October 21, 2002truce [salome][jersey city]
(salome)
She'd spent the better part of the day moving around somewhat aimlessly (restlessly). If she paused long enough to think it would bring all the wrong things to mind. Thoughts that itched inside her brain, as if waiting for her to dig her fingers in through the flesh to scratch at the nagging sensation. She needed coffee now - something to keep her going, keep her alert (hell, heighten her paranoia). Because of this she'd parked along the curb in front of a somewhat delapidated looking 7-11. Graffiti scrawled it's wet-look way across the bricks on either side of the windows, cigarette butts lay crushed and forgotten on the cracked pavement, and several pieces of litter tumbled forlornly down into the gutter to be washed out to sea with the rest of humanity's filth.The coffee cup was warm (comforting burning sensations) cupped in one hand and a cigarette burned with a soft red glow in her other. She was leaning aganist the hood of her truck. A time out. A rest. Stretching her legs and crumpling up her mind.
(asher)
drizzling rain washed (acid) through blond hair, showers scattered like plague rosaries across the state but for now it seems they forsake the ground their (rabid) attentions, the Galliard walks (still damp from the stroll) down the street(listen as the wind blows, from across the great divide)
wandering
(voices trapped in yearning, mem'ries trapped in time)
prowling
(the night is my companion, and solitude my guide)
hunting
(would I spend forever here, and not be satisfied)
aimless
(and I would be the one.... to hold you down.....)hands slid into the pockets of baggy jeans (soggy cling to lean hips) for remnants of warmth insulated by damp fabric, mismatched (mutant, metis, mule) eyes cast on the variant symposium of creatures and features dotting the sidewalk, huddled for wamrth, aching for good, gasping for breath after the storm
(salome)
She lifts the cigarette to her lips, drawing in slowly, her eyes almost crossed as she watches the end flare red with life and crawl along the white paper, crackling, crinkling, killing it... turning it all the ash... Life was like that, she mused, It burnt you till there was nothing left but ash.She loosens the cigarette from her lips, lifting the cup of coffe in its place and inhaling the aroma untop of her lungful of toxic smoke. Smoke and steam mingle together in a sickened dance as she exhales slowly before taking another slow sip.
Her hair was damp with drizzle, the occasional drip of water sliding down one of her cheeks nad hanging on her chin for a few quavering moments before it fell to it's 'little death' on her t-shirt. In time, she figured, banes would notice her - the place with rife with them - and with banes came BSD... with BSD came good hunting.
That was what she needed.
Release.
A little death of her own.
(asher)
tank boots leave their wax-resistant impression within the dregs of water still clinging to the molded concrete sidewalk, an even path that traces his progressions through yet another city, yet another distraction (yet another list of victims) borne the terror of his wayward attentions (just what is the Spiral without his pack?) bearing the weight of his boredom (loose cannon) suffering the twisted (cracked) wrathhow many more are going to die
(their screams, he only does it for their screams)how many more are going to find ecstacy after the agony
(veritable symphony composing itself for his ears alone)there is a hidden (guilty) pleasure in those eyes, the way they seem pleased with what it is he gazes upon (in order to be reborn, one must be cleansed and destroyed) the sleek, wet look of the earth newly emerging from the deluge, there's a pleasure in what he sees, what he smells, what he feels - from the crisp clean scents assaulting his nerves to the way the soaked cotton sculpts itself to lean torso (newly cast bronze cooling the damp air)
a strange, mad, unhinged, and devastatingly calm..... pleasure
(salome)
Never underestimate the power of a badly aligned personality. It was often enough, with a misplaced word or phrase, to turn even the most understanding people into explosive balls of ill-contained anger. They should have been, therefore, just waiting for it. But none of them understood.And now she was standing her, under godforsaken weather, feeling the maddening pulse of anger (rage) and frustration (confusion) in her veins.
Blood tells all... The Fenrir had called her Fang, even though by their society, she had been taken by the Get of Fenris to be one of their own. He'd verbally removed any conscience he may have had about her well-being (not that I needed it, sneered her mind). You take care of your own, before you take care of anothers. He'd placed her into the category of 'anothers'. So be it. She didn't need them... right now.
Smoke crawls out of her mouth as she continues to inhale and exhale the nictotine-laden fumes of her cigarette.
There is something alive, a buried urge of an ugly rapacious nature that surges within the pulsing surrounds, thrusting against a cotton-string that precariously binds it's hellion leer.
