Wildfire Riders

Rosie's cigarette migrated from the left side of her mouth to the right.

"Need a dress," she said through grit teeth, rifling through stacks of her sister's clothing. It wasn't so much that her twin was a clothes horse, more that she was a magi and they leaned towards the pretty clothes over the practical ones. Not that Rosie's leathers were all that practical - half of them were worn because they just looked that damned good - but they were a little more rugged on the field. Unfortunately, they were utter shite for the Purple Parlor.

"Dresses are in the hall closet. Don't use the bedroom one. Succubus is in there still."

"Smells like cheese in there!" Rosie called as she walked out of the room.

Lyr's 'fuck you' wasn't subtle.

There were green and red and white and black swaths of fabric, but nothing in the closet seemed appropriate. Pretty Boy - Arrens, that's right, Arrens was the name - liked purple, and she figured if they were gonna do a date, she might as well do it right, which meant covering her tattoos, taking out her piercings, and wearing a proper dress in his favorite color. She had to do this dress up shit for work every once in a while, Shaw hired her onto some strange projects these days, so the idea of using a salad fork and a napkin on the lap wasn't as daunting as it probably should have been. The Purple Parlor was upscale, but she could play upscale gal.

Sort of.

"This isn't for that asshole Tiforis, is it?" Lyr said from somewhere behind her.

"Not an asshole. Just an idiot. Distinct difference, Sweetheart."

"A person can be both. Let's settle for both?"

Rosie's expression went deadpan as she blinked at her sister.

"Well what do you want? He's a dick," Lyr said, reaching out to pluck Rosie's cigarette from her mouth and inserting it into her own.

"He's my friend most of the time."

"Yeah, and when he's not, he's your biggest problem."

"Yeah, yeah."

Rosie closed the closet door and sighed, rubbing at the back of her neck. She'd have to buy something new, then, and didn't she HATE shopping. The Larsons were overpriced, The Finest Thread proprietor always looked like he was going to sneeze on her, and the Canal folks just didn't have a great selection.

"Ugh, shopping. Let's go," she said finally, taking the auxiliary cigarette from behind her ear and lighting it.

"Wait, you're draggin me with you?"

"You bet."

"What do I get out of the deal?"

"My undying respect and sisterly devotion."

"But I already had that."

"You'll get double."

"Liar."

Rosie opened the door and ushered her outside. "I resemble that remark."

The apartment doors were locked, but not for long. Rosie jerked the wire and the pins popped out of place with what should have been a satisfying grind of gears. Lyr'd offered her a key, but she'd declined under the premise of not being "a key person". They took all the fun out of the breaking and entering part, she'd said. Too bad she was too fucked up to enjoy yet another small victory over a Bazzer model 53G double cylinder. They'd been such a challenge once, too.

She closed the door behind her and stooped to light the gas lantern on the table. It blazed to life, and so did everything else in the place - the fire in the hearth crackled, the lanterns along the walls hissed and then flickered. She wasn't sure what manner of enchantment the Ice Witch had used to facilitate it, but it was a handy little set up, she'd give her that.

Her hand throbbed, a reminder of how hard she'd been gripping the roses outside of the Pig, and she tossed the bouquet onto the sideboard, frowning down at the punctures in her palm. Gods damned Arrens and his gods damned flowers. It was bad enough she had to pull out of their second date - he was a nice guy, a GOOD guy, and there he was handing her apology flowers for freaking her out with a too-early proclamation of love. If she was honest with herself, any kind of proclamations at any time probably would have killed it. She wasn't good at this sort of thing, hadn't been for years, probably never would be again. After Adar, she'd resigned herself to a life of casual encounters, friendships, and her sister for companionship. It had been a neat little set up. She'd been smart enough to avoid the type of men who could fall in love with her. Even Tiforis had been a safe prospect for a while. By all accounts he still was, he was still so moony over Adel.

But tonight hadn't been about Tif. It had been about Arrens. And she'd made a bad call.

