He decides to dance with Izabel.

“Izabel…is the safest choice,” he thinks and gulps. He looks at her, examining her shoes, pushing a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “Now uh, to get her attention,” he thinks. He leans forward at bit, staring straight at her. “Izabel…Izabel…stop looking at your shoes…Izabel.” Her eyes flick to his – “yes” – then away – “no!” He makes some slight movement with his hands, to bring her attention over. “Fuck, why is this so hard?” Her eyes flick to his again, and he snares them with a little nod of his head. “Yes, yes, I’m choosing you, Izabel,” he thinks.

She slowly lifts her head. Her eyes are two slow rivers, calm but utterly unstoppable, that flow into his own. “Fuck, is she mad at me?” he thinks nervously. He smiles weakly and shrugs. Then her red lips curl up a tiny amount, and she tilts her head to the side, and sighs contentedly. He gulps. “Gods, I really had too much to drink, its all making me a nervous wreck,” he thinks. Izabel stares calmly at him, and then, a few short moments later, the musicians sound the first note, and they walk into each other’s arms.

“Are yu nervoous, little brother? Do yu know tha mooves?” she says slowly and softly, as they come together in the traditional embrace, one arm around the partner’s back, the other clasped in the partner’s hand, held close to the body.

“Noo, I kno…what I’m doin’,” he says, looking into her eyes. The dance begins, and they slowly start to move, avoiding the other dancers. Something is tickling his nose, some floral scent, over all the smell of bodies and meat and wood.

Her grin widens a bit. “We’ll see,” she says. Domic and Izabel dance around as best they can, considering their levels of drunkenness – her better than him, as she never stumbles over his feet. As the dance begins, he looks into Izabel’s eyes, but as it continues, he starts to wander. Over the individual strands of her hair, so dark against the ivory band. To flashes of faces in the crowd. Following the curve of her nose. Cerni dancing with the man with three missing teeth, her polite disinterest a thin veneer over disgust. The scar on her cheekbone, a blemish she covered with powder. Halle talking to Torjo and two other men. The patterns in the skin of her lips. The musicians tooting and strumming furiously. The beads of her sweat that collect underneath the opal, before disappearing between her breasts. Torjo opening a side door for Halle, then following him. The disconcerting blueness and calmness of her eyes.

Then the music finishes and they release from the embrace. “Let’s goo hav a chat,” Izabel says, leading him away as the crowd applauds for the musicians.

…

“Come onn…in ‘ere,” Izabel says, dragging Domic into a small storeroom, bathed in soft moonlight refracted through a small window, illuminating panels of warm wood. It’s filled with various bits and pieces on shelves – tankards, crates, towels, extra candles, firewood on the floor. A bulky chair is pushed against the opposite wall. It is armless, with sinuous patterns carved into the wooden back, and lacquered in reds and blacks. Its legs are wide and sturdily braced against each other. Izabel shuts the door behind them. The room is pleasantly cooler and the air less oppressive than the rest of the tavern. “Well…are ya goin’ to sit down?” she says, gesturing lazily at the chair.

“Noo, yu shuld,” he says.

“Me? ‘m questionin’ ya,” she points a finger at him.

“Hey, since when iz thiss an interrogation?”

“It’s not. I jus wanna know…know why ya danced with me?”

“Wat? That’z what yu dragged me ‘ere for?”

“Mmhmm,” she nods her head.

“Are yu gonna sit down first?” he says.

“Domic! Don’ change tha subject,” she says. She pokes him in the stomach, eyes gleeful.

“Ope! Heeey, not zo rough.”

“Jus sit down.”

“Why don’ yu jus sit? Yu’re a girl…it’z polite,” he smiles.

“Cause ’m interrogating yu,” she chuckles, poking him again.

“Oppe. Hehe hey, I’ll talk unce you sit down.”

“Nono, yu’ll sit down. I’ll make yu.”

“How?”

She is silent for a moment, eyes looking at the ceiling. Then she looks at him and grins mischievously. “I’ll just keep pokin’ until ya do,” she says, poking him.

