Kiara

Her apartment hasn't changed overly much since the last time he'd been there.

There's the same stark white walls with their large canvases of bold red and black abstracts dominating most; the same tidy, tiny kitchen and large windows overlooking the intersection of the city below; the curtains left open so that the first glimpses of moonlight will spill across the floorboards.

There is one change, however. The bedroom door belonging to Kiara's often absent room mate stands open, now. The room within sparse; furnishings that spoke of another presence within it recently removed. The bed made but untouched; there's a sense of departure about it; an unspoken, perhaps recent change.

There's more of Kiara here than ever, though. From the stacks of magazines and empty coffee cups to the bottles of wine on the counter and a single; solitary wineglass. There's more greenery perhaps, too. An over sized fern on a small side table beside one window; its leaves vibrant and thriving; the reach of it suggestive of encouragement; a needling by the Verbena's hands. There's herbs lined up along her counter top; wildflowers in a vase on her coffee table and a small space cleared in a corner; the makings of some sort of home made shrine; a low table with a velvet cloth drawn over it; a mortar and pestle set on it; blades and bundles of tied tried herbs; an assortment of crystals and chalk.

To the uninitiated; to the unknowing who come to Kiara simply for mundane healing; she must seem a fascination; this dark eyed woman with hands that seemed to know where to press (or not press, as the case often was) and how to soothe their bodies. To some in her past; she'd been a source of both amusement and trepidation.

She makes no move to disguise it, though. That much was a constant with her. She bore no hesitation or shame for what she was or how she believed. Perhaps it was why she had yet to find the situation where she resisted the urge to needle the likes of Arionna. To push and provoke and ask - why, why not.

-

She sets a lamp on when they arrive; lets it bathe her apartment in soft; warm light and toes her sneakers off by the door; drops a set of keys in a dish and tears an ipod from her arm with the soft rending of Velcro. "I didn't ask but - Arionna." Kiara moves into the lounge and sets a second lamp on; it bathes her in light; casting starker shadows beneath her eyes as she looms beside it; the dip of her collarbones; the consideration in her eyes at mention of the other girl.

"That's recent. It's - harsh."

Ian

Ian removed his hat when he stepped through the door, sliding a hand through his hair to smooth out any lingering flatness. He tossed the hat somewhere (a hook, a table, a counter,) and took a moment to let his eyes roam over the interior of Kiara's apartment. It was bigger than his own. Ian had never mentioned that. Nor had she ever been to his place to see it for herself. Perhaps one day she would ask about it. Perhaps one day he would invite her of his own accord. Perhaps not.

The space was mostly as he remembered it. The second bedroom got a sparing glance though (the feeling of emptiness it contained.) Ian regarded the open door quietly for a moment before letting his eyes refocus on Kiara.

She mentioned Arionna (her blindness) and Ian nodded. The gesture had a subtle gravity to it. Arionna herself might not claim the sacrifice as a tragedy, and perhaps it wasn't. But Ian understood the weight that a loss like that could carry. "She said she gave it up willingly. A sacrifice, like you hear in folk tales." He came up behind Kiara, but did not try to touch her. There was a certain draw, though. A fascination with her space.

"She's handling it better than I would."

Kiara

"That's quite the sacrifice." There's a measure of admiration in it; of a kind that could almost seem begrudging and probably not anything she'd outright say in the other woman's presence. Her feelings about her are not quite yet in the same extreme as Grace's but - there's a definite edge of bemusement as she turns; finds Ian in her space there; housed between a low side table and the overstuffed cushions of her well loved sofa bed.

She'd offered it once, in passing, to Kalen. To any of them, when they'd still mostly been strangers to her.

"Is it cruel that part of me isn't surprised? She's - " She pauses; her smile gathering potency as she sinks down onto the sofa; cups the back of her neck with a palm; presses her elbow into the back of the sofa and slides her other hand around his; pulls him down without force; the subtle suggestion that he come; if he chose to.

" - There are worse things to lose, I suppose." She traces his face; sets some internal measurement by the slope of his cheekbones; the strength of his jaw. The shift and play of his body beneath his clothing. "You feel different, too." She doesn't say what strikes her the most about him in the low lamplight. Doesn't say you're beautiful, but there's the suggestion that she's admiring it. Him.

The change. The way he seems starker; more in focus than before.

"Must be the season for it."

Ian

She pulled him down with her onto the sofa, and Ian relaxed into the cushions as though he belonged there, facing her with one arm slung over the back. His skin had a warm tan that hadn't been there over the winter. At close proximity it radiated soft heat (as hers did.)

"There are," he conceded. "But I hope for her sake that she finds it again, some day."

Kiara traced the lines of his face; said that he felt different too. Did not say, but thought, that he was beautiful. Surely someone like Ian didn't need anyone to tell him that. He had to know, of course. He heard it often enough. Saw it in the way that strangers' eyes sometimes lingered on him. Surely he looked in the mirror every day and recognized what he saw there, objectively. It wasn't really a question of whether or not he knew. Because there was a difference between being told by some modeling agent or a stranger in a bar that you're beautiful, and having someone you'd been intimate with look at you and touch you the way that Kiara was doing now. A difference in weight (in meaning.) A difference in the way he felt it.

"I am," was his quiet reply. He tilted his jaw into her hand and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he looked at her (watched her watching him.) "So are you."

Once - the first time they'd come back here like this, the first time they'd been together - he'd told her that it wasn't the rejuvenating part of her that he was interested in. Perhaps she remembered that. But whatever he'd meant by it then, he hardly seemed disinterested now. A lot of things had changed since then.

"I like the way you feel now."

His hand found hers - the one cupped at the back of her neck - and he traced a finger along the line of her wrist and up over her knuckles. Then he asked, as though the thought had only just occurred to him, "Does anyone ever offer to give you a massage?"

Because Kiara gave them, surely. Given what she did for a living.

Kiara

Objectively, they were both attractive people.

Neither one of them struggled to draw attention in a crowd, in a bar, at any given time they could pull focus; in both the most flattering and unwanted ways. It could be said that Kiara, for her part, pursued it; played with the fact she knew she possessed the power to; draw eyes; hold attention. But for all her outward flirtations and confident, easy manner - there was far more beneath it that was not wholly without flaw; there were cracks that ran through her.

Chinks and bruising and vulnerabilities; she was just better at disguising them than some.

Like this, though, in private, without curious eyes or games to play; with her own personal armor removed; softened at the edges somehow; she seemed comfortable with allowing the uncertainties their room to exist, to flit across her face; find temporary refuge in her eyes; the edge of a smile. Maybe with Ian, it seemed safe to be imperfect. "Beltane was interesting this year." She concedes as he touches her wrist; feels the delicate bones and tendons beneath the skin when she shifts just so; feels the skitter of her pulse; sees the tiny veins mapping beneath the surface.

There's a smile that blooms across her mouth when he asks if anyone ever gives her a massage and she shifts; draws her wrist out from behind her neck enough to catch the edge of his hand; to stroke a thumb delicately across the surface of his skin. "Once, as part of a proposition." Her eyebrows wing upward; there's a gleam set in her eyes that suggests exactly what kind of proposition that had been.

"I was younger, naive enough to think that would never happen. But generally - no. I think people are too scared I'd judge their technique." She tilts her head; her hair still bound back in a ponytail; but strands coming loose through wear; catching in the edges of her running gear.

"Why, are you offering?"

And if there's a hint of a challenge to that, it may not be without intention.

Ian

"I am." The edges of his lips turned up (almost a smile.) He might have made a joke there. Almost did, actually. But something about the softness of the moment made it feel... like the wrong thing to say. Perhaps they were both more willing to be imperfect. "Given what you just told me, I wish I'd offered sooner."

Nobody deserved that - to be deprived of a healing touch. Though he wasn't trained in it the same way that she was.

"Turn around. Take off your shirt."

There was a soft glimmer of flirtation in his eyes, but he let it stay muted.

Kiara

What she doesn't say, of course, is that there's an implied intimacy to it.

Laying your hands on another person's body to heal them, even a stranger's, requires a certain degree of trust. To believe that the one who you let yourself be, even temporarily, vulnerable before wouldn't take advantage; wouldn't cause more harm than good. Physically or otherwise. There is a beat there, after she poses the question (challenge) to him that something flickers across her eyes when he says yes.

Something like surprise, perhaps. Something like uncertainty.

It's there and gone so fast that; after she complies with that challenging little smile lingering on; it could be mistaken for something else. A mistake; a misinterpretation of the moment.

"Well, it's definitely one way to get my clothes off."

She does twist, though. Resettles with her back toward him and draws her skin tight shirt over her head; unties the hoodie around her waist and tosses both off to the side where they snag the edge of the coffee table. Beneath; the Verbena's shoulders are criss-crossed with marks where the fabric had sat; snug against her body. Her tattoo is revealed; the black ink standing out against her complexion. He's seen it before of course; no doubt traced the familiar curl of it; the choku rei; the power symbol of the reiki healer.

Kiara settles herself cross legged in front of him and dips her chin; turning to half-glance over a shoulder at him; in many women; it would have been the moment for a beguiling, coy look. A flirtatious invitation to come closer, or put his hands on her. She doesn't do that, at least, not right now. But he can see the arch of her spine as she straightens it; see the way her body shifts as she breathes in.

There's something anticipatory about it; the way she sits. Expectant but not demanding. As if it were an offering, her trust. And maybe it was.

Ian

[Life 1, diff 4 (coincidental) -1 (practiced)]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (3, 4, 9) ( success x 3 )

Ian

[Life 2, diff 5 (coincidental) -1 (also practiced) -1 (taking time)]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (1, 5, 9) ( success x 2 )

Ian

[one extension]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (1, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )

Ian

“I don’t think I need to make up an excuse for that,” Ian pointed out, quietly amused. If he noticed the look that flashed across her eyes, he didn’t draw attention to it. Instead he toed off his boots and shifted into a crouched position on the sofa, sliding forward so his knees pressed in at either side of Kiara’s hips. The proximity felt intimate, and he took a moment to bow his head and look at her; at the curling tattoo inked into her skin, the fading marks left behind by her running clothes, the angled lines of her shoulder blades and the subtle shift of muscle and vertebrae. He ran the backs of his knuckles slowly down the length of her spine. On the way up, he traced a finger over the strokes of her tattoo. Then he leaned back and pulled off his shirt.

As something of an afterthought, he undid her hair and let it spill down over her back, brushing the length of it away from her neck so that it lay across one shoulder (out of the way of where his hands needed to be.) Then he pressed his thumbs into the muscle at the base of her spine and slid his hands up, slowly. He used the contact as a focus, concentrating on the shape of her pattern, the balance of scents on her skin, the steady pulse of her heart beneath her ribcage – until he could feel the lines of tension in her muscles as clearly as though they were his own.

There was a care to the way he worked that spoke – not of training, exactly – but of knowledge and focus. They were both Life mages. They were both intimately familiar with the workings of the human body. Where to push, and where not to. When to apply pressure and when to touch softly. He was quiet (meditative, even) as he worked his hands over her back and up onto her neck and shoulders. There was a rhythm (a pattern) to it: long, slow sweeps of his hands followed by more intense, isolated pressure in the places that needed it. Gradually, a sensation of calming warmth began to spread out from the places where his fingers touched, radiating across her skin and deep into her muscles.

