drums-on-skulls: .12.01.02. - in the garden [butterfly-enver]

December 01, 2002

.12.01.02. - in the garden [butterfly-enver]

[jersey city]

(butterfly)
The familiar scents of the urban sprawl wafted, enticing tendrils of memories scents on the nipping winds that howled mournfully around the stone arches of the dilapidated rose gardens (no petals, no blooms) that sprawled in the corner of the city's botanical parklands. The clouds, ominously dark and laced with with varying shades of charcoal gray, billowing across the sky. What few stars that managed to appear in snatches and glimpses were scattered, their brilliance toned to fading through the harsh blanket of technicolor pollution hanging like a luke warm blanket over the city limits, the stamp of human ocupation and pollution only barely petering out over the waiting wildlands beyond the domain of this concrete cemetery.

She was standing, a forlorn creature, silhouetted by the bare illumination streaming down from neglected lamps. She was alone (unlikely) under a singular arch, leaning against the crack-riddled stone masonry (ghostly angel). Long chestnut curls, stained ebony by the shadows, spilled unbound down over her shoulders and face, occasionally lifted by gusts of icey wind. Shdows flickered around her with a seeming life of their own, a dull brilliance scattering them as if peeked through the few moving leaves on creaking, skeletal branches cast over the gardens.

(james)
it's strange where a walk takes you
even in the condo
even at home
he was uncomfortable

surrounded by the newly replaced glass
the warmth emanating from the heater
her smell that permeated the air, intensified by the recirculation finally beginning once more in the wind-swept living room
it itched at him
it niggled at the base of his spine
the mummy-in-the-box
the little boy bashed
(she would have been about that age, James, you think?)

hours ago he grabbed the trench
scratched a note just in case she came home
locked the doors
and simply picked a direction
not thinking, just walking, just pacing, just getting out
shoulders bars of steel beneath the patchwork fabric
jaw a line of tension down across his throat
dark eyes cast towards the earth they so resemble

and now?
it seems time for a nature walk through the botanical gardens
how the hell did he end up here.....
oh, he knows, in the back of his mind
the girl, the ghost, the apparition that appeared in Rune's condo
the one he held a conversation with
the one it seems, now, that he's looking for

bloody hell James what is the matter with you

his head shakes
what the hell, right?
better than sitting home, alone, in the condo
he's done that enough for the past few nights
ragswrapped hands slipping deep into pockets
boots crunching on gravel scattered on the paths

(butterfly)
The wind howls eeriely and the skirt of her ankle-length dress (princess) is caught by the winds with a faint whisper of material, sliding around legs only to be teased away again. She leaned back against the archway that framed her (pale angel wrapped in unreal light), her clipped wings shrouded by the glimmer of freedom from burdens awash in her rich brown eyes.

She wasn't alone... there was a man (guard my body) encased in shadows, his presence betrayed by the glowing ball of color shed from the tip of the cigarette, held loosely between two calloused fingers. A gleam of metal sparks in the folds of gloom shrouding the man, the glow of the cigarette reflecting a hellfire red hue off of the solid surface of a plain silver ring. Tumbling between his fingers, the ring catches the light absently as the man keeps a careful eye turned towards his charge.

(james)
we've gone from Warrior of the Apocalypse to Ghostbuster
quite a career move, Jamey-boy
quite a move

just as his walk through the city
he follows the paths aimlessly
winding through the rows of dormant flora
this strange urban fauna
this spot of colored life in all its faded glory

there's a bit of pause outside the rose garden area
chin lifting through inhale to read the air

(butterfly)
There was the scent of two mingling on the air that whipped past - male and female - betrayed by the faint scent of cologne and a softer, floral scent.

A deep male voice: "It's cold, Butterfly - I should take you back."

A delicate female voice replies after a interlude of silence, only the howl of the wind passing thrugh the skeletal branches heard.

"I have to wait. I said I would."

(james)
brows lift a little
hearing the male voice and smelling the male scent
well, he's not really that surprised
she did say she was quite watched over

boots shift into motion again
hands still sunk deep into his pockets
slowly rounding the bend

"Hey Butterfly."

soft, easy, warm
he might even wear what resembles a smile
dark eyes shifting towards where the male's scent is coming from
picking out that cherry burning in the shadows

(butterfly)
An angelic face (too thin, too think, wasting away) lifts from the submissive downturn it had been poised in and hope (so raw and naked) flickers over her face as a smile (amazement/joy) blossoms. He'd come. He'd said he might and he had. How many times had she felt disappointment that this one small gesture could mean so much to one so young?

