[grant park]
(ana)
The scene is a familiar one.
The fountain in a clearing within the centre, the grounds of the park on the verge of the trimmed, the up-kept, especially in this verdant fold of manicured lawns and seething curtain of grounded sentinels. The wind is alive tonight, sometimes a playful whisper through the limp placement of leaves - they secret a name, they secret a knowledge - to turn to violence in the blink of an eye, in nature’s accord. And that would be its gentle reminder. Pocket of wyld restrained by the weaver, and even clippers and machines could not restrain such a fury.
The peace is just illusion.
She stands not where she had, in the dense of five trees, in the harbour of precisely placed shrubbery and their delicate buds. There is the scent of spring in the air, the carefree toss of invisible fingers merely sweeping the fragrance further, an inhalation in the nostrils and the suggestion of sanctuary. The Lord stands by the fountain – lone figure – the dark of her clothing a shadow against the pale, rain-washed stone. There are clouds in the sky, a dappled adornment through which stars would peak, and Luna’s gaze is a distant crescent. Silver light ever so muted, it seems to drain in the black of her clothes.
Its obvious she’s waiting.
(danya)
Footsteps.
Beyond the visceral babble of the central fountain, his boots create a muted cadence within the security of night's blanket. But this time he is not alone. Beside the long shadow cast by the tall man secrets another form defined obliquely within the darkness. Always, he brings her something when approaching the familiar sight of the fountain.
At first, it was information.
Tonight - it may be prey.
Lagoon green eyes glance to his right. They check perhaps for maintenance purposes: should Eva be dressed to par, should she offer no physical offense; should she be.....
A smile tickles the edges of his features. She is Lord kin.
If she is not ready, then she is not worthy.
(eva)
It did not please her, the summons, although perhaps it did not displease her, either. In the end, Eva finds that it is best not to consider such things when dealing with the tribe: pleasure, displeasure, these things do not matter. One must simply do one's job.
She is not precisely dwarfed by the taller man beside her, she does not begin to rival his height. Dark hair swept back severely from her level features, dark eyes clear and level, a fine gray suit with a snowy white blouse, sensible heels. Perfectly formal, but nothing particularly special. How easily she could be lost within the crowd.
How easily she could be lost within a crowd, but for the subtle blessing (or curse) of her blood: the breeding, the heros past and fallen and forgotten, recalled in the curve of her neck and the sweep of her brow. Her blood whispers such a song, to those capable of hearing, but her features are as blank as the void of the sky.
(ana)
“This is her?”
The figures move towards her, yet there is no change in her stance. Not the lifting of head, the angle of body towards them. She remains as she is: she could be ebon statue, except for the pale gleam of striated flesh between the fall of cord-like tendrils of hair. In the silence crafted of wind and night, where the faintest sound is amplified, and not swallowed, she had heard the scuff of his shoes on the ground, she had sensed his familiar presence: wolf-like, wolf-keen. Or maybe it was merely no-one else would enter this place, at this time – the pulse of rage which emanates from her a bitter, acrid taste to the mouth and nerves.
Periphery, enter at peril.
The voice which gives birth to that question is thick and husky, accent a harsh brand of Eastern European with the faint abrasive strain of damaged vocal chords. It was barely perceptible except in the quiet, except when her voice was pitched careful and low. Like now. Then, even the foreign modulation could not dispel it. And perhaps Eva should take affront to the sound, affront to the way the Philodox does not look towards her, talk to her – but only to Danya. The Known.
If she is not ready, then she is not worthy.
If you are not proved to her, then you are nothing.
Make your worth.
(danya)
There is little that speaks of what exists beyond the structure of formality. Ana issued strict orders. He, upon the collection of further information, followed them. The meeting scheduled with utmost regard to convenience and economy. Little notes in his little black book, such a thorough kin is he. Whether Eva found pleasure or irritance in the request - requirement - makes little difference to Danya. They behave in ways dictated by legendary ancestors buried so long ago they are only remembered by their ageless Glory.
"Yes." If he were cowed by the emanating Rage ebbing as if waves from the monumental fountain itself, it does not show in the even murmur of his voice. That remains as calm and soft as thier prior meeting. Only pitched enough to carry above the fountain's whispers to predator-sharp ears. "Ms. Eva Illeshazy, Associate with Bell, Bandling, and Whittgenstein, grandaughter of Splits-The-Dark-Night from the Berkshire area of Massachussettes."