Perhaps she’d used that trick before too. It was a natural progression, as instinctive as the stroke of his thumb over her skin (touching her with his mind as well as his hands.) If anyone asked, Ian would never think to define himself as a healer. It wasn’t an identity that he cared to step into. But in isolated moments like these, when the weight of expectation drained away and his attention was captured completely by another person, it no longer became an issue of how he saw himself – but of what he wanted to express.

(And he could heal. He’d proven that much with Jo and Lavinia in the park last week.)

When he was done, he slid his hands up into her hair and massaged the base of her scalp, moving slowly up over the crown of her head and down to her temples. Then he bent forward and kissed the back of her neck gently.

Kiara

She's very still under his hands at first.

He can trace the tension in her frame; the careful way she's holding herself all along the curve of her spine; feel the resistance in the slope of her shoulders; the tightness in her neck before he draws the elastic from her hair; lets it spill forward in heavy waves over her shoulders, when he sweeps it out of his way, she gathers it together; twists it and keeps it; twines it into a loose spiral to contain the wild tenancy of it. The willfulness to drift and fall and arrange itself as it saw fit when unbound.

She takes a breath when he starts to work; ribcage expanding underneath the journey his palms take; her heart beating a steady time to the mapping of his fingers over the shape of her shoulders; feeling the size and breadth and shape of the tension, coiled within each muscle. The trapezius, the deltoids, smoothing down to the latissimus and returning. Kiara knows each one he sets his palms to; presses in with his fingertips against; draws a tiny, subvocal sound from her on, just once, a small aborted movement that somehow encapsulated so many things (there, yes, keep going).

He doesn't consider himself a healer.

But he can heal, though this feels starkly different to the last time. There's no desperation; no panic; no blood and bruising. He sets his hands on her and loosens the knots of tension; feels her body shift and bend like a reed in the wind; slides his fingers into her hair when he's done and deposits a kiss to her neck. There's no mirror in Kiara's lounge room to easily glimpse her face where it's turned from him but the lamp casts its own reflection against the window; throws back the impression of them; his body curled behind her; twined shadows; one with her arms folded against herself; keeping herself. She leans back; cranes her face back until she can find the edge of his jaw; chases the suggestion of a kiss there with her words; a quiet susurrus breathed against the slope of it.

"Thank you."

Her fingers find the slope of his arm; trace lightly along the curve of it. The caress is absent; familiar and intimate. "My sister left." Her confession too, is absent. A quiet admission. "There was a time not that long ago I'd probably have gone with her."

Ian

There was something about Kiara’s hair that reminded him, a little, of someone he used to know (though he would never have mistaken the two of them otherwise.) It hit him sometimes when he was touching it – this faded echo of sense memory. Funny, the things the mind chooses to hold onto.

Some people melt under the influence of the right kind of touch; go all loose and limp and vocal in their enjoyment. Ian wasn’t really expecting that from Kiara. She was… more like him (subtle, contained.) But something about her body language, and that quiet trust she placed in him, hit an answering note below his sternum.

When she leaned back, he closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the butterfly weight of her lips and the whispered utterance of her thanks against his jaw. There was an equally subtle suggestion of a smile when he hummed his reply.

He shifted on the sofa, untucking his knees so that he could slide in close with his chest to her back and his legs folded on either side of her body. One of his arms snaked loosely around her stomach. Kiara would be able to feel the slow drum of his heartbeat.

“What made you stay?”

Kiara

There's a silence after he asks what made her stay. In many ways, it's a dangerous question. In years gone by, the posing of it would have been enough to cause her to draw away; to bank the light in her eyes and slide back into steady place the intangible (but so very real) walls she'd long since erected around herself to keep certain things at bay. There's a necessity to it, the distance; the shielding between the emotions and the rest of the world. For as open and vibrant and alive a creature Kiara was - she was so very careful about the ways she gave of herself.

So much of her was there, presented without pretense or presumption but the darker sides; the hurt and the rage and the shadow that lived and breathed under her skin; built by loss and fostered by fear; was caged somewhere behind the bright smiles and quick flashes of wit and she kept it hidden from nearly all of them.

In some ways, the pretenses were so easily mistaken for reality.

Her fingers slow on the upward stroke along his skin; opening it to the briefest abrasion of her fingernails; then resume. She can feel the heat of his skin pressed along her back; his heartbeat; the solid anchor of his arm around her. There's something infinitely frightening in it to her; the weight of his arm around her; keeping her stationary; holding her there. Here. With him. Perhaps the same reason she trusted him to put his hands on her to heal is the reason the panic doesn't intensify; is nothing more than the momentary pause before she answers.

"Sadie asked the same thing. She was here after I - after Beltane. I came home and her suitcase was open on the bed. She knew, already. She'd felt it. We're connected, in this way." She slides the tips of her fingers down over his knuckles; tracing the rise of each. "We always have been. I can feel her out there. She said she wasn't going to ask but she wanted me to go with her, I knew she did."

A beat; he can hear the twinge of regret in her voice. "She's still looking for a reason to stop running. Leaving felt too easy." She smiles, just a touch and he can hear that, too. "I guess I like a challenge."

Ian

He was still cued in to the subtle shift and response of Kiara's pattern. Her heartbeat was a rhythmic cadence beside him, so perhaps he noticed the brief tick of not-quite-fear that rose when he put his arm around her. Did it make her pulse jump? Did her body go still, the way her fingers ceased their steady caress of his arm? There was an equally subtle response in him, not a retreat but a relaxation of posture. His hold on her was loose, despite the proximity. The muscles in his body were quiet and still. It would have been easy to push him away - to nudge his knee or lift his arm.

For the moment, she let him remain. Perhaps it meant something, perhaps it didn't. There was a time when Ian would not have done this. It was too close to a kind of intimacy that he often found... suffocating. Just then, he wasn't thinking of it so consciously. Perhaps that was intentional. Moments of vulnerability could be so easily shattered.

Especially for him. And for her.

Ian didn't like to talk about family. Even the word: sister was hard for him to utter. Kiara spoke about Sadie - about what it felt like to realize that the two of them might be headed down different paths. And it was, in some respects, an alien feeling to him. But in other respects, he understood her all too well (the loss, the distance... having to learn to let go.)

She said she liked a challenge. He tilted his head against the sofa and smiled. The expression was tinted with subtle complexities.

"I think I figured that out about you a while ago." There was a beat as he breathed. Thinking. Listening to her heart.

"What were you like when you were younger?"

Kiara

"Stubborn. A little arrogant. Impulsive." There's a pause, he can hear the huff of amusement as she breathes out; the catch in her breathing as she does. "In some ways that hasn't changed, but - " She opens her palm over his arm, let's the heat seep into his skin where she lays it flat against him. "My father was - is - a doctor. My mother was this Manhattan socialite. They got married as much because they were a financial match as they even remotely tolerated one another. They had me because it made sense."

The way she speaks of them; her parents; her past; there's a disconnection that's tangible. Not quite disgust, but close. Incomprehension (it strayed rather close to pity).

"But I never really fit them. I was just another fancy toy they wanted for the sake of appearances." She shifts, then. Twists lightly in the cradle of his body so that she's half on top of him; her hair falling over her shoulders; it pools over his chest and the Verbena's eyes focus on the mapping of her fingers over his heart; there's a smile that plays at the edges of her mouth, feeling the steady pulse of his heart beating beneath skin and muscle and bone.

"They said jump and how high and I - refused." She lifts her chin, meeting his eyes. There's a flicker of old grief in them but she doesn't conceal it. Doesn't seem as if she's trying to. At least this time. "I spent a lot of time in clubs. Some of the first people I met after I joined the Verbena were - not that unlike Sera." Kiara's mouth tugs into a brighter smile as she slides her other hand along his shoulder. The physicality of it; of laying her hands on his body as she talks of her past seems to help.

Grounding her in the now. "I was a little wild. And then I got wilder." She skates her fingers over the base of his neck; slides it down to rest across the flat of his belly. "Just in ways that made more sense. What about you?" She punctuates the question with laying her chin down near his stomach; braced on her arms.

"Something tells me younger Ian has all the stories."

Ian

Almost, he said: so you haven't changed much. But then Kiara beat him to it. She spoke of her parents, of the fundamental disconnect between her life and theirs. One could speak of these things as one would any other fact of one's life - cool, observational. But what kind of revelation was that for a child to have? To not truly be seen as a human being by their own parents? To not be wanted and loved in the way that parents are supposed to want and love their children? Ian knew someone else like that once. It had made her detached and destructive. (One could argue they'd been rather a good match for each other, at the time.)

Kiara shifted on the sofa, turning to face him. His gaze slid down the planes of her chest for a moment, then back up to her eyes. Her hands on his skin had a grounding effect on both of them, and not for the first time he found himself immediately aware of the similarity in the way that they spoke (not just with words, but with touch.) She finally settled lower, and his eyes cast down to watch her.

Something tells me younger Ian has all the stories.

There was a ghost of a smile at that, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"It depends on when you would have met me. When I was young I was... moody and stubborn and independent. I took ballet and, briefly, piano lessons, and shockingly that did not make me seem cool among the preteen boys of central Chicago. So I mostly made friends with girls. When I got older I was... kind of a handful. Typical teenage shit, I guess. I snuck out. Got into fights..." he shrugged lightly. There were pieces missing from this story, the way he was telling it.

"I was cruel, later. Fucked up and self-destructive. That isn't really a story you want to hear."

There was a long beat of silence. Almost, he looked like he might say something else, but then his expression changed and he said, "I was in a band for like three seconds. Anyway, after high school I got into Rutger's and moved to New Jersey. I tried Juilliard but... couldn't afford it. Even with the scholarship. Rutger's was a good school though. Even if it was in Jersey." His mouth turned up into a smirk there. "I met some Verbena out there."

Kiara

There are things they leave out. Phantoms of their pasts that dance and twist around the parts of their prior lives they do share; they do give voice to. Like shadows flickering and cast back by the fire; reflecting nothing more or less than what existed and was tangible but distorted; misshapen and misleading, with the right circumstances; at the right moment. Kiara's not insensible to the fact he doesn't say it all. That there are moments of silence; protracted beats where it feels like there's indecision; an internal coin flip about what to admit and what to abstain from sharing.

There's a recklessness to it, after all. Letting another person in. As contained and private and careful as she is (as they both could be) there's part of her that relishes it. Letting go of the tight grasp she has on those facets of her past; giving temporarily; fleeting glances into the shadowy aspects of herself. It's not the whole truth; it's hand picked pieces from them both but - she watches him tell it. Looking up at his face in the lamplight; the slide of shadows where they fall across his brow; cheekbone.

Looks down at one point; dark lashes fanning her cheeks; her hand still working over his body with light; cursory intent.

I was cruel, later. Her eyes shift back to his face; there's something inscrutable about the way she reacts to that; this tiny, fractional gleam in eyes that seem nearly black where she's stretched out; the way she's not quite smiling but there's the idea of something around her mouth. That isn't really a story you want to hear and she's staring up at him; that expression on her face momentarily turns to rapt focus (potentially even something darker; a crude hunger to hear more about the destructiveness under his skin).

"Maybe I do want to." She leans up; sits up and looms over him; hair spilling to blot out the warm light; her voice close; quiet; hands bracketing him beneath her weight and there it again, with Kiara. The sense of the predator; for all that he was one himself, in his own ways.

"When you want to tell it. The fucked up parts don't scare me."

