Imprint - 20. Ch. 4 Part III

III

Strife had been asked to do a lot of strange things by a lot of men over the past many years; things he might not have been that personally thrilled about, but, well, fuck it. Better than being stuck scrubbing floors like a fucking slave, am I right?

Which made being required to scrub floors again that much more bitter a pill to swallow. And he'd swear the Wolf knew it to, knew exactly what he was doing with this otherwise innocuous request; bastard seemed to have a sixth sense for what was most humiliating, like he could see right through you, into your soul and every scar that's there, perfect lines to cut along.

It made Strife question, constantly, whether this was truly worth the effort; at the same time the activity, repulsive, reminiscent of days gone by, worked to strengthen his resolve. He would deal, anything was worth it; he'd bet the bastard knew what he was doing there, too.

He'd been tossed in the former dining room today, which had been raided of anything valuable, the long table where Jackass once reigned supreme over his crowd of fawning sycophants upended and tossed in a corner; the chairs were set up in a vague circle and he could see the Wolf's pack dined no more neatly than Jackass and his entourage. At least Strife was alone here, the Wolf's men almost seem to have been avoiding him; he wasn't even sure how many there actually were, could never pick the ones he did see out of a crowd as they wouldn't deign to look at him as they passed by, on their way to some other part of the manor he was being kept out of. Five days of this now and he knew it wasn't an accident; the Wolf claimed him for his own and didn't like to share.

Well, at least there's that, he thought to himself, down on his hands and knees on an old carpet that might still have value after he was done, Don't know what its worth, if it makes me any closer to anything, but I am in.

Sitting back on his heels, he rinsed the scrub brush off again, shaking off excess drops when the water bucket was suddenly kicked away from him, bouncing across the floor to crash into the far wall. Strife went very still, carefully turning his head, now very aware of the presence hovering barely a foot away. Probably had been there for some time, bastard was sneaky, it wasn't hard to see where those stories about him turning invisible at will came from, probably true after all.

Strife took a shallow breath, smoothing out his features, forcing his body to relax, to not turn and punch him right in the testicles like he sorely wanted to. “Yes, sir?” that was how he had been instructed to address the man; he supposed he should count himself lucky it wasn't master.

Those too pale eyes stared down at him, cold as usual; his lip curled in a sneer Strife would swear was saved just for him. “Hello,” voice was low and flat, unemotional.

Strife waited but nothing further was said, and the man was still staring down at him. Strife refused to be intimidated by this shithead, but, if he wanted to be honest, it was hard at times when he couldn't read the man. He cleared his throat and, keeping the submissive act up, tried again, “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

Something nasty flashed through those eyes, seen for a moment and pushed back behind the wall; the Wolf looked up with a shrug, “I'm bored,” he said, stepping forward, stepping right over Strife; Strife resisted the urge to surge upward (wouldn't have taken much) and headbutt him in the balls, but it was only barely. “Isn't that what I have you for?” the man hooked a foot around one of those chairs, pulling it closer, “To entertain me?”

Strife found himself now kneeling before the Wolf, right between the man's spread legs; also demeaning but easier to deal with if only out of familiarity. A quick glance told him the man wasn't aroused but he never was at first, it always took time and effort to get him going. Strife half suspected the bastard took something to suppress reaction, if just to make more work for him, draw it out, make it last longer. Because why would you keep a whore if you weren't enjoying the play? Unless it wasn't the sex but the sadism that got you off, and that was a thought Strife was keeping in the back of his mind, not panicking yet but ready to run if need be.

The Wolf was staring at him expectantly, and Strife worked to figure out what he wanted. “I was cleaning the floors as you asked, sir.”

His mouth twisted into another smirk, “Yes, I know. I was watching you. I'm bored of that now, though.”

Strife took another shallow, calming breath, cold inside. I hate you, you know? Gods within, how I fucking hate you. He moved to set the scrub brush, still in hand, on the floor beside him.

“I didn't say stop.”

Strife paused, eyes cutting to the overturned water bucket, but it was clear the Wolf didn't care. And of course not, it was just about going through the motions, nothing more. Swallowing down the curse that so badly wanted to come out, Strife arranged himself in front of the man, leaning over and pushing the brush uselessly back and forth along the carpet.

The bastard immediately put his feet up on Strife's back, crossed at the ankle. “That's better,” he spoke again, “You look good like that. On your hands and knees. Piss eyes out of my sight. Be better if you were naked.”

Shall I clean it with my tongue as well? Or better yet, with yours.

“But maybe we can do that later, when we have some privacy.”

Probably hoping for a show of fear, but he wasn't about to get it, Strife still had some pride left. He responded mildly, “I wasn't aware there was anything in the master bedroom that required cleaning, sir.”

The man scoffed, “Well, if you require an actual mess to clean, I'm sure I can arrange one for you. Now that you mention it, it sounds like a good idea. I do enjoy watching you crawl around in shit.”