The dress floating around her was out of style (out of era) and with the silver piping and ribbons looked reminiscient of the dress Sara wore at the very opening of the Labyrinth movie, her only warmth coming from a think cashmere (a gift from Him) coat that seemed to engulf her petite frame.

(james)
his approach is slow, wary
skirting around to keep them both in sight
such a strange, strange girl....

"Who's your friend."

chin lifting in nod towards the man
he can feel her hope swell like a festering wound
so violent it's painful

(butterfly)
"Pierre. He is..."

Her dark, doe like eyes flicker to the man in the shadows and she swallows slightly, looking back at James, her voice dropping almost to a whisper.

"My chaperone."

She had said that she was never to be allowed outside without someone - that she was never alone, save by the means in which they originally (startling) met. For whatever it meant to him, it seemed that for all intents and purposes, she seemed somewhat frightened by her her own guard, but of that... there could be so many reasons why.

(james)
there's a slow nod
chaperone, right. right.
a slight whisper of dreads over fabric
getting a bit chilly out, past couple of nights
the trench is shrugged higher around his shoulders

"Chaperone.... got it."

inner lower lip nibbled a bit, in thought
at least he now knows she's real
so scratch ghost off the list

"So.... what are you, anyway?"

leaving the reference to her little visit unsaid basis for the question

(butterfly)
"I don't... understand..."

Her brows knit together with confusion and she flicks a quick look at Pierre, perhaps wondering if he would understand the question. Pierre, although, said nothing. But he had shifted slightly at the question, a tenseness flooding the air around the man swathed in shadows. He didn't like the way this conversation was developing.

(james)
as Pierre tenses
he. stops.
not drawing any closer
but not drawing away, either
silently studying the gaunt form before him
still paying attention to our friend in the shadows
but it's her he's paying most attention to

gaunt
sickly
scared
poor thing

"Comon out, Pierre, the moonlight's lovely tonight."

something of a grin raking over young features
but he doesn't push that issue any further
(even if he wants to)
he knows the look of someone that's scared
what he doesn't know is the trigger
so he's not about to go fumbling about in the darkness

"I was just curious to why you chose me, Butterfly, that's all."

(alexandra iverson)
As time whittles its way on, the fabric of reality slowly perforates, whittling holes in logic and time. As logic and time decay into near-nothingness along with the fabric of reality, various inaccuracies form. Sometimes it takes place as an unlikely occurance, or perhaps an improbable structure. In this particular case, the oddity in reality happens to be a person. A singular woman, in fact. She's not especially strange by herself, or in her surroundings, or in her way of life. She is, in fact, lacking in any particular oddity. This, in itself, is not peculiar, nor is it when taken into context with her surroundings or her way of life. It merely... is peculiar.

This woman walks with a gait that implies a combination of natural relaxedness mixed with a self-imposed posture that is inherently uncomfortable. Her face is clean, clear, and colored in such a way that looks of no makeup. Her eyes are deep wells, deep enough to lead into her soul, and deep enough to suck you in with a focused glance. Her clothing implies a combination of resources and good taste, and her aura seems to be of interest in her surroundings. She's perfectly unobtrusive to those who have other things to do, and distracting enough to draw the attention of those who don't have enough on their minds. Sunshades are worn in her hair as a semi-hair-band.

She looks like a cross between a tourist who has never seen the botanical gardens before and a seasoned veteran of the city, having memorized each and every kernel of this place, and merely here to check her own memory.

Maybe that's what's peculiar about her. I don't know. Something is just... not right with this woman. Or maybe it's that things are a bit too right that's unsettling. It's a system to screw with your senses, and she does it without trying. Of course, maybe if she were trying, it wouldn't screw with you at all. That is perhaps the most alluring mystery about this woman...

She makes her way through the entryway to the chamber and begins to walk down the main path into the gardens.

(enver)
The car is quite indifferent, cold, the sickly glare from twin yellow eyes breaks the curtain of night without care or thought to those that might desire to lurk in its shadowy embrace. The vehicle slices through the cool blanket of blackness until it eases up to the Botanical Gardens, his destination already plotted and planned in his mind.
It is of no consequence were he to be accosted and his path halted for a moment were guards to intervene. He is in no mood to deal with....those people....and thus he is quite lucky so far, no security has been seen. The lights and engine quietly cease their hum, the driver exits and the back passenger door is opened.
The cold air brings his movement to falter, but it's brief and he's out of the car and the door closes with a noticeable 'click'. He, this man of regal bearing, is tall. Perhaps 6 feet or so, and his hair is blacker than the night which surrounds him. It is short, this evening, cropped to his chin and falling in silken waves about the young chiseled jaw and features of the man.
Enver starts towards the Rose Garden...the driver follows without direction or words.

