shelley_winters

The park is empty for the most part. The few raindrops falling splattered noisily on the ground. The water began to drip, spiraling down the long leaves of the willows that dotted the park.

A young man in a snow white suit was sitting on a bench, undisturbed by the approaching rain. The drooping willow sheltered the bench. His hands were folded in his lap, and his legs casually crossed.

Such a pretty smile.

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Shelley stops walking.

The white clothing... it was really all she needs to notice something odd. Evidently she was right. She starts to take a step forward, then stops.

He can bloody well come to her. He'll already be angry, anyway.

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Slowly rising from his seat, Ishamael strolled over to her with his hands pressed into his pockets. His gait was deliberately relaxed almost to the point of idling. A smile on his face as he stood near her.

"Greetings, my lady."

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Shelley folds her arms defensively, and greets him with a baleful stare. It's cold out here, and he doesn't look angry.

The again, some of her darkest nightmares are memories of times when he had laughed.

She glances away twitchily.

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Tilting his head, he inquired quietly of her. No malice in his tone. It had been one of the unfortunate flaws in this plan, but no matter, it was not one he would deal with again.

"Am I mistaken in believing that you have not been able to find a door that would return you? The letter was unopened when the time drew near."

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"Well, no," says Shelley grumpily.

"Or else I wouldn't be walking around a park at night looking for a door, would I?"

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Ishamael shrugged, and glanced about the park full of willows. There were other men in the park, vagrant and unwashed. Some watching, perhaps, hoping for a view to a tryst. Ishamael had disdain for such scum, but he would not afford them even a glance.

"I thought as much."

A pause, and then a quiet inquiry.

"Should you like time to gather some articles at your home before we return to my estate?"

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Shelley gives him a sour look.

"Like what? All I can think of is a spare pair of glasses, since everything I take from here or the bar tends to go missing after a few days."

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Tilting his head, Ishamael crossed his arms and inquired politely, but also genuinely curiously of her. They were a psychological defense mechanism that he deprived her of when he could.

"What need have you of those?"

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"I like them, they are mine, and to see with."

She folds her arms right back, and glares up challengingly. She knew he was behind the vanishment of every single pair she took.

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A small sigh from Ishamael as he reproved her.

"You do not have any need of them to correct your vision as you hardly are running into walls at the estate."

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"That is besides the point," she says coolly.

She likes wearing glasses. She always has, and he's deprived her of enough. He is not taking the glasses, too.

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Rubbing his forehead slightly, Ishamael conceded with a perhaps overly dramatic sigh.

"I still think it is an exercise in childishness, but go and fetch them if it pleases you."

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Shelley snorts, turning on her heel to head back her house, and also to discreetly wipe her eyes. She doesn't want to leave again for god knows how long.

"That's rich, coming from you."

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A sharp glare from Ishamael as she walked before he spoke softly out of her earshot. Straightening the cuffs of his sleeves, he remarked coldly.

"Do not tax my benevolence, my lady. As sure as I dote on what is mine, I revenge myself on the scorning of my gifts."

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"Now, that's no way to speak to a young lady," says an old man reprovingly, as he passes by.

"Time was, young men were nice to girls."

Ralph waves his bottle of ether demonstratively.

So this is why Shelley Winters had felt... odd. This is dangerous. It won't do. Not at all.

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A disdainful sniff from Ishamael. A fleck of black drifted across his pretty blue eyes as he turned and glared at Ralph. What a crass sermonizing old cad.

"I will treat what is mine however I deem fit, and neither your protestations nor hers will dissuade me."

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Oooh, dear now.

Ralph narrows his eyes unsteadily.

"That so? Don't suppose Miss Shelley volunteered herself. You shouldn't have followed her here, you know."

Too dangerous. Too much power by half to wander around loose and irresponsible. Really, Ralph'll be performing a public service.

Plus, he hasn't caused any decent chaos in ages.

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Ishamael laughed. What a rich jest! The pathetic inhabitants of this plane could hardly match his strength.

