[grant park - forums]
(danya)
Night falls.
Unlike the historic crash of decadent civilizations, darkness encroaches upon the city with nothing more than constantly mumbling winds weaving throughout the structural obstacles normally referred to as buildings. The sound itself meanders like the minor jetstreams created by concrete induced thermals. Sometimes, backwash coils it into an endless eddy of perpetual stagnation. Temptation to pause and relinquish one's place in the grinding toils of urban ratrace. Until the park begins...
Grant Park opens up like the prarie on which Chicago was built. From Michigan Avenue to Lake Michigan, from Randolph Street to Roosevelt Road - the roughly translated "stinky onion" monickered area has evolved into a historically reclaimed landfill that attempts to recreate the natural landscape of the once-present marsh. Beneath the "forever open, clear and free" park glorified by an 18th President lays the rubble of a city's great firey demise
Long avenues of trees predicate the formal gardens of Versailles and mask the railroad track scars latticing the land. Discretion provides pedestrian havens constructed of meticulously placed lawns, shrubbery, and flowers. Torrential downpours do little to dampen the summertime decorous afficionados of classical music strewn below the Petrillo Shell.
But now there is nothing but night's white noise silence harmonized by the constant lull of water tumbling in the distance.
Water falls.
Beneath the sun's warming rays, hourly jets expertly hidden within pink Georgia marble create visual wonder for the citizens of Chicago. Tonight, as the stars delegate their constellationary patterns across the distant sky, the electric pumps merely coax the waters into musical play. Shortly after the lab shirt, namecard, and variability spreadsheets were abandoned at the ChemoCorp headquarters; this is what the tall kinfolk adjourns his path to listen to:
The hydrated symphony of Buckingham Fountain.
Danya stands beside the lamplight created shadowed silhouette of a park bench. Dark patterns throw themselves obliquely across the cement walkway beneath thick boots. Obsidian pools congregate in the hollows beneath his brows, obscuring the darker green pools of his eyes. Hands lay folded in the depths of peacoat pockets. Chin lifts to catch the liquid phrases with the open landscape of his face.
Kveta told him.
Ana will be in Grant Park this evening, at the main fountain.
He would not make her wait.
(anastajia jovanovic)
It may inclined to think that Anastasija would. Stand there: amongst depths of darkness and the vigilance of trees to watch him in extended silence. To let him fidget, or not, and wait, while eyes of storm would wrest with black and neutrality and intensely survey. If nothing, perhaps he could have felt that gaze through the extent of long minutes, if she had chosen to do so.
Two minutes pass, and that is all. It seems his gesture would be returned in kind. Or perhaps she is merely impatient to let this meeting pass, her reputation wrought as it was. "You are Danya." Statement, slurred and thickened by the growl of Serbian tongue, and her figure is pushing away from amongst the towering sentinels and into the manicured clearing.
He would never have seen her: so he would not know the changes in her appearance - how worn coat has been discarded, how fraying clothing, dirt-clogged and torn, has been removed - and how hair which once was a tangle of twisting, angry vines has found the semblance of calm and order. Perhaps it is not mere physical change. Tempered by clothing from her Alpha, she could almost fit in: the blend of wool and nylon and elegant lines, fitting along a frame exuding confidence and indifference (deceiver), the once-serpentine coils of her hair restrained and nestling between twin sharp shoulder-blades. There is a scar which despoils the smoothness of right cheek, burying upwards and deep across temple into hairline, and the upturned collar of the coat she wears may hide, in night, the burns which claim the flesh of her neck - but not should she step closer.
Yet... yet it is a Lord which sleeks from the trees, and if the feral emanates from her, barely contained, barely leashed - it is not merely who she is now, as garou. It is edged by a life before. Of violence. Of hatred. And the spillage of blood: Human.
Exist in a world of War.
And never know another.
