[claddaugh irish pub]
(nessa)
Tonight is not so crowded in teh pub; no live bands, no promotions, so sparsely inhabited. It is early yet though; perhaps more will coem in time. Nessa sits not quite anonymously, in black slacks and a close-fitted white lacy bodysuit sort of thing. Off to one side is a black suitjacket; tasteful, professionalish yet feminine. There is a rosary hanging aroudn her neck, the end of which disappears down her blouse. She reaches up to let her hair down,and htre long wavy stuff falls about, partially concealing her face for hte moment.
(danya)
Tonight it is not so crowded in the pub, there are few sparse denizens of the libatious kind clinging to sobriety for yet another round or three, fewer yet paying attention to the traditional Irish tunes skimming out of the low-key jukebox. It's a nameless CD by a nameless band, as far as he's concerned, however it functions quite superbly for setting the resultant mood that seems to carry further into the ambience of the darkly lit pub.
Six foot four even before the added inches from bootsoles, the lanky figure reclines against the wall just off to the right of aforementioned jukebox's elbow room. Black lashes have fallen closed in response to head's tilt against the wall. It appears as if he is just this shy of succumbing to slumber in stark contrast to the usual suspects on a Friday night. Hands angled comfortably into the pockets of loose-fit jeans. Workshirt hanging freely open atop conservatively fitting cotton tee.
Either the gentleman cares not for present company, or simply disregards their invasion of his personally constructed kingdom.
(nessa)
At her feet sits a matte leather totebag, a bit full of things but zipped shut, though there is a cellphone visible from a side pocket. She has a fairly nice PDA in her hand, poking at it wiht a littel stick. Beside her in a shot glass is a clear liquid, no food around or sign she has eaten recently. A simple picture, what you see is what you get? Average mortal woman with no social life? Perhaps, except for her heritage plain on her face for all who would recognize it to see, a Shadowlord of visible breeding ,though who would see it, in this place?
She punches in anothe rnumber, and hten seems totally surprised when something likely unpleasant happens. With a sigh, Agnessa turns it off and slips the device back into her tote.
(danya)
Black bars jailing veridian irises open slow as leviathan's waking maw, allowing the precise allocation of worldview to enter his consciousness. Perhaps he responded to the minor sounds of irritated surprise following something unpleasant. Perhaps he noted the shift in music as jukebox selected it's next fanfare anthem.
Perhaps, instead, he answered the bartender's bark announcing his drink was obediently waiting on polished wood altar mere arm's stretch away.
Square jawline draws hinted acknowledgement when weight pulls from casual upright sprawl, long legs devouring the few feet protecting tumbler glass, the movement drawing it to quench his thirst almost effeminately graced. If it weren't for the strength of his bloodline commanding his posture.
(nessa)
She reaches over to sip at her drink, changes her mind and instead tosses it back in a quick swallow. A slow night now, with nothing to occupy her time or energy. Something is playing, music she doens't really understand, with those bizarre accordion things in the backgourdn of it. She winces slightly and ponders the bar, and the opportunity to order again or perhaps leave.
At the door, a series of people begin to enter slowly,a large party of women together, older with two of them in wheelchairs.
(danya)
While Nessa delegates her drink into the short address of a bolted swallow, Danya entertains the polar opposite approach. Casually sipping errant half-mouthfuls from the tumbler. Those entering in geriatric chariots are barely enough to draw his attention away.
It seems token observation summed in breif glance more than actual interest.
(nessa)
She looks up at the ones entering, again when one woman's blouse gets caught on both her chair And the edge of the doorway. There is silly laughter and apologies adn women-sounds from teh doorway for longer moments, which Nessa ignores as she stands to go replace her drink.
Passing by Danya, her eyes sweep across his features, then away, gaze lowered to teh floor at the end of the light inspection. Then she is speakign to the bartender, who is partially paying attention as he scowls at teh doorway.
Her voice is thich with Russian accent, husky and low-pitched. "I would like Stoly, neat please."
(danya)
It is the accent that catches his attention.
Surrounded by the traditional, community value ambience of the Emerald Isle, pitched cadence of the Mother Land stand out as sorely as..... humorously..... his own height compared to the average stature of immediate company. Idle curiosity awards marginally more attention than the distracted bartender pays Nessa's request. Fingertips balancing the tumbler's curved lip against the pale flush of his own, liquor's toxic scents floating coyly upwards.
(nessa)
Is it hte paleness of her skin? whatever, she doens't Quite appear old enough to drink; the bartender looks away from teh traffic jam at the door and cards her quickly. Ready for this, Nessa hands over her ID and hten passes money for the vodka, appearing slighlty bored with the process.
(danya)
The paleness of her skin. The curling wave of her hair. The fine bones illustrating wrist branching fingers flicking ID for validation. The bartenders skeptical scrutiny. The Stoli's grudging arrival.
The tall, darkly crowned man appears equally bored with the legality in progress. Chuffing a near-silent notion of amusement somewhere in the lower portion of his throat just before it's washed away by sip of whatever dark liquor wraps itself around melting ice.