Ian

The fucked up parts don't scare me.

Ian's eyes seemed unreadable. He held her gaze, dark irises reflecting the lamplight. Gradually, he shifted to dislodge her weight. When he got to his feet, he paced slowly toward the window.

This was a way of speaking too, perhaps. Finding his space after they'd been so close. Creating this buffer of distance in which he could collect his thoughts without being overwhelmed by the warmth and the nearness of her. When he got to the window, he looked down at the city. The lights cast shadows over the planes of his chest.

"I killed someone right before I met you. I don't know if you heard about Victoria Drake. Alexander shot her. He probably would have killed her if I hadn't, but she was trying to kill him too and I wasn't going to wait to give her that chance." He turned around; looked at Kiara with this quiet, measured gaze. "She felt like you did. Hungry. Devouring. And then I saw you in that gallery and all I wanted to do was fuck you until I forgot who I was. I'm pretty sure a shrink would have a field day with that."

He paced back to the couch, but didn't sit down.

"I used to have scars." He touched a place on the inside of his right forearm, then his shoulder, his bicep, his chest. "They were gone after I Woke Up. I guess we get good at erasing those things." This time when he met her eyes, something in his gaze changed. "I want to fuck you now. But for different reasons."

Kiara

He shifts her and she doesn't fight it; just sits back; somehow no less composed and comfortable for the fact she's half naked; the low light in the apartment bathing her skin; the hollow dip of her collarbones; the high arch of a cheekbone; the point of her chin. There's something altogether sharp about Kiara; the way she's put together; as if honed to be just this side of wild; a little too beautiful to be sweet; a little too reckless to be wise.

Clever, perhaps. In the ruthless, capricious way nature could be.

He turns his back on her at the window but he cannot, for all the physical space he puts between them, escape the weight of her gaze; the intensity of her attention. It's completely his in the moment and that was - too much. He killed someone before he met her and she's so quiet and still that when he turns back to meet her eyes it could have been mistaken for shock. He could have anticipated mistrust; betrayal; disgust.

He doesn't get any of them from her; just those dark eyes and that same keen, attentive look.

He paces back to the couch; doesn't sit but stands in front of her and touches points on his body that once bore scars. Forearm. Shoulder. Bicep. Chest. That stirs her; brings her chin up. "I saw my mentor just after she was killed. Her body was still warm. There were feathers everywhere. They tore up the pillows and they were just floating there. I put my fingers over her eyes to close them. I buried her." She's measured as she says all this, each point like a weight; balancing some scale.

Tipping it in someone's favor; perhaps neither of theirs.

She uncurls herself from the sofa; gets to her feet but doesn't touch him. He can feel the warmth radiating from her body; the insistence of her eyes. "I've had blood on my hands. People I cared about. You killed her before she did you. Or Alexander. I would have done the same thing."

He wants to fuck her now.

"I would have killed the person who took Aisling's life if I could have. I don't think I'd even have hesitated." She runs her eyes over his face. "For the right person, I don't think I would. Maybe that makes me as bad as they are." Her eyes drop to his mouth. "Maybe it just means there's no good side."

Ian

[WP - stay present, Ian]

Dice: 7 d10 TN8 (1, 4, 7, 7, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )

Ian

He didn't really expect shock - not from her. Betrayal... perhaps. But neither of them had been under any illusions about what that night meant. It was many things: wild, visceral, liberating in a sense. Sensual, exploratory. All of those things that good sex can be. But neither of them had said, at the end: we should get coffee. Or: tell me about your life. People exorcised all kinds of demons in the throes of physical release.

And yet, they were talking about their lives now.

Kiara saw her mentor's body. In that moment, painting this picture of torn pillows, she was braver and more honest than Ian had ever been with her. (Than he ever was with most people.)

Almost, he had to look away. Not because of what she said, but because of what it reminded him of. Different images. Ghosts of things he was never actually there to see, but painted such a vivid picture of in his mind that he remembered them now as though they'd really happened. Somehow he didn't. Somehow he kept his eyes on hers and did not drift into that other place.

"I'm sorry."

It didn't sound like pity or platitude. It sounded like empathy - like respect for the value of life, and of family.

"There isn't a good side. We just do the best we can with what we have."

Ian lifted his hand and touched the back of Kiara's wrist. His fingers found hers slowly, threaded through them, but did not hold. If she'd been anyone else he would have put his arms around her. Instead he put his other hand on her hip and leaned forward until his head rested against hers. Only then did his fingers tighten their grip, bringing their hands together.

"We don't have to." he said quietly. As though to dismiss what he'd said a moment ago (I want to fuck you now.)

Kiara

It's in her to say something dismissive to that.

To say isn't that why you came here, to bite the hand of someone trying to penetrate her defenses. If he'd been another person, another lover, she might have. Might have dealt cruelty to spare herself (spare him) the potential for attachment. The potential for vulnerability when it came to another person.

Maybe it's that he doesn't put his arms around her; doesn't coddle her admission with denials that she could be as bad as the ones who killed and were killed at their hands; at others hands. Maybe it's that he doesn't take her in his arms and make the presumption that he can. Maybe it's purely that she understands the want to. The need to remind yourself that you were alive; that the present counted; that the past couldn't be changed.

We don't have to.

She sets a hand on the small of his back; slides it up; tracing the curvature of his spine; feeling the shift and play of musculature beneath the surface. "I know." Her hand finds his face, then. Pulls back far enough to cup the side of his jaw; trace a thumb over his mouth.

Tightens her fingers where he'd taken hers; squeezes down and then leans in and kisses him; her hand on his face like a brand.

"I know we don't."

Ian

She wouldn't have been wrong in saying it. And he wouldn't have faulted her. Though he probably would have changed - become more the person he was when she first met him. (The person who didn't think his soul was in need of rejuvenation.)

There was always a hint of claiming to the way that Kiara kissed. As though her lips and her hand could proclaim: this is what I want, now, in this moment.

They were balanced now on the edge of so many emotions. Grief, affection, desire. There was no guidebook for how to navigate that kind of chaos. And yet, they grounded each other.

And Ian thought, but did not say: You feel like gravity.

So he kissed her back, exhaling against her lips. When they leaned into each other, her breasts touched his chest, this subtle soft press on his skin. When he pulled back, he kissed the place where her pulse beat at the hollow of her throat. Then he turned and led them into her bedroom, keeping hold of her hand as they walked.

Ian

The day was pleasantly warm, if a bit cloudy. Above the trees, the sky was soft and grey. Only a week ago, there'd been blood splattered in the grass by the tennis courts, but it had long-since been washed away. Today there were no monsters hiding in the bushes. There was just the interwoven threads of urban and natural life that always existed here.

Ian wasn't by the tennis courts today. He was sitting lotus-style in the grass near Grasmere Lake underneath the overhanging branches of an oak tree. Above him, the leaves whispered softly in the wind, and he could smell the cool alkaline of the lake water. At present his eyes were closed; his body relaxed in its meditative pose. The grass tickled gently at his bare feet.

He was aware, of course, of the presence of other bodies. People walking, talking, playing. They passed him by on the trail or ran through the grass at his back. He let the presence of their patterns exist within his awareness without needing to look at them.

Grace

[Awareness!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Serafíne

Also: awareness.

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 8 ) Re-rolls: 2

Serafíne

Ian: meditating, lotus-posed, aware but also closed-off.  Remote, see.

Strangers divert themselves around them, drag blankets through the grass for a late-week picnic, change their choice of frisbee-lawn, come running after any toddlers who appear to be on a collision course.  We live with certain rules of behavior.  Among these: don't bug people who are doing yoga or whatever that shit is in the park.

Someone else here, not far away really, not so meditative either.  Still, there are similarities.   She is aware of every-fucking-thing and also sits with her legs crossed.  Not lotus-style though, plain old criss-cross applesauce.

Green smoothie on the worn wooden planks of the picnic table she inhabits, plastic cup sweating in the heat.  Leather journal laid open on her bare thighs, elbow digging into what meat remains, cheek cradled in the heel of her palm, an ink pen in the other hand, the shadow of the nib neat where it hovers above the page.

Caught between: between things, between places, between thoughts.

There.

Grace

Every now and then, Grace rides her bike. It's good to keep in shape, and apparently it's also good to throw at horrible dog monsters, in Jo's opinion. Grace won't be resorting to the bike-as-a-weapon principle any time soon, but hey, it's a great form of a getaway.

She seems to dodge people and things along the path without having to pay much attention, and perhaps people wonder -- if not that, what is she paying attention to?

Today, it's the weird.

Vampires, dog monsters -- this park has gone insane.

But it's not anything horrible she picks up on. It's Sera, sitting at a picnic table. Of course she pedals over. It's been a while. And the last time -- it wasn't a time for talking.

When she arrives, she tilts her head, as if trying to figure something out about the Cultist, and then: "Hi. What's up? Besides clouds."

Ian

[Awareness]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 4, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

Serafíne

Sera knows Grace is coming, has to know Grace is coming, always seems to know where everyone is, and there is a strange and rather precise sort of awareness livid in the air around her as the bike gets - closer and closer.  Climbs off the path and onto the grass - trampled here because so many people come to picnic.

Maybe Grace reaches out and balances herself against the frame with a spare hand on the picnic table.  More likely, she drops her legs from the pedals to the ground, sliding ever-so-slightly off the seat, straddling.

Creature that she is, Sera does not look up until Grace greets her, and then - she does look up.  Somehow she is already oriented in that direction, something about the cant of her chin, the angle of her neck.

Smiles: quiet, compressed, spreading, slow.

Lovely.

Which angles into a rather private smirk when Grace says besides clouds.  That joke doesn't seem to match Sera's particular brand of humor.  Neither does it surprise her from Grace.

"Hey Grace.  Writing a song, planning a trip, letting the world in.  How are you?"

Ian

He'd been in the park for a while now. Probably close to an hour, though in his current state time seemed to pass differently. Fast, slow, standing still. There is a nexus at which all things intertwine. Ian wasn't so much not thinking about the time as he was not thinking at all.

But he wasn't asleep, for all that he might have looked it. (No, his posture was too straight.) And there were familiar notes of resonance dancing in the background, alongside the voices of playing children.

His coming out of the trance was gradual. First a slow roll of his neck, then he lay back in the grass and unfolded his legs. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at the sky.

After a while he rolled up to his feet and walked over to the picnic table where Grace and Sera sat talking. He didn't say anything when he sat down on the opposite side, but he cupped his jaw in his palm and leaned an elbow on the table, smiling quietly. Watching them, as though he found their actions interesting.

Grace

"Building a robot and playing with my office plant," she responds, as if those two had anything to do with one another.

"That doesn't exactly explain how I'm doing, more the what... I'm really good though."

She steps off the bike, lets it crash to the ground. Whatever -- it's a bike. If it weren't built to be used, Grace wouldn't have bought it.

Ian's getting closer, a thing she notes by the resonant feral sensation. She doesn't quite turn to greet him yet though, lets him sit at the table first. And what he is doing to her, she does right back. She looks at him, little quizzical smile on her face, cupping her jaw in her palm (though there's nothing to rest her arm on).

Serafíne

"Mmm." The noise Sera makes is: warm, and quiet, and affectionate and just a little bit removed.  As if she were both here but elsewhere.  Floating  in the middle of the lake, perhaps, the sun warming her face, the world both expanded and constricted to the boundaries of water and sky, dampened, insulated, lapping - gently.