She sips on the coffee, inwardly reflecting on the situation at hand and even musing at how it distracted her from the 'Ultimate Goal'... but with a goal like hers, a little distraction was no doubt a good thing.
Crawling in my skin
These wounds they will not heal
Fear is how I fall
Confusing what is realThere's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface
Consuming/Confusing
This lack of self-control I fear is never ending(asher)
and sometimes, in the masses of the ill-fitting consumption of a strange and distant city, there becomes the dawning rays of something familiar, something close to the heart (something buried and twisting deep inside) that brings the twinge of a smile across poet's soft lipshe can feel it here
the energy
the seething pulse of the darkness, the blackness
the devilric caste of his. own.Banes
everywhere, weaving about and around the very structures he passes
it inspires a myriad firework display across eyes of day and night (life and death) skies, lungs filling with the turged scent of bane's crackling electricity, it draws his tongue to paint wet between his lips in languid (the serpent coiled in wait) gleam betraying the slight shift in the even flow that had inhabited the Galliard's body
afterglow slit of his eyes finally giving way to reveal the rest of the world to him, tunnelvision widening to the freeways of simulation crashing against his brain...... and it is then he finds her.... the Fang Kin
silent on his approach(salome)
They say that when you get a cold chill down your spine, someone has just walked over your grave. It was a strange saying, being that if you were alive, you had yet to get yourself a grave to begin with. Others say that the chill, the prickling on your arms is the work of ghosts sliding through you as they wander aimlessly without the direction given to the soul via a mortal body.She figured, given the area and time, it was the stench of the the wyrm that cralwed around the populace and slid over their unprotected skins. She had no more protection that the rest of the populace when it came to seeing, sensing, knowing the presense of the dark spirits.
They'd come for her before and each time hadn't succeeded for for one reason or another... they were always bound to come back.
If at first you don't succeed, try and try again...
Rain continued to drizzle and she continued to stand in its downpour, her leather jacket giving her some form of protection - some warmth - but the front of her white t-shirt clung where the open jacket laid it bare to the elements. The material sucked against her skin, rising and falling around the crests of flesh riddled into her skin. The badages around her hands were sodden, but it apparently wasn't a concern.
Smoke. Sip. Smoke. Sip.
Repetetive actions. A mind turned inward.
(asher)
from out of nowhere his hand slides to cup her cheek (so tender a move) his head tilted, curiously, lifting her chin until her vision fills with the cruel reality that one of the ghosts has just materialized from the darkness and now stood, right there, attention focused completely. on. her."What happened to you?"
palm searing heat against rain-chilled fles, thumb tracing path along the curve of her cheekbone, beneath the healing black bruise, as if physically providing the sooth his tones suggest
(sal)
"Family."Which was true enough, although somewhat stretched. Technically, they were all family... and like siblings they had a tendency to argue. Or thump each other.
And, yes, she flinched back from the hand. The touch. Her eyes flicked back from inner contemplation, hardening slightly from the sheer fact that she was standing that close - was being touched that intimately (?) - to one of the 'evil'.
(asher)
"Hm."contemplative (dismissive) and quick, the breath spilling from his lips as the smoke crawls from hers
"Pity."
that she was marred
that he was not the one to do it
nothing in his countenance belies the truth of the matter
fingertips trail over her face before she flinches far enough away (stickly the memory of them remains, his very touch.... taint) to sever their contact, very slowly does his arm coil back to its place against his side as those uneven (unnatural) eyes consider the brilliant gold (silver) of hers
the silence is long
provoked by her flinch (he liked it) and her hardening"Do you think I'm going to hurt you again?"
(sal)
"You're a Dancer."A firm shake of her head, eyes still cool. Hard. Remote. She said it as if the answer perfectly answered the question. That it was inevitable, one way or another. The question that left hanging was how much he'd hurt in the process.
"Dancer flesh is sick in all it's forms."
And she knew better than most how sickly the feel of dancer flesh could be - the gleam of putrid fur, the feel of leathery wings, the evil heat that emitted from the pores, the nauseating feeling of having it in places best left unspoken.
