The laughter came mostly from the mess hall, while other sounds came from private quarters, the sounds of someone with their lover, or at the very least one of the hangers-on that looked on the Guard as prime material for a night of pleasure. For the most part, the Guard, especially the Black Kin, were more than willing to please. In the mess hall, various Captains, Lieutenants and common soldiers were either eating or throwing dice, or drinking.

Or, in Daemonorel's case, he was throwing dice whilst eating and drinking. Recent events had pushed the Black First Captain into an unstable state of existence, one that while understood, was explosive even by Black nature. Most here wondered how long it would be before someone in the room said the wrong thing, and triggered the violence that lurked just beneath the laughter and joking of the younger Ashev brother.

But then, most here wondered how long it would before anyone pushed anyone else's buttons, and a fight broke out. In fact, some had a running bet going on THAT. Gambling was as much in their nature as eating, drinking or hunting, as was anything that came with some sort of a thrill, no matter how fleeting. They were adrenaline junkies, every Black in the room, and a great deal of the Silvers were rapidly becoming addicted to a life where Rage was expected and even encouraged.

The sounds in the mess hall slowly began to cease though, and the silence began at the entrance of the dining area, and seemed to ripple back like a wave. Daemonorel had just poured a shot of off-world liquor and thrown the dice against the wall when the silence reached him. Moss green eyes followed a slow turning of heads to the doorway before he knocked back the drink, perhaps it was whiskey, perhaps rum, but whatever it was, it was far from ordinary, but then, he wanted to get drunk in a far from ordinary way.

"I'll be damned." was all he managed when he realised just who it was that was causing the sudden pause in activity.

A raven brow rose above jade eyes as Silverthorn surveyed the room for an instant, before walking inside as if completely oblivious to the eyes that tracked her every move. Not that she gave a damn what they thought. Behind her the low hum of conversation started up again, bets starting to change hands with surprising swiftness.

"Looking for something, elf?" a Black asked, the expression in his eyes blatant as they ran over the woman, lingering for a moment at her cleavage. Not that she was fool enough to think that that look meant anything other than 'lunch'.

"A bottle of whiskey, and an absence of you, perhaps?" came the cool reply, a feral smile curling her lips.

Well on his way to being royally drunk, Daemonorel poured another shot and held the glass aloft in a mock, silent salute to Silverthorn, then lowered it.

"Whiskey you can get anywhere, and anywhere else you'd be well away from him. Short and easy answers don't work here, 'Thorn." the drink was tossed to the back of his throat, "She's looking for something, boys. She doesn't know what." Moss green eyes settled on Silverthorn's but unlike most here, they went no further.

"Get her a full bottle, we've got plenty."

A full bottle of Master Stophecle's best whiskey was set on the bar by the Black behind it, but no glass was offered. In fact, there were no glasses TO offer. Everyone here drank from the bottle, and the idea was, at least then there was only so much broken glass to clean up the next day if there were no serving glasses.

Slim fingers curled about the neck of the bottle, "but with such... convivial company, why would I go anywhere else?" she replied. Her tone was cool and faintly acidic, the expression in her eyes challenging. The Guard did not scare her, they never had. Of course, right now not much did. To be afraid you had to have some fear about your own mortality. Thorn had not feared death for millennia, had expected to die on somebody's blade long before this, and now... now she didn't care enough to be afraid.

A wolfish grin crossed Daemonorel's face before he shrugged his shoulders and fell casually onto one of the many benches that filled the room on either side of each trestle table.

"I've heard us called many things, but never pleasant company, I'll say that for you, Is'iis, you're a walking suicide." The last was mumbled around yet another drink. Yes, he had a shot glass, but then, he'd brought his own drink and the glass for it. As for what he'd called her, Is'iis was a word in the Black tongue that referred to the legendary Isis of Terra, a woman unafraid to face death, and walk into the underworld for whom the second moon was named for. It also referred to a female of the Black kin, left behind by her bond-mate to deal with the Madness.

