October 13, 2002this is war [salome][atlantic city boardwalk]
Posted by asher at October 13, 2002 12:00 AM(asher)
gaze filled with day (dream) and night (mare) skies cast themselves towards the swelling blackness of the ocean (dark legions laying in wait for thine one command), half mast sails set for the idle daydreams that glance through (cracked) mind, how the music of the waves (spears) washes over him, thundering vibrations walting through the cores of each bone
pressing against the swollen muscle
the singed skin
remnants of the silver thornthe long stretch of his body on the boardwalk bench may not completely be from relaxation
carnival fares only a distant echo in the morhpine haze(salome)
A pickup with a slick black paintjob and matching black tarp slides down towards the water and the multitude of cafes, hotels, casinos and no doubt tourists mixed with the locals.She has no detination in mind, per say, save to grab a decent cup of coffee even if it is overpriced. She may have her rough edges, but she was born into a family-type that had its share of tastes and social graces (she just tended to ignore them more often than Family would like)
And, thus, she parks, cutting the engine. Sitting with her arms resting on the wheel of the truck she stares out at the scenary, expression blank and mind wandering for a few moments. A few, sparse moments of peace.
(asher)
peace
it is so very relative
one finds peace in a blank moment, another in making a heartbeat cease, another in extricating the vestiges of power from the very depths of another being (by force), yet others in the warmth of the rising sun
how long has it been since he has been at peace
[....he remembers her drug from the tent, screaming....]there is no peace, no rest, for the wicked
lean body soon rising (arm idly tucked within a pocket to save weight on healing shoulder) to walk (stalk) towards something that will fulfill this needling crave (indulgence, consumption..... decay) spurred by the scents that haunt the shoreline breeze(sal)
She'd driven the ahroun to a motel and when he was sufficiently healed to call upon what she assumed where his packmates, she'd left. Neither of them had spoken to each other - even if he had tried to stimulate some form of grunted conversation, she hadn't been in the mood. She was dealing with the situation in her own way and attempting to ignore the fact that she had found herself stuck in a room with her own kind again and one, by appearence, that was blood of mate's tribe. For a moment she remembers him. Her mate, that is. He was years dead now and yet, the reminders were still able to sting like salt in the wound. No doubt, her regrets were for totally the wrong reasons, but she was human. As flawed and breakable as anyone else.She loops a finger under the leather necklace secured tightly around her neck, lifting the medallion out and running her thumb over the warm metallic edges. If only she knew...
There was no rest for anyone, wicked or otherwise.
(sal)
She'd taken the medallion from his cold dead corpse right infront of the whole sept, although they were more occupied with the idea that an outcast (from that spet no less) had been the one to bring their sept leader's body back into their care. Her mate had been just to large in stature for her to carry on her own and, besides, she'd need to carry back to the cliath's body that had been quite literally cleft in twain during the same battle... so, she'd taken the necklace, and as expected, no one noticed. It was really all she had left from those days. Even the outcast had been reaccepted back into the folds of the society and last she'd heard, he taken off to the hills.(asher)
flawed
breakablethere's something that brings a quiet (threatening) chuckle to the Galliard's lips, of the three that held (rapt) his recent attention, he could not decide, given all their flaws......
whom he'd wish to break (desire)
corrupt (rage)
or destroy (righteousness)and as the wolf tracks the mouse beneath the snow, something draws (reels) him towards the truck
perhaps it was intuition
perhaps it was a whim
perhaps it was a coy scent mixed within the rest
perhaps it was a well-timed glance at a silhouette
perhaps it was only the themed diner located a block beyondbut the young Dancer stops, just even with the front fender, gaze sliding (molesting) across black hood to the figure contained within the cab (cage), head tilted as a wry irony twists lips to a lazy (homicidal) smile
(sal)
There is something about being close to the malevolance of evil that makes all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. She wouldn't be paranoid, this time, to think that someone was watching her. This time her paranoia proved right... in the worst possible way.What were the odds?
