Tag!

((Begun my Alia's player, and ended by mine!))

Alia waited for Jon to be engrossed in writing a report, or at least a book, before she slid her hands down his chest, tugging and pulling at his leather jacket. “It’s been too long since you last kissed me, Shadow...” She’d whisper into his ear softly, intimately, with an unspoken promise of more. More of her lips at his neck, more of her hands on his chest pulling him to her, more of her hips grinding on his as she spun him around in his chair and straddled him. She’d capture his lips with hers, gently at first, but growing in heat and passion; tenderness became ravishment, playful nips became enflaming bites, love became lust. She’d push him closer and closer to that edge of control, where she knew - or at least hoped she could accurately predict - his willpower would begin to fail... and got up and left him to his discarded tasks. A breathtaking, smoldering gaze over her shoulder, and the telltale ache of a mark forming on his neck the only reminder of her presence.

Unless of course, the wolf gave chase...

Jon raced after her, pacing himself - he knew his minx's pattern now, so he raced just fast enough for her to blink... and grinned, knowing how the pursuit would end.  She could only blink so many times, and the exercise was good for him.  She blinked once... twice.. thrice.. and Jon sprinted ahead,  knowing that that was her limit.  As he was about to place his hand on her shoulder, she gracefully spun and teleported an unprecedented fourth time, back the way they had come.  Jon, taken completely unaware, stumbled and fell, twisting in the air to avoid a painful face-plant in their bed.  before he could recover, Alia jumped upon his prone form, smothering him will passionate kisses.  "Don't ever make the mistake you know all of my tricks, Shadow!" she gloated, and Jon surrendered to her, enjoying his defeat at the hands of his clever minx.

For the Alley-iance!

((This takes place about a month after Jon and Alia begin their courtship. As ever, I would be worthless without the inspiration and editng of the player of Alia Atherton))

The fellow most knew as Jon Chess was smiling; no, not just smiling. Jon often smiled - a sardonic grin, a mocking, taunting smile, a mischievous smirk. Almost never did he *beam*, his smile brimming with good nature and affection.

If a passerby thought that Jon's rare expression denoting happiness and goodwill was due to the woman walking next to him, her arm entwined with his, they would not be mistaken in the least.

The woman was a human, dressed in a Kaldorei set of robes, standing the same height as Jon.  Her chestnut hair fell in luxurious waves just below her shoulders.  A smattering of freckles decorated her face near her nose, but were rarely noticed below her large, stunningly purple eyes, indicating that she was an experienced user of the arcane.  Robes inspired by a Kaldorei Moonpreist's uniform, the white, purple, and gold. Her name was Alia Atherton, but to Jon she was called his Beloved.

They were walking in the canal side of the Cathedral section of town, ambling at a comfortable pace, almost without purpose; relaxed, speaking of nothing serious.  Although relaxed, Jon's eyes swiftly darted around in a preemptively watchful fashion; they had recently come into conflict with an organization of Lightforged Draenei which were threatening anyone they considered unworthy of continued existence, the Void Elf population being particularly at risk.  Jon and Alia had stood by their Ren'dorei friends and come into conflict with them, but they were still at large in the city.

Suddenly, Alia clutched Jon's arm as they passed an alleyway, pulling hin sideways and off the street.  "Inquisitors!" said said, and Jon immediately reacted, turning to face the mouth of the alley.  Twin daggers leapt to his hands, almost as if by magic; Jon was a master of the concealed weapon, after all.  He backed away, going deeper into the alleyway, trusting Alia to lead them while he safeguarded them.  Guttural sounds left his lips in a low, harsh voice - the language of Arakkoa shadow magic, concealing Jon and Alia from casual observation. Alia led them deeper until the alley opened into a small garden alcove; the nook was a pleasant place, with grass and shrubbery pleasantly maintained.

Jon, his eyes locked forward, noted the change but maintained his watchful vigilance... until he heard his Beloved stifle a chuckle.  In a flash, he understood - Alia had pulled a carefully planned ruse so that the two of them could be alone.

Pretending to be fooled, Jon said "We should be safe now, Alia... but it would perhaps be wise to remain here for a short while, to wait until the Inquisitors tire of the search for whomever they are looking.  Fortunately, for a small niche, this one seems more comfortable than most... I will leave up the concealment spell, so we shouldn't be noticed unless someone makes a concerted effort."

