[riverfront]
(danya)
Headphones.
They trap the music he so zealously covets against the cups of his ears. Band settled neatly in the spikes of black hair. Creating a world of his own rhythmic making spun from the audial fabric gleaned out of the dutifully spinning CD carried in the discman at his waist. It inspires absent smile across his lips. The expression so startlingly soft beneath the deep-set brood of dark green eyes.
Murky. As if each iris pool were reflecting the deep waters of a tropical lagoon.
They cast themselves fisherman's lines across the midnight waters of the river rushing slowly past his boots. Swimming out to the currents his body dares not within the night's frigid temperatures. Instead, the physical being is laid out in a precise angling of muscle and skeleton that props the entire 6'4" length of his frame against a chilled railing.
(miriam)
Six. Foot. Four.
He's leaning against the rail and she's walking by not short [..at 5 foot 8 - no NOT short.] but certainly not his size. The girl was young, or not. [...Jailbait.] A creature of terribly pale skin, and inky black hair.
A brush of ice-covered wind.
[...faintly witchlike.]
She's further up the rail, sitting, coiled, watching him - curiously.
(danya)
A brush of ice-covered wind.
Perhaps it is enough to gather his thoughts from his attentions, and tilt his head towards the wake of such blisteringly cold passage. Perhaps he merely suggests the epitome of dance in some negligent sway to the swelling crescendo of whatever music it is that sooths his inner - latent, recessive - beast. For a moment, the brooding and dark shadows of his eyes rest on the coiled form of the deceptively young creatures.
And for the next collection of notes organized into the restraint of sympanic measure - he watches her, as well. Curious. Calculating. Studious. Expectant.
Shoulders flex in half-hearted stretch beneath the thick woolen peacoat. Something that relaxes the remaining knot of tension from a day's work spent leaning over various tables of data and complex machinery. It lifts the navy hem of his coat to scrape on the rough texture of plain Dickie's pants.
Then as the song crooned against his ears alone changes, his gaze drifts away.
(miriam)
Her eyes are dark - or DARKLY lashed. Either way a hood, a hole barreling towards Danya. The girl is on the the actual rail itself. A wooden ledge diving asphalt from stinking putrid water [...once it simply caught fire..] remains where she is unmoved. Worse, this girl [stranger] does not look away as he sees her, there is only the forward roll of shoulders.
No Fear.
Oh but there should be from the pale-skinned lanky girl. Dressed in Camopants and loose button front shirt small blue pin-stripes obscured by the flare of orange-gold scarf. Expensive. Flashy. Odd.
(danya)
"May I help you."
It is not a question. It is also not a pure statement. The phrase spills murmured velvet from those faintly smiling lips - an expression that ebbs further tide when the headphones are removed from their perch upon his ears, padded speakers settled on the bone curvature that creates his temples. Black smear of brow lifts when attention slants her way again by the merest tilt of his head.
It seems he is well aware she continued her game of watching.
(miriam)
Linen loosely tied about her throat. [ Mercy, mercy, I'm made of parts] He speaks and he swears its the first time the girl - and are you SURE she's really there - blinks. Long white fingers freaching up to tug the stain of black hair from the surface of her face. The angles of her features are sharp and pointed, or perhaps its the accent. Quiet. Unconsciously superior.
"It might be nice." The cold precision of inner-london elocution -- and then the russsssh of a smile, teeth and a glance to him as her head turns of toward the street from the corner of her eyes. Exhale, breath is steam. Is she laughing with him or at him - its early morning...
those gloaming hours.
[...she is so pale.]
(danya)
She rushes a smile of flashing teeth and breathy steam on the wings of ambiguous laugh.
"Oh?" Danya affords no such niceties in his expression. It does not change even when the sound of a back-throat chuckle mingles with the music that floats lazily muted from the headphones. Chin tucks as body twists, arms folding to cross his chest and allow a hip to replace wrist and palm tether against the railing. Now the tilt of his head does not have to focus on her through a sideways glance. "How might it be...."
