Burning Man -- Logs

As Slate and Bella moved off to the dance floor, Soma lets his attention drift fully to Rosie at his feet. "Do you wish to dance as well, pet, or are you content where you are?" The hand not holding the end of the leash moves to Rosie's hair, finger-combing the locks as the sidhe lets his gaze move over the kneeling angel.

Rosenstern makes a soft, comfortable sound, leaning up a little to touch his head to Soma's hand, "Whatever pleases you most, my Lord," he says, his eyes twinkling and shifting his position ever so slightly demurely.

Soma ahhs and smiles, tugging on the leash, "Then come sit in my lap. We'll watch your lovers and my people enjoying themselves." The caressing fingers move down, trailing the skin bared by the open shoulders of the body suit, "And in a moment, we'll dance."

Rosenstern shivers, nodding and smiling to Soma as he follows the tug of the leash up into the fae-lord's lap. The glamour is clearly getting to him, the sights and sounds and dances and outfits all forming a sensual blur in his mind. He curls up against Soma, watching as his hands slowly and -- vanishingly hopefully -- discreetly exploring Soma's own clothing, seeing where the bodysuit ends. The sidhe laughs softly against Rosie's neck, wrapping his arms around the angel and shifting so that the exploration is easier. The shirt that Soma wears just tucks into his pants and goes no further. He makes quiet little sounds of encouragement, doing his best to appear no more lost in what he's doing than anyone else in the pavilion. Looking over the crowd, however, many of them seem lost in a similar sensual haze.

Rosenstern half closes his eyes, as much from comfort as it is to distract himself from the undulating dancers. Gently he slips his hand into Soma's waistband, playfully seeing if he can touch the fae-lord's bare skin. He shifts his position a little, rubbing and snuggling against Soma a bit. Soma shifts slightly, and as he does -- yes, there is bare skin. Another quiet laugh and the muscles of Soma's stomach jump a little bit, "If you would like, pet, I can take the shirt off... or are you having fun being a bit sneaky?" Without thinking about it, he has been curling the leash around his hand, giving Rosie less and less slack.

Rosenstern gives an almost purring sound, tilting his head back and up to kiss Soma's chin. "I'm... enjoying exploring?" he murmurs, lips curled into a smile. "Though if you take your shirt off, my Lord, I'll most certainly not be able to keep my hands from you."

The kiss is greeted with a long slow inhalation, and Soma shifts under Rosie, "Tempting, little rose. But I think we're going to make you wait." He's gentle but quick about the next thing he does, using the leash to lash Rosie's hands together, palm to palm in front of his chest.

Rosenstern erps! and does a very mild pout that's spoiled by the grin and the quickening of his breath. "As you wish, Lord Soma," he tries to say sulkily, though it comes out anything but. He tests the binding a little bit, simply enjoying the moment with his fae lover and the snugness of the binding.

Soma smirks a little and lets Rosie tug, finding that the binding is only going to hold if the fae keeps hold of the end of the leash to keep it in place. "You could, of course, try to convince me otherwise." For a moment he presses his face against his angelic lover's hair, breathing in his scent.

Rosenstern holds still at the closeness of Soma and makes a long, soft, comfortable sound. "But... what if I like being held by you like this?" he murmurs coquettishly.

When the fae speaks again, he's still got his face in Rosie's hair, "Then you would deny me the fun of trying to make you stay still..." The longer he has Rosenstern in his lap, the less relaxed he seems, tension slowly seeping into his limbs as he whispers, "You smell of flowers, sweetling."

Rosenstern shivers deliciously, remembering how Soma and the sidhe dine and feeling himself aroused by the thought. It does not bother him, he realizes; after all, he gets... excited by the smells of some foods as well. Obligingly he squirms a little, giving a soft, throaty chuckle. "Mmm, so I should not be seeking permission in order to try and touch you again, my Lord?"

When Soma raises his head his eyes have taken on a heavy-lidded expression, the swimming blue of them almost seeming to swirl, "If you can distract me enough to make me let go of the leash, you may try to touch me again." He tugs the loop of leash he holds a little tighter, "But if you haven't freed yourself by the end of this next song, you shall pay a forfeit."

Rosenstern grins shyly and wriggles his rubber-clad rump a little into Soma's lap. "Then I'll endeavor to try, my Lord." Even though I so want to find out what he would ask me to forfeit! As he subtly wriggles in Soma's lap, he closes his eyes and very gently and slowly nips at Soma's chin and throat.

The wriggling and the nibbling do bring a soft sigh from Soma's throat, but he also twists the leash a little more snugly, free hand gripping in Rosie's hair, "A good start..." He smiles to himself, knowing exactly the forfeit he'll ask if the sweet Mercurian loses the little wager. He lets his eyes wander over the dance floor, where Slate has apparently been charming other ladies of the court than Bella.

Rosenstern takes a soft breath, making a tiny whimpering sound as Soma takes firmer hold of the leash and his hair. He slides about in Soma's lap so that his chest presses against Soma's chest, tilting his head back to place soft kisses upon Soma's neck as his knees straddle the fae-lord's thighs. Soma's free hand moves to rest on Rosie's thigh as if helping to steady him, though after a moment it's much less steadying and more caressing. The grip on the leash is used to hold the Mercurian in place, as if he might make an actual move to escape. The slithery sensation of the body suit sliding against his own shirt makes the monarch actually groan.

Rosenstern makes a soft moan of comfort as he feels Soma caress him. If Soma permits it, his hands rest upon the fae's chest, gently stroking him through the shirt as he continues to gently nibble and bite and kiss at Soma's neck. His slow wriggling becomes an unhurried movement with the rhythm of the music. Soma's hands move as if to put both of them on Rosie's thighs, but then he realizes the way the leash is wrapped up, that won't work. The sidhe's chin raises as the angel's teeth graze the skin there. The hand that can reach one rubber-sheathed thigh squeezes a little more tightly, "The flower scent... stronger..." he murmurs, his own hips shifting and responding to the almost-dance of the Mercurian in his lap.

Rosenstern makes a soft sound in between his kisses and nibbles. "Yes-s-s?" he whispers, continuing the slow undulation in his lover's lap. His fingers try to find Soma's nipples through the shirt's fabric, to add more flame to the fire. Bit by bit he interspaces the kisses with soft sucklings upon the fae-lord's skin, as he curls up his legs so his ankles are resting upon Soma's knees.

Soma's hand leaves Rosie's thigh for a moment and after what seems like a slight hesitation moves into place at the back of the Novalite's head, gripping the hair there almost roughly. With his voice a little hoarse, Somhairle purrs, "So it makes me want to devour you..." The kind of hunger in his voice, however, has nothing to do with food and just as his other hand starts to move downward, seeming almost ready to let go the leash, the song fades out into brief silence. Mere seconds of relative quiet pass before the next starts up.

Rosenstern gasps softly with the grip of his hair, his breath warm and tremulous upon Soma's neck, giving a soft, plaintive whimper of his own desire as he hears the hunger in Soma's voice. He barely notices the song fading out into silence; with his voice shaking and unable to hide his own desire coloring it, he murmurs, "It s-seems you've won, my Lord. What... what is it that you desire of me?"

Soma smiles wickedly, the glow in his eyes intensifying as he actually does let go of the leash, but keeps his grip on Rosie's hair, holding the angel in place. With the newly freed hand he caresses over the trembling submissive's hip and thigh, "I want your pants, little bloom." After a moment's thought he adds, "And then you're going to dance with me."

Rosenstern takes in a sharp breath, starting to draw back to look at Soma with a mixture of incredulity and arousal. But he cannot move his head, he finds, held close to Soma's chest. He swallows and murmurs breathlessly, "As you wish, my Lord." Being held in that position does not make it easy; still, by feel alone -- and more than a little rubbing between him and Soma -- he begins to undo the fly to his pants, squirming as he struggles to pull them off while still in Soma's lap.

Soma's hands move to help Rosie peel the pants down over his hips, pausing as he realizes, "I think you may have to stand for this, pet. Those pants won't come off over your boots."