With his head down, Strife allowed a grimace to pass over his face, pushing it aside once more before speaking, “Whatever you would like, sir.”

“That goes without saying.” The Wolf leaned back in his chair, tapping his foot idly against Strife's back, humming in thought; Strife lost himself in fantasies of breaking that leg in at least three places, dragging the brush back and forth, back and forth.

“Tie your hands behind your back...”

Strife allowed himself an eye roll, the man seemed to love the sight of rope burns around his wrists and neck so much he was trying for a permanent set. He wasn't the first to profess a fascination with the way Strife's skin looked bruised, but he was the first to make him feel even slightly uneasy about it, the way he pursued that fascination almost to the exclusion of all else.

“You'd look lovely sucking my cock like that,” a boot tapped him at the middle of his spine, “Don't you think?”

Another eye roll and Strife prepared the stock response, when he took a quick mental inventory of the image presented and ran into a problem. He debated the wisdom of asking, “...then what will I be cleaning with, sir?”

That boot heel dug into his back, “Well, I'm sure we can find somewhere else to shove a broom,” he laughed, “Not like there isn't plenty of room, right?”

...that's it. That is it. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to fucking kill him. Use him for what I can, then he's dead... I'm going to take my fucking time, too. Do horrible things to his corpse.

Never stopped his movements, never even blinked; if his jaw clenched a bit too much, if his grip on the brush just a touch too tight he doubted it was noticed. Decision made, plan already beginning to form, it kept him calm, made the words less bitter when they came, right on cue, “Whatever you would like, sir.”

There was no response, the Wolf seemed to have gone still and silent above and on him. Strife tried to ignore it but couldn't help the slight prickle of unease he felt; this is not the reaction his words should have prompted, and he never knew what to think when the man inexplicably went off script. He distracted himself with the floor, pushing that brush back and forth like the dutiful little slave he was pretending to be; no need to be overly concerned, there was nothing this asshole could do to him, nothing he wouldn't pay back tenfold.

A sudden rush of movement, feet planted on either side of him and Strife's head was pulled up, gripped tightly at chin and throat, those pale mismatched eyes were inches away from his own; Strife searched them quickly for any sign of anger but it was the usual nothing, a blank wall.

“Say that again.”

“...what?” he was too thrown off for anything other than his natural confusion to come out; it was, he would later think, their first genuine interaction.

Fingers tightened around his chin, “Say it again.”

“What – whatever you want?”

The Wolf leaned closer, forehead pressed against his, strange blank eyes boring into him. Unnerving, Strife had no idea what any of this was about; his mind worked fast, pulling up per-formulated escape plans, ready to push back and run if he needed to.

He heard the sound before taking conscious note of it, so foreign, out of place that he couldn't immediately identify it; watched something change in those pale eyes, the blank wall tumbling away and what came out from behind them was sharp, intelligent, deeply amused. Laughter, that's what it was, the Wolf was laughing. The man moved even closer and for one weird moment Strife thought he'd kiss him, but he stopped at contact. “Oh, you're good,” whispered lightly against his lips, “You're very good.”

The grip around his head was gone, just as suddenly, and the Wolf pulled back again. Strife stayed where he was, kneeling on the floor, mind trying to puzzle out what the fuck just happened.

The Wolf pulled out a cigarette box, Strife's own left in the master bedroom from when he shared that bed with the now deceased Jackass, something he didn't figure he'd ever see again. Lounging back in his chair, the Wolf regarded him calmly. “I thought for certain I could make you blink,” he continued, “but I can see that isn't going to happen.” A small flame shot out of the aether stone between the man's fingers, touched to the tip of the cigarette in his mouth. “I have to say, I'm impressed. And I don't impress easy.” The lit cigarette was held out in invitation, one which Strife accepted automatically; the other man's lip twitched in what might have been intended as a smile, “So, tell me. Who are you, then? What do you want?”

Strife's fingers felt numb, it took effort not to fumble; a long drag, lungs filling to capacity, and he had no idea what to do. “Uh...sir, I-”

“My name is Canaan. You should use it.”

“...Canaan,” he didn't need to be told twice, “I don't – not sure what you mean?” Play dumb, buy time, until he had his feet back under him.

The lip twitch turned into an actual grin. “Oh, come on,” he insisted, “I already told you, I'm impressed. That's worth a reward of some sort, I just might give you what you want.” A shrug, “If I can. Point you in the right direction at least if nothing else, send you on your way, never breathe a word of this to anyone. A good deal for you either way, I'd say.”

Strife took another slow drag, “Breathe a word of wha-”

“Continue to treat me like an idiot,” the smile reduced a fraction, a slight edge returning to the tone, “and you'll find my good will vanishes quickly. And I'll still get my answers out of you. Your choice.”