"An uncharacteristically wise choice, my Shadow," Alia agreed, running her hands over his shoulders, urging him to turn around.  He moved as she desired, and brought her into his arms in an embrace.  "We shall have to stay alert, for safety," Jon murmured, capturing her lips with his own. "So perhaps passing the time in this manner is perhaps not the best idea...?"

Alia shushed him with a more passionate kiss.

"We'll hear anyone coming down that narrow alleyway, Shadow... and you owe me something... you do tell me that, relatively speaking, you are a trustworthy man - for being an admitted spy and assassin, for whom deception is the coin of your trade?" She kissed him again with reassuring verve and enthusiasm.

Jon Chess had a reputation as a bit of a rake; his romantic adventures were the stuff of whispers among those of the  Brotherhood of Valor.  She had not known the precise details of his romantic history, and she had not known what to expect the first time they had kissed, precisely.  Jon was a good kisser and had been almost frustratingly respectful of her.  It was quite apparent that he was deeply in love with her - but while they had kissed, and cuddled together in front of the fires, and shared a bed in the evening, it hadn't been until last night that they had gone deeper.

Last night Jon had sat against the headboard of Alia's bed, legs spread.  Alia had sat between his legs and had reclined against his body, wearing only a nightgown and soft mageweave panties.  Jon had kissed her neck and nuzzled her hair and told Alia what he referred to as a "bedtime story" - a tale of erotic fiction.  While his voice purred in her ear, he had touched her through the nightgown and panties, mirroring the actions in the story.  He had raised her passion and imagination, and her body had responded eagerly - embarrassingly eagerly, to tell the truth - to his touch. She had let her reservations drop and her passion free - and Jon had thoroughly and delightfully pleasured her with his hands to the edge of a cresting wave - and beyond.

Several times.

That morning, while Jon made them breakfast and Alia got herself ready for the day - she had reflected on the night, and whether or not she dared open her heart to this rogue, this self-described street rat that was such a bundle of contradictions - a ruthless killer and a gentle, considerate fellow, a devout follower of the Light and an adept of the forbidden Shadow magic, the consummate spy and scrupulously honest man. His actions and attentions since they had become emotionally intimate had been slow and respectful, almost shy. She had determined that Jon owed her a debt - how dare he say and do such things, to lead her to the precipice and over again and again... and not allow her to give him the same?  In the cold light of the morning after such a passionate encounter, she felt acutely how much more she could have if instead of Jon putting her needs first he relaxed and trusted her to be a full and equal participant.

He owed her at least that much, and it was a debt she intended to collect - at least if her nerve held out,  Alia was not at all cowardly... but she was raised to be a woman who put things of the mind first.  Her studies and her research was paramount in her life, and she was unsure how to deal with the inclusion of a wildcard such as Jon.  He was a most pleasant distraction, granted - but he was a distraction nevertheless. She had pulled him into the alleyway on a whim, although she had known of the small garden spot before, from her explorations of the city. 

"I am not sure that I would describe myself is such glowing terms," Chess chuckled, "but what do you think you are owed?"

"After last night?  You owe me you! While I won't deny that I enjoyed - thoroughly enjoyed - your... ah... storytelling last night, I felt bad that I was not able to do something for you before we fell asleep!" she exclaimed, blushing at her admission.

Jon gave her an answer in the form of a passionate kiss, which went on for an extended period and left them both breathless. "Beloved... I have been trying to take things slow.  I know my reputation is at odds with this, but I need to earn your trust before I take matters further... You mean more to me... I refuse to screw this up because on my own desires and impatience."

"Farting Fel-Stalkers!  Last night... I was more than ready! Do you know what I think, my dear Agent of Cheese?  I think you are too scared to take matters further - I think you think me a fragile flower of feminity who might break under the crude maulings of a certain street rat with pretensions!" She grinned at him mischievously, hoping that her playful manner would take any sting from her words.

"Of course I am scared - for all the vaunted intelligence of the Kirin Tor, you seem a little on the thick side!  Can't you get it through your head that it is very important not to blow my chance with you?" Jon said, his voice growing in volume until he was practically shouting at her.  She might have quailed then, but for the familiar grin and fire in his eye. Her heart soared - he was playing back!

"My handsome Shadow..." she purred, stepping away from him and dropping the purple-and-gold portions of her clothes on the soft grass, leaving her clad in only a thin, white, translucent under-dress and purple undergarments. "Talk.  Is.  Cheap."