"I'm glad you're well."

That same reaction as the bike crashes, though it is sharpened.  Maybe surprised.  This bright-edged hook that darts to one spinning wheel then rises to bank off Ian's smile.

This flash of dark script, a rather chaotic hand, tangled with doodles ornate enough to be a match for the many dark tattooes framing Sera's hand as she drops the pen into the center of the spine and closes the journal around it.

There's Ian - looking and Grace being kind of weird and looking too, monkey-see, monkey-do style.

Sera: who is golden, sunbronzed, sweating faintly, sharper now - leaner see?  Huffs out this low laugh.

"Fucking hell.  You two know each other, right?  Or did you contract some brain-eating disease and lose all memories of each other and now need a new introduction?"

Elijah

[oooh, people? I'm not looking for them, but if I notice!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Elijah

One of the benefits of being blind was that Arionna didn't have to actually look at some of the things that Elijah eats, because let's face it- Elijah ate garbage. Delicious, chili covered garbage, but chili dogs had no nutritional value and despite the fact that he'd seen a documentary on what went into hot dogs he didn't seem to actually care. The thing about Denver was that it lulled you into a false sense of security that things might be of a higher quality than they actually were. They were not, in fact, of a higher quality. They were just a dollar more expensive than the dogs in New York City.

Not that he was aware of this. He'd never been to the big apple.

But he was, in fact, out with a friend and enjoying the fact that today wasn't completely crappy. He had a recital coming still, so it was nice to spend some time completely away from a harp. And darling dear, Arionna had likely learned her fill of what was interesting about harps (very little) versus what is pretty straight forward (most of it.) But? He was talkative. Always talkative. Clad in jeans and a V neck and a pullover sweater. Pocketwatch in the kangaroo pocket (because pockets). But, there he is, making his way down the nearest path when he feels…

Something.

It's enough that it makes him pause. Makes the blond a little confused as to whether or not he's noticing something magical or he's got indigestion.

Ian

"I'd like to see that. The robot."

He was wearing a white v-necked t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. Fairly standard casual clothes. Likely, he'd been walking through and stopped to meditate on a whim. (And point in fact, his hat and shoes were currently taking up residence inside the crook of a tree root.)

To Sera, he offered a lofted brow. Then to Grace (playing along) he said, "I'm not sure. What's your name again?"

Grace

"He started it!" Grace exclaims, in mock-defense.

"Okay, Ian," she says, emphasizing his name because she does know him. "How are you today? I heard the last time you were here, you patched up some people? Good thing you were there."

Arionna de la Babin

[awareness]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (6, 7, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 5 )

Arionna de la Babin

[Alertness]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 5, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

Grace

"You can come see my robots any time." Robots. Plural. "And you know where."

"And, I am not telling you my name, you will have to guess."

Arionna de la Babin

She can smell it though. She wouldn't consider herself much of a snob when it came to food, but hotdogs were not exactly a food she found enjoyable. She had eaten plenty of them in her time, and if anything, she'd rather keep her distance. Except with Elijah is eating them of course, and she's walking along beside him.

Her hair had been cut to make it easier to handle now, and her eyes ventured off into the distance, looking through people instead of at them. Unlike those with some etiquette and care for others, Arionnna didn't bother to wear glasses to hide her lack of vision; she just expected people to handle it on their own.

When Elijah pauses, Ari stops a moment after, his footsteps having faded, and she tilts her head a little in his direction. "If you are sensing what I am, there are familiar people nearby." Because she just felt it, more powerfully than she could smell or hear right now. All of them just washed over her. Though even she recognized something different...something new.

Arionna simply felt colder. Sometimes, even her skin felt colder. She put a hand on Elijah's arm, sliding the red tip of her cane in the rough direction of where the sensation seemed the strongest. "That way, I think."

Ian

"Chastity, right? It's something biblical like that." His lips widened into a grin, but he dropped the act quickly. Apparently Jo had spoken to Grace about the creature they'd encountered last week, and Ian's subsequent assistance. He pressed his lips together and made a soft sound. Serious and thoughtful.

"I think they would have been okay, regardless. Jo was in bad shape though. I guess it was lucky I was nearby."

(Not so lucky for him, really. He'd ruined half of a very expensive suit.)

Serafíne

Something somewhere in there makes Sera breathe out sharply, this quiet, self-contained little huff.  Whatever is going on, bouncing back and forth between Grace and Ian makes her skin prickle in a way she would struggle to define if you asked her to define it.  She doesn't like it though.  Gives them both a sharp line-of-a-look and reaches for her green smoothie and untucks her legs from her not-quite-lotus position.  Drops her feet to the bench seat in front of her.

Gladiator sandals in silver-trimmed leather criss-cross her calves right up to the middle of her thighs.

--

This: shifts, though slightly, when Ian's mien and demeanor change.  Softens, really - a note of passing concern that comes and then goes, rather without awareness or context.  Sera takes a sip of her smoothie, and reaches for her little leather book.

Elijah

[Who am I looking at?]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 4, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )

Grace

Grace flips Ian off. With a huge grin on her face, because that's how she does. "Yup. That's me. Chastity."

Although, let's be honest -- when's the last time she was unchaste? Long ago. Still, much like her real name, it doesn't quite fit.

"It was lucky. I think that was Jo's first taste of weirdness. She'd argued with me before about how some things just can't exist..."

Ian

[Per+Empathy on Sera (Did I say something wrong?)]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 5, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

Elijah

There is a moment of redirection. He chooses to rely on what it is that Arionna is telling him, and also takes the opportunity to peer into the distance. There were people and when he finally squinted and tilted his head a little to the side he noticed that there was a Grace-shaped person, an Ian shaped person, and Serafine. He could recognize Sera anywhere because she just drew attentions. She was distinct. She was most assuredly herself.

He shot Arionna a glance, a smile that was heard more than seen and he used the corner of his sleeve to make sure he was presentable. Or at least not covered in chili.

"It's Ian and Sera and Grace?" he is already headed that way, "let's go be social."

And so, he walks. Perhaps a little slower than he normally would, but mostly because her legs were shorter than his. He continued on, called out and offered a wave, "was there, like, a meeting nobody told me about?"

A beat.

"Okay, that was lame, hey!" and he bridged the gap his voice didn't quite cover.

Serafíne

Sera's reaction is less to Ian, more to Grace.  This seed planted in that moment where Grace dropped her bike and decided to stare at Ian.  That was just weird to her, and it morphed into something between them that felt domestic in a way that makes Sera feel both constricted and detached.  She's sober and she still has no fucking idea what they're talking about and that confuses her and she's not really in a place for this kind of back-and-forth.  Not when her senses are blown this open, her awareness is this sharp, her hunger is this bright.

Arionna de la Babin

"Seems to be the presence I sensed. Seems entirely like them." Though she was more familiar with Ian's because she had seen him lately. Her lips tightened, but Ari kept her hand on his arm as he walked, at least for the time being. Adjustments took time.

"Incredibly. If there were a meeting, I'd suspect you'd be the first to know. Is there anyone in Denver that you aren't friends with?" He always seemed to know people, or were at least, friendly enough to seem as if he knew them.  She was not, on the other hand, and knew it quite well, just as everyone else did.

"I'm not certain being social is an activity I generally engage in, you understand?"

Ian

"She seemed like she handled it fairly well, all things considered."

Jo could have run, after all. Many people would have. She could have curled up into a ball and gone catatonic (no one would have blamed her, really.) But she didn't do either of those things. And Ian didn't say: I hope she's alright, because he already suspected that she was.

Instead he glanced at Sera and tilted his head a bit - this alert, animal expression. He wasn't as adept as she was at this sort of thing (at seeing into people,) but the look didn't escape him. Nor did her body language.

And again, he did not say: are you alright? Instead his eyes softened a little and he got up to walk around to her side of the picnic table. There he sat down beside her on, letting the warmth and weight of his presence say what he was not saying out loud. If she didn't like the proximity, he'd slide away a moment later. Otherwise, he set his hand lightly on her lower back.

"Hey guys." This, of course, was for Elijah and Arionna.

Grace

"I heard she threw a bicycle at a dog-thing," Grace says, nods.

It feels... chilly. And this is not the season. So Grace sighs, at the 'hey guys,' and goes to look-see. It could be Alex, right?

But no, no such luck.

The ease with which she was handling the previous social interactions just goes flying out the door now that Arionna has arrived.

"Yeah, hi Elijah. I better, uh... I need to get back, actually."

With that, she goes to right her bicycle again.

Serafíne

Something about what she's doing: reaching for her battered journal, holding her long-neglected kale-and-pineapple smoothie suggests that she is gathering herself.  Then Ian is circling the picnic table to take a seat beside her.  She doesn't tense; there's no physical objection to his proximity, just a minute, curious flash of her dark blue eyes at his profile.  The frame of it against the park's impressionistic blur beyond.

Her lower back is warm on his palm.  The sharp little articulations of her spine evident beneath her skin.  You'd think she would have a tattoo there, something dark and curled given the tattoos all over her hands and arms, flashing even from her palm when she reaches for something with her left hand but no: merely skin.  A sun-born, sun-worshippers remarkably undamaged skin, but she's only 25, and she's magic.  Maybe she'll never grow old.

--

Elijah and Arionna arrive and Ian greets them and Sera gives them this spare, ghosting, half-framed kind of smile that stands-in for a greeting.

Then Grace goes from garrulous to, well, not.  Sera glances at her.  That glance lingers and sharpens, because really, she cannot help herself.

(Per + Empathy: WTF Grace?)

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

Elijah

[Per+empathy: WTF just happened? Grace?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

Arionna de la Babin

[perc+emp - all the cool kids are doing it...and I totally suspect....]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

Elijah

[Manip+sub: don't worry, Grace, I got your back. This is totally normal.]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 5, 5, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

Elijah

"Hey," he does catch that something is up, that something feels up, but for once he resides fairly firmly in his realm as a young man in his early twenties. He is a beast that can be observant when he doesn't put his mind to it (and it is true, Elijah can't seem to risk paying attention to something. He notices things when hey aren't screaming at him.) All he notices is this: Grace is in a hurry to leave.

He does, however, catch enough to know that he needs to step up his game.

"Yeah," he says, tone convivial and like he had just remembered something, "oh yeah, you're doing, like, robot things." Even half warbles because Elijah… well… doesn't understand what it is Grace does in a magical sense. "That did seem pretty important, I'm surprised you took the breather as it is."

Arionna de la Babin

Arionna can hear it. Tones have shifted. Before she might not have heard it, might not have noticed. But now she must, and she does. Grace isn't just in a hurry to leave, she's in a hurry leave because of Ari. They never really got along, and they most certainly don't now, but she never truly picked up on such a....deep tone of dislike. There's a twitch of her lips, a lip of a corner. It's amusement, almost, though whether at Grace's reaction or at the little details she's picking up...

Ari pulls her hand away from Elijah's arm. "That won't be necessary, Grace." Because Grace may not acknowledge her, but she will acknowledge the woman. Ari lifts her hand to blindly pat at Elijah's shoulder. "It is, after all, your circle. Hardly seems appropriate for an outside to barge in when all the pleasant conversation was just starting."

"I'll get a cab." She turned, sliding the red tip of ehr cane in front of her lightly, careful of her steps on the way back. Though she does pause to tilt her head and body towards the group. "By the way. Ian. I appreciate the help you provided the other day. " That's really all she needs to say to him. It's a round about way of saying 'Thank You,' but it's how Ari does things.