“Ow! Izabel – wha’re yu, an imp?” he laughs.

“Me? You’re tha one…too stubborn to jus sit,” she says exasperatedly, poking him again. He instinctively backs away from her pokes, right back into the chair, and sits down as his calves hit it. “There – waas that zo difficult?” she smiles.

Domic says nothing, but simply smiles smugly up at her.

“Domic? Ooooh…I know wha yu’re doing…who’z actin’ like an imp now?” she says, but he keeps smiling smugly at her. “I’ll show ya,” she says, flopping heavily into his lap before he can react.

“Guoh shit Izabel! Yu’re too ‘eavy,” he groans. “Get off me!”

“No, we’re both sittin’ now, problem solved hmm?” she says, wrapping her right arm around his neck for balance. Domic can already feel her sliding backwards, so he grabs her waist with his left arm, and swings his right around to lay atop her legs, just above the bend of her knees.

“Yu need ta get off,” he groans again. “Well now what?” he thinks. The faint scent of flowers is much stronger now, and the curve of her breasts are just underneath his eyes, sweat disappearing. He gulps. “Ignore that, ignore those,” he thinks.

“Zo. Why’d yu dance with me? Doon’t yu like…um…the redhead?” she asks slowly, ignoring his groaning and looking down at his doublet, picking lint off it.

“Gwenevi, that’z ‘er name.”

“Wahteva. Or Cerni?”

“Uhm, eh…”

“Why dance wit’ me? Not them? Are yu not attracted to them?”

“I uh, dun know…”

“Are yu still a little nervoous round girlz? Iz that why?” she adjusts herself on his lap, twisting her hips around.

“I dun know…maybe a little,” he says, eyes down turned. “But now really I am,” he thinks, as his heart starts to beat faster. He feels his dick twitch.

“Ohhh, it’z alright,” she says sweetly, picking more lint or specks or something off him. “Wha’ makes yu nervoous? Tha dancin’? Yu weren’t too bad,” she says.

“Oh um, thanks,” he says.

“I can teach yu moore, later…tha’s what big sisterz are foor,” she smiles down at him.

“Really?”

“Uhhuh,” she shifts again. The feeling of her shifting ass and thighs are starting to wheedle their way into his thoughts. The room suddenly seems stuffier. “And uhm jus for a bit o’ advice, otherwise. Uhm, girlz are, uh, complex, but uh, wit’ some dancin’…and uh talkin’…and other things yu can get a gud feeling foor where things are going,” she says.

He looks back up at her. “Talkin’ huh,” he says slowly. “And compliments too huh? Um, like yu’re beautiful?” he blurts. “Did I just say that? She’ll understand what I meant – that she’s not – I mean she obviously – fuck she’ll know what I mean,” he thinks, panicky.

Izabel smiles and flushes a bit. “Ehheheh, sure, things like that,” she says softly.

He notices the steady rise and fall of her chest has almost imperceptibly quickened. “I need to stop her from shifting around so much,” he thinks. He squirms a bit underneath her, getting more comfortable, then he tightens his grip around her waist and pulls her a bit closer. “Hehe, zorry, yu keep slidin’ around,” he says. A thought in the back of his mind says this shouldn’t be happening, but he ignores it. “Why wouldn’t I hold my sister safe and tight?” he thinks.

“Right, right, noow umm…where were we?” she says, now examining his collar.

“Compliments…like yu’re zo beautiful, Izabel,” he says, cheerily.

She flushes more. “Domic please, yu’re distractin’ me,” she says softly.

“Zorry, zorry.”

“Mmm, zo, anyway, yes, just do some talkin’ first, and dancin’, and um, maybe some touchin’, uh like this,” she lightly touches his cheek.

“Uhhuh,” he says. Then he’s lightly caressing the side of her face and his heart is beating quickly. “Drank too much,” he thinks, as a little gust of vertigo hits him and he starts to feel dazed. The thought in the back of his mind is become more insistent that Izabel should get off him. "No, I want to hold her close, I like this, I like her," he thinks, trying to make sense of the ripples in her eyes, starting to harden.

