``where>I___o.n.c.e[DIED]•••bane•••

[riten miyam]

•RITEN MIYAM•

He couldn't handle this for much longer; it was a sickness in his blood, a disease which had been rooted in his brain for 22 years. 22 years of torment. 22 years of wanting something he would never be able to hold between his hands again. 22 years of desire, of longing unrequited. 22 years of fucking hell and Riten hadn't grown up the forgiving sort. No, there was nothing left of the laughing boy he had once been, nothing left of those sparkling innocent eyes, nor the utter contentment in hopping from rock to rock, herding goats that bleeped at him in encouragement. It took 22 days for the scourge to reach the little town of his childhood. It took 22 hours for him and his family to be held accountable and strung up on the gallows for punishment. It took, exactly, 22 seconds for him to break free of the cage of his youth and to pour out the lethal, intoxicating green power that oozed out from between his very pores when the Ley line responded to his heart's desire. It took, exactly, 22 seconds to kill everyone. His parents, his sisters, his brothers, his tormentors, his home. Himself. And then it took 22 years for him to get back on his feet, but in those 22 years he had restitched himself in a way that made him lopsided.

Riten's brain was messed up inside, locking onto one thought and unable to release it's obsession over it. He had become too focused on the hate, too focused on anything put before him. Anything that came after was white noise, not to be bothered. It was unfortunate that vengeance and killing had been his rebirth into the world. Indeed, indeed. Burn out, burn out, and he dreamt of fire, of the dry heat that licked up his spine, warmed his very blood to a boiling song. He had tasted of power, and wanted more of it.

To be denied had nearly crushed the young boy's heart until nothing but the ashes of his hate had remained. Nothing but the killer, the quiet, detestable creature which could not find himself aligned with anyone. Witches could burn in the fire of their power for all that he cared. As long as they suffered, and they suffered well. As long as their blood pooled out from between their hands, and they lost everything that meant anything to them. As long as the strings of support were slowly, inevitably cut free from the tapestry of their lives. As long as they died knowing how utterly fucking alone they were. As long as they knew what it felt like to be him. To be Riten. Riten E. Miyam.

Riten of the shadows, of the deadly daggers, of the deadly dalliances. He would put himself in danger as long as he was in motion, as long as he was submerged up to the eyeballs in the visceral beasts that resided in everyone's soul. Even the Magistrates. Especially the Magistrates'. A grim little smile turned the corner of his mouth as he lifted his pooling dark gaze upward, the pupil contracted to a little pinprick of silence. Endless seas seemed to be the euphoric aftermath of too much emotion held in check, held back from the mirrors of his reflective eyes. Saw too much, said too little, but he had ever had the knack of disassociating with the world.

36 years old, with the vitality of a 25 year old and he could only smile, could only shift his chin ever so slightly in a baleful, blatant mockery of everything living. Let the others cringe inwardly: he could no longer dredge up even the slightest bit of interest. Nothing but the awful amusement, the endless quest for feeling. For knowing that he was indeed, still alive ---- that he had a purpose.

Mercy is a weakness, and it was as if the Citadel's motto was carved into his very own chest, scouring the bone beneath the red flowing flesh. He would be great one day. Though he had no real power -- nothing but the hot fiery dreams, pyretic tendrils that stimulated his mind and made him imagine a world where the power was only his to command. He could scheme as much as he might, could bury himself in the very source of the Ley line, and yet Riten knew with a terrible, cold knowledge, that it would be dead to him. It wouldn't even acknowledge his existence in this world -- so where did he turn when all he saw was bitterness and outrage? When he could no longer find in himself the patience to deal with the idiocy of the newly young, with the familiarity and intimacy so blatant and obvious between Witch and their reflective Familiars?

The little, unobtrusive smile, blossomed, cracked open in a narrow, crooked smirk. Muscles rearranged themselves, stiff on the flatness of his skull, between the shadows which played tag along the contours there. Sleep was not important. Not anymore.Only the motion, only the vitality of true men, living in a true world. Let magic die, for all he cared. Yes, let magic die.

Then he wouldn't have much more to prove. Fingers playing with a pair of dice in his hands, he slipped through the werewolf barracks and nodded his head absently at one of the more ... endowed Weres among the lot. The General and his Second were no where to be found, but then, Riten had always had a bit of a rough patch with the pair. Better they were gone, better they remained gone. His hand moved, wrists turned, and the jingling sound of dice rattling in his hands drew attention, drew eyes, and even the inevitable snarl. Black, dark eyes -- and he the only Witch in here. Not much of a Witch, alone as he was. Oh well, oh well, the world would soon see justice. He'd see to that.

"Anyone get their paycheck recently?" he called, rolling his wrist, his hand, the dice tumbling tumbling, tumbling. so nice this sound, this safe sound. This chance. What a risk, to play with the hot temperaments of the werewolves, but then no one had ever accused Riten of being calm and calculative. No, if he had ever had the inclination for such things, they had been burned away.

Burn, baby, burn, and in the back of his head he imagined the silhouette of flames.

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word count;; 1082
tags;; Bane
OOC;; eh, it's crap.

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[bane alberio]

He pushed his way past the growing crowd gathered around the bar. He walked up to it, snapping his fingers at the were behind the counter. "Sam. Sam! Get me a drink." he called, as the bartender shook his head with a smile. "Yea, yea." He called back to Bane. Bane just shook his head at his friend and moved back through the crowd, to make his way closer to the end of the bar. As he gets there he reaches through to get his drink from his friend. "Cheers Sam." He says and turns to walk away. As he turns he comes into a face full of delibertely blown smoke.