(miriam)
Heaven help me,
my head is spin'n round,
As we have said its early morning, the sky is pale and eeriely clean. It should be a time for peace, or solitude, a time for quiet contenplation -- and not this strange black-haired girl [...reminds of women screaming - witches burning..] with that strange smile. Dark lashes dower further shadowing her gaze before those coiled legs drop down on either side of therailing swinging [..a cat's tail..] idly into slowness.
"I'm not quite sure." Halt. Hover. Taste. "--yet."
Stop this airplane
cause I got to get down
(danya)
For a scant brevity of a moment, the brow arches slightly higher. Amusement glimmering in the depths of lagoon green.
"Mmhm." The sound laden across the back-arch curve of his throat. It signifies nothing more than thought. The game begins, little cat. He allows the silence to draw as she: halt. hover. taste. tempt. tease. Tongue draws moisture across lips in resistance to the wind's chap. "Do you want to be?"
There is raw power in his blood.
(miriam)
I had a dream last night,
and it fit me like a glove
Her brows do not arch, there is no phyical speculation only that forward inclination of the head - as if she could be a snake [..and her body would move in parts..] The girl's nose wrinkles brief watching the predatory motions still shaking from firelit daydreams [Liquid Oxygen - breath in.] or else not. Or else that twist of the head is merely curiosity - one leg parking atop the rail before it swings over. Easy motioned.
Beat.
She's on the ground. Not curvavcious, certainly not a candy covered slice of female confection - but lean, thin, lanky angles, and hard planes. Hands slide into her pocket while gaze is tugged from his features toward the asphalt before her. Downcast -- shadowed - the flex of elbows as she pushes against the lining of her pockets. "...you think you could help?" Take a moment now to consider, what KIND of girl is out at this hour, in this desolation -- that she isn't dressed in a skirt or heels - nor fears, despite his size. Yeah, take that minute to ponder the oddity of the accent against her clothing and then...
--be stopped short as her head turns to regard him him -- up, up, up. And washed out gaze. There are shades of blue too close to colorless - wish for grey. The image sucks against her skin, too close in color. She finds herself, her eyes are following his lips -- the muscle of tingue the flecked of dried skin. Fixed, curious-almost.
I had to scream last night...
(Tura DeLyon)
::Tura walks along the river. Her eyes blind to the world and her mass of scars hidden behind 2 black mirrors. Her long black hair is pulled back from her pail face into a braided crown were in the middle it falls like a waving waterfall over her brown duster. Her twisted mertel stick taps on the ground cathing odd angles not to step on. Tura is 5'7" and thin. Built like a light weight fighter. A soft euro cute white shirt hides under her jacet covering the small beer gut that she's aquired in the past two months. Black slacks brush aginst walking shoes::
(danya)
"That depends."
Enunciation drawing another curve of amusement on now-wet lips, pursed in a moment's absence of presence which would allow such an expression to dawn warm rays across the hills and valleys of rugged features chilled by the night's wind. Coy Danya does not seem impressed or intimidated by this young girl so brazenly walking the night. Her clothing and demeanor do little to raise further the extent of his curiosity.
Instead, she is met with a veridian gaze frought with the intentions of purely objective study. Perhaps it is what remains so carefully, comfortably, calmly hidden behind such eyes and smile that should be her cause for concern.
"On what it is you would require help to prove."
Tongue darts free once more: slow, languid, drawing her eyes - a cat licking cream from its whiskers.
(miriam)
"Sub-atomic nuclear particles."
Stare into that gaze. Dare him to flich just once. She is breathing deeply, maybe she always does. Those eyes have narrowed back into the darkness of heavy lashes. "No, not string theory--" There is something in her that doesn't see him, beyond the surface, that mocks his words for what they are arcane - for what she is [British Empiricist - Show me.] and for all the things she hasn't learned yet.
