[Ethan Parker] The little leech that is Billy is not attached tonight. He'd been doused with vinegar and left to suck the life out of Sammy, his sister, who well.. could use a good sucking, even if it was meant in such a lovely way. Personally Ethan thought she needed more than a good sucking, and he'd even offered. But, as always, he'd been shot down in fantastical style and now sat with a late dinner in front of him in the warmth of The Brotherhood. The food was good here. Its the second time he has shown up. That it was close by the Caern was just a detail, its the food (and the women) that called his name.
Well kept jeans, a decent enough black button (but casual) shirt and an even more casual jacket was what he'd worn in. The jacket was over on a hook. He hadn't on a hat, but his ears and scalp had long since warmed by the fires constant crackle. A few glasses of beer hasn't hurt either. He was good and heated and had no problem sitting on his own watching the others while he cut through spiced lamb.
[Andrea Locke] The first time Ethan caught a glimpse of the owner of this place [not that he'd have any inkling who she was really -- nothing to be noted except female, in her 30's, attractive, of enough means to buy and wear one helluva dress and - to his kinds senses - of some modicum of Breeding] she'd been fairly quickly swamped by assorted acquaintances wanting assorted things. Such was, after all, the name of the game. Tonight, however, the microbrewery is running a fair amount of business, despite the snow falling outside. Once people brave the elements without they are largely content to gorge themselves on the somewhat eclectic but all-in-all hearty and smackin'-of-home-cooked meals to be had, the abundance of assorted types of alcohol to go along.
So it is that Andrea is making casual rounds at the moment -- asking diners after they meal, their experience, bolstered along by charming allure and years [a lifetime] of social training that spans many spectrum's of the social chain. Soon enough her meandering path brings her to Ethan's table, shared alone, there near the fire, and she offers him as tantalizingly warm a smile as she had to the other patrons, though by no means marred by it's frequent use.
"Buenas noches, señor -- I trust your meal is to your liking?" Her English is as well formed as her native Spanish, though the secondary tongue carries with it the sibilant smoothness of the first, a faint, attractive lisp that is slightly breathy in her alto range. "I'm Andrea Locke, the owner, and pleased of your company this evening."
[Ethan Parker] He paused mid-cut and glanced up to her. Releasing the cutlery and placing it down on the plate, he snatched up a napkin and wiped at his mouth the once before tossing it back down. "Yeah, it's good." Says the Cali boy. "Best place here, so far." He couldn't just leave it a compliment, he had to tack on the so far, not because he's an asshole but because there's truth to it too.
"Locke, eh?" Offering a hand to shake hers. His own is worked, calloused along the fingertips and pads of his palms. "Ethan." He had his moments of charm. But honestly he never laid it on thick. He was as casual as they come. Ordinary Joe that wasn't so ordinary because of birth rather than circumstance. "Do you want a seat?" Ethan was also several years her junior. He's got to be, what? early twenties? Like those that stay upstairs.
[Andrea Locke] By now, Andrea is becoming more and more accustomed to life surrounded by child-faced Warriors. Mostly. In truth, it stabs to the heart of her each time she seems them, meets them, argues with them, is frustrated by them, is endeared to them, is about ready to call quits of all of them... in the face of each and everyone she sees glimpses of more that simply isn't there, that may never be, but is recollected all the same...
...but such things only reveal themselves in, perhaps, a bit of intensity to her gaze when she addresses Ethan whereas no such depth existed when she addressed the 'normal' clientele.
He offers her his name, his hand and a seat and she accepts all three. Her hand is smaller than his, delicate made and slender. Soft, but by no means pliable and useless -- there is some strength [of chracter more than of physicality] in her grasp, while her lips curve in a humoured smile at his addition of 'so far' to the compliment of her establishment. Well, she won't begrudge him honesty.
Unlike a passing conversation with a manager of some chain restaurant, Andrea doesn't just greet her guests and then brush along to the next. If a person or party exudes a desire to be left alone she, of course, reads it easily and acquiesces without qualm but to those who are open to conversation and the like she makes herself available. Ethan, dining alone and casually offering her a seat, fits the bill well enough and so she settles down next to him, crossing her legs lithely. "So then, Ethan -- are you from around here?"
[Ethan Parker] "No ma'am." Billy would be proud!
He licked his tongue around a canine, behind his closed mouth, as he looked over to where she sat, before he was washing away the dislodged food with a large sip from his beer. As he lowered it back to the table, prepared to trade it for the knife and fork that he'd put down before she came and asked about the food, he continued on, "Before you ask, I'm from here there and everywhere. . . Originally from California." Obviously so, if the accent was to come from.
"What about you? Are you a local? This your own set up, or a family generation thing?" Waving his fork, that now had a cut of lamb stuck on it, at the area around them as he mentioned The Brotherhood. Not everyone was eloquent. He bit off the meat, dragging it from the fork with his front teeth and chewed it in his back molars. He does close his mouth, chew slow enough, and has some manners - even if not refined.
[Walt] "Jesus fucking Christ could they have chosen a more fucking depressing neighborhood to hold their fucking pow wow's in...." Gruff mutterings from behind the steering wheel of the H3 that rolls past abandoned ship yards. Dusty grey blue eyes peer at cracked and littered asphalt lots as they lie forgotten beyond rusted chain link fencing. A cigar smolders beneath a thick black mustache, curling hazy smoke into the confines of the Hummer as it pulls to the curb in front of The Brotherhood. He lets the engine idle for a few long moments as he peruses the street with a 100 yard stare. Or maybe when you've gained it on the battle fields of city streets it's only a 50 yard stare. Whatever the case may be, the big truck coughs exhaust into the night air with little heed to the ozone layer. The world is going to hell in a hand basket. One more Hummer poluting the city streets isn't going to make a difference in the long run.
Eventually (either a song on the radio finishes, or he's had enough of the cigar, or the street has been catalogued to his satisfaction) the engine dies, and one Walter Deeves emerges from the vehicle. Cigar stabbed out in the ashtray on the dash, left to bleed it's sickly sweet aroma into the upholstery. It has marked it's territory well, as it's fragrant fingers cling to Walt's leather jacket and dark jeans. His brow perpetually sinched, he eases around to the curb and toward The Brotherhood's front door.
[Andrea Locke] "Andrea, please." The correction -- or suggestion -- is mild; sociably friendly. Though, perhaps, deep down inside, she feels the decade worth [or somewhat more] of age difference quite enough these days without having reminders put forth by way of ma'am-ing left and right.
He offers up some paltry bit of personal information, including his State of origin. Though she hadn't thought him a local, she hadn't placed him geographically at all, perhaps simply because she isn't a native of this country at all. Which leads into his own query and she shakes her head easily, ebony locks and loose curls shifting slightly with the motion. "No, not a local. I opened up shop here about, oh, a few months ago -- no generational trappings, though I suppose one might call it an act of salvaging. he building was once a microbrewery but was closed for years before I came along and found it... suitable."
Truth be told, the condition she found it in was nothing sort of 'suitable' -- it had cost large sums of money to rehabilitate the derelict building, originally built in the late 1800's as a warehouse, like so many of the other buildings in the area. But, of course, one does not speak of such things -- or some such bullshit.
[Ethan Parker] "Right..." A raise of fair brows gives in to a moments silence. Its not awkward or uncomfortable for him, because he's busy sticking cut pieces of vegetables onto the fork and trying to fit some meat on it at the same time. While it doesn't necessarily distract him, it does offer some time to consider what she said. "You've made a good name then. We heard about it before we swung into town. Seems you've made a name across some States. Not bad in a few months, unless there's something more to it? Somethin' to do with your name?" His steel blue eyes flick up and lock on her. Curious, they are also intense. "You got a reputation Andrea?"
[Walt] Walter is a large man. A man possessed of a business air. There is no loafing about, or sight seeing tours for old Walt. There is no lolly gagging evening meals in out of the way eating establishments just for shits and giggles. There is not a moment of his precious time spent on doing anything that doesn't have the express purpose of making him, his associates, or his stock broker and shit load of money. And so, when he steps through the door of The Brotherhood, and pauses to take it in, it is with a sense of purpose. The black of his hair gleams in the low lighting, the bleak splash of his mustache a throw back from 70's porn. Walt is what prissy women who get their nails done once a week would call smarmy. His clothes are clean, and he smells of a mingling of aftershave and cigar smoke. His hair, though it gleams with a somewhat greasy quality is pristine to the point of squeeking if you were to run a comb through it.
And yet, he is dirty. Hard core.
His weathered features are beyond the ruggedly handsome crags of a 70's action star. He is no Clint Eastwood. He is no Richard Gere. He is thier black sheep cousin who was too much for the big screen. Tall, wide, broad. Larger than life. His gut protrudes over his belt in the way a chortling grandpa's might, and yet it is hard packed. Solid, rather than flabby. It doesn't take him more than a moment to fix his pewter stare on the purpose of his visit, and more likely than not she can feel it from across the room. A cold heat at the base of her skull, a burning sensation... like motion lotion and a yeast infection combined. Something pleasant, but filthy.
[Andrea Locke] "Doesn't everyone?" Her own eyebrows arch, slipped high and sculpted as ravens wings in the clear sky of her alabaster complexion. Her eyes [not a plain, dull brown, but rather the colour of amber-tinged sherry held up before firelight] widen slightly, an almost comic display of slightly shocked, slightly bemused innocence. Who, me? A reputation? But her smile is full, warm and devoid of any such mischievous games of false modesty -- neither do they speak of any hidden reserve that would amount to this so-called reputation he asks of. She merely handles the matter, nonchalant, and shrugs with ease.
"If you came from out East then, yes, perhaps some modicum of 'reputation' followed me -- I do my part, so to speak. More than likely though, I think it is merely that what I had to offer here was, apparently, what was needed. Even if it is nothing more than offered hospitality."
Ethan may or may not eventually learn that there are other Garou who attribute Andrea both with a bad case of the verbose and a somewhat frustrating habit of downplaying anything she ever was or is a part of. She is no saint, nor someone who indulges in false modesty -- she simply [and more irritatingly, for some] feels no need to explain her reasons and wherefores. To anyone.
And, yes, she does feel the stare. The sensation. It causes a frown to flit over her fine-drawn features [classical features -- if Walt is a throw back to the champions of 70's porn, then Andrea is a throwback to the days when such demi-goddess actresses melted the screen; the likes of the Hepburns and Grace Kelly], and she turns in her seat, openly looking for the source of this mild discomfort ---
--- it is impossible to miss Walt. In fact, in the past, she's often thought Gaia knew damned well what she was doing in all her Mysterious-Hidden-Fucking-Mother ways when she denied Walt the benefit of Rage. Walt. With Rage.
Terrifying.
Walt without Rage?
She laughs when she sees him. It is neither a sound of delight or a sound of mockery or a sound of nervousness -- instead it is an instinctive reaction that starts as a snort and ends as a laugh only because this sort of surprise smacks of some kind of cruel irony of life. Or perhaps merely a classic example of like seeking like. The sound is pleasant -- most things about Andrea are -- a low, alto sound awash in unprissy, unpampered, uninhibited female qualities. And before it is quite done she is lifting a hand, waving him over...
...those eyes watching him precisely as one might image a hawk watches its prey [or predator].
[Ethan Parker] "And hows it working for you? Beyond the public front..." The questions would continue to come, or would have, if they weren't interrupted by Porn Star. If Walt ever was a main squeeze in such a flick it would have to be all about cock size than looks. After a brief glance over, figuring he'll learn who it is soon enough, Ethan turns back to finish of his meal while his (temporary) companion is distracted by the mo.
Ethan's 6.2" and has a bit more bulk in the arms to be called lean, but he's that too. He's nothing big or special as far as Garou warriors came and he's not any monkey wimp. Just another fella who worked out or had a laboring job, really. Food. Beer. Some more sips of beer.
[Walt] Walter's smiles too often elicit and cloying sense of mockery, or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, menace. A fact that he has no control over, or any real desire to remedy. More often than not, he simply doesn't smile, at least not with his weathered street savvy features. Perhaps it is not evident from across the room, but her smile, and laughter is reciprocated in the luster of his heavy gaze. A twinkle that is born of mischief. A naughty twinkle, that is as near to jovial as this man can seem to achieve.
She waves him over, and he slips his keys into the pocket of his jacket (held in hand up until this point, should he not have found the object of his intentions upon quick perusal) before he moves between tables with a heavy footed stride. He doesn't swagger, or prance, but rather achieves something in between. A rolling gait that belies his age in a slight hitch of his right leg. It isn't a limp. It is personality, in motion. His grey blue eyes slide over the kid seated across from Andrea. Taking him in, chewing him up, spitting him out, before the spectacle of his gaze moves back to the more attractive of the two. "Please tell me you serve Whiskey in this place."
Gruff, but not without sentiment. Pleasant, and filthy. Sweaty sex with a wet and sticky outcome. Oh so nice, but oh so dirty.
[Lukas] (where is everyone, main restaurant?)
[Walt] (yarp, main restaurant)
[Andrea Locke] ooc: all three PCs are at one table, near the fire.
[John Thornton] ((Anybody mind if I throw John in on this scene for a bit?))
[Lukas] (open scenes means you don't hafta ask! just crash :D)
[Andrea Locke] ooc: go right on ahead! :)
[Andrea Locke] Far be it for Andrea to simply ignore someone, and Ethan is no different. In the time it takes Walt to meander, limp, sleaze his [and his overwhelming personality] way over to the table, she looks back to the young Garou [aren't they all], the traces of her full-bodied laughter still on her features, still tracing tendrils along her voice as she again rolls her shoulders. "As of yet I haven't had to arrange for the disposal of any bodies so, really, it could be worse. There are still rooms available if you are in need of a place to stay -- the other night you had some company with you. Your 'family'? If so the same offer goes for them."