The first date had been about "could she get him to go". It was a little challenge to herself, to see if an upstanding guy like the professor could stomach the idea of a dinner with a girl from the wrong side of town. Not only could he? He relished it. He said she challenged him, made him test boundaries. He proved it by handing her a box of cigarettes and telling her never to change. Well, that was all swell and dandy, but then he'd hitched a feeling and ruined it, and now she probably couldn't see him proper again.

"Oh, that isn't fair of you," she muttered to herself, stomping towards the kitchen. "How could he have known how shitty you are?"

The carpets squished beneath her shoes.

She looked down and frowned. The rugs looked normal, there were no horrible stains or lakes of strange substances present, so why the noise? When she bent to check it, it was wet to the touch. Clean smelling, but wet.

"Oh what the /hell/."

She plucked a cigarette into her mouth and stood back up, trying to ignore the sounds of a boot being pulled from mud. As she rounded her way into the kitchen, the gas lights there flickered on, and she could see the note in the middle of the table.

Carpets cleaned earlier, pardons! I've put a pie in the oven for you girls. Behave, and Ta! - Y

"Great, Ice Bitch pie."

Griping about the baker or no, though, she opened up the oven and cut herself a slice of blueberry pie. It was accompanied by a shot of whiskey, and then another, and then another. By the time the front door opened and Lyr came in, she was half in the bag with crumbled bits of pie crust on her shirt and an ashtray full of half smoked cigarettes.

"How are you holding up?" Lyr said, settling into the chair across from her and pouring herself - and Rosie - a shot. They clinked glasses and tossed them back, making the same pinched mouth frowny face at the ensuing burn.

"Like shit. He deserves better folks."

"Oh fuck that."

"Says he loves me."

"Too early."

"I'm aware." Rosie shoved the cigarettes at her twin and watched as she lit one, leaning back in the chair until the front two legs came off the floor. "Canned the date."

"Good."

"Why doesn't it feel good?"

Lyr sighed and reached out to pat her leg. "Cause he IS a nice guy."

"Cliches about finishing last come to mind."

"Ounce of truth to a cliche, or it wouldn't become cliche."

"Yeah, yeah."

There wasn't much else to say. Lyr had a piece of pie, Rosie had another, and they drank until they could both barely stand. The sun was coming up as they helped each other to the bedroom and faceplanted fully clothed, on top of the blankets of the bed. When they woke later, miserable with headaches and whiskey stomach, they took forks to the pie and finished it, all the while nursing on jugs of fresh well water.

It wasn't a whole lot of comfort, but it was enough for Rosie for now.

Arrens left the bar that night walking the Canal District back to the University. He'd fouled up things before, to be sure. His first time summoning an imp with his mentor Briarthorn was certainly a memory he'd never forget. The portal that opened was large enough for a Doomguard to try creeping through. Thank the gods Briarthorn was able to control it and send it back to the Nether.

But he was loathe to remember a time when he hurt someone the way he had hurt his dear, sweet Rosie. He didn't mean to, of course. But the bourbon tasted good tonight. And he needed something that made sense; something that didn't go "click click click" or speak of piercings in places a person shouldn't be pierced. At least, not in the circle of people the warlock was accustomed to.

He stopped along the canal and spoke a word of magic. Shadows began coalescing around him, forming upon a single spot to his left. When the shadows stopped moving, Klathmoth appeared. "Send me back!" the voidwalker demanded.

"Shut up, Klath. I need to talk."

"Where is your pet, Shaaroon? Surely he could lend an ear, the vile weak thing."

"It is his weakness that endears him to me. And his axe. Now stop talking and listen," Arrens demanded.

They walked slowly, warlock and demon, speaking quietly. Arrens explained how he had inadvertantly mentioned his love for Rosie. But "love" was such a...strong term. Even for the warlock. Did he truly love her? Was it a crush and nothing more? All signs indicated that that's all it was. They'd only been on a single date, for fel's sake! How could he be in love?!

