You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]

[Mogwart]

There's something to be said for a grinning gob whose maddening curiosity could drive him to fly, far FAR cross the seas, and rush to his death in the heartlands of his enemies. Whatever the words for that are of course Mogwart wouldn’t know. He prided himself on being exceedingly cautious! Although- okay. True. There he was in shuffling through the back alleys of some village or another deep in the dirty continent of Maquina. And yes, if anyone did spot him, he would look more than a little suspicious for lumbering along with the radiant entirety of a naked nymph bound and slung over his shoulders for the carrying, like some a very exotic boa. Maybe this was a tad poorly planned in hindsight. But gods help the jester if he ever became the type to do what he was about to do out of sheer curiosity.

‘Stones!’ He bit back a wince as his foot partially slipped at the very top of a narrow and meandering staircase behind what smelled like a bakers row. ‘At what point did I think this would be a good idea? Go west, they said. The are golden flowers, they said…’ Up he heaved himself and his burden over that very last step towards stable ground. ‘Can cure all that ails you, they said. Fah! Three days wandering this land, and closest I’ve come to finding anything of the kind is this one.’ Unable to see between the sweat dripping from his brows and the foreign flowing mass of curly gold clouding his eyes, he let out a raspberry and finally felt the pressing need to relax for a moment.

Mice skittered away from his feet as he staggered a halt near a soot-covered wall. Green forehead pressed against cool brick as he leaned there for a moment and caught his breath. Even with marvelous midnight weather and the merciful aid of the a northerly wind, it had been a long hike from Maquina’s capital. No food. No water. No clue where he was going. Not to mention his sleeping beauty of a prisoner had rewarded him for being such an attentive kidnapper by being a complete and utter dead weight the entire time. “Right. Thanks for that, gent,” Mog muttered as he listened to the soft rise and fall of a breath hovering at his ear. The gob twitched in amusement. Incredible. Simply incredible that this one had managed to sleep through all of the blustering of the skies and other unpleasantness, Mogwart thought.

“When you wake up, remind me to ask you how you managed that trick,” he added on a lighter note as he tilted his shoulders and shifted the weight. Be this man mystic healing flower or not, Mog was more than happy to shrug off a load. For the record, he did oh so gently: carefully kneeling to let the fellow slide the short distance to the ground, save for his head. That- Mogwart lowered personally. He rolling the face so that the nose- or what the goblin guessed was a nose (it almost look too delicate)- faced away from the ground enough that the man could breath. Removed bandage and bit of cloth from the man's mouth. Prodded his limbs to check for any new coincidental bumps or bruises that he'd have to make up some stories for later. Even tugged and tested how the web of ropes had held up before loosening a few. Where's the harm?

Then, feeling blissfully light after his capers, the wee scoundrel gave one greatly pleasant STRETCH, “Nyaghhhhh,” before falling back to sit on his haunches in front of his quarry, and stare at this flower in mixed parts accusation and fascination. It’s not as if Mogwart kidnapped a person for his fine looks, his company, or even his pleasant smell. Even if, yes, all of those were almost a suitable consolation to the amount for trouble the man put him through just to get this far. More importantly, this plan was not working out exactly how Mogwart pictured it. He had intended been to take his victim all the way back to Vida. But, after hopping around aimlessly for many long hours, he came to the grim realization that unless he found some sort of safe guide, he would make it back to the motherland any time soon. Not to mention, how he was supposed to use this one’s flower magic?

'Does it come with instructions, or...?' It didn't help that the fellow looked kind of chilly. While it never seemed weird that he found his target sleeping in the buff, it only just occurred to Mog that he should-- oh, I don't know. Perhaps do something about? Especially after having carried him so far from his cozy oversized house of a bed. ‘I should, ahm… cover his festivities. Aye. But first, how long is he going to lie there?’ Between several other stops on this trip, Mog had already tried a few things to wake the flower, to no avail. Now, as he continued to watch and ponder, vaguely of hypnotized by the peaceful patterns of breathing, there was one last thing he thought to try.

“This had better be worth my while...” he snickered with much mischief. Slowly, so slowwwwly, he reached his pointy little fingers towards the flower’s helpless sleeping face. One hand pinched shut that fragile-seeming nose. The other clapped firmly over the mouth. Then, as he held there for a few minutes, he murmured to his victim in the cheeriest, weaselly'est, tone he could muster, “Now then, milord. Wakey-wakey! The oh so fabled beauty sleep is wasted on flowers at their peak.”

[Samael]

Sleep was a difficult and tenuous thing, the shifting of darkness and cobwebs and voices. He whispered back to the shadows, to faceless figures and the hands that He could feel upon His body holding Him tightly. There was a balance there, and since the sound which roused Him did not pierce that veil He allowed His mind to remain where it was in comfort.

Then, suddenly His breath was lost to Him.

Urgently His lungs demanded that He allow them access to the air, and muddled thoughts broke into discordant bubbles on the surface of reality. He could not move as He usually could. He was bound with ropes that He could feel against His flesh. Even if He could not move, He had to breathe! Wakefulness spilled through Him far quicker than it normally did, urgency making His head ache as much as the tense demand of His lungs.

One blue eye opened, or rather two, but the other was lost in the spill of golden curls which obscured so much of His face in wild disarray rather than the artful and calculated disorder which He could cultivate. Immediately He was aware of the visage close to His own. Fingers which were grasping His nose, hand pressed against His lips.

He did not fight His bonds though they were not so tight as they might have been, not even to pry the fingers away so that He could finally breathe. Mentally the moments were tallied until darkness would eat away at His vision, but He only looked up at His unfamiliar captor. Made Himself aware of the unfamiliar surroundings, the chill fresh air against His pale skin. His blue eye met those of the one who His life in delicate balance and asked without words for understanding. For the air which He needed to survive.

Accepted in His heart that the request might go unnoticed, and unanswered.

[Mogwart]

Mogwart wasn’t certain what he was expecting. To burst into flame at his captives first blink? For the creature in front of him to vanish in a puff of smoke? Who knows. He couldn’t quite place a finger on it, but there was a mysterious nature to this flower-fellow that he couldn't wrap his head around, reaffirmed by the moment his captive flashed open his eyes. You would think that something of such a potent blue would put a gob who spent so much time in the sky at ease. But no.

A shiver bolted through Mog from the tip of his tail to the top of his noggin, his swampy eyes widened as if in horror, and- adding to a few extra seconds of the victim’s suffering, the jester simply froze. It was a pretty eye. Far too pretty. And seemingly accompanied by the silent plea of a dying animal infant, a single blades of grass clinging to the desert, or some other such creature forbidden to his palette. Oh how Mogwart hated the look. It would be valuable if it at least held a touch of terror, but this new weight of having a stranger suddenly- so easily – at his complete mercy and total, did nothing for him. That is, save for making him feel some complicated degree of monstrous. Was this a good or a bad sensation? So rarely was he on this side of such things that admittedly he was at a loss.

Soon enough however, Mog regained himself. “What’s this? …Not even a wriggle to you then? So this is how you’d die.” With a reviving gulp and a hiss at the unfairness of it all, Mog at last released the man to breath, or continue to hold his breath. Whatever it may be. He gave an exaggeratedly miserable whine, which came out more of a low growl as he rested his chin on his palm, and elbow on his thigh, “See now, milord, this is what happens when you sleep for too long. Bad for the blood flow. Makes you sluggish. Or pardon. If dying really is your first order of business, go on. I won’t stop you. Just know you won’t be hanging the hat for that on me!"

He waited and grumbled to himself incoherently for a while, watching to see whether some air restored some of the man’s senses."Then again, if you’ll have my vote, I say it’s a waste.” He was tempted to puff some air into the fellow’s lungs personally if that’s what it would take to force him to gain some awareness of his situation. “Come, really. With a horrendous captor sitting right here before you, you’d think there would be more shrieking… Agh. Well, in the very least, it’s good to see you finally awake. How are you feeling?” With a pause, a sly bit of a grin, and gesture to all of the flower’s self- or the rope more so, Mog added, “Ah, and what do you think of my handiwork?”

[Samael]

At such words, He fully expected that these were His last moments. It was unfathomable, He could not begin to understand, but it was purposeless to fight it and so even with that surety ringing off the lips of the one who held Him in bondage He lay utterly passive. Waited for darkness to descend.

Then, upon whim He was granted reprieve. The first words after that moment were nearly half lost to Him as His lips gratefully parted and life filled his lungs. He was careful though, not to dizzy Himself by breathing to quickly, leaving His lips half parted and His chest rising and falling not quickly but heavily. He could not help but blink in the face of all of the words being spoken to Him.