(butterfly)
Pierre gives a slight snort of derision, but when she turns doe like eyes at the shadows, the look imploring him to just please do as was asked, he steps a little further out of the shadows so that some of the pale illumination from the delapidated lights spotting the gardens falls across his face. He was dressed in a tailored (expensive) suit and his hair was immaculately groomed. He looked no more than his mid-thirties and has an air about him that crossed a guard-dog (job seriously taken) with a business man. He had the air of determination surrounding him that nothing would happen to his charge while he still drew breath - lest he suffer the brutual consequences (dire threats if anything should happen... god forbid anything should happen...).

Butterfly releases a breath she hadn't known she had been holding until Pierre stepped closer and her knuckles were white as they clutched the material of her dress (far too thin for this weather). She slowly returns her gaze to James and smiles (shy/submissive/worried).

"You looked... lonely."

And loneliness was something she knew all too well.

(alexandra)
In the cosmic show of life, this woman would not be a main character. She probably wouldn't have any lines. Her one purpose in the whole show would be to provide ambiance for others, and make the scene more complete. More real. Her outward simplicity and lack of completion gives her the ambiance of a character the writer merely threw in to make the scene complete. To add a tiny bit for a single moment, and then removed forever from the stage.

What happens when you take someone who was one of the extras of life, one of the people who were meant to wait in the wings until the one time when they walk on and effect the show in the one way they are allowed to, and keep them there. Put them in the center of the stage. Take some of the lights off of the other people and redirect them at the extra. Flesh her out in context of the play and reduce everyone else to the position she formerly had. Completely reverse the scripting of reality to find out about her... Then you would have her story.

The story of an extra in the play of life. A small bit of truth thrown into the world. A little extra detail, thrown onto the background of the show and made a complete character out of stage furniture.

This is the story of a woman who never was meant to be on center stage. And now she is...

She is also walking into the rose gardens, and admiring the scent of the flowers as she passes.

(james)
"Lonely."

the word chuckled
mused on a half-bark laugh
what do you call a lonliness of your own making?
the grin slashes wry
rebar clinks on the sling on another errant shrug

"I can dig it."

can we say Pierre makes him really uncomfortable?
so does that sound of approaching footsteps
chin twisting towards shoulder to glance back at Alexandra
a brow lifts
okay, he, the homeless man, has excuse to be wandering around at night in the botanically dormant gardens of Jersey City....
he seriously doubts the woman is here for the same business
unless its some new sport that's suddenly become fad
moonlight garden walking
how romantically Victorian

(enver)
His steps are not silent, nor does he attempt to make them so. With long delicate hands slipped into the pockets of his slacks, this young (quite innocent...) seeming man slowly comes upon the area he knows to house her presence at this moment. It's not so much ... intuition...as it is just simply knowing. He can feel her her, and more than that....those that protect her, protect him first....and so it is through that knowledge that he is aware of the lovely Butterfly in the midnight Garden.
He would seem....non-threatening. Tall and almost willowy, with delicate, yet sharp, angled features and a thick black mane of hair that sometimes falls to cover the loveliness of charcoal grey eyes.

(butterfly)
She reaches into one of the deep pockets of the cashmere coat swamping her gaunt, petite figure and looks att Pierre as if debating how much trouble she may (or may not) get in before she retracts a small bundle wrapped in a lace-edged handkerchief. She steps away from the crumbling stone archway and holds the parcel out to James.

"I... took these from the kitchen... they are my favorites."

She unwraps the kercheif, exposing several sugared biscuits and smiles faintly, dropping her eyes. She had never been in this situation (would she have a friend?)before, not really, and she wasn't sure what she should and shouldn't do. He wasn't like Maitre, she wasn't was right. He wasn't hospital staff, they were another creature entirely. So she made a peace offering and hoped it would suffice.

(james)
another one?
he begins to look out for the new set of footsteps
some shadow creepcrawling through the darkness
automatically reaching into his pocket and pulling out a nestle bar
rags boxer's wrap around hands that make the exchange quick
an offering for an offering
a biscuit replaced with the candybar
biscuit tucked away into his pocket
something of a soft smile on his features

"Thank you."

it's clear he's getting more nervous
like a feral dog backed into a dead-end alley
so many people in a deserted garden so late at night
it begins spelling one rather uncomfortable thing for him
tee. are. aye. pee.