He blinks it away, coughing a bit as he stares through it at another were, giving him a cheesy grin, knocking the ashes off his cigarette. "My bad, kid." says the older wolf, giving him the grin again. "...Yutz." Bane says as he moves past him. "What was that?" the were says as Bane moves past him. Bane cracks his famous smile as he turns to look at him. "I said..." he says as he rips the cigarette from the mans lips and stomps on it. "..those will kill you." He cocks his arm back, throwing punch into the ribs of the were, watching him drop to the ground. "Or maybe I will if you don't knock off this shit."

He turns on his heel and walks away from the man, leaving him on the floor, heading over to an empty table and sitting down. He sips his drink, looking around the room with a small sigh. It had been too long since his last mission, and he was getting restless. "God it's dull around he-" he starts to say as his ears pick up a small rattling sound. "Hmm....what's this now.." He turns in his chair, watching an interesting looking human walking through door leading into the barrack. "Hmmm...who's this now?" he wonders.

He watches the man's hand shake around, hearing the dice roll around inside them. He eyes this man up, looking him over, unable to shake this almost palpable aura around him. He possessed and aura of absolute chaos. Of someone who wouldn't slow down until he was dead. He hears the man call out about money, looking into the sea of weres, most with short tempers. Some of them were already on their feet, but not to play a game with the man.

He stands up quickly, knocking his chair back, and downing his drink in one shot. "Yea. I got some cash" Bane says loudly, drawing their attention. He pulls a roll of bills from his jacket and holds it up to the man. He walks over, sliding a chair out with his foot, spinning it around, and sitting. He moves up close to the table, motioning for the man to sit. "What's the game?" he asks

[riten miyam]

•RITEN MIYAM•

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The dice rattle in his fist, jar the very bones holding up his lanky frame up. He is a skeleton, a puppet fueled by the darker things: hungry for vengeance, for a twisted sense of justice which has warped so far from the path of the righteous. He is nothing, no one; a mask that has crumbled to the floor to reveal only vast emptiness behind. A goon, a weapon discarded for it's flaws. He is no one important, and will never be, though perhaps that in itself galls him, goads him to action, to motion when the rest of his body would sink into a lethargy so great that death would cradle and cast him down. Cast him down like the die, to see which side landed facing up, which number spoke the riddle to his soul. North, South, East, West, and Riten torn in twain, drawn and quartered, flung to the four corners of the Greater and Lesser Isles. He is displaced by his mere existence, and his failure to hold the power between his hands, so why does he flee toward the werewolves, equally magical, equally cruel, equally volatile?

Does he search for a place in which his own monstrous self can thrive in peace; where he can show his true colors without the bitterness of viewing true magic at work, of knowing that there are things which are out of his control, unattainable through sheer desire. He dreams of fire, of heat, but lives a cold, dismal life -- the only heat which truly exists in this nonexistence is the blood which he sheds, the sweat which pools on his skin; but that is then, and later, and he is in the purely now, dallying between the world of wolves, and the realm of death. They rise, angered by his audacity, though for certain they have grown used to his presence, if not the reason behind it. Does he pity them, perhaps? Are they goaded into anger because of this? Or is there something else beneath the surface that their sensitive noses can pinpoint, that their other-senses pick up? Not danger, surely, from such a slip of a man.

Riten only smiles at the Werewolf which had singled himself out, rising, draining his cup. So flamboyant, so melodramatic, and the creativity in his own senses of flare are rising, to meet this stranger's eagerness with his own. A strange mixture f or sure, for there is no certainty that they will ever get along, but still the one responds instinctively to the other, and Riten is smitten by the smile, by the danger. Yes, let the danger commence, let the tempers rise, and rise -- it was what he had craved all along, after all: this tight-wired walk of life and limb. Would he finally lose, or would luck continue to kiss him on the mouth and destroy others who dared to block his view. Wheat-blond hair, darkened at the roots seem to shift of their own volition, obscuring the pale coloring of dusk in his eyes; slanted cat-eyes, like the Chesire cat that rolls and rolls, laughs when there is no reason to do so. Between between the heavy slab of reality, and the shifting, coiling vines of his madness, Riten plays a dangerous game by merely breathing, by merely refusing to die after 22 years of his vulgar youth.

Lips quick, teeth flash and he's kicked the chair that had fallen, swiveling it around to sit upon it backward, tilting it forward to balance on two legs instead of the four; thick heavy boots, black and mud-caked seem to resonate with the very floor boards where he steps, where he holds himself in languid ease -- but for the mild case of danger which plays in the very subtle strength of his languorous limbs. In physical strength he is no match for the werewolves, and never will be, for his frame was not meant for bulk; but he had cunning on his side, and werewolves were rarely accused of being intelligent. So he judges himself self, when perhaps it is but mere folly that gives him this sudden air of confidence, or perhaps it is the madness that has ever blackened his blood to a cool, aching sludge.

