A Dance with the Devil

Her call was made. He felt it deep within his being, a gentle tug on all that he was: his Soul String. Locked within the small office of his store, the dim light of a single, small desk lamp glimmering in his eyes, the twisted tailor lifted a nimble-fingered hand to his chest, fingertips pressing a cage over his heart, and drew a slow, deep breath. She had returned and she beckoned. For a moment, he fumed with impotent fury, his eyes narrowing into a glare as he peered into his brandy, the still surface an amber mirror. A growl rumbled in his chest and his hand left his heart, snatching up the glass and flinging it against the wall as he rose to his feet. His hat leapt from its place on his desk and landed on the Puppeteer’s head, returning to its familiar perch with its usual slight tilt. His cane, resting against the wall, snapped into his hand as if yanked by an invisible cord. He closed thin, strong fingers around it, and had it been a living thing, he would have choked the breath from it. Bedecked in his adornments, the Puppeteer snapped the fingers of his free hand and vanished in a flurry of black strands, their writhing mass engulfing his form and drawing into a tight ball before vanishing. No sign of their master remained, save the brandy dribbling down the wall and the shards of glass on the floor twinkling in the half-light like fallen stars.

As he vanished in one locale, so did he appear in another. Black threads, darker than the night, erupted into existence before Kalika, twisting and knotting themselves together like a warren of serpents. The mass of knotting thread expanded until they become a suitably large enough mass, and then they split, birthing their master into reality once more. A sneer on his lips, the Puppeteer tucked one arm beneath his waist and folded his body over it in a bow. Despite the angle of his body, his stove-pipe hat remained precariously balanced on his head. “Good evening, Mistress. How may I serve you?” he asked, though his words were soaked with venom. His obligation to her as servant had been amusing long ago, when first they met, and when she had kept near, but in her absence, the shackles of servitude only rankled his pride.

The Puppeteer rose from his bow and let his gaze rake over her with an odd mix of distaste and pleasure. “I see you forgot how to dress yourself. Shall I?” he asked. Despite the beauty of her form, the Puppeteer was still a man true to his profession, and perhaps, working his craft might dispense with some of his frustration.

Laughter sliced her vocal cords, made them dance and purr with amusement as she took in his ire. It was giddying to be greeted by such a mix, his feelings barely masked. Her body swayed as if to an unheard melody, moving like a serpent. She was such a creature, beautiful in its deadly grace. It was her free hand that struck, digits of her right stopping a moment before they touched flesh. This close she could feel the warmth of his skin and a part of her wanted to steal it away from him. To close in on his heart and hold it until it chilled in her hands. Still, she was oh so gentle, almost affectionate. If he didn’t recoil from her, she would barely brush the pads of her fingers against his cheek. Trailing the line of his jaw before stepping away from him… If he denied her touch then that would do little to deter her.

Either way, Kalika would move back and let a sweet smile dance on her lips. Cheshire like, she flashed her specialized teeth, “Serve me? I could think of a few ways, Puppet Master. Pull a string and we could do so much more than toy with each other.” Her words were soft, laced with heady sort of melody. She was an Unseelie, a creature of charm and she had forgotten how much fun it could be to throw power into her words. To lure and tease at the prospect of carnal desires. A darkness churned in her chest, a desire for more than what was offered and what she could take.

She had made a promise, a binding agreement with him a long while ago but the rules still held. As long as she held him in service, she was not to harm him. He was a prized toy, a shiny thing she didn’t want to ruin just yet. The extent of his powers were still unknown and that curiosity demanded to be sated before she even thought of breaking their agreement. Pity because she wanted to see what made him tick on the inside.

She ignored his comment of forgetfulness, since he should very know a part of her talent was in how she dressed. Glamour could make what she needed and certainly most of what she wished. “For tonight, I am but a doll. Dress me as you see fit.” A bold invitation if ever there was one. Kalika could never be one of his dolls, not fully. She was too strong willed, too unrelenting and she abhorred someone having control over her. Tonight the Unseelie would be as cooperative as she could be. For the most part. In the moonlight she did a small twirl, allowing his eyes to see all he had to work with. Even her glamour faded, scars trailing her torso. Lines in granite they marked her life and added a certain edge to her beauty.

