eyes.

Malcan stared at her from across the room, his face inscruitable. She met his curiously empty gaze briefly and turned away.

Let them play out their fates, she thought. They had embraced their dark souls and the reckoning might demolish them both. She could easily have burst the door's hinges with a flick of her finger and a thought ... but she wouldn't. The time for protecting Ellie had past. Something was unfolding behind that door ... something had entered the mortal plane.

Lena would wait. Time would tell.

She did not bother to gather her things. She did not return to the room she had shared with Ellie, nor even to the smaller private room which had been hers for longer than she cared to remember -- not to retrieve a single momento, not to fetch a silk scarf with Ellie's scent on it, nor any of the various gifts Ellie had given her. Not even a scrap of her own clothing. The weapons strapped to her body and the clothes on her back were all she wanted to carry from this place. She knew she wanted nothing that would remind her of the Rose, of Ellie, or of the time she had called the brothel her home. She was sure her mind would burn with the memories long enough without carrying a token of them with her. As Mags calmly stepped out of the little room, calmly took measured, even strides away from Ellie -- Ellie, the enigma she couldn't bear to love anymore -- she felt a strange lifting deep inside her. It was faint, and seemed to struggle against all the residue from the sinking that she had felt so much of lately, but it bolstered Mags' resolve that she could take these steps out of the Rose forever.

She crossed the main hall, not bothering to look for Lena or to even offer a parting glance to Philben. They were all part of this memory now, the long, dream-like memory that was already beginning to feel like a haunt. Mags passed by the table where she had been drinking and didn't lift her cloak from the back of the chair. It was tied to this place, and Mags didn't want it anymore.

A few more steps, and Mags was to the double front doors, and then she was through them, outside, blinking in the sunlight. She paused for one fluttering heartbeat and then kept moving, her feet gently stirring the hard-packed dust of the street. It was easier now, now that she was out in the air and away from the confining, perfume-laden walls of the Rose. With each step the airy feeling in her heart grew. It was almost overwhelming; she felt lighter than she had in months. Giddy, verging on manic. She skipped forward a step, wanting to run for the freedom of it but resisting the urge. In the back corners of her mind she new it wouldn't last, that a darkness still lingered and would resume control once the euphoria of finally doing the thing she'd been threatening to do for so long had faded, but for the moment Mags let herself revel in the feeling. A short laugh burst from her lips.

"'Ey Rat, what're ye on about?" coughed an crude voice from the shadows against a nearby building. Mags turned to look and saw a small group of peasantish fellows she used to know in the days when she was more rogue and less spurned lover. The one who had spoken was gazing at her toothily, a look in his eye that reminded her of someone recognizing a friend they hadn't seen in a long time. Mags laughed again, and tripped ahead another few steps, but she stopped and turned abruptly, skipping back to the grizzled group.

"Women are trouble, boys. Best to leave 'em be, else they'll take things from you ye can never get back," she said. And then abruptly she seized the tattered and filthy cloak of the man who had addressed her and tore it from his shoulders as she ran further down the narrow street, laughing wildly. She spun the cloak around her and settled it into place as her feet pounded the dirt, the roars of protest behind her growing faint once she turned a corner and sped into Llorkh's bustling main square.

The normally tired city seemed to Mags to be teeming with life. The sky was further away and more vast than she ever remembered it, and the sun shone especially bright to her lifeless eyes. She felt like a child feeling freedom after being locked in a closet. Shoving her way past merchants and peasants, faces altogether fresh and familiar, a thought came to her and struck her to her heart. Llorkh, the city she was born in, raised in, which had been her playground and - more recently - housed the place that had been her emotional prison, was but a small point on a very large map. She had been here her entire life and she had never needed more than its streets could offer her -- until now. Now it seemed such a cramped and claustrophobic place, with the rest of the world stretching out around it. A world filled with bigger cities, other roads, and more people than she could well imagine.

A world filled with people who were not Ellie.

Mags stopped in her tracks. The thought was abrupt, sharp, unwelcome, and stung violently at first. She recoiled from it and felt some of her enthusiasm slip away. She became aware of a throbbing in her heart that she knew had always been there, that was not new, but threatened to be more intense than it had ever been. A world filled with people who were not Ellie. A life filled with...not Ellie. Mags' eyes began to burn. Blinking furiously, defiantly, she looked up and noticed a building across the square, in front of her. She recognized it. It was a dilapidated building, with dark, dusty windows and a shabby storefront on the edge of the square. It was in that building that Mags had first realized she loved Ellie. In that instant, time seemed to stretch, and the day Mags had raced through the square, through that building to save a younger, more human Ellie, suddenly seemed so very, very long ago. Mags remember back to those first few days, to the fresh, raw bliss that had permeated her whole self as she embarked on what she thought was a wonderful journey with that beautiful girl - and a flash of anger ripped through her. That girl: she was not the Ellie who was at this moment back at the Dusty Rose, presumably tangled up in the eager limbs of yet another stranger. Something had changed over the months; Mags didn't quite know what, but it made her furious. She knew of course of the demons, of the child, of the power that had seeped into her ellove, but she didn't fully understand. Magic was not a part of Mags' makeup, and she realized now that she didn't want much to do with it. She realized now that she hated it, with an intensity that surprised her.

The world is filled with people who are not Ellie, she thought again, and this time it felt more like an oath, a promise. She knew there would be more feelings to deal with; dark nights filled with anguish and times when she would crave the feeling of Ellie's softness in her arms, of her whispered sentiments of love and devotion, and of the burning in her bosom whenever she gazed into Ellie's fiery eyes; but they would not be crippling. Not now. Mags realized she had been saying goodbye to Ellie since long before today. Her heart had been breaking slowly, and by now there was not much left to hurt.

Angry shouting from behind drew Mags from her short reverie, and she looked over her shoulder to see the men from outside the Rose struggling toward her through the crowd.

"That's me only cloak, ye ruttin' girl! Give it back or I'll slice ye up like a damned pig!" the one she had taken the cloak from shouted, furiously shoving his way through the throng of vendors and market-goers.

Mags turned back, a roguish grin touching her lips. She bolted across the square, weaving through the crowd with expert agility and turned down one of the many alleyways that split the desert city of Llorkh like spiderwebs. Mags ran hard, pushing her muscles to their fullest extent, and felt a little of herself return.

Maybe it was time to find a new home.

(OOC: Wow, what a send-off for Mags. Well done, Gemma!

I think we just might have to reinvigorate this RP . . .)