“Hmmhm,” she murmurs, caressing his cheek again, a little longer this time. She pauses for a few moments. “And then, um, maybe, uh, somethin’ like,” she says. She leans down and softly kisses his cheek. She pulls a few inches away, her face flushed, nostrils lightly flaring in and out, waves now in her eyes.

{if Izabel's Love = 20}“Huh,” he breathes, as he leans up to kiss her cheek, and then kiss the curve of her jaw, and then the side of her warm neck. "Yu're zo beautiful, I jus can't dezcribe it," he murmurs up into her ear.

"Zhow me then," she coos softly, in an unsisterly tone. He kisses below her ear, kisses her neck, again, moves to her collarbone, suckles at it, tastes her sweet sweat.

"I like her, I want her, I need her," the feelings soar in his mind as the thought arms itself for drastic action. She runs a hand through his hair, guiding his kisses to her throat. "Mmm, I like this," he thinks, tasting her warmth, the thought hoisting a purge. He kisses the underside of her jaw as she sighs in primal bliss. "I like pleasing her, being with her," the feelings soaring oblivious as the thought takes aim. He softly kisses her chin, and not a moment later is hovering over her succulently stellar, deliciously forbidden, red red lips. "I'll do anything for her," he thinks, staring into her lake-eyes, bursting and deluging him, carrying a deep something out for him. "I like being a good brother for her."

The thought pulls the purge trigger, and the feelings are incinerated, atomized, annihilated. "No, wrong," he thinks, pulling away, as her eyes start to widen, fog appearing in them, obscuring the feeling waters. She removes her hand from his hair, and he jerks his head, his eyes, his mind, all away from her, away from the foggy carnage she is unleashing inside herself, bludgeoning the deep something to a red paste.

{else}"Wha 'bout thiss," he sighs, as he leans forward to kiss her neck, suck at it, and pull away. They are close, too very close the something in his mind is screaming at him.

"Yezz," she breathes, onto him, he feels the air from her lips kiss him. Her head is tilted, her eyes half closed. He is vaguely aware of her red lips, soft, delicious, forbidden. Something is thrashing towards the shoreline of her eyes.

He moves towards her, and she to him, and they're going to do it, it's going to happen, he knows they're so close! But that breaks him, he fails, and he veers, and feels the softness of her cheek as it brushes against his. Then their eyes are connecting for a second, and Domic shudders at the bloody, broken remains of the thing that was in Izabel's eyes, their waters as disgustingly red as her lips.{endif}

An intensely dizzying twinge punches him in the stomach. “I’m going to have to go vomit,” one quiet part of him slowly thinks, as all the rest scream in revulsion at himself, purging with beak and talon any who say otherwise. Izabel turns her head away, and he hears her mumble some vague something about something as her face morphs to an impenetrable calmness. Then she is sliding herself up and away from him, and he lets her go. He waits for a moment before standing up, slowly. He considers staying in the storeroom forever, but instead he follows her out, focusing on some point over the top of her head, straining to remain standing. She turns left, and he decides that right is a better choice.

“Fuck,” he thinks, as his decision leads him right into the path of Torjo and Halle. “They know, everyone will know, everyone will fucking know!” he screams.

“You alright lad?” Torjo asks, looking at him. He shakes his head sluggishly.

“You need to go vomit?” Halle asks. He slowly nods affirmatively. “Go on Torjo,” Halle waves him away, and he clasps a stable hand over Domic’s shoulder before leading him to a back door and out into the cold night air. The moment they're out the door, he spins and spews as hard as he can against the wall.

Groaning as he stands up, Halle grips his arm to steady him. "I don't really feel much better," he thinks, somewhat more lucidly.

“Had a bit much? It’s alright, happens to everyone,” Halle says, as he leads him back inside to the bar and pulls out a stool for him. He gratefully sits down, holding his head to the table, the noise of the tavern pounding into his ears. “Was that Izabel with you in the storeroom?” Halle asks, voice crashing through the noise like boulders down a mountain.