Silence; pale gold met brown and blue, one studied the other, tested the other. Strife looked away first, eyes wandering down to the half spent cigarette in his hand, calmly flicking the cherry off as he rose to his feet, turning his back to the Wolf, moving automatically back across the room.

He kept expecting to be stopped, but the Wolf didn't move even when he reached the door. Strife's hand gripped the knob, intending to turn, to leave, the room, the manor, the territory itself; keep going until he was away from all this shit, this was a bust it wouldn't be the first, start over somewhere new with someone new. Someone who could recognize a good piece when it was right in front of them, treat it right and not like a fucking servant only good for kneeling in the fucking dirt with -

He threw the lock instead.

“So, what gave me away?”

“Among many things? I know the eyes of a broken man. Hard to fake that part.”

Strife shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips; unbelievable, after all this time. “Well then,” he turned back around again, “Good thing for me most people are idiots.”

A smirk, “People see what they want to see.” The Wolf – Canaan – rose to his feet, two steps closer, gesturing in invitation, “Well then, little elf, tell me, what can I do for you?”

He blinked at that, even with the telltale ear tips covered the man still knew? Something to deal with later. “Its Strife, like I told you. And this is about what I can do for you.”

Another step closer and Canaan grinned, “Even better. And what can you do for me, then?”

Before embarking on this, the final phase of his master plan, Strife had prepared himself by imagining every way this could go, every way his target could react, and having his own response in mind well ahead of time. Everything but this, this was one scenario he never planned on. He didn't know what to do; he was going to have to wing it, hope he was convincing.

“Ever heard of Khar'tal?”

A slight nod, “The elven citadel. What of it?”

“How would you like to own it?”

One black brow rose, “Is it yours to give me?”

“Might as well be.” Another step and he continued, “You know why they call it the hidden citadel? Its protected with wards, that's why no one's been there, or even seen it for centuries, you go through the woods looking and the wards subtly direct you away every single time.” He held up a hand, “Anyone with elven blood can spot them, any Khar'tal native can walk right through and so can anybody with me.”

Canaan's eyes flashed with some interest; he motioned Strife to continue.

“I'm sure you've read your history, the great Khar'tal army? Its a fucking joke now. They're reliant on the wards, haven't had to fight anything in forever. All they are anymore is a group of fat, rich assholes and their spoiled rotten brats that like dressing up in fancy military attire, marching through the streets for the sake of tradition. I can tell you exactly where they'll be at any given time, and just how many will be there, they are nothing if not predictable. Not that it would matter, they've never seen anything like you. Once you get inside, there's nothing else they can do.”

Canaan smirked at that. “Sounds easy. And thus boring. Why would I bother?”

Strife took another step, “I'll admit, it would be little more than a brief workout for you, but the rewards would be more than worth it. Khar'tal is a very wealthy city even if they hardly acknowledge it. The families that live there are old, their coin is older. And their possessions, though I don't know how much use you'd have for antiques they would sell.” He grinned, “Then again, maybe you'd want to keep them? You do seem to have an eye for the classics.” With a tilt of his head he acknowledged the halberd folded in two and strapped to the Wolf's back; an old fashioned weapon, it caught Strife's eye mainly because he couldn't figure out what it was made of, some metal little seen any longer.

He continued, “Not that elves ever cared much for material possessions. What they value is knowledge, and in that sense Khar'tal is one of their richest cities outside the Cradle. There are things found there that have been all but lost in time when they locked themselves away behind their magic walls. And I know they like saying their skills can only be used by elves, but that's mostly crap to keep it all to themselves, and I do know the difference.” One step closer, “You'd give yourself quite the tactical advantage with what you'd find there, if you choose to keep it. Or you could sell it, for whatever you wanted in exchange, enough to buy your freedom in every land that wants you dead. That's not a bad pay off, for such an easy job.”

“Indeed. Almost too easy, one might say.” Another step and Canaan joined him in the middle of the room, “And what will you be wanting in exchange for this generous gift?”

Strife waved a dismissive hand, “What I want is no issue at all. A small token in return, no problem for you to pay.”

“Uh-huh,” the Wolf looked skeptical, “And what is it then?”

A pause and Strife considered lying, point the man in another direction and subtly manipulate the real prize into his hands, what he had always planned on doing from the first. A pause, a glance, and he changed his mind again. “...I'll give you a list-”

“Oh, a list, is it?”

“Names,” he quietly corrected, “Eight of them. And exactly where in the city they can be found.” A pause, a breath, “I want them rounded up. Alive, as unharmed as you can possibly manage it. And I want them brought to me.”

Canaan frowned, for just a moment there was something like surprise in his eyes, “What for? What are you going to do?”

He smiled tightly, “Whatever I want. For however long nature allows.”

The frown deepened, “And that's it?”

“That's everything.”

Canaan's eyes narrowed in thought; half a step back and the man silently turned around, heading slowly in the other direction again.

