Kisara was infinitely taken aback at how easily her captor could take to rest. She certainly couldn't. But there he was, seeming as peaceful as ever, dreaming of hell knows what.
"He'll only be sleeping an hour or so," observed Diabound, the snake half to the human half. "Hasn't taken his medicines for a bit, has he?" Kisara pricked up her ears as the human half shook his head in confirmation.
"Oh?" echoed Kisara. In her experience, medicine was the polite diction for some form of alcohol. Having eventually managed to accept in her mind (even if she couldn't figure out why) that Bakura wasn't much for drinking, this came as a rather large shock, even if it was only for health purposes. "I didn't know he–ah–"
"It's just to put him to sleep," explained the snake, in a slightly defensive manner, "though he does take quite a lot of it."
"Oh," she said quietly, "I've heard about that . . . people who can't get to sleep when they're supposed to."
"Something like that," said Diabound with an odd smile.
"That's . . ." She paused, unsure of exactly how to respond. She was never sure how kas really were supposed to feel for their masters. Having never personally seen hers before, she wouldn't have known. Though, really, she'd never seen any ka remaining visible besides in battle. After all, they did rather stick out. Yet Diabound showed no real intention of buggering off.
"I'm very sorry." she said finally.
"Ah, it's okay." the serpent smiled slightly. "There are worse things than a little sleeping disorder, aren't there?" He looked up to his other half for confirmation. The human half nodded, then opened his mouth as if to elaborate on what those worse things were, but a glare from the snake silenced him. "Actually, it's a bit odd. . . ."
Kisara blinked. "Ah excuse me, but what's odd?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing really just that sleep medicine can't be all that good for him, can it?" The snake flicked out its tongue, looking over inquisitively to its other half. "I mean, he's not much for drinking, after all. . ."
"He's alcohol intolerant?" guessed Kisara, rather taken aback.
"Apparently. 'Least, that's what he says." Diabound shifted slightly against the rock Bakura was rather peacefully nuzzled against, coiling a protective ring around him as he had done during battles. While this was a considerable defense when a threat was already revealed, at the moment it looked more like the snake had made a sort of makeshift bull's eye around him instead. "Can't confirm it, but I do know most of his family can't have it. It was this one time after a particularly good harvest season . . . most of his village had gone to the city market and had made quite a profit, and were able to buy a single wine bottle which, mind, was a really big thing for a community so small and secluded like them quite, quite small, in fact. Couldn't have been more than ninety nine of them,I must say . . . lovely powerful kas you saw from that villages, but not many people. . . ."
"Very . . . small. . . ." cooed the human Diabound, stroking a patch of air that apparently was to represent the little dog he had taken heart to back at the cave.
"Right," the snake continued, "Well, anyway so they had this wine, and they threw a post harvest celebration in honor of it, during which time everyone would get a taste of this expensive, new wine. I...don't believe Bakura ever got to tasting it personally his siblings started to take the hint after all the adults had to be rushed off to the village healer for . . . what was it called? Exorsism heh. . . ."
Kisara smiled, if fleetingly. She seemed to come to the curious realization a realization that would remain in her memory for years to come that at that moment she was actually enjoying being kidnapped. It was quite an odd sensation, but in the presence of Diabound it was a feeling that was difficult to deny.
"How . . . old was Bakura then?" she said, without giving her words much thought.
"Hmm? Well, I . . . I'd say no more than five years of age. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I . . ." She paused, realizing how silly her reasoning really was. "Oh, it's just this must sound stupid to you, but I just can't imagine Bakura having ever settled down to live with other people, growing up in a manner so similar to how I did. . . . honestly, I can't imagine him ever having been a child. . . ."
"Most people these days can't." said the snake with a knowing smile, though it seemed tainted somehow. Kisara smiled apoligetically, in anticipation that her commenting might have caused him even the slightest woes.
After this, Diabound settled down for a short rest, insisting that doing so was not so much resting up as 'practice for what I'm probably going to be doing all night, unless Bakura insists otherwise.' Kisara, not wanting to disturb him, crept over to the rock and sat as far away from Bakura as possible, hugging her legs. The desert seemed oddly quiet as a peaceful gust of wind blew through her hair in a subtle manner that, she reckoned, could easily drive a man crazy when carried on long enough. A little, apparently flightless bird trotted along, stopped, gave Kisara an inquisitive glance, then trotted on. She watched its waddling, yellow form shrink off into the distance, and odd, strangely contemplative thoughts began to swirl around her again. She doubted that really had anything to do with the bird, mind, but it happened just the same.
