June 28, 2005
.06.28.05. - motel lifestudy [imogen-nessa] *dr

[riverfront]

(nessa malikoff)
Nessa, stil in her work clothes-- nondescript slacks and blouse, looking a bit nondescript herself. And slightly red eyes. Surely that is just allergies, right? She is carrying a cup from a cafe, the steamy sweet scent of something which started as coffee emitting from it.
Teh kin knocks on the hotel room door...
Her wrists are covered by a lightweight suitjacket, black hair up. Tote--a neater one now than before, but nothign to write home about. Nothing formfitting, slightly loose actually. She;s styled for 'average' now. Just your common garden variety Shadowlord kin.
The Russian looks aroudn while she waits.

(imogen)
The hotel is... well. A motel, really. Low-end, low-class and entirely unlike Doctor Imogen M. Slaughter and her understated elegance. Nonetheless, this was the correct address. The carpet in the hallway is worn, and the walls are thin so that the mutter of occupants can be heard as she walks to the appropriate room number.

It smells of stale cigarette smoke. Perhaps the occupants are smoking. Imogen, when she opens the door, is not smoking, however, stepping aside to let the Shadow Lord Kin in.

The room beyond is tidy, if pale and tired, the coverlets thin, the carpet discoloured. The kinfolk's dark eyes touch on Agnessa, for a moment, thoughtfully, taking in her red-rimmed eyes, perhaps her tired look. Imogen looks as well as she did before, with her suit perhaps a little more creased, her hair just a little looser about her face.

"C'mon in," she says, as she walks back into the room, "I hope you don't mind, but I've brought company." There's a sensation that she says this for politeness only. Agnessa's response doesn't matter.

(nessa)
She tenses a littel, then relaxes--some-- when she sees Imogen. "As long as company is reasonably polite and is not carrying black knife. Damn, is not nice here." She steps in,looking back with what might be a touch of nervousness.
He could be anywhere.

(james)
Imogen is not smoking - her guest, however, is
raggedyman tucked nice and neat into the far-side corner
lanky frame comfortably situated at the motel room's excuse for a dinette set
one elbow resting on the cracked veneer of the table's long-dull top
the other crooked to allow ashes their plummet into nondescript ashtray

dark eyes wander from below the curtain of tangled dreads
rich umber hues speaking of the moist earth they all struggle to save
subdermal inferno speaks of something else entirely - a primal predator caught in man's den
the Ahroun cuffs breath into the rhythmic cadence of softly amused laughter
his words riding towards the ceiling on rings of Camel's fragrant smoke

"Nuh. No knives 'ere." a grin spreads lopsided across his face - so fine a line between friendly and ferocious, his arsenal is far beyond the treatise of tang and blade "'n I promise a be poli'e.'"

(nessa)
Tired, yes. But she carries herself well enough. Light on her feet. Nessa looks about for this company.
She nods to him, her Russian accent thick tonight. Sighs, relaxing a little more. "Is good. I am Nessa Malikoff." Her dark blue eyes watch him inquisitivley.

(imogen)
"No, it rather is not," Imogen answers Nessa absently.

A glance toward James, and his cigarette, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk that might be a rare thing for Agnessa to see. There's something amusing about what she sees in the Gnawer Garou. Or perhaps that she is not smoking, and he is.

(If there were a totem connection between kinfolk and garou, he might hear the single word: Cruel. Perhaps knowing her as long as he has, he hears it anyway in the twitch of her mouth, wry and self-deprecating.

Imogen has always stopped smoking from time to time. This one has lasted longer than most, but has a timer on it, just the same. Her addiction is ticking...)

She lets James make what introductions he may, walking over to the round table, one with several folded bits of cardboard beneath a leg (an old camel packet, something else unrecognizeable) to try and steady it. From the table, she picks up an art pad, flipping through it quickly. It's half full. The images within pass by too quickly to see - an impression of charcoal and pencil shading. At a new page, she stops, folds the pad over and places it back on the table.