(asher)
her answer brings a smile (he is a Dancer) for indeed it does perfectly answer the question: He is a Dancer. That is all the reason he should ever need (it is all the reason he requires)."Why?"
chuckled.... chortled..... thick and smug across his tongue, his voice as slick as the (acid) rain
"Because I turned sides in Gaia's war?"
interesting his choice of phrases (oh yes, I was once like you, I was Gaian) and the information he willingly gives her in challenge, daring her to divulge the secrets best left unsaid (he knows what it is like to be fractured by memory), taunting and tempting the temper he knows seeths beneath her curved (wet, gleaming.... his eyes have wandered more than once) surface
"Because I am not on the same side as you?
there is mockery in his scythe smile
she cannot see the ghosts that plague her
but perhaps he can(sal)
“If you walked the coward’s path, that’s for your own conscience to deal with.” Although the way she said conscience said volumes on how she was well aware that he had none. Morals went down the drain when it came to Dancers, she’d found. Not that she was too high up on the rung to throw stones - she killed when she needed to and there was rarely a twinge of guilt…
Kill once, mourn ever.
Kill twice, mourn never.
She flicked the drizzled-stained remains of her cigarette away from her, narrowly missing the side of his head in the trajectory in doing so. She lifted the cup of steaming coffee to her lips and sipped, watching him with dead eyes over the rim of the styrofoam container. Her other hand, now free of the cigarette, curled around her mid-rift, her hand resting against the wet cloth of the white t-shirt.Every day we die a little inside...
She stood before the Dancer without a gun drawn and placed to his forehead and a small piece died inside. It wasn't meant to be this way.
(asher)
while she flinched from his hand
he does nothing regarding the projectile at his head, even if it would be expected he be headshy, considering the ragged (silver) scar running from cheekbone to temple along the left side
he only smiles"They will not call me coward....."
whispered (seething) as if his very breath (mint candy against the tobacco coffee of hers) were still touching her skin when his hands had ceased their wandering, the space between them shortening, the dual-blue gaze locked on gold
so sweet (intense) the words that pass his tongue, woven into the tapestry that once and always will inspire those to rise again beside him, the Galliard's (tainted) gifts (speaking against her ears, whispering within her mind)".... when I am still standing with the Army that watches Gaia reborn once again, pure and unblemished, from the flames of Her destruction."
perhaps he never changed sides
he only changed his methods
beneath the skin of the cracked Spiral
lays the most frightening of fanatics"And I think.... you understand what it is like to take a step away from the Chosen's dogma to finally see the way things should be..... yes?"
........ maybe it was meant to be.......
(sal)
"I step away to choose my own destiny; nothing more, nothing less."The words are chosen carefully even as her eyes stay dead, not even a flicker of hesitation brought by his whispered words. Warm mint breath mingling with tobacco coffe breath. Close. Closer. Far too close.
"Insanity never brings a conclusion of calmness."
She knew the depths of this idea well. She had never known what it was to feel true calm. Genetics and actions had left no room for that peace. And like an insane mind never bringing peaceful thoughts, insane actions would never bring a peaceful reign here on earth... or even in Heaven, if it exited.
The swordsman dies by the sword, the handman by the rope, the king by his crown...
Swordsman, hangman, king... she was all, by birth or life. One day she'd die - it was inevitable. Nothing lasts forever. But at least she would choose how it happened.
(asher)
"Is there any other reason?"a brow lifts (curious challenge) above the (maddeningly calm) smile, and the (violating) laughter.... soft, soothing, velvet warmth against chilled skin
"And maybe you're following the wrong insanity."
he's noticed it, the thorn in her side
the question is will he twist it further in
or offer a way to remove it completely(sal)
"I exist on my own terms, not anyone elses. That is reason enough."And it was reason enough. So many of the Garou didn't like free-will instilled in their Kin. They tried to protect them, smothering their poor Kin's sense of self in the process. Clinging, cloying to their last hope of survival and ironically driving a wedge in between by those same actions. Her life, like her death, would be her own. She had accompished things in her life that the Garou had always told her she couldn't. She would continue to do so, until the day she most likely meets a messy end.
"Dancer insanity is a slow poison, nothing worth touching even with a ten foot barge pole."
Yeah, he was nuts. She was nuts. The whole little world around them at this point of time just bred the whole insanity like a rabbit.
It spread.
It seeped.
It oozed.
And she still remained master of her own mind.How the banes must hate that...