Klathmoth, for all his brusqueness, was an unusually good listener. Arrens had taught him well, allowed the demon to quietly sit in on some of his more mundane classes. The demon, for all intents and purposes, was smart.

"Human emotions are foreign to me. Have you weighed the pros and cons of continuing this relationship?"

Arrens thought of this for a moment. He began listing all of her good qualities and the pros of maintaining his courtship. "She's beautiful. She's fearless. She brings out a side of me that I've never seen before and makes me question things I've never before thought about."

"Charming," said the demon sarcastically. "And the cons?"

"She...has a past. So do I, of course. But nothing that could compare to hers. She works for Matthias Shaw. While I understand the purpose he serves, I'm not in agreement with his...methods. And have I mentioned the piercings? Oi!" Arrens threw his hands skyward and glanced towards the heavens. "There's this...clicking now. Clicking, Klath!"

"Cute," was all the demon could say.

They entered the University, Arrens' soft cloth boots padding upon the marble floors. Unlocking the door to his office lobby with the demon entering behind him, Arrens closed the heavy oak door and locked it. "Guard this for the evening. If anyone tries to enter, stop them. If it's a student, scare them back to the dorms. If it's a guest on the "Approved Guests" list, escort them out. If it's anyone else....do what you must."

"Yes, master."

Arrens entered the outlying door into his office and shut it behind him, the sound of the lock being set all that Klathmoth could hear.

Rosie did what Rosie did best.

She hid.

First it was behind booze, until she saw at least three of everything and couldn't remember anyone's name never mind remember why she was supposed to be avoiding them. Then it was behind Lyr, who didn't ask questions when she crawled into bed beside her, just stroked her hair because she knew something was shitty. Finally it was physically, packing up her shit and going “away” when she'd emptied her stomach into a barrel and bought herself a new stack of rolling papers.

“Away” was to someplace no one would bother her. “Away” never lasted long, but she needed space and she needed it now, and unless she strong armed it, her inner circle – beyond Lyr - couldn't give it to her. She didn't want anything to do with anyone while her thoughts were this jumbled. She needed to give Arrens a real answer, she needed to figure out what the fuck she was doing with Tif, and she needed to mull over her friendship with Adel. Everything was so convoluted, trying to handle all of them while they were polluting her airspace would be impossible.

You're busy, so why not sink yourself into work and just leave it all alone, ignore it?

Because it doesn't handle anything. It handles it by neglecting it and hoping it goes away.

And if that works?

It won't. It never does. Look at how Adar turned out.

She'd learned that things don't just magically get better if you pretend the problems aren't there. It had been a painful lesson, but one that would stick with her for better or for worse. She had to handle this, to really make decisions, even if said decisions were hard. And so she was back in Grand Hamlet, in the old house, wandering the web laden halls and smoking. She ran her fingers over the door frame to the bedroom she shared with her sister. Her father used to notch the wood on their birthdays, to show how tall they'd gotten, left side for Lyr, right side for Rosie. The last notch, put there at fourteen, was two inches shorter then she was. She smirked at it and blew a torrent of air out through her nose.

The bedframe in the master bedroom was still there, though the mattress had long since been torn apart by animals, and she went and stood beside it, peering down at the coils. Her thoughts spun, faces and words and snippets of conversation from the previous night coming back to her in full force. None of the answers were pretty, but how long had it been since something had gone really right?

She didn't want to think about that answer.

“Not broke at least,” she murmured, sliding down onto the floor and leaning her head against the dilapidated wood. “Got food, got a home. Not broke. So not so bad.”

And really, everything might be fucked up, but if they had food and fresh water, a roof over their heads, and a way to keep themselves clean, they were doing all right. Comparatively speaking, of course.

Bullshit, you're not all right, not even close to all right.

She grimaced and pulled another cigarette from behind her ear.

“Fuck you, too, Sweetheart.”