Her considerings brought her back to her home, far, far from the cities where people would hate someone for the lightness of their skin or the saturation of their eyes. Her village had been deep down underground, where there was no light to taint her bloodline's sensitive skin and where the world above ground was where all fairytales and mysterious mishaps took place in the minds of young children.
She missed living there.
Now, as though she were a low flying sparrow swooping through the maze of tunnels on a grand tour of her childhood, she saw all her sisters and herself, gathered around a low stone table over a deck of cards. There were two others, one who was four years her senior, and the other quite nearly her twin in everything except composure. Kisara had always come off as the shy and timid one, so entirely unlike the others that she became the subject of many an analogy and joke. she smiled and to think that either one of her siblings would be so jealous of her, and for being kidnapped, no less! They were so much braver and outspoken than she was, always talking of running off to the upper world and picking up men from the first bar they encountered, getting wicked drunk and not giving a damn what the aftermath would be.
Kisara just wanted to stay at home and be a house wife for a nice young boy who would win her heart by bringing her flowers and singing (off key or on key, it really didn't matter) to her when she appeared on her balcony. She still feared for her sisters' well-being. Everyone she remembered where she lived were all happily married, mostly to their first loves. She couldn't help but question what her family's reputation would be if one of their number had rashly flew off to marry a drunk based upon how hot they were.
For a short time she actually considered that at any moment, her sisters might come crashing in and attempt to rape Bakura. But luckily it was at that moment that he chose to wake up- a complicated procedure that involved shaking out all the dirt from his hair and getting it all over his robes, then getting pissed at how dirty his clothes were.
"Diabound!" he shouted, pounding the great ka repeatedly on the snake skin. "You bloody– lazy– bastard, get up!"
"Now, now, Bakura. . . ." snorted the snake, in a not quite sober fashion. "You know as well as I do that the only possible way for a ka to be a bastard would be for his master to be born out of wedlock, so any such insult would apply just as much to you. . . ."
"I don't care! Just get up before we're late!"
Well, this was nothing out of the usual, thought Kisara.
Bakura paused in his argument with his ka to address her. "Why are you still here?" he asked.
Kisara blinked. "Huh?" she squeaked.
"I gave you over an hour for a head start. Why haven't you run off and reported me yet?"
"Oh. . . ." She looked down, blushing profusely. "I. . . didn't think I was allowed to. . . ." She realized she really had no cause to be embarrassed, but found herself as such anyway. Now that she had to say it out loud, it all sounded immensely stupid.
"Weird," he muttered, somehow making the remark sound like a formidable oath. "Well, get off, then. Just as well give you a few minutes' start, otherwise it wouldn't be fun for me at all, go on."
It suddenly occurred to Kisara that Bakura was not even considering the fact that she would get away. The whole business of bringing her along was simply entertainment for him- of course. He must've gotten extremely tired of sitting around, doing nothing, having to be civil to a little reject of society. And yet she obeyed, for fear of angering him. She felt utterly vulnerable, trotting along ahead of him to the gigantic entrance of the city.
And then, into the marketplace. It was during this transition between dusk and night that the men in trade- or, at least, the more respectable of the trades- migrated out, and the night folk dispersed into the crowds. The dust settled and became less of a helper of the blazing sun, only bothering the mules and horses now. The usual crowd of overweight bar-goers that were Kisara's natural predators had either left for home or had joined the more venomous, increasingly drunken clans of the whorehouses. It was dangerous for any woman to go unattended, much less one so frail-looking and strange as Kisara. Of course, it was still a bit too early for things that ruthless. She had roughly three hours to find herself in a safe room with the entrance locked. And to hopefully find some way past Bakura's keen eye.
Something she was most likely to find at one of the less-dangerous-looking shops. Generally the ones not selling liquor. And the most easily accessible one for her, at the moment, was a pot-selling kiosk. The owner, a wiry little man with a frazzled beard, had clearly been in the process of making all these pots himself (quite an interesting thing to watch, in Kisara's opinion) when he had realized that it was time to light the lamps for the night hours, which was why the light from them was slightly deluded by smeared, drying clay.
She approached him timidly, waiting politely for him to find a good stopping point for his latest project, one that ballooned in at the bottom and again at the top, but with a very small opening. He seemed quite passionate about the whole business, and it was a full five minutes before he looked up and acknowledged his new customer.