"Care to wager AND drink, or are you just here to... hang out?"

"And what would I wager on? The fact that before the night is out you'll see if you can persuade someone to help you commit the suicide you claim I'm looking for?" The elf raised the bottle to her lips, feeling the whiskey burn her throat as she swallowed.

Silverthorn studied him coolly. "Or maybe you already found it. A living death. Of course, you're not really living, are you? Just existing. It's nice and safe there in your little prison cell, isn't it?"

Daemon's shadowed eyes sparked phosphorescent as Silverthorn's words penetrated the thin veil of alcohol that had already started fogging his thoughts, numbing the pain, and the shot glass was slammed down on the table with a loud cracking sound as the First Captain half stood and leaned across the table, both hands flat on the table-top.

"I thought we'd discussed this already," Daemonorel's words were a near hiss, and the crowd of betting Blacks had started moving out of the blast zone, leaving Daemonorel and Silverthorn alone with their tempers, the shivering candles on the table, and their drinks. "So what? So. gods. damned what. if I like where I am?" His fingers, cracked and torn from spending more time in the Pit than even his body could take, curled around the neck of the bottle. He'd spent every waking moment either training with the Guard or alone. He'd put his body through more physical trials in such a short time than it had been designed by Flame and Chaos to endure and for what?

As long as there was pain, as long as there was a blade in his hand or something to burn, he was numb to the pain in his soul and the gnawing loneliness he'd found in the Gardens; for a little while, he could forget.

It was times like now, when he should be in his quarters, falling asleep, that he dreaded. In the silence of the night, his mind would drift and eventually, dreams would come, yet few were pleasant. Nightmares plagued his sleep and regrets whispered taunts at him. Yet, it didn't seem to matter how far he pushed himself, he couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd slept an entire night without waking up soaked in sweat from a dream he couldn't remember but left him gasping for air.

His head tilted slowly to the side, and he sank back on the bench. Softly glowing eyes flicked a fraction from her face and stared that the hearth on the wall just behind her, then went back to her face, "So," a sardonic grin slowly replaced the hatred on his face, "What's it like outside the cage? If it’s so grand, tell me about it."

"Discussed?" Silverthorn considered their earlier altercation in the Pit. "I'm not sure I would have used the word 'discussed' myself, but hey..." She shrugged, a mocking smile curving her lips.

"Is this curiosity I see? My my..." Perhaps she was a walking suicide after all, she mused idly, because there was something about the Black that grated on her nerves. She couldn't quite seem to stop herself from poking at what was obviously an open wound.

"What's it like out here in the good, clean air of freedom?" The raven-haired elf laughed shortly, "different. Not cosy and safe, that's for sure. On the other hand, at least I'm taking responsibility for my own actions. Nor am I allowing the past to dictate my present or my future."

"Curiosity? No. No, I'd call it careful control over my mood so you don't find yourself dead on the floor." Daemonorel growled out in a low mutter and began pouring a second shot of drink, "I'm trying to be polite. I understand it works well for other races, so I thought I'd give it a try for novelty's sake." The drink hovered in the air, held aloft by his fingers, the glass touching his lip as he eyed her, "You don't let the past dictate the present, or the future? What a joke." he gave a short snort of a laugh around the amber liquid in the shot glass, tossed the drink back, seemed to savour the taste on his tongue and let his eyes close, then swallowed.

"If that is so, then tell me," Moss green eyes slowly rolled open and a malicious, half-grin pulled up one side of his mouth, "Next time you go to Nenlante to visit alllll those kids of yours, are you going to just smile and wave at the new Queen, sit down and eat with Y'Roden, wish them all well? I don't think you will." The sandy-haired Captain leaned forward, "I don't think you can. It’s why people like you and I don't make good diplomats, kings or queens. We hurt because of the past, and we lash out in the present and future, because of it."

Daemonorel's eyes met hers and held their gaze, "And to try to tell yourself you won't let it affect you is to lie your way right back into the prison."