For the briefest of moments curiosity flickered through His blue eye, but it faded as quickly as it had come. "I am sorry." His words were gentle and meek. He did not even remember any attempts made to wake Him. Demurely He lowered His eyelashes, so that the blue of His eye was half shaded by gold. "You were able to wake me as you did however, though... I promise you I have no intention to harm myself."

His lashes lifted, His body shifting somewhat. The motion served to make Him look weaker and even more fragile than before. "As you say it would be a waste." Each passing moment only served to make Him look more beautiful than the one before it. A subtle shift of His face lifted it into the light, highlighting the fine beauty of His cheekbones and allowing His curls to fall into alignment. They glittered like rings of gold made soft and light as air.

"You have captured and bound me thoroughly. I am at your mercy." He did not sound as though it was a hardship or as though He held any hope of escape. Carefully He allowed His head to bow, curls hiding more of His face as they reflected light from a dozen sources. "I am at a loss for what to think Sir."

Those last words were soft like a confession. He had no idea where He was or why. It was not a lie to say that He was at the mercy of His captor.

[Mogwart]

‘No. Nooo no no no no.’ An apology was not what Mogwart needed to hear right now. It was like the world’s tiniest, most effective wrecking boulder had dropped on the wicked little game of cards he was trying to construct on his table. Difficult, especially because nobody- but nobody -ever apologized to the jester.  Ever. That simply wasn’t allowed. Hence, already Mog was beginning to feel his defenses faltering beneath his mask. He almost wished he had Scuzz or someone around still to kick him at times like these. It would at least help him focus on his incredibly important mission; not the fact that this being coming to life so meekly was working some new sort of charm on him.

Subtly, Mogwart clenched and unclenched his jaw between words, seeking to take charge of his own discipline with no here to help. He even rubbed his forehead a bit, partially to cut off his direct line of sight to the tender angles of the nymph’s face flickering at him behinds the bright falls and veils.  As if not looking directly might help the situation a little. Although truthfully, his awareness of the his captive’s presence wouldn’t grant him the luxury. ‘All right. Focus-focus. He said he had no intention to harm himself. That’ll do. And--- no no. Stop agreeing with me.

The man certainly wasn’t making Mog’s attempts to excuse himself from the guilt of what he had planned any easier. For instance, at the compliment to his rope work—was it a compliment? Mogwart went slightly rigid again. The little bell in his ear of someone claiming to be at his mercy was a lot more pleasant than he cared to admit. So, making one final valiant attempt to feign indifference, he risked another full glance at this preposterously delicate being, glanced away almost immediately, and was suddenly far to self conscious all at once to carry on like this, with his victim all but glittering helplessly at him in this fashion. “What… to think? What to think?” In a final flustered flurry, Mogwart scratched the hair on the back of his neck and tipped forward to sit now on his knees, kneeling sinisterly closer. “By blooded sun’s grace, I’ll tell you what to think.”

The alley murmured with the goblin's rustling as he fumbled with the pied mantle around his shoulders and took it off over his head. Then, with hesitation, he dropped over top of the nymph’s lower half, as if trying to dress him. Er, it didn’t cover much? But there was a start. "You'll be borrowing this. And I've pants somewhere that ought to fit. Need to unbound you a bit so you can put them on." Mog’s fingers worked furiously to begin to untie his prisoner’s upper body first, specifically the hands. Unfortunately, he had done this tying-up trick in sections, which he now regretted. For there was a binding foundation even beneath all of the nice rope knots and patterns he had tried his best to flatter the flower with. While it wasn’t necessarily trouble for Mogwart to undo everything, it did mean he would have to work at it a bit longer.

Meanwhile, he ran his mouth a bit, yes. It gave him something else to concentrate on other than the fact that he had to come into contact with his captive again to free him. “Now as for how things are... First things firstly, milord, I’m not Sir or any other such fancy nonsense. I am Mogwart., your new--- temporary boss? Aye, that has a fair ring. Today you are in a village in your home country several long breezes away from the capital. Charming place, this one, I’ll admit. I spied the tastiest things on our descent. Must show you as soon as we’re done here, because a howling stomach can be as much as an enemy as a knife in your skull, they say. ‘Specially with your quality skull. No. We don’t want that. Oh. And you, lovely, are here because I came all this way looking for a rare golden flower to cure my very particular ailment.”

When the man’s arm’s were freed, Mogwart took a quick moment to try to clap and rub them, as if trying to restore any lost blood flow. During which, he avoided looking at his captive’s face with all scrunched-nose determination. Yes, he had to make doubly sure he didn’t seem overly pleased with the process; refused to let his company lure him to distract him from his true intentions. With an affirmative sniff, he moved on to work on the flower’s feet. There were still a few ropes up top, but before the rest, Mog thought he ought to get the man in walking condition. He wasn't keen on hauling a body around over his shoulders again so soon.

“That being the case, you are without a doubt the strangest flower and-or miracle cure I’ve ever had the pleasure of stealing. Tell me, what do you---- salamander scat! Raise yourself more, will you? This bit is snagged, and I need to get at the pieces on the back before these long-dangly excuses for legs you carry come undone. Have you any IDEA how difficult it was to find this much rope just for you? Lot of bother.” Mogwart would attempt to help the man up in order to have an easier go at the ropes he needed to work on. Otherwise he continued with his chatter. “As I was saying, flower, what are you called by?”

[Samael]

It seemed as though His words had some effect, and when His captor leaned forward He allowed His eyes to lift so that He could see him once more. Cloth shifted, falling into His lap. For a moment He did not breathe, did not move even in the slightest. He was glad for His captor's distraction with His bonds.

Though He would never speak of it aloud He would rather have remained unclothed than to allow the small length of cloth to touch Him. However He tried the cloth He knew it was barely enough to drape across His hips. Perhaps there was a purpose to this beyond what He could glean. The rope around His hands fell away, and He was told to rise.

He did His best to be obedient, but with His legs bound it was not easy to rise. The cloth started to fall away from Him, not yet wrapped around His form, and He caught it before it could fall to the ground and become even less pleasant to wear. Green fingers helpfully assisting Him into a standing position. Now the cloth covered Him even less than it had a moment before, but until He was unbound there was nothing He could do to change that fact. He had been told to dress Himself in it, but that would have to wait.

For now He merely listened and waited, leaning heavily against His captor for support and perhaps a touch more than was strictly necessary. Until some part of the confusing string of words became something which He could understand and which He needed to answer. "Samael. My name is Samael." They were so close that the words were half whispered into his ear. "Will you tell me about your aliment?"

His fingers were pressed into his arm gently, His body leaning against that of His captor as the bonds fell one by one. It was hard to ignore the subtle and unsubtle complements inter-spaced in the words spoken to Him. He had been taken, a flower plucked from the soil He knew and carried far away with purpose. It remained to be seen if He would bear the same fate of other flowers that had been taken from their native soil.

[Mogwart]

‘A flower doing its very best to wilt? Priceless.’ That was how it seemed to the jester anyway as, despite every generous effort to allow the man to take root on his own two feet, he insisted on draping himself all over his captor like a picturesque damsel in distress. Oh, he was lucky- VERY lucky - he was as naturally attractive as he was, because, on top of having already had to carry the overly tall prisoner all over the place today, this goblin was not in the mood to continue supporting his weight for little gain. Anyone less defenseless would have been promptly dumped on their arse and told to roll over onto their face to kiss the dirt. Mogwart could just as easily manage the ropes that way.  

As things were however, he was beginning to find his prisoner’s distressful cooperativeness a tad amusing. Particularly when he unexpected offered his name in that same demure tone. That was going to take some getting used to. “Samael. Is that right?” Successfully lured into looking again, the sighing rogue slyly arched his brow, and from the corner of his eyes flashed teasing look, as if questioning whether he ought to be believe it. “If you say so, milord.”

Don’t get him wrong. He was despicably disappointed himself for how increasingly pleased he was with the situation. He was, however, beginning to wonder at how fragile or innocent a flower truly had to be to entrust itself to a stranger so wholly. Doubtful that this was some happy coincidence of of love at first sight. Mogwart was never such an optimist that he’d entertain such fantasies. More likely, he thought, his captive must have some hidden or imaginary profit in mind to be this accommodating. In which case, he pitied the fellow.

Apart from generously not killing or maiming his quarry, the pied rogue had no intention to compensate him whatsoever. So, as his ear tingled warmly again with Samael’s breath, Mog mustered up the resistance to somehow hold on to his train of thought. Mostly. In minor distraction, he let go of the ropes for a moment and reaching out a hand to pat the gentleman’s cheek in a taunting there-there sort of gesture. “Tut tut. You’re hopeless, you know that?”  he snickered, flashing his fang filled grin as if in warning. As he returned to finishing up the untying, he continued, “I’ll tell you the details of what I need all in good time. Before that, of course, I must know if you’re as useful as they say you are. And before that, there is something you need to understand. Listen carefully.”

