[grant park]
(danya)
It is a picture painted thousands of times before - the silhouette of a man, poised and still as if he, too, were one of the granite statues which little various locales of artistic divination, hands resting sedately within the pockets of his pants as eyes hidden by night's velvet shadows watch the juxtaposition of the fountain's effervescent flow against his statuesque repose.
As if the very water were crashing tidal against the mooring of his soul instead of marble's coldcast basin.
Whatever breeze filters off bubbling waters reaches to join forces with Chicago's constantly fluxating atmosphere, twinned currents tickling through the spikey tips of black hair. His eyes do not leave the visual music of the fountain - yet he knows when she arrives.
Prey's tickling apprehension of predator's stalking approach.
Acknowledgement writ along the lines of muscle shifting tensions across shoulders warmed by light jacket.
There are no words.
Danya waits. Silent.
(ana)
“You have need of me, zavisan?”
The feel of her is a prick along his spine, the course of those nerves tightening in recognition, a tremor threading through like the burial of a worm into the loam of the earth. Slick. Slippery. Sluglike. Insidious. But her gaze is a burn through the back of his skull as she makes her presence known behind him. The scratched, strained Serbian voice is muted low – almost reflective or thoughtful, if not for the detachment which embodies itself like the absence of weight. Like he is nothing to her but a vessel. A husk, occasionally sprouting a word to be tended.
All in her voice.
Turn, and her face reveals less, the writhe of the scar that must have been at even that small motion of lips to expel those words: is lost, and still. And she must be the statue he would wish to imitate. Solid, scarred features, rigid in their harsh and shadowed landscape, brutal in the violence that simmers just below the surface. And its hard to tell if she’s just letting the latter release (or be restrained) or its just his impressions of her from another time.
“It has been a while since we last spoke.”
Disapproval? Surely she would voice it with much more vehemence.
(danya)
"I would not trouble you with trivialities." Purred across the faint curve of flushed skin forming a negligable smile. His breath is no louder than the endlessly mumbling waters in the fountain familiar. He must forcibly drag deep lagoon green eyes from the rippling surface, but once done little effort guides them to the harshly carved lines of the Philodox's features. "Nor do I believe you would call on me for anything absent of note.... or...." A brow thoughtfully climbs towards hairline as the Chemist reads what he can of her features. Well aware he is little more than a tool, at least he proves to be a tool struggling to continuously improve his worth "..... unless I were, in some way, neglecting your expectations to some degree of disappointment....?"
The wind wandering through the empty park speaks louder than his murmur. Little more than a breath moistening his smile.
Surely she would voice disapproval with much more vehemence.
He fears not her wrath, nor invites such ire with casual shrug of square shoulders.
"Ms. Mikhailovna is scheduled to return to the University within the week."
(ana)
For what he first says, there is little reaction in the angles of that face – in angles which could be smooth and womanly except for the bitterness which edges their cast, except for the shields that tightly guard her eyes. Flat and grey they are as they watch him, twin slated pools that relent not in their intensity, nor in their watch of him, except where before they had met the back of his head, without a flicker they now capture his eyes. Colour, and colourlessness.
She does close the distance between them, the clothing in which that slender body harbours, more firmly fitted than those she has previously worn. Again, the flicker of femininity, as if with her she would bring sex to her style, bring gender into the equation, rather than be just a stone, with hidden feeling. Step forth, and the pants she wears slides over toned lumbs. Step forth, and the light coat which rests upon her shoulders edges back, revealing the turtleneck beneath, and the way it moulds over small yet undoubtable breasts. Step last, and its her rage which beats against him, cold and bristling and stinging – as who he is, epitomises her mood.
The biting is curbed with the silent jar of her teeth and the close of her fist.
“Sereleia?” Anger doesn’t hedge into her words, except in the form of steel. The memory of that kin is a violence she would not retract. “Then you should know what to do.” With that, the subject is dismissed, unless he should have more.
(danya)
She closes the distance between them until her Rage blisters against the flesh hidden by his clothing. He invites it. The silverbladed dangers coiled behind the thesad of human eyes snatches the entirety of his attention; freezing pools of deepwater green. He revels in it Words bite with venomous fangs, a bear-traps finality, a tempered blade's mortality; falling on tender ears as mercilessly as the wind's bitter chill wandering in off the Lakes. He only nods before such onslaught.