Strife let it go as long as he could, “Is there a problem?” This wasn't the reaction he expected.

“That's what I'm trying to figure out,” another half step away.

“Meaning?”

“Well, don't be insulted now. Its natural to be suspicious when it appears the other is willingly taking the short end of the stick for themselves.”

“Perhaps we measure the stick differently?”

“Perhaps. Some things are near universal though.” Canaan turned back around, eying him curiously. “You describe Khar'tal as a city rich in resources, and you don't want any of it?”

“Nope, not a thing.”

“A man on his own with one thing to trade? Sorry I find that hard to believe.”

Strife snorted, “Don't assume you know anything about me, I'm only here because I want to be.” He let himself smile, “Trade and coin aren't so hard to come by, if I want it I know where to get it.”

“And all this valuable knowledge, lost in time? None of it would be useful to you?”

Strife shrugged; he hoped they would move on from this before his ability to act casual about it snapped, “Whatever I would've needed, I learned to do elsewhere in other ways.”

“No use to you, and yet I should be tripping over myself to possess it?”

Another shrug, “I'm a single man with simple needs, what would I do with a city?” It was impossible to tell if he was getting anywhere, the man's face was a total blank; except for those intelligent, strangely intense eyes fixed on him, still listening. He took a step closer, “Nothing says you have to keep it, you know? Its a gift, do what you want with it. Move yourself in, rob the place blind, burn it all to the ground. What do I care?”

“And the people?” the Wolf stepped closer, “What of them?”

Strife smirked tightly, “Same deal. Kill them all, set them free, sell them into slavery. Not my problem.”

Canaan studied him carefully, “So I see. You really don't care.”

“Like I said,” ice crept into his tone, “I want nothing from them.”

They were suddenly an arm's length apart. “Nothing,” he said, “But those eight people?”

“Yes.”

“Dead?”

Strife scoffed, “Not just dead,” he replied honestly, “Humbled, debased, broken, humiliated, sexually degraded, weeping, pleading, disgraced, hopeless, choking, gasping, bleeding, fading, exsanguinated, hollowed out and turned into scrap.”

“And that's all you want?”

“That is all I've ever wanted,” half step more, they were almost touching now, “That is worth more to me than anything.”

Canaan watched him calmly, dual colored stare more piercing than ever; Strife met it steadily, refusing to back down, determined the other would yield first. It was intense, difficult; thrilling.

“What did they do?”

A snort, “Not something I would've thought the Black Wolf would care about.”

“Didn't say care. Curious though,” A moment and, more gentle than he would've expected from previous experience, a thumb ran under his eye, “Something to do with this?”

Strife worked to control but couldn't entirely contain his surprised reaction, “So you know about that then?”

“I know what it is, yes,” he confirmed, thumb sweeping over the line of ink, “You think the judgment was in error, still bitter about it? Looking for payback?”

Strife tried to stay still, “That would be the obvious answer, but are things ever really as simple as that?”

“In my experience, yes.”

His breath came slow and shallow, “Yes, well, I've always been exceptional,” he let himself smile softly, “Maybe one day you'll earn that story. Right now, I don't see how it matters.”

“It always matters. I prefer to know what I'm dealing with,” Canaan moved his hand away, “But I suppose revenge is simple enough.”

“And will you be taking your own turn under the aether lamp?” he let his smile widen, “As I'm sure you can imagine, I don't trust easy. I like knowing I got more dirt than the other guy.”

“You're the one who came to me, little elf, not the other way around. I am as you see.”

“What I see is a man who's just proven himself to be a very good actor,” he couldn't look away from those eyes, not even if he'd wanted to, and he couldn't think of a reason why he would. “But of course I always had my suspicions.”

“Really?” face calm, eyes heated, “Do tell.”

Strife smirked, “See, personally, I think you're very invested in the popular image of you as a mindless barbarian. Staying nameless and faceless like you do, its even easier to come off like an unstoppable violent force that just pops out of nowhere, with no care, for no reason.” He shook his head, “If that was true, I would've been dead days ago, you wouldn't be listening to me now. These people here, they wouldn't follow you at all, much less show the sort of loyalty they do, if you were really that psychotic. They're hard men, they're not idiots, they're not suicidal. Why come here, why not five days down the road? Don't think it was chance, you went right for Jackass, you knew who he was, you knew where in this house he would be. You killed people that tried to stop you, you left the servants alone, you have plenty of self control. You also left alone everybody you passed on the way here, otherwise Jackass would've known you were coming. Fuck, the Hunters would be able to track you easy, just follow the body trail, if you actually were that reckless. You would've burned out a long time ago, otherwise, but that wouldn't be as entertaining a story”

Canaan listened, the corner of his lip pulling upward, “Like I said, people see what they want.”

