Kiara

The property that belonged to Neal and Debra Perry was impressive. They had a good situation on the crest of a small hill that gently rolled down until it met a thick bracketing of trees and a small, gurgling creek. The treeline offered some small degree of privacy from the main road, the winding entrance to their property announced with a wooden framework that had their surname carved into the arch as cars passed beneath, over a small bridge that allowed a glimpse of the rocky creek bed and through into a long, arching driveway that detoured around the edge of the property.

There were horses grazing in a paddock that barely ticked their ears at the sound of an approaching vehicle and the dust that it kicked up. They were beautiful creatures, dark coats shining with health and clear dedication by someone on the property. The house itself had surely seen better days, it was modeled after an older generation of southern homesteads with shuttered windows and a porch that wrapped around both sides. There was a love seat suspended from one corner and a hammock from the other.

Jutting out behind the two story homestead was a barn with its doors swung wide open. There were cars parked out the front of it and the interior was lit up; strung with fairy lights and flooding the diminishing afternoon light with an inviting golden glow. It was toward this that Kiara directed her car, bumping along the paved drive and casting a brief, surveying look at Ian as they approached.

A figure drew away from a number of men gathered around a tractor as they did. He was tall by most standards, his attire that of a man not entirely comfortable with what he'd been forced to wear for the occasion. A long sleeved dress shirt and jeans, the arms already wound up to his elbows, the collar absent a tie if it ever had resided there to begin with. His face was dark with scruff and his eye followed the trajectory of the car as it pulled in.

He had the stance (and build) of a man well accustomed to life on his feet.

-

"That's Neal." Kiara murmured as she cut the engine and peered out into the gathering being set up around the barn. There was a long table with chairs placed around it, or at least, several dragged together covered with table-cloths and laid out with an extravagant offering for the occasion. Pumpkins and stalks of corn, acorns and apples and candles set amongst them.

Women were moving around the length of it, setting items down. Further back, a bonfire stood ready to be lit; large piles of wood stacked neatly. A cluster of young children played around it; darting around until they were shooed by one of the women carrying plates out to the table.

-

She hadn't told Ian much before the drive out, had arrived to collect him in a flowing white dress with a belt that cinched it in tight around her waist; her dark hair had been pulled back and her wrists and neck adorned with wreathes of small black stones. They gleamed when the light hit them just so. There had been a plate covered with foil resting on her back seat; a bouquet of wild flowers that seemed to hum with Kiara's energies set beside it.

"It's traditional to bring an offering for the feast." She offered at some point as they headed out of the city limits, the barest hint of some anxious energy stirring around her.

-

"It's about time you showed up, I was about ready to give up your seat at the spread."

The voice that greeted them, Neal, Kiara had named him, had the faintest hint of twang to it; Texan, perhaps. But faded and worn in.

"Traffic was bad getting out of the city."

"The way you drive? You probably caused half of it. This him?" The Verbena's head re-appeared from inside her car, balancing a plate of food and flowers; her mouth curved in a smile, eyes bright as they ticked between Neal Perry's dark, assessing perusal of Ian and back. "This is Ian. Ian, meet Neal. He and his wife own the land here. He's very nice." She added, with a pointed lift of her eyebrows.

Neal's mouth twitched, he held a hand out for Ian to shake, his palms were rough and calloused. They were the hands of a man who worked on the land. "I'm damnably nice. Welcome to the gathering."

Ian

It's the first time Ian's had the occasion to let Kiara drive him somewhere. Truth be told, he seldom lets anyone drive him anywhere. One could probably read into that. They might not even be wrong. But this day - it belongs to Kiara. And so she pulls up to his place in her hatchback wearing a white dress and black jewelry and Ian, true to form, is ready and waiting. He's dressed in dark fitted jeans, tight around his hips and thighs with a slight boot cut at the ankles. The boots he has on are a little more hipster than high fashion - black leather Redwings - which is probably about the closest he ever gets to wearing work boots. On top, he has on an extra-slim black dress shirt. The top two buttons are left open to reveal a little V of bare skin.

He doesn't tell Kiara how long he spent trying to figure out what to wear (whether he ought to dress up or not, if he maybe ought to buy something farm-appropriate.) She doesn't need to know that part.

When he gets in the car, he throws a glance at the back seat (at the plate and the flowers that hum with Kiara's energy.) His eyes slide over the rest of the vehicle as well, noting all the little marks of Kiara's ownership. The car smells like her (and like food and flowers.) Once they're on the road, he looks over at her for a long, quiet moment and says, "You look nice." His hand touches her arm, dragging knuckles softly over her skin in a gesture that's meant to be both affectionate and reassuring.

Though in truth, he is probably just as anxious as she is.

