Dragons

A secluded, lantern-lit nook behind bronze curtains.
Secluded from the vibrantly illustrated walls of the studio by heavy curtains of bronze
and vermillion, a raised platform here is host to a comfortable, rolled out mattress
stuffed with cool down. More spacious than it would appear at first glance, this place of
respite is abundantly decorated in soft pillows and cushions in hues of copper. The
subtle, smoky scent of incense lingers in the air and on the fabric, entrenched in the
slate and vermilion-patterned quilts. Beautifully ornamented in copper and burnt umber, a
contrast in autumnal titles decorate the ceiling and offset the pleasantly cream walls.
Stacks of book rest upon the platform and the floor beside it, their spines worn and
subjects varied.
You see a single exit leading west.

Majestadt grasps you by the wrist, pulling the taller man after him as he announces
delightedly, "Come look what I've been working on!" Passing through the cold outside with
dark mutterings, the pair are soon through lavishly decorated rooms infused with a
radiating warmth from both the walls and floor. you is released as they enter the nook
together, the shorter man holding up a hand excitedly before trotting over to a nearby
bench and pulling out a ruby clockwork shaped like a dragon. "I just finished this
recently," he explains with a certain level of excitement. His brow soon furrowing as he
utters a soft, "Oh, wait," and then begins to rummage through tools, a panel popped open
and the sound of metal grating against metal soon filling the air. "The gear slipped
again," he explains in distraction, his right hand lightly resting on the table as he
angles the tool.

The larger viscanti makes no move to remove Majestadt's grip from about
his wrist, the corner of Aramaeus's mouth curling up a fraction in silent amusement as he
permits his companion to tow him along, his manner indulgent. The cold elicits no reaction
from him, his attention focused upon absorbing every minute detail of his new surroundings
as Majestadt guides him forward, bladed tail swaying languidly in his wake. Once released,
he laces his claws together into a glittering latticework of green and violet, leaning
over the ruby dragon with open interest upon his features. Magenta eyes bright with
curiosity, he tilts his head back and forth to examine the creation intently, the rich
timbre of his voice pleased as he remarks, "What a fine little creature you have made for
yourself."

Without glancing over to Majestadt, Aramaeus inquires, "Was it difficult
to create? What are its functions?"

You think to yourself: A calm curiosity, the constant, clinical regard for everything and
everyone shaded towards warmer hues of genuine appreciation and approval.

Majestadt bites at his lip as he continues to maneuver the tool, a little noise sounding
in the back of his throat before he utters a soft, "Come on." His head tilting faintly in
the direction of Aramaeus's voice he answers, "Not especially. It was only broken into
nine pieces I had to put back together." This is followed by a triumphant, "Aha!" at the
sound of a sharp click, his focused gaze taking on excitement once more as he babbles,
"It's just a little automaton. I think it has a program in it or something, it responds to
touch. I was getting some practice in, I have a few other projects I wanted to work on
soon and this got me back into the swing of it." He deftly slides the panel back into
place with his left hand, the tool dropped and a joyous smile aimed up at you before he
freezes with a soft, "The hell?" Then, a bewildered, "Hi?"

Majestadt distractedly presses the panel on the dragon's back as he gives it a little
shove, sending the automaton into motion.

A ruby dragon flies in circles around Majestadt for a moment before landing at his feet.

The tiny clockwork dragon is inspected for a while longer, before
Aramaeus straightens, shifting his attention to watch Majestadt's efforts with a faintly
amused tilt to his lips. The steady regard of his vibrantly red eyes is more warmed wine
than cold ruby as he studies the smaller man, though the perfect planes of his features
remain as benignly aloof as ever. "Practice before engaging in more ambitious projects is
often wise. What do you have planned?" The bright smile is met with a smaller one in turn
as Aramaeus cants his head aside fractionally, a pale brow arching as he gives the dragon
a cursory glance, before resuming his amused regard of the mechanic. The dark velvet of
his voice is languid, as relaxed as a cat draped across a throne. "Hello, Majestadt. Is
something amiss? A cog out of place, perhaps?"