"You are an amusing benharas, certainly."

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Ralph grins back, reaching inside his coat to bring out a long, thin black candle.

"Dlorak T'chao sko ei'rheir nak!"

Getting rid of competition, a danger to the community and helping a young lady all in one - a young lady he owes, no less. What a productive evening. His old lady would be proud.

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Ishamael took an uneasy step back. What on earth... Was this old man going to try some kind of charlatanry on him? Did he really think he would be fooled by cheap tricks and nonsense words?

Crossing his arms disdainfully, he seized the Source on the off-hand chance... but surely not, this would undoubtedly resolve into this old man making an utter fool of himself.

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The candle flares alight, completely ignoring the wind and the slight rain. Ralph points it directly at Ishamael, and repeats himself.

"Dlorak T'chao sko ei'rheir nak!"

And from somewhere else come a heavy echo, as if the air and earth and sky are all trying to shout back.

खकऔओच छऌऋ धदख औত घगनसषत णलऒइई जझम फशषकतच सख़ग़ऋझखओख़ ग़सडर

The air seems to shiver around them.

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When the candles flared, Ishamael began to weave massive threads of the Power, enough to crush half of this wretched city. Ishamael's face was a mask of rage as the immense flows of Fire and Earth began forming themselves.

(A sound magician is a mighty God)

He would not, no, he could not be stopped!

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Ralph raises his eyebrows and blows out the candle.

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And the power was gone.

The flows simply vanished and Ishamael stood in stunned shock. How... There was not even a shield, and this old man could never have--

A sudden blinding pain drove him to his knees, wrenching the air from his chest. His skin was so tight, it felt like his body was being crushed.

--It was impossible! There was no way! A baleful look from Ishamael, snarling out viciously.

"What did you do, you qala yiddeoni?"

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Ralph nods in satisfaction, storing the candle back inside his coat, and taking out a hipflask.

"I settled a debt and removed a danger, while giving you the chance to learn a sharp lesson about mistreating young ladies."

He takes a sip.

"Grateful, lad?"

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A sharp cry from another bout of wracking pains. A thin sheen of cold sweat on his face as he growled an oath at Ralph. If he could even move, or touch just a trickle of his powers, then he would tear this old man to ribbons, but he could not even feel the source, and the pain was paralyzing his body.

"...Damn you, you ba'as benharas!"

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"Actually, I think you're the damned one," Ralph points out, before putting away the hip flask and rubbing his hands briskly.

"Well, I should be off. But there are terms to this, y'understand? Want to know about them?"

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A low, hateful growl from Ishamael in response, his arms still tightly curled about his body in response to the agonizing pains.

They were subsiding, and once he could move, Ishamael was intent on snapping Ralph's feeble neck with his bare hands.

There was certainly going to be satisfaction in that.

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"No? Well, means nothing t'me if you never use it again. The strong stuff'll rot your liver - either metaphorical or actual, and you..." he shakes his head.

It had burned in him from the first sight he got. Ralph doesn't mind working with the Black Arts now and again, but that went beyond dark. Better out of his hands.

"Well, suffice it to say, you had better make it up to Miss Winters. And I'm not giving you forever. You work at it, or you lose everything for good, y'hear?"

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A sharp, angry retort from Ishamael. Trying to stand, he faltered and was driven back to his knees.

"So you want me to be nice to her? Bake her a few desserts, perhaps?"

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"I want you to make up for all your previous bad behaviour. If you can get her to forgive you enough to love you... I reckon that'll do."

Ralph smiles to himself, pleased. This more than makes up for the unfortunate zombification misunderstanding.

"You won't have forever, though, so don't drag your feet, or it's gone for good. Here."

From one of the straggly rose bushes in the path border, Ralph selects a budding rose and picks it at the stem. He blows on it once, and it shivers in an imperceptible wind as he tosses it at Ishamael's feet.

"This'll tell you how long you have. When it's dead, you might as well be. Clear?"

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