Ficlet: One Night At The Opium Den
Prompt: "Uh oh! Your character is watching mine get hit on and is feeling possessive. How does your character handle this?"
Disclaimer: This drabble is considered to take place in an Alternate Universe, unless we deem otherwise. Also I do not own any muse but mine, so if the mun decides this has to go, it will.
Trigger warnings: drug abuse, violence, bad language skills
Muses: The Harrier, Ailla (4th)
Slowly ice cold tears of water wept from the adorne bronze spigot. Every drop, crystal clear, fell with elusive grace and hit a dissolving suger cube. Drop, drop, drop. Every impact clearly audible to Ailla's deranged mind. The whole world was trembling, when the cold tears splintered the sweet, bleeding opaque white into the emerald drink. The Timelady watched the sugered blood mixing with the fée verte, mesmerized by its play of colours. Hours became instants, a blink of an eye extended to eternity. It took the tender fingers of the patron, that reached for the slotted silver spoon that perched the sugar cube atop the glass, for Ailla to awaken. With a damped clanking sound the silver spoon was placed beside the Swirl glass. "Arrow", Ailla breathed, not moving her slightly parted lips as she spoke. The word came and went like the wind. Its meaning undecipherable. She just liked the sound of it. "Arrow." With a swift but throttled gesture, she grabbed the ornate silver spoon and arose.
Her legs barely supported her humble weight. Faltering, stumbling she made her way through the den. Thick smoke cloaked her sight, veiling the guests that lay on the divans and pillows and carpets. Where was he? Where was he? Ailla looked around, the word "Arrrrow" still scarcely audible accompanying her breath.
Then it struck her. Under a sinuous sprawling woman, whoring on a man's lap, she found his distinct charcoal black hair and the cold sapphire eyes of his. Slender fingers were burried in his hair, his eyes though revealed that he had taken solace in opium until he had become a bounden slave in the trammels of the drug.
Maybe he was enjoying a little attention from a scarcely clothed strumpet, maybe his mind had gone wandering across the heavy clouds of oblivion. But Ailla could neither relish the view nor take this insolence any longer. Shaking with rage, the Timelady looked down her right arm. A shadow, ghastly and black as the night, twisted and coiled around her underarm, massive claws of dark coated her hand, held on tight to the silver spoon. "Arrow", she remembered. The pointy spoon resembled an arrowhead. Blunt at its point and hardly the size, she still readjusted the way it lay in her feeble hand, as if to use it as a weapon. With determined steps, Ailla approached the benumbed and his seducer. Malevolence wiped her mind from torpidity, jealousy woke up the demon that made her reach out for the woman's scalp. Now it were her slender fingers, that dug into hair. She felt silken strands twisting around her fingers as she reinforced her adamant grip and pressed the head towards the Harrier's face as if she was forcing them into an unpleasant kiss. Then, with a quick blow, she dug the silver spoon deep into the woman's neck, disrupting vertebrae, tearing nerves. The whore twitched and jerked in an oddly spasmic manner, before Ailla hauled her by her hair and threw her on the ground like the waist she was. "We're going", she addressed the other Timelord, her bloody hands shivering as the demon withdrew.