Rosenstern makes a quiet whimpering sound, but agrees, as he slips his legs down beside Soma's, briefly standing straddle-legged about the fae-lord's legs. Slipping his hands from Soma's chest, he slips his legs to the side long enough to sit back on Soma's lap, unfastening the boots. He has a brief moment of purring comfort as his bare rump rubs against Soma's clad legs, a small smile playing across the Mercurian's lips before he forces himself to start slipping the boots off. "Shall I put them back on once I've... I've depantsed, my Lord?" he murmurs merrily.

Soma laughs and slides his fingers over the curve of Rosie's rump, bared as it is by the thong back of the bodysuit he wears. "Most definitely, pet. They'll do quite lovely things to your backside when we're dancing." He sounds a bit distracted, eyes roaming over the slender Flowerkin's half-bare form. Rosenstern squirms, not at all uncomfortably, as he shucks the boots off carefully. He loves Soma's touch upon him, relishing the sensual teasing caresses. He leans forward as he slips the pants off, the more to offer himself to touches from his lover, slipping the rubber pants off from around his ankles. When Rosie is bent nearly double, Soma puts his hand between the angel's shoulder blades, holding him in place for a moment as a single finger traces the edges of the bodysuit in back. After a long, savoring moment, he removes his hand from the delicious Celestial's back.

Rosenstern gasps softly and arousedly with the slow, intimate touch. He almost groans as Soma's hand is removed, though he tries to console himself that it was surely just a taste of what would come. Delicately and a touch daintily, he slips his leg back into one of the boots, wriggling until it has sheathed his leg once more, and begins to buckle the length closed. Soma watches Rosie putting the boots on with an audible speeding of his breath, and one hand moves over the Mercurian's stomach, sliding almost low enough to be lewd before he catches himself and diverts the caress to a thigh. Rosenstern almost lifts his rump from Soma's lap, feeling the sidhe's hand slide down his belly. He bites his lip, suppressing a delicious shiver as he unconsciously lifts himself up a little, as if trying to catch Soma's hand upon him. When Soma catches himself, he resists the urge to sigh, instead smiling warmly to Soma, leaning upward to brush his lips against the fae's chin, before bending over to start slipping on the other boot.

Soma smiles quietly at watching Rosie's body respond to his touch, tongue dragging over his lips for a moment. Once the second boot is on, he smiles, "You can choose if the dance is fast or slow, my bloom."

Rosenstern slips from Soma's lap to stand before him, smiling warmly with a deep smoldering in his eyes, leaning over to rest his hands on Soma's knees as he looks up into the fae lord's eyes. "I think slow would be good, my Lord," he says mischievously, and not without tenderness. "Slow dances make the minutes pass like hours...."

Soma takes the opportunity to lean forward and kiss Rosie, exploring his mouth for long minutes before saying, "Slow, then." He raises his head and makes some sort of motion to the unfamiliar satyr that seems to be manning the musical equipment. "Something torchy..." The motion to the DJ becomes a caress down Rosie's back and over the curve of his rump, which is actually quite nicely displayed to the room in the Mercurian's current posture. Rosenstern prrrs long and deeply, arching his back with the caress, and quite not minding -- or not thinking of the rest of the room.

The music starts: soulful, simple -- and then the voice begins. Deep and male, it sounds like honey poured over gravel, hoarse and smooth all at once. Soma rises from his seat, hand staying splayed almost possessively over Rosie's rump, "Shall we, sweetling?"

Rosenstern's purr becomes a long and deep sound of pleasure. The sensual pace of the song makes him writhe slowly, and he straightens his back just enough to lean against Soma, nodding and almost already in a lovely haze. "Yes, please, my Lord," he murmurs.

The Summer King escorts his consort to the dance floor, eyes hooded and lips curved into a slight smile. Once there, both hands slide down to caress over the small of the Mercurian's back, fingertips just brushing the skin bared by the thong back of the bodysuit. The sensual motions of the Flowerkin catch his breath and he pulls Rosie tight against his body, beginning to sway with the nearly hypnotic music.

Rosenstern continues purring, wrapping his arms around Soma closely, nestling his head against Soma's chest and nuzzling slowly -- almost as an afterthought; most of his attention is on swaying with his lover to the slow, sensual rhythm. With the rubber and Soma's clothing the only thing between the two men, and with Rosie moreover feeling the lovely, unusual fabric rubbing against him intimately, he's in a sensual headspace that is almost overwhelming. The resonant baritone of the singer reverberates into his heart, letting the rich timbre pull himself closer to Soma. This is different than just feeling safe in the arms of his lover -- here, in the nearly erotic rhythm and moment, he wants nothing less than the song to last forever, to be lost in an ocean of sound and sensation and Soma's presence for just a little while. As he sways with the fae-lord, writhing so subtly in his embrace, he lets his own hand slide down to the sidhe's hip and thigh, caressing slowly.

One of Soma's hands comes up to rest on the back of Rosie's head, holding his lover against him as the song engulfs them, the gorgeously raspy voice holding a heart-wrenching promise despite the sorrow in the words. With the willing body of the lithe angel in his arms, the sidhe is caught, transfixed by the desire to melt into the beautiful being he holds. Every touch, every breath seems to rush through his nerves, making his whole self sing with the emotions and the sensations filling him. He feels as if his soul wants to burst his skin, as if something so much bigger than just one Ethereal and one Celestial has come together in the joining of this pair.

Rosenstern closes his eyes, his comfortable purring a deep reverberation in him against Soma. He feels happy, warm and happy, comfortable in swaying with Soma to the lovely, sad song. It becomes more than simply a wonderful way to rub against Soma, letting him sink into the taller fae's arms, a soft smile upon his lips as he loses himself completely in the sensations, not having a care in the world for what else is happening in the tent right then. For him, his love is simple: he adores Soma, the sidhe lord bringing such feelings of love and affection to the fore that he in even his short time manifest has felt (and even then only recently) with Bella and Slate.

The slippery, smooth textures of the clothes they both wear do create some delicious sensations as the angel and the fae dance. Soma's hands caress over the lines of Rosie's back and hips as if memorizing the feel of him. The expression on his face and in his eyes is something akin to awe at the good fortune that brought the Flowerkin back into his life. His lips brush against Rosie's ear as his softer voice sings along with the music, sounding as if his heart is in his throat,

"And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A thousand kisses deep..."

On the last word Soma's fingers slip beneath Rosie's chin and tip his face upward. There is a quivering instant when the fae's lips hover over the Novalite's mouth before they descend into a kiss so full of trembling emotion that it brings the fae to a stop in the middle of the dancers.

Rosenstern lifts up his head at the touch, opening his eyes just enough to look into Soma's. At the brief pause before the sweet kiss he makes a soft, whimpering sound, hungry for that touch, thirsty for the depths of that affection. The dance forgotten, the world containing only Soma and himself, Rosie sinks into the kiss -- in but moments lost in that seeming instant that lasts eternity. Slowly his hand rises from Soma's hip to caress the lord's cheek, his touch fluttering, delicate, everything that his kiss is not, his lips pressing against Soma's with a slow, agonizingly adoring surrender.

Soma pulls back from the kiss eventually, panting softly. He looks almost blind with hunger and his voice is tight, as if he has to drag the words out of an uncooperative brain. "You smell like the Garden, darling one..." In fact, Rosie can detect it himself -- that scent that is the essence of flowers seems to eddy around the pair of them. Soma's hands are shaking as they move delicately down the angel's back, suddenly finding himself fighting hard to control himself. His laugh has a hungry, almost rough edge to it despite the gentle caresses, "I want to devour you."

Rosenstern smiles slowly, shaking a little himself. He purrs softly, gently caressing Soma's cheek. "I... I would like that," he whispers, and even saying that much sends a thrill through him. He closes his eyes, taking in the scent of flowers, that primal scent. "It's... it's very powerful tonight, the glamour," he adds, purrs.

Soma nods, eyes staying locked on Rosie's face as he nuzzles against the smaller male's caress, "It is... it's stronger than I meant it to be, actually. It's almost gotten away with me..." He ducks his head, pressing his mouth against Rosenstern's throat, the tip of his tongue brushing the hollow of it before his lips press over it, leaving a kiss there.

Rosenstern tilts his head way back, a smile curling his lips as he gives a soft, throaty, purring chuckle. "None of us are minding," he murmurs, reaching up with one hand to tangle his fingertips in Soma's hair.

Soma raises his head, looking around to make sure he can see Slate and Bella among the dancers. "This is not the place, however... something more intimate." His voice holds a hint of wicked teasing, "Unless you'd like to be shown off, sweet blossom..."