"Perhaps I ought to try it just to see if I could get them to freak out completely?" the elf mused, a faintly vicious smile curving her lips. She suspected the S'Heans would be more than a little suspicious if she suddenly started playing nice, but the idea of seeing if she could unnerve them by smiling sweetly had distinct potential.

Then she gave a short laugh, "but you're right. I'd never manage it. Playing nice never really was my style."

Jade eyes met moss green. "On the other hand, even though the past makes us who we are, it doesn't have to rule our future. Not completely. If it does, not only are we being too stupid to learn from our mistakes, but it means people like Nargus win. I'm sure he'd be ecstatic to discover his victims were still letting him rule their lives even now."

Daemonorel let out a non-committal grunt, a sound that could mean anything really, and poured another drink. "I'm sure he is." the words were mumbled around the glass before the drink was downed. He was forced to admit, Silverthorn Badb Catha was one of the more... interesting... elves he'd met in his life. She was unpredictable, and unpredictable people were far from boring. She was, however, doing a fine job of keeping him off balance mentally and emotionally, while the liquor was starting to work the same trick on his equilibrium.

"So. If you're soooo... wise... Dr. Thorny," Daemonorel's dark grin slid carefully back in place, "What do you suggest I do? Get out and see the world?" He poured another drink, "get a couple or three hookers in my room? Dom and Rax think I should go level a city on some world no one here has ever heard of, you know, the whole, he needs to get laid and hunt thing? I'm sick of people trying to tell me how to... cope. I'm sick of being told, time will make it go away. It didn't, did it? It just looped on itself, and let me go through it. all. over again." Amusement was turning to Rage, a slow burn in his blood that he relied on now to replace the empty parts of his soul, only Rage left him complete anymore, coupled with pain.

"What? Do you suggest?" Daemonorel held up his cracked and torn hands in a helpless gesture at odds with the venom in his voice, "Because I'm all out of ideas."

The 'Dr Thorny' crack made jade eyes narrow dangerously. "Well, firstly you could try getting your head out of your ass," she bit out. The bottle she held in her hand hit the bar counter with a distinct 'clink'. "Perhaps Rax and Dom are right. Perhaps you do need to go out and get laid, destroy a few cities, wreak a little carnage. Perhaps that will make it go away... for a time."

She stalked forward, bracing her hands on the scarred tabletop as she met his eyes, "but time doesn't make it go away, Daemonorel. It isn't some magic panacea. Time doesn't cure anything. Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't know how goddamned annoying it is to be told 'well, it's been x number of years so isn't it about time you were coping with it'? The ONLY person who can do anything to help you is YOU. Because you're the only person who can come to terms with it. And no, it won't stop hurting, you won't ever forget, and there will always be a scar. Maybe you'd end up with something other than just that for your sole reason for living though. But then you don't want that do you? Living. I'm not sure you even know how to do that even if you wanted to. You're so damned afraid of living you died centuries back. You, Daemonorel Ashev, are a coward."

The crowd seemed to go quiet for several seconds when Daemonorel lurched to his feet and glared at Silverthorn. Behind him, the bench he'd been seated on toppled over with a crash that seemed overloud in the sudden silence of the room. Normally, the Black Guard would be galvanised, if someone marched in and began a verbal or physical assault on one of their own, but this time?

This time, Arianne Badb Catha was right. She'd only said what everyone else had been thinking and she wasn't speaking out of ignorance.

"I HAVE tried. I DID live with the scar for nearly two thousand years." He hissed out through clenched jaws, "So maybe I am dead. Maybe I LIKE it here. But maybe I DON'T and haven't got a single GODS DAMNED CLUE how to be anything but NUMB. Maybe? Just maybe you're right." His foot kicked back and sent the bench skidding across the floor with a squawking scrape of heavy ironwood on stone, "AND WHAT THE HELLS ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT!?" The onlookers gradually averted their eyes and slowly went back to whatever gaming, eating or drinking they'd been doing, but in quieter tones.