Ian

"I wasn't there for that part." (The bicycle-throwing.) Ian noted Grace's reaction to Elijah and Arionna's arrival with a look that might have been some combination of questioning and skeptical. He remembered, of course, how Grace and Arionna felt about each other. But he didn't call her out on it. Instead he said, "If you're still at the warehouse, I might come by sometime." Because he genuinely was curious about Grace's robots.

Sera was gathering herself. Perhaps she had somewhere to be or perhaps she was not happy with where she was or perhaps she simply liked to be on the move. Regardless, Ian stayed beside her for as long as she remained. Sat there and touched her in this way that was quietly and casually intimate. Like the way that cats will sometimes sit quietly in a person's space just to be there. (That's what it felt like, too. Like sitting next to a very docile tiger.) Her skin was warm under his palm. Just once, he slid the spread fingers of his hand slowly up and down her spine. Then he let the contact fall away.

"You don't need to go, Arionna." Neither of them did, but Grace hadn't left her departure as open to debate. "We're just hanging out. I like your hair, by the way."

Grace

"Oh, yeah," she says, to Ian. "Come by. I'll make tea or something. We can play laser tag in the arena too, if you like."

Still no response to Ari, but she gives Elijah a nervous smile, and steps back up on her bike, walking it out, and feeling out the pedals first before hitting her stride.

She doesn't even look at Ari. Not once did she even notice that something was off, that she'd cut her hair or enjoys staring through people nowadays. It's as though she's making a clear effort to ignore the fuck out of the woman.

Serafíne

"See you guys."

With all the arrivals and departures and offers of departure, Sera's is pretty low-key.  A supple arch of her spine, the bracing of her feet on the seat of the picnic table.  Then she's rising up-up-up and jumping (perhaps gracefully?) down-down-down, flatflooted tonight.  Green sludge sloshes around her in plastic cup but (clever girl) she keeps it lidded so it doesn't spill.

Another kind of magic.

Seems to include everyone in that see-you-guys though there is a different sort of awareness of Ian than the rest. Subtle, supple.  Another glance at Grace then, lashed and quietly banked, empathetic.  Love, see, even when Grace is being weird.

Hey, we're all entitled.

Sera lifts her cup by way of farewell as she saunters off.

Who the hell knows where she's going except: away.  Away from here.

Serafíne

(Graceful jump?  Dex + Ath)

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Elijah

"You don't have to go," he says, he assures but she's walking and he doesn't reach out, doesn't impede Arionna's flight if only because he isn't sure if she's terribly aware of what her surroundings or where she was going. He runs his hands through his hair. Mouth quirked to the side, "I mean, it's not- you're not unwelcome."

He assures, he assures because he believes it.

Arionna de la Babin

She hadn't seen Sera's greet, and if she meant to say farewell to Ari, she hadn't picked up on that either.

Ian and Elijah, they try. They do. She's grateful, even if she doesn't say it. She stops enough, at least to begin with, to respond, if only because neither seem to get it. "It's goo to know that it hasn't been made into a mess. She reached up a little to touch at the strands. "Though I do miss it."

"Grace is not pleased by my presence. If anything, she seems rather disliking of it. I don't see a reason to break up your merry group. I can function quite well without others. She seems far more a social animal, regardless of her quirks."

"But to say that I am not unwelcome is not entirely true, though one can forgive you for thinking so."

Ian

The truth was, Ian had about as much training with guns (laser or otherwise) as Grace did with swords. But despite this, and despite the fact that he'd once told Kalen that laser tag was decidedly not his thing, he laughed and said, "Sure."

Maybe he was getting soft. Maybe he was just getting more competitive.

Sera hopped down from the picnic table, and Ian regarded her as she turned that subtle gaze his way. He didn't say goodnight, but he watched her go for a few moments before letting the conversation pull his attention back.

"If either of you want to go, you can go. If you want to stay, you should stay. You're adults. It's your choice. I'm going to sit here and enjoy the last of the daylight." And with that, Ian lay back across the picnic table and folded his arms under his head, eyes turned up to the clouds. His bare feet rested lightly on the bench beneath him, and the edge of his t-shirt hiked up over the lower part of his stomach.

Elijah

He inhaled. It was slow and it was deep and it was like pushing on a bruise but this was Elijah we're talking about. He either lacks a self-preservation instinct or he is accustomed to pushing on bruises to see if they're still there, push past something that's intense and intent to remind him he's alive but this is a little different. Only a little. He grew to accept things about his friendship with Arionna. The first, of course, being that she was going to hurt him. The second being that he was going to deal with it.

That little reminder, that little note that she'd never be accepted no matter how vehemently someone accepts her (or does he accept her? Does he really? Or does he just pretend that there are truths about Ms. de la Babin that aren't really there?) it isn't ever going to be true. Exhales, eyes and attention wander and there is a slight grin on his face because he is shameless, heavens is he shameless because having a remarkably attractive person lounging in the last rays of sun being that close is enough to make a man's imagination wander.

And oh heavens does Elijah have an active imagination.

He contemplates, takes a look at Ian with a grin and then takes a seat in the grass.

"Sprawling in the grass, Ari… about… fuck… I don't know, seven? Eight feet to your right?"

A beat.

"Also, I've decided I'm going to finally start writing that shit Elijah does because he's bored blog. So, uh, pretty soon I'm gonna start rock climbing, because I will have run out of interesting drinking stories."

Kiara

It's the raised voices that probably alert them, first. A jogger becoming ensnared in an excited dog's leash and the tumble of limbs and paws and the high whine of a startled; injured animal punctuated with startled yelling and a flurry of spontaneous activity.

It's down from them; the distant catch on the late afternoon breeze; carried over. Somewhere close to it though; knitted through with the agitated cries of control your damn dog and if you looked where you were going is a heartbeat - no, not quite a heartbeat but something close. A skittering pulse and then, stronger, the prickling; soothing wash of rejuvenating energy.

Kiara was nearby.

She was appearing around the source of raised voices and agitation down the way; her dark hair sailing out behind her like a curling; heavy banner; dressed in black and navy; a hoodie tied around her lean waist; a set of earphones plugged in and her attention skirting the dilemmas of fellow runners with a private; chin-tucked-low smile. This ghosting glimmer that appears and vanishes as all Kiara's smiles seemed of a notion to do.

The dog; a golden retriever; untangled from its foe watches the Verbena's passing with great solemnity; nose lifted to the air as if it could scent her. A brief tensing of muscles; the stirrings of a growl but then - she's too far; too distant to be the threat she momentarily seemed to be.

Further on; the brunette's momentum slows; dawdles as she catches sight of familiar figures; feels the sense and surety of them. It slows her to a walk; the afternoon sun behind her; outlining the suggestion of flushed cheeks; the lean strength of her arms; the slope of her shoulders.

[Belated thingy!]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 3 )

Arionna de la Babin

If there is one thing she can appreciate about Ian, it's his attitude. Most of the time. Sometimes even they don't get along. But the point is that his attitude almost makes her smile. Almost. He doesn't sway to one side or the other, doesn't beg or plead, and she can appreciate that quality in someone. Only prey beg.

Grace has gone. She can't feel her presence anymore, and Sera has vanished as well. Since the other has vanished, Ari sees no reason to leave. "Seven feet." She says to herself, turning her body to the right (though she doesn't know how far exactly) and beginning slow steps towards him. She waits until she can feel the bump of the cane tip against his shoulder.Ari waits, just in case she's hit someone else.

The other newcomer gets a lift of her chin and a slide turn of her head. Tonight she's attuned, though tomorrow she'll feel as lost as ever. Adjustments...take time. "Someone ...else?" Because she can't see Kiara. She doesn't know she's there other than what she can hear, smell, and sense.

"Are you ever bored Elijah? When is there time for your boredom?"

Ian

If it was possible to create a circumstance in which Ian might be inclined to beg for something, no one in Denver had yet discovered it. Though he might argue that Arionna's understanding of predator and prey was rather lacking in nuance.

Not that he was thinking about that right now. In fact, he was thinking mostly about the shapes in the clouds, and the way the boards in the picnic table felt against his back: hard and rough and warm from the sun. The lingering effects of his meditation was still present, which perhaps explained his relaxed demeanor (though he often appeared relaxed, even when he wasn't.) If he noticed the way that Elijah looked at him (at the exposed V of his transverse abdominal muscle,) he didn't say anything. Didn't even catch his eyes, at first.

Then Elijah sprawled out in the grass, and Ian turned his head to regard the pair of younger mages as they got settled. At least, until he heard the distant sounds of an argument and felt the drawing presence of Kiara's resonance. Then he turned his head the other way, craning it slightly to get a good look at her as she jogged over. His eyes traced the length of her arms, the cut of her collar bones, the slope of her neck.

Finally he sat up.

"Busy evening," he commented. And when Kiara was within greeting range, he said, "Hey."

Elijah

"I do get bored, that's the problem-" he said, looked up at Ari as she poked him. He tapped her cane back, just to make sure that she felt the vibration and didn't feel the need to poke any further lest he get a little red tip in the face. He had to make sure that he didn't get too terribly damaged, or even more damaged than just grass-stained. "I told Grace and Kalen once that I wanted to be Indiana Jones, but then I just figured I could settle for being a lifestyle writer. you know, fight the whole fear of missing out and going out and doing things. Good, bad, whatever."

He is still looking at people upside down, smile brightens and he has to resist the urge to look like a complete dork and wave while he's looking at Kiara upside down. It was a nice angle to see her from. There was a different feeling, yes, something that catches up with him once she does come up. It's more renewing, more living breathing renewing flushed skin lean strength lines and-

He can see why Jenn does things like this. People are different from a different perspective, or at least more themselves.

"Hey Kiara, what's up?"

Kiara

With Arionna's senses being what they are now, she can likely feel, when she realizes who has drawn close; the sense of the Verbena. There's Kiara's resonance of course; altered now from what it once was. The sense of caustic; inevitable deconstruction has gone from her presence; there's a not entirely unpleasant hum to her now; underlining that rejuvenative energy which has grown stronger since she'd encountered her last; a gentle thrum like that of the earth; as if her pattern were reassuring and reasserting its place in the bigger picture.

She smells like sweat and sunshine and tangled within in; something sweeter.

"Hey, yourself." It's a familiar enough echo to his greeting; Ian's; there's a way she meets his eyes as she tugs her earphones out; threads them around her neck; a dimpled smile that sharpens as she notes Elijah's repose in the grass and mellows, somewhat - adopts a briefly contemplative; concentrated interest in Arionna.

The study feels like something, no doubt. Surprise. Scrutiny. Something between both and yet - not without some degree of warmth; some persistence to break that glacier. "Hey, Arionna." She doesn't hesitate to step up onto the picnic table beside Ian; to nudge him over with this over-the-shoulder glance and settle down beside him; her skin warm everywhere it brushes against him.

"Oh, you know Elijah. Breaking hearts. Starting fights." There's the briefest cant of her head; the hook of slight breathless teasing embedded in there somewhere for him. "The usual."

Arionna de la Babin

"That's who that is. I thought it was familiar." Ari lifted the cane, giving it a light toss to move it further in her hand so that she can sit. She crouches, sliding her hand out in front of her until it felt the grass, and bringing herself down onto it.