“Obviously, seems clear enough to me you're more intelligent and calculating than that. What you do takes skill, and not just the fighting and killing. Strategy, planning, location, terrain, population, the fucking weather, you know what you're walking into and you're prepared ahead of time. Hard to believe anyone's that good at thinking so fast.”

“I wouldn't count it out,” he was expressionless, impossible to read.

A pause, and Strife decided to whip out his trump card, “And, unlike most other people, I've seen you naked.”

“That you have,” an arched brow, “And?”

Strife grinned, “Oh come on now, don't be modest. I was impressed. And I don't impress easy.” he shifted his eyes, letting his gaze sweep down the man's bare arms, crossed at the chest, “I don't recognize most of what you got on you,” he said, “And from me, that's saying something. What little I do know, a partial character here and there, that's some intense shit. Can't imagine what all that elaboration turned it all into.” A pause, then, “I also can't figure out why so much of it is red.”

The Wolf's eyes lit up in sudden, undisguised surprise; that teasing half smirk that had been on his face slipped away.

Such satisfaction at that, Strife continued, “Can't figure what would've caused that, if its some neat little trick that someone uses as a personal signature, or if it actually adds something to the mix. Makes the mod more potent or something, and if any of the stories they tell about you are even a little true that would make sense.” The smile Canaan gave him then looked almost genuine, it was oddly gratifying, “Must've been hard to track that down, not to mention expensive and very painful,” he shook his head, “No one would put themselves through all that, just to terrorize villagers for fun.”

Canaan's gaze was intense, he spoke quietly, “Once again, you have managed to impress me. That's twice. A man could become spoiled.”

Strife inched even closer, pressed boldly up against him, “I think there is a reason behind everything you do, some pattern, some purpose. You're after something. Or maybe its someone.” The man laughed softly at that; Strife tilted his head, smiling, “Oh, is that it, then? Recognize something of yourself in me, did you?”

A chuckle, “Go on.”

“Then I suppose you've also taken into account that, however easy Khar'tal might actually be, nobody will see it that way. They'll be horrified that someone took down the impenetrable citadel, beat the mighty Khar'tal army they all think still exists. That would do wonders for your reputation, make any enemies fear the day you come for them.”

“That's an interesting point.”

“Of course it is, I offer nothing but the best.” Strife paused, carefully considering his next words, “I think you and I have something in common here, so why not help each other out? You do this for me and it will benefit you, too. If nothing in the city is appealing to you, I could throw in something else. I am good for more than lying on my back, believe it or not, I have connections all over. You want something? Maybe I can make it happen, or point you in the right direction at least,” he smiled, “Good for you either way, so what do you say? Help me get mine, I help you get yours?”

Silence for a tense minute, dual colored eyes unreadable, before Canaan took a step back and held out a hand, “Deal.”

Not certain he heard correctly, Strife took careful hold of the man's hand, “Deal?”

Canaan's fingers closed around his, squeezing gently. His facial features relaxed a bit and Strife saw, looking at him now, that this entire pitch had been a waste of time; the Wolf had already made up his mind, he was never going to refuse. “I'd say I better not regret this, but I don't think I will.”

Strife tightened his grip and shook; annoyed at the certainty he was being made fun of, he answered flippantly, “I've never left a man unsatisfied.”

Canaan laughed, an oddly charming sound when genuinely meant, “Oh I bet you haven't.” He still hadn't let go of his hand and, after a pause, continued, “Is there anything else you'd like to negotiate while we're talking all civilized like? I imagine you want out of my bed?”

Strife opened his mouth to do just that, not a moment too soon, maybe a smartass belittling comment tacked on at the end for good measure, but something in the man's expression made him stop. The look in his eyes, the cock of a single brow, the half smirk, so subtle but there...

A challenge. Or do you?

Strife felt his jaw tighten, his fingers clamp down on the hand that hadn't let go of him yet, “I didn't say that,” he replied instead, “However, in light of our new found honesty with one another, if I do go back to your bed, its going to have to be as myself, and not some role I'm playing. And I, am not some spineless submissive little pushover.” He waved a free hand casually in the air, “Now, if your ego can't handle that, I'd totally understand and just be on my-”

“Done,” he was yanked forward, back up against the man's body, aggressive, almost possessive. His eyes were heated, half an inch away, “Show me what you got, little elf.”

Strife got over his surprise quickly, acting on instinct, “You don't have the time right now.”

“Not doing anything at the moment.”

“And what about two hours from now?” he asked, slipping his hand from Canaan's grasp and slowly stepping away, “And that's not even counting recovery time.”

Canaan looked amused, “Really? Sure you're not just stalling?”

Strife smiled sweetly, backing away toward the door without turning around. “You weren't entirely wrong, you know, when you had me pegged as a whore. It is a role I've played, many times, though never for anything as simple as coin.”

“I gathered that. You were hoping to get him to do as you asked of me,” Canaan shook his head, expression teasing, “That was never going to happen, you know.”