Glowing moss green eyes shifted to the defiant Arianne, "And why the hell do you care, Is'iis?"

Jade eyes ran over him from head to toe and back again, the expression scathing. "Do you know what, I really don't know," she replied, not backing down as he suddenly loomed up in front of her. "You want to find out what death is like before you even enter the shadows, go right ahead. Screw yourself. Just don't try to kid yourself that you're fooling anyone. You're not."

"I KNOW what death is like. I KNOW what its like to enter the shadows, and you want to know what?" Daemonorel leaned close enough to whisper, "I LIKED it there. I wanted to stay." His head tilted to the side as his nose almost touched her hair, "You call me a coward? Fine. But do you have any idea, how hard it is?" The Black's voice dropped to a low growl, "To stand this close to paradise, and have duty, honour, and loyalty," His fingers curved around her biceps but didn't touch her. Still, he could feel the heat of her body, and she his, so close were his hands, "force you to step away and be denied it?"

He drew in a deep breath, "You can feel it, part your lips and taste it, the scent fills your senses, begs you to take that last step? And. you. can. not." Daemonorel exhaled slowly, his breath warm on her ear, "You're right. I want that." The sandy-haired Captain swallowed, "But I'm afraid to reach out and just take it. I'm afraid to go forward, and there's nothing for me behind."

Suddenly there seemed to be no air in her lungs. She could feel the heat of him he was so close, and a short, slightly desperate, inhalation brought no air, but merely the scent of him. Torn between conflicting instincts, she froze. "Yes," she whispered, "yes, I know. I know what it is like to walk through the shadows and know yourself to be at home. I know what it is like to want something so much it is all you can think about, and in the night it haunts your dreams. You can be so close you might almost be able to reach out and touch it... and yet you don't. Because of fear."

Her head turned slightly, her raven hair brushing against his cheek with the movement, "I do know what it is like to be afraid, Daemonorel. There are very few people who aren't afraid of something, and any man that tells you so is probably a liar. Everyone has their demons to fight, some more than others. But we can't turn back time. We can't un-make the past or ourselves. We can only go forwards. I call you a coward, not because you're afraid, but because you won't face your fears and try to fight them."

Daemonorel's eyes drifted half shut as the strands of Silverthorn's hair brushed his face, and he turned his head slightly, just enough to draw in a deep breath of her scent as the raven locks swung past his nose.

"I have fought my fears, Silverthorn, and I'm tired of the fight." His hands dropped to his side and Daemonorel's warm tenor held an undertone of weariness, like some tugging current deep in rough waters that threatened to drag one under. The Captain's murky green eyes closed as his head rolled back and he seemed to look to the ceiling as if the answers to all his problems were written there, and he swallowed, before letting out a deep breath. His gaze slowly returned to Silverthorn, "And I am faithless. I no longer trust the Fates, I no longer have faith in the Gods that wrought my kind."

And there it was. The real problem, not the symptom the fear was, but the true issue. Daemonorel was faithless. He trusted himself and his daily routine, and in such a compartmentalised life, he had control. And to keep control, he could not, would not, allow room for anything... or anyone... else.

The raven-haired elf sighed, shaking her head. "In that I cannot help you, for there isn't much I believe in myself. I have no real faith in Gods or the Fates, because every time they show up they just seem to screw up my life even more than it already is. If it isn't Nuuruhuine, it's Aedammair, and I swear one day I'm going to see if it's possible to kill a God simply because they keep pissing me off. Sometimes I think that even they don't really have all the answers." A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, "they just don't want to admit it. Omniscience is such a useful PR tool after all."

She reached out with one hand, taking one of his in hers and turning it palm up to show the scars and calluses of a hundred battles. "You can't keep doing this to yourself though, not and live. You're right, it's none of my business what you choose to do with your life, but if you keep pushing yourself and pushing yourself someday soon you are going to be dead. And for what? If it's just a training accident because you push yourself too far or you're just too tired to react properly then it just seems so goddamned pointless. And yeah, I know. People die pointlessly every day. That doesn't mean I have to like it, or that I wouldn't prefer to think that when it's my time to die there's actually a reason or that it serves some sort of purpose. It probably won't, but..." She shrugged slightly.