"Hello." She finally mirrors. They have both changed it seem, and she was quite alright with that. Denver felt like it was in flux. People were growing, building, changing...and she was starting to attune to it. "How do you get bored? There's plenty to do in the world. There are books, art, playgrounds, amusement parks, movie theatres, plays, dance recitals, live music, television, and of course the ever so stimulating conversations of your fellows. You could always take a moment to listen, you know. Nothing is ever boring then."

Elijah

[Per+empathy- are you insinuating that I don't listen?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

Arionna de la Babin

man+sub

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )

Ian

If Kiara had not yet noticed the slim cane that Arionna carried with her, or the way her eyes refused to focus when she looked at things, she would likely figure it out soon. They'd all gone through changes these past months. Perhaps that was part of what it was to be alive in spring.

Kiara sat beside Ian on the table, and he looked down at the grass with this subtle little smile, leaning forward with his hands wrapped around the edge of the wooden beam. The outer part of his leg pressed against hers - contact that felt warm and a little bit electric. When he looked at her, he let his gaze linger for a long moment.

Then he looked away, and he rolled his lower lip between his teeth.

"If you're really that bored, Elijah, I'm sure I can think of something for you to do."

Arionna de la Babin

[>.> What are you insinuating there Ian? perc+emp]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Ian

Ian, from what Arionna can gauge, is flirting. Though the tone of it doesn't feel terribly serious. More of a playful innuendo. It doesn't seem as though he has anything invested behind it, though there is an obvious familiarity between the two. Likely they've said things like this to each other many times.

Elijah

"However do you manage," he turns up the southern, grin widening and there he is comfortable and amused and ever-so-pleased, as if being in her presence, however lightly teasing that may be, "I've hit the level of vain that I'm writing an autobiographical travel blog. You wanna take part in the escapades? I still haven't eaten Korean food so I figure that's a good place to start."

But there was the question, as Arionna sits and levels herself into the grass and he looks from Kiara to the other woman to the clouds and he peers at them. They told stories, and even when you weren't looking at things from the other side they were expressive. He looked at the clouds and sthe spaces between into a beautiful, shining, fading blue ombre to something pale and chipper at the horizon during the day or perhaps it was coming close to yielding itself to orange now.  Or maybe it would be gray. It would do as it was.

"Listening would imply that I ever stop talking, Ari, and I'm pretty sure that we've already established I never really shut up," she can hear the grin on his face, the light poke. The complete lack of hurt feelings. He tossed his attention- butterfly fleeting fluttering little thing- to Ian. It was enough to make him sit up, to shake the grass out of his hair. Brows raised, expression somewhere between playful and amused and ever-so-pleased.

If you're really that bored, Elijah, I'm sure I can think of something for you to do.
"You promise?"a poke, a prod, the tiniest bits of joy at rising to a challenge of some variety.

Kiara

She does perceive it. There's a certain stillness when she does; a way she resettles her attention so wholly on Arionna with the faintest line between her brows. The change in the other girl's presence; the way she seems to draw the warmth from the day more potently now; the alteration to her hair; the unseeing; unfocused way she looks out - change was and ever should be, inevitable.

Kiara knew it; understood it powerfully but as much as she respected the progression of nature; the change of season and the cycle of life; sometimes; the cost seemed almost cruel. She doesn't ask why Arionna no longer has the use of her eyes; perhaps she knows, in some way, what the answer to that will be.

Perhaps, in her own way, it's a sign of respect. Who knew.

Still, she looks for a moment and then the stillness shifts back and perhaps only Ian, close enough to feel that nuanced shift will know she'd been made aware; could cut a glance at Kiara's profile and see the registering of it in dark eyes; the tiny, protracted shift of facial muscles in sympathy. In consideration before she's returned; before she's smiling down at Elijah with something akin to bemusement; offered flirtation that feels unadorned; teasing for the simplicity of the gesture.

"You had me at vanity, kid. I'm in."

She pauses, then. "Arionna's right, though. You know sometimes turning down the excess and listening can be the best form of entertainment. Hell, in the right place, with the right company - " She feels, but doesn't look, directly at the man beside her. She feels his attention though, when it returns to her. " - doing nothing but listening can be downright erotic."

Ian

Almost, he said: I'm creative like that.

But then Kiara spoke, and something about her words seemed to quiet something in him. He looked out at the lake, not too distant from where they sat, and caught the rippling glow of the setting sun on the surface of the water. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled.

It had been, all in all, a nice evening. Even with its brief moments of upset. There were too few of those (for all of them.) When he opened his eyes, he slid his arm around Kiara's waist and let the edges of his fingers play against whatever fabric or skin he found at her hip. Then he leaned in and whispered something that was intended only for her to hear.

Ian

"You smell nice." And then, a moment later, "Can I follow you home?"

Arionna de la Babin

"There are moments when you don't talk, Elijah. Your sleep, is one of them...most of the time. If you really do wish to know the beauty of silence, I'm certain any of us could acquire a roll of duct tape. They even come in fashionable colors now."

The flirtations between the lot of them, don't seem to cross along her features. Eyes, she thinks, tell more of what one thinks than anything else. The way they move from one side to the other, gliding over someone, moving away from them...they tell so much about one's internal state. Do her brows make up for that? If so, she could see the need to cover her eyes, mostly to add to the difficulty in reading her. Regardless of her wonders, she remains untouched externally. Internally, well that is another matter entirely.

"I wouldn't call it erotic. Though I'm certain we have different perspectives on what is erotic." Ari pulled her legs around to the side, a palm on the ground as she sat there, staring somewhere but never really...seeing the end of the sunlight.

Elijah

"Well when you put it that way," brows raise and tried not to laugh. It was easy to put Elijah at a state where he could most easily be described as delighted.

At about that time, he did hear his phone ring, from the depths of his front pocket there was something vibrating, with a completely boring-yet-slightly-catchy lamb bleating with a little bell. Elijah looked at the sky for a minute, and ti was almost a literal minute. he counted the little rings before he finally took out his phone. Finally looked at it. Finally realized that whoever was calling him wasn't going to stop calling until he answered which meant it was all of twelve rings before he winced.

"Duty calls, I'll be right back," and he was up on his feet, pats Arionna on the side, fingertips graze over one of her shoulders and it was off to… somewhere.

"Salut maman ... eh bien, vous laisse généralement une messagerie vocale…"

Kiara

Nice evenings always felt like the precipice of something. As if the world balanced on the tip of a knife; ready to draw blood at the slightest provocation. At least, for them. They were a handful, if that, of Awakened in a city embedded in more wars than even they knew of.

Ian slides his arm around Kiara's waist and finds the edge of her shirt; it's Lycra; the bundled layers of her hoodie feel softer against it; the Verbena's skin warmer still beneath it. Perhaps, being what she was, the Verbena simply ran warmer than most or perhaps its just Kiara; the vitality that seemed so ready to spill from her lips and infuse her every look and gesture; that did emanate from her in some ways; transforming into some physicality.

I'm certain we have different perspectives on what is erotic. Kiara's tone is still warm; still fueled by that same lighter, teasing caliber she'd offered Elijah but perhaps a touch less so; dulled at the edges. "Oh, we absolutely do, but I suppose I consider it a natural state. I don't disconnect it. We live, we breathe, we connect with people, animals, nature.

What is eroticism anyway but a truer state of being. You feel desire more potently, you engage on a baser level. I suppose there's something a little beautiful to something that raw to me. Cut away the pretenses and we all want that, in our ways. To be connected, right?" Then, Ian leaning in; Kiara's attention is severed from Arionna and her contemplations by whatever it is he says.

She turns her eyes on him; they're very dark in the afternoon light; her hair still clinging to the curve of her neck; strands clinging to her nape, says something in an undertone; smilingly and then glances at Elijah. "Be good," his farewell.

Kiara

"Flattery will get you places. Especially since I smell like sweat." A little smile. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Ian

Elijah had to take a phone call, letting it ring for a long time before he did so. Long enough, in fact, that Ian glanced over at him and said, to no one in particular, "Sometimes I wonder how he manages to get through the day."

Arionna and Kiara talked of silence and eroticism, and if Ian had any opinions to add here, he kept them to himself. Perhaps he didn't feel that Kiara's statement needed any embellishment.

But there were words exchanged between himself and Kiara - whispered and murmured under their breath. And whatever Kiara said to him in return, it made Ian smile. He whispered one last thing, leaning in so his lips brushed against the cartilage of her ear. Then he unlaced his arm and jumped down from the table. There was a delay as he ran to collect his things from beneath a nearby tree, jogging across the grass with an easy, loping gait. When he returned, he had his boots on, and a black trucker's hat (one of those high-fashion ones made of soft fabric with a designer logo on the front that probably cost way more than that kind of hat had any right to cost) hanging from his hand. He slipped it back onto his head with a smile, then said, to Arionna (who was still waiting on Elijah to finish his phone call,) "I think we're going to head out. You guys have a good night."

Ian

"I know. That's why you smell nice."

Arionna de la Babin

"Do we?" She asks Kiara, tilting her head as Elijah rises, and shifting her 'attention' in the direction he seems to move and touch her shoulder. But soon enough her focus is back at Kiara. "Do we all simply want to be connected? I find that to be a rather generalist statement. Certainly there are those who wish not to be connected. Hermits, as an example."

The others moved, and Ari was to be left where she sat with whatever light had gone. She doesn't mind of course. "I'm sure we'll see one another soon enough."

Kiara

"Do we have a choice, though? You're here. You're alive. Whether that's in a cave with bats or out in a park. You're connected to something. The ground. The air you breathe. The tiny organisms in your body. I don't think you can escape connection. Pursuing it, though." Kiara pauses; Ian's whisper in her ear; the brush of his body near hers like some punctuation to her cause; though an unseen one by Arionna.

"Maybe that's where choice comes in."

She's sliding to her feet, the brunette. Coiling those headphones around her hands like wire; looking in Elijah's direction for a beat as if to gauge just how distracted he really was. She doesn't ask Arionna if she'll be alright when they depart but she does consider her for a protracted moment before offering in an echo of Ian's farewell: "Have a good night, Arionna."

It's on the tip of her tongue to say more; there's commentary unspoken in Kiara's eyes but they meet Ian's for a beat and she refrains; hooks the edge of her mouth in a smile and turns instead; begins to move into the fast descending dusk; the lights in the park just now beginning to engage; casting soft; yellow pools of light over the pathways.

Kiara

There's no outright response to that but, she's distracted by Arionna. He does get this look, though. The tiniest little shift of her focus in the midst of a reply. She knows its fruitless to argue with her but - that's there, too. The underlying awareness of what they plan to share; the talk of sensuality in the build up before it.

Ian

[Awareness]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Sabine

Our Guidelines (Like we do!): This scene should be assumed to have some risk, but the death/dismemberment possibility is relatively low; regardless, it is nonlethal.  If there are any merits flaws you think I should know about, let me know.  I'm not setting time limits, this is, in fact, a story element that is here by request so please do not rush.  I know we start a bit late, if we must continue we must continue.  I am not sure this scene will actually be that long regardless, but that will all depend.

This has been your exceptionally formal customary guideline message.  :)

Sabine

[Just so we know - Dex + Athletics D=6 (via 8-2)]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 5, 5, 6, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 1

Sabine

[And one more just so we know roll]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )

Sabine

There is always an energy to crowds.  Always.