Wrists flicking, Riten calls for a drink, his dark eyes like deviled coal, sparkling with a certain amusement, a certain mischief just waiting to be let loose, and the dice roll, roll, tumble over each other, bouncing over the hard creases of wood to land, so perfectly. Snake eyes, double ones, and his one brow rises, lips turning ever so cunningly at the edges. "Heaven and Nine, my friend." he says, voice slightly muffled as he turns his head and beckons other to join. Two more sit, others turning a blind, if disparaging eye on them. Then his voice lifts, turns deliciously mischievous as he says, taking his drink, "6-6, Heaven, 1-1, Earth, 4-4, Man, 3-1, Harmony, 5-5, Plump flowers, 3-3, Long threes, 2-2, Bench, 6-5 Tiger's head," and he winks at one of the female weres standing in the corner before continuing on without missing a beat, "6-4 Red-Head Ten, 6-1, Long Leg Seven, 5-1, Red Mallet Six, 5-4, Nines." He leans forward, scoops up the dice in his bony narrow hands and rattles them soothingly in his palm. "Place your bets, dealer rotates to the left, whoever deals, rolls the dice once. Heaven or Nine, dealer automatically wins, Red Mallet Six, and he loses. Anywhere in between and it's up the rest of us to get the higher rank. The higher the rank, well, you get the idea. You'll lose your money to me one way or another," and he grinned, self-deprecatingly as he lifted his mug, took a gulp, and eyed the werewolf across from him.

"By the way, before I steal all your cash, what's your name? Don't think I've seen you around here, much."

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word count;; 992
tags;; Bane
OOC;; lol if you want, we can even play xD

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[bane alberio]

His eyes flick, ever in motion as he watches this absurd little man take life into a gamble, seemingly trying to piss of the weres in the barrack. He didn't know why, and how could he. How could he know what this once boy, now grown and twisted man-beast, had ever done or gone through. What he did know, was what years of killing people and simply being his oh so love-able, over attention to detail paying, neurotic self.

His eyes drawn as this man sits, leaning forward on the none to stable chairs, legs creaking, begging to be taken away and send him crashing to the floor. It seemed everything this man did, even sitting, he tried to turn into a bet or a challange. In one way Bane respected this, having been goaded into bets, dares, or situations from either pride or foolishness. However, the way this man did it, the way he held himself, just didn't sit right with him. This man, twisted, and seemingly crazy as he was, surely had some justifyable reason to do this.

One thing he couldn't get over was simply the way he did it. His reasons his own, he pushed. His personality, his very self, pushed and taunted at that of others, with not so much as an eyelash batted from this man. He could sense it, almost feel this man's aura if you will, push against him, trying to get a rise out of him. He shifts in his chair as the two others join them at the table. He looks at the two, a small chuckle in his mind as he shakes his head internally. A worse two couldn't have sat down at this table.

He didn't need to roll, see this man roll, or even bet, to know this man would win, either some, or all of their money. At the first sign he did, one of them would surely lose temper and try to harm this man, or something of the like. Although, in his heart, he almost was wishing for this to happen. He didn't want to fight this man, no. He didn't want to hurt him, but he felt as if this man had come in, simply wanting a fight. Stare at and study this man as he might, he couldn't for the life of him tell what danger this man possessed. It was there, to be sure. Like disease in swamp, there was a threat in this man. He wanted, maybe even needed to know if he was right. He wanted to know what this man could do.

He watches as the man cracks a wide, crooked grin and begins to explain this game. He'd never heard of it, but was actually a bit excited to play. He watched the man, as he gestured or didn't, and how he moved. Throughout his speech it was there. That look. That damned look in his eye. Bane knew it well. Just about every single witch he'd even known had that look. He'd be willing to wager humans used to hold that look over weres too. That fucking look of superiority. That little twinkle of the eye that without words, spits in your face and tells you: "I'm better than you." Knowing what he did about this man so far, and what he knew of witches in general, this look meant. "You're dumb, and i'm not."

Bane did his best to keep his cool, as a mercenary, it meant the difference from being able to kill the target, and giving yourself away from 50 yards. However,...Bane had a bit of a temper. He was used to being made fun of, mostly by other weres rather than witches. He'd always been more an intellectual than a brute, like 99% of the other weres. He also had a tendency to, at the very least, attempt to think rationally, rather than jump to anger, as was standard for most weres. However, being made fun of did something to him, got under his skin. Especially when he felt it was from someone who has no reason to think they're allowed to. This witch didn't know him, but he cast that look, and held it on him.

He eyes this man as he finishes his speech of the game. He shifts in his seat again, eyes resettling on this man's face. "It's Bane. Bane Alberio. And no, no you wouldn't of seen me around here. I'm usually off working. Unlike some people..." he says with a gaze cast at the were to his right. The were snorts and shakes a hand at him. "I like the sound of your game, and i'm happy to play. But, and at the risk of sounding rude, I'd suggest you take it down a notch sir, lest something....less savory happen here." He makes a sweeping gesture at the table. "I mean, I don't want to cause any trouble, and I'm sure my friends here don't. And i'm positive you'd hate for things to get rowdy and have to blast us all to bits with your magic, as i'm sure you've got plenty." Bane says, his eyes not leaving the mans.