(danya)
Perhaps, if his genetic makeup were skewed in another direction which granted Gaia's choice, Danya would be aware of what lays just beneath her ferally human exterior. He would intrinsically understand the ancestral stench of human blood that invisably clung to lean lines and smooth curves coordinating movement within new clothes he will never decipher different. Deeper yet, a catharsis would kindle wrought from the countless generations trapped on the frontlines of an endless war.
As she emerges from the darkness masked between the trees, deep green eyes turn, then drop away.
It is anything but subjugation.
Focus plummets to a breif study of her shoes. Then slowly, it climbs sleeking form until comfortably resting on the neutrally black storm bristling beyond her gaze.
"You are Ana." Nothing more than a calm murmur; she gave him not the time to entertain restless notions nor court discomfort beneath the weight of study. Forever lost the chance to discover how high the waiting pressure could build. Before her stands a patient man clearly aware of genetically based status... yet harbors no fear in the face of whipthin restraint.
Now is not the time.
(ana)
The tips of shoes steel-toed, black leather still new - but with purpose drowned and worn and dredged through every surface and condition, to make that impression last not long. A week they have belonged to her, and already the tough, inflexible hide begins to wear, crisscrossed with scratches and finish scrubbed rough. Without purpose, they would not have been much different. The new moon Lord cared not for her clothes: except that they would resemble her face. Serviceable. Sturdy. Scarred.
In truth: indicative of nothing, yet indicative of everything.
The impassive cast of her features do not alter at a demeanor which belies the drop of that gaze: though at one time they may have. Perhaps, if he knew (of) her and it were not night, then the sudden-forged steel in that gaze would be anything but seeming same penetrating inspection: scores across his skin.
"Kveta told me one of my kin would be here to meet me. It speaks well that you are not late." The distance is closed between them, the intensity of her study could be the blaze of a laser: pinprick red a sullen scan across his form, once more: again, then to burrow between his eyes. Whether she is pleased with what she sees (or otherwise) bears not inflection in the quiet abrasion of her voice. Yet to the more perceptive, there would be seen a guard: coiled, barbed wire (like cobras) raised in subtle perimeter beyond the impassiveness of that guise. The bristle of rage, and it is a conflict in sharp contrast with that automatic confidence.
"Have you met any other of our tribe?"
Close enough to touch. Or strike.
(danya)
Close enough to touch. Strike. With but a shifting thought and further shift of weight she could score him to the bone with far more than the penetration of mere gaze: lay his stomach upon the latent ground and read its contents for some introspection of the future. There is no doubt the ability she has to destroy him on the verge of whim and displeasure. If only she entertained such thoughts. It inflicts upon the kinfolk a semantic expression tandem with an inward draw of breath; the upward curve creeping into the corner of his mouth, the simple pleasure of creases surrounding dark green eyes the apex of a smile that never forms.
He drinks her dominance like a fine wine.
"Why waste a first impression raising your ire at impunctuality." A brow skirts upwards in breif dance. Words are nothing more than a game played beyond the ballfield of impressionistic gesture: they are, after all, animals in the hearts beneath their skins. Whatever coy personality conceived on expression slips away with the negating shake of head.
"None that have introduced themselves as such."
(ana)
She finishes, though it would want for no finish: and it is no surprise what it is she would immediately request and demand.
“… you should tell me what use you are.”
To me.
To my tribe.
[Show me the worth of your blood.]
And if the words to mate and their close affiliation (for cheek, for spice, for tests of bounds) dare wander into thought, dare pronounce themselves in speech: there could be two choices of response. The slow, creeping chill of the cold of that gaze: splinters of gray ice in the texture of each iris, in the abyss of each pupil; or dismissal: a cool, not as cold, pretend-words-were-never-uttered with the suffering ease of frigidity and encased in a box of blooded shards.
The sense of forget.
