Silk tasted like star anise. Rolling her stockings up her leg inch by sumptuous inch, the young woman shut her eyes to savor the flavor of licorice tripping over her tongue. Notes of cinnamon popped percussion in the backdrop of her palette. From beyond the dressing room's crushed velvet curtains, music pulsed languidly, and she tapped her toes, though it was only half the tempo to which she usually danced. Priyalla always dressed half an hour early to hear the musicians play as she sipped on a daiquiri ice and rolled up her stockings. She hummed with the melody around the rim of her glass, tucked a stray curl of rose gold hair behind her ear. Her outfit was silk in its entirety, cloaking her in the taste of exotic spices, but the stockings were her favorite part.
In the mirror, her white henna tattoos looked like lace gloves, save when she turned her wrist to apply her makeup. Priyalla liked to pretend the smooth silver lines on the underbelly of her palms were just a contingency of the lace adorning the topside. At a distance, at least, that defense might hold. She smiled, pink-lipped, into the mirror and blamed the glittering in the glass on the jewel appliqué around her eyes. As she reached to adjust the gold-plated leaflets and chains sweeping through her hair, the taste of saltwater taffy grazed her taste buds.
Strange, she thought, smacking her lips and brushing her thumb over her mouth. Gold usually tastes like oranges.
Saltwater taffy was typically evoked by…ah! The slip of fur against her stockings was more noticeable the second time, and Priyalla laughed. A plaintive meow joined the insistent taste, a tawny head of fur popping up from her skirts.
"Sandal," she said, scooping the calico into her arms, "silly cat. Someone might see you." She scratched the cat's ears and smiled as its purr thrummed against her stomach. "Did you come to wish me luck or just to be needy?"
But her tongue glimmered with spirits of aniseed even as she scolded, her fingertips skating a stretch of silk around the feline's throat. With a blink, she unwound the fine fabric, and a folded page dropped into her lap with a small pink tea rose. Sandal stayed, placid under her hand, as Priyalla pried open the paper and smoothed it out over her lap.
To the lovely lady with a penchant for stray cats and silks—I want to complicate you. If you aren't averse to the idea, I propose we throw all our chips into the pot and reconvene over drinks after your show.
Sincerely,
An Admirer
"P.S., I'll be the handsome rake dressed like a pirate…?"
Wrinkling her nose around a snort, Priyalla couldn't help but giggle. It wasn't uncommon for men, sometimes women, to send her gifts and sweet nothings scribbled on napkins, but no one had ever sent her something like that, and certainly no one had ever used her cat to do it. In fact, she'd been quite sure no one even knew her little stray existed. Priyalla glanced at the cat in question, but Sandal seemed much more interested in the ribbon she held than the mystery of who'd sent it to her. A voice from the curtain warned fifteen minutes to show time, and she sighed. Bundling Sandal up in her arms, she escorted him past dressing tables littered with a potpourri of lingerie and perfume bottles to a steel door back entrance.
"Shoo," she said. "I'll bring you food later, if someone doesn't make a meal out of you first."
Her daiquiri had melted and she was still twirling the tea rose, contemplating 'complicated' at her vanity, by the time she was fetched for the stage.
{◊}
For a tiny hole in Jidoor's fussy uppercrust wall, the Whisky Waltz wasn't too bad; any worse and it might have wound up in Zozo, but even the most prim and proper of men couldn't resist a little panty-dropping now and again. Not that the Impresario would ever allow a strip club into his precious clockwork town, but clothes on or off, the effect was much the same. Cabarets were just strip clubs for the fancy, the bastard daughter of the opera house and "gentleman's clubs". And what an exquisite daughter she was.
The lights dimmed to a garnet glow as the live music plucked up a low, quick pulse that had the whole club palpitating in time. One silk-coated caramel leg parted the haze of incense and cigar smoke first, sloped and smooth as any human limb ever had the right to be, followed by the swell of a hip, a waist, a breast. Smoke-concealed smiles stirred the nearest men into frenzies flourished off with a kiss. She called herself Rose on stage, and men flocked to her like bees for a true flower. Half of them were pawing at the stage for a touch of her slippers, and the other half drooled in her general direction in a drunken stupor. If the Whiskey Waltz was Jidoor's middle class opera house, she was its Maria.