He didn't doubt the man knew what he'd meant, but he did wonder how he'd react. He'd been able to smell it, or not smell it, as the matter at hand presented, since he'd walked in. It was common knowledge that any witch worth his salt could sense a were in human form from a safe distance. Also that any were blasted by enough magic, or with just keen enough senses, could smell magic, at least to some degree. Bane had been blasted, burned, singed, frozen, shocked, and god knows more times than he knew how to count to. He could smell that terribbly familiar smell of magic from a reasonable distance. This man stalked in, and just...didn't smell. Once he was closer Bane was sure he could smell something, but it wasn't that smell of magic. Magic was...to whatever degree, alive. It moved, flowed, and it's scent gave it away as such. This man...smelled as if magic had once been there...and had now..rotted. It was the smell of stale magic. He didn't know how, or why, but he doubted this man could blast a were to save his life, which very soon, he may bring himself to have to do.

word count: 1061 *is proud*

tags: Riten

OOC: I'm proud of hitting 1061. I tried to do well on this one. Hope you approve. ~_~

[riten miyam]

•RITEN MIYAM•

The dice rolled and rolled in his head, seeming to knock around the edges of his skull. Always blank, always blank, and it angered him, this tease, this thing which he sought to do, and failed. So terribly. So awfully --------- it was the one thing that Riten could not stand: unable to prove he was worth being alive. He deserved to be where he was, regardless of the rot in his brain, regardless of the cracks of mold which made thought so much more difficult for him than the other Witches. He wasn't smart, not at all, but that didn't mean shit to him. You didn't need to be smart to slide a knife across a Witch's throat; you didn't need to be smart to be able to dodge an oncoming weapon, to smother a witch until even the Familiar was having trouble existing.

It didn't take intelligence to corrupt, to destroy the very living energy that the Familiars lived on -- destroy them with a word spoken, a cry that broke the Witch's mind. It was his specialty, and perhaps the only true reason they kept the faithless loose cannon around. He was very good at what he did: the prisoners went into his keeping, listened to his voice for hours and hours, to his talk, to his manners, spoke to them as human beings, and slowly, ever so slowly, destroyed what good was left in their hearts until even the Familiar could no longer sustain themselves and vanished. What horror to know that you were no longer pure, that you were just like them -- it was a beautiful feeling, a beautiful artform to behold, and Riten had quickly gotten the handle on it. But these dice, these chances were another thing. He could not stand the sight of a Witch he could not kill -- and because of the way the world was now working, he must hold himself in a world where they overran the very earth he walked. So he escaped -- found himself buried in fur and snarls, and a rage as maniacal as the anger in his own heart, his own bruised, broken, rotten heart. The knot under his chest seemed to throb while he stared at the other werewolves, feeling only the slightest spark of envy for this lot --- it was magic for sure, but not magic as he had ever known it, and the bitterness did not bite as hard to see it.

Sure, they could shift at a moment's notice, but Riten had a certain knack for knowing when to get the hell out of the line of fire --- some called him a coward, others worse, uglier things. To Riten though, who knew the twenty-two years of hell like a lover caressing his flesh, he knew only the truth. There was no other way for him to be. His mind had been fixed the moment the fire had burned through his mental capacities, straining his ability to hold the liquid green in his hands, destroying the ability to hold it again. An empty vessel. A broken glass.

The dice rolled, rolled, rolled --- his head filled with numbers, with ideas as fathomless as the darkest depths of the ocean, and yet he could not grasp them, could not count the numbers. Again and again they came up blank. So he did the only thing he could do: he smiled. A smirk tugged up the corner of his mouth, held there in a certainty that perhaps he had never known, and would never truly know. What safety was there for him? Nothing less than a human by many standards. Stupid enough to waste his powers on the inevitable. A knife in their face if they ever spoke it aloud, but it was there between the lines, between the puckering muscles of lips, and the twitching of cheeks as smothered laughs followed him down the hall. What a freak to know burnout capable of movement, too dumb to remain dead.

What life was there in a magic-less man living in a magical world?

He would sneer had he been able to; It's Bane. Bane Alberio. And no, no you wouldn't of seen me aro..... ---- the rest faded as disinterest quickly discolored the dark flatness of his coal-colored eyes. The smile was ready, the mask lifted up so he stared at them all through burning holes of shadows. Nothing left but an animal, brutal and bitter to the core. What did he have need of magic? He was fine on his own -- opened his mouth to say as much with that sort of daring gleam in his eyes when the other continued ---- And i'm positive you'd hate for things to get rowdy and have to blast us all to bits with your magic, as i'm sure you've got plenty.

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There is nothing like anger born of surprise, of bitterness that has run afoul of the blood and poisoned it's red lovely flow into nothing less than black sludge. He was the sludge, the ugly mortar that stuck like coagulants in his veins, burned him with the revolting tide of helpless rage. blast us all to bits -- yes, yes, he would -- -and his eyes darkened, his mouth tightened, the warmth, the liveliness disappearing beneath the mask. Shattered to the floor in metaphorical bits, he remained, as living stone, as ugly sin. blast us all to bits, and the rage was slowly building, working it's way through his bones, his muscles, his blades feeling heavier, hot, like metal melting near the furnace. So hot, like flames --- like the flames of lost power, of a memory that felt like it was but a few hours ago. The heat, the licking green flames of power. He raged and raged and in stillness, in cold, brutal stillness he stared at the werewolf. The nerve was stroked to life, played with such a perfect touch -- a harpist running her fingers over the strings, knowing the sounds for what they were: keys to life.

And so it was that his life unraveled, that the beasts before him faded, nothing but the one before him, the one ever before him, mocking him like the others, denying him his existence. He had dared, and the dare had come, but not in the manner of his choosing --- and if Riten was anything, it was desperate for that control. He needed it, to know how to live without fear. The fear merely fed it, made his tongue feel as if it were lead. The dice rattled, slid from his hand to tumble along the table, rolling, rolling, landing. 4-4.

Man.