"Anything y'like, m'dear," he said invitingly, gesturing to the large array of pottery behind him. He either was so eager for customers that he didn't care about her appearance, or he couldn't see her complexion well enough in the dim light. Probably a combination of both. "Large ones're twenty pieces, small ones- ten pieces each."
"Oh. . . ." said Kisara, "I'm very sorry, but I don't have any money. . . ."
There was an awkward silence between the two. ". . . oh." he said finally, dramatically disappointed.
"I-"she pursued, "I actually came to seek help. You see, I'm being pursued by this man, you know him- Bakura, he's-"
"Ahh, so this is where you've wandered off to!" exclaimed a familiar voice behind her. Kisara started and whirled around to see none other than her captor- indeed, he had located her in no less than a minute. Astounding, by all accounts. "Very sorry, sir," said Bakura to the potter in a rather exaggerated manner, "you'll have to excuse my sister- a bit mad, you know. Why, she thinks you're the great thief Bakura! Isn't that right, dear sister?"
Kisara said nothing. As a sort of apology, Bakura bought a pot off the man, but finding that he had absolutely no use for it, bestowed it upon her instead.
Kisara stared at the pot, also unsure of what to do with this sudden act of charity.
"You really are bad at this whole running away business," Bakura noted. "I mean, hell, you can't even- here . . ." He took pause to pull something out of his coat pocket- a small, white piece of cloth. He handed it to Kisara. "Here, to cover up a bit. Makes you look a bit less like you're begging people to come stone you." Kisara nodded, attaching the cloth so that it covered her nose and mouth, and she nearly inhaled the thing whole when she found herself suddenly with a priceless golden necklace in front of her. "And this, too," added Bakura, who had more shoved it at her nonchalantly than given it to her. "I'd keep it for myself had not this market be filled with useless trash, but perhaps you could find something to keep you out of trouble for a bit."
Kisara thanked him politely, feeling more disoriented by the second. The thief's little games of entertainment did have a good lot of rules, but none of them made any sense or seemed to serve any real importance. She trotted on.
Within the next hour, she sought help from a baker, a weaver, and a butcher and was thwarted all three times from little "coincidences" that Bakura just happened to overhear her speaking, and thus she now had a pot, three loaves of bread, and a new rug to haul around (Bakura had found some nutritional use for the beef). Her captor didn't seem particularly bothered by this rash spending. If anything, seeing Kisara waddle around, trying to balance her new gifts, was considerable entertainment for him.
And then it became apparent to Kisara that it was absolutely no use to actively go searching for sanctuary. She would either have to feign defeat or just give up entirely, and that was how she found herself doing something so typically feminine that it would surely have scared Bakura away, and that was trying on new clothes.
She hadn't intentionally decided to go into the shop, in fact, it had pulled her in quite forcefully with a gigantic length of wooly stuff, wherein she had been greeted by a very scary, many-colored man.
"Ahh, my dear young lady!" enthused the man, who sported a purple turban from which sprouted a gigantic peacock tail. "Why should one as young as you be moping around in that dirty, ragged dress of yours?" Kisara was about to explain why, but he gave her no interval in which to do so. "Ah! But it is no great difference- here, go into that tent over there and I will find just the right thing for you!" Kisara obeyed.
The tent was the equivalent of a portable changing room, so that she could see (vaguely) out of it, but no one could see in. All that there was besides herself was a mirror, and she stared back at herself wearily, not particularly pleased at what she saw. The sun was hurting her skin, it was becoming speckled and ugly. But not dark. It would never become dark. And therein lay the problem.
She didn't have much time to dwell on it, though, on account of the cloth that had just been thrown on top of her head. This was followed by three more, and then another, bombarding her rudely on the shoulders.
"Try them all on, if you will!" insisted the salesman, "See how they fit with you!" And to this, too, Kisara obeyed. Admittedly, she could not hate the whole process. Though she was not nearly as obsessed as her sisters were, she enjoyed making herself pretty, and for a moment she was taken up into a silly world of fantasy. Perhaps, she reckoned, Set would find her attractive in this, perhaps her family would envy her in that, perhaps Bakura-
She started suddenly. Perhaps Bakura would find her pretty? No, she doubted that. She wasn't sure what Bakura might do. Possibly nothing. She then looked in the mirror to her current outfit, and saw not herself but a middle-aged housewife, and she promptly did away with it. She did, however, purchase most of the other dresses, a bit guiltily, and gave away the considerable amount of change she received to a hungry-looking boy trying to pick out meat on a dry fish skeleton. The last one she wore instead of her old white dress. Then, discreetly, she began to converse with the odd salesman about her present situation, but found that Bakura had just happened to be browsing through the section at that exact time.