Shimmering with the sound and sight of all her bangles, she sashayed across the stage with a flair most of the other dancers didn't come close to touching. Of course, it made no difference to the routine patrons whether the smiles, if they looked at the girls' faces at all, were genuine or if the dancer had any ounce of true elegance in her. Most of these men probably hadn't seen a good pair of breasts since they'd been weaned, not accounting bi-weekly exchanges with the missus every Tuesday at six. It wasn't bloody likely any of them would know a visceral queen like her from the christened chaff even if she strolled up, grabbed them between the legs, and said "your place, mine, or the cobblestones?"
The gambler remembered a blonde, remembered choosing the cobblestones, and smiled into his drink. The absinthe tasted just a little sharper going down the next time. It was worth the burn to see her looking for him from the stage, though. Try as she might, those hazel eyes were too used to telling men I see you, not I could care less. Maybe that blink when she passed him by was imagined, maybe she twirled at just the right second as part of the choreography rather than to avoid catching his eye, but he laughed all the same and raised his glass.
{◊}
Priyalla shut her eyes and breathed in the music. Bells sewn into her skirt trilled with every step, a silver sanity above the din of the lounge. Or maybe that was just the rush of her own blood in her ears. She hadn't mean to catch his eyes, just find him, but now his amethyst gaze haunted her every step of the dance. With a reeling curtsy to cut her time short, she swept off stage and placed her palm on the arm of the nearest security escort. A sharp sea of coffee assaulted her tongue and shot straight to her head. Men always tasted like a burnt black brew, but for once the barrage was welcome.
"I got a little dizzy," she said around a smile. "I think I just need some water, and a rest. Would you escort me out to the floor?"
Travelling with security meant a respite from (most) the invasive stares and reaching hands that followed too much alcohol intake and tasted like breakfast in bed gone wrong. At least the young man on whose arm she was draped tasted only slightly burnt.
Blacker the heart, blacker the taste, she thought wryly.
As she had the boy lead her to the round, shadowed booth with a single occupant under pretense of "fresh air, from the windows," all she could think was how appropriate 'pirate' turned out to be after all. With windswept silver hair twice as long as her own shoulder-length locks and a smattering of his own white-lace scars, the man waiting for her looked as if he'd just stepped off the nearest black-sailed galley. He wore a black trench coat with gold filigree hemming, white boots, and a white silk cravat. His violaceous eyes glittered as she approached, passing over her escort as if he weren't even there at all.
"Water," she reminded security with a smile and a soft pat, "with ice, and some ginger."
"Buona sera, bellissima," said the man across the table as she sank into her seat. "I see you got my message."
Smiling, only, Priyalla leaned over the table and grabbed his glass. She tipped back a quick shot of the virescent spirit and, as she set it down, dropped the rose he'd sent her into what was left.
"Yes," she said. "Do you ask all the dancers out that way?"
"Only the prettiest." His laugh was rich and sharp as a swallow of good wine. "To be fair, I did almost kidnap the last woman I took a fancy to, so it could have been worse. At least I played fair, this time."
With a laugh of her own, the dancer rested her cheek in her palm and appraised her companion anew. He sat so easy in his seat, one elbow resting on the back of the booth and one leg crossed over the other. To his credit, he kept his eyes on her face, but the only thing remotely fair about him was his moonmilk pale skin and silver hair. Even those were half cheating, looking so fine and making her want to touch even though she knew she wouldn't like the taste. As her escort returned with her drink, Priyalla thanked him and sent him back to his post. Washing out the taste of absinthe and coffee grounds with a sip of ginger water, she cleared her throat.
"What brings the infamous Setzer Gabbiani to the Whiskey Waltz then," she said, "and playing so nice as to ask for his company rather than take it?"
The index finger of his left hand twitched against his knee. Mimicking her palm-to-cheek lean as he reached forward to take back his drink, Setzer smiled. He raised his glass and drank, the tea rose brushing salaciously against his lips.
