[ P ] the crooked are smiling

Drusilla should be...anywhere else. She should not be on the black sands of Sussex's beach where she'd first met Amoux, and she definitely should not be hiding in the bushes beneath an outcropping, staring at the narrow alley that disappears behind the cliff face. The alley that wolves have been vanishing into, and occasionally, coming out of. It hadn't been intentional, exactly; she'd just happened to reach the beach as she saw some stranger heading down into the rocky bluffs, unaware that they were being watched. Her paws had followed of their own accord.

Of course, as soon as she'd realized that they were going somewhere she can only assume is private, Drusilla had found herself a spot to hide. Maybe she could have walked right into the mysterious establishment without a hitch, but then again, she's already seen firsthand just how dark the underbelly of Sussex gets. Somehow, she gets the impression that a private location such as this one is well-hidden for a reason.

She was not meant to find it.

But something in her thrumming heart tells her that Amoux is in there, and damn her obsessive curiosity about the man, but it's enough to make her stay. The things she's willing to do for just a glance at a him—just a taste of him. Gods, she's pathetic. If he finds her here, he's going to think she's fucking desperate (and admittedly, a part of her is), and then he'll tell her it's just a fling. Isn't it? It doesn't matter. Doesn't it? It's not real. Please, tell her it's real.

She needs to get a grip. Resolving to leave, like she should have done an hour ago, Drusilla peeks around the corner of the alcove she's nestled into, and promptly darts back when she sees someone coming up the beach. Her abrupt movement has one of the bush's branches snagging on her fur, leaves rustling before the branch snaps back, a clump of her hair tangled in the leaves. Flattening herself beneath the leaves, Drusilla holds her breath and prays her clumsy little display wasn't as loud and noticeable as she thinks.

brick and mortar between my bones built a kingdom fierce and fortified my name fading from the yellow page stones are laid upon the mountainside oh, my savage empire how lucky we are never to be moved by the words of a liar the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me I chose to let it thrive it is mine, it is mine the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me

The dark doesn't frighten me

code // art

The political split had its perks, to be sure, but there were numerous downsides that Bastien hadn’t accounted for. Namely, handling business without being detected. Hopping the border was not an irksome ordeal thanks to a certain soldier he’d gotten quite cozy with, but Nicharion’s aid only went so far; he had to map out patrol routes on his own, and they changed with each new dawn.

At least he could enjoy the scenery the less populated routes boasted. He’d always had an affinity for endless stretches of blank monotony and clusters of brush just barely hanging onto their leaves and fur.

Bastien blinked, coming to a slow halt. There, sure as the sand wedged between his toes, was a ball of blue fur bobbing frantically on the disturbed branches. As eager as he was to ‘revisit the conversation’ with Amoux, a greater penchant for mischief rendered him motionless, contemplating the precise moment when bushes had begun to grow fur... or tails.

Pinning the tuft between his teeth, Bastien shimmied across the black sand on his belly and peeped his head into the alcove Drusilla had taken shelter in. “Lost something?” He only hesitated a moment before leaning forward to pat it gently into place among the lighter strands of fur of her crown. Pulling away, he didn’t spare her from an amused simper; the poof sat between her dark ears reminded him of the fancy crested ducks the nobles liked to dapple their ponds with. It somewhat made him miss Fish… not that he’d ever tell the mallard that.

He shuffled, uninvited, the rest of the way in. The bush stood no chance against his massive frame bulldozing through it, uprooting and clinging to Bastien like an untailored disguise. “Who are we looking for, Ducky?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper, leering down at the shadowed mouth of the Drunken Seagull as if every soul that wandered in or out was their unknown enemy.

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

Her prayers go unanswered. Drusilla's heart sinks from her chest to somewhere low in her stomach as she watches pale paws shuffle across the black sands towards her. She has no idea the sorts of wolves who are liable to be in these parts, but given Amoux's proximity, she's unlikely to be encountering any upstanding citizens here. This was stupid—perhaps the stupidest thing she's ever done.

Despite her heart pounding a frantic rhythm that's telling her she's going to be accosted—or worse—Drusilla doesn't move a muscle, frozen like a deer in headlights. She doesn't quite know what to do, however, when the hulking wolf drops to his belly, putting them very nearly at eye level instead of looming over her. Drusilla eyes him warily, curling her lip when he leans in closer and plops her runaway clump of hair on top of her head. What...the fuck?

She's never been more dumbfounded.

Drusilla is frowning now as she stares back at the simpering, crimson-eyed wolf. When he takes her silence for an invitation, she's quick to push back up onto her forepaws and shuffle backwards—dislodging the tuft of fur on her head in the process—a disgruntled growl reverberating from her throat. Her fur stands on end, but rather than making her seem any larger, she just looks frazzled and extraordinarily uncomfortable. This game is foreign to her, and she doesn't like it.