Tonight there is something in the air, an expectancy that spills over the crowd - an understanding that there is something there lurking in the shadows burning along the edges of their consciousness like an unforgiving sun.  Few of them can escape the knowledge that something is here among them, know with some primal sense that is dulled and mostly quiescent, lulled by headphones and artificial lights and various chemicals.

Some hurry on their way through the square, groups bunching together more tightly as though there is some safety in that.  Some slow and survey the shadows, the edges of the light; that, too, is instinctive.  There is a sort of unspoken understanding that the monsters lurk in the shadows and the night and the unknown.

Some of them do.

There are people gathered in the square, uneasy and anticipatory and enthralled.  Their eyes are on the creature that Ian can sense, a creature whose mystical sense is similar to his own...feline and predatory.  She is dancing on the outside ring of a marble fountain, barefoot, hair flying.  She must be aware, on some level, of the crowd gathered to watch her.  Of the cell phone cameras pointed at her and the low murmur as people murmur back and forth between themselves.

She is more alive than they can understand, and there is something captivating about that kind of reckless joy.  But even they can sense that the flame that burns in her might consume them if they draw too close.  She is the kind of thing they would feel more comfortable with having on the other side of shatter-proof glass; but she is here and they are, just barely, to amazed or too oblivious to run for cover.

Ian

[Mind Shield from this morning. Mind 1, diff 4 -1 (hella practiced)]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (2, 10, 10) ( success x 2 )

Ian

[extending, +1 -1 (focus)]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (5, 6, 10) ( success x 3 )

Ian

[We'll stop there. Which makes that a lvl 3 Shield for 24 hours.]

Ian

It was Friday evening, and one would imagine that most of the crowd gathered around that fountain were on their way to some variety of weekend destination. Bars, nightclubs, movie theaters. Ian was making his way across the street when he noticed the people gathered there, captivated by a single elegant, primal dancer. From a distance, she was mostly obscured by bodies, and Ian paused on the sidewalk to tilt his head and watch, trying to find a better view. There was a cocktail bar about a block away where Emma was likely already waiting for him, but she was good at finding ways to keep herself occupied (insinuating herself into a neighboring conversation, no doubt.) After a few beats, Ian changed course and headed toward the fountain. He slipped into the crowd quietly, moving between bodies until he came up close to the lip of the marble. Here he stopped, eyes tilted up as he watched the woman dance.

Something about her felt familiar - more than just the way she moved. Maybe she'd meet his gaze, or maybe she'd continue on as she was, seemingly lost in her own world. Ian wasn't quite dressed in the proper attire for dancing. He had on a slim-cut black suit with a wine-colored shirt and black tie. Still, the urge to hop up onto the fountain and join her was there.

Sabine

The dancer does stop for a second.  Opens her eyes and looks over the crowd and they expect something else for a second, all of them.  The eyes of a cobra or a cat or a dragon.  Instead her eyes are dark like shadows and secrets.  Dark with shadows and secrets.

So many secrets.

She looks at Ian and when she smiles that smile is full of secrets too.  And an invitation.

There is no lingering on that invitation, her pause lasts only for a second.  And then she is moving again, dipping the first few toes of one foot into that fountain, sending a little playful burst of water splashing out at the crowd, laughing.  And then, again, dancing.  The marble is wet and her feet are wet, but her balance is perfect.  There is no fear and no hesitation, and even when her feet slide she does nothing but weave a graceful gliding along marble into her dancing.

[If Ian would like to join her, he will have the same D=6 (by way of 8 (because smooth wet surface about a foot across) -2 for catlike balance).  If he would instead like to go get a cosmo or something, he can do that too.]

Ian

[Dex+Athletics (and for once his Dex spec actually applies!)]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 4 )

Ian

[And Dex+Performance, diff 8 -2 (catlike balance) -1 (aptitude)]

Dice: 8 d10 TN5 (1, 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 1

Ian

He wasn't dressed for dancing, but when the woman paused and offered him that brief, enigmatic invitation, there was barely a moment's hesitation in his response. His smile was slow and lingering, and perhaps there was a touch of the secret in him as well. (They were, after all, such similar creatures.)

"Would you mind holding this for me?" He asked a woman nearby as he slipped his arms out of the sleeves of his suit-jacket. She seemed distracted, but allowed him to settle the coat into her arms. Ian followed it up a moment later with his tie, pulling open the top couple of buttons on his shirt. The sleeves he folded up to his elbows as he gave a loose roll of his head, stretching out the muscles in his neck. Finally, he bent down and removed his shoes and socks. Then he leaped up in a quick, agile motion to join her on the fountain's perimeter.

The marble was cool and slick beneath his feet, but he held his balance, and soon he fell easily into her rhythm, matching her movements as if they'd been dancing together their whole lives. Gradually, he started to embellish the dance with his own graceful flourishes. He arced up onto his toes and spun; jumped from one part of the fountain to another; skimmed his foot daringly over the edge of the water. The spray of fine droplets left pin-point patterns on his expensive clothes, but it was only water. (It would dry. Unlike the blood from his encounter earlier that week.)

Sabine

This close, Ian can feel power and danger like heat radiating of the woman's skin.  There is the faintest taste of blood on the back of his tongue, like a memory or a promise.  For an exhilarating, impossible second second, the spray of water from the fountain over his skin carries the scent of rain instead of chemicals and city dust.

Ian does not know her secrets and she knows only one of his.  His blood remembers, though he has never consciously known.  She can see the stripes lurking under his skin for what they are and he, protected by their shared blood and his magic, can stand to be so much closer to her than the people standing around them can bear.

Even before Ian warms up to dancing they are awed.  They want to be closer to her. They want to touch her and to understand whatever it is that makes her seem more real and more vibrant, but they are, all of them, too afraid.  Uninvited.

That desire, soon enough, encompasses both of them.  That crowd watches a lion and a tiger dancing at the edge of a tiny oasis.  The two of them swirling and flowing around each other like trails of dry earth isen up like serpents on the wind.  They are, both of them, captivating.  Dangerous.  Intoxicating.

Who can blame those people for how they stand transfixed?  They are, some for the first and only time, standing at the edges of a kind of light they cannot define.  They are the only ones brave enough to stand even this close.

After a time, she slows.  Stops.  Leaps down soundlessly onto the brick.

The crowd spills backward a little and starts to disperse at the edges.  The woman holding Ian's coat and tie hovers, uncertain.

Ian

He didn't want it to be over, but it was - all too quickly. These kinds of moments, balanced on the edge of something great and bright and beautiful, were always over too quickly. One could not hold them past their time. It would be like trying to hold onto the moon.

When the dancer (he still didn't know her name) jumped down from the fountain, Ian joined her. The woman holding his clothes looked as though she wanted to step away, so he collected his jacket and tie off of her arms with a smile. "Thank you."

To the dancer he said, "I never caught your name."

Did he notice the way the people around them seemed afraid to touch her? Of course he did. Just as he sensed something of the predator that lived beneath her human skin. And Ian was as wary as he might have been with any unknown entity, but it didn't stop his curiosity, and it didn't stop his blood from recognizing something in the way she moved.

Sabine

Freed from the weight of Ian's coat and tie, the woman melts into the crowd.  Vanishes into cover.

"Sabine," the dancer says.  She seems like she should sound like she is from somewhere else, and though she does not sound at all like Denver, a low purr of a Louisiana drawl isn't quite the kind of somewhere else her presence calls to mind.

Her eyes stay on his.  There is no challenge in them.  No threat.  But the intensity in them seems like it could spark into a wildfire.  Like it could consume him.  Whole blocks of the city.  Perhaps even her.  Burn it to ashes.  Burn everything to ashes.  Burn it clean.

Ian

Sabine.

"You're a beautiful dancer." Ian was standing barefoot on the square with his jacket and tie slung over one arm, talking to a stranger who might very well be capable of killing him, but the compliment came out easily (because it was true, and because - for whatever reason - the fear that caused their audience to creep back couldn't quite seem to touch him.) He reached down and picked up his shoes. "I'm Ian. Can I buy you a drink?"

Sabine

"You're not a terrible dance partner," she allows, but there is a spark of something playful in her eyes, but even when she smiles the sense that at any second she might spill from stillness into movement remains.

"I accept your offer."

Ian

Had his life been different - had he been raised by a different side of his family - Ian might have known why Sabine felt the way she did. He might have known that lions and tigers do not often share space as easily as the two of them were sharing it now. There were a rather great many things he might have known. But he didn't. What he did know was that being near her was like standing next to a node - overwhelming and revitalizing all at once. She felt more alive (and more dangerous) than anyone he'd ever met.

You're not a terrible dance partner.

He smirked at that, sitting down briefly on one of the stone benches so that he could make himself presentable for wherever they were headed. When he had his shoes back on, he threaded the tie back through his collar and stood up. The rest he could do as they walked, but he kept his eyes on Sabine while he unrolled the cuffs on his shirt.

"There's a bar about a block that way. I was just on my way there." He started to walk in that direction, keeping his gaze mostly on Sabine. "You're not from here." (Neither was he, but his accent was muted enough that people seldom noticed.) "Somewhere further South, I think?" He cocked his head, affording her with the kind of alluring smile that usually won him all kinds of easy information (though he suspected already that Sabine was not likely to be easily charmed.)

Sabine

It is not, precisely that Sabine is not swayed by charm.  Indeed, Ian's smile is met with an answering smile.  "New Orleans."  If she can hear somewhere else in his voice, she does not ask.

Sabine picks up only a pair of sandals as they prepare to head to the bar.  She does not put them on, as unconcerned with the broken glass and filth as she was about dancing on the edge of a fountain.

"I'm travelling on family business."  There is a weight to that statement that Ian can recognize but not understand.  Whatever she is offering must have meaning, but what that is...had he been raised by a different side of his family indeed.

And she waits.  She is still gliding, silent and graceful, at Ian's side.  There is no pause, no slowing.  All the same, there is a sense of a vast stillness.  The danger and the power are still radiating outward from her skin, the stillness only transforms the sense of something burning into the sense of the potential to spring.

Ian

[Life 1, Prime 1 - can I tell what you are? diff 4 -1 (practiced)]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (1, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

Ian

[Extending once so it lasts longer]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (4, 4, 7) ( success x 3 )

Sabine

For all of the power simmering beneath her skin, there is no active magic on Sabine.  Ian can sense her breathing and her heart rate, senses that there is something more to her in a way that he cannot really quantify.  But whatever power or magic clings to her, her presence is unlike any Mage he has encountered.  Whatever radiates off of her, whatever about her both captivated and terrified all of those people, has similarities of a kind to a Mage's Resonance, but it not so much the same.

Ian

His pulse was still beating a bit quickly, and it wasn't entirely because he'd been dancing. As they walked, Ian focused in on it for a few moments, letting the rhythm of it open his senses. They were standing close as they walked (or perhaps it only seemed that way because of Sabine's presence.) Ian glanced over and breathed her in (her skin, her sweat, her pheromones.) And after a time, he became aware of her pulse beating strongly beside his own. What he felt in her pattern was... not precisely like anything he'd felt before. She was alive - but more, somehow.

He didn't quite know what to make of it. Or her.

"The last time I was in New Orleans was... two years ago? I was there for work. Didn't get to stay as long as I would have liked. It's a very... resonant city. Lots of memories."