The final knot came undone, and Samael now had full- if not somewhat uncomfortable use of his legs. The remaining rope infrastructure would possibly rub him the wrong way, but unless he whined about it, Mogwart wasn’t going to worry. Rather, there was were a few other pressing matters. With firmness, he would attempt to grip his captives shoulders, hold the man apart from himself, and give him a very concerned and reproachful look, tainted by the humorous undertone to his voice. “There are bad people in this world. Very bad. And good fellow, while you are fortunate that it was me this time- as I have no intention of taking carnal advantage of you, I need you to be more keenly aware that you are disproportionately easy on the eyes. It’s far too dangerous for you to go around trusting yourself to just anyone you fall into the hands of. I promise, most of them WOULD devour you.”

After squinting fiercely for a moment, hoping to get his point across despite himself, the corner of Mog's mouth twitched. He turned his head away, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighing through it to avoid outright chuckling. Here he was only pretending to be angry at Samael, but already he imagined how difficult it would be for his friends or lovers to truly stay a furious. “Anyhow, if you really can’t help your innocence, in very least you should demand payment for your company. Ah. Not that I’ve anything to give you for your troubles. You’ll just have to be satisfied with the temporary protection and, naturally, my own devilishly good looks.” Note the cheerful dripping sarcasm.

Disengaging himself from his charge if possible, Mogwart took a few steps away to give himself space for what followed next. Regardless of how Samael might feel about anything, the goblin was still determined to clothe the man and regain more of his composure. He held up a finger, signaling ‘wait.’ Closed his eyes. Tipped his head first one way then the other in assessment. Then promptly belched up a wee ball of wind.

The ball expanded in a soft burst, releasing a pile of perfectly musty, dusty, and oversized clothing better suited to some sort of giant. Still, Mogwart sifted through the mess and held up a pair of pants and some lengthy twine. “Here you are.” He smirked proudly, and offered them to Samael.

[Samael]

There was no need to reiterate what He had already spoken though He tensed subtly when fingers crushed His curls against His face. Pressing them inward. His hair protected His face from actually being touched but the nearness... He ignored it and nodded just a little. "I know."

He was set on His own two feet with His body slightly less bound. Hands and legs were free enough to allow restricted movement. There was a certain amount of unsteadiness for a moment, but He stood there unashamedly, the picture of grace and beauty. Now that He was standing the light cut across His form. Every part of Him was perfectly formed, not a single scar marring the endless ivory of His skin. Though He had muscles, there was a a softness to Him as well that said that they were not built for fighting.

The words that were offered to Him were offered as if He did not know the truth of them already. "I know that I am at your mercy Sir." His eyes lowered for a moment, and He moved the cloth in His hands. He had been told to wear it so in spite of its nature He wrapped it around His hips as best as He could. It was nearly laughable how little of His form was obscured by the cloth.

Before Him more clothing came forth from His captors body, offered on fingers that He ignored as though they did not exist. He had not been told to wear them, and if He wanted to wear the rags that He was at the moment as little as He did... He wanted to wear those that were offered to Him now even less.

"You think I am uneducated, but I know. I know that you could do what you wanted with me. I am your prisoner. Yet as you said, you are also my only protection. What can I do but throw myself at your mercy?" He hesitated for a moment before continuing more softly.

"Do you mean to offer yourself to me then?" He shifted just a little closer, fingers lifting and He could just barely touch his jaw lightly. "As payment for what you want me to do?"

His blue eye stared into those of the one who stood before Him. Looking past what He was offered, more deeply into the truth which He knew lay there. "Is that what you want?"

[Mogwart]

Mogwart was a little too busy staring at his prey, and working out how exactly he was supposed to conduct himself from this point, to notice the subtle rejection of his offering. There came more unanticipated agreement from this Samael, who was decidedly not as innocent after all. He knew that under ordinary circumstances his captor would very well have their very particular way with him? He KNEW? And yet, as hard as Mogwart was trying to put up some gentlemanly farce as a means for self-control, the fellow before him refused to make his task an easier.

More difficult still, Mogwart was beginning to put together some sort of picture and wonder that if this prisoner truly was as educated in his current position- and setting aside the sudden sharp curiosity of how skillful he might be- how often did the man encounter such situations that he felt his body was the best way to appeal to his captor for mercy? ‘Ngh... Not that I’d imagine he’d be entirely wrong in most cases, gods help me. Does he fear I won't let him off with anything less?’ Out of defensive instinct, Mogwart nearly took a step back from the far too pretty hand that came towards him. From experience, he learned nice things rarely came from those to reached out to him willingly.

Since he couldn't risk breaking his new treasure in retaliation however, the jester simply tensed for an instance. Braced for an injury--- that never came? He blinked grandly as it dawned on him. How strange that the hand touching his chin meant no harm. Even when on some level he felt his actions may warrant it? No. Instead, that simple act tenderness came so unexpectedly-- and sincerely Mog was more than a little deprived of gentle contact --that it effectively touched his heart. For such a small favor, he was disproportionately grateful.

Thus, when his flower made overtures to offer himself instead, Mogwart indeed physically ached and couldn't even muster a scowl for a moment before this suddenly cruelly beautiful face. Mog both adored and hated everything such faces did to him, and no matter how many times he had to live through the experience, it never got easier. Needless to say, the jester could foresee how this creature was going to be a exceedingly troublesome for him to protect, even from himself. For someone this 'gentle' towards him though, he was determined to succeed. Quickly now. What would a fancy, human high-nosed brand of court attendee do?

Releasing one hand from the spare clothing in his grasp, Mogwart reached up to carefully take hold of the fellow's hand against jaw. “What I want to do…” He would guide the prisoner’s fingers away enough to plant the lightest kiss on them, and he lingered over them for a moment as he struggled with his resolve. “Is not the same as what I must do. Surely you can understand that much.” As he released the man again and he rolled his head too look somewhere- anywhere else, and half-groaned. He took several paces away. Regretted it immediately. Paced all the way back only to glance at that blue eye once more and curse under his breath.

He tried to reason with the fellow, “And torment me though you will--- oh how you must know you do... I can’t accept more from you than I already intended to steal. It wouldn't be even. Then againnnn.” And a light returned to his face as he broke into a hopeful, mildly pitiful, and twice as despicable grin. “If my fine fair prisoner wishes to improve my mood, I’ll only gladly accept more of the kind touches you just showed me. That was pleasant.” With a flourish, the goblin dipped into an awkward little bow in belated gratitude. “In return, I think I could throw a bit of extra catering to the protective business… So what say you?”

When he rose, he held out his shabby tribute more insistently. “Will you be dressed so that we can discuss your usefulness without the divine distraction? Or is there anything you'll need first to help your powers along?”

[Samael]

It was easy to see how much such a simple touch affected His captor. From the brief expectation of harm which He would not have offered without knowing that it was wanted, to the almost pained expression of pleasure. It was a look He knew well from those that had gone to long without the kind touch of another. In no way did the expression or desire surprise Him. He had been taken, and He had little doubt that eventually His captor would give in and He would find out entirely what he wanted.

He allowed His fingers to be pulled away, nodding in a trickling waterfall of golden light. Duty in whatever it was that His captor thought must be done would come before other considerations. Though it was clear that regardless of what he said it was more difficult to actually do. His visage was compelling, His form drawing those golden eyes again and again. Until at last His captor did concede to at least some of what he wanted.

It would simply be a matter of time.

More than a little He was uncertain if He had been unclear in His own words, or if they were being ignored purposefully. It did not truly matter. He knew at least some of what was expected of Him now, and He grasped tightly to that. The longer that they were together the more He understood. Understood what His captor needed. "I would say that your protection is a necessity not only to myself but to you if you wish me to be any use to you." He smiled gently. It was a gentle reminder that it was just as beneficial to His captor to keep Him intact. That it was a poor payment when it was his actions which had caused the protection to become necessary.

One blue eye flickered toward the garments being offered Him but they were quickly dismissed. He refused to look at them again. "I do not know what it is that you require me to do, but what I can do is very restricted by my bonds." In fact He could not have dressed Himself properly with them on Him in this manner. "If you insist that I remain bound I can show you a method which will allow you control without impeding my movement."