"None of your business," she retorts, her suspicious gaze never straying from the unwelcome company who's effectively boxing her into the alcove. He might seem weirdly friendly, but Drusilla doesn't trust him as far as she can throw him—which just so happens to be not at all.

brick and mortar between my bones built a kingdom fierce and fortified my name fading from the yellow page stones are laid upon the mountainside oh, my savage empire how lucky we are never to be moved by the words of a liar the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me I chose to let it thrive it is mine, it is mine the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me

The dark doesn't frighten me

code // art

Bastien might say he's as upstanding as citizens come. Or, at least, out of the two of them he was, since Drusilla was steadfastly stooped beneath a shrub.

He lost that right the moment he decided to be a menace by intruding on her—ahem—surveillance of the nearby tavern's entrance. Her disdain lanced right off of him, the black-and-white wolf intentionally ignoring it in favor of, once again, returning the lost poof to its helm. "Well, it could be my business." The notion arrived alongside an entirely too confounded frown, as if that possibility was obvious and she had missed it.

The charade continued. "I thought we were friends that told each other everything, Ducky. What happened to us?" For an even greater effect, Bastien let his ears fall to either side of his face. Throughout his nonsense, however, he was struggling to hold back the laughter shaking in his lungs, causing every word to waver once it left his obsidian maw. He knew nothing about this woman, nor had she said more than four begrudging words, but he'd already decided he liked her.

Or maybe he just liked ducks more than he realized, eyeballing the fluffball reinstated atop her head.

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

He's unperturbed by Drusilla's crisp demeanor, bouncing back to argue with her in a fashion that's more friendly than combative; she stares at him even harder, frowning. Her heart, at least, slowly returns to its normal cadence. She's quite certain that he isn't an immediate threat—a nuisance, perhaps, but not a threat to her person. Drusilla can handle a nuisance. Her life is full of them, after all.

This time, when he reaches out to deposit the clump of dislodged fur back onto the crown of her head, Drusilla doesn't freeze in terror for her life. She watches him flatly, and the second he's retreated from her personal space, she shakes her head purposefully, catching the fallen tuft when it hits the sand and grinding it beneath her heel.

"Why are you calling me that?" she asks, rather than answering his question or even considering entertaining his charade of friendship. Now that her fear and surprise have faded, there is nothing but the professional, curt demeanor she defaults to. "Oh wait, I get it," the petite woman drawls, slinking forward until she's wedged in the space between him and the rough wall of the alcove, peeking down the beach in the direction he'd come from. "You've escaped your chaperone, haven't you?" Drusilla comments evenly, her tone so dry that most wouldn't pick up on her cynical sarcasm.

She tips her muzzle back towards him, arching her brows slightly as if in concern. "Is there someone I should call? Do you need help getting home?" she asks with a casual tilt of her head. Drusilla isn't quite certain what gives her the confidence to openly insinuate this wolf's lack of intelligence, or his necessity for a guardian; maybe it's Sussex, and the fact that she feels more unfettered here than anywhere else. And maybe it's Amoux, and knowing somewhere inside her, that if she needed him—he would come.

brick and mortar between my bones built a kingdom fierce and fortified my name fading from the yellow page stones are laid upon the mountainside oh, my savage empire how lucky we are never to be moved by the words of a liar the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me I chose to let it thrive it is mine, it is mine the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me

The dark doesn't frighten me

code // art

He should take offense, he knew, by the scathing derision she'd sneaked into her tone, but Bastien could do nothing except grin. It's kind of a problem how much he enjoyed her tearing away at him, trying to find a crevice she might shove a blade through, only for it to be in vain. His armor was too malleable, curving around her daggers rather than attempting to deflect them.

"It's fitting," he responded to her first inquiry, again with that infuriating implication that it was evident. Seeing that she didn't seem to agree, however, he expanded only just, "You look like a duck."

She sidled to the side, looking emphatically down the beach, and he took that opportunity to reverse their positions, pinning her squarely between the Seagull and himself, the Crow. There's a wide stretch of openness now directly to the left of them, but Bastien was certain his longer strides could eat up that distance much quicker than she could. He had no intention of harming her, nor of letting her get away before he's had his fun. "I haven't. In fact, I was just on my way to see him. Since we seem to share a common interest in the Seagull, what say you to heading there together? You wouldn't want to be caught in there all on your lonesome, after all. Tons of unseemly type in there." His eyes glinted with more shrewdness than she's credited to him, but he was fine to wear whatever face she wanted him to.

The devil you know is better than the devil you don't.

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

"In what possible way do I look like a duck?" Drusilla retorts with her brows arched high, the scoff on her lips suggesting that she really does think this guy's lights are on with no one home. It isn't unusual for her to think she's the smartest person in the room, but her new 'friend' really elevates her in a way that might be a little bit of an unfair advantage.

It's her own fault, really, for thinking so highly of herself—especially considering where they are.

The man beside her shifts, and when Drusilla looks back at him, he's strategically intercepted the path back towards the beach in a manner that is blatantly intentional. Her brows slide together, and a frown tugs at her lips as she narrows her eyes at him, a sinking feeling settling into the pit of her stomach. His words solidify her growing wariness; his tone may be light, his expression warm, but the man's eyes are sharper than a blade, and his insistence that they go into the bar feels more like a threat than a suggestion.