Her eyes lift from the medallion and lock on the young man standing only a meter or so in front of where she was now sitting.
The three fates suck. A lot.
Her first instinct, which often proves to be the most violent, is to reach for defense, which, concidentally, isn't that far from hand. She looks relaxed. She doesn't look like she has anything resting in her lap.
She stares at Asher, eyes drained of anything remotely resembling humanity.
This is the sort of shit you live for.
(asher)
or it may be the sort of shit you die forand he's learned kinfolk habit well
fingers idly stroke a patterned swipe in the roaddust clinging to the hood
lips drawing into something caught halfway between a (loving) smile and (deadly) smirk....... I'll carve you to pieces before the first bullet leaves the chamber......
words an echoing (violating) whisper across her mind
in his pause, they both know he's right
blond hair sweeping on his forhead as skull tilts further downt he sidewalk path....... walk with me, and leave the gun behind.....
(sal)
Her first inclination is to respond with a taciturn 'bite me', but knowing the Dancer, he would probably take that literally. After all, it was common knowledge, that all Dancers were crazy. Granted, she probably was about on the same par with some of them, but there was no use in goading the Dancer... yetShe doesn't move for a few agonizing breaths of time and then the driver's side door opens. She slides out of her seat, closing the well-oiled door behind her, locking the door and pocketing the keys.
She was dressed the same as she had been the night he'd first come across her. Blue faded jeans, white t-shirt and a fading brown suede jacket. The jacket was dark in patched - more of in a splattering stype design - and it took no beast any imagination to figure out what the dark spots had been caused by.
She moves to within five feet of him and then stops, silent. With the light casting shadows on her feral features, she looks like she should have been born as one the changers, but instead had been stuck in a body that would never be 'blessed' with the ability. It had been a Wendigo that had named her Wolf-Heart, and coincidentally had refused to call her anything else afterwards.
(asher)
perhaps there is a slight twinge of appreciation at the closer inspection of the splatter marks marring suede, but the Dancer turns before anything comes to full ascertation, beginning the first strains of an idle stroll
if she doesn't keep up - is there any doubt he'd make her?"Now....."
murmured
the Galliard has the voice of an Angel caught in a Devil's trance
there was a time, long ago, it inspired his brothers to rally for Gaia
now it only sends chills down their spine".... it's safe to say you know what I am. And I've the most delicious idea of what you are. But why don't you tell me. Exactly. Who your family is?" only fools assume by tokens "I like to know a little about those that shoot me with a 40 cal when I'm otherwise occupied."
not as cordial as it should seem by wordchoice (more the seething threat)
(sal)
"My family depends on who you ask. Literally." And she wasn't lieing on that count, either. She was stuck in the middle of two tribes, with neither really knowing what the hell to do with her anymore and who should accept responsibility (blame) for her actions. Her voice is devoid of any emotion as much as his is inspires (negative) emotion."If it helps your sensitive feelings of bodily intrusion from the 40 cal... I used the same on the other guy."
Yes, this one has balls.
(asher)
the soft laughter rolls like incoming fog from the black waters"I know."
mismatched gaze flickering through the space between them
"Which is why I wouldn't have accepted any reference to who made that little token. So.... what was my other choice of whom to ask?"
(sal)
"I'm an adopted member of the Get, if you're so dying to know." An almost exasperated sigh. To her, tribe didn't matter so much any more. Each one was as generally as annoying as the next...So, yes, according to the laws of changing tribes and all the huhah, she did techincally shoot one of her own tribe. With silver. While he was battling an enemy. Which may have contributed to the Dancer getting away. Thus, she had been a very bad girl... and she didn't look she was particularly bothered...
But no Get could ever punish as the enemy could... she'd learnt that the hard way.