"You could always help me prove my feminity, but I sense competetion." Closer now to him, baiting, luring, snapping and biting. What did she want?
(tura)
::She sents the air for a moment. People up ahead. The smell of wolf perhaps. Maybe not. Her nose has been so hopeful lately. She wanted to meet others outside her pack after her mate and his brother's death. But that was hard. they hid like ants in a pile::
(danya)
"And then cold fusion over breakfast?"
No flinch. No blink. Not even the draw of breath to swell chest beneath the heavy peacoat. Instead there is the mirrored mockery of a brow arcing towards the line of hair that spikes skyward from scalp which accompanies the murmured exhale.
The song drifting from the discman changes. It must be Beethoven. Gentle fingers across ivory keys kiss his audial senses and further inspire the serenity of an almost-smile. Cologne drifts on the Chicago winds, sleepy in these hours between midnight and dawn on the journey to the waters from industrialized land. Polo. Mixed with the latent stringents of the chemical lab that confined him since the sun last set.
There is no comment to the approach of another.
I dare you.
(tura)
::She moves a lock back over her shoulder and keeps walking. Her sensitive ears lissening to the noises around ther the scuffling of little animalistic feet the last traces of wyld in a weaver torn district::
(miriam)
"Have you mastered that already--?"
[Juliet is up in heaven,
a pocket full of pills]
Subtle humor, that precise command of sound. And now she has slowed in her approach having breached the boundaries of personal space -- where every successive inch burns. She could converse on the academic level, it seems - beyond that.
[And Jesus drives to Mexico, to get her prescription filled]
"...breakfast I mean." Lips press together. A promise. A sin.
(tura)
::She catches the sent of polo and sighs. Men stink themselves up to much now days. She grins thinking of her mate the smell of breeding and monkeys. He did love his little......fuck. What about his monkey? No one thought about that. She stops and taps her stick thinking. to far away from his place right now::
(danya)
"You'd have to remain with me long enough to find out, wouldn't you." Brow lifts. Query. Temptation. Expectation of sin. It's coupled with a coy smile. "Unless, of course - " smooth. as. ice. " - you fear a little competition?"
Finally, his attention swings towards the approaching female. It sends the soundwaves of his voice towards the blindwoman's ears, murmured words clashing tidal with the clatter of her stick against the pavement. It seems Tura has been noticed.
(tura)
::Tura looks mildly agitated thinking...She walks on. She'll have to find his pet tonight. Can't have it starve todeath and it was the only thing she had left of him. She heard the man turn his voice carrying to her too sensitive ears::
::She stops for a moment and turns to the river senting the breeze. Even the river had the smell of corruption. How anyone could live in a city is beyond her. She sighs. but then were isn't the wyrm and the weaver.::
(miriam)
"its not quite a fair contest..."
No answer only the trail of her gaze after his. Toward the source of the sound that had bled into her consciousness. [Tap-tap-tap-tap..] rhythmic, percussive. Her nose wrinkles briefly in that direction and then back to the larger man...
"Cold Fusion is impossible." Deadpan. "But i'd like to see you try..."
(danya)
His larynx moves, and perhaps it is the symbolism of another low laugh. "I am a chemist, not a physicist." Deep green eyes delight themselves in watching the deceptively young girl out so very late at night. "It's not particularly in my field of expertise."
Then his attention turns back to the most interesting woman down the way. Judging how she reacts to the direction of his voice in comparison to what sights useful eyes could offer. Perhaps the game is not ending after all...
(tura)
::She hears the man and the women. Her ears catching them talking. Not that anyone would want to notice the infirm. She turns her face back to the river. They could be kin. the could be garou. but it was safer to assume they were lost kin::
(miriam)
"Pity."