He's quiet on the ride out, watching the landscape pass and occasionally throwing observant glances Kiara's way. When they arrive at the property, he cants his head as they pass beneath the archway, watching the sign pass by overhead. The house looks like something out of a movie. More traditional than the Chantry's newer, more architectural design.

Eventually they arrive at the barn. Kiara points out Neal as they park, and Ian's gaze fixes on him for a moment in this subtly appraising way. He lets Kiara exit the car ahead of him. When he gets out, he starts to offer to carry something for her, but then there's Neal approaching him with his hand outstretched saying welcome to the gathering. Ian smiles, takes the hand and shakes it. His own skin is significantly less work-worn and calloused than Neal's is.

"I wouldn't really mind if you weren't," he offers, leaning in a little as though he meant to conspire with the other man. "Thanks for having me."

This much, at least, he can manage. But the sight of the barn - all the food and the offerings and the women setting things out - and, in particular, the children, seem to make him go a bit quiet. His eyes stray toward the kids for a long moment.

But whatever he's thinking, he doesn't say it.

Kiara

Kiara had spoken to her Goddess here. On this land, once, months ago. Had woken up on the Perry's lawn with flowers around her and a strange lightness in her limbs. There's an affection for this place in her bones, a part of her that feels deep and prolonged satisfaction simply by setting foot back on its rolling grassy slope. It seems to shine out of the brunette as she allows the two men to make their greetings.

Turning her face away with a slight smile as Neal did his best to draw himself to his full height. The intimidation was bravado, she knew Neal Perry well enough to recognize his best attempts at playing the protective, older and worldly wise friend. By the time they were done, Kiara had locked the car and traversed around it to Ian's side.

Her fingers briefly touching the edge of his wrist before she leaned up to brush her lips against Neal's coarse cheek. "It's good to see you. Where's Deb?" There was an appreciative noise when the Verbena presented him with the plate, the enticing aroma of apple and pastry seeping from beneath the foil covering and the taller rancher twisted back toward the house.

"Directing the masses. C'mon, she'll want to size you up herself." Ian receiving the benefit of a hearty handclap to his shoulder before Neal turned and began ambling up the hill, leaving Kiara and Ian momentarily to their own devices. The pagan's dark eyes assessed his expression for a beat - her gaze sliding over in the direction his had taken. Absorbing the milling figures; some adorned far more elaborately for the occasion than others, the children (two boys and a girl) chasing each other around the barn, clambering up the ladder to the hayloft.

"You up for this?" Her hand slid down to his wrist, fingers sliding through his. She leaned into his space, smelling like some sweet combination of pastry and sugar and the daubs of perfume she'd rubbed into her skin earlier. "We can always leave. They won't care."

It's a low murmur, the way Kiara says it, her eyes searching his face for a beat before they shift toward the gathering up the hill. Music and conversation drifting down to them, the screen door protesting each time it was pried open on old, well used springs. (Her tone implied that wasn't entirely true, but that it was a honest offering, she would leave, if he couldn't handle this, part of her had expected it would be too intense, that much is read in the offer, too).

In the neighboring paddock, one of the horses exhaled with a noisy flick of its tail. The atmosphere had a festive, if ceremonial energy to it, the candles on the table carefully lit so they danced between the laid offerings. It had every appearance of community - a gathering of like minded souls.

These were, at least in one manner of speaking, Kiara Woolfe's people.

Ian

Neal's momentary bravado doesn't seem to phase Ian much (if at all.) His eyes tilt up slightly (the two of them are maybe an inch and a half apart, height-wise) when they greet each other, but there's no evidence that he's intimidated. Nor, probably, does Neal really mean for him to be. It's a show - and an expected one at that. The clap on Ian's shoulder is slightly less welcome, and it's met by a smile that thins out and goes a little tense, but the difference in the expression is subtle enough that Kiara is likely the only one to notice.

He sticks out here. Probably more than anyone else. And Ian is used to being noticed, but he isn't used to feeling this much out of his element. That isn't really the reason why he gets quiet though.

Kiara finds him then, linking her hand through his. It draws his attention back to her, and when she makes that offer (tells him they can go,) he shakes his head and squeezes her hand. It isn't entirely clear whether he means to reassure her or himself (perhaps a bit of both.) "This is important to you. I want to be here."

And for what it's worth, that isn't a lie. Though the full scope of his feelings on the matter are rather more complicated than he suggests. When one of the horses draws his attention, he glances at it with a softened expression.

It's been a while since he last rode one, but that's probably a story for another day.

When he turns back, he brings his hands up to cradle Kiara's face and kisses her like he would if no one were watching. (Though probably someone is.) "I'll be alright," he murmurs, before pulling away.

