The Bear and Barnacle

Gaav has come into the pub, leaving two bikers on the street throwing punches at one another for something even they aren't sure about in his wake. His smile is as satisfied and wicked as a cat's with a struggling mouse in its paws. Out of his pocket he pulls out a large tankard and sets it on the bar counter with an order to fill it before he takes up a chair and plunks his booted feet onto another across from him.

His fingers tap idly on the table top as he waits for his drink to be brought to him and has he drinks in the rage from the streetfight, its a small snack but appealing for its burning violence. After a moment he looks down at the table top and there, singed into the table top is something very familiar.



Its part of the tribal style tattoo that covers the entire back of his body from nape of his neck to bottom of his calfs, this from just over his left shoulder, one of the three heads of the dragon that sweeps up his back. The rest of it is a network of flames and weapons that shimmer black to red like living hot embers. Each of his generals had carried similar flame tattoos somewhere on their body: Rigo along his left thigh and hip, Tulizi circling out from her always bare navel, others on upper arms, wrapped around shins, spanning their shoulders. Even his priest before Valgaav had one, ironically around his neck where Gaav's sword would later cut through ending Jorlis's service and life when he could not longer serve his master well enough to be allowed to live.

He huffs in amusement at the table's new decoration and wonders just what the pub owner will say about this. At least it wasn't pub owner or one of his patrons who found themselsves abruptly decorated.

Now this is the way it should be, Dynast be damned. This is his weather, his heat, even if it's not his normal locale. Val told him of the darkness last year, the heavy rain, and now this. Balance in Her world, he supposes, and he expects this means next their will be blankets of snow. Or perhaps an eruption of flowers everywhere.

But now it's his and he's going to glory in it. So he's changed out of his normal yellow trench coat and trousers and heavy boots. Instead he's wearing a yellow Hawaiian print shirt, tan shorts, and leather sandals, his long red hair caught on a summer wind, as he walks down the beach front road.

Gaav decides to fuck with the tourists. It's a small source of amusement but still amusing for the jolt of surprise then high fear when they see the large man on the beach one hand grasping a mostly empty whiskey bottle and the other his sword. He can taste the range of emotions as they roll over him in increasing numbers like nourishing waves. When one gets too close to him he twitches, his sword glints in the dim English sun but it is enough of a movement to send them squeaking and scattering like the damn birds that Val gets in fights with.

He doesn't actually count on Val and Dora showing up, but the taste of Val's desperate fear is unmistakable and still sustaining. Gaav doesn't move as Val comes barrelling at him until that last moment when he gives a loud snore. It's so atypical for Gaav that Val starts in midstride and comes tumbling at him, wing over foot with a cry. Gaav catches him easily before he hits the sand and brings affectionately to his chest. "Easy Val." He strokes one hand over Val's back then smirks into his ear, "Want to help me fuck with the tourists?"

It's not until he visits the pub later than he sees Dora has snapped a picture.





This was so hard! I didn't think it would be but I kept coming up with ideas and HE kept staring at me like "You stupid human, what sort of Lord do you think I am?" Thanks to C and Val or I wouldn't have even managed this.

Gaav stares at his sister with his arms folded over his chest and radiates Not Amused. Dolphin moves a pawn in a direction that pawns are not generally allowed to move, she seems to be playing both sides, or possibly more as there seem to be three queens and four colors. "Well?" he says flatly.

Dolphin looks up and does a pretty good impression of an excited little girl seeing her favorite uncle, though the bouncing this results in inside her top is less little-girlish and pushes the chessboard carelessly aside so the pieces topple. "Brother! You look different. Did you cut your hair?"

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He walks into this town as he's walked into a thousand thousand towns, cities, kingdoms and battlefields at a measured saunter, long strides eating up the ground below him. There's a broadsword the size of a sapling resting casually on the shoulder of a yellow trench coat that glares like a caution sign with grudge. He surveys the misty evening, the rows of houses with televisions flickering through windows and the now empty beach. He doesn't look impressed.

He keeps walking, the strolling sightseers parting before him like pedestrians ducking an ugly exchange of words on a sidewalk.

Nearly nine feet tall with a flame-red ponytail to his knees and a face like a jagged cliff, he should be stopping traffic. But only a few people glance at him more than once. People know him, not consciously, but for those who fight or soldier, he's a familiar presence. Even though he's just walked into Margate, he was already there. Chaos Dragon Gaav is everywhere. All that changes is if he lets you know it or not.

As he walks in even strides, he tastes the astral flavors of the city: the revolting joy of families on vacation, the more satisfying bitterness of the regular inhabitants who's town has been invaded, a pleasant rolling anger from a fighting couple. These tastes grow stronger as he makes his way through the town, mixing with resentment, hunger, drunkeness and friendship. It's the oddity of many species in one place that draws him toward the pub. Not to mention a few astral signatures that are familiar.