He's turned away and so he's missed the motion rapid as tempest-bred water. Rough [..always wild...] snap singers that scrape against his jawline and chin, and maybe she just wanted to reach out, to feel flesh beneath her fingers or else there might have been something on his face. She is already walking past just beyond him away from the woman stick -- lifting the vibrating cellular to her ear.
"Another night?" She doesn't wait for the reply. Perhaps he wouldn't even give it.
(danya)
There is no answer.
There is only the sound of a soft hitch of breath to capture the essence of what may be a expression of amusement. There is only the shift of his weight to scrape rough wool of the peacoat against the unforgiving railing. There is only the sound of his boots scuffing against the pavement as weight settles into comfortable lean casting 6'4 frame in silhouette against the black river flowing past. The subtle tilt of his chin in acknowledgement is wrapped in blessed silence that carries malicious gleam into deep green eyes.
That, perhaps, is her answer. His attention remains in weighty focus on the blind woman chancing an early morning stroll.
Can you feel the weight of my gaze.
(tura)
::She grins::
What? Pictures last longer you know
::He can here her soft motherly voice echo off the waters back to him::
(danya)
"Then how unfortunate that I am not equipped with a camera."
The sound of his voice seems to rise from beind a smile, but in truth Danya remains expressionless as he watches the woman. Little more than a murmur riding above the sound of the waves and the symphony still playing against his skull from misplaced headphones.
(tura)
::She can hear the music moving and ebbing::
I too am missing one. but thenwhat would I do with it?
::She smiles a little and finally turns to him. Under each brow is a scare the hides below the glasses and comes out to top each check bone::
That's a lovely peice of music you lissen to.
(danya)
"I find Beethoven relaxes me." His voice grows marginally louder on the echoing cadence of slow steps. He did not attempt approach until she faced him - perhaps the respect is a lesson learned, rather than modern chivalery. Lagoon green eyes study the secretive display of the scar, yet nothing betrays the objectivity of his attention.
(tura)
::she nods. Ignoring his suddenly louder voice::
Not many walk here this earlie. I hope the morning finds you well?
::She asks. Her nose flairs again taking in his sent glueing it to the his voice in her memorie::
(isa)
:::Isa strolls along the sidewalk looking out over the river and taking in the view of the fridgid city. He walks at a casual pace:::
:::Isa continues in his walk and up ahead sees Danya although it's not exactly surprising to see someone out along the riverfront this early, so he doesn't think much of it:::
(danya)
Breath huffs semblance of a laugh. "I'm taking an explorative detour on the way home from work." She cannot see a self-depreciative smike making breif appearence on his features. "Getting to know the city better, and all that...."
Instead, Tura is greeted with an inhalation filled with the incent cast of Polo mixed among the specific masculine aromas that make up Danya's body chemistry. Perhaps a whiff of laundry detergent lingering on the fibers of his clothing. Beneath it all is the bitter sting of chemicals that have clung to his flesh and clothes. All of it mixed with the sound of his voice coming from somewhere above her head to complete whatever may become her personal mental picture of their meeting.
(tura)
::She smerks. Lie to a judge good boy::
You have an intresting smell. Work with many chemicals?
::She asks a quite smile on her face as both hands go to lean on her stick::
(isa)
:::As Isa continues to walk, he draws somewhat closer to the group but not within hearing range yet. They catch some of his attention, but most of it is still drawn over the entirety of his surroundings of which he's paying the utmost attention. The seasons have a much more dramatic affect here than in his own homeland:::
(danya)
Her ascertation doesn't surprise him. Logic prevails that when one sense is depleted, the others will compensate. "I'm an analytical chemist."
Once more, the sound of heavy wool scrapes against the railing, 6'4 frame adjusting a shift in pressure points so that the impromptu conversation may continue in comfort.
((tura: sense wyrm: 4D10 Dice Roll: 10; 8; 8; 10 <---- GOOD GOD!))
((danya: clean))
(tura)
::She smells the general wyrm in the area but it's not off of him. She grins. That's a good thing she didn't wnat to have to kill someone so. well new to her::
Really? What for?
