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Date Posted: 15:03:49 02/14/02 Thu
Author: Tristan
Subject: Food!
In reply to: Ravin 's message, "Plans" on 10:56:44 02/14/02 Thu

Sex for a fix. It made sense. In some twisted, instinctive way, it made sense with startling clarity. Tristan already knew about the relationship between crime and drug use in the city of Bizmar. Supposedly, Marz had lost the loyalty of his gang members to his superior, Tegol Denair, who had literally bought and sold their allegiance through drugs.

He hadn’t yet associated any of that with Eremis’ capture, though. Sure, in his mind’s eye, he saw the healer huddled in a cell, his clothing in tatters, his body beaten. Perhaps fear reflecting from his blue eyes while he thought of how to fend off the unwanted lustful attentions of Tegol’s men.

Which was another thing. Tristan was used to thinking of women as the despicable creatures to be shunned for their heartless, sensual desires, the sexual wiles they used to get men to do what they wanted. Now, he was suddenly forced to realize that men were just as evil, perhaps even more so. He knew about rape, but he’d never…he’d never really thought about it, he guessed. Or maybe he just didn’t want to think about it.

Sex for a fix. I wouldn’t have done it, he promised himself, his jaw tightening somewhat in loathing, perhaps maybe even in fear. Wouldn’t he have? When his father helped him go cold turkey, made him break his dependence on the escape drugs brought to him—wouldn’t he have done anything to feel it just one more time?

“No,” he muttered, his teeth still clenched, but he imagined his belly cramping, and his eyes watering, and the burning feeling rolling over him in waves, nibbling on his veins and nerves for hours upon hours, and he wasn’t sure if he weren’t lying to himself or not. In any case, he was surely stronger than Eremis. He pictured the healer on his knees, begging, holding out his arms for his next meal, completely oblivious to what was being sprinkled into it. Of course, Tristan knew about opium and its effects; really, it was the perfect drug for the job, when he thought about it.

But it couldn’t be so bad, could it? If nobody hurt him—if they stopped beating him, let him give the information they wanted. And they needed his healing, right? Wasn’t that what Marz said? Naturally, Tristan couldn’t possible imagine a sexual relationship that involved any type of fetish or abuse. It simply didn’t even enter his head. Maybe Eremis would have to do something that would disgust him, but at least, he figured, no one would beat him anymore.

He didn’t understand why Marz said he would be a changed person after a week, unless he was referring to the drug use. Tristan wanted to point out that he wasn’t by any means altered from the way he used to be before he started overindulging in substance abuse, but before he could open his mouth, Corum interrupted, muttering to himself a bit before sitting up. He looked relatively fine, although a bit confused, though fortunately the healer rushed in to aid him as soon as he saw that he was awake.

Tristan ignored the short conversation between him and Marz, his thoughts instead returning once again to Eremis. Things were a little better, now that he felt reasonably assured the healer’s captors weren’t going to kill him. His stomach still churned at the thought of rape, though, but he decided to keep his feelings to himself from now on. Marz had tried sugarcoating things to him, and he hadn’t liked that. Now that he’d finally spoken the truth, Tristan realized he didn’t like that, either. So it was probably best if they just didn’t talk about it anymore.

“Do you feel better about Eremis now?” Marz asked, startling him out of his reverie. “Did I manage to get rid of some of that coldness you felt earlier?” Tristan nodded, because he figured it was probably the right thing to do. But the feel of Marz’s arm resting comfortably around his shoulders did more than warm his face; it warmed his soul, if that wasn’t sounding too incredibly hokey. No, that’s hokey all right, he thought, almost cheerfully.

“I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I felt “better” about Eremis,” he muttered, staring at the floor as he spoke. “But I guess I don’t feel so cold anymore.” He sighed, hissing through his teeth ever so slightly. “At least I don’t feel like killing everything in sight anymore.” He rubbed the long, black hilt of his sword with one absent hand, his other hand still holding Marz’s.

He snapped out of his depression over Eremis as best he could, trying to focus on what was going on at present. He snorted softly, thinking he didn’t give a damn about the peacock throne or the Midnight Hue trees of Darkness or whatever. But once they found them, they could get back to the queen’s place as soon as possible, and then she could transport them back to Bizmar, just as she’d done for Dalo and Eremis.

“Let’s go find something to eat,” he said suddenly, when he noticed some of the others leaving the cellblock to wander through the tower. Most were probably looking for extra weapons, supplies, or even a decent place to sleep, but Tristan, of course, always thought of dinner first. He couldn’t really help it if his nature required him to eat more than the peasly meal portions that these mortals consumed. He was a healthy, growing dragon, after all!

He stood up, pulling Marz up beside him before raising an eyebrow at Corum. After assuring them that he was truly okay, Corum grabbed Yorik and finally stood up as well, although he did look a bit wobbly on his feet. The three of them trekked through the tower, heading in the direction Tia had indicated she’d seen the kitchens in. Tristan would have normally been able to smell it out, at least he convinced himself he could, but the overwhelming smell of death and blood was clogging his senses up right now. He doubted he’d be able to smell a whole side of beef roasting in the next room in these conditions, although the answering growl of his stomach assured him otherwise.

Eventually, they did find their way to the kitchens—or kitchen, really, as it was just a simple table setting surrounded by cabinets, cook pots, a magic cold box, and a fireplace. Tristan dug out some frozen meat and one of the larger pots before setting them down on the cabinet, along with a bottle of wine and three cups.

“Okay,” he said, glancing expectantly at Marz, “Do something with it.” He leaned against the side of the cabinets, propping his chin on one hand while staring at the meat in the pot. If only he knew how to cook…oh well. Didn’t matter. He had Marz, here, who’d already proven himself several times over to be an expert on cooking. In no time at all, he’d probably be able to whip up an excellent meal for the three of them, unless some of the others trooped in at some point or other. Well, to hell with them. They could just fix their own damn food!

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