((Fade to Black!))

A Dream in the Desert

The man named Jon Chess was in the grip of a nightmare.

“Come on. Hurry up!” You stand in a city whose walls and streets are made of smooth black stone. Red fire ignites the sky,
and thorns cover the landscape like shrubbery. Alia, in her slim Kaldorei inspired suit, stands
beside you, just out of reach and only in your periphery. She giggles in a thousand voices, eyes glassy
and soulless. “We’re going to be late!” Her voice sings in the air. She stands now at the base of a path, motioning you to follow, and skipping through an archway
into a courtyard. You follow. There are others here, others you know, both the living and the dead. They stand by
fountains of crystals, breathtaking blue and gold, others malevolent crimson and dark purple. These
old friends and foes are dressed in noble finery, conversing and laughing amongst themselves. You try
to see them clearer, but their faces are distorted, their voices tainted. You call out to them, but they can
not hear you. A scream. Someone needs help! You try to run, but each step is slow, sluggish. Like wading through thick sludge. Like wading
through blood-soaked sand. Sand that rises, first to your feet, then to your waist, then finally over
your head. You keep sinking, until you’re not sinking, but falling… You land on your feet, standing in front of a new archway. Thorns creep down over the walls like
smoke, whipping at your heels and legs, grabbing your limbs, jerking you around, and you struggle.
Oh how you struggle. If you could get to them, you could help them, you could save them! The thorns
teared into your flesh as you break free, throwing you to your knees. A woman, a man; an elf, an orc, the face is never the same twice, their identity obscured from your
view, fighting for their lives against their assailant. An assailant in the colors of The Rook. “It was your fault.” The Rook’s eyes lock with yours as he chokes the last flicker of life from his victim. “It WAS your fault!” The helpless, lifeless victim falls to the floor, and The Rook strides off, blending back into the shadows.
You run to the body, turning it over to see who you have failed. A inky blackness starts to encircle you. Alia stares back, her cold lips grinning wide. “After all this, late for the first time. You disappoint me
Jon." You should have gone the other way. You can see it now, the bright light calling you, pleading you to
follow, to come closer.

You look down, and green eyes, YOUR green eyes, stare back at you. In your arms is no longer
your Beloved… but you. You awaken before you can answer the lights call… but not before you watch your hands turn to
wolven claws, and sink into your chest , attempting to rip out your own heart.

((This dream is happening in the middle of an RP adventure of which Jon is a part. Dream sequence written by the GM)).

Art from WhimsicalMe!

Jon Chess

Phredaria

From the artpad of the amazing WhimsicalMe!

https://www.patreon.com/WhimsicalMe/

Jon Chess & Friend (NSFW)

Jon Chess and Friend

From the marvelous Wickertop!
https://www.patreon.com/wickertopart/posts

Jon's Rules of Private Investigation

Jon's Rules of Private Investigation.

Rule #1 - Never get romantically involved with your clients.
Rule #2 - Never discuss client cases with anyone but the client, without explicit prior approval.
Rule #3 - Do not accept all clients nor cases.
Rule #4 - Never admit to having performed illegal actions on behalf of the client - especially TO the client.
Rule #5 - Never overcharge a client.  If you need cash, thee are always people who can help you remedy a shortfall.

Forging A New Path - Sketchings

((written with Zinnaella's player, with gratitude)

The sound of Shadow Raven wings presaged the return of the fellow most knew as Jon Chess to the cottage in the Blackwald Forest in the more-or-less deserted kingdom of Gilneas.  The beast landed just outside the small flagstone courtyard and sat patiently while Chess unstrapped the cargo from the pack saddle he had made the creature wear.  Stacking the boxes neatly off to the side of the entrance, Jon melded into the Shadows to await his client, the mysterious woman named Zinnaella, called Zinn.


From the path, Jon would see the form of a great cat slowly making its way toward the cottage. It appeared to have something in its mouth. The fur of the beast appeared to have been replaced with feathers..a very ravenlike looking beast. Clearly, the beast hadn't seen shadow raven or man, perhaps it was lost in its own bestial thoughts.