(butterfly)
Her long, thin fingers wrap around the candy bar and pull it in to her chest where she cradles it, like some special token. A gift from someone other than the Maitre: it was special to her. That in itself was almost pitiable that such a paltry thing could mean so much, but when you are kept within a gilded cage, such small things can be such large pleasures to horde away for a later time. She smiles, to herself, and then catches a disapproving glance from Pierre (never accept sweets from strangers) and it falters around the edges a little. She stows the candy bar away, covering the deflation of the meaning of the offering exchange with a hand brushing away chestnut curls (stained dark by the night) from her cheeks.

"I never... heard your name..."

Another frown from Pierre. He was vaguely aware of what his charge was capable of doing - he'd been there when she'd set the entire estate (different state, another time) into a frenzy when she'd just... appeared... and then disappeared. He couldn't protect her when she wantonly did this thing and he wasn't entirely sure whether he would be blamed should something happen during those long, painful hours.

(enver)
(....They were to have met in the garden of the ....)
His man had told him such, told him that she was going here, but Enver did not wish to wait until the Butterfly found her way back to where it was she should have been. No, with the impatience of a lover who hopes to advance the moment of meeting by presenting himself before the appointed time, Enver was already on the path towards her....near her...just a few more steps with long legs.....
By the reflection of the pale street lamps, her figure enveloped in the lightest (expensive...) material, and pink cheeks from where the cold New Jersey air had seen fit to slap her hard, leaving rosy prints upon her face he could see her, and surely she could see him. Each breath she takes greets him, ushering forth a cloud of vapor, white and tenuous, congealed by the cold.
"...mon ami...it is cold and late....and you've not the proper clothes on to be out in this weather..." Eyes flicker from James to the young woman....curiously.

(alexandra)
Her face is the face of millions... hundreds of millions. Every woman alive has her face... and yet it's unique. The face of struggle, thge face of triumph, the face of failure, the face of recognition, the face of loss. It's a face that inspires everyone to look inside of themselves, to find what's really there, a face that looks like what everyone sees inside of themselves.

This face is a mirror of the soul... and yet not her own. She isn't necessarily a beautiful woman, but she reflects the truth. A person like this centerstage is dangerous, because the audience may not like what they see. Most people can't necessarily deal with themselves. A wife abused, a mother loved, a lover scorned, all are reflected in her face. And all are not what is borne within the vessel that reflects even its own reflection.

The extra slowly makes her way from the wings to the center of the stage, when the light of the wings is most magnified and directed at her. For one incredibly improbable moment, all of the light of creation is directed at this one being, this one mirror reflecting all of the light back at everyone. The entire light of creation beckons to every being in existance to look into themselves, and at the brilliant reflector that is, for one instant, the center of all attention. And then it's over.

She woman who could quite possibly be anything passes from the focal point of existance on her way away from the stage, blissfully unaware of the phenomenon that has occurred.

The woman bends over to sniff a rose for that one moment in existance, when she is the single brightest thing in the universe, in a moment of difficult to achieve happiness. For one imprecise moment, the brightest moment that the universe had meant to give her, she is the ultimate center of attention.

And at that precise moment, Fate plays its hand.

The woman overenthusiastically bends into the roses, loses her balance, and very loudly crashes into one of the delicate rosebushes with a crunch that implies at least some pain.

(james)
her reaction to the candy bar doesn't surprise him
he knows what it's like to be given something when you think you have nothing
it's his way to be the one giving the something
(others need, he provides)
Pierre unnerves him
Mr. Stranger Emerging from the darkness unnerves him
the lady crashing into the dormant rosebush......
well, she unnerves him because she's there
but it's a duck of his head that hides the amused smile

and he's not edging away
that's just a trick of your imagination
seriously
he's just keeping an open line of movement between himself and the nearest exit into the maze of flora for aesthetic purposes
doctor's orders
something like that

"That's because I never gave it to you, Butterfly."

suspicious?
paranoid?
him?

(alexandra)
The woman upon whom all of the stage lights of creation had shone upon for one brief moment slowly pokes her head out of the rosebush, in a combination of innocence, stealth, and did-anyone-just-see-me.