(nessa)
She sips at the drink this time, and turns away, towards Danya and away from the door.
Bad timing, as one of hte ladies outside shrieks with surprise, then laughter.
Then worry.
(danya)
The unknown woman turns towards his countenance, and Danya rewards the effort with gazing across the top of his tumbler at her own eyes. Pools of deep lagoon green that cannot be distracted by the worried inflection carried by outdoor shriek. A charcoal brow lifts towards square hairline in wordless question.
Why Nessa turned to him.
He could care less about the shriek.
(nessa)
She is a step towards the jukebox past him when she too turns to the door, her head whipping about first, eyes narrowed. Nessa's weight shifts to move quickly.
There is a rucus outside, shrieking and hten a blur of a small tan animal runs under the wheelchair into the bar.
The bartender growls, "What the fuck?? Get that little shit out of my bar!"
And then another creature runs in. And another. And yet another. A moment later, the smell of feces wafts out of the doorway towards hte patrons inside.
(danya)
At the speedily scurrying tan commotion, dark green eyes drop from their current study and watch the animal's course towards the back of the pub. A brow lifts, once more, in symbolic affirmation of a considering thought.
Brief as it is.
The tall man simply rearranges his current position to one more cooperative with sitting on one of the barstools instead of leaning somewhat over it. Boots tuck onto the bracing restbars sufficiently high enough to remain out of the small animal's direct paths. His only response is another deftly muted chuff of undercurrent laughter.
He'd heard rumor the Fianna lingered in a lower caste, quaint townships arranging both human and barnyard animal amongst each other's supping tables..... but this? How typically Irish.
(nessa)
Inside, those with a clear view of beyond the door stand and frown, some moving closer to help, some looking for a way out. More little tan blurs rush in, scattering to hide under tables, behidn the bar, down teh hall. Moving so fast, it might be abit difficult to tell, but they seem to have 4 legs, a lump tucked between their legs which might be a tail and bulgy eyes, with large ears which are folded behind their heads. There is a vicious dog-like snarl from the ruckus outside, and one pain-filled, tragic yelp outside and a spray of blood taht sprays the woman in the chair.
Not surprisingly, teh 50-something screams for real and struggles to get free, ripping her blouse half off as she hurls herself to the floor.
Nessa hisses and nealry leaps to grab her bag from under her table.
(danya)
A scientist's meticulous eyes study the creatures parading past, observing the pattern created by their choice of under-table dens, counting how many disappear towards the back stockrooms of Claddaugh's Irish Pub. Quick estimations conclude the front doors are quickly approaching undesirable as far as means of escape from the growing menagerie that's currently sabotaging the back doorways into much the same situation.
Thus caught, calmly, the long denim-clad legs lift to cross upon the top of the barstool. Weight shifting to pivot on gravity's central stakes and afford his ringside seat with a backrest formed by the polished bar. One elbow rests on the dully shined surface, the other flexes an angle which lifts tumbler to his lips for yet another languid sip.
(nessa)
Now there is a mass exodus attempt at the back door and towards the kitchen area by the bar. Luckily there are not many people in the room, so no one is trampled right away at least, but still the door-exits are quickly filled.
Who knew chihuahuas were that scary?
Or perhaps it is the large, snarling Irish Wolfhound, blood drippign from its jaws and a small tan paw which drops from between its teeth to land on the empty wheelchair, as he leaps over it in his frenzy to get to the last chihuahua who runs terrified into teh bar.
Inside, the littel dogs move like a terrified wave in front of the charging wolfhound.
(danya)
Little Latin Ankle-Biters hardly found cause for alarm, however the frothing Wolfhound may inspire some sort of self-preservation within any patrons left in the pub after the paniced tan wave had passed. The arm folded against the barrail shifts to scratch some meddlesome itch traveling across his lower back. The dark green eyes casually watch bedlam unfold.
But unless the monstrous dog chooses him as an alternative target to its meal of Mexican Appetizers, Danya concerns himself with little more than another. Slow. Swallow.
(nessa)
The huge beast snatches up a fleeing doggie and shakes it with a loud snap, then with a effortless toss flings teh body into a pitcher of beer, knockign the contents onto the frat boys at the table. Intense loud cursing ensues.
More littel dogs yelp their way frantically towards danya and Nessa, the latter grabbing her vodka and bag and leaping --far too gracefully-- onto the nearest table to get away from them and out of teh way of the crazed wolfhound, who so far does not seem to notice the patrons.
Nessa isn't happy. SHe reaches behind her to her belt, ready to draw if things go badly.
(danya)
Nessa isn't happy. Danya isn't impressed.
His legs are crossed atop the barstool so there's no chance of his toes getting trampled or pantlegs bloodsplattered. The bartender chooses this moment to peek out from his fortress behind the cleaned glasses and ice machines, glancing over the laquered wood to asses the ensuing chaos. The periphreal motion catches the tall scientist's attention and draws stretching twist, empty tumbler settled just infront of the bartender's half-hidden nose.