No one gets in Slate's way as he heads for the pavilion entrance. Once outside, there aren't very many of the Ethereals around to witness his irritation, but there is a flash of glittery blue disappearing around one side of the pavilion. Shateishael practically bursts out of the pavilion entrance, his gait rapidly increasing as his urge to do something surges within him. He's running by the time he's swung left around the big tent, intending to do two or three laps at speed to shed some energy. He's engrossed enough in the urge towards action that he's possibly not watching as carefully as he should -- but he's glowing fairly brightly by now, so assumes non-consciously he should be easy to avoid.

As Slate begins his first lap around the pavilion, the radiance of his skin is edging into the glow of molten steel: white dancing over a bright yellow. On the backside of the pavilion, where he and Bella took advantage of the deep shadows, he seems almost to shine like a small sun. There's the barest flash of blue and silver out of the corner of the Seraph's eye as he rounds the side opposite where he started, a body moving through the tents. His head jerks around, and his attention is suddenly, avidly captured -- something running away? He whirls swiftly through the tents, intent on hunting down and pouncing on whatever it is fleeing him. At that moment in time he isn't thinking entirely clearly -- the Warrior is simply automatically intent on eliminating a sneaky enemy.

The figure in blue seems to flow through the shadows and flickering light around the tents, heading out toward one of the side edges of the encampment. Almost at the verge, where the dome practically shimmers in the playa night, it ducks down, kneeling in front of one of the tents. Shateishael's teeth are bared in a humorless grin of fierce enjoyment of the hunt, and as the figure he's hunting kneels, he whips out from behind something else in a long, rolling dive across the front of the tent. He seizes the figure as he passes by, finishing the roll by landing on top of it -- one fist upraised, a guttural snarl echoing in his chest, and one large hand pinning its throat.

The figure screams as it's tackled and rolled, struggling under Slate in a fury of glittery blue, the surface he's trying to hold almost slippery. Once his hand closes over its throat the scream chokes off. The eyes staring up at the enraged Warrior are those of the undine he was dancing with moments ago. Nearly dainty fists thump against Slate's shoulders, the ineffective flailing of something not used to fighting. Prey, not predator.

Shateishael blinks down at her, the thrill of the hunt starting to fade a bit now he's caught his prey... and has realized it's nothing more than a terrified person. He hardly registers her fists at all. Instead he draws a slow, deep breath, almost shaking with the effort of pulling himself together... then finally simply rolls off her and smoothly up to his feet. He pulls her upright also, rumbling a bit grouchily, "You... whut were y'runnin' from me f'r?" He takes another long, slow breath, then growls very slowly and distinctly, "Deirdre... nex' time y'wan' sumpin' from me... you ask me, 'kay? Don' try that charm crap 'gain." He studies her for a moment, holding her upright by the arms until he's sure she won't collapse, and adds, "Y'got that?"

The terrified undine doesn't have time to even start scrabbling away before Slate pulls her upright. Her voice is breathy and full of panic, "I-I wished to get back to my tent... I knew by your face I had angered you and I thought it best if I removed myself..."

Shateishael very carefully and gently shakes her once, "Deirdre. D'y'unnerstan' whut I'm tellin' ya?"

Deirdre wobbles on her feet, looking utterly confused and still frightened nearly out of her wits, "I... meant no harm..."

Shateishael is listening with his Resonance as well, as he rumbles slowly and carefully (now he's got himself more under control again), "Deirdre, if'n y'wan' stuff from me, like m'time 'r sumpin'... ask me f'r it, 'kay? Don' use charms. They make me really... angry. Y'unnerstan'?"

The Ethereal seems to be telling the truth, or at least she believes she is, "It was meant only to nudge anything that might already be there, Warrior, I swear. A blooming, not a binding..."

Shateishael sighs quietly, then tries one... more... time. "Deirdre. Charms. Make. Me. Angry. Don' use 'em on me, 'kay?"

Deirdre still seems extremely confused, but she nods slowly, large, wet tears starting to roll down her glitter-dusted cheeks as she nods, "I understand, Warrior."

Shateishael nods, relieved, "Good. Now... if'n y'wan' m'time 'r sumpin', nex' time y'know t'jus' ask me, right?" She does appear to be telling the truth... although there's no indication she's telling the absolute and total truth.

There's a rustle and the unmistakable sound of chainmail shifting before a voice drawls, "Are y'okay, lassie?" The sound comes from behind Slate -- low, as if whoever is speaking might be crouched. Deirdre nods and tries to swipe at the tears with the backs of her hands, ducking her head as the voice speaks as if ashamed or frightened.

Shateishael growls quietly despite himself, then catches himself and rumbles to the girl, "'M gonna let go now -- y'r not gonna fall, right?" He releases with one hand first, slowly pulling a handkerchief -- he doesn't want to startle whomever's behind him. As long as she doesn't start to collapse, he gently tucks it into her free hand, "Here now. 'M sorry I scaretcha. Saw sumpin' runnin', 'n jus' took off after it -- din' know 't wuz you."

The jangle of mail moves toward Slate slowly and the voice, a thick Scots burr comes again, "Wha's the meanin' o' this, sirrah? What cause have ye t'be abusin' her so?"

Deirdre is wiping her face, head ducked as if to hide something from whoever is moving around from the back of the brilliant being that seems to be made of lava. Shateishael releases Deirdre's arm, but remains unmoving so she can still shelter behind him if she wishes -- it's his Nature to be helpful if he can, after all, "Y'wan' me t'answer, Miz Deirdre, 'r d'you wanna?" He isn't quite sure why she's trying to hide... but he won't force her out in the open if she'd rather not be.

The undine sniffles aloud and says with tears still in her voice, "It was a misunderstanding; he didn't mean to hurt me." The voice that was from behind Slate turns out to belong to a dwarf with coal-black hair and a beard that looks as if it's been growing for decades, if not centuries, "Hurt ye? Did he harm ye, sweet water?"

Shateishael nods politely to the dwarf and says nothing. The dwarf glowers up at Slate, "What right have ye, a big lad like you, assaultin' harmless undines?"

Deirdre still has her face buried in Slate's handkerchief, sniffling perhaps a bit theatrically. Shateishael raises an eyebrow, "Wuz out f'a run, 'n saw sumpin' movin' outta th'corner a'm'eye... so I hunted it down." He glances at Deirdre again, adding (not unkindly), "C'mon, now... cain't be that scary."

The short Ethereal snorts, "As if she'd be something to be hunted like a deer." Deirdre shakes her head, voice muffled in the cloth, "I'm not harmed, Shale; I'll likely not even have a bruise."

Shateishael rumbles thoughtfully to the dwarf, "Shale? Slate. Wish't we wuz meetin' unner better circumstances, but good eve t'y'jus' th'same."

The dwarf peers at Slate and then blinks, looking surprised, "The Warrior!" His eyes narrow, seemingly thrown off by Slate's open and apparently carefree manner as he's confronted with a sobbing and apparently terrified water sprite, "Here now... someone tell me the whole story, from the bottom up."

Shateishael sighs quietly, glancing at the undine, then back at the dwarf. "Uhm... 'm sorry, but part a'this ain't m'story t'tell, Shale." He rumbles to Deirdre, "Y'wanna tell 'r not, ma'am?" He knows Deirdre's supposedly an unpleasantly manipulative entity... but he's an angel. He wants to give her every opportunity to be something more.

Deirdre's voice sounds still a little muffled, "I did something to anger the Warrior, Shale. He was... correcting my error." She still seems reluctant to look at the dark-haired dwarf, even if he seems to view her in a friendly light.

Shateishael gives Deirdre a faintly confused look -- that's not quite what he said, but... ah, well. He shrugs slightly, reminding himself that if he's going to give her the opportunity to be something more, he doesn't automatically get to insist she be what he wants. Shale gives Slate a distinctly unfriendly look, "And what ye to say about it, angel?"

Shateishael blinks perplexedly, "Whut I whut?" There's the sound of someone coming from the other direction, behind Deirdre. Shateishael rumbles quietly to Deirdre, "Ma'am, y'c'n keep th'hankie, 'kay? I'll leave ya 'lone." To Shale he says, "Wanna walk wi' me; let th'lady pull h'rse'f t'gether?"