Majestadt blinks once, his brow furrowed in thought as he examines your features. The
shorter man's mouth soon quirks into a half-smile and he turns back to place his tools
away carefully, his voice low when he replies, "No," while the automaton slinks off the
workbench and begins to amble across the floor. "A few things," he admits with a shrug. "A
pocket watch. The gears will be small and delicate. I nearly have a ring with moving gears
pieced together. I've considered a larger project, like this thing," he points to the
dragon with his left gloved hand, seemingly gaining excitement again at the sight of it as
he urges, "Touch its back. It has an incredible span of movement."

You reach out and touch a ruby dragon.
A ruby dragon snaps eagerly at your fingers and darts toward you, looking to play.

A ruby dragon sniffs at the ground, meandering to and fro until he stops in front of you.

A ruby dragon darts in circles around you before settling, raising a hind leg, and taking
a quick piddle on your feet.

A ruby dragon leaps out of reach, chortling with wicked glee.

Majestadt opens his mouth and then closes it, a deep blush suffusing over his features. "I
didn't program it," he croaks out.

The dragon's playful advance is met with the same, slight smile that it
seems Aramaeus regards much of the world with, his attention acute as he notes the
smoothness of the automaton's motion. The moment the creature urinates upon his foot,
however, the smile freezes as the midnight slits of his pupils snap into slivers of black
so thin that they are barely perceptible. The large, elongated diamond of his tailblade
hisses out to stab down at the clockwork menace, the edge resting against the dragon's
metallic throat as the viscanti seizes it between the curved talons of his feet, forming a
cage of glittering white, violet and green. His tone is almost precisely the same
pleasantly conversational one with which he spoke a few moments before, were it not for
the subtle edge of displeasure that has slipped into it, like velvet draped across a
knife. "Did you not test it thoroughly, Majestadt? Perhaps I should deconstruct it for
you, so you might rebuild it with better manners."

Majestadt winces deeply, all of his previous excitement chased away as he stares forlornly
at his now-trapped construct. "I thought I had culled that response," is the only thing he
manages, his features bleeding a deeper red. Snatching up a nearby rag he silently kneels
down with a quiet, "I'm sorry," and scrubs away at the oil staining the side of your foot -
while there he presses upon a different panel, the clockwork stilling. In an utterly
miserable tone he requests as he continues to wipe up the oil, "Please don't break it,"
without looking up.

Aramaeus shows little sign that he has even noticed that the oil marring
the pristine white of his foot is being tended to, the cold point of his attention focused
instead upon the transgressor that is pinned beneath him. The softly delivered apology
sends a flicker of something across his face, the cold displeasure that lends him the mien
of a marble depiction of royal judgement easing somewhat. An irritated sigh precedes the
withdrawal of his talons, though he sets his foot down where Majestadt may continue to
clean the remainder of the oil from it. Fine lips thinning for a time as he watches the
kneeling viscanti, he says, "You are fortunate that I am patient with you. You will ensure
that it does not do such to me again." A pause, in which he glances at the construct once
more, and then he allows, "It will be a fine creature, once you curb its...Tendencies. I
am fond of dragons."

Majestadt allows a soft, mechanical, "Yes," to spill from his lips in reply at your words.
Finishing with one last careful swipe of the rag in a long-practiced motion, the smaller
viscanti carefully pulls over the inanimate dragon into his hand. Looping an arm around it
to shift its weight he stands and shuffles it back onto the worktable with utmost delicacy
for the machinery within - he then sighs deeply when he glances down to his wrist,
noticing grease and oil upon his own skin. "Wonderful," he mutters to himself, his
movements slow and halting as his right hand takes the rag to lightly scrub at his left
wrist, the viscanati's expression consumed in tension. "I can take you back to the city,"
he murmurs, his voice laden with further unspoken apologies when he finally looks up to
you while yet scrubbing fruitlessly at his wrist.

Once the last offending smear of oil has been wiped from the glossy
surface of his scaled foot, Aramaeus raises it aloft and flexes his claws idly as he
examines it critically. Evidently satisfied, he sets it back down upon the floor and
watches the much subdued mechanic tend to Majestadt's precious automaton. It is with the
same cool, detached regard that the frozen discs of vivid magenta behold Majestadt's
efforts at cleaning himself off - Though this lasts for but the span of a few long breaths
before the alabastrine viscanti tsk's in irritation and seizes the smaller man's forearm
in a grip that is light, but steady as steel. "Oh, do relax, Majestadt. You have
apologised and remedied the issue, and my feathers are now summarily smoothed once more."
Withdrawing a modest square of white linen from his pocket, he sets to methodically
dabbing the oil from Majestadt's skin, his motions small, swift, and efficient. "Honestly.
Water and soap would make this much easier."

