<strong>Will of the One</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>: Guest Quarters, Civic Festhall, Sigil<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Mid-morning<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: Closed for Ihaana & Bryseis<br/><br/>"They almost certainly aren't, but they'll do all the same."<br/><br/>Watching Ihaana fumble for a pair of pants that had quite probably never been hers, Rysse could only smile through the residual haze of smoke and water vapour. It then occurred to the tiefling that her mind, addled by Stygian alcohol and Gehenna Thistle, had also let slip the memory of what exactly Ihaana had been wearing. No matter - with her byzantine codex of tattoos, the aasimar was so uniquely expressive that it seemed a shame to cover her up. Rysse willed herself to stand straight and firm while she curled her arm around Ihaana's waist, helping support her companion's weight. Lifting the heavy metallic components of machines had given her arms a certain muscular power, but that was pragmatism. Not the mindless, straining contortions of the mindless strivers at the Great Gymnasium.<br/><br/>With her free hand, she reached down to feel the familiar hilt of her black-bladed, cold-wrought iron knife, the sheathed blade strapped tight to the leg of her breeches with a dark strip of bariaur-leather.<em>Good to go</em>, she thought. She'd seen berks try all sorts of things - especially when she'd been a little worse for wear. But jumping a tiefling was never a good idea. Jumping one with a quick draw, irritable disposition, incubating a hangover and used to wielding bladed implements with pinpoint precision was suicidal. Still, that never stopped them before. Plenty of bashers in Sigil with a death wish.<br/><br/>She eased her way through the halls stony corridors of the Festhall, steps at first muted by the carpets and, when they finally left the open area of the Guest Quarters, each tap of Rysse's boots sounded out and echoed, reverberating in the tiefling's fevered mind. At least the padding of Ihaana's bare feet was almost silent - a caress on the stone rather than a hard impact. She was sure her movement wasn't making that much noise. At least not to a sober mind. But with every sound amplified, Rysse was keenly aware of the yawning spaces of the Festhall, the mosaics and vaulted arches of marble, of Ihaana's breathing, of the buzzing insects on the far side of the atrium skittering over polished travertine stone. All sensations clearly defined - incisive like an adamant knife.<br/><br/>Outside, Sigil's grey, sunless sky stared at her. Smoke and dust, with a clammy humidity that spoke of light silty shower that had just passed, the cracked cobblestones still moist. Rysse paused and shrugged off her jerkin, throwing it over Ihaana's shoulders. It was big for the aasimar, and its straps and buckles hung loose, draped over the indecipherable tapestry of tattoos. Rysse's sleeveless vest clung to her, still damp with sweat and humidity, but the cool Sigil air was bracing. A refreshing touch from the now stale sweetness of narcotic smoke inside. Sharing her jerking with Ihaana was a good compromise - no need to draw too much attention.<em>Now I'm an oxymoron - a tiefling lady-knight</em>, the wry thought would have been tantalising had it not been so ridiculous.<br/><br/>"Got your bearings, yet?" Rysse said, arching her back and stretching her shoulders, "I'm only asking because I haven't and fuck knows when I will." She chuckled. Even with her demonic blood shielding her from the brunt of most toxins she introduced into her system, she needed a lie-down and hopefully something that was once living and now dead greasy and charred black on a skewer. Tiefling cuisine. The only decent way to end a night exploring the outer planes of your own mind.