Walt makes it to the table, drawing no few looks as he goes, by sheer bent of the palpable paradox he seems to embody. Or the vestiges of everyone's favourite sins that he seems to radiate, whichever comes first. With the tip of a heel-clad foot she pushes out a seat for him, while her eyes slide over him as though taking a succinct itinerary of any changes, good or bad. "Only the finest -- which is to say that Reuben has been hard at work, if you think your decrepit gullet can handle it."
[John Thornton] It was yet another chill night, as the snow quietly fell on an all-too-loud city. It fell on the streets, the sidewalks, parked cars, and people. One such person was a man wearing a black trench coat and a red scarf, with hazel eyes that saw too much and never seemed to stop moving. His step was slow, the confident step of a man at home in his surroundings. A man not to be trifled with...
This man walked on a dark sidewalk, ignoring the steady buzz of the street lamps as they lit the black pavement below, ignoring the horns and other night sounds of the city, ignoring the steady ticking of the cooling black Crown Victoria in his wake... A man for whom these sounds meant nothing of import, for whom greater matters consumed his attention.
So it was that this man opened the door to the Brotherhood and made his way inside. His mop of conservatively cut brown hair was wet from the snowfall, and as he stood in the doorway he took a few moments to remove his gloves and scarf, to open his trench coat, and to brush a few errant flakes from his shoulders. All of which gave this man enough time for the piercing hazel gaze to move over the restaurant's patrons and staff, as if to gather the state of affairs within.
[Ethan Parker] "Na, we're good. We're staying with other family." Pushing his plate to where his empty beer glass resides, he stretches his shoulders and a kink in his back while he looks from Andrea to Walt and back again. He doesn't automatically offer the information of his former companion. Mostly because it doesn't seem to occur to him that the social situation may require it.
[Walt] "I'll be six feet under before I come across something I can't handle love." His voice is as weathered as his features, thick, and deep as one might imagine is the sludge he crawled out of. He uses the word 'love' as others wield curse words. Cunt. Bitch. Love. All can be said without malicious intent. All can be used with it too. "You still look like you could suck the nails out of a 2 by 4."
Flattery and compliments are not his strong suit. People take what they can get from a man like Walter. If he calls you a son of a bitch, he probably met your mother and fucked her hard with his huge 70's porn star cock. While your father was watching.
There is no offered hug of old friends, or pat on the shoulder of past acquantances, but he does hold a dry leathery hand out to Andrea for a business like shake. Because a man like Walter is always doing business.
[Lukas] The front door opens. It slams. They can all hear it, even in a restaurant that does pretty decent business, on a saturday night, with conversations going. A second later the inner set of doors open next, just as loudly, and then Lukas stands dominating the foyer while he strips off his newsboy cap, his scarf, his coat -- the usual affair -- leaves it on the coat rack.
Mortal conversations stop. Humans do that. They startle at loud noises, like rabbits. Heads turn. People stare. Mouths run dry and hairs stand on end. Ask them why and no one will be able to put their instinctive terror and abhorrence into words.
In his short time here, Lukas has earned something of a reputation for calm and control. Amongst Ahrouns, he's a bloody zen master most days, and his temper is level as a rock.
Not tonight. There's a haze of fury around him, like air bending around a superheated object. He doesn't grimace, doesn't stomp, doesn't rip his expensive overcoat to shreds. In fact, other than opening the doors a little more enthusiastically than usual, it'd be hard to define what, exactly, marks his anger.
But it's there. It draws the muscles of his face taut, makes his gestures just a little swifter, a little more cut at the edges. He hangs his outerwear up. It's a vest and two-hundred-dollar jeans underneath again, tailored, dapper, a little overdressed for this sort of joint. That's all right. He undoes the sleeve-cuffs of his shirt on his way to his 'usual' place, his favorite location, the wingback chairs by the fire. He rolls his sleeves up to the elbow, and his forearms are corded with muscle and tendon, not an ounce of waste or excess.
The Ahroun stands at the mantle for a moment, holding his palms out to the heat, giving his back to the room at large. Then he takes one of the two wingback chairs, the old clawfooted thing creaking as his weight settles into it. His eyes are fierce and pale; they fix on whatever waitress, server, bartender or housekeeper is in sight, and he beckons him/her over. With a vague raise-armed pawing gesture. Carelessly: the way you might call a dog, and a not-very-favored one at that.
[Andrea Locke] One eyebrow does slightly raise at Ethan's response, a matter of passing curiosity, though certainly not anything like being slighted at not having the chance to add still more Rage-ridden 'guests' to dwell beneath her roof. All in all, though, it is rather surpassed by Walt's version of polite conversation -- which, apparently, Andrea is quite used to as his words draw no greater response than a slow up turn of the lips; molten wry amusement at its finest.
"As always, mi viejo, you say the sweetest things."
Walt offers her his hand and Andrea accepts it, calm and collected as ever, though bemusement still underscores her essence. Before releasing the much larger, grizzled, oh-dear-god-I-don't-want-to-think-of-where-this-has-been hand, she rises and kisses the equally grizzled leather of his right cheek, her free hand rising to pat the opposite cheek/jaw like one might a rather ill-favoured relative who is not without their merit.
The door slams -- both the outter and the inner -- and Lukas stalks into the restaurant proper, fair reeking of fury, enough so that Andrea finds herself resisting the urge to look out the window and make sure the moon didn't suddenly revert back to the Full far before the time was due. She watches his entrance, his movements, his eventual claiming of the armchair nearby, her features one of schooled displeasure...
...it is, after all, bad for business.
[which might, in and of itself, explain why a man like Walt and a woman like Andrea seem to know one another at all]
The waitress available looks rather like she'd generally prefer to spend the next hour cleaning toilets than go and wait on the beast-in-mans-clothing that just beckoned her over like so much a mongrel canine -- she looks towards Andrea, an easily readable expression of do I have to? on her pleasant features and Andrea sighs, rolling her eyes heavenward and then shaking her head. To the two men at the table she lifts her hands in vauge apology,
"A moment, gentlemen -- oh, and yes... Ethan, Walt... Walt, Ethan... I'll get that drink for you, viejo."
With that she rises and moves the few strides it takes to go stand by Lukas' side, one hand going to rest atop the high backing of the chair, the other resting lightly on one hip [the better to resist the urge to spank him for petulance, perhaps]. "What do you need, Lukas?"
[John Thornton] The man with the now open trenchcoat starts toward the bar in the restaurant area of the Brotherhood with nary a word. Under the trenchcoat he's clad in a pair of gray dress pants and a dress shirt a shade of purple. His top button is undone, a tie loosened what seemed like ages ago...
The glimmer of a Chicago detective's badge attached to his belt near his hip might catch the light as he walks. Regardless, the hazel eyes that see too much never seem to stop their quiet search, drawn without so much as a glimmer of surprise to the sound of the crashing door behind him at Lukas' entrance. The Rage seemed to pummel him from behind like some unseen attacker with a hot iron, but the man schooled himself to show no reaction.
He does turn and nod a greeting to Lukas, ascertaining by body language that Lukas was not entirely pleased this night. Then, continuing to the bar, John orders a cup of coffee and waits, his gaze moving slowly between the other assembled Brotherhood patrons.
[Ethan Parker] Lukas' entrance had been a grand one, caught everyones attention and lost it just as good. He turns back to watch Andrea fondle the old man, at which he smirks. Lucky bastard; a thought that is conveyed in the corners of the young mans eye as he met Walt's.
The lady goes. Leaves them behind, he gives a half lift of one hand in a mock/casual salute to the other. He didn't give a shit, truly, and doesn't offer some conversation yet. Not with how Andrea is standing, cocked, against the obvious True-born.
This oughta be interesting.
[Lukas] After that initial, rather degrading beckon, Lukas largely ignores the waitress. He sprawls in the wingback chair, his muddy boots planted apart, his balance low in his spine. His wrists rest atop the scrolled arms of the wingback chair. One hand closes to a fist; opens again; closes again.
When Andrea materializes beside his seat instead of the expected waitress, his eyes flick up: first to her hand on top of his chair, then to her face. His eyes strike hers. The blow is nearly physical. If rage were visible, he'd be incandescent.
"Don't hover at my flank, woman." He speaks quietly, but there's nothing soft about it. "Stand where I can properly see you."
[Walt] She kisses his weathered cheek, and over her shoulder that wry, and naughty twinkle alights his blue grey gaze, which touches upon Ethan briefly, before being pulled away by the ruckus at the door. Like the other patrons, Walt watches Lukas make his entrance. The deep crags of his brow deepening, as the lines on his cheeks, and jaw tighten. One black brow raises slightly as Andrea makes her appologies and simply nods with a muttered. "Christ, by all means love. Before it starts marking it's fucking territory."
It. The more than obvious animal that has invaded the civilized establishment of men. Women. Whatever.
She makes a hasty introduction, and Walt is left to watch a stranger eat his dinner. For both thier sakes, he lifts a meaty paw in reply to the kids half wave, and slides into a chair at the table to his left. There is no fucking way he would want some cocksucker sliding up to his table while he was trying to eat a fucking meal. Joining the kid at his table doesn't even cross his mind. He sits, the chair creaking beneath his weight, not unlike the clawfoot wingback. Only his weight was earned the hard way. Whiskey, Women, and Red fucking Meat. 3 things these kids probably cut from thier diets because it's the in fucking thing to do in this day and age. "Where's that fucking whiskey at."
Mumbled impatience for his own benefit. Walt is a man who talks to himself, because half the fucking time, he's the only one who really listens.
[Ethan Parker] Walt does his own thing.
Andrea does hers.
Ethan makes his escape, casual, overlooked (for now). Meal already paid for, he hits the street and the cold outside. He drove here so it's no big deal.
He'll come back another time.
[Lukas] (is that audible from say... a table or so over? the marking territory line.)
to Walt
[Walt] (not unless he's got heightened senses or what have you)
to Lukas
[Lukas] (wuss! *grin*)
to Walt
[Walt] (heh!)
to Lukas
[John Thornton] Once the coffee arrives, John places a few dollars on the bar and takes a sip. No cream, no sugar, just black coffee piping hot... Placing the cup back on the bar, John's gaze moves to Lukas again. Curiousity caused a brow to raise, then his expression to darken as the werewolf berates Ms. Locke for standing beside him instead of in front of him.
Though he doesn't move save to sip his coffee again, the hazel-eyed gaze continues to move about the restaurant; however, it never strays too far from Ms. Locke and Lukas.
[Andrea Locke] Before it starts marking it's fucking territory.
Alright, truth be told, after that muttered statement from Walt Andrea has to take a moment before completing the brief trek to Lukas' side, least she make a potentially bad situation far worse by approaching the obviously... displeased... Ahroun with an outright smirk on her face. Not that any semblance of humour -- even one so darkly painted as that she briefly shares with Walt -- would last long around the Shadow Lord at the moment. Lukas looks to Andrea, a direct look, no punches pulled and Andrea's jaw clenches, not backing or shying away but certainly receptive of the near physical hit of Rage.
She moves. Standing before him now, her eyes sweeping over the Full Moon as though looking for any obvious reasoning's for his foul temper: an injury, perhaps the likes of a very large stick up the ass -- something of the sort. Then her eyes slip along the rest of the restaurant as she speaks once more. "Your order, please, Lukas. It isn't a slow night." Lowly. Quietly. And nothing more.
Her gaze slips to Walt then, even as she waits the young Garou's response, easily reading the weathered mans constant state of impatience -- her lips quirk and she seeks eye contact then, if made, pointedly looks to the bar nearby where Whiskey is right at hand if he can't wait for Andrea to tend to the faux-man who very much has it in him to lose control and decimate her business, let alone an accounting of lives.
[Walt] (gotta work in the morning folks so I gotta log. thanks for busting my characters cherry. :)
to Andrea Locke, Ethan Parker, John Thornton, Katherine, Lukas
[Lukas] (oh i see how it is, i show up and you all leave! *sobs*)
to Andrea Locke, Ethan Parker, John Thornton, Katherine, Walt
[John Thornton] ((Night!))
[Katherine] The door is opened again.
If one wave of fury-ridden Ahroun was enough to draw conversations to a halt than what will the appearance of an angered Philodox at the height of her own moon do to the Brotherhood but make the very walls ooze with rage. Katherine pulls her own heavy winter coat off, hangs it on a hook by the door. She uncurls her scarf, tugs at her gloves and then -- left in her blouse and jeans -- she pushes open the inner door and scans the Brotherhood.
She barely has need to, however, Lukas is brooding in his usual corner with his kinswoman perched beside him. Katherine's jaw tightens and she makes a bee-line for the core of the simmering unease in the restaurant.
[Walt] (night!)
[Lukas] (*IS INCONSOLABLE*)
to Andrea Locke, Ethan Parker, John Thornton, Katherine, Walt
[Katherine] (EXCUSE YOU. WHAT AM I, CHOPPED LIVER?)
to Andrea Locke, Ethan Parker, John Thornton, Lukas, Walt
[John Thornton] (("Hey El Guapo, I'm still here!" - The 3 Amigos *snicker*))
[Lukas] (no, you're all pate.
so yes. chopped liver. :D)
to Andrea Locke, Ethan Parker, John Thornton, Katherine
[Andrea Locke] ooc: Dammit, Damon! You chased my lotus away!!! (kicks)
to Ethan Parker, John Thornton, Katherine, Lukas
[Katherine] D:
*ninja-kicks him across the room!*
to Andrea Locke, Ethan Parker, John Thornton, Lukas
[John Thornton] It was about this time that John got the distinct feeling something very bad was about to happen. The eyes that see too much move to note Ms. Katherine Bellamonte making a bee-line to Lukas and Ms. Locke, before moving back again to the pair in front of the fireplace. For now, he waits and drinks his coffee...
That said, John made a point of not sitting down at the bar yet, just in case one calmer head wasn't enough to prevail on the two walking time-bombs in the room that explosions tend to draw official sorts of attention.