He scowled, “I figured that out a while back, yes, and that's still not what I meant. This is the final stage here, I had to do a lot of preparation to get to this point, needed a lot of help, from a lot of people.” Reaching the door, he leaned lazily against it, stretching his arms above his head, “And with what I wanted, I had to be really good, to be worth the trouble of keeping me.”

Canaan smirked with interest, “Consider my schedule cleared.” He stepped forward, gesturing in invitation, “Shall we, then?”

Strife slid away from the door, “After you.”

The man stopped next to him, calmly disengaging the lock, “Just so you know,” speaking conversationally, “after all this hype, if its not the best sex I've ever had, I'm going to hang you out the window, by your toes.”

Strife wasn't sure if he was meant to laugh; he did anyway, “Yeah, sure, you can do that. And what do I get to do to you when I win?”

Canaan scoffed lightly, “Whatever you think you can manage, and I wish you luck with it.”

“Sure of ourselves, are we?”

He smiled, a row of white teeth contrasting dark skin; Canaan leaned over as he let the door swing open, once more in Strife's face, close enough to kiss, whispering against his lips, “There is a lot you don't know about me, little elf. You'd do well to remember that.”

Strife released a breath he didn't realize he was holding, it felt hotter in here than he ever recalled it being. He watched Canaan back away again, out the door, strolling casually down the hall.

You know what....I think I like this guy.

You are aware of the other lying beside you, can hear his heavy breathing, his still rapid heartbeat. Looks good like that, blond hair mussed and darkened with sweat, lips swollen and red, eyes rolled back, utterly worn out. You're not in much better shape, but you hide it well.

Eventually, “So,” his head turns, yellow eyes seeking you out, “How was it?”

You want to laugh that he actually has the gall to ask; not all that surprising, the elf seems to have quite the ego. Also not surprising it was something justified, at least in part.

Out loud, and with a tired shrug, “I've had better.”

He snorts, turns his face away again, “Yeah, you were nothing to write home about, either.”

Naturally. A smile tugs at your lips, just slightly before you can pull it back in place. And you keep listening to his pounding heart, smell him, taste him on your lips. Whatever you say...

A moment, then, “I notice I'm not hanging upside down by my feet.” Pause, “But you seem a little too exhausted for that right now. Wonder why that is?”

Smirking, “Faking orgasm is tiring work.”

He snorts again, “Yeah, don't I know it.”

You probably shouldn't play, but you can't resist, “Your voice sounds a little rough. Must've been all that moaning.”

“It wasn't moaning. I was struggling not to vomit from boredom.”

Cute. “Please try not to vomit. I just fired the maid.”

He turns to look at you again, surprised, uncertain if he should be angry; he laughs instead, “Good one.”

Shining golden eyes, flushed face, a genuine smile; the elf looks relaxed for the first time, perhaps in a long time. Perfect.

“Its good you still have your humor,” grab a pillow, toss it at his face, “Now sleep. And I do mean sleep, not stay awake and stare at me all night.”

“I'll try to contain myself, sure I'll manage somehow.”

You grin where he doesn't see it. I knew this was going to be fun.

When he woke next, Strife was in bed alone. Unconcerned with it for now, he stretched his tired body and let his eyes close again.

Can't remember the last time I slept that well. For years now he'd been used to always keeping one eye open, often two; he'd had his worst nights since the early days of his “freedom” in this bed, and now the best as well. He felt good, and he wanted to milk it for all that he could.

That bastard...he wore me out. Where the fuck was he hiding that all last week? Very good actor, indeed...

A knock at the door interrupted his extended rest; Strife paused, in another first time in a long time, not sure what to do. He threw out his entire play book last night, all the rules he'd been living by for a long time now, and with a man he now understood he knew nothing about; not a comfortable position by any means, but he would have to deal with it. He decided to stay lounging in bed rather than getting up, that seemed the best way to convey how little he cared. He laid back down, making himself very comfortable before calling out a greeting.

The man that came into the room was not the Wolf, someone he couldn't remember having seen before. Short and whip thin, hair painted an eye searing red sticking up in messy spikes; he had a number of metal studs in his face, in a pattern that looked oddly familiar. He closed the door behind him but stuck close by it, carrying an open box at his hip he gave Strife a quick salute with his free hand.

Strife pushed himself halfway up, “Help you?”

“Boss wants you up and dressed.”

“Who?”

“...Canaan.”

“And he can't tell me himself?”

“Guess not?” the man shrugged, “We're pulling out in the hour. Boss says get ready, grab anything you want to keep, 'cause we ain't coming back.”

Strife frowned, this seemed awfully quick to him. His frown deepened when the man threw a bundle of clothes at him from the open box, his own clothes, not the ridiculously expensive robes that Jackass dressed him up in but exactly what he had originally arrived here in. He glanced back at the messenger but the man had turned around to give him some unneeded privacy.