(asher)
"It seems to me someone else was terming you."hand uncurls from his side to reach once more, to lay his skin against her cheek, but at the hardening, at the flinch, his reach withdraws (perhaps that was what he was aiming for) sadism coloring his smile
"Then tell me why....."
his voice (it spread, it seeped, it oozed) slipsliding in the rain, freedom of choice, freedom of will, freedom to answer however she pleases without threat of harm....this is what the Dancer offers her..... and in his smile, he knows. he knows.
".... Ik'Cha would care."
she may have not touched it, but it has touched (stabbed, ravaged, violated) her
(sal)
"When the Storm Bringer looks at me, he will see his own death staring back at him."And so she had sworn when her consciousness had been regained from the drug haze and seering pain cocooned by the concrete walls and electric whine of the Intensive Care Unit. He's wanted her to kill herself from shame. She hadn't. He'd wanted the Garou to kill her out of disgust. They hadn't (yet). She still lived. She'd dragged herself back from the oblivion and was whole (seams cracked and superglue baredly holding the pieces together) again.
A roll of thunder, chasing the wind...
Asher fought for a cause. A fanatic in what had been, thus far, an endless battle. She fought for revenege. The darkness that ate at her wouldn't die because it was what was the right thing to do. It would die because she would kill it, lay it to rest, out of vengeance for herself.
And then, maybe then she could lay Vessel's memories at rest.
She lifts the cooling coffee to her lips again, watching the Dancer with soul-dead eyes.
The eyes of the predator. The heart of a wolf.
And unconsciously she strokes her stomach, feeling the rise and fall of scar tissue beneath the sodden cling of her t-shirt.
(asher)
The eyes of the predator. The heart of a wolf.
confronting the soul of a madman"Because he did this."
a statement, not a question, the stopped reach diverting itself to force her hand to flatten against what she rubs over (within) her belly, fingers twining (locking) with hers in the moment that stops time to decide the future
(sal)
The muscles of her stomach convulse, tightening. Her posture stiffens for a few bare breaths of time. She looks down at his hand, fingers twined with hers, settled over her midrift. Cool, sodden material against the palm of her hand and his warm flesh against the back of it.She turns enough to place the almost empty cup of coffee on top of the cabin of the truck, drizzle falling into the styrofoam confines and dying in the rank tasting coffee remains.
She places her free hand on his chest, palm flat, on top of where his heart was beating. Then slid it up, cupping the side of his neck with suprisingly strong, steely fingers as she leans forward, placing herself cheek to cheek with the Dancer.
Her lips stopped beside his ear, her breath tickled the hairs around.
"Because I said it would be so."
The vow of a madman.
(asher)
there's a low sound, reverberating, more felt than actually heard amongst the symphonic splatters of the rain (encouraging) his own free hand slides around her lower back, pulling (trapping) until all that remains between them is the tangle of fingers and fabric clinging to soaked skin, curling against the mystery of her whisper"And what else...... do you say will be so?"
a (vile) intimacy in the words breathed against the side arch of her neck
(sal)
"That I always get what I want..."Which, technically, wasn't entirely true, but when what you generally wanted was to spill the blood of another sentient being... it fit the idea rather well.
And how they always bleed...
Crimson.
Black.
It was all the same.Not to know is bad, but not to wish to know is worse.
Sometimes you had to ignore things just too keep from the screams -that you know will never end once they start - from tearing out of your throat. Ignore the tainted flesh... Keep the screams buried. So whispered her mind, deep down.
(asher)
"So tell me....."slowly whispered, thick and low, the sounds making the water clinging to her flesh vibrate (in response to his tonal touch) as if they quivered (in fear) for more, he pauses, as if to fill the blank with er name, but he knows it not, slow exhale warms (chills) her flesh further
how strange he cannot claim her scent to memory
"...... what is it you want?"
what is it she will get?
so many promises (threats) hidden in his words(sal)
"You're blood."Would you expect any less from the cracked depths of a memory plagued mind?
Blood.
Hot.
Slick.
Crimson.
Copper on the tongue.
The liquid of life.When you sleep at night, they don't hear your cries in your own world.
It isn't hard, being pressed together - flesh and material - as they were, sliding a leg (a knee) between his thighs and there are just as many promises and threats in that one movement as there had been in his words.