Shale repeats, "What have ye to say about the lass' story, angel? I want to know what fearful sin she committed t'be shaken like I saw?"

The second approach has the distinct sound of hoof-falls. Shateishael shrugs, "Y'really insistin' on knowin' right now, e'en though th'lady dun' wanna talk 'bout it?"

Karl's voice speaks from behind the undine, "Myself, I think I wan' t'see if she can keep up her l'il charade, wi' the Smith speaking the plain truth." The centaur's rumble makes Deirdre go utterly still -- there's no longer a sign of sniffling.

Shateishael gives Karl a faintly tired, faintly amused glance, "Y'know, wuz tryin' t'be nice t'her. Is that really such a bad idea?" His voice is a bit wistful... he'd so hoped she'd try to not be a jerk.

The centaur smith snorts and steps closer so that he can actually be seen, "With her? Leave no thing she might spin into a different light. Speak plain." As an afterthought, Karl reaches around and plucks Slate's handkerchief from Deirdre's fingers. The Undine's cheeks are perhaps a little damp, her eyes a little red. She looks as if she's not actually been crying for some several minutes. "And leave her naught t'wrap her wiles around later."

Shateishael sighs quietly, nodding to Karl, "'Kay... sorry t'hear it, though." He's silent a moment, collecting his thoughts, then simply tells the plain truth, "Ask't her t'dance. After th'dance she made a gesture while touchin' me that made me think sumpin' wuz up. As't her whut she'd done, 'n she kep' dodgin' th'question, so left her 'n as't Miz Peony if'n I had a charm 'r sumpin' on me. She said yeah, 'n Soma c'd r'move it. Started gettin' angry, but went t'Soma 'n he r'moved it, 'n we 'greed t'let him deal wi'her later, so's t'not spoil th'party."

Shale looks positively perplexed. He actually stood a bit straighter when Karl appeared, in the manner of an off-duty soldier reacting to the presence of a high-ranking officer. Shateishael continues, "By then I wuz kinda glowin' 'n needed t'shed some energy-" apologetically he adds to Shale, "Havin' bit a' trouble wi'th'glamour 'n th'Warrior archetype pushin' me inside bit more'n I'm useta -- so went t'run coupla laps 'bout th'pavilion. Saw sumpin' runnin', 'n jus'..." he hesitates, then shrugs, "It wuz fleein' -- couldn't think a' nuthin' but catchin' it, y'know?" Unhappily he adds to Karl, "Sorry 'bout any trouble I caused, Karl." He absently checks his arms to see if he's still almost molten-steel-bright.

Karl pats Slate's shoulder and nods, "Aye, Soma's little dome seems t'be kinda intense t'night." During the rather confusing discussion, Slate's skin has visually cooled. In fact, there's barely a dull red glow there at all. "So, undine, what say ye?"

Shateishael whews quietly at having been able to shed the lava effect -- it'd been worrying him a bit. He flushes slightly with amused embarrassment at Karl's comment, mumbling, "Tell me 'bout it...!"

The water sprite is pouting a little, arms crossed over her chest, standing slightly hipshot now -- a spoiled child rather than an affronted maiden, "I meant no harm. It was but a small nudge of a charm. Only a game." She tosses her head, jaw jutting out slightly, "That's no reason for him to... to manhandle me."

Shateishael draws in a slow breath, anger flaring up in him again -- but he manages to restrain himself enough that he only growls, "You... lied to me, woman!"

The undine protests hotly, "I did not! I told no word of a lie!"

Shateishael's eyes widen, and he can feel the anger mounting inside him as he glares at her. He snarls, "Did you deceive or not?! If it was not your intent to do so, then say that now!"

Shale sighs and shakes his head. Karl is smirking slightly and he reaches for Slate very, very carefully, "Slate, Friend, I think you and I should leave the... lady... to her sleep." He turns to the dwarf, "You are witness, Shale. If this matter comes before the Court, you have heard the story." The dwarf nods once, giving the undine a disgusted look, "Aye, sir."

Deirdre is still pouting, "I told no lie," she repeats stubbornly.

Shateishael glances at Karl, then back at the undine, his eyes aflame. He nods once, tightly, "Yeah... think I had 'bout 'nuffa her. Kinda scary when they cain't even see." He turns and paces off, almost rigid with tightly restrained anger.

Shale turns and fades back into the dark where he came from with a disgusted sound. Karl actually puts his arms around Slate's shoulders to guide him away from the apparently affronted Deirdre. Once they've moved away slightly, the centaur drops his voice, "She is known as Snapdragon in Winter, Slate. This is her good side."

Shateishael sighs, then growls quietly to Karl, "Y'gotta lotta brainless ditzes like that, 'r's she sumpin'... spesh'l? 'N jus' how vicious is she in Winter?"

Karl sighs and shakes his head. He, unlike most of the rest of the Ethereals, is dressed (or really, undressed) no differently than normal. "Nah, the undine's special. In Winter, she skates even closer to the edge of lyin'."

Shateishael glances curiously at the centaur, "She one a' those gotta tell truth but really wantsta lie? Like Gaelach?"

Karl nods and snorts again, "Yeah. That 'bout sums 'er up."

Shateishael makes a face... then sighs, straightening and shaking back his heavy gold mane, "Well... 'nuffa her. She looked real pretty dressed like that, but 'guess there wuzn't nuthin' really pretty 'bout her 'ceptin' her outsides." He's silent for a moment, pacing along with Karl, then adds, "Hey, uh... Karl, how d'ya handle glamour when it's pushin' in y'r haid alla th'time?"

Karl laughs quietly and shrugs, letting his arm fall from around Slate's shoulders, "Honestly? I try t'work past it. Give it what it wants enough so I can go on. Tonight, though..." He shakes his head and chuckles, "Tonight I just kept myself surrounded by steel.

Shateishael gives Karl a faintly surprised look, "Y'got steel here unner th'glamour? Don' it freeze ya?" He adds a bit ruefully, "Dunno if'n jus' givin' th'glamour whut it wants'd be smart f'me t'night, though. Keep wantin' t'pick a fight'r sumpin'... 'r dance bunches." He grins ruefully, "'Kay, th'dancin's nice... but good thing Bellisima's here too."

Another snorted chuckle, "I didn't say I touched it." He gives his upper body a slightly shake and smiles wryly, "I'm sure you could find other people to dance with, friend Smith."

Shateishael chuckles quietly, then grins, "Uhhmmm... well, yeah, can... but... after 'bitta time, there's real strong sexual c'mponent t'..." His voice trails off as he thinks about it... then he rumbles thoughtfully, "Ac'sh'ly, now'm thinkin' 'bout it, 's more... like whutever 'motion I'm feelin' is turned up t' 'leven, y'know? Wuz jus' thinkin' how piss't wuz at Deidre, not 'roused... 'n Miz Ayra makes me feel all pr'tective, like a li'l sister... th'Lady Bast is mos'ly confusin' but fun, 'n Miz Peony..." he thinks about that, then sighs quietly, not really sure yet how he feels about her. He continues, "'N 'course m' lovers make me feel sexy. Huh... think might have a better han'le on this now... thanks, Karl."

Karl chuckles again and nods, "Might have something there." The centaur's tail is starting to lash and he's picking his feet up a little more sharply, "F'my part, think I'm going to do a circuit of the dome... lookout."

Shateishael tilts his head, observing Karl thoughtfully... then he grins understandingly, "Yeah, gotcha. Y'wan' comp'ny, 'r jus' wanna have a nice gallop by y'se'f?"

Karl grins so widely that his teeth flash, even in the low light, "I think I want to do this solo, Slate... calm enough to go back in where Soma's glamour is most concentrated?"

Shateishael chuckles, "Yeah, I'll be good now." He turns towards the pavilion, grinning and waving at Karl, "Have fun!" Then he ducks back in through the flap, looking around with interest to see how things are going inside. Wasn't there a nice young sidhe in a pretty Victorian style dress? He wonders if she'd be okay to dance with...

Shateishael raises an eyebrow, realizing Rosenstern has managed to shed his pants... and what a nice looking rump he's waving around! Slate grins, his eyes bright with amusement -- no wonder Soma's looking quite so smitten! The big Seraph politely looks elsewhere for a possible dance partner. Hm... maybe one of the dragon ladies? Are they even here tonight? His gaze travels leisurely over the party, and he blinks at a sudden realization -- no young males have asked him to dance! He wonders why... are Warriors traditionally only supposed to be interested in females in this subculture, instead of participating in the romantic good fortune all two-spirits carry within them?