“...so,” he made small talk while he dressed, “What's going on, do you know?”

“No idea,” the response was too immediate to be a lie, “I'm still playing catch up here, and I ain't going with you so I don't know.”

“Is that how it works?” he grabbed up his few personal belongings in the master bedroom, throwing them into a travel bag; nothing he cared that much about but as long as it was there he might as well. The only thing here he did care about was...

“It does in a rush,” a short laugh, “Welcome to the crew, huh?”

Strife frowned at that but didn't comment, straightening up and turning around, “I need to swing by the stables, I got something buried there-” and he was cut short, seeing what the messenger was holding out for him now.

“Boss said you'd want this back.”

Feeling a prickling of annoyance (mixed with admiration, not that he would admit to that), Strife snatched his knife out of the man's hand. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “Guess I won't be needing that stable run then.” He wondered when exactly the Wolf had found his old weapon, and how he ever guessed whose it was.

The red head was watching him strap the knife back on to his thigh, an odd smile on his face; this was new, Strife wondered how much else changed overnight. “See something you like?” his tone was more mocking than invitation, he had no intention of getting passed around and if these men assumed otherwise they were sadly mistaken.

The man just looked at him wide eyed for a moment before smiling again, more friendly than lustful on second glance. “You – you don't remember me, do you?”

“Should I?” he knew this wasn't one of the two henchmen who found him the first night and he didn't think this was one of the faces he barely glimpsed rushing by him at any point since; he would've noticed that hair he was sure.

“From Kandha'l-har.”

Immediately suspicious, Strife looked him over carefully; he wondered if this was another game and what the point was. “I knew a lot of people there.”

“Yeah, I know,” a pause, “You remember Dekker the Fence?”

He was straight faced, “You're not Dekker.”

“No. His brother.”

Strife blinked, looking the man over yet again. Dekker's brother had been a child, still missing teeth when Strife left Kandha'l-har for the last time, but pointed out to him he could see the resemblance now to the little boy that helped in his brother's shop. “Wow. Been a while, huh?”

The man grinned, “You look exactly the same.”

“Elf,” he brushed his hair back behind his ears; not normally a detail he shared unless it served him somehow, but as Canaan already knew there seemed little point in lying.

“Ah,” the man nodded, “You know, Dekker always thought there was something about you. Didn't know what though.”

“I'm sure,” it had always been easy to hide and the eyes threw people off, in the end more blessing than curse in his humble opinion.

“So, how is Dekker then?” he decided to ask as the man held the door open and ushered him out. Dekker had been one of his regular business contacts when he was stationed in Kandha'l-har, the closest thing he'd had to a home in all these years. The man had been a miserable asshole but that was part of what Strife had liked about him; that he wasn't one of the people Dekker routinely ripped off likely had something to do with that.

“Same old shit, same old place,” came the answer, “He's in a wheelchair now though.”

“Really? Who did that?”

“Who do you think?”

“Shit, I don't know. I could think of a lot of people would've done it, but that was years ago.”

“Exactly,” and he grinned a little too broadly, no love lost there, “Keep pissing people off like that, and they stop putting up with it. Dekker never was good at backing up his talk.”

That was true enough, Strife couldn't say he was surprised and nor did he much care. “So how'd you end up with the Wolf, anyway?”

“Same way all of us were,” he answered, leading Strife down the corridors to the front entrance, “I was recruited. Running weapons in Jiiroka when I got the offer, must've done something impressive.”

“Must have,” Strife calmly filed the information away. Weapons in Jiiroka, that would mean he'd been with the Red Dawn first, explaining the familiar hair and facial piercings, he left them and he's still alive. Canaan does have a lot of pull.

“Not you though, right?” he flashed a grin, “As I as said, playing catch up but what I hear, you recruited yourself?”

“Well, why shouldn't I?” hoping to deter any questions, Strife took out his arrogant charm, “The Wolf's lucky to have me.”

“I was crashing in the next room over. I heard.”

“Well, good for you,” part of him wanted to make some flip remark about it not being an enviable position, but he just couldn't make the insult come. There was still a scratch in his throat, his voice slightly gravelly, not so anyone else would notice but he sure did, Strife couldn't seem to stop noticing it.

Just outside the door and there they were, the entire group it seemed, ready and waiting; maybe twenty-five men and women in all, and the dark jewel they gathered round, holding court in the center. It was hard to even see anyone else when Canaan was there, that man could draw attention like no other, standing there looking far too awake and together for someone that had been up most of the night. Dressed for travel and gods within did he look good, in a long black coat that wrapped tightly around his torso and belled out around his legs, worn boots and knives on his thighs in addition to the weapons on his back and hip. It was a very old fashioned coat, long out of style and obviously meant more for the type that stayed at home rather than the type that lived hard on the road, as evidenced by the overly elaborate attachment design; not a straight row of buttons but wrapped and latched in a number of places. Strife could see why he chose it in spite of the inconvenience, the more points of attachment meant more air flow, especially if he kept it loose, enabling him to stay covered without being suffocated. It was a nice coat, nicer than it should for how old it must've been; Strife wondered where Canaan found it.