(enver)
The excitement from the area which houses Alexandra holds his attention for a long moment. He would....possibly attend to the fallen women, but no....no Butterfly and James are his entire world for the moemnt.
It is not James' presence, or anything of the sort, which sets Enver's senses on high alert. Rather, it is the way in which he tries ever so nonchalantly to remove himself from the situation. Had he been so eager to part company with Enver's charge before he himself had arrived ? He would wager, no, and that reason in and of itself is solely responsible for the look of distrust which flicker s over his expression as he looks over James quite intently.
Unfortunately for the head in the rose bush, someone did see her. And were he not terribly entwined with James and Butterfly, he more than likely would have offered to help her up from her thorny bed.
"Who is your friend mon ami?"

(butterfly)
"I didn't think..."

Her words were cut short by Enver's arrival from the shadows and her face lights up like a star going nova when she looks upon him (delirious devotion) then she looks down at her feet, burning with shame that she had caused him to come out so far when he had so many other more important things to do with his precious time. Her voice becomes but a whisper, her head still bowed so that curls tumbled forward and hide her features.

"J'ai tellement desolé, maître.... pardonnez-moi."

She opens her mouth to continue, then closes it. She swallows and looks between James and Enver, caught between hope (James) and devotion (Enver).

"I met him... while I was... sleeping, maître."

She snatches a glance at Alexandra in the bushes and bites her bottom lip - not caught between wanting to help the woman and being too afraid to move lest some of this strange tension in the air around her snaps.

(sheribelle)
Most do not notice the downtrodden, most avoid the homeless and skitterscatter away to their warm homes, the arms of their wives and girlfriends and husbands and boyfriends and friends and lovers and families. They forget.. even the homeless have families. Most band together in small groups for survival, and the older care for the younger and they learn the laws of street or they die. It is that simple. She has learned better then most, She has been around the longest of her little group. her family. She sits crosslegged on the cement, the cold permeating through layer after layer of clothing - all she owns is on her back - and from her pockets she shakes out a scarf - perhaps it once was silk, perhaps it is simply cotten, in either instance, it is the cleanest thing she owns. she lays this before her knees, and then fragile fingers (could she be more then 15?) lay out the most delicate of neckaces, beadwork painstakingly slaved over by oily firelight huddled over drums that burn trash in order to keep warm.Necklaces, bracelets, rings.. all of good sturdy quality, and on occasion, her soft voice rings out to a passerby.. Need a gift for your lady? Buy a pretty for your pretty, she'll love you for it..

(james)
brows slightly lift within the frame of heavy jungle vine dreads
sole response to that intent scrutiny
as if to say to Mr. Stranger
Like I trust you?
it doesn't take Einstein to figure out just what that look from her, to him, means
he knows that twisted sense of devotion

and since Mr. Dark and Serious asked her the question?
he doesn't jump in and answer for her
even if he knows she doesn't know

(enver)
It is not with pity that he reguards the young woman that peers up at him with such (forced) devotion and love. It is regret that keen eyes observe building in his eyes. Building and building until the walls threaten to burst and he looks out with a slow turn of his head, through dangerously sharp shards of thick wavy dark hair, onto the streets, past the gates....beyond most of which they can see from their vantage point. It's a simple stare at nothing. Nothing. It was an almost forgotten sensation, that of allowing your thoughts to fade, to cease to be anything of import, to wander through vast spaces.
"It is well love. I was worried. I am glad to find that you are alright and you have met a friend..." Attention ,then, is returned to James, the one who likely wants it least. "Thank you for spending time with her...." It is a kind word, genuine and sincere that Enver offers to James. But those of the darkness, those that travel the underbelly of the world and live in its filth and sewage, those that know the boogey man is very real .... they know that you can never take words for what they are ... rarely are a mans words true. Rarely.
His attention flickers beyond James again, towards Alexandra....back to the street from whence he came...his driver stands so dutifully a few feet behind him. Always aware, always.

(alexandra)
The woman, who just moments ago was poise and promise is now prying herself out of a rather retentive rosebush. It's difficult to tell, though. She could very easily be a different woman who looks rather similar who is the body double of the woman who fell in. Then again, only so many illogical things can happen every day.

Besides, Extras don't get doubles. They have to do their own stunts.