Majestadt gives a soft gasp of shock at the unexpected touch, his right hand immediately
dropping the rag held within his grasp at his attention now diverted. He blinks once,
bewilderment evident on the shorter man's expression as he stares at the white linen now
being soiled on his skin. "Don't," Majestadt chokes out when he finally seems to come back
into himself. "You'll stain it." Entirely confused now as he continues to stare at the
cloth cleaning his wrist, his brow furrows while a low noise chokes at the back of his
throat, a blush slowly suffusing back onto his milk-pale features when he chances a glance
up to your face.

The left corner of Aramaeus's lips curls up as he replies, dryly amused,
"I am aware of what happens when cloth is introduced to oil, thank you." He does not spare
any of his attention to so much as glance up at Majestadt, entirely focused upon removing
even the faintest hint of discolouration that might mar the pale skin that he tends to,
the pure white of his brow wrinkling slightly in the center as he frowns absently in
concentration. In a distracted murmur, he admonishes, "Do not tell me what to do."

Majestadt huffs softly in response as he retorts obstinately to himself, "I'm not worth
soiled cloth." Yet blushing, he tries to gently withdraw his arm from your grasp, and when
the does not seem to immediately work lets out another huff. "Why shouldn't I," he
challenges with a clipped laugh.

"I decide what you are worth to me, not you." The response is spoken in
the manner of one explaining something that is painfully obvious, a self-evident,
indisputable fact. The attempt to remove Aramaeus's project before it is complete wins
Majestadt a minutely greater degree of pressure from the white viscanti's grip, the
amethyst claws pressing ever so slightly into the smaller man's skin, in silent warning.
Lifting his left hand to his mouth, he licks the side of his thumb, which he then rubs
across a particularly stubborn spot of grease. Finally, face still tilted downwards, he
looks up at Majestadt, the rich red of his eyes overlaid by the snowy white of his lashes.
"It will go poorly for you."

Majestadt wrinkles his nose at the silent warning, it seeming for a moment he may unwisely
yank his arm away before he relents the pressure and allows you to continue. "Everything
goes poorly to me," Majestadt answers in the manner of someone musing it will rain for the
day. His smile a touch too brittle at the edges, he hedges instead, "If I'm worth a soiled
cloth then am I worth the name of that book you were reading?"

A flicker of open irritation flits across Aramaeus's sculpted features,
the shadow of disapproval stealing across the smooth, pristine white skin as he finishes
cleaning Majestadt's arm. He releases it, in the same moment that he places the forefinger
and thumb of his left hand on either side of the smaller man's face, tilting Majestadt's
chin up so that he stares down into the rust-speckled brown of Majestadt's eyes.
Expression cool, his voice is quiet, but as implacable as the relentless march of a
glacier as he says, "Self-pity is a disgusting quality, Majestadt. Do not allow yourself
to be seduced by it." He permits a pause, to emphasise his point, before his eyes thin
slightly. "Do you understand?"

Majestadt stills as he finds his chin tipped up, his eyes widening somewhat beneath your
attention. A soft, somewhat bewildered, "I'm sorry," spills from his lips at the
admonishment, his head soon giving a subtle nod. "Yes," he then murmurs in response, his
dark gaze searching your for a fleeting moment. In a low voice he asks instead this time,
"Is there anything else I should know?" while his left hand reaches up to lightly wrap
around the taller viscanti's wrist in an effort to pull away the touch tilting his head
upwards.

Aramaeus's study of Majestadt persists for a long moment, his gaze sharp
and searching, before he emits a low sound from deep within his chest. His answer to the
question posed to him is a simple, "Yes," though the single word is dense with unspoken
sentiment. A pale brow arches as he flicks a glance at Majestadt's attempts to pull his
hand away, before he returns his gaze to staring directly into the smaller man's eyes, and
very deliberately does not release his grip. It tightens briefly - Not painfully, but
sufficient that the pressure is appreciable, his tone smooth as he advises, "Primary of
which is that you are more likely to get what you want if you ask it, with fine manners,
rather than...~This~." Despite saying so, he lets go, lowering his hand to fastidiously
fold his soiled square of cloth so that no blemish remains on the outside, and slips it
back into his pocket.

