Waypoint LARP: King George City

No Romance Here

Moscow, Russia

Why me? Eri thinks as she watches other members of the opera troop grating on the dance floor.
Why can’t one, just one, of the other adults watch these hormonal teenagers when they want to party? Why did I get stuck with babysitting every goddamn time? Ugh. This is not worth it. She absentmindedly signals the bartender for another cocktail, still watching and brooding.
I wish Valour was still around; she always made nights like this unpredictable and exciting. Now I’m on my lonesome again. Eri barely looks up when her drink arrives, eyes fixed on the current reason of her foul mood. The brats are so not getting puking drunk tonight or she would strangle every last one.
“Now why does such a lovely lady have an ugly expression on her face?” A voice murmured in English near her elbow. Eri didn’t bother to turn around to punch the speaker in the gut. As he let out a surprised wheez, she answered in flawless icy Russian.
“The lady did not ask for your opinion or intrusion, playboy. Leave.” Staggering, he limped into view, and boy was it a view.
Thick blond hair just curly enough to tousle easily, pale green eyes and a mouth-watering bod. Tall and lean, just the way she likes them.
Too bad he’s arrogant, Eri considers him over the rim of her glass, eyes gleaming. She gently set it down, tilting her head.
Maybe I’ll help him with that.
“It’s too bad you don’t know how to treat a lady right; none of them will want to dance with you.” Eri yawns, as if bored and sips. He stops and turns to look at her, a glint of annoyance in his face.
Good, that’s what will make this fun. She smiles inwardly to herself, but remains uninterested on the outside. She is a professional actress after all.
His face twitches, as if reining himself in.
“Funny, I never seem to have that problem. They all seem perfectly happy with the way I treat them, ordinarily. Although no true lady would strike a man-”
“On the contrary. A true lady knows when to strike with fists and when to use words. Men rarely listen after all, so how else are we suppose to get your attention?” Eri leans back, enjoying the expressions flickering across his face and the effort he was using to restrain himself.

Боже мой, what’s with her?! Ilya thinks, trying to keep a grip on his temper. The foreign woman is small, but curvy where she’s suppose to and wearing clothes that accent that fact. Her eyes have the asian tilt but not the color. Her hair is long and curly, a nice deep brown. If not for the hat, she would be a knock-out.
Who the hell wears a hat inside a club?! Freaking weirdo! He almost growls, pissed. This was not how it was suppose to go: he would be smooth, get her to dance and drink with him and then later have a one-night stand. Easy, right?
Bitch, why won’t she play along?!

Aw, poor baby. Not getting what you want right away. Sorry, but you only get the good stuff if you work at it bud. He took a deep breathe, straightens and assumes an icily polite expression.
“Excuse me then, miss. It seems you don’t want company, so enjoy your foul mood alone. Enjoy your drink.”
Eri raises an eyebrow, amused.
“I already have; be a good boy and get me another? I would like a White Russian this time.” He gritted his teeth and enunciates very slowly.
“Of course, miss.”