(nessa)
She walks over to the table, not thrilled to be here but willing. A little reluctance in the way she moves. Doesn't want to see Him again. Even a drawing.
"So.. i explain and you draw, da? There is some that cannot be drawn. The.. feel. More indentifyable than the way he looked. I have never felt that before." Even from Shadowlords. Which, is Truly saying something. Except, of course that she would not say something so disrespectful.
Still, the slight implication is there.

(james)
for as long as the firey kinswoman and guttermutt Gnawer have known each other
perhaps it is safe to assume he garners some totemic speech from mere expression
there's the connection of their eyes across the spanse of brevity
a momentary focus translating into the endless prose of bodylanguage

she quits smoking from time to time
this round has laster longer than most
they all, however, have come to an end

and who's gonna be there with a waiting pack and Zippo, hm?
(..... I had a dream I was a vigilant sidekick.....)
safe bet it's the same Garou that's currently not winking in response
(..... You think I don't know?.....)
and instead directing his attention and so-called manners on the Russian kin

"Jamezzz Brans'n."

there are things that cannot be described nor translated through pencil to paper
those, perhaps, are the reasons for which Imogen brought her strange-looking company
his resources awaiting Nessa's descriptions in a wholly different realm

(imogen)
She pauses significantly waiting for introductions to be completed. When they are, she glances at Agnessa, "Close. I'd rather ask yeh to describe a bit at a time. We'll start wi' somethin', get it right, and then move on. His eyes, th'shape o' his face." Imogen shrugs, as she slides out of her suit jacket, laying it over the top of her chair.

There is no air conditioning in the motel, and the room is sweltering. Beneath the jacket, she wears a cotton blouse, the sleeves short enough that the outline of her tattoo is visible, just beneath the fall of the cuff. The shadowed shape of her gun at the small of her back, too. One can see why Imogen wears her suit jacket, day in and out, regardless of heat.

"It'll take some time. But better in th'long run."

A glance up at the Shadow Lord, as she sits down, "Are yeh ready?"

(nessa)
She fights the urge to rub the goosebumps off her arms. "An honor to meet you." Turns to the redhead kin, leaving her jacket on, concealing what she needs to keep hidden. "I am ready. So..Eyes? Dark." She describes the eyes, alright there. "he seemed.. amused at first, and as if i were stupid. Which, caught in house alone, maybe i was."


(james)
it is indeed sweltering in the cheap-ass room
James, at least, had been in his share of simliar dives
so knew to dress for the occasion

wifebeater leaves his arms bared to muggy atmosphere
tanned skin giving way to the iridescent tribal slashes patterning right forearm
dreadlock tips hiding the peeking tips of equally dark marks falling cape down his back
luckily, he's not melting enough to soak thin cotton to the point of showing their true extent
but unlike the Russian visitor, the Gnawer isn't concerned about concealing battlescars or other markings of his kind
lean and carved as his limbs seem to be, there's no indication he carries a weapon like the good Doctor
BDU's crossing casually at the ankle beneath his chair

"Sssshape? Sssset? Browli'e?"" a pause for collective thought while the smoke is ashed out in the tray, calloused hands spreading wide with upward palms, inviting a bit more depth, prompting Nessa's recollective detail without abrupt demand "Give any in'cation o'v'iz bloodli'ez?"

(imogen)
Imogen had been about to speak, a faint line forming between her brow - James however, speaks before she has completely drawn her breath. A lift of her pencil in James's direction supports what the Gnawer has says.

When Agnessa begins to speak again, providing the pertinent information, Imogen's pencil begins to scratch across the paper, taking words and giving them shape.

(nessa)
She peers at Jamezzz adn struggles with his accent then turns back to IMogen slowly. "His eyebrow? Ahh.. well. " She starts explaining all she can, from unwashed ukempt man to dark hair adn pale skin, the multiple scars over him like patchwork. She points out where she'd stabbed him, and describes the cut of his trenchcoat and hte poor clothes he wore. Very accurately. like she Really looks at people. Repeating anything, helpign to make corrections.
By the end of hte picture, she is visibly rattled.
"I do not know what bloodline? Why would i know that? Jody said those markings are.. Wyrm? He is evil. Is very true."
She sighs. "There is more cannot draw- miasma of him, like.. rotton air. Rotten soul. It.. went.. i felt it even in thighs."
She shivers. And reaches for her purse.