"Without specific...... lesson plans..... for Ms. Mikhailovna, I will tend to her qualifications and placement as opportunities arise." Phrase paused for the sake of drawn breath, tasting the water's heavy presence in the air itself, waiting for anything else the Serbian would dictate for the irresponsible kin's future. Coy and sly the glance which pulls his profile away and towards midnight's green lawn beyond the fountain - he enjoys producing a commodity she would desire, and the information is presented as if a gift especially crafted for Flesh-of-Fire.
A conquest's adoration.
"Though it seems Devlin Biotech protects far more opportunities than we originally projected."
(ana)
He drifts away - ephemeral by nature [and the coalition of all she would hate] – and her gaze remains steady on that pale, sharp-featured face: as if she would sink in the absence of those eyes – if she were less than who she is. A dark brow lifts, an elegant wing on a face which would laugh at such quaint description; or let lips twist in the briefest stage of annoyance. Yes, twist, where lips may have forgotten how to spread in anything resembling (real. fake. and all are illusions.) mirth.
Close enough to touch, and Danya need only reach out, penetrate those barriers, and mould that face how he would want it to look - close enough to touch. Plunge your arm through the steel and concrete of a Serbian bomb shelter – and feel the crunch of bones and the shredding mash of bloody flesh. (--but then, some do so enjoy their pain.)
Her response is only that brow, her silence is prompt enough. As is the boring force of that gaze. Bleak, filtered fire. Diamond-tipped with none of the sparkle.
(danya)
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to caress
And the Chemist remains within the easy reach of her talons, her teeth, her crackling glare - so confident, for there is little worth in his destruction before such knowledgeable jewels are shared between the two Lords. A shoulder drops, and she could rest her temple upon its crest were she to allow such tresspasses of familiarity, so perhaps the expectation would illustrate reprimand's deft bite splintering light jacket's black fabric.
So close a strong breath would slice across his throat
Instead, it washes over lips that turn once more towards the Garou. Faint curve reflecting annoyance's twist. Warm velvet in the face of diamond tips.
"There is another of our..... family employed at Devlin. He keeps a remarkably low profile. I did not learn of the relation until some time past my employ." Brevity's pause collecting thought. "I can only assume it is in conjunction with his methodologies of serving the greater cause."
(ana)
Flesh of Fire.
You would think with such light, the shadows should be less: the pain carved on her flesh and revealed in her voice and the seizure of all that is dark. The flames are meant to rend it, burn it, and leave it for true naming. A mark of purity, in its way, when all else would abscond. Is that the wither of her gaze? Not propelled by anything conscious, by the injection of venom or loathing or hate – but smooth like a riverbed’s stones, and equally gleaming in the way wet surface reflects. Guarded, unresponsive, ever so careful – and hard - except there is a knowledge always shared beneath that exterior. Like the silence of a dormant volcano, and the streams of lava which run molten beneath.
To think she would react to such simple gesture - the drop of his shoulder - although such a nuance would inevitably be picked up by the hawklike sharpness of that gaze – it is to suggest she deems him the time worth wasted, for reaction. Her only reaction is nothing – as if she never had, as if he is nothing. Except she senses in him the ability to break as an art not directed at himself.
But her.
And the watching of him, like a subtle passage of a minute, and the corresponding shifts of the sun in the sky; it changes.
“Who is he?”
(danya)
Beneath any stone, once it is overturned, lies a treasured secret - perhaps the tall kinsman gazes into the dark abyss provided within her eyes wandering on his own discovering journey. Some quest to find if anything exists beneath carefully maintained riverstone exterior. Coveting such a prize won by surviving lava's scald. Perhaps he merely enjoys watching liquid flow wash away the vestiges of any delegating expression, marveling in the gleamingly wet mirrors constantly bathed by new amounts of absolutely. nothing.
He cannot be arrogant enough to pride his own features drawn in those darkly lit depths.
Instead.... is it comfort he finds in fathomless depths.
Fountain's gurgling music inspires ghosting smile for its serenity. Songs falling in torrents. Arias exploding in renegade flame. How a shift in her mood would unleash flashflood torrents stripping all before them to raw, naked core. The notion symbolized through deliberate negotiation sharing breathily murmured name:
"Ambrose Cavanaugh. Executive Officer of Research and Development." Almost invisable the flickering smile. "My employer."
