Suffering a brutal loss for his debut in the secret underground fight club was not what Bastien, under the alias Crow, had planned, even less prepared for that loss to be doled out by someone a quarter of his size. But fate was a fickle, unfeeling mistress with no love for who she decided to fuck. He was unconscious when the guards came to drag him away, sparing him that embarrassment at least.
As for the others, he could avoid them only until his body healed enough that the shock ebbed from his system and those crimson eyes flared back to life. The blood had clotted in his pristine white fur, staining it ruddy red but preventing more from spilling out, but his internal wounds weren’t so forgiving. Screaming pain made the nerves in his back fret, radiating down from his spinal column, yet he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive that couldn’t be amounted to the embrace of a twilight lover. This was a feeling worth fighting for.
His tongue lolled out the side of his open mouth, propped against a wall, while he observed the other ongoing brawls (and ignored the ridicule his somewhat underhanded tactics had earned). If it bothered him, he was in too good of spirits to show it.
Even better when he managed to catch the eye of his former foe. A hefty black tail raised and waved good-naturedly in invitation, Bastien heaving himself into a seated position despite the pain each movement rippled through him. “Well ya got me, mate.” There was nothing disingenuous about the newfound interest glinting keenly within red eyes. Her small stature bequeathed her with a youthful appearance that conflicted with the shrewd expression she wore and the cleverly surprising tactics she’d employed. “But you look about as good as I feel. C’mon, lass; I’m sure they’ve got a bar somewhere in this joint. Won’t fix ya, but it’ll make you think it will. First one’s on me.” Trying to stand was almost too unbearable to suffer through, but the pain was a bigger motivator than the unholy concoctions he was sure they’d be served, if ‘Nemesis’ was to accept his offer.
"Well ya got me, mate.” The words on a foreign tongue reached her ears while she passed by the outskirts of the ring, her intent to leave the underground behind paused a moment to give way to curiosity. Instinctively, the small woman's eyes flicked coldly toward the sound, her body rigid and distant.
Was he going to jump her now that they were out of the public's eye? Was he so disgruntled at his loss that he would want a continuance now that he was conscience again? No, that didn't seem to be the case. In fact, he appeared almost welcoming by comparison. The announcer called him 'Crow,' wasn't it?
"But you look about as good as I feel. C’mon, lass; I’m sure they’ve got a bar somewhere in this joint. Won’t fix ya, but it’ll make you think it will. First one’s on me."
A drink? With a brow quirked at the invitation, Keres scoffed, staring down at him as he labored to stand on his own. "Need something to drown your pain? Sure, but more than one drink should be on you." With that she swiveled on her heel, traces of faint whispers guiding her steps.
The exhilaration of her body near the brink of collapse overshadowed the potential tricks that the man played to get her there. The means didn't matter, this was a playground where bets were placed on who could inflict the most damage on the other. While those outside the ring could riot and boast all they wanted for the methods and excuses of their choices not succeeding, within was as simple and honest an exchange there could ever be. And if that was his honesty? At least she knew the depths he could go to ensure his survival.
He was in the wrong place if he was looking for friendliness. Thankfully, he wasn't, so the lukewarm way Nemesis appraised him didn't, ah, ruffle his feathers at all. It boiled down to two factors mainly: The first that the crow delighted in subverting expectations. Where another wolf might bemoan their loss, possibly to the point of payback, Bastien had no reputation here to protect nor was he risking anything other than his own blood, of which he had plenty (he assumed).
That left him free to focus on the second reason for his baffling affability, that being satiating his masochistic yearnings an already addictive personality made impossible to resist. With the damage to his nervous system, specifically in his neck and chest, he sought and stole every opportunity to feel his blood rushing through his body, the pain piercing into his skin. Spectacular losses aside, he would always be able to count on that aspect of the Playground.
His ear twitched at her curt comeback, preceding a smirk. "Perhaps, but I'm afraid my pockets aren't very deep. I do have such a bad habit of betting on myself," Bastien disclosed, not one bit remorseful. At least he was offering a drink in the first place! Good deeds truly didn't go unpunished.
He fell into unsteady step behind Nemesis, his movements lacking their usual grace, as she all but ghosted to the bar. Arriving shortly after, the much larger beast beckoned the barkeep over. "Pale ale for me, mate, and whatever the lady wants." He wasn't vying for the strongest drink on the menu, only looking for something that might complement the blissful buzz singing through his veins. But his head did turn, curious, and he wondered what exactly Nemesis' poison might be.