When it made it to the small gate of the cottage, the prize in its mouth was dropped to the ground. Two dead rabbits. Curiously, the figure shimmered and shifted and moments later, the naked form of Zinn stood at the gate. She still hadn't noticed anything amiss in the courtyard. Bending, she grabbed the rabbits by their ears and made her way toward the cottage. The woman, though in her 40s, still held on to the svelte figure of her youth and moved with cat-like grace. The cream-colored skin was adorned with tattoos; whorls of a burnt umber color decorated her thighs and up her hips, across her belly and up between her breasts. As she made her way past the shadow melded Jon, he would see that her back was also tattooed in the same type of patterns.

 Jon held still, waiting for Zinn to pass inside before making his presence known, not wanting to startle nor embarrass her.  His eyes roved over her naked form with appreciation. "Hard to think of her as naked with that tattoo... the artist must have enjoyed themselves greatly," he thought, a grin forming.

She paused in the doorway, gaze moving to the crates that weren't there before. A tilt of her head and a sniff of the air had a half grin tugging the corner of her mouth. "Please Mister Chess. Do come inside. I'll have breakfast ready in a moment."  It was evident that being naked before him made her neither uncomfortable nor embarrassed.  She continued her way into the large room, tossed the rabbits onto the table and moved behind the privacy screen that served at her bedroom.  She dressed quickly, just a plain skirt and blouse before she moved to the table to skin the rabbits.

Jon flushed red at having been caught out, and entered as bidden, standing on the correct side of the privacy curtain as she dressed.  "My apologies, Miss Zinn;  I am in the admittedly-bad habit of waiting in the Shadows.  I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy," he apologized.  "I have brought my supplies.  I intend to make an enhanced copy of the miniature if that suits you.  If you are satisfied with the replacement, I can then attempt to refurbish the original - but because of the inherent risk, I want you the to have the duplicate anyway. Where should I set up?"

Zinn points to the cleared out space near her privacy screen, in a semicircular alcove surrounded by windows. "I thought you  might like to have the natural light, though, not much ever really shines here." She chuckles as she rolls up her sleeves and picks up a skinning knife, grabbing a rabbit by its ears. "You must be pretty comfortable in the shadows to want to stay there all the time hmm? And don't worry about intruding on my privacy. I'm not ashamed of being nude. The naked body is what it is. Everyone has one, be they Human, Elf or Orc. It's nothing to be ashamed of."  Quickly, she slits the throat of the rabbit, holding it over a bowl to catch the blood.

Jon chuckled. "I spend so much time hidden in the Shadows, I often forget; it was a lifesaving habit during the final battles against the legion, and a good idea in Zandalar as well." Jon started to move his equipment, which included a bright lamp, into the cottage. A small work desk and folding chair came first, then a magnifying lens, which was bolted to the worktable.  Paints, brushes, a mixing palette, and jars of pigments were unpacked, granite mortar and pestle joining them.  "Well, your body is certainly nothing to be ashamed of, to be sure.  I found the artistry of your decorations to be quite well-done," he said.

"I can see where that would be a useful trait."  She looks at him with a smile. "Thank you for the compliment. My whorls were given with every...well...I'm not sure that spell is the correct word for it. I am a type of of...kitchen witch. Nothing like the coven witches in Drustvar mind you. My work is strictly for helping and healing."  The skinning blade was drawn through the soft belly of the rabbit, followed by her hand. The wet sound of organs and viscera being pulled from the cavity echo through the room, the contents of the rabbit set onto a plate. She watches him set up his station as she pulls the skin from the rabbit then quickly lopping off its head.

"Well, whether aesthetic or pragmatic, I am sure your beauty will haunt my dreams," Jon said with a smile.

She gives a little snort and a chuckle. "I can make you a potion to stop that if you'd like."  The neck of the second rabbit slit and again the blood drained into the bowl.

"No, it is probably one of the more pleasant dreams I'm likely to have, but thank you!" Jon answered.  "May I see the locket?"

She looks down her chest at the locket around her neck, to her bloody hands, then up at him. "Would you mind? I'm a bit of a mess and blood is such a troublesome substance to get out of clothes." She moves around the table to stand before him, inclining her head so he could either undo the clasp or pull the necklace over her head.