A pink color rose up on His cheeks as though the thought of being bound in such a manner embarrassed Him, or perhaps the idea of teaching His captor how to better keep Him. His head tilted forward again, eyes falling to the ground, then lifting but not quite meeting the gaze of the one who stood before Him. "And unless you do after all require me to be so ill-clothed; so that anyone who passes by might notice not only that I am in this state but that I am your captive..." That blue eye lifted again, a trace of something that seemed almost like guilty pleasure in His expression. "Then shopping for some more appropriate attire might be in order."

"Or..." His cheek flushed to a rosy color. "Do you mean for me to play the part of your slave... Master?" The way that He spoke that last word made it sound as if it implied a hundred other things. Soft secrets spoken in the night; His supplication on the edge of His tongue and with a single word and the language that His body spoke He offered utter subservience.

[Mogwart]

‘Mutually beneficial for him not to harm me is it?’ Mogwart hummed lowly and considered for an instance. ‘Then he means he has no better way to defend himself? Or that at best he believes he’s as helpless as he seems. Mn… So be it.’ Mogwart nodded, quietly accepting of it as a sort of kindness anyhow. For, despite his personal claims to protect what he wished to, he told himself with drooping ears, 'I am no warrior.' Any confidence he had in his own ability to muscle through dangers or have his way by force was drastically less than what he was actually capable of.  

Regardless, he was sure he could still be useful as some sort buffer between his captive and several worse complications the man might attract simply for being a walking breath of stardust. Yes, Mog felt could do it as long as he held onto his head (in more sense than one). All he need be was be his usual brand of rotten and things ought work out in his favor they way they usually did. That said, and not that he'd ever see any appreciation for it, but Mogwart was trying very hard to be every bit of bad person for his victim. Better for captives to see him that way and want nothing to do with him later, than for him to be troubled by any of them searching for him later.

Thus! The flicker of rejection as Samael averted his gaze a second time finally did deserve notice. Mogwart tipped his head in amusement. Odd how that tiniest bit of resistance gave him hope. But he knew that as long as the disgust piece of his abduction scheme was working, it would be easier for him part with his victim as soon as he got what he needed. With luck, he might even be able to silence his conscience and sleep through the night. How long ago had it been since he slept soundly? “Now now,” he taunted as his prey implied in the mildest of voices that he was dissatisfied with his current bonds, “I've left you that way because I was almost sure you would try to run.”

He circled once or twice, as if admiring his own work again. The man’s sudden seeming bashfulness had also partially worked as a matter of fact, if only because the goblin found it delightfully ridiculous. Here the fellow had been nude and bound before him since waking, and finally was it occurring to him to be concerned with the specific nature of any potential intimacy between them? ‘Why, aye. A belated good morning to you too.’ Mogwart continued to tease privately as he listened and tugged at the single bit of cloth the victim deigned to wear. Questionable or not, the wicked gob found this contrary habit adorable.

‘But hold. What’s this nonsense about taking him… shopping?’ Mogwart grimaced disbelievingly and and twitched his nose, not entirely sure what to make of it. He was only just beginning to understad on some new level that this flower had to be an unusually particular little thing if he was unsatisfied with wearing the perfectly functional scraps of clothing already available to him. And all right, yes. The fellow made a strong enough case for Mogwart’s life being easier if they could walk around without people instantly guessing the situation surrounding them.

Still.

STILL. Shopping was a horrible, no good, terribly tedious task! The kind that involved waiting on others for ages and ages, making small chat with them over decisions that Mog rarely felt were as important as they were supposed to be, and then somehow having to carry all of things everywhere simply because it freed up whoever was shopping to charge headlong into more of the useless activity. Moreover, darn it if he had any idea how taking this flower around to get dressed up had anything to do with the man actually using his powers. 'No. Not having it.'

Mog opened his mouth wide, about to argue something, but was cut off by sudden sneaky supplication of ‘Master.’ The layers of meaning behind the word were not lost of the fiend. Not at all. How unfortunate for him that his captive sounded perfectly content to continue his torturous behavior. "..." At that, the placated gob clapped his mouth shut. Now honestly? He couldn’t see the use to having his own slave of this kind, especially one as docile and with an appearance so high maintenance. ‘And unless he knows how to hunt, all of the while, I’d have to feed him. Groom him. Give him attention... Make sure he doesn’t get sick or eaten by some beast of the woods, as we’d be camping under the stars... Too much extra work for limited entertainment. If I had a choice, I’d pick a servant with a bit more… fire.’

Yes, within seconds, the ruffian was already considering the logistics of it to that extent. Nonetheless, he couldn’t deny the fun he might have in the short term, pretending at being some powerful lord of sorts over a willing participant. ‘If it’s just for today. How bad could it be?’ he negotiated, ‘The mission still comes first, aye. Meaning the prey’s body is still off limits. I’ll look; not touch. And, erm… Will need to invent more rules as I go.’ Plan formed. Mind set. Now all he had to do was figure out how exactly he was supposed to act the part of king or master without all the brutal bits. In that regard, he found being too true to life rather boring. 'Feh. I've had my fill of blood-thirsty lords.'

Instead, in a playful imperiousness, Mogwart slung his spare pair of pants over one shoulder and held up a hand in a dismissive gesture at the alternative binding suggestion. He would answer in action as loudly as words. “Fret not, oh delicate worm. I, Master Smol the Atrociously Mognificent, won’t need fresh bindings to control you. From the sounds of it, you’ve done a grand job of tangling yourself already in whatever invisible binds that hold you.”

He moved towards his prisoner to begin removing the rest of the man’s physically bonds. They were torn more than untied, because that was faster. If Mog was a little rougher about than before, he decided it couldn’t be helped. Anything less and he knew his hands would stray to places they didn’t belong. “Besides,” he slipped in a vile whisper, “If you do run, I could always find and recapture you at my leisure. I've memorized your scent... Behave, won't you?”

With the ropes completely done for, Mogwart next took a moment to gather them and the other pieces of his spare clothes into a bundle, on his own. Try though he might however, he had very little practice at ordering people around to the degree a master might be expected to. 'Down the hatch.' One moment his arms were full of filth, the next he had swallowed it in one go. As he casually licked his fingers as if that would be enough to clean them, he looked to Samael expectantly. “Well, come on then. Let’s get you to the market.” His every movement boasted exaggerated authority as he turned and began swagger down the alley, towards a distant light. “For your pants, or robes… or whatever nonsense it is you need. You can invent false compliments and worship me along the way.”

[Samael]

His captor was easy to read, each expression was clearly written out for Him. From satisfaction grim and unhappy, to the admiration of the poorly done rope ties, and the distaste at the thought of shopping. Every single motion was captured and filed neatly away. He was hungry for the knowledge that would tell Him what He had to do. He knew that He had found some small thing when distaste fell to consideration at His suggestion. The words were almost unnecessary, but it good to see him slipping into his role.

This then, was in some part what he desired. Even if it had not been known until this moment, even if it had never been considered, He could see it fill His captor with something that had not been there before and bordered on confidence.

With that His captor moved forward, roughly tearing at His bonds. He let He let His body jerk in response to the unkind treatment, a few small sounds that did not entirely sound protesting rising from His lips at particularly jagged motions. Though His captor seemed inclined to make their contact brief, He was not so helpful in this. He pressed into each touch so subtly that it was likely that it went unnoticed save that His captor likely thought thathis fingers were lingering of their own accord where he had not meant them to.

"I promise I will serve you to the best of my ability Master." His voice was gentle and meek, His blue eye somewhat downcast as if meeting the other man's eyes might be to bold, and yet for an instant that blue eye did lift to meet gold. It fell again just as quickly in color that rose to His cheek.

He waited for His captor to turn, so that He could walk carefully exactly three steps behind him but to the side as well where He was visible always. Even behind the other man it was hard not to catch glimpses of Him. Of gold or ivory flickering. He attracted attention just by breathing. "I will have no need to make up complements I think Master. Have you not already proven how strong you are to have carried me so far? How clever to do so unseen and unstopped by those who would find such a sight odd? No, I have no need for words that would ring false in your ears."

[Mogwart]

Well well! Those meek glances were more poisonous than Mogwart imagined. The last one, for instance? It briefly stopped his breath, making him miss being watched almost instantly. Odd how as self-conscious as that fleeting blue made him, somewhere in the back of the goblin’s head he was beginning to wonder what he could do to earn another on of those looks, or seven. Was he really so deprived? ‘Careful now. Careful,’ he scolded himself as he marched along to the rhythm of an imaginary song. ‘Can’t let the prisoner think his favor is important. Otherwise he might take advantage.’

