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[Uleni Athram]

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00:
Purple Prose (1):
Gangster Glamour
YLENNO
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Skin the color of amber; hair the color of smuggler’s gold; cabochon eyes as glittering and as unfeeling as the grey-iron surface of a prison knife ready to wound. Born from metal, the way he bends light around him; his entire being is liquid imperfection, chrome fire tamed and beaten into a seamless vessel worn by this thug, this lowlife who recalls the repugnant beauty of those exiled kings and cruel kratocrats.

Pale-snake trophies openly on display; across his nose, below his left eye, just above his lip, a hundred more in other places— medals, he says to himself, medals gifted to him by the underworld through endless gang feuds, alleyway bushwhackings and urban war-waging he openly embraced before the age of fifteen.

He is proud of these scars. They tell his courage and story.

His every movement is wild lightning. His every smile is cut with poison; it shines like baby diamonds in the dark and carries a thousand different secrets. When he speaks, he speaks with the weighted wisdom of the street-meats and the demonic persuasiveness of the drug dealers; he can talk you into tying the noose around your neck, he can talk you into snorting the white sugar off the table, he can talk you into selling yourself for strangers — and you’d do all these things with a smile, if you let him.

Ink. He wears his victories on his skin. On his back sprawl the Prince of Cats and the Goblin King, locked in eternal combat and hateful intercourse— his reward for four hundred straight wins in the underground fighting pits of the Cheydinhal Orums. Across his chest rise the spindly Towers of Miscarcand, five wretched things with Stars at the top of each; one Tower speaking for a year in prison, one Star signifying a successful escape. On one side of his neck, a decapitated Boethiah; on the other, a Fleur-de-Lis pierced with a dirk; on his throat a cracked Amulet of Kings — sigils. Sigils of syndicates now extinct by his hand. Under his right ear a Dragon pierced with eleven arrows; his quota of assassinated legion captains. Under his left a Rose with four Crying Eyes for petals; the number of whôres he liberated from abusive pimps. A smiling mouth shaped like a tear just under his right eye — a gift from his inmates when he turned eighteen inside.

He is proud of these tattoos. They proclaim his power and authority.



This post has been edited by Uleni Athram: Jun 24 2018, 01:18 PM

[Uleni Athram]

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03: You Should See The Other Guy!
Characters:
YLENNO, LLEMORYN, BLACKWOOD THUGS, KHAJIIT COOK
ーー

Leyawiin at dusk smelled like river mud, hot oil, and sugar caramelizing too fast.

The food stand squatted near the docks, a patched-together affair of tin and flame. A Khajiiti cook worked three pans at once, tail flicking, shouting orders like curses. Skewers hissed. Mortar thumped. Something citrusy cut through the smoke.

Ylenno bit into a skewer lacquered with palm sugar and fish sauce, chewed, eyes widening. “Aye-up,” he said reverently. “That’s criminal.”

Llemoryn wiped chili oil from his fingers, already flushed. “You say that about anything that isn’t bread and regret.”

“Whuzzat now, aye?” Ylenno gestured with the skewer. “You try this, Blue. Pork, lemongrass, lime. Tastes like a festival what forgot it was illegal.”

Llemoryn took a bite, hissed, then smiled despite himself. “Gods. That’s… that’s excellent.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, bare elbows brushing, paper plates balanced like fragile treaties. The cook slid over a banana-leaf packet tied with twine.

“Feijoada bites,” the Khajiit purred. “With bird chilies. No refunds.”

Ylenno tore it open, steam blooming. “Beans and sausage done dirty,” he declared. “I approve, dig.”

They ate for a beat, watching barges slide past, lanterns bobbing like slow thoughts.

Then Ylenno glanced sideways, eyes bright. “So. Brynlaith.”

Llemoryn choked on rice and surprise. “What about her?”

Ylenno grinned. “You look like a man what practices speeches in his head and forgets ‘em when the audience smiles.”

“That’s not,” Llemoryn started, then stopped. “She’s just… she’s impressive.”

“Uh-huh.” Ylenno licked sauce from his thumb. “Strong. Loud. Kills things before breakfast. Real weakness o’ yours, that.”