When her pale hand cut through the air like a glimmer moon beam, the Puppeteer raised his own hand to intervene and the shaft of his cane, just beneath the silver bulb, touched her wrist just as she ceased its motion. He did nothing more to stop her when her fingers stretched towards his skin and stroked across his cheek. Just as his own emotions were a confusing mess, so were her actions a confusing mess of conflicting suggestions and implications.

As she stepped back and spoke through a dangerous smile, the Puppeteer arched a thin eyebrow. She was as enigmatic as ever and it still both frustrated and enticed him. What mysteries did his Unseelie mistress keep? he had always wondered and after her extended absence, the need to know burned even more intensely. Just what had drawn her away and for so long? His internal inquiry came to an end when he heard the word “doll” spoken by the least likely of lips and in response, his second eyebrow lifted to join its peer.

It was hardly an offer he could refuse, dressing her exquisite form in whatever he desired. His gaze danced across her form as lightly as the moonlight, traced over the scars that perfected, not marred, her alabaster skin. “Of course, My Mistress,” he almost purred in a soft baritone. He closed his eyes a moment and opened them again, lifting his gaze to meet hers.

Eyes locked with hers, he stretched out his arms, banishing the cane from his grasp. It was carried by a host of threads that kept it hovering near at hand. The master tailor drew his hands together in front of his chest, steepling his fingers, as he inhaled deeply. Collapsing the church, his palms met and his fingers splayed out together in matched pairs. “Let us begin,” he exhaled slowly. His hands split, fingers trailing through the air like a conductor calling the attention of his orchestra. Strands of thread swirled in the air around her at his beck and call, summoned by his unique magic. With a flick of his wrists, they beset her, waves of black crashing on her ivory shore. The touch of thread and fabric on her skin was gentle, a lover’s caress, as he swaddled her in cloth and other materials.

Strands enwreathed her legs, weaving soft hose, before panels of tight black leather stitched themselves together over the stockings. While the inner seams of her pants were sewn with black thread to remain nearly invisible, the outer seams along the sides of her legs were accented by silver thread that climbed up each pants leg like bare gleaming latticework. Her boots were of sturdy leather, though soft inside to cradle her foot in soft silk and tied with a surprisingly strong silver ribbon laced up the back like a corset, came just over her knee with a faint flaring of the leather so that it hung loose and wrinkled and bore a heel of glinting silver, nearly five inches tall.

Next, fabric and whalebone appeared and fashioned themselves into a corset around her torso, the materials shaping themselves to emphasize and even enhance the contours of her body. The top of her bosom remained bare for only a few seconds after the laces had pulled themselves tight across the front of the corset, and then a spiderweb of black lace spread upward from the corset’s top, stretching over her shoulders and down her back to meet the corset again, though it left a plunging neckline to display her tempting cleavage.

He nodded and then, noting the chill in the air, his fingers began to move again. A long coat soon weighed upon her shoulders, though the garment was significantly lighter than one of its size should have been with its trailing edge brushing the backs of her leather-encased calves. Though cut to prevent masking the femininity of her frame, it was obviously a captain’s coat that exuded authority. The midnight fabric was decorated with shimmering silver brocade, its pattern seeming to shift like shadow and moonlight.

He beheld her for a moment, admiring with pride his own craftsman ship in his latest masterpiece. The Puppeteer lifted a hand, pressing a fingertip to his lips as he cupped his chin, his other hand clutching his elbow. “Ah!” he sighed in realization and lowered his hand from his face and snapped his fingers. His threads went to work again, but not on cloth. They devoted themselves to her black hair, pulling and weaving it into a thick braid. Silver ribbons slithered into the braid before he finished.

The Puppeteer nodded with a satisfied smile at last. “There, much better.”

Why did Kouichi continue to wander these empty streets? Always hoping to simply find a way to pass the time. Once short and spiked blonde locks of hair, had grown twice it's length. Which required a new style to wearing his bandanna. The usually head wrap style had been changed. Tied to hold the wild mess of blonde together. The bandanna had been folded in half so a corner covered the top of his head. His all-season jacket zipped up, shielding his thin frame from the chilled air. The thick cloth that made up his hakama pants were enough to guard his legs. The scribbled kanji of his homeland was apparent. Though translations were not readily available. His steps seemed light. He moved silently, defying the laws of human physics. Wooden sandals produced no sounds.