Just as Slate is having that realization, someone taps him on the bicep. He looks down a touch absently, politely murmuring, "Mmm?"

The bicep-tapper turns out to be Peony who stands with her arms crossed and a more wry version of her impish grin on her face, "I wanted to apologize for Angus."

Shateishael tilts his head and smiles, oddly pleased to see Peony. "Hi. Wanna getta drink?"

Peony laughs and nods, "Aye, a drink would be nice. Maybe wash away the sharp words."

Shateishael looks a bit puzzled, "Wait... did I insult Angus'r sumpin'?" He frowns, considering... then rumbles confusedly, "I... don' 'member doin' so...?"

The leprechaun laughs and shakes her head, "No, you didn't insult Angus. You scared him damn near sober, actually. I meant I wanted to apologize for him letting himself be talked into being Gaelach's errand boy."

Shateishael rumbles, "Oh!" looking relieved, then grins a bit sheepishly as he heads with her towards Pan and the keg, "I, uh... think I mighta kinda over-reacted 'bit when I heard 'im sneakin' 'roun'. Hope he 'xcepted my 'pology too." He rumbles to Pan, "Two, please?" then adds to Peony, "Whut'd Gaelach do? Offer 'im gold 'r sumpin'?"

Peony hops herself up onto the counter beside the kegs, crossing her ankles together and swinging her bare feet, "Nah, Gaelach was just very nice to him and then gave him a few drinks of something -- and I quote, 'clear and sweet and packed a kick like Karl with a headache' -- while saying what a shame it was he didn't know where you were." She rolls her eyes, "He's a friendly sort and willing to help people out... it trips you up sometimes."

Shateishael smiles and nods, "'Kay. He did mention he'd drunk sumpin' he din' know whut it wuz... 'ceptin' wuz alcoholic." He grins cheerfully, adding, "An' no worries 'bout him gettin' tripped up. Jus' walked 'way from th'same thin' m'se'f wi' Deirdre 'n Shale, thanks t'Karl." He glances around, adding, "Angus still here, 'r sleepin' it off? 'N whut 'zactly's a chua- no... cluachan?" Pan fills the mugs and passes them across to Slate and Peony, grinning a bit at the way the leprechaun is leaning toward the angel without even meaning to. Shateishael thanks Pan, politely handing Peony the first mug, then accepting the second for himself. He drinks about half of it thirstily, then sighs contentedly and offers his arm to Peony, "Wanna go sit, so's we don' block folks from Pan?"

Peony chuckles and motions toward the table with her mug, "Both. He's here and he's passed out cold under the table." She arches her brows, "Deirdre tripped herself up? How?" She seems almost fascinated -- then she hops down and makes sure her skirt is hanging properly before taking Slate's arm, "It would be rude to block the drinks, that's true. A seat, and then maybe another dance."

Shateishael chuckles quietly, "Y'talked me inta it." As they pace over to Peony's table (complete with unconscious cluachan beneath it), Slate tersely outlines to Peony Deirdre's recent actions, concluding with, "So... don' think she learned 'darned thin', but 'least I don' gotta charm on me now, 'n I shed buncha th'pressure." He adds curiously, "So... whut's a cluachan? 'N how c'n Pan pass as a woman in th'world? Is he 'nother two-spirit, 'r jus' real slightly built?" He pauses, then puzzledly adds, "He real young 'r sumpin'?"

The leprechaun settles into her seat, tucking her feet beneath her so that she's almost more kneeling in the chair than sitting in it, "A clurichaun is sort of like a leprechaun... we're sort of... cousins."

Shateishael nods, leaning to curiously look under the table at Angus, "'Kay. Like... a night version a'ya? Y'all change much durin' Winter?"

Peony shakes her head, "No, not much. But we're like the satyrs, I suppose. Some of us just gravitate to one Court or the other. Angus is actually quite strange for a clurichaun -- normally they're a grouchy-arsed lot."

Shateishael chuckles at the description, straightening in his chair, "Well, hope he don' min' me t'morra then." He has another long drink, then adds, "An' Pan?"

Peony laughs quietly, "Pan is... Pan... in his human glamour he's a very pretty man. He can pass easily as a woman. And sometimes he enjoys playing the part of a woman. Even when he's male he's the more... receptive... sort of male."

Shateishael nods, "'Kay. So he jus' likes lookin' like that?"

Peony shrugs and nods, "Yeah. Though... I never asked him why he doesn't just go full female form with his glamour. He could, I'm sure."

Shateishael considers that, then murmurs a thoughtful, "Huh..." He finishes his drink, then adds with a smile, "Y'don' hafta 'pologize f'Angus, Miz Peony. He wuz drunk... happens. Nobody did nuthin' bad, 'n he din' mean nuthin' by it. 'At's lots better'n Deirdre."

After a very slight pause, Peony adds, "And I did warn you about Deirdre. I'm sorry she tried her rather dubious skills at charms out on you."

Shateishael smiles and shrugs, "'S m'own damn fault. 'Bout halfway through th'dance I realized, but thought I'd give 'er a chance, y'know?" He grins ruefully, "Sometimes I guess I wait bit longer'n I should."

Peony's lips twitch into another half-wry little smile, "There's nothing wrong with patience, Slate. It's an under-rated virtue."

Shateishael smiles quietly, "Glad t'hear y'think so, ma'am. Umm..." he looks around, then grins cheerfully, "Angus gonna be 'kay here? 'N if so, y'wanna dance?"

Peony drains the last of her drink and smiles, tapping Angus shoulder with her toes. The clurichaun mutters and shifts a little further under the table, "As long as no one steps on him, yes. Which they aren't likely to do."

Shateishael chuckles, "'Kay." He offers Peony his hand with an inquiring smile.

Peony takes the offered hand with a smile so wide it starts her nose crinkling, "I saw you and Bella attempt to dance together earlier."

Shateishael grins a bit sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand, "Uh... yeah. Sorry 'bout that, if'n folks were taken 'back by us."

Peony laughs softly and reaches up to gently turn Slate's head so that he can see that there are several couples, and a couple of larger groups, also being somewhat less than decorous about their attraction to one another, "Those that saw probably either appreciated it or envied it."

Shateishael chuckles, watching for a moment, then smiling down at Peony again, "Well... wuz a bit unexpected... f'both a' us. But fortunately Karl gave me an insight inta th'glamour, 'n I think I c'n handle it bit better now." He grins ruefully, "I hope."

Peony holds her arms very carefully into a clear waltzing position, eyes twinkling. The song is something much more suited to a tango or a rhumba than something as structured as a waltz. Shateishael looks a bit puzzled, but politely steps up to waltz. He hesitates, then rumbles quietly, "Um... Miz Peony, y'do know this's a 4-beat song, not 3-beat like a waltz, yeah?"

Peony laughs and relaxes her arms, "Yes, Slate, I was just teasing." She steps more into his body. Shateishael grins a bit confusedly, but simply taps the fingers of one hand lightly against her waist to set the beat -- then sweeps her into the dance. He keeps their movements smooth, graceful, almost sinuously matched, in a relaxed and elegant rhumba. He's careful to highlight Peony, his hands and body a strong, unhurriedly attentive frame for her lithe, flowing movements. Peony lets Slate set the style of the dance, using his body as something to drape herself against or balance with. Occasionally she uses him almost as a pivot point, sliding her hand along his waist as she moves behind him and then spills herself back around to his front.

Shateishael smiles, enjoying how beautifully Peony speaks with her body. As he gains confidence he's not going to lose control of his emotions, he becomes a bit more willing to experiment, letting the language of the rhumba become more dramatic between them. His gestures become more expressive, and he allows his focus to sharpen on Peony, drawing her into swooping lifts and dips that allow the gracile little leprechaun to create spectacular and gravity-defying movements in the dance. She uses her acrobatics training to move into the lifts and the dips, letting the arch of her body seem to be a continuation of the motion. Her grin has changed slightly, just the barest hint of heat showing under the mischief. Her eyes eventually close completely, letting the motions of Slate's hands and the music guide her, concentrating more on the way the dance makes her feel and less on how she wishes to appear. When she does, she actually becomes active in her movements, each step seeming to flow naturally from the next.