As willing as Mogwart was to blindly believe in the prisoner’s innocent intentions towards him for now (unfortunately beauty did have a way of muddling the goblin’s judgment), he knew nothing about the fellow to be certain he wouldn’t try to manipulate his captor the moment he realized he had the power to do so. 'Mrg. Not that I'll allow him to lead me by the nose. Of course not.' Nor did Mog fully buy that his prisoner was this kind to him for the mutual protection alone. Surely the man had some secret plan of escape? Or perhaps some harmless hidden ambition he thought he might accomplish better in his captor’s company than back at home?

Before his musings got too far, Mog glanced back with a humorous glimmer to his gaze as his servant made a clever attempt to offer genuine praise. Truthfully he would have been less concerned for his victim, even delighted, if the man had either cursed him or said nothing at all. This was the flower’s habit though. Always putting his master in a bind.

“Hah, you know,” the jester said and spun on his heels to continue walking towards their destination backwards quite effortlessly. Rather that settle for only a flicker of the beauty hovering on the edge of view, this seemed an agreeable solution. Very agreeable. “It never occurred to me you might take my every word so seriously. There now, no need to grasp at straws. I already know what I am.” So he continued to believe. In the least, though he considered his pride worthless in the face of survival, certain confidences were unshakeable. He was damned proud of his accomplishments. Those required no boasting.

Glad nonetheless, he growled thoughtfully, “Instead, if I’m to play a part larger than life, what do you say we make this shopping venture more interesting…” A pothole in on path caused him to trip, he fell backwards as if it wasn’t a surprised, caught himself in a handstand, and continued walking on his hands for a few paces as if nothing happened. He supposed he could have played up the fall and landed directly on his thick head. Unlikely it would earn him any sort of sympathy however. Not to mention, kings were too big and important to tumble around on their noggins.

He kept his head up so he could continue to watch Samael follow gracefully after him as they conversed, “…by scheming up cover stories for the both of us? This Master Smol the Mognificent will be the lost king of a wealthy flying city of gold. There isn’t anything I can’t afford, or take if I desire it! Including servants of quality. Meaning you, my dear worm, will need a special title. So tell me.”

When he tipped to land on his feet again, he drew back to attempt to walk conspiringly at his fictional servant’s side. He would keep a ‘safe’ distance he thought, just in case, and folded his arms for good measure. But the breadth of the alley in some places wouldn’t grant them much leeway. “What do you fancy? As your great and fearsome master, I demand you humor me with a good story to run on when we’re chatting up the peasants.”

[Samael]

It was at least noteworthy the way that His captor moved. There was if not a grace to those movements, then a certain surety in them. Even when he nearly fell the action became something more natural. Or as natural as walking on ones hands could be. He suspected that His captor was somewhat be-spelled by Him. Even barefoot and clad only in what could only graciously be called a loincloth He moved with an easy sort of grace and comfort. It was obvious that His near nudity did not bother Him, but with those golden eyes watching Him He let that grace become a sensuous thing.

He moved in a rolling motion that emphasized every soft muscle of His body and far more than hinted at what it might be capable of. Of course He kept His eyes demurely lowered, lifting them to the golden ones that watched Him only occasionally as if that blue was drawn up outside His own will.

"You may call me by my name." Those golden eyes watched His every step, and it made His heart beat just a little faster in His chest. Purposefully He bashfully allowed His eyes to fall again, color rising to His cheeks once again. "Or if my name is unpleasant to you, you may call me by any other which you desire."

He continued to hide His gaze as if looking at his captor was to much for Him, and in its way it was. "I do not see why you should have to answer to commoners at all Master, but if you really desire a story, why not choose one that is true?"

Now He lifted His gaze. "You chose me because I can do for you what none other can, and now after clothing us properly for the road you mean to take me to where you want me to be." He lifted a hand to His bare chest, touching it lightly and letting His fingers play down the center. "And I am your loyal servant whom will do whatever it is you want of me."

[Mogwart]

Truly, Mogwart could be a voracious spectator. As he now watched over his prisoner so— ahem—'protectively,' not a single one of the servant’s motions went unnoticed. Nor gesture. Nor sound. Nor soft expression. ‘Such a strange and timid creature,’ Mogwart mused; Though the longer he admired, the more difficulty he had understanding just why his flower was in such a state? Did he pine for some distant lover? Did he lonesome for lack of appropriate company? ‘...Does he secretly fear me to that extent? No no no.’ The moment the thought crossed him, Mogwart desperately pushed it far from his mind. To entertain the idea would be a bit too much excitement for him to handle just then.

He did his best to keep his line of sight upwards and refocused on the evidence of the words actually fed to him. A truthful story? Right. When the fellow put that way, it all sounded well in good. Being ever a fan of embellishment however, Mogwart couldn’t settle so easily. The tale was missing something. A spark. A shine. Something to grant his already sublime servant and an additional, irresistible flare.

“Aha, but it isn’t the commoners’ highest opinions I am after. Our cover is in the pure pursuit of fun. Didn’t you know? People show the most interesting faces when you spin for them. And while you're looking through frivolous things, I'll need something more to look forward to… As to your suggestion,” he jut his chin in profound consideration. It didnt take long. An image came to him as his sight lingered where Samael touched his chest so gratifyingly. The goblin winked as a decision fell into place. “Very well then. You will be… Lord Samael: lauded dancer and miracle worker of the Crimson Isles!”

The end of the alley was upon them, and Mogwart stopped short of the open road to finish asserting the flower’s role. “And here I’ve whisked you away from your countless admirers so that I might keep both your power and wisdom closer to my court. THE Lord Samael treats himself as the most stunning being in all of creation, demands to be lavished with constant attention, and... oh! You are madly in love with my money. Think you can manage?”

As he waited to hear the man’s thoughts on the instruction, Mogwart tore his vision away to check what was ahead: humble bustling shop-houses on a relatively calm street. 'And yet...' Out of habit more than anything, he pressed his shoulders back against the nearest wall as if suddenly trying to disappear. His tail ceased all movement. Every part of him stilled, save for his busy eyes as he scanned random passersby. It was sheathed blades or other immediate threats he searched for, because Mog really didn’t like long metal pointy things. Really-really.

Of course, it both helped and didn’t that he had a virtually nude person of Samael’s caliber lingering so closely. A few citizens would pause to gawk and whisper to one another about it in the giddiest gossip. 'Bah. You would think they had never seen a flower before,' with less effort, he pushed that flicker of possessiveness aside. As he observed this audience and quickly realized: even when Samael was cast in shade, his lure was bright enough that few paid attention to Mogwart's presence. How much more powerful would it be then if he was out in the open? ‘That could be useful…’

The newly enlightened goblin turned his head again, following the trails of others eyes back to his prisoner to deliver a perfectly crooked smile. “What luck! Seems your charm has greater potential yet. Now do me a service, my treasure. Go out there and distract them somehow. Just for a spell. I’ve a few things to borrow before our first stop, and I'd prefer there were few interruptions.”

[Samael]

With every subtle effort He saw reward in the yellow eyes fixated on Him. There was little that pleased Him more than this. Though of course His pleasure remained off of His lips, only showing where He could do little about. Not that in this instance He even tried. He paid close attention to what His captor said. He could tell that though His words had been truthful in their own manner that those that were spoken now by him were also true in theirs.

It was in the way He was called a dancer and a miracle worker. In the way that He was looked at. His captor expected something of Him which was thought impossible but needed. The sound of miracles spoke of hope and expectation He knew nothing of.

He smiled, moving close enough for a moment, aided by the way His captor stilled and looked away for a moment. It allowed Him a chance to draw very close indeed. Even as the other man pressed tightly to the wall He knelt before him. The motion was effortless and put them at last at eye level with one another. "Do you think that all I care about is your money Sire?" He spoke the words with all the respect due to a monarch. "Or have you failed to see how you have affected me?"

Though He drew many eyes, He paid attention to none of them. His eyes were always lowered or upon His captor and that distinguished personage alone. When He was offered a command He nodded and bowed His head. Taking the hand of His captor and allowing His lips to touch upon green knuckles delicately. His lips lingered there perhaps a touch longer than strictly necessary. "As my liege bids."

With liquid grace He rose back to His feet, walking out exactly as He had been told to do. There was no hesitation in Him, and the moment that He was certain that He had drawn the attention of a sufficient number of people, He began to sing.

"Flooding with emotion, love is holding me tight.
I can rest peacefully, and know that everything's alright.
I need you, it's so simple.
Your love is so real to me, your love is so clear to me.

Oh, I fell so quickly
But oh, you caught me.
Oh, oh"

His voice was clear and clean, singing softly with emotion that made everyone close to Him feel as though His words were spoken from the depths of their own hearts. He sang as though to one that consumed His heart and soul. Just once, He looked, catching golden eyes, and singing the words to the one who had captured Him and taken Him so far away. Only for that instance, singing of love being clear as the daylight that turned His golden locks into a radiant halo.