A single voice caught his attention. Male, a voice that seemed familiar of sorts. Which perked the curiosity of the young mind that still resided in young adult. With lips that seemed sewn shut, the asian remained silent. Following the voice to it's source. Hands buried within the warm confines of his jacket. Oh how he wished for someone. Willing to settle with the company of even the most unsatisfying lot if he must.

Hoodlums and scoundrels. Thugs and street urchins. Even the scum of the earth would have done the trick. The calming surroundings of Caislin had become just another cage. Stealing away part of him, and locking it away in the depths of misery.

As the voices grew closer, his mind wandered further away. Becoming lost in the dark streets as if trying to get lost. Yet when two figures came into view, his soul became filled with a calm acceptance. It took no more then a second to recognize either form. The first memory to come, was of the man. It was the tailor. Like it was yesterday, the same feeling of caution returned from their last encounter.

When the second memory surfaced, it shattered the very core of his being. It had been quite some time, after a few separate encounters. The sight only brought a flood of mixed feelings.

As though every sound had been stolen from his existence, Kouichi lowered. His knees bent and he watched the tailor work his magic. Feeling the need to remain quiet until the process was complete. Creating clothing from nothing. So this was the power that top-hat possessed. No, not the hat. It was the being below the accessory. When the man had halted his production of thread from thin air. Kouichi felt it a better time. Hopping to his full height, Kouichi's hands fled from the pockets of his jacket. Coming together in a soft clap.

"What splendid skills you wield. I'd have paid to watch had it been a show. Am I to assume your mood has improved, Thread-san?" The palm of his left hand shot up. With a loud and solid slap, it clasped over his lips. He did it again, giving foolish and useless nicknames to people. "I apologize again, I hope you haven't discarded another mannequin since then."

The paper thin slits that his eyes gazed through, seemed to be locked upon the two. Only now did the thought dawn on the eastern boy's mind. Had he interrupted a moment of passion? The palm slid from his lips, upward over his eyes. Left foot pushing against the rough stone road, he used the heel of his right to spin his back to group of two. "I'm sorry, I must be interrupting." He said loud enough for his apologetic words to be heard. His mind screaming for him to allow their moment to continue.

Stars danced as she moved, moonlight ghosting across her alabaster flesh as light as his gaze had been. Kalika wasn’t herself tonight; she wasn’t the creature that had worked so hard to play human in an old keep. She wasn’t the Unseelie who chained back a monster and fought the desire to destroy. Tonight she was something else, another type of creature, though just as deadly. Even more so given her current state of mind… She seemed as put together as ever, nothing less than expected of the Unseelie. There was just that touch of madness to her, that air one got when they danced with a predator.

Muscles slithered beneath marble as she moved, rolling to the very tips of her toes before slowly crouching. She was quick to slip the garter over her right foot, fixing it about mid-thigh then standing straight once more. Her senses relaxed, her form primed for his masterful work. Silver consumed the iris of her eyes and expanded; flecks of copper shining at their borders when she locked eyes with the Puppeteer. He had her full attention as he worked.

Tension coiled in her muscles as clothe began to slither across her body, it was a strange sensation though not unpleasant. In fact she enjoyed the slow winding of stockings over her legs and the light weight of pants that followed. She barely moved as the boots were created, testing the feel of each when he was finished. They exceeded expectations, far superior than what she had adorned from her home. Taller now she could certainly put those gleaming heels of hers to good use. After all, she was a creature of pain and pleasure.

Corseted tops were her favorite by far. They were constricting without affecting her movements. Plus she preferred them for the added protection against sharp implements, something she mostly had to worry about in the Unseelie Court. One delicate brow arched as her chest was left free for a few more seconds. Lips curled into that tantalizing smile of hers as he perfect her attire, nimble digits coming up to give her coat a light tug. Oh yes, she was more than thrilled with it.

Once her mane was tamed she gave another light twirl, testing the feel of everything at once. She felt as if she had the barest of clothing on, even though she was nearly all covered. “My oh my, you’ve outdone yourself my dear Puppete-” Her words were cut short by the light clapping of another. Darkness curled around the silver of her eyes and she felt her monster rise. The barest flash of a temper before it cooled, she recognized the figure after only a moment or two. The strange boy who had a fondness for lightning and an odd way of speaking… What a turn of events. Another playing to this lovely little show, perhaps Kalika would have her grand audience for her reappearance after all.