Shateishael lets himself fall gladly into the music; danced like this it becomes almost an art form more than an expression of desire... and he's currently struggling with his emotions around Peony. Protective, yes -- he can feel as lovingly protective as he'd like, but he doesn't want to go further than that and potentially make his lovely little dance partner uncomfortable. So instead he focuses on her as a beautiful expression of the music itself, gently guiding her with soft touches or bracing her with his strong arms... and in that he can lose himself without fear. He pours her like liquid music through his hands and about his body... until it finally draws to a vibrant close, and he finds himself cradling Peony in a deep dip, leaning over her with the fingertips of one hand lightly caressing her cheek.

The little leprechaun comes to rest with her fingertips against Slate's face, the tip of her thumb just brushing the corner of his mouth. When she opens her eyes there's still that bare trace of heat, but mostly she just radiates satisfaction. Shateishael sighs softly, very still for a moment... then with slow care he straightens, gently setting Peony on her feet. He can tell he's getting a bit heated again despite his efforts not to -- his arms are glowing a bit like lava again. He gives his skin a rueful look, then rumbles quietly to the little leprechaun leaning against him, his arms still around her, "Ma'am, allus a pleasure t'dance wi'ya."

Peony hugs Slate tightly, using the instant she's against him to rub her cheek against him, trying to make it seem mostly just like part of the hug, "I'll have to ambush you next time there's music." She gently excuses herself and gathers up another couple of leprechauns to help her carry Angus to his tent. Shateishael watches silently as she leaves, a bit wistful... he'd have helped, if she'd seemed like she wanted him to...? Ah, well. Perhaps it's a leprechaun thing. He turns after they've left, and looks around quietly to see if he can find a nice dance partner.

The rest of the night passes in a whirl of dancing and conversation and delicious, growing heat. At some point Soma and Rosie do seem to be gone from the pavilion, but they return with Soma literally glowing and snuggling Rosenstern as if the angel were something precious and rare. Bella seems to confine herself mostly to the men she knows, dancing several dances each with Ajax and Bacchus. She does take a turn around the floor with other Ethereals, but she seems reluctant to let herself ride the glamour with them. Slate dances with a large number of the courtiers, even finding that after a dance or two some of the males also offer themselves as partners. The first to do so is Pan, but after his bravery, there are other courageous male souls as well...

As Slate is escorting a young and giggly pink-winged sidhe off the floor after a dance, Pan weaves his way through the crowd and up to the big angel's side, "So, so far, the only male I've seen you dance with is your Flowerkin. Is he your homosexual tendency or can us other boys have a chance too? At least at a dance?"

Shateishael blinks down at Pan after seating the slightly tipsy-seeming fae lady and politely thanking her for the dance, "My whu...?" He looks a bit confused for a second, then grins a bit perplexedly at Pan, "Sure, dancin's fine, Pan. Dunno 'bout 'homosexual tendencies,' though... 'zat a problem?" He enunciates the alien (to him) phrase carefully, then adds, "Rosie's a two-spirit. Kinda figger'd you wuz too. That not th'case?"

Pan laughs quietly and tips his head to the side, "A two-spirit? The only time I've heard that is a Sioux friend who likes to say that instead of gay. I just like boys an awful lot. Well, men, really." He offers his hand, palm down, much as a woman would, "So that's yes to a dance?"

Shateishael chuckles, politely offering his arm to Pan, "Sure; be a pleasure." As he paces onto the floor with Pan he adds curiously, "Y'min' if'n I talk t'ya while we dance, if'n th'music's not too, um... athletic?"

Pan slides his arm through Slate's and folds his hands together over the big angel's elbow, "I'm all for talking." The music doesn't seem as if it's going to prove to be a problem. It's an almost trancelike song, with a drowsy, wandering tune that would lend itself more to a simple close dance than to anything more elaborate -- perfect for talking during the dance, really.

Shateishael tilts his head, considering the music a moment... then smiles, turning and sliding his right hand about Pan's waist, holding the satyr's right hand in his left in a relaxed dancing form. If Pan seems comfortable Slate will consider sliding the young satyr closer, like he did with Ayra -- but he doesn't want to rush things. "Thanks, then." He's silent a moment, his eyes half closed as he lets them drift in mellow contentment across the dance floor... then he rumbles lazily, "So... 'f I unnerstan' c'rrec'ly, gay's a white man's word, 'n means a guy who has sex wi'men, yeah?" He's being as carefully courteous on the dance floor with Pan as he's been with everyone else new to him so far.

Pan doesn't exactly snuggle, but he does shift so that his body fits into Slate's. He's apparently had experience being led in a dance like this and rests his left hand comfortably on the Seraph's shoulder. He laughs and looks up at Slate, "You look one hundred percent Aryan and you ask if it's a white man's word? It's sort of a modern politically correct term, I suppose. It mostly means a person whose romantic and sexual interests are almost exclusively in the same physical gender." The satyr grins, eyes twinkling, "My psychology classes are probably showing a little here..."

Shateishael grins relaxedly, "Well, firs' culture I wuz settled in wi' wuz Norse, so this's th'Vessel I got given. Coupla years ago, though, got settled in wi'th'Nemene -- th'Comanche -- 'n they're th'culture I'm mos' f'miliar wi'... 'n t'them there's not jus' male 'n female. There's th'..." he frowns, searching for a word, then says something in another language, adding, "like Rosie -- he's a 'beautiful-one-that-goes-both-ways."

Pan listens to Slate with real interest showing in his eyes, "Is... are you talking about gender or sexuality here, Warrior?" The Ethereal is graceful in his movement, despite the caprine configuration of his legs. "They're really two different things."

Shateishael grins, drawling lazily, "Well now, 'm thinkin' gender's 'matter a' choice f'th' individual, 'n it's up t'th' s'ciety t' embrace th' v'riety 'n offer good options... 'n 'm not sure whutcha mean by sexuality?" He considers the satyr thoughtfully for a moment... seems relaxed enough... he will gently slide Pan's other hand onto his shoulder as well, if the young man seems comfortable still, and then loop his arms easily about Pan's slender waist so they can dance more easily.

Pan smiles and glances over toward where he can catch a glimpse of Rosenstern. He seems comfortable with the shift of position and actually grins widely enough that dimples become visible in his cheeks, "Sexuality is who you're attracted to. Me, I'm a pretty solid Kinsey six. Girls are lovely and all, but they just don't get my motor revving. Men, though..." He rolls his eyes and fans himself in a pantomime of swooning happily.

Shateishael finds himself slightly distracted from the conversation by both the dance... and the curiously curving horns on the satyr's head. Interesting how they grow out of the skull... he blinks, "Er, wait... whut wuz that? Whut's a 'solid Kinsey six'?"

The satyr laughs and shakes his head in amusement, "There was a researcher, human, named Kinsey. He came up with a scale of human sexuality... it's a zero to six scale. At zero you're completely het. You like the opposite physical sex and have never had a tendency to be attracted to the same one. Six is the opposite. Utterly homosexual, not a breeder's bone in your body. Of course, it's a scale, so there's grades in between... you I'd peg at, say, a... hmm... maybe a two... maybe a one. You like girls, but femmey boys are also OK with you. Am I right?"

Shateishael blinks, then visibly takes a few seconds to parse through what Pan just said... "Het's heterosexual, yeah? 'N... no breeder's bone mus' mean... y'prefer not havin' kids? Hm... 'kay, so y'don' like..." He pauses to listen, then blinks again, hit with more new words he's not quite familiar with. Cautiously he replies, "Uhm... think so?" Then he rumbles a bit bemusedly, "Innit it jus' easier t' love th'folks y'love, than worryin' 'bout... numbers from Kinsey 'n definin' y'self by nuthin' more'n y'r sexual partners?"

Pan chuckles softly, "I'm sorry... I'm babbling a little, aren't I? Breeder... heterosexual. I wouldn't mind being a dad... but it would have to be turkey basters all the way. What I meant by not a breeder's bone in the body is they find no appeal at all to sex with the opposite physical gender." He examines Slate for a moment as if a bit surprised, but pleased with the surprise, "Oh, all that stuff is just shorthand. According to Kinsey I'm gay as a picnic basket, but that's only because I've got a penis."