(eva)
Whereever she stores what ego may remain to her after such encounters, the kinfolk may be bristling. Now, however, she maintains her stoicism, her quiet-faced-blankness as Anastasija speaks not to but of her, as Danya introduces her. She is aware of her tribe, aware of the possibility of her tribe, aware of the things they may require at less than a moment's notice, and she has learned, at least, to always accede to such requests. Or rather: she was taught to accede to such requires, never to give affront, never to stare them in the eyes.
And so, as Danya introduces her, Eva lifts her chin just so as acknowledgment of the introduction, and flickers her gaze toward Anastasija. The woman's dark eyes rest not on Ana's own, but rather skew just downward, submissive but not cowed.
(ana)
It seems a common trait among the Shadow Lord kin: submissive, not cowed. Respectful, not submissive. The border between bleeding the arrogance that is in their blood (the innate demand to rule, to crush), and restraining it amongst the upper echelons of their tribe. Tribe is ever class structure, the dictates of Marx be damned. If a fist clenches at her side, slight, hidden by the folds of loose garments, then they need never know.
It’s the same hand which eventually rises, the movement a swish of the light coat she wears, the high-collared knit beneath hiding the burns which texture her throat. Hair is pushed back, slow and deliberate, as those eyes finally turn to the kin to stare. The taint of that pure-blood flirts with the breadth of her rage, and her shadowed eyes split storm (mirror lightning) because of it.
She can be polite.
“Good evening, Eva Illeshazy.” The deed name could mean more to, its impressive syllables a roll off Danya’s Tongue. Except the American Lords she knew nothing of, her path to this country sudden, unexpected, and wrenched with violence. Literally. She says nothing else, perhaps mere address is enough prompt for response: and more explanation.
(danya)
The man remains quiet, now. Observant of the Garou's reaction to his choice of introductive information - one cannot say he did not come to the meeting prepared or well-versed in the verbal games of formality. It also allows his own avenues of research to be done at a later time.
She challenged him, a week ago, to prove his worth and value.
It is not something he took lightly nor finite.
He will continue to learn through scientific observation and collection of statistical data, even if it seems as menial as the Garou's reaction to another kin.
(eva)
"Good evening, madam." Madam. The thirty-something kinfolk is likely to be a decade older than the Garou standing before her, although in the shadows, Eva find it difficult to trick out the truth of Ana's age from her features. "I trust that my formality will not offend. If you prefer another mode of address, I will certainly comply with your wishes."
Quiet and controlled, the young attorney's voice, though under these circumstances her near-whisper is not as mellifluous as it might be in court. "As Mr. Tretiak said, I am an attorney with a large law firm specializing in business law and corporate defense litigation. I have some experience in criminal defense, as well. My card - " and Eva twists just, to pull a card from a small cardholder just at the surface of her dark handbag, offering it to Anastasija as she speaks. " - should you need to get in touch with me. My personal cellular number and home address are written on the back of the card. Is there anything you require currently?"
(arkadiy petr sorokin)
About time, truthfully. By all rights he should have come by here at some point earlier than this. New to the city, there are certain procedures, civilities that must be obeyed. But they can be delayed, if there is a reason. Truthfully he has little of one, but enough to work, should he need such. It grows thin, though, so now he is here. Grant Park is claimed by Anastasija. Anastasija is Shadow Lord. Time for proper introductions.
So, here he is. Business suit, impeccably tailored, ironed and pressed. One hand in another, behind his back. Just wandering through the park.
(ana)
Twitch.
The façade breaks enough beneath the gloom of night’s passage, with that utterance of formality: a decade between, or the years less to make it little difference, yawning between them. Yet one bears the reserve of a youth grown too old, the other – merely maturity like the keep of fine wine. Anastasija takes the card, her eyes roving over it briefly, perhaps even struggling with some of the writing and symbols splayed over the sudden patch of white, but it is put away nonetheless. And beyond that brief break of miniscule amusement, her face could be carved from marble (at the hand of a mocking sculptor.)
“No. Not yet.” The bead of her eyes swivels to Danya, the flay of one eyebrow lifting a notch before returning her questions to Eva. Time for the usual questions: these, at least, she knew. “How is it you are in this place?” The deadpan belies the curious nature of the words, the husk of each syllable slathered with remoteness. Broken by the trickle of a bonded fountain and its eternal repeat.