(asher)
the soft sound of laughter rumbles against her throat, face turned to drag his jaw against the taught stretch of skin leading upwards, until lips are within reach of her ear - there is something divine touching his words, in the way their skin melds (his scent smeared oily across her nothingness) in this twisted, slow-motion tango
"As I yours....."
murmured (moaned) across her senses.... still the layers, the deception..... he wants her in so many ways
knees buckle as hers parts them, weight dropping and hips curl to drag his groin up the taught muscle of her thigh (sick caress) before pushing with shoulders and the grasp of her hands to, just as slowly, lay her (slowly) across the hood of the truck, her leg wedged tightly at the apex of his, strange sneer on his lips which (finally) face hers
"Too bad you'd be such an unwilling partner..... else I could accomodate that desire."
far more promises than threats back those words (oh how he could let her indulge in that want), his tongue snaking out to catch the tip of her chin, thin line drawn to the curve just beneath her lip (what he cannot smell, why not taste) and just as suddenly, his weight is gone
turned away
back to whatever had drawn him down the street in the first place(sal)
Promises made in the darkness.
Flesh pressed against flesh.
Breath whispered over taunt wounds.
Memories fractured into a million pieces.
A single thread unravels...The violence.
The pain.
The blood.
The guts.
And the glory.
You'd better hope and pray that you make it back safe to your own world...
Click One scary sound is worth a thousand words...
Deep breaths drag in and out of her lungs, her pupils flaring to almost encompass the entirity of her iris, leaving only the thinnest sliver of gold to the world. Quivering. Shaking. Shock or anger? Sometimes there is little difference, like reality and imagination.
Fingers brush against the back of his neck. Warm where the wind was cool against the flesh. Nails running over minute hairs and digging into tendons and skin of (rancid) flesh.
The length of her body pressed up against his back, a warm electric line of presence. A radiation of 'other' along his spiritual essence.
"I'll see your blood..."
Hot breath tickles the back of his ear, the words dripping from her lips like an ill-fated, death-plagued omen.
Silver... Tang. Itch. Tickle.
The very end of a well honed blade breathing a lazy circle near where steel-like fingers press into his flesh.
(asher)
warmth against the length of his back - it brings shuddering smile to the Galliard's silken lips, but that smile (sadistic) twists (haze builds in bale-fire blue eyes) hands reaching back to cup her ass and pull her tightly against him"Is that a proposal or a posey of a ring?"
half growled
half (lecherously) moaned(salome)
The knife tip slides against the back of his neck, silken movement against his jugular, the crook of her elbow and arm sliding down one of his, before the blade comes to rest under the very tip of his chin.A growl to match his own, deep in her throat.
"Come find out..." Puppy her minds whispers as an attachment, because like he didn't know her name, she had nothing to call him.
"Come play." Growled against the throat, like a dominant teasing/threating a submissive.
Because where else was she to find release among the splinters of her fractured mind...? Precious few places.
(asher)
his body and mind react as one (aching tremble against her lithe form) weight shifting backwards to re-direct them towards the truck, never once letting her body stray from slick contact with his (warmth seeping through rain-chilled clothes)"Leave the silver in the truck" he says nothing about the other blades "and I'll play all. you. want."
[hurt me, begged the masochist]
voice lowering (already she gets to him) the beast snapping at the heels it chases (hungry, craving) gaining with every step
[no, smirked the sadist]
(sal)
She reaches a hand back to the door handle of the truck, pulling the door roughly open (frustration/impatience), feeling it smack against the back of her legs (Mmm, pain).Using one leg she holds the door from swinging closed again before she slides her hand between the press of their bodies (front to back) and he can feel the pinch of metal against the skin of his back through clothing.
Clank The gun is dropped in through the half open door, hitting the drivers seat and tumbling down onto the floor by the feet of the passenger seat. It lays there, abandoned... and is then joined by another.
"Get in." It was a low, husky order as she manuevers herself to open the driver's side door open with her hip.
God knows it could look like a kidnapping right now... entering a car with a knife at one of the twosome's throat.
(asher)
bodies jolt when the car door shoves against her (eyes half closing, smiling, ready to beg for more) an odd approval in his frame as the guns dive into the passenger's floorspacestrange, his honor
she can't try to kill him
he won't try to kill her
oh, but the pleasures of everything inbetween
a truce, perhaps, for the night.... if only thenweight angles against the knife, sharp blade kissing pressure against his throat before the Galliard moves around to the other door - there can be no doubt his willingness to join her - crimson sliding thick and slow down the curve of his larynx by the time he's settled into the seat
(salome)
Posted by asher at October 21, 2002 12:00 AM
And for tonight there is a truce so that primal urges can be awakened and satisfied...
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