Sabine said that she was traveling on family business, as though the word family had some kind of special weight. It did have weight for Ian, though likely not in the same manner it did for her. He pondered that for a moment, but let the subject rest. "Do you have anywhere to be in the morning?"

It was a leading question. The kind that implied things like: because I might like to take more of your time than just one drink.

Sabine

Ian breathes in the scent of her, the way she has breathed in the scent of so many others.  For both of them their worlds come down to moments full of instinct and sensations.  Impressions.  If she could fight against his attempts to read deeper into who or what she is, she does not.

Sabine's eyes linger on him, dark and ancient and blazing.  Everything about her says that she is at home in her skin.  At home in this city she does not know and probably will not stay stay long enough to know.  and everything about her screams that she does not belong in this city, that she has stepped out of some older, more pure, more dangerous world.  That of everything around them, she is the one thing that could never belong here.

Ian asks if she has anywhere to be and Sabine laughs.  There is something heavier beneath that laugh, something hard to place.

"I will go when I want to go."  And that may be half-playful, but it is all challenge.

Ian

Ian smiled at that. The expression was quiet, but genuine. "I never expect anything else."

They were nearly at the bar: an old-fashioned speakeasy-style cocktail joint that was usually pretty well packed by this hour on a Friday. A low, muted echo of music filtered out through the door as people came and went. Ian slid his phone free from his pocket and glanced at it quickly. He'd meant to text Emma to tell her to go on to the exhibit without him (that was the plan: drinks and an art gallery) but as it happened, he needn't bother. The text on his screen contained an apologetic cancellation. Fate was intervening with both their plans tonight. So Ian pocketed his phone and pulled open the door, stepping aside to allow Sabine to enter before him.

Inside, the bar was bustling with life and activity. Likely, Sabine's presence would quiet it a bit (perhaps more than a bit.) The lights were soft and warm, and the decor was polished antique. Upscale and comfortable all at once. (Very Denver.) The music, despite the retro feel of the place, was modern arthouse. Indie-folk like the Decemberists.

Chances were good that they'd find a seat quickly, given the way that people stepped aside to allow Sabine a healthy bubble of space. Ian took that in stride, and didn't comment on it. Instead he headed for the bar and sat down, leaving his jacket folded in his lap.

"What do you like to drink?"

Sabine

Sabine moves through the crowd, seeming to notice the way the crowd spills back and away from her like sleeping grass only in that she is aware that her path is clear.  She has terrified humanity for some time.  She will not flinch away from her power the same way that they do.

One cannot imagine she flinches back from much.

She does blink when Ian asks her what she drinks.  Sabine travels a lot, but almost never into a place like this.  She has absolutely no idea what she drinks.  No one takes her out drinking.  She almost always dances alone.

Still, she settles into the seat next to his and says with perfect assurance, "I don't care.  But I want it to have an umbrella in it."

Ian

Sabine was from another kind of place: somewhere warm and humid and deep with rich colors. Denver was not that place, but one could pretend, for a moment. Ian raised his eyebrows and laughed once, quietly, the way that one does when they find something charming. He didn't often order drinks with umbrellas in them, but for her? He could make an exception.

Except that the bartenders (there were two of them, bustling back and forth at the other end of the long bar,) didn't seem terribly inclined to approach them. The two men glanced between each other and Sabine as they poured their drinks, fascinated and reluctant all at once. (Because she was too alive, too strong, too beautiful to be near. Like staring at the sun.) Finally Ian pitched his voice over the crowd and the music, raising his hand to attract the bartenders' attention.

"Hey, can we order?"

One of the men - the older one - finally braved closer proximity. He had a neat beard and a waxed mustache and tattoos covering both arms. He apologized quickly for the delay, which Ian accepted with a little wave of his hand. "I'll have a bourbon old-fashioned. She'll have a dark and stormy, and... put an umbrella in it."

While the bartender prepared their drinks, Ian leaned an elbow against the bar and propped his head on the curled knuckles of his hand. "Do you always dance on fountains in strange cities?"

Sabine

There is a little pleased curl at the corners of Sabine's lips when Ian orders her drink with an umbrella.

"No," Sabine says quietly.  "I have danced in more forgotten temples than on city fountains."  She sounds serious, and relatively unconcerned about his response to that news.

The older bartender comes up to them with the drinks.  Sabine watches his every hesitant step.  The umbrella in her glass appears to be caught in an earthquake.  It is a neon tangerine paper thing, and it has tiny magenta flowers printed on it.  Fragile under her fingertips.

Sabine does not entirely succeed at hiding her delight about it.  For a few seconds, Ian is forgotten.  Sabine closes the umbrella, opens it, and then sets it gently on the table.  Just far enough away from her glass to be safe from condensation.

And then she looks back at Ian.  "Where do you dance?"

Ian

Ian's drink lacked an umbrella, but the lights above the bar made the bourbon glow like amber. Sabine's dark rum was a richer shade as it mingled with the lime and ginger beer. Her delicate fascination with the umbrella was more than a little endearing. (And to think what those hands were capable of destroying.) She said that she liked to dance in forgotten temples, and Ian gazed at her as though she'd just said something fascinating.

Where do you dance?

"In the grass. Under trees. On top of mountains. In my bedroom, naked. And, more often than not, on stage. I am always dancing."

A beat passed, and Ian uncoiled from his pose to lean in and whisper, "Why do I feel like I know you?"

Sabine

Sabine listens to the places that he dances.  She is still smiling that tiny, pleased smile.  Ian is always dancing.  Sabine understands what is to always be something, though she does not know what it is to always be dancing.  She thinks that always dancing might be wonderful.

Ian leans closer to her, and her eyes track his movement.  Calm, despite the energy that still seems to pour out from her skin.

"For the same reason," she says, very quietly, "That you are not afraid of me like they are."  But there is a richness to her tone, something that says she knows what that reason is.   Her smile widens, just a little. "It may be we have met in another life."

Ian

It was not only that (his blood) that made Ian capable of looking at her (of touching her) without the sensation of being overwhelmed. Though the feeling was still there, curling at the edge of his senses. (Like a lion at rest. Calm and docile, but capable of striking at any moment.) But that was a secret that Sabine had yet to discover.

They were willful creatures, Ian's kind. In all respects.

Ian tilted his head and regarded her silently. His eyes were dark upon dark. Finally he leaned back and took a long a drink from his glass. When he was done he licked his lips. "I don't believe in other lives. I believe in this one." He leaned in again, close enough that Sabine could smell whiskey and citrus on his breath.

"I want to know who you are."

Something about the way he said it made it sound like more than that. Like he wanted to explore her. Wrap himself in her secrets. Peel away the layers until he found some truth underneath.

Sabine

Sabine stays still.  Her eyes still track Ian's movements, but she doesn't so much as tilt her head.  She is still so vibrant that the colors in everything around her, even that paper umbrella, seem faded.

"This one," she allows, "Is really the only one that matters."  Ian's breath smells like whiskey and citrus.  Sabine hasn't touched her drink beyond the umbrella, and when she closes the slight distance between them she smells like the air just before rain.  Like some kind of spices.

Who is she?

Sabine kisses him.  The very first few seconds are soft, as though she is giving him a chance to pull away.  Or perhaps, testing to see if she will.  But after the first few seconds, she is bolder.  More aggressive.  One of her hands rises to rest along the edge of his jaw, angled so that the tips of her nail press against, but do not bite into, his skin.  If he watches her other hand, it is perched on the bar, fingers set at a similar angle to the slick wooden surface, as though poised to slice through the thick varnish to dig into the wood beneath.

Ian

Did she wonder about him? Who was he? Where did he come from? How is it that the son of a tiger might find his way to Denver, Colorado? Did she think of the boundaries she was crossing by kissing him? Was that part of the thrill (claiming something that wasn't hers?) Or did it cease to matter?

All cats had their secrets.

Ian didn't think about those things, because he wasn't aware that he ought to. Given his nature, one might imagine that even if he was, he wouldn't care. It had been a bit of a dare, you see. The way he leaned in. The way he said: I want to know who you are. Because what he was also saying was: I want to kiss you.

And Sabine answered it, but she made the dare her own. For all his will, Ian could be very good at taking suggestion. Dancers had to know how to read their partners, and how to move with them. So he let the kiss be gentle; testing. He didn't pull away (as if there was ever a doubt.) Instead he met her energy, feeling the shape and softness of her lips between his own. And some half-buried instinct lit up somewhere in his body - that same recognition he'd felt when he saw her, but stronger. Like pieces fitting together. (No, not quite. There was a roughness around the edges, but it was... very close.)

Sabine pushed forward, deepening the kiss, and her nails were like claws just barely skirting his jaw. So careful, even while she was being bold. And Ian responded with a low sound that only she could hear. He slid his hand into her hair, winding his fingers through the locks, and leaned forward in his seat to press back just... a little. His teeth dragged over her lower lip when he pulled away.

"We should have this conversation somewhere else."

Somewhere private. Somewhere safe.

Somewhere with a bed?

Sabine

They should have this conversation somewhere else.

They should not, not really, have this conversation at all.  Not either of them.

But Sabine is used to having what she wants.  And she would like to have at least one of these conversations.  She may resign herself to the other.  She may not.  But what good does it do either of them, not to tell him what he is.  What she is...perhaps in the course of the telling that must be.  But his truths...all cats should know their own truths.

Sabine leans back and picks up her glass, now wet with condensation, slick beneath her fingertips like the fountain was beneath her feet.  She lifts the glass to her lips, tilts it so the liquid is in reach of her tongue, and laps at it once, like a damned cat.  Curious.

There is a little startled expression.  And then a smile.  Sabine takes a real drink of the dark and stormy and nods.

"We should," she says.  "But I want to pick where we go this time."

Ian

They were both used to having what they wanted. (Cats were rather adept at that, weren't they?) Luckily for them both, at the moment their interests seemed to align.

So Ian took another sip of his drink, but... did not finish it. And he pulled out his billfold and dropped enough cash on the bar to pay for both of their drinks, plus a tip. Then he stood up.

"Lead the way."

And wherever she led, he would follow.

Sabine

Sabine finishes her drink and then smiles.

"I have to find it first.  You should give me your number so I can call you when I do."  She picks up the umbrella, slides it closed, and then closes her hand around it.

"If you want to follow me until then, you may be walking for a very long time."  Though, judging by her tone, she might not try to stop him from following her out of the bar.

Ian

There was a point in the dance where it was always difficult to back away. Even with a promise of more. Any number of things might happen to either of them once Sabine walked out that door. But Ian was prideful (he would not tag along behind like a pet - not for anyone,) and he was, despite his drives, patient. Perhaps there was a flash of frustration in his eyes - just for a moment. But it smoothed away.

"Give me your phone and I'll add it."

Perhaps she wouldn't want to do that. Perhaps she did not, per se, have a phone. In either of these cases, he'd offer it to her verbally instead. Otherwise, he'd add his name (but only his first name) and his cell number to her contacts.

Then he leaned in and kissed her once, softly, on the rise of her cheekbone.

And after that, he let her go.

Sabine

Sabine does have a phone.  It is small and has actual buttons instead of a touch screen.  It may be the least flashy phone in a ten mile radius.  But she lets Ian have it.  If he looks at the numbers, there are few.  Home is one, a number that he might recognize as a Louisiana area code from his time there.  Most of the numbers, and there are only perhaps a dozen, share that same area code.

When she leaves, she takes the little paper umbrella with her.