Drusilla pushes herself upright—a feat that her petite stature makes possible in their little alcove—and squares her shoulders, though it does little to make her any more intimidating. The linguist is as diminutive as they come, and her soft curves only lend to her genteel impression on others. "That's so thoughtful of you, but I was actually just leaving," she announces firmly, trying to take a step around her unwanted company. Her heart is thundering again, but she doesn't dare let him see it.

brick and mortar between my bones built a kingdom fierce and fortified my name fading from the yellow page stones are laid upon the mountainside oh, my savage empire how lucky we are never to be moved by the words of a liar the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me I chose to let it thrive it is mine, it is mine the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me

The dark doesn't frighten me

code // art

Her demand for him to elaborate caused his grin to widen, lifting higher to one side. Bastien's never quite been fond of the well-beaten paths; he spent too much of his life following discreet, roundabout routes that the nature of doing so was sewn into the ragged fabric of his being. He didn't yield but rather lifted and then dropped his shoulders in a quick, casual shrug. "It's just your face," he maintained.

The look that entered her eyes when she noticed her new predicament reminded him of watching the day descend into night, the brightness of the sun consumed by dusk. His attention on her was incrementally increasing, or at least his subtlety about it was decreasing, reading her body language as closely as Drusilla might an ancient text she's trying to interpret. He had already offered a mental commendation for her effort to remain placid, but the vicegrip of his focus had already snared the flash of fear she was trying to control.

Bastien angled his body to impede her attempt to escape. "Not so fast, Ducky." He pushed a step forward, trying to pressure her into backwards progress. "I won't make you go if you really don't want to," he started, almost sincere, but his lips continued to curl with unmasked satisfaction. "But, in that case, you have to tell me who it is you're spying on."

Normally, he wasn't so interested in someone else's business, but with the Seagull—with Amoux—so close by, a thorough questioning was the least he could do.

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art

"Not so fast." Drusilla growls softly, her weight shifting back onto her heels as he intercepts her with a ground-eating stride she cannot hope to compete with. He pushes closer, and her nostrils flare, but she stubbornly refuses to yield that step; she just knows that if she gives an inch, he'll take a mile. She thinks if she holds her ground for as long as possible, he may respect it enough to leave her alone—though at this point, she's grasping at straws for what her options are in this situation. Drusilla is no fighter, but that doesn't mean she won't bite.

"I won't make you go if you really don't want to..." Her eyes narrow further at his tone and that infuriatingly smug smile that curls across his lips, like he's already won. She hates the fact that he may have. This was stupid. Gods, Drusilla hates being made a fool of. She's in over her head when it comes to Amoux and everything that goes along with him; the man in front of her has only made it blatantly obvious how unprepared she is for Amoux's world. His next demand only makes her heart thrum faster, fluttering against her ribs like a bird trapped in a cage.

Drusilla just stares up at him for a long, lingering moment, her jaw tight and her mind racing. She has no idea of this man's motives or allies or enemies, and answering him would be beyond stupid—it could be borderline suicidal. She's not delusional enough to think Amoux wouldn't rid himself of a loose end, even if she does spread her thighs and moan so prettily for him. "I can't tell you that," she finally says, her jaw as tense as her posture. "I can promise you that I have no malicious intent for anyone in there, however. Pinky swear," Drusilla offers after a beat, lifting a forepaw and quirking a brow, hoping she can placate him by amusing him. She'd rather he see her as small and silly than consider her a threat, and right now she's banking on his sense of humor getting her out of this decidedly sticky situation.

brick and mortar between my bones built a kingdom fierce and fortified my name fading from the yellow page stones are laid upon the mountainside oh, my savage empire how lucky we are never to be moved by the words of a liar the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me I chose to let it thrive it is mine, it is mine the dark doesn't frighten me I chose to close my eyes it is mine, it is mine the night doesn't frighten me

The dark doesn't frighten me

code // art

The offer lingered, the silence extended—all the while, Bastien watched the cogs turn. He could admire her tenacity, even if it was somewhat foolish. He's a much larger creature than she is, and the jagged scar on his throat did more than just suggest that he has come back from the edge of oblivion; it confirmed it. Still, no matter how he felt about her bravado, he had a bizarre soft spot for the small and vulnerable.

Bastien understood the allure that the Seagull had to wolves like Ducky, or the woman he pegged her to be. It was that very prospect of danger that drew them in, a brand of excitement that society simply couldn't offer. But he'd also seen firsthand what could become of the unsuspecting when they step into the thieves' den. The merrymakers and miscreants were just entertaining enough for anyone to lower their guard enough to fail to notice that the shadows had started to close in.

As she tried to appeal to the lighthearted demeanor he'd exuded up until now, his expression shuttered. Bastien was suddenly looming over her, correcting his languid posture to employ the full benefit of his height. He may not have been the largest in comparison to other wolves of similar proportion, lankier and longer than he was tall, but there was no denying that he had been honed by many hardships, like a blade sharpened—very slowly over many years—by sandpaper. "Then get the fuck out of here before someone else finds you," he commanded, that grin finally gone. His lips were still curled, but now she could see all of his teeth.

"I won't forget my kindness today. Neither should you."

plucked a feather off a crow

so i could fly

code // art