Deck out in her new attire she slowly sauntered over to the Puppeteer, reaching out with her left hand to brush just under his chin. Once more she would give him time to react, to pull away if he so wished. If not then she would lean forward, her voice tuned to a purr, “I adore the outfit.” Lips the hue of a cold corps would barely brush against his cheek before she was dancing away again. Angling her body towards the other, “Nonsense little Kouichi… What is it that they say…” Talon like nails thrummed against the bindings of her corset, her mind trying to retrieve what it was that she wanted. “Oh yes. ‘The more the merrier.’” Her words were kind and luring, if one could forgive the mischievous smile she wore.

At first, the youth’s intrusion was unwelcome but after Kouichi spoke, a compliment serving well to blunt the edge of the Puppeteer’s irritation, a small smile stitched itself slowly across the Puppeteer’s lips. After a long hiatus, he realized, Kalika would surely have desire to inflict cruel mischief and what better victim than someone who she was contracted to not injure? Before the youth finished clapping, the Puppeteer tucked an arm beneath his waist again, and bowed to his audience. “Thank you, and yes,” answered the man, refraining from calling Kouichi “boy” which might offend him. The Puppeteer was not sure whether his answer was a lie or not—after all, he had just shattered a glass on the wall minutes ago, when Kalika had called to him.

The Puppeteer straightened again, his eyes drifting from the boy to his latest model. She had summoned him from the cozy warmth of his office, where he had been enjoying a tumbler of fine cognac, and the warmth from the heater and the alcohol had finally worn off, leaving him to feel the nip of the chill air. For a second time that night, he worked his unique magic to conjure a garment for himself. A long coat, as dark as any other cloth in which he garbed himself, dribble down his body like hot tar, gleaming ebony buttons pushing themselves through their respective holes shortly after they appeared. The progress of the cloth trickled to a stop inches above his knees. He flexed his fingers again and black leather appeared to glove his hands, the soft, supple leather stretching silently over his deft digits.

Properly dressed for the weather, the Puppeteer exhaled a pleased sigh and for a second, he thought he caught a glimpse of a ghostly puff of breath. He wrote it off as a symptom of an overactive imagination. With a twitch of his fingers, the Puppeteer’s cane returned to his left hand. He resisted the urge to deflect her touch with its shaft, though he kept it near enough to intercept if her touch turned violent. The intimacy ended as quickly as it began, but it had still inspired another small smile on his lips though he kept silent. When she peeled away to address the new arrival, the Puppeteer eyed the woman he was bound to serve. Still, he did not know if it was in his favor to breach the contract or not. She was a powerful Unseelie; and he, a demon not yet returned to his full might. At least there was a far weaker victim present to distract her, if only briefly, mused the Puppeteer as he glanced at Kouichi.

A brow perked, as if trying to comprehend the straight out welcome he received. How different these two were from their last encounters. In fact it caused a sudden paranoia to arise. "How tempting to believe such kind words." Kouichi chuckled, and though he did step closer. The youth still kept a distance even his katana would never reach. An object that remained out of sight out of mind really. How out of place he felt, clad in such street dwelling clothing. While others showed off such lavish dress. So styled and well groomed.

"What games have you got brewing in that pretty head of your's?" His brow lowered. That natural foolish smirk fading into a scowl. Oh how he had wished for his katana to be at his side. Like an object of pure security. Even a witless human knew when they were in danger, and he should have been afraid. Two beings of a darker origin stood before him. So why was no fear present?

Muscles relaxed, the very body language that cried for excitement so many times before had been erased. A lazy gaze drifted between the two. "I highly doubt any games you plan would be suitable for a mere human like me." He chuckled, that stupid grin forming on his lips. So care free as though the world truly never once touched him. Why did these two calm his soul? As if a raging storm in his heart had settled and died. "Though I shall not complain, you always bring me such wonderful storms."

His gaze stopped upon the man. This puppet master of sorts, or at least such were words Kouichi has heard before. "Every time I see you, I feel a weird sensation. Might I ask you a question? Though if too personal you can choose to ignore it." Curiosity peeked, even if only slightly.

Like a pond of undisturbed water, nothing showed on the surface of the asian. Had it perhaps been his time in Caislin that dulled his sense of danger? A man who was master of thread, and a predator of humans. These two were far worse then any mortal weapon could pose. No, even before coming to this dreadfully quiet town. Kouichi had always felt more at home with those with less then pure blood of mankind.

