Netahiln's Story: Anger

Netahiln was angry.

At her housemates, at her bond, at herself... at random passers-by... anything would do, really.

A year, it had been. Over a year! For so long, she'd been working, trying so hard with everything she had in her... and for what? Nothing, that's what! It was ridiculous, how difficult her self-appointed task seemed to be. More than that, it was shameful how little progress she'd made. Shameful how she still had no plan that seemed like it might work. Shameful, really, that she was even still there, failure or no failure, still clinging to her innocent, sweet, good bond.

So, Netahiln was angry. At her housemates, for being such a mix of stupid, annoying, difficult creatures who were slowly learning how to resist her taunts and avoid her games. At her bond, for being so innocent and sweet and good. At herself, for not having the strength to turn away from a losing battle and a bond unsuited for her. At anyone who happened to cross her path, because none of the above could she actually take out her anger upon, as much as she would like to teach those stupid xenodragons a lesson in respect they would never forget, or those meddlesome humans-- or whatever Tenat was-- for always watching her so closely, on her bond for being so thick-headed and impossible to sway to a more interesting life.

But no. No, not her bond. No matter how angry she was at Kalaia, she couldn't ever bring herself to hurt her, even her feelings. And it only made her more angry at herself that she couldn't. But she couldn't exactly hurt herself-- that was shameful and weak, and left one vulnerable-- so her anger had no outlet.

That was why she left the house periodically, slipping out the dragon-sized entrance while everyone else was distracted-- this time by a fight she herself had instigated between Nekeress and one of the bursters, in the vain hope that by making others angry she could get out some of her own anger. Sometimes it worked, but not this time, so she left. She would be gone for several hours, but rarely longer because then Kalaia would worry and she couldn't even stand that. Worse, she knew that Kalaia would be worried as much for her as for anyone she might wind up hurting, and that was simply unbearable, that someone so small and weak and kind would worry about her, who was strong and fierce and cruel and didn't want or deserve anyone worrying about them.

It was while she was out that she tried to purge what anger she could. When anyone who was not Tenat or Gavin or Kalaia or Nekeress-- better, though, if they looked like one of them-- crossed her path, she snarled at them, swiped at them, snapped at them, said terrible things to them. She only rarely hurt them, and only then when they attacked first so she could say she was defending herself-- not that she was above goading others into doing just that-- because Kalaia always heard about it when she did. They lived with the Minister of Security, after all, so they heard about everything that might possibly pertain to the household, among the many things that didn't. As long as it wasn't obviously Netahiln who instigated things, Kalaia wouldn't look at her with reproach and disappointment. Not too much, anyway.

And when insults and swipes and snarls began to wear thin, failed to do anything to siphon off her anger-- or she failed to incite anyone to violence, against herself or against anyone else, which was almost as good-- Netahiln went on to plan B. That is to say, she got drunk.

Even though Netahiln wasn't yet full grown-- she estimated that she still had a year and a half, maybe two, until she reached her full height, weight, and true maturity, though anyone who tried to call her immature would feel her wit and her claws-- it wasn't hard to find someone willing to sell her alcohol, anyway. There was always deniability with hybrids, especially hybrids of a species so nebulous as a True Chaotic and a species as varied as an Atuan mutt: the bartender didn't know how old she really was, didn't know she was only a year and a few weeks old, didn't know she oughtn't be buying alcohol. The credit stick that she maintained herself and that Kalaia didn't know about-- she thought; she hoped-- and the fake identification information programmed into it, checked out in their computers, and that was all that mattered. It hadn't been all that hard to get a hold of the fake information, really, when she discovered the benefits of being well and truly inebriated. After that it had merely been a question of what new bar to choose when the latest bartender started to catch on that she was still growing.

And it wasn't as if she couldn't hold her own just as well as older and larger dragons, after all. Netahiln could hold her own from the day she'd hatched, and she knew it. Anyone who tried to cause trouble with her knew it, too. Practicing her magic, learning new spells, branching out from simple stealth and electricity control to true Dark magic and subtle electronics-influencing spells: all of that was another way to stave off the anger, and one of her many attempts at quietly and subtly corrupting the purity and innocence in her chosen. There had been, for several months, the faint hope in her heart of luring young Kalaia with the shadow of her own power in the Dark Auspice that mirrors her Light. That she'd failed there, as well, only took away a small part of her fierce, reckless joy in her own power, and she did not hesitate to use it on someone who thought to throw size, weight, and age around like it meant anything at all.

Today was going to be a drinking day, it didn't take long to determine that. Her new bar was still that: new, and exciting, for it was only her third time going. The first time she'd wound up in a drinking contest with a very old Atuan mutt who looked like he had a little bit of everything in him-- which, she was ashamed to admit, she'd lost. Though that might have deterred her from coming again, she persevered, and her second visit had culminated in a near-seduction that turned into a glorious, table-wrecking fight when Netahiln decided at the last minute she didn't want anything to do with her would-be suitor.