"Typical city girl," he snorted, staring at her newly purchased clothes. Which were on top of the rug. And the bread and the pot. It was then decided (by Bakura) that they would be spending the remainder of their free time down at the local pub, so as to avoid a small group of guards that may or may not have been under Set's control.
"You're not water intolerant or anything?" As he said this, the thief probably couldn't have cared less about her answer. Kisara wondered if he was still trying to kill up to her, or if the small talk was out of pure boredom. In any event, he seemed much more engaged in the act of drumming his fingers on the wooden table, which was saying something as he wasn't even that interested in that.
"Water's fine," she returned, interpreting. It was also free, which was good, as she imagined Bakura would find her to be particularly ungrateful to have given away all her money away.
There was a brief moment of silence, during which Bakura twirled a little piece of gold between his fingers, observing in a condescending manner a nearly table of drunks.
"So I suppose there's no fooling you," he drawled, after a moment. Kisara looked up. "You wouldn't trust me if I read you poetry every single night before you went to bed. So that's one method down." He paused. "Of course, how someone as frail and pathetic-looking as you got such a ka is beyond me. Is it a family thing or something? Are there a bunch of white-faced people like you running around with huge dragons that I'm not aware of?"
Kisara shook her head. "I really don't know. We've never had to ever think about those sorts of things . . . we try to avoid battles. But Diabound is very strong- I'm sure if strong kas run in your family, they probably run in mine . . ."
"'Ran' in my family," he corrected her. "Past tense."
"O . . . oh. . . ." she said, not really knowing how to react. "I'm sorry."
He replied in a snort. "And anyway," he drawled, "it didn't run in the family. If those royal bastards ever actually did anything to improve their monsters' skills, perhaps they wouldn't be so bloody horrified when any opposition at all comes up."
"You can train kas?" Kisara asked, genuinely interested (though she was sure you had to be able to see your ka to be able to train it).
"Sort of. Main thing is keeping your own physical condition. Which doesn't explain you, mind. Having a couple fields to have to tend to helps. And some livestock. I mean, if you could get a decent rebellion among the farmers, they could easily outdo what's left of the royalty."
And then neither spoke for the remainder of the time there. It struck Kisara as odd that no one seemed to notice Bakura. After all, surely everyone knew that white hair and the scar of his? But suddenly she knew very well why.
"Hey, doesn't that guy look familiar over there?" grunted someone from another table, just loud enough over the din so that Kisara could understand.
"Hmm, yeah....." drawled another in a gravelly voice, "Got that creepy scar that looks just like his, eh? And the hair, too. . . ."
Kisara's innards seized up. Was it possible, after all this ridiculous time, that someone would convict Bakura?
"Yeah, but didn't the High Priest Set announce that he was dead a while back?"
This was a matter to take into serious consideration. "Hey, yeah . . . you're right. . . ." He took another swig from his mug. "Well, if Set says it, it must be right." and that, as it were, concluded the manner in all possible aspects, and Bakura was thus obligated to ask why Kisara had suddenly taken to whacking her head against the table.
The hour passed with exceeding slowness and Kisara was almost happy when Bakura finally rose from his seat, tugging her along with him like an old rag doll. The streets were emptier now, and you could smell the air with a freshness that awoke senses you barely even knew, not only seeing but feeling and smelling the vast emptiness that stretched out on all sides. What was left illuminated was ghastly and vile– and generally drunken. The men passed by her with a resentful snort– in their deluded state of mind, they could not see her unusual skin, only that she was a fairly attractive woman who was already taken, and her owner looked formidable enough not to be meddled with. Still, she was sure that if she lagged behind one of them would get their ruddy hands on her, so she clung to Bakura's side, pretending not to notice them.
The palace had fallen into silence by the time the two of them arrived—only the quiet glow of the nightly entertainment for the remaining priests disturbed the utter tranquility. Kisara imagined there were guards on duty, of course. They were probably everywhere, waiting for someone to forget their presence, but wherever they were, Bakura was quite skilled in keeping them blissfully ignorant of his existence. He had a way, Kisara observed, of walking without making a single sound. It was graceful and controlled; it became fairly obvious that the weapon of silence was something he had practiced at for some time now, and there was no doubt that he took advantage of the skill very often.