Powerless, useless. Trash. The rage was always just a step out of sight, but not it was up against his back, his front, engulfing him, as his words came out, dripping poison, a rage as quiet as it was deadly though it shone like fatal stones burning holes into his sockets. "Have a care, Bane Alberio. " Jaw writhing in tension, he dug into his pockets and removed a four golden coins, letting them fall from his fingers. "Your bets gentlemen."
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word count;; 1200
tags;; Bane
OOC;; holy crap! O.O That was an awesome jab xD

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[bane alberio]

He watches again, almost able to feel the anger coming off of this man. He knew now, without the farthest shadow of a doubt, that his words rang true. That his point had hit home, soared dead on. This man, twisted and broken as he was, suddenly seemed more dangerous. The odd almost silent nature seemed to burn away, revealing the evil rotted underside, which was almost a bit frightening. He watched the man tense, and almost seize right up. His eyes flick, watching every twitch of his lips, move of his hands, and twist of his body

He stares as the anger rages through this man, morphing him into whatever it was he became that left him alive through whatever he'd come through to make it to this day. He looks as the man, able to see through his eyes as something raced through his brain. Then the dice fell, and he watched them too. Watched as they clattered and spun, eventually falling on double 4's. The Man option. He saw as the man shook, fought with himself, to keep his face from contorting into something Bane could only figure at a snarl.

This couldn't have been more perfect, or more potentially flawed. The man option was the best thing Bane could hope for. The sheer force of the die landing the way they had, coupled with the comment he'd made, he knew this man's mind must have been one hair from exploding. He hoped, that this would send the man into a right state of mind, letting him clear his thoughts and leave, just leave with himself intact.

He slides a bit in his chair, lifting his head, moving the hair on his head away, he looks around, at the men and at Riten. He had no idea what he'd do. No idea at all, but he was still hoping to avoid having to kill this man if he could. Killing was what he did for a living, but it didn't mean he would kill any innocent who looked at him. He'd killed "innocents" before, yes, but people he'd deemed deserving. Never just some person who maybe made one bad choice. This man had something about him, he'd obviously committed evil things, more than once.

He stares at them man as the rest of the game group turn their heads, looking at the dice. They think nothing of it, pulling out money and tossing it on the table, making their bets. Bane stares at the man. unsure of what to do, of what will become of this situation. He licks his lips, re-fingering the money he'd flashed earlier. He slowly draws it out and places it on the table.

"If you're still willing to play then..." he says with a look up at the man. "..then i guess i'll bet on seven." He puts his money down and sits back, crossing his arms and holding the gaze of the man, ready, and more than waiting on his next move.

[riten miyam]

•RITEN MIYAM•

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He didn't lack for hate in his life; it was a bitterness that he had always had as a companion. It was the darkness that swirled in the black pits of his face, the slanted, strangely amused imperfections that graced the corner of eyelash where it meets cheek. He was flawed, terribly, vulnerably flawed, and he could not stand to be examined so thoroughly, could not hold back the desperate anger to prove what could never be proved: that he was worth something. It was a child's plea, this desire to show them, a mentality that he had never grown out of, and probably never would.

To some, he was impossibly juvenile -- and they ignored him for it. To others, he was the mystery, but Riten was walking a delicate road, his feet touching upon a path he barely understood, but instinctively reached for. Stuck between the longings and desires of the boy-child he had been, he had been stretched thin and hollowed out, filled up with the disastrous administrations of the Coventry that had turned him ugly. The desperation was the same, but now it had a purpose, a flow that had been carved out by other hands. He truly was a dog. More than the werewolves, more than the slaves -- more than the provincial witches trying to remain out of the fight: he was the dog, the creature on the tight leash that did not even realize it. They watched him, he felt, and the paranoia was something that nearly undid him, made it nearly impossible for him to exist without that wary energy that crackled along his fingers, his shoulders, made him unbearable to be near.

Bane had thought him dangerous -- and it was true in it's own way, for there was nothing more dangerous than a creature that bit at the very hand that fed it, bathed it, kept it alive. He had no loyalty, could not fathom a world where love held a heart so fiercely in it's hands. Even hate, though it was a real emotion he understood, though it was the sole thing that warmed his cold bed at night, did not make much sense. Vengeance? He had wanted vengeance, had become tied to a path of obsession, and left to wander with that chain on his heart, with another around his neck, leading inevitably to the Coventry's hands, Riten had become stuck in twain.

There was nothing less intense than his gaze when he met Bane's look, or the way in which he had smiled in response, though there was nothing happy in his disposition. Anger was so close to exploding, the leash fraying at the edges as the dog snapped and snarled, frothing at the mouth. The madness was right within reach, and it was an addictive high, a disastrous calling to his fractured soul: to hold that relief in his hands, in his heart, to feel it drizzling down his skin would be a freedom he rarely felt. He could hunt, and almost as good as any werewolf, but that instant of wholeness was something he would kill for -- and he did. With passion he barely felt, but with the sleazy cold slime of an addict in need of his next high.

He was cold, dead embers of passion parading as pretense on his features. The anger was real though. It was the only thing that was real anymore. Did he fear the werewolves? In a rational part of his mind, he should have, and might have, but he was never rational, never the intelligent one -- instead he fed himself on the crumbs of his insanity, fattening his ego with the confidence that comes with irrational strength.