[Lukas] There is absolutely no reason that Andrea can discern for Lukas' very obviously bad mood. The Ahroun is fit as a fiddle, as they say. No scratches, no bruises, no bloodstains soaking slowly through his fine attire.
And Lukas smiles. There isn't a shred of humor behind it. "My order," he repeats. "Because god forbid I keep you from your customers."
There's a cruelty in him tonight; a reckless instability that, later, he may be vaguely ashamed of; might even apologize for. His hand closes into a fist again, he squeezes, the knuckles pop. He watches the kinwoman as though she were, indeed, something of his, a mildly interesting possession, a toy that has suddenly begun to speak and demand its own rights.
Then, abruptly, he raises his chin a bare degree. Exhales.
"A porterhouse, seasoned with thyme, salt, pepper, and worchestershire's, nothing else. Medium rare. A bottle of scotch. Royal Lochnagar if you have it. And a glass of ice."
[Lukas] (lukas is in one of the wingback chairs by the fire. john is at the bar, but not sitting. andrea is presently near lukas. katherine is en route to the fire, i think. there!)
[Katherine] "Madam Locke," Katherine greets the kinswoman, coming from behind the pair, her eyes are dark this evening despite their natural shade of pale blue. There is some sense of the monster to her tonight, some sense that she was not the only who was struggling with their inner monster if the gloomy Ahroun seated before her was any indication. Still -- Katherine manages a tight-lipped smile for the kinswoman as she comes around to face Lukas.
"Make that two glasses with ice if you would."
[Lukas] "No." Lukas cuts it off; there's no question about it. "One."
His eyes lock on his packmate, blue on blue. For fuck's sake, Katherine, leave me in peace for one night.
[Katherine] Why, so you can sit here and dwell on your misfortunes? Non.
"Fine." Terse, clipped. "Two glasses, two bottles. I will sit over there." She gestures at the bar.
[Andrea Locke] "Indeed, Lukas." She responds still quietly, still low. There is a cruelty about him tonight and, oddly enough, as she witnesses it rouses not indignation, stubbourness or fear [well, not visible fear -- it would be an outright lie to say she isn't wary] but rather something close to concerned disappointment and even, just there in the depths of her gaze as it briefly flickers back to his own eyes -- not flinchingly fast, but brief all the same simply from the sheer difficulty of maintaining any longevity of stares with the monster so close to the surface.... even there in the depths there is something like sadness.
Then he clips off his order, succinct and rapid, like so much gun shot. Katherine enters the field of view, a tight-lipped smile and words of greeting for Andrea, who responds in kind, though much less tight-lipped [she, thankfully, not having Rage to contend with] then, it would seem, she simply responds to both of them... "Coming right up."
And off she goes to see to orders.
[John Thornton] As Andrea leaves to place Lukas' order, John walks from the bar toward the bathroom... and just happens to walk close enough for her to hear him mumble.
"Water down the scotch... We really don't want them drunk."
That said, John continues to the bathroom without breaking stride, as though he'd said nothing at all.
[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] It was becoming an all-too-frequent occurance, Caleb's venturing out of the woods into civilization. If he wasn't careful, he was going to lose his reputation as a hermit, running about in the woods hunting animals. Even the park rangers, whom rarely came around to the couple's cabin, managed to give the pair wide berth. That suited him well. Perhaps it was the draw of companionship, with the knowledge that while he did love his wife very much? Garou tended to hang with Garou.
Enter Caleb, dressed not really to impress but managing to nontheless. A crisp white button-down shirt could be seen beneath his unbottoned black suade overcoat, a pair of light blue jeans tucked into boots that laced to the knee. Enchanting green eyes gazed out, seeking familiar faces. Insofar, he found one. His coat was hung up casually, taking his time, as he turned to saunter over to Katherine's table. "Bonsoir, Madamoiselle Bellamonte," he said to her. "Care for some company?"
[Lukas] Taunted, Lukas' jaw clenches tighter, but he doesn't rise to the bait. Katherine sails off. Lukas grimaces at his own pettiness -- but then, Caleb is sweeping in, all cajun charm, to greet his fellow fang.
The restaurant is getting a second wind of customers. Most of them are supernatural. What remains of Andrea's dinner crowd is now rapidly finishing up and heading for the door.
Tips will be paltry tonight.
[Andrea Locke] John's mumbled suggestion is discerned, though there is hardly time for her to give him more of a response outside of a passing sound; something like a guttural mmph that could be agreement or fatalistic wryness or, likely, both. And while his observation is, indeed, quite agreed with, the simple fact of the matter is that she has no doubt Lukas would notice if his scotch was tampered with -- the results of which were not likely to be pleasant.
Instead, Andrea does what comes rather as second nature: She places Lukas' order in the kitchen, then walks back into the restaurant proper and goes to each table that has a human occupant, letting them know that, alas, closing time will be called early tonight due to the increasingly inclement weather. She helps the waitress and bartender see to last calls and bills and, as the Brotherhood begins to empty of its mere-mortal patrons, she relieves young Danny from the bar, asking him to go help in the kitchen.
Between Andrea's own version of 'potential-damage control' and the mere increase of Rage in the restaurant, soon enough all that is left is the Garou guests, herself, and John when he emerges from the bathroom.
Now at the bar, Andrea nods to Katherine and Caleb, "Well then... what will it be, tonight, dama y caballero?"
[Sam Modine] He'd left earlier to take a phonecall. Quietly and without any fanfare he'd faded first to the background and then out of the previous exchanges in the evening. When he and his mother and father had finished catching up on all of the things in the Modi's life that weren't a matter of some great Garou responsibility he had simply taken to the other side, making his way toward the pack's interim home.
Now the night find him appearing in the kitchen at the foot of the stairs, still zipping up a clean blue hooded sweatshirt over his plain crew necked t shirt. Hair dangles into the hood, tracing little dancing circles across the cotton. He moves quickly through where the sparse late staff is cleaning stations in preparation of closing. His strides bring him out to where cool blue eyes do not in fact strike quickly for the familiar but instead do a search about the room, once, twice and again for good measure. He notes faces where he finds them, and recognizes but one. Habits of any stripe, though whatever their reputation rarely find it in themselves to die and almost always prove hard to be an understatement in this capacity.
And so familiarity he seeks.
His gait, stretched further by the lack of much loose fit in his clothes brings him toward his packmate. Not the Beta, no, the royalty. There is no slide to the way he casually sits in next to her, but there is a saunter, a confidence about him always. He doesn't turn to look at her yet, instead letting his eyes go first across multi-colored labels and then the mirror behind. He does speak however. "Of all the gin joints in all the world..." He intones in his best bogey, cracking his lips upward near the end. It's the impression of humor on the face of someone who rarely has the time for a true smile and takes close consolation where it can be found.
[Katherine] Katherine, seated at the bar is in the process of carefully unbraiding her hair and tousling it out of its tight bindings when she is (pleasantly) surprised by Caleb joining her. "Ah, bonjour là," she says with clear pleasure at the sight of her cousin.
She leans toward Caleb, and presses a chaste touch of her lips to either of his cheeks, gesturing for him to take the seat beside her as she finishes freeing her hair and allows it the freedom to settle around her shoulders. With her hair loose, and her body encased in jeans and boots Katherine almost passes as her true age would suggest she was.
A twenty-something woman having a drink at a bar.
Samuel appears next, and takes the seat on her other side. Katherine turns her head and in fact leans her body back into her pack-mate. "Bonjour, Samuel. You have good timing, may I introduce you to Caleb Delacourt-Alden, Theurge of my own tribe. Caleb, this is Samuel Modine, another of the pack-mates." She is all charm -- on the surface -- but Sam and Caleb both can feel that edge of rage, simmering in the air around her.
[John Thornton] A short time later, John emerges from the bathroom, hazel eyes warily scanning the nightmare landscape before him. Or at least, what will be a nightmare landscape if somebody goes ape. Or wolf... Whatever.
John returns to his spot at the bar where his coffee sits quietly, and as before, remains standing. A nod to Sam Modine in greetings comes next, followed by another sip of coffee.
[Andrea Locke] The Garou socializing at the bar, Andrea rummages out the requested bottle of Scotch for Lukas, takes up a glass and moves back to the brooding Garou by the fire, setting glass and bottle on the small table that sits between the two armchairs.
"The steak will be out soon." It's murmured - not demure, but low in the way one might have of maneuvering around a potentially vicious animal -- which is quite close to the mark, all things considered. Unless he should stop her she'll move to leave him to himself.
[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] The quick, light kisses to his cheeks was returned in kind to Katherine after he slid onto the bar stool beside her. It was pleasant to mingle with those of his own tribe after being so long without contact with them (read: the more mannerly sort). When Andrea or whomever came around to inquire whether or not he wanted a drink, he ordered his typical cognac. These damnable people were going to turn him into a worse drunk than a Fianna, Mrena key among them.
Still, he managed a bit of a smile in the face of Katherine's readily appparent ire but did not make mention of it. "How do you find this night?" he asked casually
Sam Modine made his presence known to the two of them then, and Caleb rose up to greet the Fenrir. "Well met," he said. If Sam were to extend his hand to Caleb, the theurge would grip the man's forearm. "Caleb Delacourt-Alden, Darkensky to the Nation. Theurge of Falcon, House Gleaming Eye, Protector of the Wood. Mate and husband of Ana Eliza de Silva Salto."
It was a mouthful to say, but given those present and the fact that he kept his voice pitched low for Sam's ears, he had no reluctance in giving his full introduction. Silver Fangs, after all, were sticklers for protocol.
[Armstrong] Mrena came in the front door. She did not normally enter through the front door, but that night had decided to be an exception.
She had been out, earlier, looking for something. Then again, White Eyes always seemed to be looking for something, she was always waiting for something, even if she didn't know what it was. She had gone to see the city, to live in it and breathe it and see it for what it was, and what it could be. On the way, things had gotten complicated.
But White Eyes had been looking for something, and had continued to look for it until it had become too late, too cold, too dark for her to really look much longer. She had been outside, observing and thinking until her fingertips were numb, until her lungs ached, until everything had faded off and until thinking had become something to keep her occupied.
Once she realized this, White Eyes went home.
And came in through the front door.
[Lukas] There's a part of Lukas that recognizes a bad mood for what it is. Recognizes his own irrationality and instability.
There's another part -- the larger part -- that's simply irritated and looking for a convenient outlet. I needed time to think, Ed had said, no harm no foul? And then; his damn sister, her arm around him, coddling. It was incredible to him that she could see so clear on a frozen street in the middle of the night in the slums; and then be completely blinded again -- by blood relation, or by her own need for propriety and manners and good graces.
And now there she sits: dripping propriety and manners and good graces, chatting it up with her tribemate, all politeness and finish-school charm as though she hadn't, three hours ago, come to the very verge of responsibility and shunned it. As though she hadn't, an hour ago, come to the very verge of disowning her own sister, and shunned that, too.
Lukas is, in the end, a creature of great truth and truthfulness. This sort of sham, this sort of charade, both puzzles and revolts him.
--
Andrea's return is seen from a long ways away this time, provided the kinwoman remembered his earlier 'request' and resisted approaching from behind. She sets the scotch down; the glass beside it. Firelight refracts through the cubes of ice, casting arcs of light on the curved walls of the tumbler, and across the small table. Lukas' ice-blue eyes observe this for a moment, then flicker up to the kinwoman.
"Wait." He stirs, straightens up a little. "Bring another glass. Have a drink with me."
[Sam Modine] He's about to respond to Katherine's greeting when she makes introductions. His open mouth closes not unselfconsciously. He turns to regard the crescent moon without suspicion, but with an appraisal of a warrior, both of obvious breeding and of long and arduous regimen. His voice is kept similarly low, but grave, a tone as that of old friends passing gossip. "Mjollnir's-Heart by Fenris, Full Moon by Luna, Cliath to the nation." He doesn't pause so much as simply makes space for the introduction to settle. "And yes, we're well met."
He asks staff who doesn't seem to be so busy as Andrea over with a wave. "Can I get a stout, and get her another one of hers." He points his finger down onto the bar next to Katherine's glass, one might think he could push through there to the center of the earth were he so inclined. "Please and thank you."
[John Thornton] From his vantage point at the bar, the hazel-eyed gaze moves to the door as another werewolf arrives. The air was already on the verge of crackling with the Rage pent up in that one room, an effect that was heightened each time another werewolf arrived.
It was something John was still getting used to, and much as he schooled himself to showing nothing, he nonetheless let out a deep sigh at the Rage surrounding him.
That said, he nods to Ms. Mrena in greetings as she enters, before finishing the last of his coffee in a single swallow.
[Andrea Locke] While Andrea hasn't the foggiest clue what has transpired between the members of Lukas' pack [oddly, though she knows that Lukas is the beta of the pack, she still think of it in terms of somehow belonging to the Ahroun -- perhaps whether he knows it or not.] it certainly doesn't take any fantastic amount of basic perception to tell that something is amiss, at least between the Bellamont woman and Lukas himself. Usually she would have little patience for any Garou who cam tromping into the restaurant during operating hours, reeking of rage and then insisting on service, damn what it did for her profit margin...
...perhaps because it seems that at least some of the Ahroun's tension comes from someone within his own pack that Andrea relents this night, simply accepting the loss of human business, excusing what staff she can and going about trying to keep beasts from behaving as... well... beasts.
When Lukas asks her to wait, straightening slightly, she looks over him slowly, gaugingly. Few things leave Lukas' mouth in the form of a request and this is likely no different. All the same her look isn't begrudging or affronted -- her feathers are not rumpled and the gaze is assessing. Weighing. Not so much her options as him. Not so much him as the situation. Finally she merely nods. "Of course. A moment, then..."