"Refill." his voice is soft, barely carrying over the noise of the rabid beast, screaming ratdogs, cursing collegiates, or crooning jukebox "Before you phone animal control?"
(nessa)
The bartender stares at Danya for jsut a second in disbelief, then shoves a few bottles at him. "Fuckin fill it yourself! On the house!" And continues trying to dial for help. There are, in fact, a lot of people dialing numbers.
Nessa isnt; one of them, she clutches her bag to her, ready to flee or fight, still silent.
She is maybe the only one besides danya who is not panicking as another dog bites-- well, gets bitten anyways. With the ensuing mess, likely the pub will be a day in cleaning adn disinfecting, at least.
Unfortunately for hte wolfhound, it attacks the Wrong Chihuahua.
(danya)
The bartender's paniced response ushers little more than a disdainful furrow between Danya's brows.
[How low class.]
The unsettled man is dismissed when dark eyes turn back towards the carnage. Assessing both the potential proximity of the situation while judging the approrpiate amount of liquor needed to just float the remaining ice cubes.
(nessa)
a short, stubby littel mate slashes viciously sharp teeth at the larger dog, right on the back lag, on the hamstring. She dies for her efforts wiht a snap of the huge teeth, but it was a brave go, and not ineffective as the wolfhound yelps and suddenly favors that paw.
Brave enough to put fight back into the gutsy little dogs. Suddenly the odds are slightly shifted against the huge enemy-of-wolves.
Nessa, stil on a table by a window, takes a sip of her vodka, watching the carnage with wide, blue eyes.
At the kitchen-exit, the doorways are now cleared; Nessa slips off her perch and moves that way, trying not to trigger the chase-response in the wolfhound.
(danya)
Never run from a predator.
How many times had their kinfolk ancestors warned younglings what would most get them slaughtered by greater Cousins, even faster than the slightest perceived failure. With the sole object otherwise attracting his interest constructing her own extraction from the violent scene, Danya considers the very same course of action.
Weight shifting smoothly to lower legs til boots touch blood-splattered floor. "On the house" bottle coveted in firm grip dangling to his hip when strides calmly direct him towards the now-cleared front door. Nessa recieves a glace upon passing. Her tentative creep overtaken by his own confidently non-chalant gait.
His expression borders on unreadable, save the glint of amusement dancing behind pools of veridian.
(nessa)
The room is now empty of people, except for the Shadowlords; Nessa turns to go, tehn stops and moves to look at the littel dogs doing their fuzzy best to swarm the hound, snapping and slashing and dying. Then again, the wolfhound can barely stand now, mobbed by ugly little rejects from a Taco Bell commercial.
She shakes her head. "America. Very strange. ALways there must be something." His gaze meets her, and wiht him not worried, she gains confidence too, following Danya's lead, tossing back the vodka and then settign the glass down on a table on her way out the front door.
The wheelchair is no longer stuck; Danya cna move it easily out. Sirens in teh distance herald the approach of vehicles racing to save innocent civilians from teh fido-massacre inside.
(danya)
Once on the sidewalk, the tall kinsman takes his time with a slow swallow from bottle's open mouth before gracing her remark with a response of his own. Voice almost drowned out by the approaching sirens.
"Did you really find it so out of the ordinary?" The following sound relates as much amusement as mockery. However, no clarification comes forth as the ShadowLord continues to make his way down the street and away from arrest-happy police.
(nessa)
Outside there is an Animal COntrol truck which has crashed and tppped over; other dogs adn some cats are partially in and out of cages, most hf the doors busted open; the source for the escaped and maddened creatures.
Better to be seen with another than alone; less memorable that way. She continues in the same direction as if by happenstance, not looking back now. His kinsman smiles slightly. "I do. Is not like this in Russia, and the manners are very different. They do not even light cigarettes for women, like is proper. And so many rules about freedoms that they are all locked in legal cages. Sometimes offended by very proper bribe. Very strange place. NO offence meant, sir."
(danya)
The wrecked Animal Control vehicle is noted but eventually passed when his pace doesn't change. A sidelong glance functions to capture her opinion as it unfolds. The corner of his mouth creases in the ghosting premonition of a smile.
"None taken, Madam."
(nessa)
"Thank you." Her blue eyes regard him seriously, inspecting this man now, finding him worth looking at actaully. And he did not panic, in fact. Nothing even frightening about him. A nice change from teh garou.
Police cars pass them and screech to a halt outside the pub, which disappears from view in a few more steps.
(danya)
"You are welcome." Gratiuity offered with momentary turn that affords her full inspection of his features from the spiked tips of his black hair down to the squarely chiseled shape of his jaw. Features that delineated a decidedly Soviet heritage although his lack of accent confuses a guess at how far removed the influence may be.
(nessa)
Something vaguely familiar about him. She pushes the black hair away from her face and regards him again; he could have walked straight out of any street in Moscow, she thinks. There is a question on her lips, but another car headed wiht lights and sirens from a different direction gives her pause.
Instead, she smiles at him. "Goodnight, sir." And moves to turn down a street away from the speeding police cars.