"A gamble, what else? There's no fun if there's no chance of losing. But, now, you have me at a disadvantage. You know me, but the only name I have to call you by, though appropriate, can't be your real name, can it? Ante up, Rose~"
She supposed she had that coming. With a sigh, she looked back to the stage where her replacement was wiggling into the spotlight.
"My name is Priyalla."
"And has Priyalla given thought to my offer of complication?"
"She has, and the answer is no. The last thing I need is complications."
Her smile this time was tight, pink and polished. Combing her fingers through her hair, Priyalla stood to leave, only to be caught by the curl of Setzer's fingers around her wrist. A shiver of praline, hazelnut and brown sugar cream, raced through her. The heady taste clung to her tongue and made it hard to breathe. She held her breath, glanced to his hand, and found it lacking any glove or other covering.
"Perhaps," Setzer said. "I'd wager the scars on your hands were complication enough when you got them, hm?" He turned her hand over in his, studied her palm with a solemn expression. Then, giving a faint smile, the silver gambler laid down payment for his drink, stood to leave, and whispered in her ear, "And, yet, here you are, still willing to meet a stranger about when you knew nothing save that he wanted to complicate you."
Their shoulders brushed, and he turned to face her, twining his arm with hers before she could take advantage of his hand leaving her wrist. A bit of gold flashed between them, a coin weaving its way through his fingers. No one seemed to notice the couple, now almost chest to chest in the aisle. All eyes were focused on the stage or their date, and the sight of a man, a woman, and some gold was an old and tired story in a place like this. Priyalla clenched her fingers, tensed to pull away. Only Setzer's eyes, smiling for the first time that night, gave her pause.
"Heads," he said, "and you come join me on my ship, just for the night. Tails, and you can go back to your cat being the only complication in your life." He flicked the coin without waiting for her answer, but shut it in his hand and raised one eyebrow. "Care to gamble your night on a coin?"
Priyalla narrowed her eyes and twisted her wrist. Prying apart his fingers with hers, she found the coin facing heads up in his palm. Setzer grinned and clasped their palms together.
{◊}
The air outside the club was sharp and crisp, its caress against her cheek laced with memories of lemon meringue. She sighed, shut her eyes. Setzer was staring at her when she opened them again, his lavender eyes quiet and thoughtful. It wasn't a far walk to the airship, just over a bridge or two and past the silhouettes of the town. The machine itself was an elegant monster, all glass and gears and polished steel. Priyalla couldn't help but stare, blinking appreciatively as it loomed overhead, and it took careful control not to touch everything within reach. The desk hummed with soft patience beneath her feet as she stepped off the gangplank.
"We'll stay tethered, unless you want to take a little joyride," Setzer said.
Laughing, Priyalla walked to the bow and leaned her stomach out over the railing. The river below looked like a ribbon pasted onto the earth, and the lights of Jidoor just copper button stars.
"I'm not sure I'd trust you not to kidnap me the way you tried with Maria," she said, glancing over just in time to see his startled blink covered by a wink.
"Ah, so that's what gave me away. Tethered it is. Follow me."
Setzer motioned to be followed and swept around towards a door in a small, raised cabin. It opened to staircase lined with gas lamps and gilded rails, so narrow Priyalla had to follow in single file. The metal walls radiated warmth, leaving her comfortable despite the sheerness of her ensemble. At the bottom, it widened to a grand, looping spiral that intersected a hardwood balcony and ended on a plush green carpet. Chandeliers tinkled overhead, and more gas lamps dotted the walls, throwing their light on a spread of panoramic windows. Where there weren't windows, there were high-backed velvet couches and ottomans, wooden shelves of books or hanging cues for the occasional pool table. Blackjack tables in all their green-felted glory took up most of the floor.
"You have a casino in your airship?"
"Some might say I made my casino into an airship, but yes. Where else would I while away my time?" With a lopsided smile, Setzer shrugged and gestured down to the floor. "After you. As a gentleman, I'll spare you the sight of my cabin, but we have one more stop on this tour. The engine room is through there," he said as they descended to the floor, gesturing towards a door just to port. "My quarters are adjacent. Through that door you'll find the passageway containing the remaining guest quarters if you ever decide to join me here again, and here is tonight's main attraction."