Canaan's eyes were fixed right on him, silently gloating; the Wolf was showing off for him, Strife refused to be impressed. The words though were for the man beside him, “You ready?”

The red head nodded, “Aye, boss, packed and ready, make it in a day or less.”

Canaan nodded slightly, “Do so.” A pause, then, “Keep him inside, until I get back. No exceptions, no arguments, no with this job. Be on guard, just in case.”

“Will do, boss,” the man made that sloppy, half assed salute again, “Since he'll ask, where you off to?”

Dual colored eyes still locked on his, “Khar'tal,” his lips curled in a very slight grin, “Apparently we own it now.”

Strife saw the look on the red head's face, surprised yes but not shocked, not disbelieving. Excited, confident, Strife liked that; he could feel the end of his long ordeal coming at last.

As the messenger took off, Strife approached the only other person he knew here, wanting an explanation for the games this morning. Canaan was exchanging words with another man standing next to him, in a language Strife hadn't ever heard before; his plans were derailed when he noticed the snake skin tattooing on the other man's arms, he stopped and stared stupidly.

“Is that a Dahakran tribesman?” he asked when Canaan was alone again, having dismissed the other man in a different direction, like the rest of his men, making the final preparations before hitting the road again.

“Former,” Canaan replied, nodding toward the man in question, still noticeable even at a distance thanks to the marked arms and thick bunch of dreadlocks tied together at his back, “If you couldn't tell from the oil burns on his face, he was asked very politely to leave and not come back.”

From what Strife knew about the loose collection of desert tribes, that would be considered polite. Still, “How did you get him to follow you?” That was the part he couldn't understand.

Canaan laughed just a little, “Said there was something about my face.” There was a hint of humor in the man's eyes; Strife suspected there was more to the story than that, he also suspected he wasn't going to hear it right now. He had to admit he was impressed, but had no intention of actually saying so.

“Splitting up your forces, then?” he changed the subject instead, eyes finding the messenger again, mounted and starting to ride off in the other direction.

“Two people is not splitting. Don't concern yourself, it won't interfere with your plan.”

“Didn't say concerned. Curious though.”

Canaan smirked, too tightly, “You haven't earned that one yet.” There was enough of a warning note that Strife again backed off, though this too was filed away for a later date; he didn't think that yet a slip of the tongue or meaningless turn of phrase, it was an invitation to try again another time.

“So, what have I earned then?” Strife asked now, “Hearing that your crew is made up of Kandha'l-harian gangsters that know my face?” he smiled, “That was cute though, you passing it off as some personal insight. Almost bought it. And I guess that's why you kept your men away from me for so long.”

The tension left the Wolf's face, he appeared very slightly puzzled, “Agnarian? He got here last night, only told me what I already knew.”

“Is that so?” he couldn't be sure anymore if the skepticism he displayed was real or part of the game; strange how ready he was to believe.

Canaan smiled again, “Well, not entirely. I would not have guessed you were one of Kandha'l-har's Untouchables.” He tilted his head to the side, a hint of interest in those mismatched eyes, “May I add that to the list of things I'd like to hear about someday?”

In truth it wasn't a very exciting story, he'd been apprenticed to an Untouchable and won his status by default. Still, Strife liked to think he would've won it on his own eventually; he could always tell the Wolf some version of that idea instead. He kept his expression unpromising.

Canaan took half a step closer, looking at him mildly disappointed, “Aren't we done with this?”

“With what?”

“The lying, testing each other,” another half step closer, quietly intense, “Why doubt me now? Didn't I pass?”

“What makes you think that?” he couldn't move or look away, the proximity was thrilling.

Another step and Canaan leaned closer, eye to eye, bare inches away, “You told me the truth. When's the last time you'd done that?”

Strife couldn't think of a thing to say there.

The Wolf's gaze was steady, amused, “Can't take it back by doubting me now.”

He hoped he was glaring but didn't think he was, “I still wouldn't read too much into it.”

Canaan smiled at that, one to match the look in his eyes; it was attractive, “No, of course not.” Another step and the man was past Strife and walking away.

Strife turned his head to watch him go, eyes drawn to the swing of that long coat. A few feet away and he stops again, speaking just over his shoulder, “So, will you be needing your own sleep quarters, then?”

He got the sense he was being teased and responded in kind, “I wouldn't want to do you any favors.”

That earned him a laugh, “Please don't.” and he continued on his way, “You coming?”

Strife waited just a moment, just to prove his point, before taking off after the Wolf.