(asher)
"That's not what I asked."he is more than aware of her betrayal to the makers of the fetish she wore
he is also aware of just how impartial she seems
idly wondering if it is only an act, or true"What tribe before the Get accepted you?"
he is also more than aware of what it means to change sides
(sal)
"Fangs..." she says it nuetrally with a bare lift of one shoulder. There was no pride of blood in her voise. After all, it was their genetics that had haunted her mental state since the day she'd been born. That the Fangs had willingly submitted one of their own with even an ounce of pure breed to another tribe spoke a lot... both good and bad.
(sal)
As she speaks she curls one of her arms across her midright, unconsciously rubbing her thumb across the white cotton of her t-shirt and feeling the uneven texture of scar tissue and flesh underneath the material.Damn him...
(asher)
"A Fang..... how intriguing....."mused (richly) in another hazy smile laced with the scents deep breaths have been tantalizing his senses (realities) with....... gun oil.... but little else
other than wyrm taint worn like last week's perfume, still clinging to some vestige of her form"Now the actions make sense."
smirked (mocked)
(salome)
"So glad to to intrigue, Dancer"The sarcasm is fair venomous, but it's an improvement (sort of) on the nuetrality that had firm hold of her voice a few moments before. It just goes to show that there is still something inside her other than that core deep down she spends her days sliding into, removing herself from society and humanity. Allowing herself action without regret or conscience.
She said Dancer like it was a vile word, but the tone goes far beyond the blind faith that many have that one must hate a Dancer for merely being a Dancer. This was more... personal.
(asher)
oh yes, now she's fighting back (and he likes it when they fight) that gaze wandering across her as if the clothing were never even there, the mockery remains in his smile
strike a chord, and watch them squirm to the beat"I thought you would be, now there's one more thing...."
a pause in his steps, gesturing towards a bench
just so they don't stand out
though it is command, not invite(sal)
She raises one eyebrow in a sardonic manner as a reply to the unvoiced command, shakes her head with a roll of her eyes, but takes a perch on the very corner of one end of the bench.No need to court disaster to make it worse than it was already going to be...
(asher)
how bad will it truly get....as she sits, a smile only mantains itself on his features (almost dreamy) as the silence lingers between them
and the bench breaks beneath her slight weight
wood splintering, shredding apart on his command
shards worming (wyrming) their way through denim and cotton
minds of their own splinters crawl beneath her skin
tainted
burning
a thousand pinprick injections of the toxins that drip (green) from fingertips hidden in his pockets"I do not recommend interrupting, again, clear?"
the lean Dancer turns on a tankbootheel, leaving her and the paralyzing pain (it must be embarrassment) of the toxin's aching beginnings, leaving him time to disappear into the latenight crowd
he acknowledges that she did not fire a fatal shot
as his revenge is not fatalonly irritating and painful
[let no insult go unpunished]
(sal)
"Big, brave Dancer..." she hisses out between clenched teeth. 'Fucking asshole' was more one her mind, but it was her own damn fault.Then again, a bit of pain was always health... just her 'bit' was generally a lot more than more people enjoyed.
The situation had just taken a truly twisted turn. Pain coupled with the presense of a Dancer married to prior memories of days long gone and situations unwon... not to mention the fact that he was picking on an already unstable person to begin with.
"I hope Ik'Cha makes you whine like the a child before he tears our your throat..."
(asher)
...... I wasn't the one shooting others unarmed..... big brave Fang kin......chuckled (searing) on a whisper in her mind
her words barely caught in the crowd's growing din
though attention they hold, if even for a moment...... Ik'Cha would understand........
now, perhaps, he cares not why she speaks the name of a brother
instead returning home to his own family (packlovers)(sal)
"Maybe..." and she leaves the maybe not unsaid as she hauls herself to her feet, aching in places perhaps better unthought and definately unsaid.This was personal. This was war...
He wasn't the only one returning home... so much for a decent cup of coffee. This time she was going home to 'lick her wounds' so to speak. Next time... we'll see...
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