Kisara balled her fists and dug them into her chest, in hopes of strangling the anxiety that had burrowed its way into it like a ringworm. This did indeed relieve the tension a little, so she took a bunch of her hair and stuck it there, though she didn't quite know why. She heard Bakura snort and spent a good deal of time wondering if it was in reaction to her nervousness, or perhaps a generic disapproval of all women and their feeble habits.
She wondered to herself why she hadn't called for help yet. After all, one yelp and the entire royal guard would be at Bakura's throat. But she hadn't. Even the suggestion of such an act echoed through her mind as though detached from reality, a clause brought into existence merely for the mind to chew on, useless and silly to consider practically. Bakura seemed to hold her actions in some sort of vice that he controlled with no apparent effort, guiding her along in a deluded fog. That and the fact that she had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach that the guards would be so convinced of Bakura's death that they would fail to acknowledge his existence at all.
They drew closer to the light, and Bakura turned a narrow corner into an alley between two buildings, pulling Kisara along with him.
"If you'll observe. . . ." he said, brushing his fingers along the stone wall. "The builders of this palace left more passages than the inhabitants could be bothered to find—little clues in the brickwork that could be passed off as sloppiness. Easy enough to find if you pay attention. . . ." His fingers seemed to locate what they had been feeling for and found purchase in a small crevice between two bricks. Pushing this single brick to the left, a whole section of it came away noiselessly, appearing to meld right into the rest of the wall.
The interior of the palace was much less scantily guarded. It was mostly dark, save for a few candles to guide the occasional intoxicated royal, but bedsides that is served as a perfect shield for a skilled thief. Bakura took pause to glance down either hallway to see which was the more easily executable route. "That way," he murmured, pointing off to the right. Kisara didn't understand his reasoning and really had no intention of questioning them.
They traced the perimeter of the room and peered into the next—nothing special there. It was a hallway, decorated only by a few column-like statues and a broken vase. Perhaps the orderliness of the room that lead to their swift demise. Somehow leaving the safety of the wall put one on edge, a sort of edge that could prove fatal in the case of a rat suddenly trouncing past you, which was exactly what happened.
Kisara squealed, Bakura cursed and covered her mouth, but of course the chance was lost. Someone had heard them—it was time to run. Scampering back the way they had come, not bothering to cover up the passage Bakura had found, they fled, but at one point Bakura must have made a wrong turn, as the next thing they knew they were standing in front of a tall, spiked gate.
But this didn't seem to stop him. He had only stopped for a few seconds before he muttered, "Well? What are you waiting for? Get climbing."
In a dazzling moment of defiance that was born of utter confusion, Kisara did nothing. She would stay there, planted on the spot, and then the guards would come and everything would be fine. This didn't last long—before she had enjoyed half a minute of liberation, Bakura had already pushed her half way over, and the tumbled to the ground. She clasped her hands together, confused and frightened by the noise and shouting that was beginning to surround her, the sound of running feet. She couldn't stand being chased, it was among her greatest fears. Even though deliverance into the hands of the guards would be considerably beneficial on her part, her only wish now was to flee, flee and not be seen at all.
Her heart skipped a beat at a sudden, terribly unpleasant sound like something ripping, followed by a grunted curse. She assumed it to be one of the guards, but she felt immediately sick and had to squeeze herself tighter to keep the illness back.
Moments later, Bakura appeared next to her and, grabbing her by the arm, fled the scene. Kisara didn't need to be prompted—she ran like a frightened field mouse, even much faster than (she realized after a short while) Bakura. Unable to make sense of this fact, she glanced back to see why her captor was lagging behind so. Bakura glared.
"What did you stop for, stupid girl?" he snapped, "You think I'm going to be so careless as to just let you be caught if you stay still long enough?" He pushed past her, yanking her forward at the same time, but he seemed somewhat slower than he had moments before, and the graceful silence of his walk now had a slight limp to it.
Regardless of what was so ailing him, he pursued on wordlessly until they could be concealed behind one of the shops—an empty one, it was far too late for an innocent, honest shop to be open. There he finally paused, uttered a growled oath, and leaned up against the wall. Kisara stood; swaying back and forth very rapidly, wondering what was the matter, but upon recognizing it she was forced to stifle a gasp.
She only had to glance to see what had slowed him, the sheen of black-red standing out even in Bakura's already crimson coat. She now knew what the sickening ripping sound had been. Evidently, one of the spiked tops of the gate had found purchase in his side, and had quite literally torn a chunk out of him when he had leapt over. She imagined that his cursing was due to the newly found light source, allowing him to see the full extent of the damage. However, she quickly realized that he was not even looking at the wound. The part that was really bothering him was that it had left a terrible trail of blood running after them.
