A Kissing Booth of sorts

[Peredhil]

Peredhil carefully tucked one of the crow feathers above his ear, right below the silver on his temple. He'd had crow black hair for a long long time, but eventually even Elves age.

 

Abruptly, he looked up, feeling distress unusual in the Pen.

 

Tzimfemme! Of all the Quincunx the boldest in speech, yet no less mystical for that.

 

Leaping lightly over the counter before she could blunder into it, he heard her broken pleas, a call for help he'd never heard pass her lips before.

 

Ignoring the crimson blood-stained lips, the highly dialated eyes, he tenderly caught her up in his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder. She was much lighter than he'd thought she'd be; he always forgot that vampiric trait.

 

Taking her back into the curtained booth, he rocked her gently, smoothing her hair and rubbing her back, while he opened himself to impressions from her fevered mind.

 

A wild kalidescope of impressions and patterns, whirling geometrical patterns which graphically represent the language of math that explains realities, overlaid and overburdened with flashing spirts and pulsating powers.

 

Lowering one's defenses in the Pen opened one to blinding degrees of power in all wave-lengths.

 

He didn't know the source of her anguish, but the mathmatical nature of the probability suggested the engimatic Rosemary hovering in the background like a shadowy cape.

 

Slightly nonplussed, he allowed his spirit to flare up around them, momentarily showing himself as the Elf Lord he once was, guarding them in a tiny twist of reality that was just the two of them within the shield of his pure love for her. A shield carefully not touching her, for he didn't know how a vampiress would react to the rainbow spectrum of affection, love, respect, and fierce protectiveness he felt toward one of his oldest friends in this Plane.

 

Safe for a moment, he wiped the blood from her mouth with a gentle hand, then pricked his finger on one of her fangs, letting exactly forty-nine drops of his blood drop through her parted lips.

 

Hiding her head against his shoulder, he hugged her gently to himself and waited, hopefully, to see if this might help.

[Quincunx]

Within the pocket dimension was a cold vacuum, cut off from the soul fires of the carnival patrons; instead the heightened sensitivity fed solely upon Peredhil, flooding Tzimfemme's brain with calculations and correspondences and three out-of-body glances at Rosemary/herself. . . .Slowly the mad blood burnt itself out and Peredhil's fueled the visions, and even more slowly, Tzimfemme understood. She opened her mouth a few times before remembering how to speak, but waved her hands jerkily, and finally brought the two together to say, ". . .fine now. . .thinking. . .fine. . .no burning. . .thinking," and stared off into space for awhile. Peredhil waited quietly.

 

"Rosemary started to fade awhile ago," she began tonelessly. "I. . .took part of her back into me. Some bit which had come loose, lodged in another soul." Tzimfemme looked over her shoulder, looked down, rolled her eyes upward to identify the body in the way, then lost her focus again. "So that was done, face to face, in drab reality. Rosemary's speech is in me now. . .I cannot say who. Now you," and she looked at Peredhil for the first time in all this time, too close but that fact stood in isolation, "you have her vision. That part called to the part I have, must have put the blood in my hand. I am very unaware of those things." Tzimfemme thought. "Something different about you. The others who have bits of Rosemary. . .I had kissed them. Against their will."

 

She stared at him, eyes going blank again. Just behind him were null spaces, positively outlined in static. One for his wife. One for his life. One for the trace elements which made it into no persona. The no-name of the quincunx seeped into Tzimfemme's voice. "You are already claimed, a memory pure as a unicorn. I could take the unicorn, the kiss, and the facet of Rosemary by force. No. I could not," it hesitated. Peredhil was still too close, but necessary. "I must, to go on. . . .May I. . .kiss you?" He gave permission without moving a muscle.

 

She did, yet the memory instantly evaporated with the no-name's retreat into its silence. All Tzimfemme would remember would be Peredhil's compassionate eyes and the dawning awareness of people being connected. The new awareness stretched slowly, like a rubber band, as Tzimfemme moved towards the curtains in slow motion. There wasn't any awareness coming from beyond the booth though. . .

 

"Peredhil. . .did you put up a shield or something?"

[Peredhil]

As awareness beyond awareness came into her eyes, Peredhil sat bemused at the results of the kiss. He was used to multiple levels of awareness and exclusion, but if was passing rare to find it in someone else.

 

At her comment, he recalled himself to his duties as a host.

 

"Oh! I'm sorry! It felt right at the time. Ummm. Here you go."

 

He pulled his love and spirit for the brave woman waiting back into himself, where he usually hid such powerful feelings lest they overwhelm others.

He made sure it was a slow fade, to ensure she wasn't overwhelmed by the sudden return of the Pen's Entities.

 

It wasn't until after he'd hugged her and escorted her to the opening beside the counter he realized that she was clothed only in her magnificent hair. He shook his head as he realized once again he really needed to start looking at the OUTSIDES of people, as well as the insides.

 

After all, he didn't want to tarnish her reputation with anything that might seem inappropriate.

[Quincunx]

Tzimfemme stood with the fingers of one hand lightly spread on the booth for support. She was perfectly still yet the people passing nearby disturbed the new awareness, like currents in water deeper than her head; she dug her toes into the mud to keep her balance. One of Rosemary's memories bubbled up from nowhere, memories of layers of medieval clothing saturated for weeks, dragging her down along with the shackle on her ankle and the rotten, waterlogged wood to which it had been secured. Tzimfemme pressed her tongue against her sharp teeth and willed both memories and impressions away, focusing on the near and the real, the booth and the donation container. Donation! Thoughts twisted again: eight-and-eight again was Peredhil in the greater scheme of things was sixty-four, how did Rosemary put UP with this, it's loony, but he'd provided seven-and-seven again so she needed to contribute fifteen. She rolled her eyes at the illogic but extracted fifteen gold from a wobbly mini-portal (which turned belly-up and died immediately afterward) and deposited that into the container. The clink stabilized her senses, and another one sharpened: her sixth sense of chocolate. . .in that direction. Tzimfemme let go of the booth gingerly and stepped towards the concert hall. . .

[Peredhil]

Watching Tzimfemme leave he smiled fondly after her.

 

He was really quite amazed at the turnout the booth had had.

 

...

 

Later, in the Cabaret, he was trying to decide what to do with his money...

 

And came up with a Lending Booth idea.

 

(OoC, thank you all for making this such a success. )