Crimson Wolf

It's an ordinary day really. A play had been taking place recently in the theater district. Which meant that the streets now were suddenly very busy as people began idly walking home. The bookshop then was a luring prospect for being a quiet location to duck into for a few moments. A tall stormguardian man is already here however. His handsome features and silver eyes are tilted downward and he is studying a line of books on the shelf with red leather covers. One of them comes off the shelf into his hand and he studies it intently, opening the front to read the foreword.

And of course, a somewhat known figure in the Theatre District, a certain Cor'lana Lupecyll-Atlon, walks into this bookshop of all bookshops... and at this time of all times. She offers a little wave to the person tending to the till and calls out, "Good afternoon! How are you..."

Her violet eyes catch glimpse of the man over by the bookshelves. She looks alarmed. And _cross_, too. But she looks back to the person at the till, who offers her a greeting in kind and returns to their business, and plasters on a nice, wide smile.

"What is he doing over by the Crimson Pen books, anyway?" Cor'lana murmurs, knowing full and well what the Crimson Pen volumes look like, given that her Grandfather is a collector... And then she remembers. That's a man she doesn't want to deal with.

And she can just walk out. Right? So she turns around, to walk out the door, and...

Outside, as in _just_ outside the door is a suddenly loud commotion as one person's donkey decides to just _stop_ and two carts crash into one another. Effectively blocking the exit and the two owners of said carts get out to start arguing with one another... This is going to be a while.

Meanwhile, the man in question is silently reading the book and shaking his head with a small smile on his lips. He doesn't seem to have noticed Cor'lana yet... Until he looks up at the sound of the crash and notices her standing rather conspicuously near the doorway.

CRASH. ARGUING. Yup. This is it. This is the definition of bad luck. Cor'lana is stone-faced as she realizes she's stuck inside with this man. Just her. Just him. And the poor shop clerk minding their own business--

Nope, nevermind. Cor'lana watches the clerk duck into a store room, presumably to go deal with the inventory. It's _just_ her and him.

She breathes in... and then she breathes out. Okay. Well. While she's here, she might as well get a couple of new poetry books from her favorites--

"When did they move the poetry to be _right_ next to the Crimson Pen," Cor'lana murmurs in defeat, because it's true. They did. The sign above the bookshelf says so. 'Poetry' and 'The Crimson Pen', there together in unholy matrimony, like Taara and Maugrim.

So she walks over to her shelf. Which means she's standing next to him, and she just is trying to stare at the poetry books. But it's really hard to find a book when you've got someone you hate _right_ there next to you.

Zalgiman looks at the book in his hand and then the woman approaching him. He squints. It seems suddenly possible that he might be a little nearsighted. She joins him in the poetry section more than the Crimson Pen section and he watches her. Or more specifically watches her curuchuil. A slow wicked smile slides across his lips. "You're that woman." He says, wiggling the book in his hand. Oh no. It would be _that_ book. "The Temptress."

Cor'lana is more than aware of where his gaze rests on her. Fortunately for him--and unfortunately for her--she decided to dress up a little today, which means a structurally... enhancing bodice on the lavender-colored dress she wears, and the neckline is a little low because the weather isn't half as bad as it's been lately. Why not. This was _supposed_ to be a routine and ordinary day. Quick jaunt to the bookstore! Maybe pick up some lunch along the way! Why not be pretty and feel good about it!

"I haven't read it, for obvious reasons," Cor'lana replies with the roll of her eyes. She'll be civil. For now. She's trying to find a book again, but... damned if she can remember the title of it now, especially when she keeps an eye on Zalgiman.

He leans against the book shelf casually, smiling at her discomfort. He seems to enjoy it way more than he should. "Oh no? Why not? It's good." He offers the Crimson Pen to her. "It's all about this handsome man being tempted into giving up his families inheritance by this woman known as the Temptress. There's a small series really. Her tempting men with magic and... other things into becoming her love-slaves."

Cor'lana's gnashing her teeth at this point, pointedly ignoring the book as it's offered to her. "I'm here for the literature, not for the trash," she says, pointing up to the poetry. She would normally never dismiss her Grandfather's beloved erotica with such a negative term, but the double-entendre is what matters.

Which, she realizes just a bit too late, probably sails over his head. "I have no need for love-slaves or inheritances," she replies, steel in her voice as she turns her attention back up at the poetry, looking at slim little volumes that remind her of Zalgiman in certain ways. "I didn't take you for a man who was into that kind of thing, though."