Despite his slight handicap, he was only still for a half a minute, then sprinted off. He seemed annoyed that Kisara just stood there, "gaping like an idiot," and had to drag her off again. For the entire time it took to reach the outskirts of the city, Kisara whimpered witlessly, as though she were the one with the injury. It was disgusting. Never had the evil men that bothered her managed to inflict upon her so deep a wound. It was like nothing she had ever seen before.
Diabound had come to the city gates (something Bakura later cursed him for) in anticipation of their arrival. The upper portion, which seemed to have taken the spiritual blow for the wound, was handing the pain much worse than Bakura was. He clutched his side, whimpering miserably, bewildered as to what had caused such sudden agony.
Bakura told him to shut up and bloody well fly already. And so he did.
Up into the air sped Diabound, Bakura on his shoulder and Kisara on Bakura's lap. She was careful to stay on the bloodless side of him as much as she could without falling off. Bakura himself was brooding and silent, clearly angry with Kisara, but he was trying too hard to ignore the pain to be properly upset with her. Kisara was fearful of his silence, and shivered. She made not a sound, dreading when the silence would be broken. Why hadn't she just run away from him? Why had she been scared of being caught? Why had Bakura even brought her here? Oh, yes, she recalled; she was supposed to be the evening's entertainment, and she had failed miserably to be anything worthwhile, even to the one person she wanted to be away from more than anything (right?).
Her gaze turned to the new clothes she had bought—the pottery and food was long gone. What did she think of Bakura, really? She certainly didn't fear him as she had when she first met him, nor did hatred seem like a good description. She missed Set, of course, and she missed home . . . but whatever was keeping her with Bakura, she wouldn't mind staying a little longer. After all, she had a feeling Diabound would be lonely without her.
It was cold up above the clouds. She couldn't help but nestle herself against Bakura's coat, it was the only real comfort there was. It didn't really matter who she was with. For some time after she felt only the silence brushing around her. Slowly, she dropped out of all knowledge. But she didn't know that, really. From what she saw, there was only the darkness growing darker, blending utterly, and then, near the very end, light.
Fact: I hate this chapter. I will enjoy writing the next chapter or face serious lack of self-esteem.
Story related: I seriously doubt they had drugs back then as in the sense that we do. With their lovely amputation stuff goin' on there. But I'd imagine that in one messy way or another, people found a way to mix certain substances (probably alcohol related? I haven't really looked into this stuff) to create certain effects.
Also, I'm not sure if you caught that "subtle" crack on how so much YGO! Romance fics get kindled by the remark of, "Wow, he's hot!"
Reply to Voakands: Thanks for the positive review, though I'm not so sure about your idea with the whole "there are too many happy endings in the world." You see, if this were about you and your opinions, it would be perfectly fine. Unfortunately for you, everything I say is right, and therefore you are wrong. Also, that statement is probably somehow speaking out against the government, making you a terrorist. Mm'kay? ;)
In other words: Oh, bugger off and go read Anne Rice or one of her copy-arses a term I use for people who basically leech off her idea of angsty vampires because it's omg leik so original!!!!11one: the Cirque du Freak series, "Demon in my View", and most of the fantasy AU in the YGO! section because vampires suck unless they're ugly and possess no real human emotions. Why? Because they're vampires. Don't question the vampires. Or I'll send Former and Mr. Wilson on you.
Oh! Oh! New award. The "Aww Ary you use too complex sentences it makes it dull and boring boo hoo woe is me" Award. Look, if you think this is tough, you're probably one of those people who complain about the required reading list in highschool, even if you're reading something like Johnny Tremain (I don't know why we were reading that thing- that's a children's book, demmit. ). Complex words? That's what dictionaries are for, foo'!
Flaed: Eh, I dunno. I thought her reflection that the thief king might not be so bad was going a little out of character, meself. ; Maybe I'm the only one who'd have her little heart doing a hundred miles an hour at all times of the day if I were ever kidnapped by ol' Bakura. And yes, the historical inaccuracy was intentional, it's sort of a running joke I have with Bakura and M'emo...
(Death to long author's notes.)
Oh, and Kat-chan wrote a spiffy one-shot thief Bakura/Kisara. It is omg the roxorz!!!11one Read or ?storyid1952583