(danya)
"High Pressure Liquid Chromatography." Explained with an indulgent smile, perhaps responsive to her newly enlightened grin.. "I am newest grunt at _________ Pharmecueticals. Slaving away on night shift to keep the corporate powers that be amused."
(tura)
Everyone has there slave driver I suppose
::She pushes her glasses back up her nose as they begane to slide::
Mine is making signs in brail. But it's not so bad.
(isa)
:::He stops for a moment having felt something off come from the general vacinity of the group along the railing. What that something off is, he's not sure, but Isa decides to use discression. He continues to walk but outwardly pays them no more attention than he would much anything else. He does, however, keep alert so he can act if he must:::
to Danya Tretiak, Ana, Tura DeLyon: ((Real quick. I need to do a roll for My Nightmares flaw to see if I'm down a die. I forgot to do that.))
7D10 Dice Roll: 2; 4; 2; 2; 4; 8; 9
(tura)
::Something on the breeze catches her attention she sniffs it for a bit catching the sent::
(danya)
As he has the only pair of working eyes, they roam away from the blind woman. Their attention on Isa is notary and breif, at best. Nothing more than noting the presence of another creature roaming the pre-dawn streets.
"Not as long as it pays the bills, I suppose."
(tura)
No.
::She shakes her head::
My names Tura by the way.
::She holds out a slender pale hand in his genteral direction. He was a tall lump of sent to her::
(danya)
"Danya." The hand that clasps hers is far larger, broad and slightly calloused from years of delicate work and study which in no way resembled hard labor. This is the hand of an academic. A scientist. Most certainly not the hand of one that has been chosen by the grace of Gaia's beneath Luna's silver light... even if it may bear the fine nicks and scratches of intriguing scars.. The size of his hand and direction of soft voice shows the lump is clearly taller than six feet.
(tura)
::She smiles softly. Her hands are soft but stong. Caluses along the palm give an idea she doesn't just make signs and her fingers tips are soft and light and seem to be a bit sensitive::
You're a biger lump then I thought.
::She blushes for a moment::
Sorry I didn't mean for that to come out.
::she chuckles softly. In deed she hadn't. Just just been so suppried but the large hand::
(isa)
:::Isa draws closer to them as he continues to walk:::
(danya)
For perhaps the first time, the sound he produces is a recognizable laugh. Low and rolling as some distant fog, but true in its clarity nonetheless. He does not betray if he laughs with her humility or simply enjoys the appearence of her blush. "I stand six feet four inches tall, to satisfy your curiosity."
(tura)
wow.
::she says. And litteraly titls her head as if she can see him::
Can't see you're head. Must be too high up or I'm blind
::She chuckles::
(danya)
How unfortunate she cannot see the smile that borders on kind that greets her upward glance. The music has progressed upon the CD, waxing into another ephemeral movement of strings and winds. The sounds barely escape their confinement in the maladjusted headphones, but it is loud enough for Tura's sharp ears. "I've often been told my head is in the clouds."
(tura)
Well I don't know you enought to make that opion.
::She titls her head back down agian::
But it would be a pleasure to get to know you to make that opion.
::She leans aginst the rail::
You strick me as intresting. Or I'm just really lonely and seeking social interaction.
(isa)
:::Isa walks past listening carefuly. He's curious but not suicidal. He felt something off and he's outnumbered with no clue what it is about them that felt off. Outwardly, he holds a very casual demeanor and even stops for just a moment to take a look out across the river:::
(tura)
::Her nose picks up the wiff agian her head turns to Isa as if she can see him. The insense was delightful but there was something else. She tilts her head to the side but she didn't know what it was::
(danya)
"Then we are square." The sound ebbs, as if his head turned away once more, scanning the surrounding streets still hours away from waking. Allowing his glance to fall on the curious and alert young man pausing for his own view of the river. "I am new to the city and do not know many others. Perhaps the encounter shall prove fulfilling for us both."