Jon stood over and put his arms around her neck, deftly undoing the clasp as if he was well-experienced in the removal of jewelry from other people's bodies.  "Thank you.  I will return it each day to you, for safekeeping," he promised, returning to his desk.  Opened his sketchbook.  "The first step is for me to practice making copies... if it is not too personal or painful, could you tell me stories about... Fawn, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Fawn."  She moves back to the table to continue prepping the rabbit.  "She was an unexpected blessing.  Her father and I had been trying for years to conceive. We had all but given up. Then...there she was. My perfect little Fawn. I named her that because her hair was the same color as a newborn fawn, just without the white spots. Oh, but she was a perfect baby. She didn't cry very much and it seemed that even at a few days old she would smile."  Skin ripped off the rabbit and this one lost his head too.  "We were the perfect little family. My husband, Hanson, worked as a smithy. I was the village harvest witch, making sure that the crops came in like they should. I did my work with Fawn on my back. Her laughter delighted me as I worked to make sure soil was perfect and plants were healthy. "  She picks up a towel and idly wipes her hands on it.  "We were happy. Fawn was growing into a beautiful little lady. Her eyes rivaled emeralds and had a similar sparkle. She was smart, too smart for such a little girl. She was both book-smart and full of common sense."

She busied herself with chopping the rabbits into chunks. "Yes, we were happy. Then the feral Worgen came. Roving bands of them flooding the countryside."  He could hear her sigh.  "I wasn't home when they passed through our little hamlet. I was helping in a nearby town with child birth. It was a rough one. The baby was breech and his mother's pelvis was so narrow. So very narrow. The birth was a success though." The chopping pauses and Zinn runs her fingers over the pink meat of the rabbit.  "When I came home....I...I found them.  Hanson had been gutted, his entrails littered the entrance to our home. Like..he'd been used to decorate the walls. I couldn't help him."  She swallowed hard. "I rushed inside and..." The rabbit flesh was being squeezed tightly in her hand, pink bubbles squeezed between her fingers. "I found him crouched over my Fawn. My beautiful little Fawn. He was...eating her. Her little face was covered in blood, her hair matted with it. Cold emerald eyes stared at...nothing. She was gone. The light of my life was gone."  She hung her head, tears streaming down her cheeks and she tried to compose herself. "I don't know how the ax got in my hands. My swings were wild and I caught the beast off guard. I chopped and chopped and chopped, my body covered in the blood of the most hated thing in the world to me at that moment."

Jon remained quiet although unbidden tears made his eyes sparkle wetly.  He remembered all too well when the feral Worgen of Arugal had destroyed Pyrewood, leaving a young Jon Chess an orphan at about the same age was when Zinn had lost her daughter.  He remained silent; this was Zinn's moment to remember her beloved daughter, and he would not dilute that moment with his own memories. He sketched Fawn's likeness again and again, finally after some hours, he presented the sketchbook to Zinn.

"Madame, tell me if I am ready to proceed to canvas," he said, his voice soft.  The evolution of the images in the sketchbook could be seen; a softening of her jaw to reflect her happy nature, a sharpening of her gaze to enhance the intelligent child her mother had described.  As he had progressed, Jon had added a background of the Blackwald as it must have been in those happier days.

Zinn had since cleaned everything up around the room while Jon had worked on the sketches. Rabbit stew was slow bubbling in the hearth and bread was baking in her tiny makeshift oven.  She flipped through the several sketches until she found one that was, for lack of a better word, perfect.  "This one. You've captured her eyes...her smirk of a smile perfectly. It's like..you've pressed her face to the page and created an exact replica."  She ran her finger over the sketch's jawline, a soft sad sigh pushed through her nose.

Jon nodded.  "I will start the replication tomorrow when I return.  Please... keep the sketchbook overnight."  Jon handed her the locket. "And you can wear this again; I won't need it again until later."  Jon started the minimal amount of cleanup and went outside to teleport himself to Dalaran.

After Jon left, Zinn ate her simple dinner of thick rabbit stew and freshly baked bread in the silence she was used to. After dinner and quick cleanup, she took the sketchbook outside. Silently, she walked toward the tiny graveyard near her cottage. Passing through the rusty iron gate, she made her way to the two well-tended graves near a tree. She smiled and sat between the two headstones. "Look, Hanson, he's managed to draw her perfectly. Don't you think?" She holds the sketchbook out to the headstone on her left. Fingers run softly along the stone's back. In the worn grooves. Turning to the stone on her right, she leans and presses a kiss to the cold granite. "Soon I'll be able to look upon your face again Fawn. I miss you so much my darling. So very much." Zinn sits quietly between the stones for hours, flipping through the sketchbook. Reaching into her skirt pocket, she pulls out a little vial full of a swirling purple liquid. She drinks it all and makes herself comfortable on the ground. "Goodnight my loves. I'll see you in my dreams."