What was there left for a man with nothing to lose? He would fight like a tiger, like a storm, unleashing the meager power in his sinuous body. What harm could he do to a werewolf that could tower over him, overpower him, outmaneuver him? This type of physicality outmatched him a hundred-fold and yet he could have laughed at the warning, at the pitance in the other man's look as he stared at him, eyes moving from the dice sitting in their awful declaration. Yes, a man, but a man with nothing to lose was more dangerous than ten soldiers. Perhaps even than one werewolf who didn't, at the heart of himself, want to fight. The others, insignificant now, remerged in his tunnel vision, disrupting the regard, and played their hand.

Even Bane, held himself with a certain lazy confidence; he would do his job, it was written in his face, in the lines of his shoulders -- but who had ever told him to kill a burnout Witch? Riten grinned suddenly, his face breaking out in a sinister sort of twist, his pupils shrinking as he passed the dice with a little flick of his wrist. Effeminate, they thought him -- well so was a snake, and many fell in fear at their passing. Eventually, Riten vowed, they would do the same at his passing.

Eventually the world will bow down to him.

The sickness of his soul regurgitated memories of a youth of brightness, tearing it apart as the flames of his torment burned them to ashes, as black and sinister as the charred remains of his own empty husk. He lived, and the madness had begun to pick him apart. "How delightful," he murmurs around the sound of voices beginning to part the veils of his mind. Would they ever emerge, or remain as whispers, as a whitenoise in the back of his head? Which was the more dangerous, and which would be the victim?

His smile didn't so much as alter, but a line of muscles in his cheek must have moved to give him a darker, feverish cast. In silence, he waited. In silence, he lived. For now, for now, and even Riten wasn't sure if that was his own voice, or another's.

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word count;; 1003
tags;; Bane
OOC;; w00t w00t. I didn't know if I could reply, but once I opened up notepad he was all 'asiofisdjfodsjfsdfoidjfroleplaymebitchdsofijsdoifjsodifjsodijf XD

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[bane alberio]

This man had it, if Bane could ever really sense it. He had that spark of evil that plunged like an icy dagger, straight down, into the soul. Every fiber of this man was bathed in black slime. His very breath should have been able to wilt the Earth. In this man's presence he felt it, that feeling of would be dread that could more than likely drive a regular person insane without the slightest attempt. Bane knew that this man was feeling something from Bane too, he had no idea what exactly he was able to pick up on, but he was counting on himself to be smarter, faster than this man, for the growing knot in his stomach told him that he would need it.

He eyes this man as once more, without any trace of actual movement, this man's body seemed to curl, almost flicker. He seemed to wrap up around himself, to fold inwardly again and again into something not remotely human. The aura of darkness around him seemed to thicken as he stared at Bane, contemplated God only knew as he stared away. His eyes. That was what it was. His eyes. The eyes of a predator coming from a form such as this man, it was unthinkable. Bane's eyes were their own special things, but this man's eyes. As bleak, beady, and dark as they were, they seemed to almost pulse with evil.

Bane felt it, knew it in his own soul that his first stab at the man had hit. It had hit, driven deep, and stung at this man. It seemed, however, to do little more than fuel the demonic fire that burned to keep this shell of a person in motion. His eyes seemed to shrink, but the force of their gaze was almost enough to want to make Bane turn away. If looks could kill, huh? He held the man's gaze though, made himself stare this man down.

He knew it now, from this look, that he had been right all along. This man, despite his almost flamboyant attitude when he'd entered, had never had any intention of coming in here to gamble. He had no idea what the man actually wanted, but it wasn't as simple as their money. He wanted something, that perhaps even he didn't know he wanted. Bane looked over at the men on his sides that laid out money and placed bets, and had no damn clue what this man could, and maybe wanted to do to them.

Bane's eyes flicked around inside his head, his gaze falling on the man, these wolves, the money, the dice. He looked at everything around him, his brain racing. He knew this man was close, a hair separating this man from snapping and unleashing what ever his skinny frame held back from spilling out into this world. Bane had pushed this man in an attempt at making him back down, and for now it had not worked. Bane needed something, he needed to get this man out, away, stop him from hurting these people who didn't deserve it. He thought, mind racing. He'd beaten them before. Beaten witches. Killed witches. Watched them die. Saw their....That was it, he had something, clutched to it, clung, praying that it would be enough to drive this man away from here.

"Wait!" he says as the men make bets, the dice being passed to the man on Bane's right, since he was between him and Riten and to Riten's left. He reaches over to the man and takes the dice from his hands and holds them out to the table. He rolls the dice around in his hands, swirling them through his fingers. He rolls them slowly into his hand, watching the numbers fall. "Heh, sorry." he says. "Before anyone bet I just had to check that the dice weren't loaded. Wouldn't want anyone to cheat, am I right?" He asks with a chuckle, elbowing the man he'd taken the dice from.

His eyes shift up to Riten and hold his gaze as he reaches the dice back out to the man on his right. "Oh wait....." he says, curling his wrist, keeping the dice taken back from the man. "I just remembered.. Now of course, mr witch, you could use your magic to cheat, however, sitting at a table of weres, surely one of us would notice if you chanted a spell or such to help yourself win. However.." he says his eyes locked onto Riten, if possible pushing with all his mental might, trying to push Riten away and out of the barrack.