(sheribelle)
Her voice seems almost musical as it lifts and carries and softens and slides over senses, never intruding, so very easily forgotten. somewhere within the rags fingers dig and search and come out with another bundle of rags. This she does not use to showcase her wares, this is where she olds the precious items that helps her make them.Delicate thread is pulled from the depths of such filth, as well as the most fragile of beads. She so carefully spreads the items against her crossed feet, and fingers - white tipped tinged blue with cold, being stringing one careful bead at a time, dark eyes under lowered lashes that brings wrinkles along outer corner as she squints, slightly. such care going into every. little. piece.. and still her foice flows like water over filthy streets Buy a pretty for your pretty, she'll love you for it..

(butterfly)
When Enver turns to look away. To stare at nothing and then beyond, allowing emotions/thoughts to slide away leaving a blank hollow behind, she steps up to him and wraps long, thin fingers around one of his arms tentatively. She was taking liberties, doing such. None of the others would dare such a thing. She tilts her head back to look up into her benefactors face, curls falling back over her shoulders.

"Ai-je trompé, maître? Il a me demandé que suis-je. Je ne comprends pas..."

So eager to please.

(james)
perhaps he knows a little better than most
when you're a surviving guttermutt
when you're surrounded by more darkness than it seems is anyone's fair share
when the bogeyman seems to have taken up permanent residence under your bed
nothing. is ever. what it seems.
but it's an easy smile that finds its way in return to Enver

"My pleasure."

there's a warmth in his voice
how odd, it doesn't find its way into the rich brown of his eyes
one gaunt pet, one dark captor, one driver, one.... chaperone.... one lady in a bush
and one dreadlocked raggedyman
he calculates it four to one

"But I won't interrupt any longer. Have a good night, hm?"

a glance to Butterfly
fingers drumming over the pocket absently
a thoughtless gesture to most
a gift remembered to others
Alexandra is a perfect excuse
and the tall man moves over towards the bush

he was already in a bad mindspace
the devoted look, the welling regret
that was just a little too much for him to handle

one arm held out draped in tattered sleeve
hand bandaged in rags offered to help her the rest of the way up

(alexandra)
As the woman scrabbles around, rather desparately, inside of the rosebush, it slowly becomes apparent to the onlookers that she doesn't seem to be capable of getting out. In fact, her efforts seem to be driving her deeper into the bush in question. It's almost as though she's swimming backwards through greenery.

The woman reaches out her hand to the hobo-esque person, almost with a slight air of recognition... as though he is someone she knows... As she throws out her arm, she speaks, her voice echoing across the folds of reality in what should not have been... and extra speaking to a main character... This promotes the woman, without her knowing, to the status of minor character, in the cosmic theme of things. Extras aren't supposed to have lines... and yet she has transcended the boundary that had been set for her. She is now one of the players in the grand scheme of things, all with this one little utterance:

"Jack?"

Her voice, for all of the cosmic importance it has, isn't all that impressive. It's actually rather meek, as though she were speaking to someone far superior to her...

(sherribelle)
A crouch and a man fall into view and furrowed brow smooths as she looks up... he points to a nicety, and she smiles, money exchanged and he is on his way. nimble finger rearrange the remaining items, and voice lifts and falls and slides again as she returns the majority of her attention to the work in hand.

(enver)
"Monsieur....I do owe you a small bit of....gratitude as it were for seeing to mon cher...." And he leaves it at that. No more is said, and if the time comes when James sees fit to stoop to such vile levels, to lower himself to such....perverse ideas.....to call on Enver for a favour, then the young dark haired man with the slightly French clip would be inclined to cede that request.
"Come, little one, it is cold and you should be home" His words are quiet, private for Butterfly's ears alone. The voice on the streets (Buy a pretty ... for a pretty....) has been ringing in his ears like a beautiful sonata from finely skilled hands. And as he walks the young beautiful woman out of the Garden, it is towards that voice he heads.
"I worry about you" He doesn't direct the words to her with a name, Butterfly knows they are meant for her.

(butterfly)
She keeps an arm laced around Enver's as he walks her out of the Gardens (Pierre in tow), but glances over her shoulder furtively in the direction of where they were leaving James. Wondering, ever confused (hopeful).

It was something of a useless action to keep close to her benefactor - he was as cold as the night and seemed as tired as she was after her late night 'excurions' beyond body and mind.

"What did he mean, maître? He isn't one of them is he?"

(james)
"Nope, not Jack, close though."

smiled, slightly
(so. very. slightly.)
helping haul the woman out of the rosebush of extra voidal doom and back into the limelight
a glance back over his shoulder to Enver
the barest of nods
up

and then the raggedy man is disappearing into the darkness

Posted by james at December 01, 2002 12:00 AM

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