Daemonorel's first instinct was to jerk his hand free of Silverthorn's fingers, to snap out a retort that it was indeed none of her business how he spent his time. Instead, his fingers simply twitched a time or two in her grip, as if he were supremely uncomfortable with this entire situation, but hell bent to prove he wasn't affected by her touch, or afraid of letting her see the results of his time spent trying to forget so very much. A faint glimmer of a smile tugged at the Captain's mouth at the mention of Gods and Goddesses, "Ah, but you do have faith. You have faith they'll botch your life. I don't even have that anymore." The fledgling smile began to fade as quickly as it began, "I think they have their favourites, and the rest of us can simply fight and die, be forsaken... and forgotten."

He seemed to study the map of scars on Silverthorn's palm before his eyes cut sideways. In a room full of drinking and gambling Blacks and Silvers, they were all but forgotten aside from the occasional look from a Right Wing-Guard or senior Captain, and those curious looks came not from the younger members of the Guard, but from the elders. Madness was a natural reaction to a lost bond-mate, but also natural was the healing or eventual suicide. Living the moment twice, and dealing with the grief as long as the younger son of Ashev had was historical tragedy. The Badb Catha woman had just touched on something that had been becoming a growing concern not only for the Guard, but their Emperor. Daemonorel was pushing his body, mind and soul too far, too often, without giving himself time to heal, he was on a self-destruct path that could one day not only cause his death, but possibly that of those under his command. All it would take was one accident, one mistake, caused by exhaustion and a lack of clear thought, and dozens could die... at the very least.

A ragged spasm of indrawn breath reminded Daemon he'd somehow forgotten the simple natural instinct to breath and once again, he fought the urge to pull his hand back, "So tell me, Is'iis," his eyes shifted slowly from her palm and strong, callused fingers to Arianne's eyes, "when two people face paradise, but are both uncertain, how do they take the next step?"

Her gaze locked with his and, just for a moment, the elf forgot how to breathe. How the hell had they ended up like this? She had only been looking for an escape, for a place where, if only for a short time, nobody expected her to pretend or to even be on her best behaviour. A place where she could just be herself, without fear of upsetting or causing harm to come to the few remaining people she actually gave a damn about. This... whatever this was... had not been what she was expecting at all. Somehow Daemonorel Ashev saw through all the walls to the real her without even seeming to try, and that should have scared the hell out of her. The feeling of recognition, felt for the first time that day in the Pit, grew stronger. Somehow she knew him, and he her, in a way she couldn't quite explain.

Just two of a kind?

Maybe, but why then did she find herself struggling to catch her breath? Involuntarily her fingers tightened slightly, her nails digging into his palm as the rational part of her mind demanded to know what the hell she was thinking. How stupid could she get? She'd already fouled up each and every relationship she'd been in. Even her husband, the man who had claimed he would love her forever, had had enough of her in the end. Eternity was obviously not all it was cracked up to be these days.

Being attracted to a Black dragon as mentally screwed up as she was was dumb. To do something about it would be even dumber still.

Right?

Deliberately she forced her hand to loosen, her fingertips sliding over his skin as they started to pull back. "Perhaps it just takes both of them taking one small step forward," she said softly, "together."

For the first time since taking his hand in hers, Daemonorel's fingers curled around hers and halted their retreat. The motion seemed to come without warning, without thought or hesitancy and it surprised even him, though no expression on his face said otherwise. "But what if neither of them knows how to trust, and one of them lacks even a shred of faith? What then do they do?" The depths of the Captain's eyes seemed to ripple with dark intensity, like a dark light trying to pierce the murky depths of muddy green waters and his weight shifted slightly and the small distance between them shrank to little more than a mere fraction. He could smell the changes in her, the chemistry of her body shifting as the same emotions began to writhe deep within him. He could feel the heat rising to her face and hear the increase in her heart rate, and sense the same erratic breathing he too seemed to be experiencing, but didn't want to admit to.