Not that she'd really had any intention of letting a drunken mutt take advantage of her, no matter how good his claws in her fur felt or how smooth he tried to be, or how much Ercatian blood-wine he bought her. She just liked to let him think so, so her abrupt change of mood was just that: abrupt, and surprising, and definitely enough to spark a beautiful fight. Netahiln and her hapless suitor wound up having to be thrown out, which was always exciting.

After that, though, she thought it merited a third visit, so when she'd wasted an hour prowling the station's corridors and felt nothing but growing frustration, that was where she headed. It was reasonably crowded, which was promising, but didn't seem to have any terribly dangerous-looking types at first glance, which was disappointing. Well, there was time to see what turned up.

::Something strong,:: she snarled at the minotaur-ish bartender, who glowered at her-- obviously remembering her from her last visit two weeks ago-- but served her a small-dragon-sized glass of dark, bitter tycharan ale anyway, since she was quick enough to shoved her credit stick into his hand when he hesitated.

It took her three of those, and then one of Tenat's favorite Dartian fire-wines-- just because she hated the woman didn't mean she couldn't, grudgingly, admit to her excellent taste in drinks-- before things started to get interesting. It took another Dartian fire-wine and two shots of old-fashioned Earth-brand whiskey before things really got interesting. That night-shift she wound up getting thrown out, too, though she hadn't managed to destroy property this time-- not much, anyway. Not enough that the bouncers would stop her from coming back. Her hapless victim looked much bemused when she growlingly picked herself up, gave herself a good shake, and trotted off without so much as weaving. Much.

It hadn't been that long yet, though, and Netahiln still wasn't feeling purged of all her current bottled-up hatred. Nor was she really drunk enough to be able to ignore it. Better, Kalaia wasn't worried yet-- she could always tell when her bond's thoughts started dwelling in her direction-- so she made her way to another bar, a quieter one this time. She didn't need another fight, and she didn't want to flirt: she just wanted some more alcohol. The quiet bar seemed the best option for that.

However, she really hadn't wanted to talk, either, but a dragon-looking thing-- flame-colored and flightless, hardly bigger than she was and with a short, stubby tail-- sat himself beside her, anyway. She wasn't far gone enough to miss the flash of intelligence in his eye, or the flicker of appraisal, so when he paid for her next drink, she glared at him and warned, ::I'm not one for talking, and there's no way in hell you're going to bed me, so fuck off.::

The fellow looked mildly amused. "I won't take much of your time, I promise."

Netahiln snorted her disbelief, but didn't chase him off. Not yet, anyway. Maybe she could find a way to get some frustration out on him, in the end.

"Might I ask," he began politely-- oh-so-politely!-- "why you are out and about tonight?"

::I like getting drunk. What's it to you?::

"Fighting doesn't have anything to do with drinking," the dragon pointed out logically, "and you most certainly picked that last fight. For someone with as much liquor in you, I'm surprised at how subtly you managed to goad that buffoon into challenging you."

Hey, flattery was soothing to the furious beast, a little bit. She'd let him stick around a moment longer, if he kept that up. ::Watching, were you?:: She eyed him. ::I'm just angry, that's all, and it feels good to get it out sometimes.::

"Not on the individual who got you angry, I see."

Flattery aside, having uncomfortable truths picked out of very few clues and then casually tossed in her face wasn't something she enjoyed. ::I don't see how that's any of your business,:: she said with a growl.

"I don't mean to pry," the dragon apologized immediately, with a slick smile, and pointedly bought her another round. "I'm merely curious, that's all. Perhaps you would like to talk about it?"

::Not really,:: Netahiln grumbled, and buried her muzzle in the sharp-scented fire-wine. ::It's personal.::

"A proposition, then."

::Not going to bed me, remember?::

The dragon chuckled. "Not that kind of proposition. The agency I work for is looking for certain kinds of people-- candidates, of a sort."

"Candidates". "Agency". Netahiln's tiny, fluffy ear flicked dismissively. ::Got a bond already,:: she said shortly. ::For all the good it does me.::

The fiery dragon didn't seem to miss a beat, and proved that she'd accurately guessed at his meaning. "There are many who bond a second time," he commented. "Especially when the first bond does not satisfy as it should."

Netahiln growled warningly at the implication that she was anything other than happy with Kalaia-- which was both overly defensive, and she knew it and hated herself for her lack of subtlety, and partly true, because she had yet to leave or even cross her first bond, no matter how many frustrations built up at their basic incompatibility. Happy she was not, but loyal she was. Stupidly. ::And you think your "agency" has a better match, do you?::

The dragon, who promptly introduced himself as Phlegethon and his "agency" as the Twisted Fate-- a place she'd heard whispers about but hadn't seriously thought about-- smiled that slick smile of his, bought her another drink, and set about trying to convince her of just that fact. It took far less time than she would have thought... because it was far more perfect than she could have imagined.