And moves back to the bar to get herself a glass and to see to Sam's order as he'll find that Andrea is the only 'staff' around at present. She's highly protective of her employees -- just as the humans had been ousted from the restaurant, so too had the young waitress and bartender kinfolk who'd been on duty that night. So, for the sake of ease, she merely pours out Sam's first drink and hands it to him, then takes down the bottle of whatever Katherine and Caleb were drinking and leaves it out for them to help themselves. "If you should like another, Mr. Modine, please just help yourself to the tap..." And she indicates from which she'd poured the stout with a smile -- genuine, if somewhat distracted.
Before she leaves the bar she checks on the Detective -- "Sure you're just sticking to coffee tonight, Detective? Help yourself to anything else you might like -- an On The House night it would seem."
And then she is moving back to the fireplace, approaching from a visible angle, her own ice-filled glass in hand. If Lukas has yet to pour himself a few fingers she does so for both of them -- if he has the bottle she lets him pour as he likes. Otherwise she takes the armchair opposite him, her attention for the moment on the fire that crackles and pops, so disconcerting [and instinctively mesmerizing] in how very alive it seems. The glow of it bathes her alabaster complexion in a warmer tone, casting sharp shadows and glows of relief as the amber-glow plays over her distinctive features.
[John Thornton] John nods at Ms. Locke's suggestion and turns his coffee cup upside down on the saucer. His smile is amused and knowing all at the same time.
"I think at least one of our family gathering here should... Just in case."
His coffee finished, John buttons his trenchcoat and makes his way toward the door, thankful that things appear to have settled down without incident. Or at least, that things hadn't blown up right away.
Nonetheless, he intended to make certain the ringer was turned up on his telephone this evening. Just in case things did blow up and he was called.
((Fade John here... I'm getting too sleepy. Night folks *wave*))
[Lukas] (night man!)
[Katherine] Lukas does not understand how Katherine can exist at the axis of two such contradicting points. How she can so easily invert herself from being the conspirator to the executioner to the aristocrat in the space of hours and make each version of herself as believable as that which preceded it. But then, Lukas does not see Katherine Bellamonte after she closes her bedroom door at night.
He does not know that she studies her reflection with the deep scrutiny not of a vain child but of a critic. None can comprehend for none are given the vision of the Bellamonte daughter walking the length of the Loft in the dawn hours -- sitting on the edge of her sister's bed and smoothing down the edge of her sheets.
They do not see the hand that trembles.
The pallor of her skin before she powders it with makeup.
The loneliness in her eyes as she watches her siblings together from her bedroom window when they believe she is gone.
Katherine Bellamonte had lived two lives for as long as she could recall; it was not until her Uncle took her into his confidence and showed her all that her desire for power and glory could achieve that the human life began to drown beneath the ambition. This evening, with her body faintly sore from being tossed against walls by her pack-mate and her head wearied by her sister's obstinate nature Katherine is quite ready to forget her obligations in favor of something that she can master.
Something that is hers to control.
"I am très bon, of course my Cousin." She says with a light, callow laugh, picking up her glass and swallowing the entirety of it in one long sip.
[Lukas] While she goes to the bar to see to her customers, get her glass, he picks his up. There are four blocks of ice in it. He picks one out, flicks it into the fire, puts another in his mouth, clipped between his teeth to avoid burning his tongue. The other two he leaves in the tumbler.
Royal Lochnager, he'd asked for, a rather obscure label if there was one. Whatever she brought, though, will likely suffice. In the end Lukas was not quite born and raised in the lap of luxury as some of his packmates, though to look at him now, you'd have a hard time knowing.
Which is, of course, the point.
He cracks the whisky open. Pours himself a glass, amber fluid rushing around the ice, buoying them up, spinning them round. A finger'swidth from the brim, he stops. By then the kinwoman has returned to set her glass down as well. He fills it, whether or not she intends to drink it all.
Then he recaps the bottle. Sets it on the table between them. He'd invited her -- or ordered her, take your pick -- to join him; now that she has, he doesn't seem to have much to say. He's turned the wingback chair so that it half faces the fire, and he stares into it now, his eyes moody, lowlashed, the firelight golden on his olive skin, glinting in his dark hair. In another form he's pitch-black, a beast the color of night, with huge and killing teeth.
He's drinking, and not sipping, from his glass. The level drops. The ice melts, leaving whorls in the amber, subtle enough that you only see them if you look closely. At length Lukas rouses himself toward some semblance of conversation: "Who were those two men earlier? They didn't seem human to me." -- but it's quite clear that he does not particularly care what the answer is.
[Sam Modine] Human beings, in their baser nature have the capacity for fury, for anger, even hatred. These can even engulf them, ruining families, corporations even great nations when they are burnt to the ground in a single moment of blind rage.
But these are not human beings, these are beasts given the diguises of man, given all their flaws and few dangerous trinkets to strike out upon the world. Their anger, their hate is purified, it is Rage. And tonight, under her own moon, with the extra weight prickling about both her conscience and her skin itself it's nearly deafening, even next to Sam's. A goddess to mortal men and moreso in her own mind poked heavy on the thumb with a silver pin.
He swills long back on the beer once, holding back the contented sigh that might normally follow to avoid the looks of the Silver Fangs. Some instruction it seems, he is capable of incorporating. "And why tonight," he leans in, his head cocked over and around hers from her nine o'clock on the barstools, his taler form placing his shoulder nearer her head than his whispering voice is. "Are you down here drinking with the riff raff?" It's said in jest, but the subtext is clear. Something isn't right, and he knows this. "Present company excluded of course." One arm rises from being draped together across the bar in front of him and his hand points back and forth from himself to Caleb.
[Armstrong] She surveyed the area, and she did, indeed, survey. Back to the wall that she had claimed, and at that moment she let her eyes fall on John for a moment. Yes, there he was. She associated him with hazel now; it wasn't a color, as he had explained, but rather a misnomer for something that was not a specific color. Not blue-or-green-or-brown-or-grey, but hazel.
White Eyes gave John a bit of a nod, an upward only motion. It was a half-hearted greeting, but a greeting enough.
And she took the time to survey where everyone was, what everyone was doing, and why they were doing it. Well, she couldn't exactly survey the why, but one could see clear indications. Truth be told, Mrena might not have had any idea that Katherine looked at herself in the mirror, inspected for flaws, and would more than likely pick away at them with a degree of disturbing scrutiny.
There were a lot of things that Mrena didn't know about her packmates. Not yet. Not now; namely because she hadn't asked. Because she didn't know to ask. That, however, was not the point. There was something to be said about the distance that Katherine and Lukas were giving each other.
Meridian's Truth seemed fine. Wyrmbreaker was fully aware of his mood; he wore it in a fitting manner. He shared whiskey with Andrea. Sam shared a bar with Caleb and Katherine. All seemed to function. And she was just close enough that she heard Sam. And she just. Couldn't. Resist. chiming in.
"Because, I think, he's developing a love of the scent of asphalt," she said. "Or he just can't get enough of seeing me at dawn so he's making housecalls."
She grinned. It was almost playful.
"Hi, Caleb."
[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] After introductions had been achieved between the Fenrir and the Silver Fang, Caleb could only nod at Katherine's false statement of being very well. He knew the lie for what it was, but the theurge would not press. Women were, as he saw it, strange creatures that were a mystery even unto themselves. How could a man, albeit a man that was able to transform at the slightest notion into a fearsome beast able to rain destruction onto all within his path even begin to understand what went on beneath a woman's head? Especially a Silver Fang woman's head.
His cognac was poured, delivered, by whichever hands had brought it to him. Caleb held the snifter in one hand, swirling the almost-red liquid around in the glass, staring into it's depths as though peering through a portal into another world. The tension within the Brotherhood could be cut by a sword tonight - far be it from Caleb to actually address it. It was not his place to pry into a pack's business.
As he stared into the swirling liquor, a thought occurred to him. How much like blood did the cognac appear to him? His blood, the blood of his loved ones and foes alike. When it came down to it, it was the blood that one possessed to make he and they what they were. Who they were, and where they came from. Lineages, past and present deeds and deeds yet to come.
Flash
Blood ran red down the length of the young boy's furry arms, claws dripping the crimson ichor to the earth. He'd struck many times, but still the creature stood and showed no hint of backing down or retreating. The boy's own wounds were nearly grievous, but still the grim determination he possessed urged him to fight on even though he knew he would surely die here in the face of this Dragon.
Shouts, echoing through the swampland behind and around him, calling his name as he squared off with the beast. Laboring for breath and the fight still on, he barely noticed the shouting as the two monsters closed with one another. Reptillian shrieks and roars mingled with wolven howls and grunts, snapping maws and flashing claws lashed out at one another.
He had no chance to win, only to die. To die, and then to live on perhaps in some fool song sung by fool bards about a hero fighting to the last.
"Caleb!" a voice shouted, a tremendous bass. "Run, boy! You'll stand no chance! Run!"
The clash of swords on scales, the sounds of manbeasts dying around him as fire flared from the nostrals and maw of the huge scaley monster incinerated it's foes. These kinds of things only happened in tales of long ago told by the bards. They didn't happen in these modern times. Dragons didn't exist!
The last thing the boy saw before blackness overtook him was the wolven rear feet of a werewolf standing over him protectively as a huge flamberge was wielded in the boy's defense.
And then: oblivion.
A haunted expression had come over Caleb's features as he sat swirling the liquor within the snifter, almost as if he expected some fell demon to extract itself from within the confines of Hell to wreak havoc and torment upon them all. A wary, terrified look was cast over his shoulder around the bar and common room.
Hi, Caleb.
The theurge snapped out of his reverge as Mrena addressed him, damn-near drawing sword right then and there. "Father!" Caleb cried out, as though once again a little boy facing that huge creature that now existed within the depths of his psyche. Recollection came across his normally stoic features, calming from complete terror.
A soft voice, whispered through lips that were wetted then with the cognac issued forth to the Shadow Lord. "Good evening, Mrena." Still, those dark circles under the theurge's eyes seemed more pronounced than ever. Caleb hadn't slept well - and would never sleep well again.
Falling silent, Caleb stared at the wood-grain of the bar counter.
[Andrea Locke] One of the many dangers of empathy is the tendency towards soaking in the moods of those around you, rather than simply being aware of them in a clinical sense. Take that simple truth and then put it in terms of the kinds of levels at which Garou tend to radiate their emotions [more often violent than not] and it can become quite the sticky situation. Perhaps Andrea finds herself taking full measured drinks from her own glass, rather than isolated sips, as a response to this concussive effect. Like setting up a liquid buffer, to dull the senses somewhat. So it is that the kinfolk and the ahroun simply drink for several moments, both lost in their own thoughts, gazing into a fire more animated than either of them are on the surface. Occasionally Andrea's eyes do slip to her 'companion' - to use the term quite loosely - studying him in manner faintly abstract. Perhaps she analyzes -- after all, it seems to be a favourite and frivolous occupation these days: Easy, trite assumptions and one-size-fits-all labels. It could occur to her that her 'invited' her to come sit with him because he perceived her as one facet in life that he could control with little effort. She could dally with the notion that some part of the man within Lukas Wyrmbreaker simply seeks some semblance of fellowship. She could toy with the idea that, perhaps, they are making strides in their oft tempestuous relationship -- if such a thing as the few conversations ['events'] they have had could be so termed.
Or maybe she wonders over none of these things and, instead, merely watches how firelight and shadow emphasis different aspects of his being. A young man. An old beast. An inexperienced warrior. A weathered soul. In the end, who can say?
He asks her a question, though he clearly doesn't care about the answer, and she shrugs slightly, crossing her legs so that one heel-clad foot sways slightly, perhaps a movement for the release of tension though otherwise her body-language speaks of languid repose. "Ethan, the young man, would appear to be a True Born -- I have no idea of more than that except that he originally hails from California and has come to Chicago with at least one other Garou companion, also male." For 'not knowing much' she can offer a succinct little description. But Andrea always seems to downplay such things. "The grizzled specimen of older male was Walt -- a Kinfolk I have old dealings with. I have no idea why he's here... we didn't get to that."
After all, soon after Walt had entered, so to had Lukas, sweeping in with the Rage of him near bowling people over and then broodingly commanding service. But that she doesn't bring up or insinuate. Instead she takes another pull from her drink, swallows and lightly licks the residue from her lips before intoning in the same quiet manner... "It isn't like you to seclude yourself from your pack..."
[Lukas] A short, sharp laugh -- "And you know all about what I'm like, do you?"
[Andrea Locke] Her lips shift; they flex, but little more, otherwise unfazed by the sharpness of laughter or response. "No. I don't. Forgive me if I was wrong in thinking it unlike you to seem... petulant."
[Sebastian] Sebastian enters the Brotherhood of Thieves and takes a seat in the corner.
[Lukas] Petulant, she calls him. There's a flare of rage -- like a lick of plasma from the surface of the sun. His eyes flicker to her, cold as ice, hard as stone.
"Do not compare me to a child, kinwoman. So far as Gaia's concerned, my natural lifespan has already ended and I'm on borrowed time. Have the good grace to recognize that."
[Sebastian] Sebastian looks around the room.
[Andrea Locke] "I do." Is shot back, countering his notion that she might only see him [and others] as youths. "And given that it's 'borrowed time' you are now living, perhaps it might be best spent in ways other than brooding before a fire drinking down scotch like water. You can't have both, you know -- you can't have both the glory of your majestic duty and also the luxury of festering rather than fixing." Her words are still quiet, though the edge to them is clear just as is the rather pained expression of her eyes.
[Lukas] Lukas' lips move. The expression could be termed a smile, loosely. "Maybe I feel like I've 'fixed' enough for one day, Andrea. Anyway, who the fuck" has she ever heard him swear before? -- it's startling to hear it roll so easily off his tongue, he who always spoke so carefully, so thoughtfully, "appointed you my angel of mirth? Drink your god damn scotch." And he finishes his glass, pouring a second.