"What is it you wish to know."
(tura)
::She gives a half grin and shurgs::
Just chatting is fine. I could show you around the city. I know my way around it by heart now. Even the bus lines.
::She nods::
even trade. Were are you from? If you don't mind me asking
(isa)
:::He turns from the view off of the river and continues walking in the direction in which he was headed but now being curious, he's looking for an away spot be it an alley, something he can turn around where he might not be seen by the odd passerby, whatever, where he can Reach without drawing attention to himself:::
(danya)
"Los Angeles until three weeks ago." He sounds to be smiling again. Sounds. "Until I decided to seek my fortunes by exploring the world."
(tura)
How's it going with that?
::She asks a brow raising and pushes herself off the rail::
(danya)
"I've succeeding in beginning the accumulation of monetary fortune, though I find I am sorely lacking in other departments such as friends and family." She can hear his amused smirk. "I suppose that is up to the mercy of time?"
(tura)
It is
::she nods::
Walk with me? My legs are getting a bit stiff.
::She taps her stick and starts to walk::
Friends and family are hard to come by here. Family hides and friends aren't likely unless you work in a very social job.
::she smerks::
I have few of both myself. And I've been here a while.
(danya)
Acquiescence comes in the form of footsteps taking his weight from the railing to follow her. The next sound is an amused little chuckle punctuated by the steady beat of his strides shortened to match Tura's. "I've found.... family... is rather diligent about hiding."
(tura)
::she he didn't know how diligent::
Very much so. What family are you looking for here. Maybe I can keep an ear out.
::She said it so. well matter of factly. Did she mean blood family or something else. Most likely blood::
(danya)
"They call my Grandfather Thunder." His response as casual as the steps he takes in their stroll. It seems nostalgic muse rather than a strategically dropped hint. Something about her tugs at him in a place that sets deeper and more primal than the usual stranger alert. Something prickling predator along the back of his neck. Waves ripple and lap at the walk's sidings. Wind whistles soft mournful songs betweeen the buildings. Still, his discman plays the soothing music on. A brow lifts expectant to judge the reasonability of her answer.
(tura)
::She nods::
I know of some of you female cusines then perhaps.
::She keeps her tone even. Kin. She woundered if the women he was with was kin as well. He didn't smell of the wyrm. had to be kin::
One of my sisters is there ring leader
::she grins::
Most of my family are Greek.
(danya)
Now he is truly intrigued. The scope of his focus narrows with the weight of intent. Lagoon green eyes spark raptorous. "I would appreciate a method of contact, if it were so available."
(tura)
It might be better if they could get in contact with you. They are not very....understanding of men. My sister or your cusines. One of your cusines bitchslaped a relation of mine
::she makes an odd face. It seemed odd to hear a curse someing from her. Her voice was always soft and even like a mother explaining things. Calm and careing. her accent proper without any hint to were she was from::
(danya)
If her sudden curse surprise him, it does not affect his expression regardless of whether or not she'd be able to notice. It fact, it seems to inspire the smallest fragment of a smile playing along the edge of his mouth for a reason only he realizes and understands. The next sound is fabric rustling into the echoes of fingertips on cardstock paper.
"Move your left hand towards me six inches, I'm holding out a business card from work." It contains the contacts and personal extension afforded a lower-run junior member of the corporation. "It should be a neutral enough avenue for initial contacts should they wish it." A sigh escapes his lips. Resigned. Fond "I've known some cousins to have heavy hands...."
(tura)
::She holds out her hand torward him::
Well they packed up with my sister. Just be careful. I'ed like to get to know you more before my new aqantance is slaped around
::She grins::
If you like I can call my sister and tell her of you right now?