(james)
James maintains his silence until the kinswoman begins to falter
dreads rattling atop his shoulders as head shakes gently

"Bloodli'e, her'tige, ethnic mayk-uph?" again, those hands travel through the air, somewhere in this mop of a man is a performer tried and true, backpedaling his faulty choice of easier pronounced words "Ay-shun? White? 'Spanic?"

and perhaps there is a part of the guttermutt that considers comforting her obvious disquiet
the closest she gets is the toss of pack and lighter into the middle of the table in offer
his newest link in the chain smoke line scissored between index and middle finger

"He intim'dayt'd yew f'r pow'r..... f'r y'r revulszion 'n fear..... more'v a rapis' th'n a murd'rer?"

brow cocks towards the ropey dreads
query that she understands what he's getting at in the entire attack
it wasn't a singular gutting spree, this was something sick and emotionally sinister
(.... the prevalence of corruption's stain....)

(nessa)
Her dark blue eyes stare at him nealry squinting. "Ahh.. Oh. AHh not Asian, not Latin. I think.. White. Pale, maybe as pale as i am but not.. liek the health. More tan?"
She jsut about pounces on the cigs--they dont even hit the table- lighting up rather extremely quickly and sucking in the smoke.
"I.. think maybe both. Imtimidate, definately. It.. was not just that thogh. I think he had followed me from grocery store. I felt itt there too. I thought was cold from the frozen food but not. Then, at home, i felt before i heard him. Barely. He came in through the window, down from fire escape--adn we are on 6th floor, not easy. He had been above. Below was blocked off, Milobrat had done that. He--teh man-- said nothign, only twirled the knife. And stabed the door when i tried to get out that way. When he attacked, it was not to kill. To wound. Ad he did not, until i tried to get away."
*SHe* thinks she is being fairly calm, considering.

(imogen)
Agnessa describes, Imogen's pencil scratches across the paper, and slowly what Agnessa says, comes to life on paper. Perhaps too much to life.

Imogen, though she takes her time, or perhaps because she does is good. Damn good.

Or so James can see. The tilt of the pad keeps the image from Agnessa. So perhaps her rendering is beautiful, but her directions faulty. A glance toward James when he speaks, and she speaks up for the first time since Agnessa had begun to describe accurately, other than to ask a question or two ("Are his lashes long? Does he have a long face?" so on. So forth.) about what she was doing.

"The previous women were not raped," she states it as simply as 'I had eggs for breakfast.' "But they lived a long time."

A glance toward Agnessa - "Is there anything else yeh can remember about him that would be important? About how he looked?"

(james)
Nessa pounces on the proffered pack
and James waves a hand that she can help herself
no Galliard relishes singing a tale of personal trauma
no reason to expect the same of a woman so recently attacked
even... if she's Shadow Lord
coveting all his cigarettes is the least of the Gnawer's worries
keeping Nessa rationally communicating is the key

"Yeh, but th' victimizay'shun's followin' th' sa'e lines." a equally dismissive shrug to Imogen's deadpan addition "'s'a same game've pred'tor 'n prey."

dark eyes ticktock back towards the uncomfortable Russian

"'r th' markingz?"

(nessa)
Imogen receives a blank look. A trivial detail. Rape of a differnt kind. Clearly, Nessa is still not kindly disposed towards the attacker. SHe sucks down the cig and reaches for another with calmer hands.
She sighs. "Dirty. He didn't too take care of himself, smelly. Worn, liek.. threadbare skin? Greasy hair, and longish?" she indicates where it was.
She hesitates. " I think.. i surprised him. I was... less kempt in appearance that day. Did not look challenging. He was not fast enough to stop me from leaving, though it was close for a little while. I think.. he did not expect. Does that help?"
She looks over at him. "Jamezzz. Wha do you mean about markings? I do not understand?"
(imogen)
Imogen glances to James as he speaks, and states simply, "Yes." Perhaps there is more that she will say later. Imogen may not be completely kind, but she will at least not discuss what she knows, in detail, in front of someone who nearly suffered the same fate.