"..that wouldn't stop someone else from cheating for you, right? Like say...your familiar?" He says, putting heavy emphasis on the last word. He looks at the weres then back at Riten. "I mean, after all, this is a friendly game between men. We wouldn't care if we lost and it was fair, I mean that's why they call it gambling right? But we wouldn't want your familiar cheating for you. That would make us all pretty pissed I'd say. So i'll tell you what. You just produce your familiar, you know, make him or her show up here. If you can produce it and have them stay here, where we can see them, then i'm sure we'd all be satisfied that it was a nice fair game, right?" He asks, recieving nods from the other wolves. "So, mr. witch, would you care to bring in that familiar of yours? Of course the choice is up to you. You can prove you're not a cheat, or you can go, because i assure you, no one here wants a cheater."

Bane swallows once more after he finishes, taking a sip of his drink. His eyes stayed frozen, locked in place on Riten, knowing that the next move had to come from him. His first jab had hit, he could only hope his second on would land as well as the first. His mind told him he'd done well, but his gut couldn't shake the feeling that it wouldn't be enough. As he spoke his hand, hidden from all sight by the table, had slid down his leg, into the holster he kept his pistol in. He slowly slid it into his lap, praying he wouldn't need to use it in the next few seconds, or if he had it his way, not at all today.

Word Count:

1070. Boom, new personal best by 9 lol xD [/right]

tags:

Riten ......burrito too cause i want one right now [/right]

OOC: Proud of the length, and I think i did good. I thought it'd be more....awesome, cause i was excited when i came up with the idea, but eh... I hope it gets your approval

[/right]

[riten miyam]

+ RITEN E. MIYAM+
•••CALL ME RITEN•••

I'm sick of letting you control the places that I go
I'm never giving into you again;
Take another look at me, and tell me what you see
All of these cats tryin' to get under my skin,
but they can't step over me.

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[/CENTER]

What had already happened had never mattered to Riten -- only the one point, as brilliant as a torch in the ubiquitous dark. Yes, yes, only that one, that heat, that perfection. There was only that memory, when the others turned to dust and left him to ponder night and day on the path of his life. So many years, so much hell and yet he was here, and they were here, and it was as simple as that. He lived among the the variations of simplicity, taking the reins of control to soothe the inner paranoia, to soothe the grating, chafing wounds of the leash's bite around his neck. A dog, yes, a dog, and yet he was more than this werewolf, more than anyone ever living. He was a burnout, destroying those around him, enjoying the sickness in his blood, the sickness in his eyes and was congratulated for it. Did anyone see this? Did they know, as he passed, that they celebrated in the path of his destruction? He lifted his hand, destroyed those around him, forced their hands to tip in his favor, and yet they applauded, fed the anger, the rage, the independence. No wonder he bit that those hands, bit at anyone who sought to help him, to prove to him he was not alone.

What fuckers. Of course he was alone -- it was evident in the way their eyes slid to the side to meet their companions. Burnout and living. By what right did he decide to live? No matter that it happened long before the fourteenth year, no matter that it was forced on him. He had murdered in hot blood, yes, yes, hot blood, such delicious hot blood that poured over his hands, turned his eyes a different shade so that he saw through a shade of red. Yes, yes, red rain, and the sheer memory of that flame, of that heat was an awesome thing. Oh gods -- he suppresed the shudder, suppressed the humor, the disdain, the utter disregard for the threat the werewolves possessed. When you had already died once, death no long held the same thrall. Nothing to lose, we had mentioned it once, and we're mentioning it again, right now, right here, with his lips pressed together in a cynical sort of smile. Let the other play at a game he barely understood, let the others follow in their mindless way, but let him, yes, yes, let him be the one who saw true.

It didn't matter that Riten was a little delusional and his vision was often skewed toward danger, toward bloodshed. It didn't matter at all. The smile held it's place, as the others joined in, as his voice carried out. What in his face must have shown to put such a wariness in Bane's? He ached to know, wanted to know, to see the reflection, to watch the lips turn, the eyebrows to twitch. What play danced before him in such a sweet succession that caused such a reaction in a werewolf? Did he fear him? Ha, ha, how fucking amazing would that be?

The idea was one that pleased him to no end, only encouraged him when perhaps Bane's thoughts were in the opposite direction. But the werewolves desires didn't matter to Riten at all. Incapable of sympathy if it didn't revolve around himself, Riten leaned on one corner of the table, his wrist making a flamboyant turn as his chin landed on the edge, looking as smug as a cat, as a wolf that has finally caught up to the quarry. What game was this? He turned the thoughts over in his mind, but he had never been very intelligent and unable to guess at his enemy's and, only found himself greatly amused.

Oh, the anger had definitely hit him, for sure -- it was a subtle thing now, turning liquid as blood, seeping into the very marrow to stir him to action, but the confidence of madness was a great cushion against the odds which might be turning against him, for no reason at all. What had he done to offend? He wondered, wondered, came up blank and rocked back to all four of the chair's leg, turning a bemused sort of expression on the others, "Oh-ho-ho, what's this now? Cheating at dice?" A snort of irony -- a touch of anger lighting the embers of his cruel, hard rage. Yes, let the flames rise, let the dust of his heart stir itself to life and become yet another output for the energy -- but he had ever been a fan of baiting, and with no where to turn, he played the very hand he had been dealt.

If Riten was anything, it was adaptable when faced by potential danger. Obviously unworried, with a sort of wistful turn of his eyebrow, he tilted his chin up, leaning back in his chair as his bony fingers drummed against the hard edge of the table. The anger was there, yes, of course it was, but it was biding it's time -- if it was one thing Riten knew to do, it was to kill, and to destroy this wolf with one flick of his wrist would only produce his own death -- bitter he may be, but a death at the hands of a werewolf was not in his plans. I'll tell you what. You just produce your familiar, you know, make him or her show up here. If you can produce it and have them stay here, where we can see them, then I'm sure we'd all be satisfied that it was a nice fair game, right?