"Usually it's not, but I have to admit that the antagonist is alluring to me." His silver eyes are bright as he peers down at her. "The series doesn't go much into detail about what motivates her, but I feel like I know her." He smiles. "Like she's someone I'd like to get to know better in fact." When she doesn't take the book he takes it back, holding it to his chest as though he has every intent of buying it.

The gears inside of Cor'lana's head actually grind to a complete and utter halt. Screech and all. It's like the one time she watched a food stall worker stuff five sausages into Pothy's mouth and she stared in horror as Pothy just... held them in his open maw, seemingly unable to swallow that many in one go--

Sausages are NOT what she wants to be thinking about right now, nevermind on that thought. She tries to _think_, to get the whole operation going again. Flirting? Flirting. Zalgiman's actually flirting with her and not accusing her of some awful crime. Probably? Oh gods. The only person who she thinks has ever really flirted with her genuinely is Telamon. Maybe? Probably? She's _pretty_ sure about that.

And her eyes turn forlornly in the direction of the exit. The only exit to the bookshop. Which is blocked and will be blocked for quite some time. The path to salvation is closed.

And... she stares up at Zalgiman. Because she is shorter than him.

Sigh.

"Fine," Cor'lana states. Maybe she'll get information out of this. At any rate, it beats waiting in a shop awkwardly for an hour or more until the road is cleared. She puts her hands on her hips in a stance that registers to her as defiant, but to Zalgiman-vision, might be putting out her best... 'assets' a little more forward. "You ask a question. I ask a question." Diplomatic enough.

"That seems fair." Zalgiman says smoothly. "But I reserve the right not to answer; as I assume you will also. But answer for answer seems fair enough." He lowers his voice suggestively. "Besides, we're all alone and Martha will not be back for a while I'm sure." He knows the shopkeepers name? That's... curious. "I'll even be nice enough to let you ask first. How's that for gentlemanly?"

Cor'lana's rattled by the mere mention of the shopkeeper's name. She knows Martha--not _well_, but she knows her because the shopkeeper has to be at all of the poetry reading events. Had Zalgiman been to one of her readings before and she didn't even realize it?

No, no, surely not. She'd have recognized him in the audience. Tall, silver eyes, powerfully built, Stormguardian, just like his shitty kin. She folds her arms protectively across her chest (which, again, might entice the Zalgiman-vision). "I wasn't aware you were capable of that quality," she says a tad snidely. "I'm almost impressed. Fine. How do you know Martha?"

"Her son Emman is going through a phase, running wild and making his poor mother worry her heart out. I found him in a bar and had a talk to him, got him working and Martha's been a good friend ever since. Didn't you know her husband is terribly sick?" He looks at her, smiling an evil little smile. It seems that he knows the woman more than merely casually, and that's an unsettling thought; how small this world was. That they could have and probably should have bumped into one another before this.

That registers with Cor'lana, and it's something that sticks inside of her like a greasy meal that's digesting as slowly as it can. She maintains her slightly displeased countenance, as she's not been making any secret of the fact she's not exactly thrilled to be stuck here talking with Zalgiman.

But then she realizes something. That was a question he asked her. "I'd heard something about an illness, but given I was about to perform my poetry, I didn't feel it was my place nor the appropriate time to pry," she answers. "That was your question, so now it's mine. Have you been to one of my poetry readings?"

The man she's talking to seems to be enjoying her discomfort and disapproval of their conversation. Her twisting lips make him smile, her little motion to cross her arms under her chest draws a subtle leer. "Poetry readings." He tilts his head. "Can't say that I have been, but I have to admit to some curiosity _now_. Time for my question. I heard that you got married, is it true?"

"It is true." Cor'lana smiles. She won't hide her happiness. "Happily married at that."

Not that he'd recognize the significance of the curuchuil mark on her left hand, which is what they chose, but she lifts up her left hand to play with a curl absent-mindedly. Unfortunately for Zalgiman-vision, this is probably a little reminiscent of the time where she was flirting with him and doing just that, except far more enthusiastically and making half-lidded eyes at him. "I heard you were you in such a sour mood the other night a few weeks ago at the Fernwood. Why?"

Zalgiman arches an eyebrow at her response and nods with a rather oddly serious look in his eyes. Fingers of one hand tightening on the book he's holding. Subtle cues for one that's looking for them. "I've been in a bad mood a lot lately. One of my associates died, and I didn't find out about it until it was too late to save him. I tried to convince one of my other friends to... do something about it, but apparently his soul isn't coming back." He shrugs, but his eyes are dark. "So, how long have you been with this... what what was his name?"

Cor'lana catches on. Of course she does. She's using this opportunity to wrangle information out of him. But she puts on a sympathetic look, like she doesn't know what he's talking about. "I'm sorry to hear that," she says. "May he rest well in the Halls, if his soul isn't coming back."