And silence now, she waits for James to finish his questioning, the artist's pad held at an angle.


(james)
"Yeh tol' us Jody sed those marks're Wyrm. The scars? 'r did he hav' s'm'thin' else on'iz skin'r clothes're on th' knife?" muscular shoulders roll in another shrug, he's just pulling prompts out of thin air, Nessa was the one who knows what details are there to provide "C'n yeh draw'm onna blank sheet've pap'r a help Im'gen's version a yuh descrip'?

(nessa)
She nods and takes pen and paper, and begins, no artist, but she struggles through.. She describes as she foes. "I did not see the knife terribly well, he was spinning it, liek skilled, and then i was trying to stick him with kitchen knife myself." She finishes and pushes the papaer to Imogen.
Time for questions of her own. "What do you know about this... man? You know something. What is it?"

(imogen)
Imogen shakes her head, glancing at the sketchpad and it's product. "You know more than we do. All we have is from 'is previous crimes."

She lays the sketch pad on the table, turns it and pushes it toward Agnessa, "This 'bout right?" The likeness is stunning.

(nessa)
She nods. "Tell me of them, please." Makes herself look at the face, her expression rather blank.
Then a little green. Remembering.

(james)
the likeness may be stunning
but it's little help for what James has gathered of this issue
carefully studying the portrait so that features familiarize to memory
then allowing dark eyes to fall upon the sketches Nessa accomplished
muscular shoulders pitching into another smooth roll of noncommital shrug

"I dunna detail' save wha'cha tol' me here t'night.... 'r th' list've'iz pas' crime'."

near filtered cigarette waves towards the redheaded Doctor
this is absolutely her area of expertise and control, thank you very much

(imogen)
Imogen's eyebrow arches slightly. "They were bound, glyphs were carved into their bodies, and then their ribs were spread and their hearts were removed."

Flatly issued, as she spins the pad back around and shuts it audibly. "They were hookers. You are not. Th'bloke who did it," she taps the art pad with a well-shaped hand, "is very likely Kinfolk, as you are."

A twitch of a shoulder, "S'all we know."

(nessa)
Her eyes flick to his shoulders, then away. At the photo and hten the hell away. "Da. That is the man."
She listens. With no surprise at all. Merely says, "Why me? I am not, and i do not look like. Most especially not that day."

(imogen)
Imogen regards Agnessa without comment for several seconds, dark eyes unspeaking. "I have no way of knowing that."

(nessa)
-She nods, disappointed, seeing something. "Two..." Nessa shivers.

(imogen)
"Yes," Imogen agrees, "two."

She stands, "Can you think of anything else?"

(nessa)
SHe shakes her head, looking Imogen in the eyes. "Nothing."

(imogen)
She inclines her head, "Alright." Picking up the artist's pad, "I'll make copies, 'nd see if anyone recognizes 'em."

A glance toward James, her other hand reaching up to tuck strands of hair behind her ears before glancing back at Agnessa, "Will you tell me, if yeh find out anything else?"

(nessa)
She nods. "I will. If you wil do the same." Trade. Calm again.
"Oh-- where was the other murder? the first one?"

(imogen)
A shake of her head, " A low end o' town. I don't recall exactly where."

(james)
the Fostern shakes his head, slightly
gathering no more questions pertinent to the answers gained tonight
.... until Nessa suddenly calms
animal senses click into the shift of chemicals in the air
perhaps it is simply because the interrogation's crux is seemingly over
perhaps it is for something else entirely

she is a fucking Shadow Lord after all

"Yeh sure yuh dunn f'rget nuthin'?"

the Ahroun's dark brow slowly lifts towards the mop of dreads
one last chance, and only chance, to rectify any deliberate omissions
or supplement the things skimmed over in light of time-frame duress
but there's something about the apparently easy-going raggedyman
the way his deep umber eyes lock on the Russian kin
or the subdermal sense of something crackling just on the other side of the air
[.....Rage.....]
gamemongering Tribe tactics and trickery aside, Nessa gets the distinct impression this is the time to come clean if necessary
it's not only appreciated, but expected
[.... Rank....]
tomorrow he will grant no quarter

one wrong move could find her well-armed corpse splattered across the cheap room


(james roll intimidation for nessa's confession
str+intimidation, diff nessa's wp
3+4=7, wp=4
to Nessa Malikoff, Imogen Slaughter, Tristan: 7D10 Dice Roll: 1; 8; 4; 3; 5; 2; 7
3 sux
to Nessa Malikoff, Jukebox: her diff was her willpower - she doesn't have anything to counter it. She's intimidated.