[Mogwart]

Mogwart cursed under his breath.

He wasn’t expecting this.

Should have been more careful.

Here he had been so focused on the possible blades of the wide open streets, when the ones he really ought to worry about was right here in the alley. No sooner did he realize his radiant prisoner knelt before him than he, the oh so might would-be king, plastered himself against the stone behind him. It took everything in him to stay there; to be on his best behavior. He was fussy as usual over the fact as far as resisting temptation, the odds were ever not in his favor. Thus his first impulse had been to put on a bigger display of annoyance. To call out that the idea was to draw less attention to his captor just then, not the opposite by giving him special preference!

Could he really deny that he was thrilled to the core of his being though? Could he really? Without having to lift a finger, somehow he got more of the sort of looks- or even the look – he desired. So actually, hold that thought. Perhaps he'd do better to take this as a mixed blessing in disguise? ‘And if I am suddenly stabbed her for my idiocy…?’ he nearly finished the thought with some wild delusion that he’d probably die happy. Remembering his duty however, he rescinded that immediately. Dying was no good. Dying was ouch.

Still, once more his every protest died silently beneath his thrumming chest, and then the fires under his skin briefly scorched away his concern for the success of his sub-scheme as his servant spoke. The message? Something so silvered and senseless, it struck Mogwart with the greatest fear for his captives well-being yet.

"Do you think that all I care about is your money Sire?"

‘I n c o n c e i v a b l e .’ The idea that a flower such at this would ever be attracted to him was slow to sink in. Every last one of his personal demons made excuses and argued against it. But alas, sink it did! From the return of his earlier gesture- lips brushing his royal knuckles as if swearing fealty, to the obedient sway of the lord dancer as he made his way out onto the streets, and to the rise of a sound more serene than anything Mogwart could have imagined on his own. Oh yes. He was swallowing the fact, piece by piece.

Until now, the mere sensation of someone reciprocating his attraction was so alien- so unknown! The jester had no flying clue whether he was allowed to be happy about it or not. Because it FELT good. No ifs ands or buts about it! In the back of his head, he was cackling like a madman. But since when did him feeling good about this sort of thing ever work out in his favor? Since when had he not suffered acutely, thoroughly, for trying to reward his body over the remnants of reason in his head?

He met the flower’s gaze one more time in the midst of his reasoning, and oops. Crash. With only that, everything he worked so hard for shattered in his head all over again. Though many of his attempts to talk himself through his troubles had helped in the past, here the task was proving to be so impossibly that the cowardly jester saw but one choice. PANIC.

With an expression marred by desperation of another sort, he staggered away from the wall that some parts of himself were beginning to identify with a little too well for him to hide. ‘Bloody stones!’ The goblin crouched, and peered at Samael between slips in the crowd. Mogwart knew he was no good as a master like this. Refused to be seen so shaken. No. So with a sharp breath, he drew on his winds once more and simply- poof. Seemed to disappear.

There was no trace of shadow. No lingering image or smoke. It didn’t make Mogwart feel any more comfortable given the predicament, but at least it would buy him a few minutes to decide exactly how he should act should Samael finish his lovely tune and have the resolve to search for him to soon. Meanwhile, there was one thing the rogue would take advantage of in his stealth. A few pockets among the entranced audience would rustle with wind. Coins and purses seemed to quickly drift away of their own accord and gather under a tablecloth of a vending table not far off.

Whenever Samael did manage to finish his performance and pry himself away from the adoring public, Mogwart would be partially prepared with a not-too-shabby collection of loot. Then, in the last few minutes of his concealment, he would focus on, well- calming himself a few measures. By any means necessary.

[Samael]

The song did not last forever, but He followed it with a second for good measure in ensuring that He had provided an adequately long distraction. By the time the second came to its close any number of people had pressed money into His hands, as well as a few business cards with private telephone numbers and sly suggestive winks. He smiled accommodatingly and accepted everything He was given before bowing and taking His leave of an audience that did not want for Him to go.

He plied them with gentle words, and abdicated His stage. More than one set of eyes lingered, following His every step as He retreated back the way He had come.

Now though, there was no sign of His captor.

Certainly there was no sign of the one who had brought Him so far away from everything He knew where there had been not so long ago. Had He been meant to go somewhere else? If so, He had not been told of it. After brief consideration He moved to the alley they had only recently exited, searching it with His blue eyes for any sign of green skin or the thrown-together clothes which marked His captor out from others.

Nothing.

He was alone.

He stood where He had been left and searched, turning and seeking out any small sign and finding nothing. Sharp tears gathered in the edges of His eyes, His breath coming harder though not particularly more quickly than it had before. "Sire?" The word was small and lost, fingers tight around the coins in His hands.

He had no idea where He was. No idea what to do.

What did one do when they were lost and all alone?

[Mogwart]

‘Five thousand two hundred and seventy seven polliwogs divided by six hundred and nineteen is…’ math problems tumbled through the goblin’s brains over the dull ache of self-inflicted pinches and pains. He balanced perfectly on his head while he was at it, with his legs crossed above and hands fiercely gripping his ankles in a dizzying, inventive sort of meditation. It was impossible for him to so quickly forget the charms of the one guilty for his state, he knew it, for- like a firefly light in the darkness behind these closed eyes, his siren flickered and alighted on the various shapes and numbers determinedly called to mind.

As such, it didn't take long for Mogwart to come to the realization that despite his valiant his effort to calm himself, any progress would ultimately be too gradual. He didn’t have all day to sit here hoping like a hopeless ninny that he would have himself completely together before he needed to go retrieve his prisoner. The more the idea of that touched his awareness, the more his tiny shreds of honor reminded him he was supposed to be protecting the fellow in some form or fashion. Again, Mogwart didn't trust himself. But he trusted even less that some other blokes wouldn’t come around to steal his flower away if the captor wasn’t watching. 'I don't like it.' Considering what a find and how helpless Samael was, how could they not?

And then, even if he wanted to risk it, Mogwart thought there was no guarantee that- for all of his hard work to behave right now- he wouldn’t just find himself in exactly the same situation within seconds of returning to be in Samael’s side. ‘Bother bother bother bother BOTHER,’ he moodily rolled himself upright, loaded the loot into his trousers, and gave a noisy, frustrated sigh. ‘If there was a secretly to temporarily make a prisoner less attractive, I’d pay five times my weight in shinies to learn it.

Natural reflexes swiveled his ears to listen and confirm that sweet music had ceased. The usual chatter was steadily beginning to return the the streets, though the people still buzzed with glee beneath the surface over of Samael’s performance. By the time Mogwart had worked up the courage to ignore his presentation again, crawl out from hiding, and seek out his stray captive in the slowly dispersing crowd however, the gentleman was no where to be found.

44.5 seconds of secondary panic. That’s exactly how long it took Mogwart, to recklessly climb up a drain pipe, scan the immediate area, and spy the downcast silhouette of his servant waiting for him back in the alley they had recently passed through. ‘What’s this now? ...What is he doing?’ Curious, the goblin climbed a bit higher to creep up on his target quietly across the roofs. It might earn him a few strange looks from people who preferred he didn’t threaten to damage their shingles, and Mogwart vowed he would send them each heartfelt written apologies if he could ever did bring himself to care that much.

Right now of course, the curious activity of his servant had his full attention. For another precious moment, the goblin lurked immediately overhead, frowning in quiet discomfort. Sniffing the air. Why, it almost looked like his flower was about to---? “Don’t!” Mog’s voice leaped from his throat suddenly and, for all his enthusiasm, he lost balance and slipped off the roof with an overly dramatic flail. He managed to pivot just enough avoid landing on the man himself, though it cost him the entirely graceful landing that he would have made otherwise. The sloppy tumble he pulled after his roll landing him right back down on his rear. Yet he was willing to give himself at least a solid six points for effort.

He grit his teeth sorely, but made no complaints of his bottom. More pressingly, he pointed a finger at his servant in rebuke, “Don’t you dare cry, you hear me? Not a drop!”He got up rigidly, with a suspicious jingle, and would reach to try to hold the man’s hand in instance. Never mind this king business for a minute. “Truth be told, midove, I don't know what befell you since I briefly left you out there—can't guess what or who might have hurt you. And so... my apologies.” He lowered his head heavily with a sense of humbled awe at the entirely of today's circumstances.