But then she smiles at the topic. "Tel," she replies. A half-truth, a nickname but not his full name. And to sweeten the short answer, she says, "I've been with him for a year and a few months now."

Cor'lana pauses only a moment to gauge his reaction, and then she asks a question, twirling with a curl again. "I'm curious. Genuinely curious. You're a handsome man. Tall. Strong. You could probably have anyone you'd like. Why the interest in me, a little mousey thing?"

"Because there's always more to mousey little things than meets the eye." Zalgiman replies with seeming honesty. He continues. "What's that old poem?

In fresh snow that fell on old snow

I see wild roses in bloom

walking naked in new snow, not shivering,

no illusion, no delusion, no bluebells.

Why should I live by reality that murders?"

He falls silent a moment, silver eyes looking down at her, and suddenly he doesn't seem a stupid man ruled by just his lower urges. "Telamon would be my guess, if the books have anything of truth in them. Maybe I'll fight him for you. He's clearly got magic but maybe... Tell me, what would he do if I really kissed you?"

Cor'lana... laughs.

Yes, that's a laugh. Almost like a giggle, really. The sort of response that's odd, but that's how she is. The feytouched woman, the wild roses in bloom that don't shiver, the fanciful flight that is the draw. "You ask me about what _my husband_ would do. Do you think I wouldn't have a response of my own? I am myself and I own myself, and I tell you--you kiss me, and it all goes to hell. Everything you've ever had and wanted will be _unwound_."

Her eyes sparkle a little. "But maybe that's part of the allure for you? You want to touch the thorns." That counts as a question and she knows it.

"I don't know." He admits with a smile. "Most the women I know are all soft and gentle. Waiting for a man to come along and rescue them. Maybe I expected that from you, or maybe I saw those thorns from far away and wondered what it'd be like to touch something unexpected." Zalgiman seems to think a second and then smiles one of his wicked little smiles. "Lightning round. You give me what I want, and I'll give you something you want. Not what we _really_ want but something good. Let me have that kiss and I'll give you information. Something more useful to you than my poetry habits."

The offer causes Cor'lana to tilt her head to the side, thoughtfully. She's actually considering it? Yes, this beguiling bush of wild roses is considering the offer.

And then she smiles. Sweetly. And she brushes a curl that hangs low to her cheek over one pointed ear. She offers him a look of delight. Curiosity. The look that a woman has when she has promised to undo a man's entire everything.

"In the name of danger," she says, pulling her hand back from her ear... and then she points to a spot on her cheek. Close to the lips, but not to them. "And in the name of safety. I won't ruin your whole world. Yet. Kiss me there. Is that acceptable?"

He chuckles low in his throat and nods. "Acceptable." He leans in then his silver eyes sparkling until he is so close that looking into them is no longer strictly comfortable. In any case he closes them and presses his lips softly to the exact spot she dictated. He doesn't linger more than a heartbeat. A gentleman if you will. He pulls back and whispers into her ear low enough that no one could have heard even if they were right there with them. "Not all those in the camp are devout, cut the head off the snake and all that. In this case, there's just one. You smell nice."

He chuckles as he pulls away and takes a step back. "I promise not to come to your poetry readings. I know it'd ruin it for you, and poetry is the music of the soul don't you think?" He pulls back further and lifts his voice. "Martha! I'm ready to go! Can I get just this one today?"

With that he turns and chats amicably with the shopkeeper. Asking after her husband and paying for his book. "I'll leave a little extra for hers too okay Martha? I owe her a favor." He smiles warmly at the woman and heads for the door.

It's true, she does smell nice. She smells faintly like lavender. Must be the soap. Or maybe it's the Unseelie fae blood running in her veins. Either way, Cor'lana is genuinely satisfied--not in the way that Zalgiman would prefer, perhaps, but satisfied.

And she keeps smiling. Even after he leaves. And she gets a poetry book off the shelf, the one that looks like it's sat there the longest. She does take advantage of the extra money left behind by Zalgiman.

And once she leaves the shop, she takes a deep breath, and her expression turns into that of the hunter. She had promised to undo his world.

"Why should I live by reality that murders, indeed," Cor'lana murmurs quietly, and then she smiles grimly as she walks through the District. Book in hand. She made an exchange and, in a funny way, lived up to her title of Temptress. There was no love-slave. She's not foolish enough to believe he's turned fully into her fool.

But the raven knows how to prod and poke at the predator growling over its fresh kill until it leaves. So does she, as she is the child of the Feathered One, and she has no illusion, no delusion, no bluebells about that.

-End