Domic’s heart accelerates to infinity in panic. “Careful, don't make him suspicious,” he manages to think, trying to adopt an innocent composure. “Um, yez,” he says evenly, looking at the space between Halle's pebbles. The seconds tick by as Halle nods, motions over the bartender, talks a moment and waits before he returns shortly with four full tankards. Then Halle motions over a woman Domic’s never seen before and whispers in her ear. The woman nods and walks away, two tankards in hand.

“Drink, it’s water,” Halle says, shoving a tankard at him while he sips from his own. Domic looks down at it, trying to keep his hand from shaking as much as his heart. He puts it to his lips - the water is cold, and he sips it down, hoping that if he does it slowly enough, the world will end before he's finished. But the tankard empties , and he carefully sets it down to find Halle passively looking at him. “When you've had too much to drink, a quiet place and a friend are heaven. It is good you two care and support one another, Domic,” he says. “Many folk say they care for family, but I think it is important to be shown publicly from time to time. To remind us all of the strength and importance of blood,” he smiles.

“Thank yu Captain,” he replies, heart cautiously returning to the real world.

"And from you its especially impressive - since I know you would have much rather danced with Cerni," he adds, sipping again at his water.

Domic feels his heart sprint away again. "Uhh, nonono, Captain, I neva - " he sputters, innocent composure failing.

"Domic, Domic, please," he interrupts, setting down his tankard, holding up a hand. "Please do not lie to my face," he says slowly.

He gulps, staring at Halle's brow. "Yez Captain - and I did, wanna," he mumbles, accepting his fate.

Halle simply smiles. "Then I commend your honesty to me, and your discipline, Domic. Those are good traits to keep," he says.

"Yez, thank yu, Captain," he manages to reply.

“Good, now, it’s late, and the party’s winding down. How about you finish that, then go home, and rest for the expedition tomorrow, mmm?”

“Yez - but, uhh, what 'bout Izabel?” he forces himself to ask.

“She’s likely tired as well – I could call a wagon for you two, if you’d like.”

“Zure, why not,” he murmurs.

“I’ll see you at the muster at noon then,” he says, setting down his tankard. "I enjoyed our conversation, and I'm sure you'll remember it," he adds, giving him a firm grip on the shoulder, before stomping away into the crowd. Domic sighs deeply and lazily watches other folk quietly mingle or leave as the party winds down.

“Let’s go lad, wagon’s here,” Torjo is beside him. He proffers his arm to him, but Domic brushes past him, in a terrible tempest of drunkenness and disgust. He stumbles over to the cloak rack, grabs his, and walks out the door, Torjo close behind.

As he walks towards the wagon, with a figure that can only be Izabel sitting in it, he hears a groan coming from an alleyway. He stops and stares into the gloom. “Is? Is that the man missing three teeth?” he thinks, staring at a figure who slumps against the wall. “Torjo, there’z a man, needz help,” he gestures and starts walking towards the alley.

Torjo grips his arm firmly. “That is, and is not your concern, Domic,” he says quietly, looking steadily at him. He questions for a moment, but nods and allows Torjo to lead him to the wagon. Izabel sits close to the carter, head turned to the front, and so he sits on the end. The carter whips the horse, and Domic watches as Torjo disappears back into the tavern.

…

They arrive home, and Izabel simply drops her cloak on the floor before going into the kitchen. “Come ‘ere, Domic,” she commands. He shuffles into the dark kitchen, where she is squinting at two jars in the poor light. Finally, she hands him one. “Drink – help wit’ ‘angover tomorrow,” she says, popping the lid off hers and downing it. He does the same – it tastes terrible, some bitter, runny sludge. He coughs as she sets her jar down and brushes past him. He goes and picks up her cloak, setting it on the couch as she slams her door shut. Then he goes into his room, slips out of his clothes, and lays down in bed. As his eyes shut, and sleep rides towards him, a tiny, devilish feeling pulls itself from the slaughtered carcasses of its fellows, and runs deep into his mind.