[Andrea Locke] If she is surprised [or even remotely shocked] at his fluid and sudden usage of such a crass word, she doesn't show it outside of a brief glimmer of dry humour in her eyes. All in all it isn't enough to break though the visage of mingled concern and disappointment. In the end, though, she smiles wanly, accompanied by a slight, guttural, feminine noise, almost a snort. Lifting her tumbler in silent toast, she down back the last of her own glass and holds it out for more.
"Maybe that is what Kinfolk are meant to be -- that outside, nagging consciousness. Your own personal -- what is the phrase? The cricket fellow... well, whomever the cricket fellow is."
[Armstrong] There were a set number of things these two had seen each other do. Caleb has seen Mrena growl, he's seen her walk in the snow in high heels (which she no longer owns, but that was neither here nor there), and he had seen her use words that were far too sharp, with R's slightly dropped, masked quickly and forgotten.
She, in turn, had seen him be patient when he had no right, seen him be haughty and self-assured, and speak French to her packmate in hopes that Mrena would have no clue what he was saying. For the most part, it had worked.
But she had never seen him cry out before.
Not in rage, not lost in memory, and she had never seen a look on his face that was a kin to terror. He nearly drew his sword, and the theurge didn't budge, didn't flinch. No change. She raised a brow and looked at him for the moment. Looked.
".. Caleb?"
again, she looked. Brow raised, eyes filled with a degree of curiosity. He knew she was going to ask him about that.
Just. Not right now.
[Lukas] "I seriously doubt," Lukas says, and after a beat, pours for her as well, "you're my personal Jiminy Cricket."
He pulls the bottle up with a smooth twist of the wrist, catching the last droplet on the rim before it can fall. Sets it back on the table.
People were shouting over by the bar. Guess they were having more fun than he was. Lukas' head turns at the yell, but it's only reflex; he doesn't bother to see what they're shouting about. He lifts the glass to his mouth again, drinks, then leaves the rim set to his lower lip, thoughtful. Or brooding. Or petulating, if that's the word.
"Tell me about your daughter," he says, suddenly.
[Katherine] And why tonight, Sam asks of Katherine quietly, are you down here drinking with the riff raff? His question draws a quiet huff of dry amusement from the pretty female by his side. Her dainty fingers, long and nimble curl around her glass as she pours herself a generous new serving of liquor and tips it back as quickly as the previous.
"Why don't you ask our beloved Lukas?" She says with a deliberately provocative tone, allowing both her eyes and voice to carry toward the brooding Shadow Lord. Katherine tips her head back, allowing it to loll a little and her hair slides along her neck, falling back to reveal the vee of her blouse, the slight bump where her pearls sat tucked against her warm skin.
Caleb cries out, and Katherine whips her head around.
"Mon Dieu," she exclaims, her hand reaching for the theurge's arm. "What ever is the problem, Caleb?"
[Katherine] And why tonight, Sam asks of Katherine quietly, are you down here drinking with the riff raff? His question draws a quiet huff of dry amusement from the pretty female by his side. Her dainty fingers, long and nimble curl around her glass as she pours herself a generous new serving of liquor and tips it back as quickly as the previous.
"Why don't you ask our beloved Lukas?" She says with a deliberately provocative tone, allowing both her eyes and voice to carry toward the brooding Shadow Lord. Katherine tips her head back, allowing it to loll a little and her hair slides along her neck, falling back to reveal the vee of her blouse, the slight bump where her pearls sat tucked against her warm skin.
Caleb cries out, and Katherine whips her head around.
"Mon Dieu," she exclaims, her hand reaching for the theurge's arm. "What ever is the problem, Caleb?"
[Andrea Locke] "Ah... si. Jiminy." It's one of the few moments where the fact that she isn't born and bred American shines through. Not that the hints aren't always there - her English is absolutely fluent and largely unaccented, outside a faint carry-over of the sibilant, barest lisp of her native Castilian, that grows more pronounced when she should happen to loose some of her own reserve. "Well.. hardly a desirable name, anyway."
He pours her out another drink, deftly so, not wasting a drop and then both of their attention is briefly distracted by a yell from the bar. A glance back seems to register no imminent threat, though she seems expressions of concern -- all the same, whatever thoughts she might have along those lines are quite disrupted when Lukas speaks again.
Tell me about your daughter.
-- her face whips back towards him them, harshly and suddenly enough that it sends her hair in a fury of curled motion, obscuring her expression until she bats away her wayward locks. Even obscured the sudden loo of overtly pained severity was certainly somewhat discernible if he used the eyes in his head at all. Not at all pleased. Not at all a preferred topic of conversation.
"That..." There's a faint breathlessness, a stammer. Then she closes her eyes, controlling herself, restraining herself. "She is none of your concern."
And then she rises, setting down her glass on the small table between them. "Goodnight." And she moves to go.
[Lukas] He stands with her. If she sways -- he does not. What's a little whisky to rage, anyway? Alcohol on the fire: it burns clean through.
"Where do you think you're going?"
[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] "The past," he said quietly to Katherine. Perhaps, as a tribemate, she may understand. "It haunts me still." Definitely not something he would want to say in the presence of a Shadow Lord, a tribe known for using the weaknesses of others to their advantages. He still possessed that haunted expression on his features, as he cast a weary look to the Philodox. Would she understand? Traumatic and tragic were the lives that Garou lived, full of death and carnage left in their wake for the greater good and glory of all.
To what end? Shattered minds and robbed childhoods.
Concern from Katherine, and curiosity from Mrena. A look was cast to his fellow theurge. "I am fine, Mrena. It will pass." A soft sigh escaped his lips as he tilted the snifter of cognac to his mouth and drained the contents of the glass. He had forgotten that others were not used to such outbursts from him. On a nightly basis Caleb had awakened with a start, and never returned to sleep afterwards.
[Sam Modine] "Because I come to you first." He notes behind another long, long drink. It's followed with more speech that waits for a moment in the few instants the glass hangs above the wooden surface between two of his strong fingers.
"I always have." Ever since the Modi had been the pack's new kid. Since he'd been called nothing less than a mongrel to his face by one of the elder members of her family. Since there had been merely five of them, and even past when he had proven the first assumptions about his person wrong. He had come to her first. This is not the first collision the two have come to and it will certainly not be their final confrontation. These are the things that run through the mind only to be interrupted by the inappropriately loud Theurge. His head snaps, lupine. Eyes narrow an head cants a degree, two.
Is this a normal thing? Magpies, utterly amused cackle their way into Katherine's ears.
[Andrea Locke] "To bed, Lukas. Unless you plan on joining me there, the goodnight." Her fingers curl, half a clenching motion, her jaw tightened and her lips pressed in a firm line that quite freely tells him to leave her the hell alone. And, unless he should grab her, she moves to the doorway nearby, disappearing into the kitchen.
[Armstrong] Katherine, you are a philodox. She said. It was sharp and showing the theurge's obvious displeasure. It was a displeasure that didn't quite come across to her eyes, nor her gait, nor her body posture.
The theurge looked to the fireplace. Andrea was standing, Lukas was standing with. There was enough rage in the room that she could taste it. Tension had a different texture than regular air; if this was a night to paint, she surely had enough inspiration to do so. She had enough to draw from.
There were pages of situations like this in her sketchbook, the one that lived under her pillow, that was attached to her hip, that rarely left Mrena's side for more than a day. There were pages upon pages devoted to tension, to stress, to frustration, to loss, to lust, to what was just and what was not. And it flowed, just like that stream-of-consciousness rant from one page to the next.
It was no wonder those compositions were rarely finished.
"Before I go to bed, does anyone need anything?"
[Lukas] "And what if I did?" -- instant, the response, and quite uninflected. A beat; then, a savage sort of smile, all teeth, no mirth. "Would you welcome me?"
[Andrea Locke] At the swinging door she pauses, then turns, just her head, too look over her shoulder at him, meeting smile for smile -- though hers lacks the Rage to back it, it somewhat makes up for it in the simple human application of the word, her eyes further aflame with the notion. All teeth. All heat. No mirth. "You aren't a child. Find out on your own."
[Lukas] The smile fades nearly as quick as it had come. It leaves his face intense, drawn, half-lit by the flickering light of the fire.
There's a beat or two of silence. Then Lukas sets down his glass and crosses the room to her.
She might think he means to follow her to her room, and to her bed. But at the door he catches her, his hand on her wrist, turning her around if she hasn't already. His rage leaps across the point of contact like an electric spark. It draws the hairs on her neck upright.
A pause, while he looks at her, his pale eyes steady. Then he draws her hand to his mouth; kisses her knuckles.
"Don't think I'm not tempted, kinwoman," he says, low, "but it would mean nothing in the end. And I think I have honor enough not to use the kin of my own tribe in such a way."
[Andrea Locke] Her body tenses sharply, nothing to do with girlish games of oh-catch-me or anything of the like -- she tenses when he grabs her because she knows very well that in lashing out like a wounded animal she may well have pushed to far and the last thing she needs or wants it another cold-blooded physical reprimand from this boy-faced Ahroun. His pale eyes are steady -- hers are wide, flooded by the instinct of fight or flight and waiting on that precipice to decide which is in order.... then he kisses her knuckles and she relaxes, only a hair, only a modicum, her gaze turning speculative.
"Thank you." Murmured. A pause, a beat, then the faintest turn of her lips, more tired than anything else. "A pity, though -- sometimes mutual usage isn't so bad a thing."
Then she withdraws her hand, if he allows it, and turns her gaze away. "Please... I am weary."
[Lukas] But he doesn't allow it. His grip reasserts itself -- firmer now. When she starts to withdraw, he tugs her sharply back.
They're quite close now, a handsbreadth apart at the kitchen door, his back to the room, his frame shadowing her.
A beat. Then, softly: "Be certain. Don't offer what you might regret."
[Andrea Locke] "You're right."
She nods, simply and shortly, her wrist small and fragile-made in his grasp that tugs sharply and holds strongly. She shifts her hand, feeling the slightest grind of protest of her pliant structure in his unyielding grip.
Her free hand rises, going to clasp his hand that holds her wrist and tugging him backwards with her. If he won't let her go, then she'll take him with her, but either way she is, apparently, going to bed.
"That's why I never do." No girl. No youthful, frivolous girl-child to make more of this than what it is or what it may be, which could be nothing more than a game to see who will back down first. Fine. The edge to her is still present, but she apparently has no intention of appearing either cowed or daunted.
[Lukas] Give him this much at least: he doesn't look over his shoulder, surreptitious, as though to check who might be watching. He doesn't make this an act of shame.
He does watch her, though -- carefully -- studying her face for traces of dissemblance, or insincerity, or doubt, or fear. The last in particular. He looks for that: a sign that she was cowed into this, that survival instinct drives her to this. Truth is, he would not look for that in a human; perhaps not even in a kin of some lesser tribe. But she is, as he has said, kin to his tribe. His responsibility.
Seconds go by. Then, abruptly, he reaches over her to push the kitchen door open. He says nothing more; not all right then or come on or fine or any other words that might indicate a done deal, a sealed bargain. He opens the door, he lets go her wrist, he follows her through. The doors swing shut behind them. Soon thereafter, their footsteps thump muffled up the stairs -- one flight, and then a second.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine, you are a --
I know what I am, Mrena. Katherine's retort is snapped, cutting her pack-mate off before she can even complete her reprimand. Katherine's mood, hovering as it has been for quite some time between dark and utterly black breaks through any particular charade she has been playing at with her tribesman and her pack-mate, seated beside her.
Sam tells her he comes to her first, as he always has and Katherine cannot seem to find it inside of herself to reply to him. Instead, she downs the remainder of her drink and pushes herself from her stool, murmuring. "I cannot tonight, Sam. Ask me of it tomorrow when I have had time to think."
Time to think, just as her brother had.
Katherine moves through her pack-mates, protests or no, and beats a slow, paced retreat toward the snowy world beyond.
[Andrea Locke] There is nothing in her expression that resembles anything close to dissemblance, insincerity, doubt or fear. Instinctively she probably should fear him. Instinctively any human being, Kinfolk or other wise, should fear the prospect of unbinding physical intimacy with a Garou. There could be any number of reasons - healthy and unhealthy - that she doesn't display that fear, in look or body language or smell or any other medium available to the senses. Her eyes match his, steadily, one eyebrow ever so slightly arched, a dark raptors wing, poised for flight. There is desire in her gaze, fueled proximity, fueled by prospects, but it isn't something that will shatter her if he lets her go on her way alone, either. She knows what she offers. She knows what she gives. She knows the value and worth of each measurement and increment and what it means and what it doesn't mean. And is unashamed.
He pushes the door open. Releases her and follows. And she moves steadily, easily, leading the way without falter.
Gone.
[Sam Modine] The calm before the storm said it all
If it's a Fianna problem, Katherine, An eagle cries out over distant rolling thunder. I can take care of it. He knocks on the bar as he downs the other half of the pint. The next he stands for, moving up and over the bar, careful not to touch his feet to the wood and leave some trace of the indiscretion for some unsuspecting kinfolk to clean up the next day. As he pulls the tap, a falcon's voice plays against that of a crow, similar Sam thinks in passing to Hrafn, the spirit whom first brought him before an avatar of great Fenris.
And if it's not, He pauses, long and pregnant. She's long out of sight by now but the voice is clear now as if she were directly in front of him. Ends of the earth, remember? With that another beer is downed. He silently watches his Beta step across the room, noting he's only a few steps behind Miss Locke tonight. A sly smile finally finds it's way across his face as he pours one more to grow by. "Give 'em hell Luke." His head shakes, caught for just a moment in the enjoyment of the moment.
Because it won't snow forever. And tomorrow there will be another battle and they are a circle yet unbroken. They find comfort, each in their own way tonight. Katherine will find herself in control, behind the wheel of her car, tearing apart the streets in a machine expensive enough to make a poor man weep. Mrena will finish a sketch, maybe two. Lukas has the arms of a new kinfolk for the night. Dylan a story and Sampson is still running somewhere, even now letting a wind of his own making rush with all of it's inertia through his very core. All of Edwards ducks in a row, no matter what threatens pull them into chaos.