Several hours later

“Eri! Who’s the hottie?” Some of the dancers had noticed Eri’s reluctant busboy and filled her table to get a glimpse of him. Eri rolls her eyes.
“Don’t know, don’t care. He’s my entertainment for the night, so try not to drown him in your collective drool.” The dancers ignore the last bit in favor of the first.
“How can you not know?! HE’S HWAUT! Hey, do you think he would dance with me? God, that’d be so amazing!”
“So amazing you would sleep with him if he asked you to?”
The table abruptly fell silent, stunned. Eri sips her drink and sighs.
I hate this part.
“Look. Yes he’s hot. He might even be a good dancer. But that doesn’t mean you should jump into bed with him if he snaps his fingers at you. Make him work for it. Never let a guy take you for granted, ever. Bad shit will happen if he does.
All of you are a bunch of college students, so I’m hoping I’m not talking to any virgins here, but if so, all the more reason to say it. Don’t hop into bed with the first hot guy you see. Unless you want to do a one-night-stand, then it’s fine. Now go away so I can drink in peace.”
The girls left together, whispering and giggling when Mister Arrogant walked past. Eri closes her eyes and leans her head back, ignoring him.
“God, I hate being a chaperone.” She groans, still ignoring him.
Ilya stays quiet, removing the glasses from the table. Eri cracks a lid and watches him.
Oh, what the hell. He’s yummy and I’m done with chaperoning for the night.
“Are you afraid of a challenge?”
Ilya keep his eyes on the table, not even looking her way.
“No, miss.” Eri grins slowly.
“Really? This one will be quite difficult.” He doesn’t look up.
“I will be fine miss.” She stands and leans on the table , feeling a pleasant hum in her veins.
“Well, if you’re sure you can handle it…” Ilya finally snaps and glares at her.
“I.Will. Be. Fine. What. Do. You. Want?” Eri’s smile takes a predatory turn as she saunters around the table.
“To dance until the witching hour and then several hours of sweaty sex followed by more dancing and sex. Sure you can handle it?” She whispers into his ear as she cages him in, using the table. Ilya looks at her with a mixture of confusion and lust; Eri likes it.
“Come on baby, say yes.” Eri murmurs in Russian, hands gliding up his abs. His breathe hitched as she meanders her way first up then down.
“Don’t. Know. Name.” He gritted out, trying to stay sane. Eri laughs softly.
“Eri,” she whispers, playing with his ear. “You?” He groans, giving in.
“Ilya.” Eri smiles.
“Well, Ilya. Are you finally ready to dance?”

Sidhe Showers and Pity Parties
Also he's drunk

Sopping wet and naked as the day he was born Eon just sits letting his eyes dance in circles, the waterfall seemed to be raining in every which way ranging from up down and backwards. He already showered earlier so the soap bottles were abandoned in the other room. His horns weigh heavy. His wings pull him backwards and he rolls on his back like an inebriated turtle. Groaning was the only appropriate response at the moment.

How did he get here? He wondered. Cliff and Valour had something to do with it, he remembers an ambulance but he wasn’t in real need for an ambulance. Though his face fucking hurt, a lot. In fact the smell of burnt flesh was the reason his stomach is so upset. But that wasn’t just it… why did his face hurt?

Incomprehensible light and pain. A soul forge?

The image causes the Fiend to coil with a thunderclap of a headache. His Carbuncle still wasn’t as cool as it usually was. What a fucking nightmare. Time to just lay down and let the water drops bombard the Rephaim’s sculpted body like a piano concert with Bach slapping the keys. It helps stimulate the body and keep the spins from tormenting the poor bastard.

An entire bottle of god damn Rum. Did Eon think he was a Nephilim or something?

There is a pain in the heart. Love, and loss. The idea stopped the Demon in his tracks of circular squirming complaints. Something was hauntingly sobering about his love life. Truthfully speaking, the Demon felt lonely. And it’s True he intended to be the last living entity of existence, but he wasn’t quite ready for it but would be when the time comes. At least he thinks so.

Wolf and Lamb need help. Eon can probably help, but it has done poorly so far. The shower is proof.

His face sundering wasn’t even the only symptom of his pain, his heart felt a division down the tissue. Loves left behind and friendships betrayed and forgotten haunt the Demon like ghosts. Half of the damn haunters aren’t even his own shit storm but a sin of his fathers’, at least in terms of his Fatebound iteration.

The damn fool never seems to stop pitying himself. He shrugs, not like anybody else is gonna do it for him. Besides other people are hurting worse and need his help, no use in complaining about feelings when lives were on the line.

A sigh.

The Fiend doesn’t know when to stop, and he has always wanted to be a hero. But even now… he has the muscle, but it isn’t easier. He thought once he gained the strength to protect others the pieces would just fall into place. They haven’t. Damn the horns are heavy.

Maybe he’d just leave his head against the mossy floor. Let his heavy eyelids rest while the alcohol passed. It is easy.

No wait, he has a job to do. But shit wait what was it?

Fuck. You know what? The mossy floor will do, at least until the Rum is gone.


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