He laughed, then -- though the anger was growing, the rage blossoming in the heated lines of his veins, making him hot, so fucking hot. Blades itched -- blood, he wanted to draw this one's blood, to destroy those two-toned eyes that mocked him, tried to see into him for no reason. What had he done but be himself? Was it so wrong? But it was ever the same. Cocky to a fault, others grated wrongly on his skin and forced him to this hand. "You've forced yourself into a corner, my friend. I wanted to play at dice, but you seem to have other things in mind. Well you want to win, you're going to have to do better than that." A sinister lift of his eyebrow and his cat-slanted eyes seemed to narrow, to hone in on the prey within reach. For all that he preferred the werewolf company to those of the witches, it was not to be said that werewolf flesh didn't taste just as sweet beneath his blade. "If you know so much, why haven't you figured into your equation that you can't see a Familiar by sunlight?"

Rocking on the chair, moving it's weight on and off the floor, looking quite the little picture of mischief, Riten E. Miyam nearly purred, "Of course, if you can sniff her out, I'll do whatever you want." A chuckle, a joke gone flat for ignorance.

So brilliant this roll of the dice, this turn of the card -- the wolf had given him the keys to a very fun ride. Yes, yes indeed.

[/COLOR]

word count;; 1214
tags;; BANE!
OOC;; holy shit! Riten's muse exploded XD

[/SIZE]

[bane alberio]

Arrogance was a cold, cruel bitch of a mistress. This man had shown up, and from the moment he walked in, he permeated the air with his stink of evil. His every action, as clean and behaved as he had been wasn't enough to hide it from Bane. Bane had been through too much. He'd seen to much, done too much, killed too often, watched his world collapse around him to ever really just let anything go. This man's own sense of arrogance, of self-empowerment was as high as Bane's and the look he'd thrown at Bane proved it. It was that look that had started this whole thing. That and Bane's inability to let things go.

He watches as the man just sits, sits and smiles away at Bane's words. Bane sighs inwardly, knowing now that he tried, but his plan was not going to work. He could see it in this man's eyes, could feel it in his soul. This man talked of intentions of only playing dice, but he wanted oh so much more. He wanted pain and suffering to match the pain he felt. This man would hurt and most likely kill these people, and Bane didn't want that.

There was no doubt now that this man craved action, needed it so. He wanted nothing more than to break, rip, rend, shred flesh. Without a doubt he wanted it the most from Bane, the one who'd antagonized him. He doubted, however, that the man was able to see that it was an attempt at drawing him out of the barracks and away from innocents that Bane has poked and prodded so. He'd more likely see it as a were, being an asshole and a were. A personal insult directed at him, rather than the botched attempt at saving innocents.

He sighed a little, knowing that this game they were playing was coming to an end. This man had been pushed and now he was out for trouble, and Bane was in trouble. Bane licked his lips, looking up at the man. He sighs softly, mind racing to come out ahead in this new situation that he'd forced himself into. He slides his gun into a shallow pocket in his jacket, shifting himself a bit, readying for what's to come.

"Alright then......fine..." he says, taking a deep breath, staring this man down. "Find your familiar huh? Well then.."he says, leaning back, taking a deep breath through his nose. "Hmmm..familiar....familiar..." he leans back some more, inhaling deeply, taking in the scents of the room around him. "Well what do you know....nothing. Not a hint of magic." He gestures around him. "Any of these mercs worth a shit knows the smell of magic, and you don't have it." he says, pointing across the table at Riten.

"You stink, reek as it were. You smell of nothing more than self-hatred and stale magic. Yes, it's there, but long since passed. Like milk past it's prime. You've gone rotten!" Bane begins to yell, his own anger rising at how far this has slipped from the simple solution he had wanted. "Your stale scent tells the truth. That's where your familair is, nowhere! You're so far gone you probably never even had one. So there, there's your answer. Now you said something about doing what I wanted? I don't know why you came in here, and i don't know what you were looking for, but you can go fucking look somewhere else. There's no need for you to bring your malicious self in here amongst hard working people. People who are still worth a damn!"

He points at the door which Riten had walked through when he came in as he yells this. He slides his nails across the wood of the table as they clench into a fist, his anger seething at the man. "So go. Get out. Don't bring your foulness around here. But please,.." he says, voice lightening into a twisted laugh. "..do tell me. Tell me first. Why the hell you felt the need to bring your sorry self in here. And something else? How long....how long has it been? How long since you've been nothing more than a powerless puppet to them. How long since you've been nothing but a magic-less punk. How long have you been human ?" He asks, forcing the last word at the man like a punch being thrown.

"Tell me Riten! Tell me just how long? How long have you been their bitch!" He yells, hand slamming down on the table. He slowly slides back up, straightening himself out. His hands fall down to his sides, shaking a bit to loosen up. He was ready, ready for a fight now, since he doubts he was going without one now. His hands flex slowly, ready to reach for his gun or katana, both hidden in his coat. He stands, ready, waiting, to either hear this man's response or whatever else may come, he'd dealt his hand.

Word count: only 850, but i'm fairly pleased

Tags Monsieur Riten

OOC: I tried, lol. I feel ashamed to say it, but i was writing this all day lol. Started at 3, finished now (2 am) lol. Muse hit, flailed out....hit again, and i just had to finish it. Enjoy hopefully.