(isa em-tachti)
:::Within the mueum, he sits in his office pouring over notes:::
:::He turns the page in the book to his side, sips some more of his tea, and jots down another note before begining on a translation:::
(danya)
Observe. Learn. Analyze the pertinent information. Live beyond other's mistakes. There are many reasons Danya excelled in certain circles as quickly as amazement gossipped. Even if he does not share his cousin's propensity for prowess in battle, he most definitely inherited other traits common to their powerful lineage.
While politely silent during their exchange, he retains enough attention to meet the swiveling glance. Chin bows towards where collarbones collect beneath the drape of black shirt parted it's top two buttons. Assurance he will breif Eva on standing expectations.
(eva)
"It is the nature of my profession," Eva replies, quietly enough. Usually, the requests come over the phone or via messenger. This, that, or the other. Sometimes, a cousin will "drop by" so that she does not forget her duty to her family. Beyond this, little. Garou have always seemed apart, their understanding of the human world varying from nil to rather more than nil, but never entirely unflawed. "I was referred to the firm by a cousin who believed it would be a - " here she pauses, just so, for effect, " - net benefit for all concerned if I took this position."
(ana)
If she struggles with the understanding, she does not show it. In fact, the impression may be that if Ana were unable to read, unable to speak, unable to hear: she would have that same wooden cast to her face she seems to take so much pleasure in producing. (Pleasure? The course of it could never know existance in that body...) But her English is not so poor as the harsh accent may and should dictate, the grammar correct and seldom stilted. Perhaps even rarely archaic, in the framing of her words.
"Then it shall be. And do those ties," Shadow Lord. Pack. Individual. "remain strong?" Otherwise, consider yourself claimed. Ana the reaper, she made mistake with one, she would not let loose the others, not when they were not being swept up, but lost.
(danya)
Inspired, perhaps, by whatever the babbling noises of the fountain whisper to alert ears, Danya creates the notion of a smile ghosting across his features. Some inner amusement found within yet well hidden from the situation at hand.
He recognizes the process of being claimed.
At least she seems to be proving her worth....
(isa)
:::He speaks with an accent that few living beings would recognise with a hint of satisfaction in his voice:::
There. That should do it. 257 full catagorized and updated. Now, to transfer to computer or to trust someone else to handle?
(eva)
"The ties remain," the kinfolk replies, without further qualification. If her gaze does not stray above the level of the bridge of the Shadow Lord's nose, she still takes the opportunity to examine the woman.
The girl: she would be a girl were she human and despite the scars, the lower portion of her face begins to seem painfully young to Eva. Or, perhaps, just painful: this confluence of youth and violence as the putative hope for the world.
She holds herself whole, and - perhaps even like Anastasija - wholly separate, somehow, the burden of three, four, more identities, all somehow contained by the same wrapping flesh, the same skein of skin, the same noble bones. Something flickers across the surface of her dark eyes: light, like a silverfish, as the kinfolk just lifts her chin, and briefly refocuses, taking in the whole of the young figure. She does not soften, but she reconsiders something, some immediate judgment made and regretted, in favor of another judgment she will make, and regret. Such is life. "If you need assistance with expenses - " and no more. The offer is there, subsumed, but open.
(isa)
:::The man who now uses the name Isa walks with the book and places it on a tray atop a stack of papers:::
Well, now that you're out of the way :::he trails off:::
Is there no balm in Gillead?
:::He speaks to no one in particular as he walks across his office and begins to extinguish the incense that he has burning in each corner:::
(ana)
The ties remain and Ana’s lip compresses, the slash of a thin line drawn like a cut across the lower half of her face. The scar-crescent from hairline, cross temple, to cheek creases at the sudden flex of muscle. “But they are not of this city?” The question of expenses is ignored, as she doggedly pursues (without dog[-snarl], with quiet, rage-ridden insistence) her own purpose.
Her purpose: sloga, jačati. And if this woman’s ties would be bound without and not within this particular arena of the war, then she would see that change.
(danya)
The two women carefully correlate their viciously judgemental glances with the expectations of experience and tradition. Danya, the sole male in the group, should perhaps feel as a now useless attache. His service here is done by the rote of formal introduction. It will not commence again until the necessities of education conceive. Casually balanced on shoulder-width boots, hands caught in the pockets of plain pants adhering to the company uniform - he remains the picture of guard ensconced with lofty, rather removed, interest.
He only seems to be listening more to the music of the fountain than the lyrical harmony of such concise conversation.