Opening a wood-paneled door at the room's aft end, Priyalla was led into a small, cozy sitting room. A liquor cabinet sat in the room's left corner, another blackjack table dead center, and more plush furniture settled in what free space remained. Wide French doors opened onto a private balcony overlooking the ocean, and it was to those that she wandered first, plucking them open for a quick whiff of the saline air.
"Feel free to enjoy the view while I pour drinks. You like daiquiris, yes?"
Priyalla glanced back with a frown, half quirking her eyebrow in Setzer's direction. "Do you just know all of my dirty little secrets?"
"Not all of them, but I'd be happy to learn them if you'd let me," he said, and the gods help her, it made her laugh.
She even managed to smile at him. "Strawberry," she said, and walked out into the night.
When Setzer joined her on the balcony, her eyes were closed. He rapped the railing with his knuckles and held out a fluted glass. The pink drink matched the color of her hair, the color of a summer sunrise, and she took it from him with a nod. His eyes followed her hands, seeking the scars hidden beneath the henna tattoos, but whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed it with a drink.
"If you want to ask where they came from, go ahead," she said. "You've already seen them, so there's not much else about them I can hide."
He raised an eyebrow but only shook his head. "I won't lie, I want to know, but I wasn't thinking about the scars." He gestured vaguely at her hands as they tightened around her drink, then to her lips. "I'm much more interested as to why you lick your lips, touch them, twitch them, when you touch something new. Why," he said with a smile, "you licked them after touching me, if you weren't interested in following me home."
"Oh." Priyalla brushed her hand over her cheek, unable to remember the last time she blushed. "I'm a synaesthete. My senses are crossed. I taste what I touch."
"I'll bet that makes the bedroom interesting." Seeing that she wasn't laughing with him, Setzer waved the comment off. "It's a strange sort of interesting, though. And everything has a different taste?"
"Most," she said. "Sometimes it's in categories. All cats taste like saltwater taffy, all silk like star anise, glass like ginger."
Setzer fingered his own glass, eyed the drink in it critically. "Rum and ginger," he said. "How's that taste?"
"Better than most humans," she said, but her laugh was feeble.
He cut a glance at her from the side and watched as she played with her hair. "At least you don't have a taste for human flesh?" When that drew a faint smile, he smirked and continued, "Though if we don't taste good, does that mean you were licking your lips for another reason when I grabbed your hand?"
With a cough, Priyalla couldn't decide if she hated this man or wanted him to pour her another drink. "Men taste like black coffee, burned in the pot," she said, "only not you. You…Pralines. I tasted pralines, when you grabbed my hand."
Fidgeting, she drank deeply from her glass and scooted a little down the railing. Setzer, meanwhile, seemed to be fighting a laugh, but for once, the smile on his lips reached his eyes—if only for a blink.
"Praline, hm? I take it you like the taste?"
Priyalla drank again. Setzer crossed his arms over the railing and swirled the ice in his glass.
"Alright, I'll keep the conversation going. Why do you work at the Whisky Waltz?" he said.
The question made her blink. No one had ever asked before. She tilted her torso just slightly his direction, glanced up at him through her bangs.
"I enjoy dancing, for a start," she said.
"There are better venues."
"Yes, but I don't have to think at the Whisky Waltz. I don't have to be involved. In fact, it's my job not to be involved."
She traced her fingertip around the rim of her glass. A seabird called out over the ocean, but the airship lights didn't let her see much farther beyond the railing than her own hand, if it wasn't lit with the light of the stars or the town. Her world was silhouettes, shivers, and a strawberry daiquiri. And, one silver-haired gambler, looking at her like a hand of cards he didn't know how to play.
"Complications?" he said, and gestured gently at her scars.
"A love affair gone wrong," she said instead, slamming back her drink and dumping whatever dribbles were left overboard. Not even the curse of the passerby unfortunate enough to receive them down his shirt made her smile.