“For keeping you poorly. Or putting you on the spot with poor preparation. And, aye. I’m not much good at handling the tricky business of prisoners' feelings. Really ought to negotiate there soon. Just first point out the blighter that did this to you. I'll have his teeth. And then…” He was frowning extensively now like anything worst than what he spotted already would kill him. It wasn’t that he was severely vulnerable to anyone's tears, no. But he wasn’t prepared to deal with them from one who claimed to desire his attentions. “What exactly do I have to do to keep you from dripping from your eyes?”

[Samael]

“Don’t!”

One blue eye the color of cornflowers lifted to the sound of the now-familiar voice crying out to Him. It widened just slightly at the sight of His captor clamoring across the surface of the roof. He could admit that He had never even considered looking for the other man in such a place, and it was certainly not a wise choice which was made patently obvious when His captor fell from that height onto the ground with a definite thud onto his rear.

A green finger was pointed in His direction as command was directed. Instantly He stifled His tears, refusing to allow them to fall though it was more difficult to banish them entirely. He made a soft sound in the back of His throat with the effort of it which sounded like a swallowed sob. His hand was taken more gently than the words that He had been offered might have led Him to believe it would be, but He made no effort to keep it to Himself. In fact He allowed the taking of His hand to draw Him a little closer to His captor.

He blinked down at the golden eyes that looked up at Him, and offered an almost timid smile. "You already have his teeth Sire, as the one I shed tears for was you." He let His fingers tighten around those that held them. "If you do not wish for me to cry, then not abandon me again... ...please."

His eyes watered but no tears fell to stain His face with their wetness. He looked lost, as if the one who stood before Him was His only hope of salvation. "I was so afraid." The words were a small confession, and for a moment He seemed to hesitate, only to fall to His knees in a graceful motion of ivory and gold that twinkled so that He could wrap His arms around the other man and hug him tightly. "And I am so glad that you returned to me."

Each word was a hot whisper in His captors ear, His breath falling on the arch of green so that His lips brushed just very lightly upon the other man's neck with each word. "My Master."

[Mogwart]

No matter how ferocious he tried to sound, or giant he tried to make his presence, right now he couldn’t help it but tend to this flower gently. Every phrase, every unnatural sound to his ears, pierced him like needles. He didn’t protest the other fingers tightening around his warm hand, but if not for the urgency he felt in needed to shelter his captive properly, he wouldn’t even have managed to stay standing.

Someone new shed tears for him?

Someone new could miss, or want, or need, his presence to that extent?

'Impossible. Impossible.'

His inner demons continued to moan the impossibility of such things from his inner abyss. ‘It’s a trick. It’s a lie. It poisons… Doesn’t matter.’ He beheld the profound lost’ness and titillating fear in that ivory expression with a desire tempered only by an alternate source of shame of a force he rarely felt, all for having neglected his a critical responsibility. This kind an beautiful creature was depending on him.

Truly the extent of that was far more than this lowly jester felt he had earned or ever deserved. Meaning no matter whether the man’s motives were superficial, a trick, or otherwise,  Mogwart decided he didn’t care. It was him who subjected a captive to one of the most common horrors or customs of his clan. Him who took advantage of the man's weak will.  So it was the least Mog believed he could could to try to repay the foolish trust invested in him with some kind of substance.

He wanted to utter something in response to the flower's claim of fear; couldn't so easily make the reassurances he knew Samael needed to hear. But as Mog stood stunned, he was not expecting the arms that next wrapped around him. At first couldn’t even recognize the gesture for what it was. As if hugs were another form of miracle forever out of his reach. Yes, surely this had to be some mistake. Even his mother hadn’t hugged him for over a few decades. He couldn't remember what hers had been like. ‘And yet…’ he stared forward through a sea of whispy curls and sun. Suddenly somehow this had become his reality. That fair head that all but rested on his neck, and for a few moments Mogwart had no power whatsoever to push the man away.

Instead, losing himself in the foreign but tremendous comfort of this simple touch, he slowly- carefully -raised his own arms to return the embrace. He shivered once on contact, and partially buried pained expression in the golden halo so near. A few kisses escaped him, planting soft on a trail up the poor prisoner’s neck and stopping on his ear before he managed to answer, “I give you back your tears. Certainly can’t allow you to cry for me…” And, alright, perhaps another stolen peck or two- or four – across the prisoner’s cheeks and eyelid couldn’t hurt, as it killed him to think this would probably be the one and only time in his life that he ever received such affection.

But at last, with masterful effort, Mogwart honored his private oath and withdrew from his victim, holding him at arms length. Everything about the face he showed now was misery beyond his control. Still, until he could make good on both what he already owed and what he had planned to take from this man already, he wouldn’t allow himself to take any more than this.

"In case you’ve forgotten already, I am one who put you this crisis. Were you still home, nice and cozy, you wouldn’t have much to fear or need my protection to begin with. So no more of this painful kindness, understood? At this rate, I can’t possibly repay you. And I must repay you, without question. More than that, you offer this much affection for your captor of all beings? Surely I’m not healthy for you, midove... But again, if my servant insists…”

He traced a hand across Samael’s face in one last stroke of admiration, then did whatever he could to remove himself several steps away. All at once, he felt extremely cold and was gripped with a former sense of longing he had forgotten even he even had before this flower came along and muddled his nerves. He closed his eyes to cut off the visible path back to the warmth sitting there in front of him, scrunched his nose, and tugged at his sideburns to try to regain awareness of the role he was supposed to play. He cleared his throat. “I, your master, absolutely forbid you from falling into my passionate grasps until you first cure me of that which I sought you out for to begin with... Do you understand? This is very important. You will not let me embrace you."

He stalled on that, placed an arm behind his back, and paced back and forth slowly in determination. "You will not let me kiss you. And you’ll not let me carry you around. ” If he couldn’t manage very well by himself, he thought he should at least attempt to talk his captive into putting up some form of resistance. “Grant me this, and I promise you I will not leave your side unless I personally deliver you safely back to your home again and put you right back where I found you.”

[Samael]

There was no resistance to the embrace He offered. Not even a moment of tension to suggest that it was not wanted. Only surprise which He suspected was born from that which He already knew. That His captor craved to be touched. Craved contact with another whom would not turn aside from it. Though He was familiar with the need it was always one He did not understand. How others could go so long without being touched that it became foreign to them.

Slowly but surely His embraced was returned, and with a shudder He was given more. Tiny kisses to light upon His neck, His cheek, and even His eye. He let them fall with a soft sound of near gratitude, feeling the responding warmth in His chest. Even when His captor pulled back to look at Him it did not fade. He could see in the edge of tears that were held in those golden eyes, mixed misery and gratitude that this was what the other man needed.

Even if it wore the mask and label of 'painful kindness'.

"Of course I offer it to you, and if my tears are worth so much, have not you shed them in truth for the thought that I might loose one? If my kindness is so valuable, have you not offered it to me in return? In your promise to keep me safe, in your gentle touch and the warmth of your lips which I feel still upon my cheek?"

He had not risen from His place on the ground. "What strength do you think I have to turn aside your affections? Do you think that I who could not stop a blow could stop the far stronger brush of your gentle fingers on my flesh?" He let His head fall. Curls of gold obscuring everything of his features. "I do not. I could whisper you reminders and tell you that you should not touch me, but they would be lies and worse when I want you to."

Gold poured backwards, all but that which always, always hid the left side of His face. He spoke with truth ringing on His lips and deepening the meaning of His words. "I want for you to want me. It makes my heart quicken when you look at me. Please..."

Gently He edged forward, grasping green fingers in His own to still the path and progress of feet pacing back and forth. "Let me give you what you need. Stop hiding why you brought me here to this place and tell me what it is that I am meant to do; let me tend you... Or I am purposeless, and deserve the cruel fate of being left like nothing here beside the street."

[Mogwart]

‘Rise. Why won’t he rise again?’ Waxing frustration, Mogwart drank in a stream of honeyed pleas that only built higher on the foundations of the his guilt. No matter what he tried to say, or how expressed his intentions, none of it seemed to be reaching his tormenter- who was beginning to sound like he suffered just as much himself in his delicate eagerness to please.

How had this winsome prisoner deluded himself into believing that a jester’s tears had any true value? Mogwart scoffed and hardened his face in deeply rooted rejection of the notion. Many things in his life had been made very clear; the worthlessness of his emotions- especially towards any prisoner- were chief among them. That piece was beyond negotiation. As that hand reached for his again and stopped him from pacing, he drew a sharp breath, opened his eyes on the flower, and forced a joyless ghost of a grin.

“Let me relieve you of your wild misconception: though I covet you, nothing I do or have for you is kind,” there was a tremulous sort of bitterness to his tone, “I am incapable of producing anything of the sort. Imitative? Perhaps. Honorable? Only when I am very fortunate. So now, there is no need to deceive yourself. Any tears I have left in me will never amount to enough for a bargain.”