(nessa)
Her face is fairly blank as she turns her head to regard James. "What do you mean? I have given description of killer, what he did when he entered room, when attacked me, what he wore, what he felt like. Is what you asked me. I have no other words to make those descriptions of that day better."
Truth. Even if she does somewhat resemble a pale, wide-eyed doe about to take flight.
"IS all you have asked me." She shivers, under his gaze, shrinking back in her chair. "Imogen has glyphs page. She has pictures. Did i meantion my brother is Shadowlord Theurge?"
She looks like she is about to bolt..

(imogen)
As the Fostern locks eyes, the air chills and Imogen takes note of the change - not by stepping in, nor saying anything, but by simply stilling, a thumb hooking into the belt loop of her slacks, near the small of her back.

And she watches - and she waits, watching Agnessa more than the Bone Gnawer Ahroun.


(james)
the dreadlocked Fostern tips a slow nod
weight of his gaze not wavering an inch

"N y'r not lyin' 'bout nuthin' 'r holdin' sumthin' back f'r any reason?" a smile spreads, slightly, warmth below the icy embers in those deep eyes "I won' get angry."

..... if you try to run .... what's your bet I can't chase you down.... the man was sick and weak and unprepared.... I'm a Warrior of Gaia in my prime.....


(nessa)
This she wasnt' prepared for. IMogen, but not this. A nasty, nasty trick.
She can respect nasty tricks. Still, Nessa gives Imogen a betrayed, anguished glare, then looks back desperate to appease the garou. "She knows of nightmares, of glyphs and the badness. Wrongnesslikeiceonly corrupt-ice isthereitisalltherehefolowed me and he touchedme and JodysaysitwaswyrmThat is all i know!!'"

(imogen)
A betrayed glance only receives an even stare. Like Jukebox had done before, Imogen gives the Garou the floor, and says and does nothing.

(nessa)
She sinks bak into her chair, speaking rapidly and desperatrely. "Ionlysawoneididnotseethefirstiswearididnt knowonlyone just in the nghtmares jsut on my skin."
Nessa begins trenbling. He dosesnt' believe her. SHe IS goign to die. Maybe it will be fast....


(james)
this she wasn't prepared for
but the only way to beat a Shadow Lord is to play their own game
pulling the same feats of deception in tandem with every misleading turn
hopfully finding a resolution before the next trick is a blade in flesh
but as the Russian nears that line between cooperative and terrified
James allows a notch of warmth into the danger glittering behind his eyes
the smile spreads, appreciative, that she chose the phrases she did

"What nigh'marez. 'n wha' glyphs." his tone is soothingly calm, but the element of viable threat returns a certain bladed hardess to those eyes "'n dunn f'rget what else yuh meant to add....."

..... last chance, kinswoman

((**slips that last one of James before Nessa's last, and follows up with:*))


she only saw..... one.... the fuck?
if it weren't for the discipline of a natural born showman
that final torrent of words may actually have caused James to blink
replaying the tape thorugh his mind to make sure he heard it right
luckily, a curt nod to Imogen's input covers and lapse in focus
gesturing with yet another nod towards Nessa

prompting her to answer the good Doctor's question
encouraging her by signal she's doing things right
the Russian may pull through this one, yet


(imogen)
"She's been having nightmares that sound like th'murders. And drew a few things tha' look like what was carved in th'murdered women's flesh."

Imogen speaks up. "I ha' a copy." Perhaps there is a bit of pity in the woman, after all. "But didn't 'ave a chance t'tell yeh before she showed up."

A glance toward Agnessa, "Only one? What did she look like?"