Majestadt's lip twitches in response to the increased pressure from your hand, his own
grip tightening in response around the other's wrist with an uncertain expression. A
little huff sounds from him at further admonishment, though he looks relieved to no long
have his head craned upwards when released, which he in turn removes his grasp on you.
"Asking you things doesn't generally get me an answer," the smaller viscanti points out
plainly, his expression then twisting somewhat at the sight of the cloth again. "I can get
the stain out," he says instead, not allowing you time to reply to the first statement.

A small, genuine smile curves Aramaeus's lips, amusement glittering in
his eyes as he dips his head aside in acknowledgement of Majestadt's observation.
"Generally does not mean always. You can win the title of the book readily enough. I do
not hand out prizes, and you made the mistake of displaying that you desired it more than
is usual." Turning his hand aside, he splays the crystalline violet of his claws, lifting
his opposite shoulder in a slight shrug. "Perhaps you can. Why would I allow you to try?
You are not my servant."

Majestadt snorts softly as he answers in turn, "You're infuriating," without malice, his
own mouth quirking up faintly in a smile. His head then tipping towards where the cloth
disappears he remarks, "Because -I- soiled it and I can fix it." His dark gaze slipping
back towards your face, he agrees lightly, a certain edge to the words, "No, I'm not
anyone's servant. But I can offer to help with something when I want to." His head then
cocking to the side, he asks as if to clarify the point, "Unless this is something else I
should know?"

A sudden, dazzlingly charming smile crafted from elegantly curving,
finely pointed teeth precedes, "I can be." At the explanation, another shrug follows,
Aramaeus's indifference this time conveyed in a minute rise and fall of both shoulders.
"It is often the case that messes must be cleaned up by those who did not make them.
Someone else will suffer for this particular misstep, albeit only insofar as laundry is
considered suffering." Clasping his hands behind his back, tail swaying back and forth in
an almost playful fashion, the broad-shouldered viscanti steps abruptly forward, so that
the tips of his curving talons press against Majestadt's shoes as he leans down, mirroring
the askew angle of Majestadt's head. "Do you not want to serve me?" The question is gently
mocking, a soft, rumbling purr, rich as the most decadent honey.

Perhaps surprisingly Majestadt does not move as he finds you before him - instead his gaze
hardens at the mocking question posed, jaw setting and a certain tension locking into his
slight frame. "No," he replies with a decided edge, the word laden with unspoken warning.
Showing entirely too many teeth when he speaks, he asks in turn, "Would you like to serve
me, Aramaeus?"

The warning is noticed, and summarily ignored, as Aramaeus slowly draws
back his lips to expose a growing expanse of distressingly large, predatory teeth, the
foremost fangs of which have a decidedly serpentine aspect. Parting his jaws a shade, the
alabastrine viscanti clicks his teeth together in a gentle, mocking bite, followed by soft
laughter that uncoils from him in a languid, lazy fashion. "I do not serve anyone, or
anything." The curving span of his teeth shades into a wicked grin as he lifts a single
claw to tap upon his lips, as if struck by a sudden thought. "Did you not introduce me as
your top?"

Majestadt's eyes narrow at you, his expression black at the gesture. The smaller viscanti
takes a single step back away from you, the sound of leather grinding against leather
filling the air as his left hand clenches and unclenches while he decides what to do with
himself. "Those are very different, Aramaeus, and I don't want to play this game," he
informs his guest lightly. Then, pointedly, "It was a joke."

Aramaeus fairly radiates amusement from every facet of his being, from
the curl that pulls at the corner of his lips, to the glittering ruby hue of his reptilian
eyes. Straightening, he seems entirely unperturbed by Majestadt's manner, flicking his
amethyst claws towards the exit, with a mild, "You can return me to the aetherplex chamber
now."

Majestadt arches an eyebrow sharply at the directive. His head canting to the side, his
weight shifting onto one leg and hand settling on his hip he states, "If you'd like to
leave I can show you the house's exit and you can see yourself away from here all on your
own."

A bright, glitteringly delighted laugh spills forth from Aramaeus at this
as he lifts his hand to run the cruel points of his talons through the shimmering tresses
of his glossy hair, commenting, "Aren't you all feisty when your buttons are pushed. How
cute." Lifting his shoulder in a careless shrug, he turns and steps away, tossing over his
shoulder, "Don't bother."