Because of this Sam will sleep tonight, and without waking.
and the sun burnt out tonight.
--
Andrea
Up two flights of stairs and to the door of her apartment there at the third floor of the Brotherhood. Lukas has been here once before, of course -- to assist his Packmate in locating and extracting her erstwhile sister. But that night had been nothing remotely akin to a social event, not so far as Lukas and Katherine were concerned. And, truth be told, while there had been a few moments of strain where Garou tempers [burning, seething, never-fully-satiated Rage] threatened and a young Kinswoman had been spoken of like so much a favoured, well-treated pet -- there was also, on Andrea's part -- a certain sense of relief when the two Circle pack mates had entered the scene. Shortly there after her flat was empty once more, holding only the trace sensation in the air [the distant sense of a storm beyond the horizon] that a quartet of monsters had tromped about her small sanctuary.
For the third time in about two weeks, Andrea lets another Garou into her dwelling, though, in truth, it's the first time that she knows damned well what is most likely to play out once the door closes. Perhaps it is that knowledge that lends itself to the increase of fluidity in her motion, the faint spark of fuel-fed fire that radiates an alluring warmth from her person. Anticipation is a force all its own, as is frustration, as is anger, as is any other number of things Lukas has managed to stir in her at any given time [including other things, like respect and curiosity and even, once-and-barely-perceptible, concern].
She unlocks the door, opening it and stepping aside, allowing Lukas to move past before closing the door behind them. The apartment is fair sized: An open, spacious layout of kitchen and living room takes up the greatest immediate space, longer than it is wide, though not cloister narrow. The Western wall is awash in more windows than actual wall, full length multi-paneled things, a throw back to the days when this building was a warehouse. At the moment most of the curtains are drawn, but even then they are sheer, light affairs that allow a decent wash of moon-light to drench into the room even here in the city. The decor is simple -- she seems to prefer space over the clutter of over abundance -- but what furniture and miscellanea there is is obviously of high quality and its style draws heavily from something akin the wine-country-provincial. There is a large sofa and an armchair that face a coffee table and a chaise lounge set at an angle to an impressive fireplace, laid out in stone rather than brick. A wet bar near the kitchen. A writing desk. One wall holds rows of bookshelves, largely laden with the stuff of their purpose.
The kitchen is open, full visible, but small. Instead of something of grandeur for the counter tops - like marble or chic granite - they are made instead of heavy cutting-board worthy wood and tile of a distinctly Moroccan influence, which suits that of the backslash. Off to the side is a slight stretch of hall way which leads back to four doors, three of which are ajar.
His perusal is helped by the fact that she switches on a lamp, the bulb of a low, ambient watt that fills the room with a warmer glow rather than a harsh, white brightness. "Would you like another drink?" The offer is made as she stands near the sofa, head slightly canted to one side, one ebony sweep of eyebrow raised. There is no nervousness, no sense that she asks him because she herself needs one. Her gaze on him is steady. Yes, it is even hungry. But composed and self-assured. For now, at least.
Lukas
No one would accuse Lukas of being open-minded and progressive. In his mind, by the laws of the nation, what's hers was his -- right down to her self. What liberties and privileges he allowed on that were simply that: liberties, and privileges, and allowed.
Andrea had surely seen more than a glimpse of that in the way he arbitrarily orders her staff around; in the way he orders her around; in the way he'd entered her home the last time he was here and stood in the center of her living room like he'd owned it. Truth is, if Hatchet and Ryan had not left that night, he would've ordered them out, too -- by the Law of Territory, wherein her personal abode was Shadow Lord land.
For all that, when he follows her into her home tonight, there is a sense that he is the guest and she is the hostess. Or, if you're cynical: there is the sense that he allows her to play the hostess, and himself the guest.
So -- he stands at the foyer, or the small square of tile that serves as a foyer. He looks around her living room, carefully as he had not the first time, taking in the small details, the upholstery, the furnishings, the pictures and photographs and paintings, if there were any. He takes in the whole of her private life, what he could see of it: whether her pots and pans were used, whether she's the type to stack dirty dishes in the sink, whether there are magazines out, or books that look read; clothes tossed over the chairs and sofas.
Finally, long after she'd offered him a drink, his eyes come back to her: surrounded by her possessions and the traces of her life here in Chicago, the owner and focus of this small domain.
And, for a very long moment, he only watches her.
The thing is, Lukas can imitate a human quite extraordinarily well, given his auspice and tribe, his nature, his views. Perhaps Andrea is beginning to understand that while Lukas has a deep core of truth and honor, he is also capable of masks and dissemblance -- the superficial appearance of human propriety and politeness, when really he has none of either.
He is not human. And the way he watches her now -- his eyes pale and fierce, not bothering to reply to her courtesy -- the way he looks at her as he'd looked at her things, carefully, perceptively, but with little empathy and investment, leaves no doubt of that.
Eventually, at length, he draws a breath, raises a hand to his sternum. He finds the first button of his vest unerringly and begins to undo them one by one, without ceremony.
The last time he'd stood in her home, he was in full winter gear, imposing, nearly hulking, in an overcoat that fell past the knee, shrouding his strength like a cloak. It's different tonight. He'd left his coat and blazer downstairs. He is sleeker without them, nearly dapper, straightlimbed, with an animal assurance. The material of his vest is wool, fine-spun and soft, matte, unsheening, suited to the season. Shadows are dark upon dark; the single row of buttons fine glints of light.
He peels it off and leaves the garment carelessly on the floor. His look had been a study in casual elegance, a balance between the fine shirt and vest, the expensive, distressed jeans. Now the balance tips a little ways away from the civilized. He pulls the tails of his shirt out of his jeans; the sleeves are still rolled up. Crosses the room toward her now, closing the distance while he undoes his shirt buttons, the same thoughtless skill, the same unhurried quickness of his fingers.
He leaves that on the ground, too, halfway across the living room. He wears an undershirt beneath, plain white, a fitted tee. He is most assuredly not the first Garou Andrea has fucked, or been fucked by; perhaps not even the first this week. But it is a rare thing, still, to find one that bothers with such minor formalities as undershirts and different materials for different seasons; that puts such care in his human appearance, and yet without the faintest semblance of vanity.
Because it's not that: vanity. It's something wholly different, closer to discipline, and control.
He is close to her now, as close as they had been at the kitchen door; then closer, until she can feel the heat of him, rising off his body, indistinguishable from rage. It's a dangerous thing, rage, terrifying, but perhaps intoxicating as well. It makes him vivid and stark, makes everything he does vivid and stark. It's the fire behind his eyes when his eyes leave hers, at last, to drop over her body. Her dress fits her body; it's black; it's silk; it sheens faintly in the light the way his vest had not. He touches her, very softly, the pads of his fingers barely skimming the material, and the skin of her stomach through it. Then he draws back, and she can hear him take a quick breath, in and out.
"Take it off," he murmurs; they're close enough he barely has to voice the words. It's a curious sort of courtesy, or perhaps a careful sort of non-intimacy, that he allows her to remove her own clothes and keeps his attention to his own. He reaches over his head to pull his undershirt off, tosses that over the back of the sofa.
Bared now, his torso is a map of lean strength. In ten or twenty years, if Lukas lives so long, he will likely be brawny rather than sleek; a hulking monster draped in the furs of his enemies, with cruelty etched into his face and cunning in his eyes. The potential is there in his heavy bones, the sheer breadth and width of his shoulders, his ribcage a scaffold from which to hang great masses of muscle and tendon. But for now there's as much potential for speed in him as strength. His musculature is tight and compact, with no excess. She can clearly see the shifting, overlapping muscle groups beneath his skin, the broad sweep of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the points where the muscles winging over his back cleave into his ribs, the insertion point of his obliques where the bones of his hips ride close to the surface.
He moves on to his belt buckle, the same thoughtless efficiency, his eyes still fixed on her: her body now, and not her face.
Andrea
What is there to a room? To a loft? To a home? Either she is a clean and rather spartan woman, or there is someone who comes 'round to tend to her things. The latter is unlikely -- if she was having employees or hired out help attend to such menial functions, she likely wouldn't be found throughout the week, seeing the laundry, to cleaning, as well as to management and functions and paper work and whatever it is she does when she's away from the Brotherhood. She isn't a woman prone to idle hands or the devil's playground of an idle mind. There aren't any piled up dishes or scatterings of some past meal. On the kitchen counter there is a chess board, the pieces laid out and idle in the midst of a game whether of her own making or something she'd engaged in with an unknown guest. There's an apple near the chess board and a knife stuck into the apple, like a still life. A moment in time interrupted and seemingly frozen though, in fact, the incision itself has already turned the unblemished white of the apples flesh an off-brown colour and fine particles of dust - near invisible to the naked eye - have already started to settle on the chess set and all its hand carved pieces. As for paraphernalia of magazines or photographs or the like -- there is, near the fire, an antique writing desk, atop which sits an opened letter, its contents folded but left aside. There is a lone picture in black and white, and indiscernible unless someone was to take it up and give it a good looking over in this dim light. Atop the chaise lounge, there upon a discarded cashmere throw, is the book Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. There are house plants and small potted trees and an onyx glazed, chipped vase holding calla lilies and moist red roses.
Small things. Nothing that screams of any overt indication of her personality or her passions. Perhaps she has few -- perhaps she is, ultimately, rather a boring creature. Then again, perhaps this place - this apartment - is but a temporary shelter within which to rest her bones. She's dressed it up somewhat. She's set up house and, in small ways, made the space her own. But is it home?
Is any place?
While Lukas soaks in the sights of the room, Andrea is slipping off her designer heels, raising first one foot behind her and then the other in the time honoured method of a woman simply making herself comfortable. Under her breath, so low as to near lose its musical value, she hums what Lukas may or may not recognize as the refrain from Simon and Garfunkle's Mrs. Robinson -- a touch of wry humour for every situation in life. Then he is undressing and ignoring her ever-polite, ever-half-teasing [distantly so] offer of another drink. And she watches him.... she watches him frankly, raptorial, but reserved, the heat she herself emits rising, swelling, then tempering when he draws closer, brushes his fingertips along her silk-clad waist, studies her face and moves away once more, his hands moving with ease and lack-of-intimacy to his belt buckle. If she is thrown off by the fact that he doesn't simply grab her, grope her, tear away clothing -- she doesn't show it. If anything the distance is a drug in its own right, like a ceremonial mating dance, the strut and preen of glossy feathers that, in the end, means little outside of the fact that it is entrancing to observe. His murmured direction [order] is met with a faint exhalation of breath; an ahhh as beguilingly, but detached and nude as the state with which they make themselves...
...she reaches behind her back, the lines of her collar bone flexing, pronounced with the motion, though she is by no means a woman of sharp angles. Even the pronounced, fine bone structure of her face has a softness to it, echoed in her body which is a comely cello, sleek of bust and full, virile of hip and bottom. She unhooks the top of her dress, then there is the zzzeet of a zipper dragged downward, the dress falling away, pooling about her in a slightly billowing motion before it is so much liquid fabric on the floor, leaving her in her under garments -- brassiere, garter belt, panties, thigh-high lace-and-sheer stockings.
She is marked. By rights, the woman's delicious alabaster complexion should be a pristine expanse of ivory pallor all along her limbs. But she is marred, as though someone once took offense to the blameless portrait she manifested and sought to add an element of grit and wear upon her, perhaps to highlight her true nature, perhaps simply to humiliate and shame. The scars are old and centered largely at her lower abdomen, there where her womb resides beneath its protective lattice work of taut abdominal. Glyphs in a stark white that stands out even upon her porcelain skin - aged and time-worn but still easily discernible. They read off a litany of accusations and insults - barren [yes], unfaithful [perhaps], sullied [by the artist], disgraced [forever] and the like. The initial horror of the markings is in the very calm, cool and collected nature of their making -- as though the carver had taken his time, never allowing any semblance of emotion to unbalance his work. This reserve dissipates as it slides along and outward to her lower ribs, the glyphs less readable, less manageable, as sensibility wars out over 'sense' and ritualistic marking became acanvas in barely suppressed Rage. Misery. Loathing.
One imagines it took a long, long time for her to recover.
To add to these markings is a new, fresh wound -- a jagged slash just above the supple slope of her left hip, stitched up and not likely more than several days old.
She makes no effort to hide any of it from him. There seems to be no part of her actual body of which she is ashamed -- indeed, she has no reason to be. Time and conscientious effort have treated her well: she is still firm and youthful in all the ways she should be. So the slight lift of her chin, the unconscious bracing of her shoulders? It has nothing to do with how he might perceive her allure, but everything to do with how he might react to the territorial bindings of another Garou who found that she fell short...
...low and lower still.
It isn't fear in her eyes.
It is flame.
Lukas
When those terrible scars are revealed, Lukas pauses.
It's brief -- a matter of seconds. A stillness of his capable hands on the buckle of his belt, the button and zipper of his fly. But it's there.
His eyes glint in the half-light. He reads the glyphs as far as they are intelligible. He reads the scars, and the wound, and her body. She is no twenty-year-old nymphling. She is thirty-seven, a woman, and she has birthed at least one child who is, by now, a full-fledged member of Garou society. He had expected what effects it may have had. He had not, however, expected this: a deliberate, malicious ruining of her beauty.
For a second, three, five, there is only the sound of his breathing -- swifter now. His body half-bare, it's harder to hide behind a mask of control. She can read his anticipation from the swiftness of his breath. She can read his breath from his body, the rise and fall of his chest, the shifting shadows on his torso.
In the end he says nothing of the scarring. His eyes come to hers briefly; it's hard to read his thoughts, but it's easy enough to read his want, undeterred.
"Now the rest of it," he says -- rougher now, a burr at the edges of his voice. "Take it all off."