"You walk, talk, and look like a human..." Kouichi began his question without fear. "You create masterpieces that mankind would waste away wealth to own." With a tilt of his head, the blonde mess shifted and slumped towards the ground once more. "Are you also a Dark Path?" Either brave or stupid, Kouichi put no thought into his words. "I highly doubt many human men resist Kalika-san's charm. So I merely assume. I apologize if I am mistaken. In fact I'd envy you."

His left arm seemed to have a spasm of sorts. Though this only proved to shake loose his hidden sword. The hilt poking from the sleeve opening, hiding behind the cover of his palm. No move was made to present the tool of war. As if it were the original positioning. Like a locking mechanism, the left index and middle fingers curled to hold the hilt in place. The thickness of the sword handle spreading his hand unnaturally. Preparing for any outcome.

Hips swayed with every step she made, though the cloth barely whispered of her approach. She was enamored by the boots and a part of her was dying to see how well they would hold up to a good bit of Unseelie fun. For now she resisted trying them out, since the only viable victim was Kouichi. That and she didn’t feel like ruining her outfit so soon. It would be a shame to get blood on such fine garments.

Lips curled in that Cheshire smile as she listened to the boy, a soft laugh sliding past the tiers like vipers. Starlit eyes flashed towards the Puppeteer then back to the boy, knowing that only one would last if she did indeed indulge in a game. Kalika was unwilling to break their contract for a night of fun, especially after a taste of his powers. The Puppeteer was hers until he wore out his use or turned on her. Either way the ending would be gloriously vicious. She could feel it in her bones; it would be a tale to remember.

Shaking such thoughts from her mind she stalked a wide circle around Kouichi, staying just out of striking range. “He is not what I am, little Kouichi.” Her voice was soft, a purring sort of whisper as she moved to his side. Kalika only glanced towards the blade he presented, a smile stretching her lips once more. It would be little more than an inconvenient mishap if he struck at her. Unless his blade was laced with iron or he hit something terribly vital, otherwise she could heal rather quickly and retaliate even faster.

Still, if he chose not to strike, she would reach out and glide her nails lightly over his shoulder. Unlike with the Puppeteer, she moved slowly, letting him see no threat in her actions. How easy it would be to coil her fingers around his throat, to break his bones and feed off his agony. The idea alone sent her heart racing, deep breaths testing the confinement of her corset. She plucked at the material of his jacket before stepping back. Unless he made a move against her, she would remain gentle. Kalika would only strike if he did so first, only then would all notions of control be lost.

Kalika looked towards the sky, trying to judge how late into the evening it was. Perhaps more would show, though she doubted it. The school had looked to be dying. Still, she was torn between wanting to remain outside and wanting to be somewhere a little livelier. Adjusting her jacket she turned to both of the others, “Why don’t we head towards the town, I feel the need for a few drinks.” Not that alcohol would do much for her; it was just a place where a little chaos wouldn’t be minded. That and perhaps they could find a few stray souls on the way. If there were any to be had.

At present, the boy’s antics amused the Puppeteer, which would prove to be in his favor to having a questioned answered. For a long moment, the Puppeteer observed the inquirer in silence and then bowed his head in a slow nod before speaking. “Oh, the darkest,” said the Puppeteer, his voice a mere ghost of a whisper, a haunting sound almost imagined more than heard—he always was one for theatrics. “You see, where our dear lady of the night was born to her path, I chose mine,” chuckled the Puppeteer, his voice growing louder,” and the choosing makes it all the darker.”

“For once, I was a man that lived and breathed as you do, with blood pumping through his veins and dreams burning in his heart, but I forsook my mortal life for something greater. All it cost me was my humanity, a price I was all too willing to pay for the power I had never tasted as a man.” The Puppeteer spoke in half-truths, for even as he stood before his audience, a heart thumped softly in his breast and his chest swelled and sunk with the drawing of breath. The question was: did the monster retain any dreams or had they been shed as certainly as his humanity?

When Kalika moved and spoke, his attention was turned from the youth to the Unseelie, amused by her similar distancing the two dark entities in the boy’s mind. Her sudden suggestion of a drink surprised the Puppeteer, but he knew that his Mistress was a woman of unexpected behaviors, rarely following into a routine of regular habits; so, he shrugged his shoulders, dark cloth rustling quietly across his frame like shifting shadows. “Yes, why don’t we,” he agreed, twirling his cane in his hand, the thin black pole spinning through his fingers until he clasped the silver bulb and set the bottom against the ground.