The more he saw how comfortable the man looked being this close to the one who could- and would in some manner -harm him, the more Mogwart began to have other doubts. Perhaps his his kin been right about the way these things ought to go; perhaps his handling of captive too gently was the source of his current troubles. Would Mog finally be forced to brutalize this flower, in faint hopes of instilling a proper spirit of hatred that the man might seek to escape his miserable situation? Or. OR would it damage the prisoner less if Mog simply gave in to his every temptation? He really wished he had an answer.

And what- oh what- would be the surest way to repay some of his debt so far? The feeling of owing his captive anything was maddening. ‘I could repay him something more difficult to offer... The unfiltered truth?’ That was, of course, what his prey was asking for. As Mogwart took in the insecurity of their surroundings however, he couldn’t bring himself to confess it so easily. Not in a place where his enemies might listen freely. Doubly not with this Samael kneeling in anticipation of being ravished against any shred of his better judgment. For the record, Mogwart currently found himself unable to release the hand that sought his once again. Bah. What did he expect?

“Yet I do not intend to leave you completely unaware,” he started, and stopped. That busy mouth of his mysteriously opened and closed several times as he tried to choose words, other than an outright confession of secrets, that might put this flower at ease. Except, in light of what was happening, it dawned on the fiend that even if he did manage to overcome his nerves to explain everything right here, his effort may be just as futile in the face of his prisoner’s seeming belief. He simply couldn’t fathom, for instance, how someone as undeniably widely beloved as this man would ever consider himself purposeless or expendable. There would probably people out there who would go to war for him.

“Alas. Why does it sound as if, in spite of all that I’ve said, you can only imagine that your purpose today is for me to take pleasure in your flesh or your servitude?” Mogwart blinked over this new train of thought, ‘Come to think of it… what reason would he have to believe me? Could it be…’ He raised his and added on a brittle hope tinged in distress. “You make your overtures, but at best… you really don’t trust me, do you?” If that proved to be the fellow’s nature, then Mogwart reasoned things were just as they should be.

“In any case, you leave me no choice.” He motioned impatiently for Samael to stand. His latest stony, pseudo-lordly posture faltered briefly for his efforts to keep a respectable distance again, but the goblin persevered. “So long as I trap you under my protection, I’ll also prove to you my cruelty; deny you anything more you require that I see fit withhold.”

He would tighten his grip on Samael’s hand, not to cause harm, but fondly, as if to ensure he wouldn’t lose track of the one attached. “Thus, my loveliest servant, if you burn to discover how to serve me well, you need only follow my orders from here on to the best of your ability. Work hard and when the time is right, I will reward you. With? ...The secret you seek.” Would stepped towards the open streets again, testing to see if Samael would follow. “The first order: show me any of these frivolous things you might consider covering yourself in. You did say you required clothing for my personal convenience, and I didn’t harvest tribute from your admirers for any of it to go to waste.”

[Samael]

For all of the blustering words the truth was hidden in those golden eyes, in the way that His captor did not for a moment loose His fingers. Perhaps he thought that there was little worth in himself, but whatever worth there was or was not... He could not say. It was not His place. He knew only that His worth came only from His value to this one who stood before Him. Thus... it was imperative that He make him understand that at least to Him, everything that was done by the other man was of the utmost importance and value.

know thy place at the behest of all mankind
the lower the one before thee, the lower thou must place thyself

However little value He might have, in this moment or any other; it would never determine how He was meant to behave. The two were not intertwined with one another. It all depended upon the reality of the moment. The reality in which they existed.

“Alas. Why does it sound as if, in spite of all that I’ve said, you can only imagine that your purpose today is for me to take pleasure in your flesh or your servitude?”

He followed every movement with His eyes, one of which glimmered like a hidden star behind the veil of His hair. "I has nothing to do with trust Sire, it is simply all that I am. You yourself have spoken clearly that you have some need of my service to you. And that you desire me." Even as he said that he did not. It seemed almost a constant act of self denial save that all to easily that facsimile broke.

Languidly His one visible blue eye blinked at His captor. Prove his cruelty? It was an ever-changing set of variables around which He found Himself trying to dance. As nimble as He was; it made the task no less difficult. He rose to His feet as He had been bidden. All He could do was bow His head again as before. Graciously as if it honored Him to be told what to do. He was glad after all to have this much. "I will do my best Sire."

Of course He followed obediently in the wake of His captor, those careful three steps always between them. Just slightly to the side where He could be seen if the sight of Him was desired. It was no hardship to look at the stalls that they passed in consideration. Shopping was something which He was uniquely skilled in, for it served Him well to know how to properly adorn His body so that the beauty of it was emphasized in every possible way. After several stands had come and gone He stopped at one, pausing to run His eyes over fine stitching and lovely embroidery.

"Sire." He said the word just loudly enough to be heard, but not loudly enough to travel with an edge of something indefinable but which felt like longing in the ears. Then He lowered His voice even more so that His words would be impossible to hear from any distance closer than the three steps between him and the one who had promised to clothe Him properly. "This stand offers fine workmanship. Would you like me to barter in your stead, or would my Master prefer to speak to this tailor him-self?"

[Mogwart]

As usual, this fairest fellow had a knack for speaking of foreign things. Mogwart would continue to struggle with the conflicting notion that a person so gentle and well-received could speak as if such a sorely limited sense of self-worth. 'How? Why? What for?' Surely there was some sort of story behind his prisoner, and maybe it did increasingly draw the jester's interest. However. As it wasn’t his purpose to dig into that today either, Mog decided to leave it alone. He had a cooperative prisoner that called him nice things, didn't shudder at the touch of his hand, and was willing to walk down the street beside him-- more or less. Regardless of everything else the Mog denied himself, it didn’t take much of this sort of treatment at all to let him to pretend he was the luckiest gob. If nothing else, he would allow himself this.

Of course, that didn’t change the fact that shopping was a tedious pastime. He supposed could have tried spared himself the trouble a number of ways, but in the slightest amount, he thought it could contribute to repaying some of what he felt he owed. It was the only reasonable suggestion his servant had given him to work off of for one, that didn't require the master to break any personal oaths. Thus, though he swore he had to keep up appearances now that he had his' tough-n-cruel' thing going, he decided to try his best not to appear to disgruntled and paid attention to the ways Samael looked at any items or stalls. Watching the gent was still an agreeable way to pass his time, walking around was sort of relaxing in itself, and if it seemed for an instance that the man wanted any material thing, Mogwart was determined that his servant would have it.

People cheerfully called out for Samael to shop with them as they passed, or even tried to appeal to Mogwart when they perceived that the nymph deferred to him, but whatever those shops were selling didn't seem to be what a flower needed. 'Not even the mead or that fine jar of jerky? No? ...Sigh.' Mog was rubbing his shoulders, feeling drafty for lack of his mantle, when the sense of his servant stopping drew his attention to what had to be the most frivolous stall they had passed yet. 'Don't tell me it's this one.' Incense burned from somewhere, and out from the extended curtain and maze of fabrics behind the counter appeared a rotund and elegant shopkeeper with ears each studded in shiny stones. By comparison, Mogwart’s own well-worn rags made him look every bit like a pauper. Not that he would have agreed.

Right now, he was mostly concerned with how many of the damned pieces his servant might need to try on before they could settle on something functional. Two? Three? ‘I'll bet on two... He can't be that particular.’ He raised a brow at the word that was steadily growing familiar to his ears, and sniffed gruffly to mask evidence of other sensations. While he could muster the bravado to introduce his servant, what with the fantastic fictional background and all, the confused looks this current shopkeeper flashed the pair of them and the preference to which the fresh set of eyes lingered on the flower gave Mogwart other ideas.

“Hah! What sort of peasant do you take me for? I didn’t bring you all this way only to have to do such finicky work myself,”  he tossed his head back self-importantly and announced so that their company could catch his every word, “No. Best that you and the merchant work out the details between yourselves. Go on and enjoy it, midove. Your master will oversee things from here.” From safe distance, yes. The excuse he made for himself was that he would have an easier time monitoring the street for trouble as long as he didn’t get drawn into any useless shopping shenanigans. A gob could get tangled in all of that fabric if he wasn't careful.

The other half of it though? Mog covered his mouth and nose with his hand in cautious recognition of this particular incense. 'Peagrems Spice.' Little known to other peoples, it had a mild effect like catnip to his goblin senses. The last time he walk into that mess, he wound up curled up like a pet against some anonymous noble woman who proceeded to tote him around for an hour or two. Gods, the grooming was merciless. Here? He figured he would be able to manage as long as he didn’t waltz into the thick of it.

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