His jeans drop to the floor with a faint whumpf of heavy denim; a thump of his wallet in the back pocket. He wears boxer briefs, of course, his sex a heavy curving shadow beneath the soft fabric, his arousal plain. He does not hide it, but he controls it; checks his impulses. The strain of it tautens the muscles of his face, draws his brow into an expression almost ferocious.
When she moves to remove her lingerie, he watches her body again. His regard is so intent that a lesser woman might be cowed. Might wonder if her body were up to snuff. If her ass was too big; if her tits were too small. If her thighs jiggled, or her stomach showed signs of stretch and birth. If her scars disgusted her lover, especially when he could read what they said.
When she removes her bra, he licks his lips. When she unclips her stockings, rolls them off, he pushes his underwear down, bending to take it as far as his knees, dropping it then. Steps out of it. When she begins to push her panties down he reaches forward -- there's a quicksilver speed to him -- his hand closes over hers, against her hip, and his palm is fever-hot against her skin. He arrests her. Then he pulls her hand from her body and brings it to his, wraps her fingers around his sex. There is no sound from him, no groan of pleasure or anticipation, no sigh; only a slow, soundless exhale, kept steady by will alone.
Then he steps into her, presses a rough kiss to the side of her neck, pushes her panties down with both his hands. Even as she's stepping out of them he's lifting her, his strength inexorable. Their bodies slide together, past one another's, he lifts her onto him, pulls her thighs around his hips if she hasn't done it herself by now. There's a flex down his spine, and in the iron brace of his arms; his eyes don't close even at the moment of penetration. They remain as they are, fierce, ice-blue, fixed on her face, the pupils dilated now, huge and black.
A moment or two; stillness; his hands hard on her hips. Then, relenting. He allows her to begin to move, to set the rhythm: there is that at least, and perhaps it's unexpected, and perhaps it's worth mention. It's only when his breath begins to labor, when he no longer trusts his balance, when the rise and fall of her hips makes him shudder with sensation, that he sets her down onto the back of the couch. A moment to steady himself, then, his hand touching at her waist, before he braces his hands on either side of her, curls his hands into the material of the sofa and -- let's not mince words -- fucks her, ruthlessly, selfishly, unreservedly, skirting the very edges of his control.
--
He bites her at the moment of climax -- makes no sound, but bites her shoulder, hard enough to leave the imprint of his teeth.
After, spent, his weight leans heavily against her, and onto his hands still fisted atop the couch. There's only a scant few seconds of lingering, his breathing harsh in her ear, ragged. His eyes close at last, if only briefly. He presses his brow to her shoulder; then his mouth, gentle now.
Then he draws away, gasping as they come apart, straightening a second after, wiping sweat out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. He looks at her body, her opened thighs or her closing thighs, her scarred stomach, her sweat-sheened breasts, her face.
The starkness of tension is gone. His face is not so drawn now; his eyes not so terrible. He touches her face, his thumb tracing the seam of her mouth.
Andrea
The response to the sight of her [marring, cruel, humiliating -- but only if she lets it be all those things] scars -- which is hardly a response at all -- is, it seems, satisfactory. Sympathy was the last thing she would imagine from Lukas and, perhaps, she wouldn't even know how to accept it. Not here. Not now. Not as they're relationship [to use the term in its broadest sense] stands. Question were not out of the realm of possibility, but in the face of them she might merely have attacked him in a physical, bone deep viciousness only barely hinted at when he'd so casually asked her about her daughter.
Her daughter is a mere five years his junior and of his same rank, if not experience.
A slight edge to his words, he tells her to finish the job of undressing. And she does so -- smoothly. Scathingly so, her eyes not leaving his except to roam along the body he himself completely exposes. He doesn't lick his lip or make any other gesture of anticipation. She does -- lick her lips that is. A sensual motion, her reserve dropping away, her distance becoming a simple matter of psychical space between them as apposed to the gulf between their hearts and minds. By the time his hands find her, by the time he moves [quicksilver fast. she catches her breath. she hisses a low sound, more an absolution of stimulation than any specific vestiges of passion or lust or the like], she is more than ready for the impact of his larger form, a body built [born, bred, designed] for combat even beyond the average sense that all Garou are creatures of war. He is slight now - built for a lean speed, but still murderous. One day he shows every sign of taking on the bulk of muscle, a more impressionable size that, she judges, will suit him.
If he lives that long.
Her hands [ah, those clever, clever, practiced and uninhibited hands] move along him, deft and sure, even as does her body. His body for war and hers, well, built for far softer things. For sex. For tenderness. For creature comfort. For grace and decorum. Foreplay obviously isn't part of Lukas' desired menu, unless you count the looks, the dominant attitude, the storm-held-in-check... which, truth be told, she does count, in a milder, more subtle fashion of arousal. It doesn't matter in the end -- in the end there is her hand on his sex and the brief but potent interlude of knowledge and [more so] joy she displays there, before she is being bodily lifted. Taken. She is tangibly pliant, relinquishing herself to his resolve, but hardly passively submissive. He lets her move and move she does, bracing her thighs tight around his lean hips and waist and, for lack of a better term, riding him. It starts off slowly, undulating and gyrating, hidden muscles moving, clenching, releasing, doing their part, but she escalates, rises, swells the sheer intensity of a very basic [if rather acrobatic, in this position], primal and ultimately down-right fucking [pardon the pun] wonderful act.
He is in control of himself the entire time.
And so, too, is she, though in a different manner than he. She isn't an outrageously vocal lover, though she isn't silent. She doesn't speak. But the perpetual hostess, so often polite and warm and largely unknowable and unattainable is an entirely different [and perhaps truer] creature in these moments. In her mind she may well be a goddess at the moment and few would argue differently -- if nothing else there is sheer power in her unadulterated enjoyment. The fact that he pays no heed to any specific needs she may have is quite besides the point -- she sees to him. And she most assuredly sees to herself.
And yes, she uses her teeth, white and sharp. Her mouth, full and delectable. Her tongue, sleek and wet. She nuzzles, an action far more that of mammalian closeness than any desire for tenderness or the like. She inhales him, breathes him in and moves as though she might burrow and penetrate beneath his skin just to know the Storm in him and drown in it.
The only break in her simple, unadorned, unapologetic enjoyment of this act is when he sets her down on the back of the couch and looms over her. She stiffens then, a snarl on her lips though only half-born and waiting, her nails digging into his shoulders, ready to rake and rend. But he doesn't push her back so she's laid out flat and he unbearably above her, over her, pinning her down. He doesn't go that far and the near-rise of the beast within herself [a paltry matter compared to Garou, but murderously strong for a human woman such as herself] quells. He fucks her then, no words minced, and she savages him in return, entirely open to his assault, but probably drawing blood here or there in a few places. Not to hurt him. Not to spurn him on to hurt her. What reasons exist are too much in the realm of primitive instinct and lustful need to quantify and organize into a basic understanding.
She simply is.
-------------
Afterwards, some of that relentless edge is gone from him. She presses up against him slowly and meandering without demand when he brushes his mouth over her shoulder, then lays his brow there. Briefly. But her hands run through his hair, feeling the shape of his skull beneath, the dampness there from his sweating. His gaze is felt as it slides over her and she doesn't shy away anymore now than she did before, which is to say: not at all. One eyebrow arches in silent query -- of what is unclear. His finger slid along her mouth is an echo of her fingertips trailing down his spine, and her lips part slightly to take the digit, sucking lazily. Gently.
Then, finally....
"Better? If not, as I recall it, most men - and otherwise - your age can usual manage more than once in a night." Her voice is husky, deeper still than her usual mellow, sonorous alto, the tinges of her Spanish accent slightly, barely stronger. Her gaze is mild, the hint of humour there that rises to quell any amount of satisfaction - or lack thereof - she may have received from this event. Already boundaries and guards are slipping back into place, albeit in her ever-so-pleasant manner.
Lukas
His breath is still rapid, shuddering -- he tries to quell it, to control it, and succeeds only in trading harsh panting for the swift, deep breaths of an athlete cooling off after the trials.
There's an undeniable defenselessness about these moments immediately after, when perfect control is impossible. He does not like to betray this weakness, and she can see that: it's in the way he looks at her body, when all along he has never shied from staring her in the face.
Then she speaks after his hand has dropped away, and his eyes flick up to hers; he laughs suddenly, unexpectedly, half-breathless still. It in these rare seconds that one can catch a glimpse of who he might've been, if he had not been Wyrmbreaker: a young man with an easy laugh, serious and playful by turns, that would someday have a gentleman's honor.
His balance shifts, cantilevering from one foot to the other; he gives his head a short twist, popping his neck, wipes sweat off his cheek now with a shrug of his shoulder. "Is that a challenge, kinwoman?" he asks, low, amused.
Andrea
The sheen of sweat over her naked body is equal parts the results of both their exertion, though she seems unconcerned about it. She doesn't leap up, feeling the sudden urge to clean [cleanse] herself, but stretches once he is moving further away, feeling the groan and ease of thoroughly used muscles. The minute joints of her spine pop slightly as the stretch reaches the full arch and flex, then eases back and she is mildly inspecting the bite mark on her shoulder. So far as 'battle wounds' go from this encounter, she's probably left more superficial wounds on her person than he her -- but, of course, that bite mark will be there for a while whereas his; well, not so long at all.
His laughter draws her attention - it is perhaps the second or third time she's heard him laugh and this sound of humour is especially relaxed, a glimpse into the young man he might have been had genetics and the supernatural not rendered him a spirit-house, a warrior, a beast-in-mans-clothing. There's a glimmering her gaze, a softness there that speaks of enjoying the sight. The sound. Not just of his laughter, but the overall impression that, for once, his iron control has wavered, not to the realm of maddened frenzy, but - perhaps - pleasurable relaxation. He doesn't like it. No doubt, she knows, he views it as weakness. She has known enough others like him to see the signs clearly -- all the same, she would see him like this more often. The general affect more than the nude, half-undone, post-coital tang-smell-feel of him... though that, also, is a perk. But there is no lie in her gaze; she doesn't look on him like a woman looks on a possession, like a woman who will now expect more of him. That dreaded word - commitment - is not in her eyes, not upon her tongue, not dwelling in her mind or heart.
No up and coming Shadow Lord would take a barren, considerably older woman on as his mate.
And no woman such as herself would appreciate the shackles, anyway.
Licking her lips slowly, she smiles, a simple motion but truer than most of the smiles she ever offers others. Humoured and languidly warm, she slips from the back of the couch, flexing the arches of her feet, testing the slight ache of inner thighs and then reaches up a hand to run over his face, the fingers brushing over brow, cheek, jawline and neck...
"Yes, if you like. Though I have the impression you view most everything as either challenge or inconsequential." There is no great levity to her words - she speaks lightly, a husky, relaxed murmur.
Lukas
She misreads him, if only a little. It's not his humor that he finds weak but the involuntary function of his body: the rush of adrenaline, the pound of his heart, the sough of his breath.
He meets her eyes again now, fearlessly -- his breathing subsiding, his heartbeat slowing, his humor plain. She caresses his face and he catches her hand against the angle of his jaw, the skin clean-shaven beneath her palm, only beginning to roughen with beard growth. A beat, his eyes glinting with something that could almost, almost be mischief --
if he were not Garou. If he were not who he is.
He turns his mouth into her palm, then. He kisses her hand, and there's something like warmth in it now, or at least courtesy, where before there was only control.
"Turn around," he says, gently.
Andrea
It could be worse. Obviously, given her scars, Andrea has definitely experienced much worse. It wouldn't take any great leap of logic to guess that the Garou who composed the cruel glyphs was more than likely her Mate. When she was young. When she was different -- almost to the point that this woman now is truly no longer any semblance of the girl named Andromeda who used to exist. She has seen at least one Garou reflect some of the worst, sadistic, lunatic examples of control and subjugation that is possible. So a Garou who, essentially, uses her for his pleasure but then at least treats her with some humour, warmth - or just courtesy - and a glint of something that might have been mischief were he not who he was?
It could be worse.
All in all she seems to be in a state of quasi-repose -- there's no denying that she'd like more, if only in a physical sense, but she is accepting of what has passed. Pleased to let it stand. He catches her hand ans she merely watches him, one corner of her full, slightly swollen lips curving at that glint of not-quite-mischief. A sign passes, just barely, from her lips when he plants a kiss at her palm - warm or just courteous; it doesn't really matter.
But then,
Turn around.
Gently spoken - as gentle as one might expect from this youthful-faced man, this warrior among Warriors. But for the first time since Lukas has had any interactions with Andrea, any at all... for the first time she shows something like uncertainty. It isn't fear, precisely, but it is the rise of past demons in the very back reaches of her dark eyes, it is the almost imperceptible way she swallows, from mingled intrigue and remembered dread. For the first time she openly shows that she is met with a choice: To trust or to flee [or fight, which she has done often enough]. The choice she makes doesn't exactly come easily, but it is made all the same...
...it's the blink of an eye. Nothing more. For all appearances, she doesn't dwell, doesn't watch him, suspended in a storm of sudden recurrences and possibilities. She licks her lips once more, head canting slightly to the side, naked breasts rising.. falling.. rising...
...and turns around.
Lukas
Lukas had not expected anything but the uncertainty in her eyes. He's not blind; he's not a fool. He had seen how she had tensed herself to fight, had snapped shut, had all but snarled at him when she thought he would lay her on her back.
Truth is, he half expected her to turn him down. To refuse. He's not certain what he would have done then. He likes to think he has the honor, and the control, to accept it.
But then she doesn't refuse. She looks him in the eye -- and a blink later, she makes her choice. It's not quite submission, this, but perhaps it's a form of trust when she turns her back to him, he who could quite literally tear her entrails from her body, strew them across the room like so much holiday decor. He who, while not so renowned nor so powerful as her dead mate, has in him the same basic makeup, the same volatile combination that could so easily lead to terror.