::She says a brow raising::
(danya)
Dark eyes swing to the side and assure his card is pressed securely into her hand. For the size of his own limb, the touch is amazingly gentle and controlled. He may not have the collective strength to severely injure her, but he takes great care to not chance even a careless bruise. Moments stroll past in the method of consideration's thought.
"If it would not be an inconvenience for the time." Gently smiled. "I do not mind waiting."
Hungry. Driven.
.... but for what.
(tura)
::She takes out the cell phone from a pocket and flips it open he can here her mummbling about damnable weaver tools::
Can you read your number to me?
::She dials her sister's number wiating::
(danya)
"Five five five, two seven oh six." Obediently paused until he senses she's ready for more. "Extension four three one is to my desk."
(tura)
A kin for your pack. He seems to claime the Shadow Lords.
::her voice is suddenly very grave. even if he can only hear one side of the conversation he can tell there's much respect between the two::
I thought it best you set up the date and time. His number...do you have paper and pen ready?
::She asks curiously into the phone::
(danya)
As she speaks, the confidently smooth kinfolk waits quietly nearby. He knows better than to interrupt an important phone call for any reason. Seeming to react instantly to the great respect vocalized in Tura's tones.
(tura)
::A soft chuckle::
Good his number is 555-2706. He says the extesion for his desk is 431. If you would like to give it to one of the girl our you handle it yourself. either way is good.
::Tura stops for a moment and holds her hand over the phone::
What's you're full name child?
::She asks softly::
(danya)
His voice now is even softer than all the murmurs before. Never once has his tone raised - but now it remains in hushed reverence. "Danya Valerik Tretiak. Son of Night's Bladed Tongue, Fostern Ragabash."
(tura)
His name is Danya...Valerik....Tretiak
::She replys with a half grin::
Yes sister I shall. *she grins* He seems quite an intresting fellow. Don't hit him around too hard.
::She grins and chuckles::
We will need to talk again and you can tell me your war stories sister. I can tell you what happend to me. But I'll let you get back to what you were doing. I wish you successful hunting. good bye
::Tura hangs up the phone god she hated the thing::
(danya)
"I appreciate your effort." Gently offered into the silence created by the phone's disconnection.
(tura)
::She puts the phone away::
It's not a problem she likes my phone calls.
::She gives a half grin::
Her name is Kveta Novotny. A good women to have on your side. She said to give you her number if anything happens. Do you have ..oh wait.
::She puts her hand into her pocket and fuddles around bringing out a card and hands it in his general direction. It had a funny type of ear tab::
You can have this it has her number on it.
::Sure enought name and number::
(danya)
Curiosity enters the reflections of his eyes when Tura fumbles in her pockets. Long fingers reach to gently grasp, then explore the system she has created to identify and organize the things she cannot see. His thumb flexes beneath the funny-shaped tab, memorizing its shape as she did his sound and scent. "Thank you, Tura."
The treatment markedly different than the last he exposed his heiritage to. His voice difts at the closure of her name, as if to form the query of whether or not there is any other title she should be addressed by now that their relations are known.
(tura)
::She nods and fumbles around in her pocket some more::
This one's mine. I live in China town if you ever just want to talk or well meet my friends give me a call.
::She grins holding out a diffrently ear tabed one::
I have to go now. I'm sure my room mate will be upset I went for a walk and didn't tell her. She takes pride in feeding me. And looking out for my well being. Thank god she's getting married.
::She chuckles::
(danya)
"You have my gratitude." In reflection of her movements, he exchanges the latter card with another of his own in the guise of just in case. "I do hope we have the chance to meet again."
His departure seems just as strangely sudden as their chance meeting just a short time ago. She may not be able to see the way he tips his head, but perhaps she feels the change in heat distribution to signal his physical gesture. Soon there is nothing but the lingering mixture of his scents and the echoing sounds of his bootsteps that have long since drowned out the beautiful symphony that whispered into his ears.
(tura)
::tura moves her way and starts home going over their conversation with a soft smile::