"How unfortunate. Love is the greatest of Fate's cards."
"Love is a luxury," she said, and Setzer laughed, pushing off the railing and strolling to her side to collect her glass.
"I'd rather be in love than dead," he said.
Nose to nose with him, Priyalla inhaled carefully. "My paychecks don't afford luxuries."
"Allow me." Again, the gold coin flickered between them. "Heads," he said, "we kiss."
"And tails?" she said.
"Tails, and the cards are in Fate's hands."
In the orange light of the gas lamps, Setzer's scars stood out from his skin like slashes of fire. The coin seemed molten in his hand. Eyeing it, and him, Priyalla braced herself against the railing, clasping and unclasping her fingers around the metal before the taste overwhelmed her and she clenched them in her dress instead. At length, she reached for the coin and flipped it into the air, watched it spin end over end until it tumbled back into her palm.
"Heads," she said.
Folding his hand over hers, Setzer raised the other to her shoulder and brushed his thumb over her pulse. It hitched, but if that gave him satisfaction, he didn't show it. The kiss started slow, his nose lined up with hers, their lips hardly touching. Priyalla tasted pralines, first, then rum, spiced and sharp. Complications, she thought, didn't taste half so bad after all. She reached up as he leaned down, twining her hand in his hair as his mouth slanted over hers and he wrapped his arm around her waist. The railing pressed into her spine, making her shiver, and he hoisted her onto it with his hand on her hip. When Priyalla shivered again, Setzer pulled away with a chuckle and wiped the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
"Here." He shrugged out of his jacket and swept the heavy black article around her shoulders. "Let's relocate inside, where it's warmer."
Lips still tingling and swollen, Priyalla swallowed and nodded. As she clutched the lapels of his coat, Setzer helped her down from the rail and escorted her back inside. She smiled at him when he joined her on the couch with fresh drinks, and he smiled back—this time with his eyes. Leaning on his shoulder, she pulled his coat over her stomach and laid one leg over the arm of the couch.
"Do you always seduce women with coin tosses?" she said.
"Only the prettiest."
{◊}
When Setzer guided the airship over Jidoor, the sun was just breaking against the horizon. Wrapped in his jacket, Priyalla leaned against the railing and fingered hems until he joined her on the deck. He teased a hand along the small of her back and she swatted him playfully. Laughing, the gambler withdrew and hauled up a roll of rope and planking. As he tossed the ladder overboard, he leaned against the rail with his cheek in his hand.
"Are you sure you won't stay?" he said.
"I told you, I like dancing." She stepped in close as if to kiss him, but turned at the last second with a wink. "But I like pralines, too. Come visit sometime, maybe we can flip a few coins."
Swinging herself over the rail, Priyalla took Setzer's hand and lowered herself onto the railing.
"I'm not getting my jacket back, am I?"
"No, not this one," she said.
He laughed and leaned on the rail to watch her descend. Her pink hair was just a flower blooming in the night when she looked back and cupped her hand around her mouth to shout.
"And hey, Setzer!"
"Mm?"
"The next time we play with a two-headed coin, I call heads!" Silk fluttering around her like butterfly wings in the wake of the engine, she waved a bit of gold, and he laughed.
"Did you find that in my coat? How embarrassing," he said.
"No," she said, "I stole it from you back in the club."
That took him aback, but he leaned farther out over the edge.
"You mean I've been playing fair the whole night? That's even more embarrassing, woman!"
He smiled, anyway, and she laughed and winked.
"I'd say it's a stroke of luck. Goodnight, gambler."
"Good night, dancer."
As Priyalla finished her descent back to the town, Setzer stayed on deck to watch her disappear into the nearest townhouse. He waited for the light to come on, but didn't move even when it had. When it went out again, he finally shoved against the railing, rolled up the ladder, and strolled back into the deckhouse.
"Maybe I should kidnap her after all. Wouldn't that make for a stellar second date?"
It seems only fitting that my twenty-first vignette on this account should be about my favorite gambler. Alas, I do not own him, or any other part of the FFVI universe, but you knew that already. Leave a review, please and thank you~.