An animal's instinct to claim. A monster's instinct to destroy.
It doesn't matter now: her choice is made. His rage at her back is a terrible thing, like needles in the spine. She cannot see him; her instinct screams at her that he could be anywhere, could be about to do anything -- then he touches her, his hands opening over her back, then taking her by the waist.
He pulls her back against him, puts his mouth to her shoulder, her neck. Reaches around to touch her in long sweeping strokes, mapping the expanse of her torso, her scars ridges of texture beneath his calloused palms. He presses himself to the small of her back and rubs himself hard again; then bends her gently over, covering her with his body, her back to his chest. He laces the fingers of his left hand through hers, pressing it braced to the back of the couch to show her where to hold on.
"Open your legs a little, miláčku," he says, his breath catching a little now, and, "A little more." Then he presses into her -- his chest fills against her back, an inhale through his teeth.
A moment to settle, his free hand on her hip. Then he wraps his arm around her, pulls her against him, as they begin to move again.
--
She can come up with her own explanations, her hows and whys; the truth is it is different this time. There is more patience to it, and yes, more courtesy, because that is the right word for it. He caresses her with his free hand, her breasts and her waist, her belly, between her legs. He's more perceptive -- of whether she moves away, or whether she moves into him; whether she presses back against him; if she arches her back; if her hand squeezes his; if she wants it faster, deeper, slower, gentler.
It doesn't last forever. Eventually his own instinct for pleasure takes over. Then he straightens his back, takes her by the waist; plants his feet; fucks her. At the end, she can feel his hands clench hard on her hips, the straining arc of his body -- hear the hard catch of his breath, the exhale that follows that's nearly a sound.
He catches her up a second later, abruptly, pulls her up and back to press her back against his heaving chest. He turns his face into her neck as though to hide the uncontrollable, harsh panting of his breath.
--
The lingering is no longer than the first, to be truthful. He releases her scant seconds after it's over, steps back with a sigh. His hand remains at her waist until she's turned herself -- a small gallantry, perhaps, that she doesn't have to suffer another tense handful of seconds when she cannot see him, cannot feel him, does not know where he is or what he might do.
His breathing is already quieter, though still unsteady. He looks at her as she turns; faintly, a little wryly, he smiles, one corner of his mouth lifting.
Andrea
There is no hiding the tension in her form. By no means a woman lacking in Will, there are limits to anyone, limitations within anyone and she is certainly no different. Facing away from him there is that dreadful moment where she can feel him - his Rage - but she cannot quite decipher where he is, what he is doing, what is about to happen. Reading people - guessing at their motives and their actions - is something Andrea Locke does extremely well in the grand scheme of things. Finding herself unable to scrutinize and gauge a person, be it because they are adept at the art of subterfuge or because, in this case, they are simply hidden from view, can be maddening, like suddenly having one of your senses stripped away. It is a vulnerability she does not often feel and, had Lukas lingered in hovering behind, not touching, not speaking, at best she may have whirled around, calling an end to her tentative trust -- at worst she might have lashed out from simple animal anxiety.
Basic human being that she is, she is hardly a creature of instinct. All the same, there is a genetic throwback when it comes to Garou - to a humans response to them. She may be immune to their more blatant, madness provoking abilities, but she still feels the primitive hair-raising awareness of them as any gazelle knows when it is being stalked. The rounded swells of her bottom clench slightly, involuntarily, the instinctive flexing of a tail evolution long denied her kind except in utero. By the same merit, there is a part of her that is tantalized by that bare interlude of adrenaline-rushing uncertainty. Vulnerability. Fight it all she might want, there is something intoxicating about not knowing but anticipating....
...and it is that anticipation that runs a slow sensational shiver down her pale, smooth back when he does touch her. A faint release of breath - a sigh or an unformed moan, whichever. A sensual addiction -- her fears aside, she was completely honest when she told him downstairs that she made it a habit not to ask for what she couldn't handle. Or, better said, what she didn't crave.
Please, she breathes, unwittingly saying the word in the same language he'd used to call her 'darling' as he nudged her legs apart or as he commanded it and she acquiesced or.. or... or; it doesn't matter. Their first encounter that night had largely been one in which she simply let him take his pleasure as he would, outside of that one moment where, clearly, she'd shown limitations to what she'd willingly allow. It isn't to say she hadn't enjoyed herself the first time - impact for jarring impact she'd felt the raw delight of it. But this time he is receptive. Attentive. And, ultimately, that is all it takes. Whereas before she hadn't uttered a word, now sex-laden words slip occasionally from her lips, in both her native tongue and his, not through any conscious effort but simply because it is what happens. She questions it no more than she did her sudden desire for him.
By the time his own need for satisfaction takes over, she's only just coming down from wherever it is a woman goes when for one blissful moment she thinks of precious little beyond the multihued heat spectrum of release. Again, sensual sexuality becomes raw, primal fucking -- and this time her response to it is no less powerful than her response to his hands on her breast, her stomach, and between her legs. This time she cries out, sharply, briefly but distinct -- not screaming his name or immulating the orgasms of porn stars, but because for one, pristine, distinct moment...
...she has no idea who she is. Where either of them begin or end. Their names, their differences, their status, their arguments, their lack of understanding. None of it matters.
...in what might be an attempt to cling to that sheer elation, one hand rises away from the back of the sofa to press at the back of his neck, there near the nap, where it is sweaty and tender, pressing as he briefly presses his face to her own throat, panting, shuddering, quaking. To hold on to his all-too-fleeting lack of control like she might either shelter him from it, keep safe that vulnerability -- or prolong it. Either or both may be the case.
Then he releases her, a hand lingering on her waist until she turns, her own breathing still ragged, her lips slightly parted with the harshness of her breath. He smiles at her, faintly, a mere uplifting of one corner of his lips, tinged with wryness... and she laughs, a low, barely-there sound of breathless amusement, shaking her head as she leans back rather heavily against the couch.
"Remind me then..." In English now, for though she could keep up with him fluently in his own tongue, English is always what they've spoken together. Pausing to take a deep breath, her hands running through her sweat-damp hair, the curls taut with the humidity... "...remind me to challenge you more often."
Lukas
His hand follows her for some small distance as she steps back, leans against the couch. Then it slips from her skin, drops back to his side. A foot or two away now, she can see the entirety of him: his skin gleaming with sweat, his hair damp with it, curling against his temples, a faint flush in his cheeks, across his upper chest, and the mark of her nails just visible over one shoulder, red welts on his olive complexion.
It's all right. He'll survive.
When she speaks, Lukas laughs under his still-ragged breath. He shakes his head, dashes sweat from his brow with the heel of his hand.
"It was not because I thought you had challenged me," he says, quietly. "The first time, I was ... rude."
There's a moment where he might've said more -- a moment, also, when his eyes stray to the scars on her body. In the end he says nothing of them, the scars or the fresh wound. Tonight, anyway. His shoulders roll back as he draws a deep breath to settle himself, exhales it.
It must be strange to her, this woman of such sensuality, how he can part from a lover and not reach for her again. But that is exactly the nature of Lukas, who keeps himself so carefully shorn of anything extraneous, anything unnecessary, anything but the war. He looks about them at the wreckage on the floor; their clothing shed all around.
When his eyes come back to her, he's almost steadied again, his breathing quiet. He smiles, but there's a curious seriousness in this: "Would you be insulted if I thanked you?"
Andrea
The absence of his touch is... well, just that. An absence. It is all the difference between feeling all over deliciously warm and then, slowly - in small, stately measures - feeling the encroachment of the winters chill. It is regrettable in its own right; if nothing else she's shown herself to be a creature that relishes touch. But she doesn't reach out for him. She doesn't seek to entwine herself with him, to snuggle or caress or any of those lovely after-sex practices. Not because it isn't in her to desire them, but because she has seen enough of him to pick up on that reserve. That control. That sharp-eyed focus that is all so much a part of what drove her to invite him upstairs in the first place. It had started out something akin to a dare but ended with a willing giving that just so happened to be, perhaps unexpectedly, reciprocated.
Instead of trying in any way to force herself upon him, she gives him space. Space to resume that unfailing regard for what, to him, is paramount in importance. For what it is worth, there is no sign that she is insulted - she'd rather his true nature any day, than a pretense.
I was... rude.
Her lips curve, lightly and barely, as she shakes her head, the damp curls teasing along sweeping cheekbones and slender neck as she does so. "You needed something. I was quite willing to assist. There's nothing rude about it, though I appreciate your -- making up for it -- all the same." Simple, is somewhat bluntly put. She was going to leave it at that -- she's pushing up from where she leaned on the couch, gaining back the full measures of her breath and beginning to regain some sensation in her toes. But she stops, her hands running unconsciously over her abdomen, though whether to cover those scars or simply in a meaningless gesture is unclear... "And it wasn't a sense of duty or remotely one of obligation...." Her eyes cut to his, underscoring her words. He could have been an Elder of their tribe, it wouldn't have kept her from saying 'no' to any advances unless she'd damned well wanted the outcome. Then her expression softens, her eyes fall half-lidded, gently, as she shrugs. "...so, yes. I suppose you may thank me."
Moving forward, she stoops slightly to pick up his button-down shirt, fingers running along its length as though she might open it and slip it on -- then thinks better of it and, instead, lays it over the couch back as she moves over to the wet bar.
"Would you be insulted if I said the gratitude was sincerely mutual?"
Lukas
Before she can quite lay it over the couch he reaches out, catches the shirt, catches her wrist as well. He draws her into him, his skin still hot with exertion, and he presses a kiss to her shoulder, the exact spot he had bitten.
It's turning into a faint bruise now -- the skin not broken, but the imprint of his teeth clear all the same.
"I'm not insulted," he replies, low, close enough that their bodies brush all along their lengths, "and I know you didn't bed me out of obligation. It was an honor, Andrea."
And he releases her. And as she goes to the bar to pour herself a drink, he gathers up his clothing, lays them over the back of the couch, begins to put them on.
"I should probably go," he says. "I don't think we have anything to hide," and he watches her as he says this, for some indication otherwise, "but nor do I want all your guests assuming they have rights they do not." A pause, his shirt on but not buttoned, his belt similarly unbuckled. "If anyone makes remarks, insinuations, suggestions, overtures, anything you don't care for -- will you tell me?"
Part of him fully expects her to say no.
Andrea
Again, contact, and she relishes it unabashedly though the initial sudden swiftness of his grasp causes her supple form to visibly tense - in sheer reaction rather than intimidation. But when he presses his lips to her lightly bruising shoulder she ducks her had, her cheek brushing along his own, his hair, her nostrils barely flaring as she breathes in his scent... without demand or even anything like meaningful invitation she rubs slightly along their pressed length, simply because it is the impulse of her body and it pleases her to do so...
He mentions it being an 'honour' and she makes a roiling, dry noise in the back of her throat, but no other comment. Not displeased, but certainly somewhat amused at the archaic phrasing some might call chivalry, of a sort.
Released, she fixes herself that drink, her back briefly to him, her stance as nonplussed at her nudity as she's been all along outside of the initial revelation of her scars. Then, turning, sipping at the bit of Reserva rum she'd poured herself, she watches him dress with much the same languid appreciation as she'd watched him undress before.
I don't think we have anything to hide.
An eyebrow rises at that, boldly dark against her ivory flesh, a minute shake of her head. No, she doesn't feel the need to hide this - nor flaunt it. Neither would be her nature. And as for the rest, she sips once more, then lightly sucks the residue of it from her bottom lip and chooses her words... carefully. Clearly.
"Thank you, but I'm a big girl, Lukas. I can handle myself." The words are soft - gentle in her own right, lacking heat or ire, but earnest in no uncertain terms. She's asked for no shelter from him. He's assumed no possession over her - outside that of that which he seems to extend to all kin of the Tribe, at least. The ground between them is still quite clear on those fronts.
But then she does something she probably wouldn't have done a day -- a few hours -- before... she explains. "I know my worth and am not easily slighted. There would be no point in possibly making such a matter more than it is. I wouldn't risk it for either of us -- I'm trying to provide for Garou here... not make myself a source of contention or drama."
And she even explains herself briefly -- at least, for her.
Lukas
A pause. Then he inclines his chin -- a faint nod of acquiescence.
"Fair enough." He finishes buttoning his shirt over the white undershirt; buckling his shirt. He picks his vest up last, puts it on, buttons it closed. She explains herself -- by the end of it he's grinning and trying not to, biting the insides of his lips until his expression is schooled.
"That was hardly even a speech," he teases her, gently. "But I understand. Still." A hint of irony, "You know where to find me, in case."
Andrea
The fact that he is grinning - and trying not to - causes a full smile to blossom along her features, a hint of teeth shown, the sort of smile that might usually accompany easy-flowing laughter, though in this case it is the motion of lips with only a vibration of sound. She knows, of course, that he finds her to be, ah, too verbose much of the time. Knows the teasing there, perhaps even a bit of indulgent condescension, but she is unfazed by it, instead fining it humorous in kind. Something that is likely aided by the fact that he doesn't push the issue.
"Post-coital relaxation... I'm afraid it makes me less prone to speeches. I'll try harder next time." A hint of wryness, yes, but all in all, her humour is unfettered by overtones of anything darker.
Setting down her glass, she moves over to him, stepping close but not so much so that she is at all making an attempt to press up against him. Perhaps because she doesn't wish to pique his need for controlled distance; or maybe she just doesn't want to muss up his fine clothes of which, she at least, knows are high quality indeed, but he doesn't' exactly have an overflowing wardrobe to choose from. Instead she merely brushes her hands over his vest, taking care of the last button before he does - if he allows it - or just smoothing the fine fabric.
"And you know where to find me, too." No more than that. It isn't even close to asking if he'll call or if they'll 'see' one another again or anything of the sort. At most it says she may be amiable to another tryst. May be. Theoretically. Ultimately of no apparent consequence.
celebration.
9 years ago