"Get you an ale, sir?" This is asked by Khadgar, Tareth's opponent from the
recently finished match.
"Oh.. no... just water, please." Plod, plod, stump, sit, slump. Baghiira
remains in place while he sits, screened by mottled shadows like the hunter
in the grass.
"Sorry about the low blow." Khadgar goes about getting the water. " 'twas
an accident, I assure you."
"Accidents hurt, too... but I don't blame ya." He attempts a smile, albeit
a crooked one. "I would have tried the same thing."
"Well, I'm sorry 'bout that anyway," Khadgar affirms, handing him the water.
There's a slow mental count throughout the exchange, paced to the beat of a not-so-distant heart...
and when she moves each stride carries her far - perhaps farther than it
should - water rolling down a hill. He's gulping the water down quickly.
"I am Khadgar," the former opponent offers. "May I know your name, sir?"
"Last I checked," he gulps down the last of the water, "it was Tareth. But
if ya call me that, I'll be surprised."
"Well, what should I call you?" Khadgar's friend, Bob, joins the pair. She
hesitates.
"Bastard seems to be the most popular these days." So close; a hand lifts,
long fingers yearning momentarily toward spikes of blond -- they would, after
all, offer a good grip. But she stays that hand, settling for moving closer,
nearer the warmth of his back.
"Well, hello, Bastard." This witty comment comes from the newly arrived
Bob. Khadgar is the only one to laugh.
"I'll call ya Tareth. Tareth, this is Bob; Bob, this is Tareth."
"Nice to meet you, Bob." But his tone is suddenly chilly; there was
something he didn't like in Khadgar's eyes. Ever so carefully he eases back
on his chair... until planting his hands against the bar's edge, he shoves
back violently.
And o! How close! But she draws her arms in quickly and jumps to the side,
a low hiss seething between bared teeth.
"Something wrong, Tareth?" Khadgar has noticed the sudden movement.
"You could say that." His brows are low, his voice a gravel grate. The
chair now faces something... someone.. that drove all thoughts of nausea
away.. igniting a very cold fire instead.
"Have I done something to offend you, sir?"
Perhaps 'something' was closer to the mark than 'someone.' There's a
similar fire in golden-green, but it burns with all the heat and intensity of
brush-fires in a season of drought. And the snarl that teases the lips
framing the hiss is anything but human; a panther's rictus, feral and
incongruous to such human form.
"Not a thing," Tareth responds without looking; he'd sooner turn his back on
a noisy rattler. Khadgar, easily appeased, shrugs and turns back to Bob.
But it's not the noisy rattler one needs to worry about; the hiss dies away
abruptly, cut off somewhere deep in her chest, and those lips seal. She
straightens finally from the saving jump, and the smile which corrects those
features is cool and at all odds with both the previous manner and the eyes
which still burn above it.
"Tareth." The syllables are almost garbled in the gutteral purr which is
her voice.
"How very nice to see you... Baghiira." His own words barely escape, as his
jaw refuses to relax while in motion.
Bob leans over to Khadgar and whispers, "What's with them?"
"No idea." Khadgar's response is equally quiet. Both go unnoticed by the
tense pair.