“If I remember right, Kalika, these mortal drinks do little for you,” he mused as he began to walk, stepping by their Unseelie leader. “So I wonder, what are your intentions, knowing your companions are far more susceptible?” His eyebrows lifted for a moment before sinking again, a bemused smile rising instead on his lips as he headed towards the local pub.

It was not long until his baritone rose again, though he sang instead of spoke:

“I’ve been a wild rover for many’s the year.
and I’ve spent all my money on whiskey and beer.
But now I’m returning with gold in great store,
and I never will play the wild rover no more.

He began with the first verse before singing the chorus:

“And it’s no, nay, never,
no, nay, never, no more
will I play the wild rover
no, never, no more.

With only a brief pause, the Puppeteer sang the next three versus, separating each with the chorus.

“I went into an ale-house I used to frequent
and I told the landlady my money’s all spent.
I asked her for credit, she answered me ‘Nay,
such a custom like yours I can have any day.’”

“I took from my pocket ten sovereigns bright
and the landlady’s eyes opened wide with delight.
She said, ‘I have whiskey and wines of the best,’
and the words that she told me were only in jest.”

“I’ll go home to my parents, confess what I’ve done,
and I’ll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And if they caress me as oft’ times before
I swear I will play the wild rover no more.”

The Puppeteer concluded by repeating the chorus twice more, his eyes straying to Kouichi a moment before settling on Kalika. A mischievous smirk stayed on his lips like an echo of the song.

Kouichi's eyes remained locked upon the embodiment of lustful corruption. What devious plots were drawn out? How he wished he could sneak a peek at the blueprints sprawled within the confines of her pretty little head. Yet when the man of thread spoke, it was all too well timed. The masculine voice drew his gaze from Kalika. As the tale of humanity lost continued, it was as if something in the air had began to pry his left fingers loose from the wakizashi hilt.

It was when the Asian had become locked at learning of the tailor, that the fiendish woman's presence was once more felt. The words that flooded the air, all but disappeared. Any wind felt upon his flesh died out. Adrenaline beginning to build tension. Like any comprehension of any spoken language slipped away. Each syllable was static. The only sound that was identifiable was his own heartbeat. Rapid and deafening.

As a human being, this situation was far from ideal. As a warrior he was thrilled. Yet none of these facts mattered. In one brief moment of proximity, his mind shattered. A smirk crossing his lips. Step by step, reality came back. No, it was simply a matter of opinion. What truth was there when every point of view was in different hues and shades. Distorted and refracted by altered facts delivered by others. This fractured view on reality would prove to be more hazardous then beneficial. The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, were the understanding of the words spoken.

A cupped right palm lifted, scrubbing away a nonexistent agitation. Physically and visually, Kouichi was less disturbed than he truly was. The grip of his left hand shifted. Index and middle fingers extended, and the hilt slid past. Only for his complete left fist to clasp firmly on the sheath.

Remaining silent was the best choice. So not to antagonize anyone. Childishly shy, he remained at the back of the unlikely trio. The song of the tailor coming into focus. The ending was like heaven. Perhaps it was a case of homesickness. Still the fragment of the song he caught was irritating. Even while he sat on the edge of his sanity, he retained his manners. Instead he presented his smirking face in a friendly way. Following the lead of the top hat. Silently his foot falls kept him in stride.

The Puppeteer’s eyebrow lifted in a shallow arch when she offered her curious quip, the mere suggestion was counter to his understanding of fae race. He had imagined that they were a race of beings, each given over wholly to dark or light upon their birth. Did each of their breed have the potential to be Seelie or Unseelie? He wondered, when and how their fate was decided. Kalika made it sound as if she had a choice. Later, perhaps, he would get his answers, but more likely, the woman would remain a mystery, the line between truth and falsehood as indistinguishable as a shade shrouded in shadows. One day, he would trap her in the light and know all there was about his Unseelie mistress.

“Worry? I worry when you are in sight but I worry more when you’re not, my dear,” he challenged, a small smirk on his thin lips. As far as their contract was concerned, the answer was simple. She could not harm him so long as she wanted him to continue to serve him. But how long would her desire for his talents hold? Already, she had disappeared once, and he was surprised that on her return, her first act was to summon her private tailor to her side for the start of a new wardrobe. The Puppeteer had thought their bargain null and void, his freedom granted—and then he had felt the tug of the garter, an undeniable call beckoning him into the chill night to obey a Mistress he no longer knew he still served.