Just how insane had he become? He had to ask himself as he fought the urge to lift her hand and slowly, very deliberately bite into the fleshy edge of her palm. He knew the circumstances of why she was no longer the wife of Y'Roden D'Riel, the rumour mill of the Keep was ever alive, ever seeking new grist. She'd had her soul ripped from his, torn away, and he'd died, only to be resurrected and find a new wife, and to most in the Keep, Y'Roden's actions had been tantamount to sacrilege. Daemonorel couldn't say he felt sorry for her, what she'd experienced was what his kind lived with on a day to day basis, but he understood.

She'd suffered grief, betrayal, shattered trust and a complete upheaval in her life. Promises had been broken, but then, why would they have ever been given in the first place? Life was no promise, tomorrow was no promise, why would anyone ever tell another 'forever'? He finally drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, he was tired of being numb, tired of being alone, tired of simply being alone, and while he didn't quite know what was possessing him, he wanted at least for one moment, to feel something again.

"How..." he cleared his throat slightly, "How do they take that small step, together, if neither of them can admit they want to find out what lies beyond the veil?"

Jade eyes had darkened, cat slit pupils dilating as Silverthorn felt her pulse start to beat wildly in her throat. It was hard to breathe, let alone think. "Perhaps," she said softly, her voice husky, "all it takes is a little bit of acceptance that life is rarely what you expect it to be. It isn't possible to predict, and there's always something around the corner that can send the world spinning off course again. All anyone can do is live in the here and now."

Giving in to the impulse that she had been fighting ever since his hands had closed about her arms, the raven-haired elf leaned closer. Her lips brushed across his as she murmured, "and of course, it also depends on how much you want something."

A sudden wild urge to bolt coursed through Daemonorel and the last of his need for control over the moment was burning off at a dangerously fast rate, and it scared the absolute hell out of him, but indeed, it all depended on how much you wanted something and right now? He wanted a good stretch of solid wall to shove her back against and not gently. A low, rumbling growl began deep in his chest as her mouth brushed against his, his grip around her fingers tightened roughly and the Black jerked her against him then curved her palm against his ribs. His hand covered hers completely, then slid it lower and under the soft black t-shirt he was wearing. His own fingers guided hers across the many scars that covered his and he felt something he'd not felt in centuries, and what he'd felt during his short and ill-fated association with A'Runa Charon had only been a cheap imitation.

What he felt went beyond simple, animal lust, beyond simple desire or passion of the moment fuelled by liquor. What he felt was what he'd thought had forsaken him. Fire, a slow burning Flame, intensely concentrated began to seep in his veins, a backdraft waiting for the next breath of oxygen to give it life.

"Then what if I told you just how very badly I want... this. You... Faith or no faith?" The words were a low spoken sound, half-Speech, half-mumble as he swallowed and kept his mouth just out of reach of hers. With the hesitancy of any wild, distrusting animal, he gingerly nuzzled at her neck just below her ear, then grazed his teeth across the throbbing pulse at her throat before sliding his nose up her jaw, "What if I told you just how very badly I want you to want the same?"

"And you think I don't? Gods, Daemon..."

She inhaled sharply as his teeth grazed across her skin, dark lashes half-closing as her head tilted, exposing her throat. The palm of her hand moved over his skin, curving around to the indentation at the base of his spine. He felt so very good beneath her fingertips, so very warm. The raven-haired elf's fingers flexed slightly, nails grazing over his spine. At the back of her mind was the awareness that they were far from alone, but if she had known his thoughts about the lack of available walls she would probably have shared the sense of frustration. The elven woman felt as if she was slowly going up in flames, and he was questioning whether or not she even wanted him?