For everything else? Keen interest: keen reply; and the growing suspicion that any regard she would bear to tribal bonds in that lesser and unblessed form, would be the same she would show to the use of a tool or a weapon. As it is, she treads upon civility: there have been no blows despite the insouciance of the Lord kin’s tone and nor has there been any intimation that her behaviour could swiftly treat otherwise. It is not intimation. It is: Nothing, except the sting of presence and the brittle flex of her lips and the careful balance on razor’s edge.
Weighing.
(danya)
"I am a chemist."
Words dropped like a bomb.
Then a brow lifts for the essence of clarification. Whether she needs it or not he continues under the impression of answering her demanding question to the utmost of his ability. "That means I have the ability, equipment and resources to, with proper time and incentive, quickly and efficiently create then provide whatever it is you could possibly warrant ranging from weapons to poisons to narcotics to...." A muse punctuated by truncated laugh and negligently dismissing half-wave. ".... candy if you so desire. Anything beyond the obligation of lineage to act in a manner of provisionary resource is purely a matter of continued negotiation."
Cool. Clipped. And directly to the razor point.
Intimidation? I think not...
(ana)
“…a chemist..” She echoes, the accent harsher and butchering the little-used word. If she had an idea of what it was in the beginning, the expression does not change when Danya nonetheless supplies it, if anything, becoming more interested. If anything, discarding the feigned apathy. Perhaps it were the words: weapon, poison, narcotics.
“Then it seems you would have some value.” And that is all it is about, is it not? The penetration of that gaze, the stance of distance and deliberation, and the inkling that one step wrong, and bones will snap: its all, in the end, an establishment. Of dominance, for use. And if use be effected without that cause, so be it.
Anastasija felt no need to assert herself. Not yet.
“You will meet my Alpha, The Maiden’s Bow. She shall be much interested in your skills. And if you have no ties with any others, then consider that situation changed.” The ghost of a smile, its pale crafting humourless and bleak. “And one other thing. There is to be a meeting amongst those of our tribe.” Leave no room for protest in the structure of those words.
“You will join us.”
(danya)
The question lingering at the base of their subconscious is would he ever require the assertion of her dominance to define who maintained the roles of predator or prey. Danya does not cower before this chosen weapon of Gaia, nor does he stand in an arrogant mockery of such savagery barely curtained by borrowed clothing. He knows, already, there is nothing she can gain in the powder of shattered bones or blood straying from mortal wounds save the satisfaction of his destruction. Such violent displays find no challenge inviting their guillotine wrath. Instead, expectation of conclusion is all expression tickles telegraphed across her senses. There is little more to this poetic picture than the objective analysis of potential worth in burgeoning ties obscuring whose hands truly hold the noose's leash.
Who, then, is under the greatest scrutiny.
Danya appears as nothing other than a dangerous artifact of wisdom held just within her - Their - vicious grasp.
A talented and creative chemist.
A secret stash of dirty, lethal little tricks.
A convenient weapon in and of himself.
Willing. Eager. Poised in decision's calm.
Temptation awaiting her absolution.
Such strong, quiet confidence draws the imagination beyond daydreams of childhood test-tube sets and into the obsidian tempest of collegiate divination limited only by malicious intent. A glimmer beneath the murky surface of dark green recites proven ability to quantify and validate this abstract value into some prize which covets a Tribe's peaked desire. The faint ghost of movement at the edge of illusory smile acknowledges what subtle shift of her hidden interest daggered attention betrayed. His chin nudges upwards no more than a distance dictated by slow breath's shift of his chest, accepting the intrusion of her judgement from which he has nothing to hide.
Gaze all the way to the shadows of my soul, share with me the vipers you find resting in memory's arsenal.
He knows far better than to risk his life in explosive games teasing such creatures with false promises.
"Time." No pause blossoms to reveal an opportunity to consider protest. "Location." Another breath of silence filled with the liquid whispers of fountain muse. "Additional instructions."
(ana)
"Dobar." Good. "Do that."