Shateishael looks markedly startled, although he's a good enough dancer to not miss a step, "Wait, whut's this y'want wi' turkeys?!"

The young satyr's tail flicks and he laughs again, "Oh, my... you are an old-fashioned one." He takes a deep breath and seems to be shifting mental gears, "I wouldn't mind fathering a child, but I wouldn't want to have sex with a woman to accomplish it. It would have to be artificial insemination, which is sometimes done at home using a turkey baster to... insert the semen." He grins, dimpling again, "I'll try to remember I'm not back home in the clubs surrounded by drag queens and lesbians."

Shateishael murmurs a faintly relieved, "Aah. Gotcha, thanks. Sorry 'f I'm bein' slow t'ya." He considers for a few moments, gently swirling Pan around in his arms, then shakes his head a bit bemusedly, "Well... guess whutever blows y'skirt up. F'r m'self, think I'm gonna stick wi' whut I know... which is that two-spirits're specially blessed folks, 'n c'n bring ya good luck in romance. Don' quite unnerstan' why folks'd wanna treat 'em so shitty now'days... 'n don' think I wanna go that route anyways."

Pan looks thoughtful, though being thoughtful doesn't seem to keep him from being graceful in the dance, "So... to you a two-spirit is... hm... someone whose gender -- emotional gender -- doesn't match up exactly with their body? I've seen that the Flowerkin seems to have a very gentle soul, which nowadays tends to get called feminine." The Ethereal leans his head very carefully against Slate's shoulder, careful because he's settling his horns so as not to prod uncomfortably, "I like female things myself -- dresses and heels and stockings and all. Girls get all the soft, sensual clothing. And I'm, well, I suppose the technical term would be a 'receptive partner.'" He chuckles, and the last two words are said as if he's quoting or using a technical term he wouldn't normally. "But I like my body. Don't want anything snipped."

Shateishael nods, "Th'body don' define th'person, 'least t'me. From whut I've seen, it's mos'ly male bodies that get messed up that way, but there're female bodies too 'ccasionally. 'N who's gonna know better than th'person themself who they are?" He adds absently, "Y'got cute dimples. Miz Peony says y'c'n pass as female inna reg'lar world when y'dress in drag. Howcum y'don' jus' use th'glamour t'be female, 'n not hafta worry 'bout nasty people that're scare't a' diff'rence?" He smiles a bit as Pan leans against his shoulder, gently stroking one hand down the satyr's back like he did with Ayra. The two of them both make him feel very warmly contented inside, very protective and big-brotherly... he hopes they don't mind that particular expression of the Warrior archetype around them. He murmurs thoughtfully, "'Receptive partner'... soun's like a two-spirit t'me, but I don' know ya well 'nuff t'be tellin' ya who 'n whutcha are."

Pan laughs and answers, "Because I like having a penis, actually. It's a lovely body part. I like my body in this form, too. But satyrs aren't like humans. There aren't any female satyrs -- not female-bodied, anyway. So dressing in women's clothes isn't going to make me look female to anyone here. Dressing in female clothes in my human seeming, I can pass for a girl and not get killed on the street, but I still get to keep my body under it." As an afterthought he stretches up and kisses Slate's cheek, very chaste and friendly, "I'm fond of my dimples, myself."

Shateishael nods a touch grimly, "Be care-" he blinks at the kiss, then chuckles quietly, flushing a bit, "Uhm, thanks. But still... be careful 'bout passin' 'n stuff, 'kay? I know sometimes I gotta glare at folks f'Rosenstern, 'n if'n I unnerstan' c'rrec'ly y'don' have a large male frien' y'hang out wi', right?" He pauses, then adds a bit sheepishly, "Uhm... yeah, 'kay, that wuz kinda dumb, I guess -- not like y'don' already know that; sorry. Jus'... tend t'worry 'bout frien's 'n safety." He changes the subject hastily, "So, uh, Bacchus wuz nice 'nuff t' let me check out 'is legs t'see how they worked... c'd I trouble ya t'let me check out y'r horns after th'dance?"

Pan's dimples reappear, but his eyes are twinkling mischievously, "I suspect that that's not as much of a flirtatious question as it sounds like. And no, I don't have a big scary boyfriend to make the bigots leave me alone. I'm careful. And I carry a gun." He glances across the pavilion to his king and Slate's lover, "I have a feeling your sweetie and I would get along fairly well, though." Finally he does get around to answering the question, "You can examine whatever you'd like to examine."

Shateishael looks a bit confused for a moment, trying to figure out what was the 'flirtatious' question... "Oh! Uh, no, sorry... I, um," he pauses, then adds ruefully, "'M 'fraid ain't learned how t'flirt yet, despite alla Rosie's efforts t'teach me." He adds with chagrin, "Keep missin' it when folks flirt at me." He's silent a moment, disturbed at Pan having to carry a gun -- damn honorless weapons, as far as he's concerned -- then rumbles thoughtfully, "Y'know, y'r welcome t'come hang out at th'ranch if'n y'want, right? 'M thinkin' Thea'd prolly like ya, 'n 'm allus happy t'have more folks that're nice frien's f' Rosie 'roun'...?" He wonders silently if a kaiken would benefit Pan... maybe Peony too? Then he grins suddenly, his face lighting up as he realizes he might end up with lots of hearthfolks to care for!

Pan throws back his head to laugh and pats Slate on the shoulder, "I might visit, but I'm not sure a ranch is the right setting for me. I'm a city boy through and through."

Shateishael chuckles, "'S true we're bit outta town... 'n Phoenix ain't 'zactly th' bright lights a' Broadway. But'cher still welcome t'stop by sometime if'n y'd like." He adds happily, and a touch belatedly, "Thanks! Wanna try'n figger out how t'replicate a satyr in metal -- gotta piece a'jewelry wanna try makin'." He hugs the slight satyr gently, careful to not appear to be entrapping Pan in his strong hold, adding cheerfully, "Miz Peony says y'do th'music at a club up Seattle way, 'n it soun's 'lot like t'night's music. If'n y'don' mind m'askin', 'd love t'know th'club name, f'when we're up thataways f'th' Renfaires 'n stuff?"

The song ends as Slate is asking the club name. Pan smiles, "It's called Synethesia. Or at least that's my major gig. I do DJ work and some of the drag shows. We even have drag kings sometimes, which I just think is fabulous."

Shateishael spins Pan out in a graceful pirouette as the song ends... then, if the satyr seems amenable, he grins and twirls Pan back into his arms again. "Whut'sa drag king? A woman dressed as a guy? 'Zat unusual?"

Pan seems thrilled to be spun out and back, hugging Slate enthusiastically and laughing, "Yes. Yes to both, actually. They're rarer than the queens. But girls are allowed to wear boys clothes all the time anyway."

Shateishael grins, hugging Pan back as he nods, "Yeah, practicality in clothin' styles helps." He tucks Pan's hand gently onto his arm and heads for the kegs, rumbling with quiet happiness, "Thanks f'th'dance, Pan-kun. Wuz ac'sh'ly startin' t'wonder if'n th' 'theral archetype a'th' Warrior wuzn't s'pposedta like two-spirits 'r not. Wanna drink?"

Pan doesn't quite sashay, but he does seem to be happy post-dance and his tail is flicking lazily, "There are actually very few expectations as to sexuality around these parts. Our king is almost exclusively into boys. Bacchus is just attracted to people. Karl I sometimes think might be asexual. You love who you love. You fuck who you fuck. As long as everyone's willing, who gives a damn? And I'd love a drink." He moves around behind the kegs and bumps the leprechaun who had been relieving him with his hip, grinning, "You can clear out."

Shateishael nods interestedly at Pan's assessment of fae sexuality, then chuckles quietly, rumbling to the leprechaun, "Thanks f' cov'rin' so Pan c'd dance." To Pan he adds, "So there's no 'xpectation a' Soma havin' t' come up wi'an heir by blood then? Bet thassa relief f'him." He accepts the offered mug with a murmured, "Thanks," then curiously adds, "'S it rude t'ask how ol' y'are?"