Again, attention strafes back to the women: he will not leave before dismissal, however the time taken as a mid-shift break begins to run short. A brow lifts as the only indication of the pressures created by obligations outside of the Nation existing as mere thesad.
(eva)
"No," Eva concedes, quiet again, unable to stop the faint churning of her gut, incapable of considering it as more than a bodily rejection the salmon she had for dinner. (Fear, somewhere, under all of these trappings: she does not like the direction of this conversation.) "They are not of this city."
(ana)
Slip of a smile, the ease of that thinning: and she could be almost a pertty women if her face was not so cast from iron, if the ripple of that scar did not flex seekingly with each twist of her face. Soft features, brittle cast in an environment as harsh as the decay of her voice. "Then you are a..." Pause. Deliberate. And the pitch of that voice is low and bleak suggestion. ".. alone. Except for us." The direction of this conversation, the weight of it is furrowed with purpose: and the rage, and inexorable passion which courses through such similar form - this shape, this retch in the mundane - marks that palpable difference. A stranger's glance, perhaps the women would be equally matched, with Ana's edge, uncontested superiority.
She steps forwards, her glance blading in the direction of Danya as the gap is closed between her and the lawyer. Words, succinct, "Your time was short, was it not?" to the chemist, before the pinion of that gaze is clasping Eva's own.
Dismissal: or as close as he's gonna get it.
That close, the spear of violence could be almost tangible, brushing, pummeling against the containment of the prim and proper suit.
(danya)
Fear.
Although he does not share the predator's senses, the male kin begins to, perhaps, form a certain impression of the underlying emotion churning Eva's gut. Information taken, and the excess stripped away to leave her vulnerabilities naked and raw beneath the Philodox's judgement. How does it feel to be in the blood-soaked spotlight. Hope you did not have previous plans....
Again, that glimmer of expression. Amusement hidden as another is recruited to the flock. One more body to serve the greater cause. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, perhaps he entertains the question of whether she will sink or be able to swim with the rest. He wonders, too, if the Garou that stands before them is strong enough....
Thoughts drift away like ripples on the fountain's surface. Dismissed before fruition.
Dismissed, himself. Chin dropped in affirmation's curt nod which doubles as farewell. "Good evening." His duty performed, Danya sees no other reason to remain past the graces afforded in leniences of the night shift. Ms. Illeshazy left to her own resources in navigation from the Lord's claimed territory. He does not look back after his departure.
(eva)
The kinfolk stands before the Garou the only way she can, as if she stood ground against the battering headwind preceding a wild storm. Nor'easter, hurricane: wind. Even her stance changes, the subtle shift of her weight visible as little more than a ripple of linen as the lawyer squares her feet beneath her shoulders, low heels scraping against wet concrete, feet sliding in the shoes.
She thinks of wind, again, but a scorching wind, bitter and hot. Deserts, devil winds. And she considers - again - the angry pucker of a scar, the brutalizing nature of the violence, the beast that rides the shells of these almost-human creatures to which she is tired by blood and heritage and history.
"Alone, yes." Eva echoes, and while she can control the twitch of her clear features and the stability of her stance, while she can strive to conceal every evidence of her reaction to the Garou, she cannot control her involuntary responses: the quickening of breath and pulse, the bristle of faint hairs on the back of her neck.
(ana)
Sharp nod, gleam of affirmative, and perhaps it would be expected: the usual play of intensity, when answer received should lighten the friction and the battery would ease - physically step back. She does not, that close proximity a determination to weary the nerves. Or break them. “Not anymore.” Satisfaction and Danya’s departure, the faint reverberation of his exit-stalk. The point where it merges into nothingness of air (a finger through her hair, a caress across that face) and water. Elemental.
To her primal.
“As a lawyer,” her lips purse, though it should be called more a twist: for purse is the suggestion of softness, and even that action would be brutally cast. “you are efficient, ne? Organised?” What she knew of lawyers: insipid suits and insidious smiles, and everything that would come from their forked tongues, a lie. What she knew of lawyers, she would associate with her father. And that was steeped in a tale of Serbian nationalism: the justice of the blind, and blood. In that second, in that assessment, it is she would stare at Eva as if the woman a viper, the loathing sparking brief in her eye. Brief, at the surface, like the slicken of oil across the stream of that gray, before mere undercurrent it sinks to become. The violence fragments again and again, surge red-taped, before finally:
she steps away.
[exit danya]
Posted by danya at April 23, 2004 12:00 AM