“I do not have a crush.”

“Be straight wit’ me,” Ylenno said lightly. “You watch her hands when she laughs.”

Llemoryn’s ears warmed. “She has… expressive hands.”

“Whuzzat now, aye? That’s that romance talk.” Ylenno bumped his shoulder. “Relax. You could do worse.”

“I could?” Llemoryn deadpanned.

“Much,” Ylenno said. “You could fancy me, dig.”

Llemoryn snorted, relief loosening his shoulders. “You’re insufferable.”

“Aye-up,” Ylenno replied. “Insufferable but alive.”

The laughter thinned when shadows fell across the stand.

Seven men in mismatched mail and boiled leather fanned out with practiced ease. Black and green sashes. Ugly faces. Blackwood Company. The smell of old steel and newer arrogance replaced the food.

One of them, broad and scarred, smiled at the two without warmth. “Evenin’.”

Ylenno didn’t turn. He finished his bite, folded the leaf neatly, handed it to the now subdued cook. “Evenin’,” he said, pleasant.

The man’s gaze slid past him and locked onto Llemoryn. “You. Fighters Guild, aye? Thought we recognized the look. Scholar-turned-swinger.”

Llemoryn stiffened, hands wishing for something that wasn’t there. “I’m off duty.”

“That so?” Another laughed. “Guild’s got debts. You lot keep undercuttin’ contracts down here. Real unfriendly if you ask me.”

Ylenno finally faced them. His smile stayed, eyes empty. “C’mere a sec, hey-bey? You’re crowdin’ the cook.”

Scarface ignored him. “We’re talkin’ to the Dunmer.”

“Yeah,” Ylenno nodded once. “That’s the problem.”

The men shifted, hands drifting toward hilts. The cook backed away, tail puffed.

Scarface sneered. “You his handler?”

“I’m his plus one,” Ylenno said. “An’ you’re interruptin’ a sacred sausage.”

A blade flashed half an inch from a scabbard.

Ylenno’s voice dropped, calm as deep water. “Now listen. You got seven bodies, I got one bad mood, an’ the Watch just loves paperwork, dig. How’s your evenin’ lookin’?”

Scarface stepped closer. “You threatenin’ Blackwood?”

Ylenno leaned in, close enough to smell cheap wine. “I’m educatin’ you. Blackwood boys pick fights in daylight, they pick the wrong witnesses. Pick the wrong witnesses, we pick your graves.”

A pause.

Then Llemoryn felt it, the air tighten, like a dream about to decide what it meant.

Scarface laughed, sharp. “Get him.”

The first man lunged for Llemoryn.

Ylenno moved.

Not fast. Decisive.

He hooked an ankle, turned a shoulder, and the man met the cobbles chin-first with a sound like dropped meat. Ylenno stepped over him, palm striking another’s throat, elbow kissing a jaw. Two down before Llemoryn’s breath caught.

Llemoryn reacted then, fists snapping up, footwork drilled into muscle. He clipped a knee, drove a heel, felt the jolt travel clean and true.

Steel rang. A knife scraped his sleeve.

“Hey-bey?” Ylenno said conversationally, ducking a swing and planting a knee into a gut. “That all you brought?”

Scarface hesitated. Just a hair.

Ylenno smiled. “That’s your cue.”

The remaining men broke, boots slapping toward the docks, curses trailing like torn banners.

Silence rushed back in.

Ylenno straightened his shirt, retrieved his plate. “Shame,” he said. “Dessert was comin’.”

Llemoryn exhaled, heart hammering. “They went straight for me.”

“Yeah,” Ylenno replied, handing him a skewer. “You look cute an’ collectible.”

Llemoryn took it, hands steadying. “Thanks.”

Ylenno shrugged. “Anytime, Blue.”

They ate, watching the river swallow the last of the noise.

After a moment, Ylenno nudged him. “So. Brynlaith. You gonna tell her?”

Llemoryn sighed, then smiled. “Maybe after fewer knives.”

“Aye-up,” Ylenno said. “That’s progress.”