The procession of their progressed towards the town with every intention of invading its tavern and raiding its stores of alcohol, until his song ended and the instigator had turned on the youth. The Puppeteer slowed to a halt and turned, eyeing the woman as she approached the human. Yet again, she desired his service, and he would have to obey her, or he would breach their contract by failing in his obligations. Her request disarmed him most. No order but a question. The Puppeteer wondered what Kalika’s game was and said, “It is hard to say if he would accept it. He once turned it down before when I offered it in reward for a service he had done me.” The man shrugged his shoulders, dark cloth shifting across his frame like pooling shadow. What was another ensemble to one such as he who could command the cloth and thread to do his bidding?

“I doubt the boy would be comfortable in genteel attire,” clucked the Puppeteer as he turned his scrutinizing gaze to the youth. After a moment of thought, the demon added, “It would be difficult to find any refined clothing that would suit. I mean, look at his stance, the awkward anxiousness in his movements.” Whether it was true or not that the youth seemed nervous, the Puppeteer goaded him all the same. Biding his time, the Puppeteer ground the end cap of his cane into the road, clasping the silver bulb at its top in his hands as he awaited a response from either of his companions.

The concern of his wardrobe caught him off guard. Sending his anxiety into a spiral out of control. Allowing the sheath of his wakizashi to be swallowed by his jacket sleeve once more. A friendly smile crossing his lips. The evidence of any stress washing away. "I refused because I have no right to claim a reward for intruding uninvited." His left foot sliding back. Ready to widen the gap between him and the female. Eye lids parting, revealing glass like orbs of electric blue.

The hilt of his short sword shifted and wiggled as the entire object was being secured. With a sigh, Kouichi allowed the importance of his clothing to sink in. "With all due respect, if I accept your offer..." Clearing his throat sent a growl into the air. Collecting his composure to stay calm. taking just a moment, he began to remove his jacket. Setting it on the ground beside his feet. "Kalika-san must remain ten steps away. It may sound rude, but it'd be appreciated."

His gaze jetting from Kalika to the tailor. For a moment he tried to imagine what the magic thread might produce. The jacket was the only object of clothing that he worried about being lost in this wonderful show of dancing strings. "If this condition can be met, I'll gratefully accept your master skills." The swordsman nodded.

His gaze once more shifted, and locked upon the jacket. Feet spreading to shoulder width. The lids of his eyes closing once again. A memory flooding his mind and stealing him from the present situation. The scenery nostalgic in truth. Relaxing and soothing. A slow exhale, left him breathless as the memory sank away as quickly as it had surfaced. "Shall we begin then?"

Muscles twitched to let the moonlight play on her pearl white fangs, giving them a rather fitting ghostly hue. Razor edged, her teeth were fashioned for so much more than the Cheshire grin she donned. It was that look the reminded one she wasn’t human, the hardest trait to hide in her eyes. Her incisors hooked together perfectly, forming a pristine row of knives designed to shred the toughest of muscles. It was a macabre sort of beauty, the knowledge that her tastes were far from the human she played.

Kalika was a predator in all sense of the word, which is why it took everything for her to still her body as Kouichi moved. His stance changed just a touch and yet she felt it stir the air around them. For a moment the world slowed and she had the thought of giving chase. Like the great hunt she ached for her quarry to give just one more inch. In her mind it was as good as running away, something she found both annoying and pleasing. After all, she loved a challenge. So what would it take to push the little storm chaser to that point? What would she have to do in order for him to fight or flee… the thoughts teased her very core, fired her blood and made it impossible to think.

Paved street gave a soft hiss of a sound as she slid forward. Like a viper creeping closer to its intended victim she barely moved towards Kouichi. Slow as she could manage, she raised her left hand. Kalika gave him enough time to pull back, though nothing terribly horrible would happen either way. Just the barest of touch against the flesh of his cheek, her voice mimicked her actions. Soft, soothing, and nothing at all like the monster she could be, “Did I give you reason not to trust me, little storm chaser?” Her mannerisms may have been borderline affectionate, but her silvery eyes were alight with something else entirely.