The leprechaun grins and waves off the thanks without actually saying anything as he wanders off. He's wearing a pair of chaps and what looks like a leather thong, and not a stitch else. Pan starts pouring out mugs for himself and Slate, "The next Summer King," he drops his voice to barely audible, "may that not happen for several thousand years..." and then back to normal, "will be chosen much the same way Soma was. Whoever has the most juice moves to the front of the line."

Shateishael blinks, distracted by watching the leprechaun walk off, thinking, [Wouldn't that... chafe?!] He turns back to Pan hastily as the satyr speaks, nodding thoughtfully, "'N right now it's Gaelach, right? So... how d'y'all get 'juice'?"

Pan leans on his elbows on the counter, leaning toward Slate with a smile, "Natural ability, really. I'm not likely to ever even be in the running. I learned glamour, and I know a charm or two, but they're mostly protection things. A keep-away for my apartment door is the big one. I just don't have what it takes. Ajax might grow into it -- or hell, Ayra. She's a bright little light, that one. Having it be someone that doesn't change would be a lot different, though. It would sort of topple the structure."

Shateishael looks curious, "How ya tell natural ability? 'N whut happens if'n th' structure topples? Cain't ev'ryone else still change if'n th' king don't?" He starts to raise his mug for a drink, then pauses, "Wait... if'n y'gotta keep-'way on y'r door, how d' frien's visit?"

Pan shrugs, "How do you tell if you've got a natural ability at anything? You try it and see how good you are. If there aren't two kings, the courts would get a lot closer to being the same. Honestly, I'm not sure if we want them all the same. You can't have light without shadow, after all." He laughs, "I don't put it up when I want someone to visit. I lay it on when I'm out or when I'm sleeping alone."

Shateishael says, "Oh, okay." He drinks silently, not quite sure about what Pan's saying, then finally slowly rumbles, "So... havin' both courts th'same is... bad f' y'all?"

Pan tips his head and thinks on that one a few minutes, "Having both courts the same, or just having one court... I'm not sure it would be natural. We're reflections of nature, or most of us are. Soma is Summer. Bran is Winter. I've always been a little surprised there aren't four kings, actually. Oh, and I'm about a hundred and fifty. Just a baby."

Shateishael nods slowly, thinking as he has another drink... then he rumbles, "'Kay, think I get it now. Yeah, that'd be odd... although if'n some disaster like that happened, why wouldn't y'all jus'..." he ponders, then shakes his head, "Nah, that wouldn' work neither. Huh." He smiles at Pan, relaxedly adding, "Ain't we all babies... c'mpared t'folks like Bacchus 'n Karl."

Pan's eyes twinkle a little at the mention of Bacchus, "They're the fuddy-duddies. I think Rose and Lily might rival them in age, though. But I'm a baby even compared to a lot of the folks that came through that whole mess. I think even Ayra's older than I am."

Shateishael says, "Ah, so Bacchus i'n't y'r... dad 'r sire?" He finishes his mug of ale, then sets it aside and cheerfully adds, "Y'min' if'n I check y'horns out now?" He grins ruefully, muttering, "Fuddy-duddies... 'kaaay..."

Pan smiles lopsidedly, "No, Bacchus isn't my father. That's more common among the Egyptians. Or was. My dad's one of Bran's. We're not what you might call close." The satyr leans his head toward Slate, chuckling, "Go ahead, they're not going anywhere."

Shateishael looks a bit puzzled at Pan's comment, "Whut's more common 'mong 'Gyptians? I thought satyrs bred true onna male line -- 'at not th'case?" He smiles, moving to stand next to Pan and gently touching the satyr's horns. As Pan seems unfazed, Slate becomes more absorbed, running his slightly scarred fingers over the curling ridges, very carefully testing how much give they seem to have (he doesn't want to hurt Pan in the least, after all), running his fingers through the curling hair to get a better view of the join between horn and skull, and generally being quite fascinated with this new and wonderful body type.

On the contrary, Pan seems to actively enjoy having Slate examine his horns, in the way many people seem to enjoy having their hair stroked. He laughs when the give on them is tested and his head bobs slightly. They seem to join firmly to his skull, where the skin around the base is thicker, a little tougher than the rest of his skin, almost like a callus. Shateishael non-consciously registers Pan not minding, and happily continues his examination. He 'huh!'s softly under his breath, one hand stroking back the hair while he gently presses a finger of the other hand against the apparent callus rimming the horn. He rumbles thoughtfully, "This's 'bout century'na half's growth? So... howcum Bacchus's aren't practically wrapped 'roun' his haid, then, f'th' 'mount a' time he's had? Th'growth slow down after 'whiles, 'r sumpin'?"

Pan laughs, the sound drowsy and content, "It does, yes, but I also think my lover's had to regrow his a time or two. You don't go into a fight with big horns on your head and not get them broken off sometimes."

Shateishael winces slightly at that thought, "Eurgh, that'd be damn sight 'nnoyin', I'd think -- don' that hurt?! 'N... be imbalanced afterwards, if'n on'y one a' 'em broke?" He pauses, then adds with startled bemusement, "Fights? Whut's Bacchus fightin' 'bout?" He runs his fingers along the horns again, curiously checking for weak spots where a horn might break.

Pan makes a motion as if to nuzzle against Slate's hand, but then catches himself and smiles, "Yes, it's imbalanced. From what I understand, if one breaks, he breaks the other one to match it. You'd have to ask him about pain. Mine have never broken."

Shateishael nods, absorbed in studying the horns as he muses aloud, "Yeah, not seein' any ol' scarrin' a'th' growth rings... huh, fascinatin'... you guys got any idea how y'all came 'bout? This's jus' 'mazin'!"

Pan shakes his head and smiles, "I honestly couldn't say how we came about. Bacchus says he thinks someone must have pissed Zeus off mightily sometime back in the misty past."

Shateishael tosses his head back in a laugh at that, then grins at the satyr, his eyes dancing with amusement, "Really now! Guess tha's diff'rent!" He's still chuckling as he neatly brushes Pan's hair back into place, then gently and companionably squeezes the satyr's shoulder, "Thanks, Pan-kun... wuz a real nice dance, 'n y've been real sweet 'bout lettin' me satisfy m'curiosity. 'Ppreciate it!"

Pan crosses his arms on the bar and smiles, waving off the thanks, "It was no problem. Thanks for the dance."

Shateishael starts to turn away, then pauses at a sudden thought -- if Bacchus really is Oberon, he'd surely still have that iron-created scar on his hand, right? ...except then what about the lack of magic? Slate curiously rumbles, "There a way t' give y'r magic 'juice' t'someone else? 'N does Bacchus got a bad scar on 'is right han'?"

Pan arches a brow, "I suppose you could. I don't know how wise it might be. It would be a stronger bond even than love. And if he's got a scar there, he smoothes it over with glamour. I've seen that a time or two. Karl apparently has a nasty scar on his stomach that he doesn't let anyone see."

Shateishael nods slowly, thinking furiously. He rumbles quietly, "Dunno if'n there's anythin' really stronger'n love... but then, 'm an angel -- we embody love." He's silent a moment, then smiles quietly at the slight satyr, "If'n I c'n he'p ya wi'anythin', lemme know? Y'been real kind, 'n I'd like t'be able t'thank ya sometime f'that." He nods courteously, then turns and paces thoughtfully off.

When the air is just beginning to taste of morning, the Bright gently extracts Rosenstern from Soma and pulls him and Slate both onto the floor to dance with her. It's by necessity not one of the almost-structured dances, but rather a taste of the electricity that seems to bind the three of them together. The teasing and caresses of the dance convince the three Celestials it is time to seek their tent. They bid Soma goodbye, the Ethereal lord taking a long and lingering moment to kiss his consort and whisper something in rolling Gaelic in his ear before letting them go.

Once past the dome the pull of the glamour slackens, but the part of the eagerness that is simply the angels' bond with one another stays strong. Bella actually seems almost more eager for her male lovers to enjoy one another than to pour herself into lovemaking, but she does eventually join them. As they finally rest she murmurs, "I hope we can carry some of this back with us... just a little bit."

Rosenstern is blushing deeply at both what Soma whispered to him, and at the glamour still clinging -- though as he recovers he sleepily nods, murmuring to Bella, "I hope so as well...."

Shateishael rumbles with lazily teasing contentment, "Yeah... that cat suit was t'die for, lover!"

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Last modified: 2006-Dec-07 15:15:59

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