The business card is handed out: it stills there, steady - poised in the space between them. But something has grown in her face these past moments, even as he speaks the words she would wish to hear, the proper framed responses. -- You're good at that, aren't you? -- Something still and undisturbed, like the surface of a rain pool in the absence of the rain. She's dry. She's dust.
She's taking the card, and going one step closer, so her fingers curl around it - crush - before snaking around the pulse beneath his pale, ghostly wrist. The glimpse of skeins of blue, mere shadows in this darkness and that tangible lulling throb. (quicken pace, keep up.) The card scrapes with blunt edges - shiftangle to paper cuts - against his skin, half folded in that unnatural cradle, and warming swiftly between the heat they expose.
This close: her rage. It a surge-storm against him, a fire storm: crisping at his clothing, lashing at his flesh, drenching it in ice before filling it in heat. Never of the pleasant variety. Her grip is not particularly strong, he could pull back from it, if he wanted: save himself the discomfort (ing scorch) of her standing this close. Except he would not, would he? That is not Danya Tretiak. And she knows it: there, in those seeing eyes, where veils of mist part (veils of shadow rend) to glimpse the current beneath. The knowledge of him beneath.
They both have learned from this exchange.
-- not merely what was said.
"Danya," the thick of her tongue rounds into the curves of her mouth, that accent smearing the nuances as they should be with the barest of taint. Russian, she is not altogether unfamiliar. Slavic roots rekindled and shared, you think it should be some bond of warmth, the shredded silk which eases from her throat. "You remind me of a boy I knew who enjoyed playing secret, little games."
For a second, that grip tightens, the ragged edge of her nails biting into his skin, stilling the course of bloodflow to his hand. And then she lets him go - business card crumpled scuffs, a smile widening the corner of one mouth. It is not amused, it is not pleased, nor satisfied, nor approving. It is nothing positive, as it drips with its own gnawing impatience, as it darkens with a warning. And knowing. Then slips from being as if it never were. (Fleeting, are those moments, that end in a smile.)
"I will be in touch."
And she would walk away.
(danya)
"Ana." A breathless measure of syllables, voice lowering to reach her ears - and no further. Words cascade in nothing more than mist filling the nearly non-existant distance between them. Seduction is not what colors the intentions of choice phrases dancing on whispers. "How unfortunate he did not seem to play well enough to win." Reverant homage to the past tense referenced in her silkenly torn whisper.
So close, her Rage. He could easily pull from the confines of her grip and avoid the invisable backlash blasting through the meager barrier of his clothing - blistering across his flesh, growling against the steady rhythm of his heart. He could easily avoid the sweltering discomfort of such close proximity to the inferno held barely at bay within her frame. Yet, as expected of Danya V. Tretiak, he does not move away.
No movement throughout the unpleasent anticipation raised in pause.
No flicker of lagoon green gaze when cardstock bites at flesh.
Not even a flinch from rising storm's premonition of disastrous warning.
It almost seems as if he enjoys the luxuries of such brutal attentions.
Prove to me your power is worthy of my allegiance.
The brevity of her smile matched with curving - ghostly fleeting - expression of his own. The warmth sparking whatever bond forms between Garou and Kinfolk shaped by a chilling commonality far removed from the comfort of shared ancestry. What they share is a different thing entirely. Explosive. Dangerous. Fatal in the possibility of a wrong move's moment.
Fingers curl to brush tips across the back of her hand when muscles protest the absence of blood. "You should find our parternship far more rewarding."
Released - he watches the Philodox depart.
An arsenal lays worthless without effective plans for application; a weapon is only as dangerous as the hand which weilds it. Tell me, Ana, show me - are you as skilled and strong as you wish me to think......
Crumpled card retrieved then redirected to a patiently waiting trashbin; then soon Buckingham Fountain liquidly babbles to the sole audience of its own marbled ears. Any evidence of his presence recorded only in the fading pattern of his boot soles on sidewalk echoing off the trees.
[finished .04.24.04.]