Stars churned in her iris, expanding past proper boundaries until the whites of her eyes disappeared. Light silver replaced it, giving her gaze an ethereal feel. That wasn’t all though, her monster lurked in her gaze. The beast of destruction that could give the Greek goddess Eris a run for her title… it was there just beneath the surface. She ached for chaos and yet she retreated.

Ten clicks of her heels, no more and no less. Ten measured steps backwards, bringing her near the Puppeteer. Her voice purred out a sirens lullaby this time, more than charming towards the one that served her. “Maybe nothing as refined as our current attire, but it shouldn’t be at all a challenge for one possessing such skills.” She cut her eyes towards the Puppeteer, resisting the urge to reach out and drag her nails along his coat. It was just a minor compulsion, something to offset her compliment. The sooner he took care of Kouichi’s clothing, the better. Then they could really be off enjoying the night, preferably wreaking a little havoc along the way. For now she would wait, quietly watching the Puppeteer and his brand new doll.

An uproarious laugh split the Puppeteer's lips when the youth made his demands. He could not contain himself, the absurdity of it striking a comical nerve in him, and he nearly doubled over, hands clasping the top of his cane. "Perhaps things have changed in this age, but in my day, hostages did not make demands of their captors," he mused over a few final chuckles he straightened his back. Kalika's compliance was enough to sober the Puppeteer and with a somber nod, he prepared for the task of dressing the spark-maker. Brown eyes, hooded by lowered lids, scrutinized the youth where he stood, though the Puppeteer was moving, approaching him and stepping into the space that Kalika had been forced to abandon. He stopped only a few steps in front of the boy and locked eyes with him. It was a statement, simple and sure: She may have given her word but I am still free to do as I wish.

The Puppeteer raised his hand aloft, palm and fingers flat, as if he prepared to strike the young man with a hard smack. The blow never came. The demon spread his fingers out and summoned his strings to swirl around his victim. The boy's clothing rent apart, leaving him, for the barest of instants, exposed to the chill of the night. It was another reminder, subtle but certain, that he was in the thrall of the two preternatural companions, and that he was vulnerable to them and their power. It lasted only half a heartbeat before the Puppeteer dressed the youth in a sharp suit the gray of dark, brooding storm clouds. Thin blue pinstripes dribbled down fabric like rain. Just under the left breast pocket, the Puppeteer stitched calligraphy, the paired symbols that formed lightning or Inazuma in the boy's tongue. The embroidery was azure thread, an electric blue that shimmered like static sparks in even the faintest of lighting.

Just as his own suit was not enough to keep the cold at bay on that dark night, the Puppeteer knew he would have to garb the boy in a long coat. He let a few seconds pass so his mistress could admire his work, though it was simple in its design, before covering it with a plain long coat that was a gray a few shades darker than the pants and suit jacket. The Puppeteer's hand fell to his side as he examined his handiwork--though he hardly needed to, his workmanship was the best and he needed no reassurance of its quality.

The Puppeteer gesticulated towards the town and the tavern hidden from their view by its neighbors. "Shall we continue?" his words carried on a frosty breath. "Or can you think of any more reasons to delay us, Kalika?" There was a hint of challenge in his baritone as his eyes flashed to the Unseelie.

Either he had grown accustom to Kalika's way of playing with her food, or the last two encounters had truly driven Kouichi down a dark path once more. Her teasing antics were merely a game. One that he was learning to enjoy. "Oh Kalika-san. You have me there. Yet remember our first meeting?" He chuckled. As though it was a pleasant memory for him. Yet this only lasted tenths of a second. Kalika withdrawing had been the sign of a sealed deal.

His attention turned to the man of thread. How angry this man seemed, and when had he become a hostage? Yet when Kouichi had finally thought of a way to ask the tailor what the source was, the new clothing had begin to be made. This display of mastery over thread and a keen eye for detail. A breath taking experience. A deadly art none the less. By the end of the show, Kouichi finally caught on. The grin slid into a wicked smirk.

"Hostage?" With a short burst of laughter Kouichi nodded, finally understanding what was just said. "You have it wrong. I merely get a thrill out of Kalika-san. If she wasn't always aiming for the head, in a metaphoical way, I might say she was my friend." With that said, He shifted the collar a bit. As if adjusting to the feel.

Picking a thin leather strap from his all season jacket. Kouichi slid the leather through a small leather loop attached to the wakizashi sheath. Then tied the strap around his waist under the new coat. It was a very comfortable feel for new clothes. "Lead the way." Imitating an English bow the best he could.