(nessa)
Nessa rises from hte chair, backign away from the garou. Teary eyed even, and shaken, shaking. So much for emulating Imogen's cool untouchable demeanor. She hasn't been this afraid since...well..
"She.. she.. was on the bedand tied and there were.. the hand and hte black knife.. was cutting into her , the skin and there was blood and it was MY skin and it was drehcing everything and it wasn't MY face it was a woman" ( and here, she describes accurately the last murder)) She continues, screaming the last. Lost in it again. "then the ribs stuck -broke and the heart was there and stopped beating and AND"
and terror. She is there again.

(imogen)
Terror again. Lost as Agnessa is to the throes of almost-vision, it is likely only James that sees the flicker-flash of annoyance that crosses her features.

British to the core - stiff upper lip and all that shite. "Agnessa," the former Fianna reaches out and grab the Shadow Lord's arm, and gives her a little shake.

Next door someone is knocking on the walls, yelling for them to shut up.

(james)
as suddenly as James donned the mask of impending doom
the rugged edges smooth away to what Nessa first met upon entry
easy smile forming ever-lopsided across his face
umber eyes warmed by a mellow, playful glint

a glance to Imogen confirms that's all they need to know

the Gnawer is holding out the pack of smokes as some nic-fit olive branch
no indication he'd rip her arm off for accepting the addiction appeasing gesture

"Thank yuh, Nessa. I 'ppreciate y'r sharin' tha' las' bit with'us."

and for all the portentious destruction that could have just passed
the raggedyman seems damned sincere

(nessa)
The contact snaps her out of it. SHe looks aroudn, a bit confused for a second. Then huge blue eyes fix abruptly on teh pissed garou. Oh yes.. somethign about.. imminent death. Where were we...
We were going to smoke. Yes. Her pale hand reaches out to accept the pack, withdrawing two and lighting htem together. Drawing deeply on them both. Never looking away from the Gnawer.
"I.. am.. sure you do." Gnawers weren't all that nice after all. NO matter what she was told. No... not nice.

(imogen)
The Shadow Lord snapped out of it, Imogen steps away, wiping her hand absently on her thigh as if the contact had tainted her somehow. She crosses the room to her suit jacket and shrugs back into it, straightening the collar with a pale hand.

(james)
the Fostern takes a Camel for himself
then the remaining pack's tossed on the table for Nessa
it's hers to keep if she so wants (... or needs... ) it
earthen eyes easily holding the Lord's wary stare

"Tol' yeh I would'n be mad, 'r impoli'e." Gnawers may be rumored as nice and coddly amongst the Garou, but perhaps the lesson will stick that's no excuse to attempt playing games with the ranking Jackal-Blood in the city "Room's yours f'r th' night if yeh wannit a relax f'r awhile."

lanky frame stretches to it's full six foot two height
maybe a dash more when tallying the lazy stretch post-rise
following Imogen's lead and stepping away from the community table
the good Doctor is his ride back, after all

(nessa)
Of average height herself, she looks at Jamezz and the pack and leaves them, crushign out the rest of the cigs in teh ashtray there. THen picks up her tote and heads to the door. Humiliated and trying to pretend she isn't.
NOt much else to say. not without cursing.

(imogen)
Her jacket so straightened, and her artpad with pencil tucked beneath her arm, she glances briefly at Agnessa, before her gaze goes to the Gnawer, and then she leaves the room, not bothering to check if the Shadow Lord was staying or leaving, nor really if James was following, though she could guess on the latter.

Down the hallway, to the door, out of the motel and she walks out into the parking lot toward her car.

Aston Martin's are sweet rides. Sleek and subtle, it may not be her Mercedes, but it is certainly something.

The car doors click as they unlock, and Imogen gets inside, waiting for James to shut his door before speaking. "I suppose I'll try 'nd find out what's different from that murder t'the other and why she's only dreamin' that one."

She starts the engine, a subtle purr and pulls away from the parking lot and onto the street. Familiar actions - she takes James back to the packhouse, dropping him off before heading off to.... you guessed it. Work.

[end]

Posted by james at June 28, 2005 06:38 PM