(ana)
“And he is Lord.” It is not quite a question, as her head tilts ever so slightly to the side, thoughtful in the quiet of that name. It is not a question, just merely an echo of what he’s already said, reinstated for her own pensive analysis. “Do you know anything further?”
The byplay between them is only half-attended as this new information is offered up, if indeed it had been attended at all. For when it comes to her affect, the slice of her rage, the way even without that buttress to who she is, that gaze would prickle - prick to draw blood, as distant as it might be it is unconscious dagger edges, honed by a well-favoured, overused whetstone. Regardless. It is not just the garou in her which binds her so silent, nor is it merely the Lord which would make ice her demeanour.
And where if she were another female of their kind, that speculation which rove deep and knowing and cast over more than just Danya’s face – and perhaps the space between them would be solidly breached, by a touch to the face [--the instatement of dominance] - or the measuring burn of instead flint-sparking eyes, all in obeisance to a necessary duty, such considerations are walled and the key thrown well away. Clatter, clink, slide along a wooden floor in Serbia, in a room encased by unwanted memories.
There’s no-one who would travel so far to attempt to find it, least of all: her.
(danya)
"The affirmation was fleeting. Reluctant. He masks the affiliation, remaining as far from attention's spotlight as possible." Once more, shoulders upset jacket's drape across lean torso as they lift to roll in dismissive shrug. Danya's eyes have not once moved from their observation of her features, studying how she externalizes devouring sacrificial offer this mere name. "I will learn more as time unfolds." Unspoken the delicate balance of leverage created by their relative positions in the company.
Her recollection ignored or dismissed entirely.
That is not the door for which he seeks a key.
He does not extrapolate nor imagine what would happen between them were either a different facet of their kind. Brow lifting in subtle expectation her further thoughts.
(ana)
No further thoughts are given, as her own gaze finally breaks from his own to look over the park, the path she had walked to get to him, the lack of features in this wonderland of urban and tamed wilderness and black. In the distance, perhaps the sound of the lake could be heard, if it were not for the fall of the fountain – a blessed intrusion for the mask of their voices – or the everpresent noise of the city. Horns blaring, muted, in this distant pocket-paradise (-human construct, this is the most it could be), the wail of sirens like a banshee’s call, the tickle of the wind as it howls through concrete crevices and hollows.
Dirt in the air.
“Then you know where to find me, when you do.” The Serbian curls around each word, the sound an easy propellant from the less than perfect strum of her vocal chords. Sometimes that accent, thick and corrosive, could help to mask her own mark of imperfection (complements for the scars), and sometimes it simply enhanced it. Like now, when the low timbre and the cold night air would stretch - breathe - strain.
The gaze filters back – a slight pause to determine if there is anything more he would tell her, and if not, her dismissal is a subtle, but irrefutable thing.
(danya)
In the distance reign sounds of civilization. White noise reminder of the cacophany within which they live; inhabiting the very scabs which crawl to cover Gaia's new wounds growing ever deeper with each passing season. It was explained to him, one, many years ago. She turns blistering gaze to ill-defined features arranged through Grant's finely manicured construction. Reaching beyond the curtainous wall of sound cast by fountain's endless discussion which shadows and smothers their words.
He shares no such dream-worthy distractions.
A scientist. Studying her profile. Defining the prose writ in posture. Interpreting the intent of gutterally accented words shaped into the smokey tones of quietly timbered voice. "Good evening, Anastasjia." Her words frost with night's inherant chill, and his seep warmly as the embers which latently wait just behind the Garou's colorless eyes. Such contrast to the oceanic serenity some mystery has inspired in the tall Chemist to sheild against her crackling Rage. However lazily distant his concern may dift across the theater of appearence characterized by near sluggish gesture -
- there is something razor in veridian eyes. It shows itself lurking behind departure's polite whisp of a smile. It disappears in the absent stretch drawing fingertips across marble planes carved in fountain's bowl. It never existed in the casual rhythm echoing from boots carrying the Lord Kin towards some distant parking lot and the promises - So. Seditious. - of tomorrow.
Posted by danya at May 29, 2004 12:00 AM