"I'm not looking for promises or guarantees. I don't expect anything. But I do want you... Hell, right now it seems like the only thing I do know."

"I don't think 'want' is so much the question anymore," Daemonorel's eyes flickered a brighter shade of green at her words and his own words had a note of rueful laughter in them, "But regret and expectation are. And when you start making promises, Silverthorn, that's when you find yourself begging to be stripped of everything you care about, and as you said, you don't beg. Ever." An involuntary shudder rippled through him as her fingers explored the scars on his flesh. Her hands were that of a warrior, strong, scarred and callused, yet all the needs and wants of a woman were in her touch, and the curious melange that made her 'Silverthorn' was intoxicating. She was elven, that could not be denied, but within her surged a soul of Flame, Rage, Ruin and Chaos. She was deadly, beautiful, and irresistible to his kind, and now, him.

Daemon's own battle-rough hands curved around her waist and slid between her sleeveless leather vest and trousers and curved around the line of her waist. Unable to resist the need to taste her again, the First Captain uttered a low growling groan of frustration mixed with roiling lust then sought her mouth with his own. The scraping of his teeth across her throat simply hadn't been enough, and in some odd way, it had been too much, the final breaking of his will to turn away and say no.

As the taste of her filled his senses, his body began working on instinct and somehow, he felt the back of her thighs bump the edge of the table and through his alcohol and lust hazed thoughts, he heard the bottles rattle then topple over to spill whiskey and the off-world rum he was so fond of. Then, from somewhere in the crowd of Guard behind him, there was a low wolf whistle which came simultaneously with one of the elder Captain's open Speech, "Oh for Gods' sakes, get a damned room Daemon. No one here cares if we see you get laid, but I suspect your companion does."

Another choked growl rolled out of Daemonorel, he was almost to the stopping and going to his room simply wasn't going to happen stage, when some manner of common sense came over him.

"Is'iis," His whisper in her ear was ragged and his fingers seemed to working of their own accord to tug at the laces of her trousers, "I'd take you to the floor right now, right here," his hips ground against her, "but I also have a perfectly good floor in my quarters, and fine stretch of wall."

Jade eyes glazed over, a choked moan spilling from parted lips, and for a moment it seemed the elven woman hadn't even heard him. Desire fogged thoughts and willpower was slowly drowning under physical sensation.

Then his words registered.

An involuntary sound of protest growled in her throat even as she made a last grab for whatever brain cells she still possessed. "Room. Now," she gasped, "preferably before I stop caring about whether we're in public or not." Her hands ran up beneath his t-shirt, nails digging into the muscles of his back as her body arched into his.

Little was mentioned by anyone in the Mess Hall when Daemonorel Ashev and his unlikely companion left by way of a rare portal opened in typical Black fashion. The wormhole's opening in to the First Captain's quarters was something of a game of the legendary Russian Roulette... portals to and from anywhere other than the largest areas of the stone Keep were avoided as one mishap could close the portal and leave the person travelling it entombed in solid stone, an instant fossil and it was postulated death in this manner was excruciatingly painful, but also over in less than a second.

The portal zipped shut behind the pair with a slight sucking of fresh air being funnelled from the Captain's quarters and on it was the scent of rain. The doors to his sunledge had been left flung wide open, and through them, a late spring storm could be seen to the west. The towering anvil shaped thunderheads would flare from time to time with white, blue and coral light and the low rumble of thunder shook through the mess hall before the portal closed. There was a brief moment of silence as nearly every head in the mess hall turned to glance at the now vacant table and the dripping liquor, then came the sounds of people either paying up or calling in many of the bets made not an hour ago when Silverthorn had first walked into the room and from the groans of frustration, the odds had been stacked against what had just surely happened.

As for the elder Captain, the Black's salt and pepper head never turned, he simply lifted a half-empty, green glass bottle of stout in a slight toast to the missing... couple and gave a soft snort of laughter around the bottle as he drained it, and made his way back to the bar for yet one more before calling it a night.