Kiara

They were not modest people, by and large, Kiara's friends. There are curious eyes that linger on the pair by her car but they don't look away when the pair draw together and kiss. They watch the way the brunette coils her arms around Ian's neck, flowers in tow and turn away after a moment's open and easy consideration of the display.

There's no wolf whistling or catcalling to be had, but neither do either of them find embarrassment written into the faces that turn friendly, welcoming eyes on the pair as they begin to make their way up the hill, Kiara gently leading the newcomer by the hand. Nothing about this gathering spoke of the sort of magick Ian knew the woman beside him was capable of.

Rather, theirs was an older kind. Tied to the land and the seasons.

-

It smelled like pumpkin and nutmeg inside the Perry residence.

Their porch was made of solid, old wood that creaked beneath their feet with well accustomed endurance for their presence and while the screen was fitted with state of the art mesh; its frame was older; a match for the dated quality of the foundations. It creaked open as Kiara drew Ian inside, smacking shut in their wake.

The interior had a homey, lived in quality that somehow overcame the hints of deterioration long since beginning to set in. The ceilings had patches where the paint had begun to peel and the floorboards were covered in scuff marks; scratches and tiny blemishes telling of their age. The walls were covered with pictures; some black and white, some colored. Most depicting who could only have been ancestors of the current owners.

Old, well worn faces stared out with their arms around horses; wide brim hats resting low over their brows. There were wide windows that looked out over the rolling expanse of property the Perry's called home, in the settling desk, the broken down husks of tractors in a neighboring field looked like sad relics of a time long gone. There were trademarks of their life scattered everywhere in here, toy blocks and picture books, framed photographs along a mantle with more candles lit between each.

A small bowl with an offering of seasonal fruits and nuts set on each corner. To their left, a staircase with carved banisters wound sharply up and around and from inside a swinging kitchen door, the sounds of voices. One lower, Neal's register and another, softer.

The door swung open and the owner of the second voice made her appearance. She too, had the look of the country about her with an angular face that was not precisely pretty but projected a sort of genteelness. There was a quiet strength to her that spoke of a woman who understood the usefulness of words (and the wisdom in silences). Her eyes were a very piercing blue - they reflected a gentleness not instinctively garnered from first sight of her.

Debra Perry was a small, wiry-built woman with hair as dark as Kiara's, if beginning to show traces of grey at the temple. Neal backed through the door in his wife's wake, a squirming child in one arm and a bowl in the other; he carried both past his wife without a saying a word; though his eyes were fixed on Kiara and Ian as he passed.

The Verbena reached out to briefly touch a chubby, kicking foot as its owner passed.

"Kiara, glad you could come." Deb's voice was softer than her appearance would have predicted, her mouth, when it offered a smile, opened her features up into something charismatic and engaging. "Neal mentioned we had an extra this year." This, with a brief, assessing sweep up and down Ian's form. Unlike her husband however, there was no false bravado in the older woman's greeting. She simply turned her eyes on Kiara, as the latter offered over her flowers and noted, with gentle humor: "You never mentioned he was handsome. You'd better hang on to him tonight."

Kiara slid her fingers over his arm. "I think he can hold his own."

Deb's expression was thoughtful as her eyes passed between them. "Glad to hear it. Why don't you both help make yourselves at home, dinner won't be long."

-

The screen door swallowed Debra Perry and Kiara's focus drifted to the mantle. She picked up one of the black and white portraits. "Debra's family has worked with horses for generations out here. They used to have a lot more but - " The Verbena's fingers slid over the frame, she set it back down, a frown etching into the corner of her mouth. "Money got tight. They tried to pay me every time I came out to see Deb when she was pregnant."

Kiara's eyes read a quiet sort of empathy. "I think after the third time I refused, Neal gave up and insisted I come to gatherings instead."

Ian

It isn't the first time that Ian has been inside this kind of home, but he can count the others on one hand. Even in New Jersey, where he knew other Verbena, he only occasionally ventured into rural areas. The times he did, it was usually a wilderness outing. Camping and hiking trips, rock climbing... the things he liked about wild places did not typically involve other people. He steps into the house ahead of Kiara, and there's a fractional little twitch of tension when the door smacks shut behind them (if only for the suddenness of the sound.) Inside, he moves about slowly, sweeping his gaze over the interior of the house as though it were a museum. He's careful where he sets his feet - avoiding any small objects that might be on the ground. Despite the old boards, the floor doesn't creak much beneath his weight. It's habit for him, treading lightly. More than that though, he feels like an intruder here. (Like a tiger in a wolf's den.)

When Neal appears with the baby, Ian makes a smooth step to the side so as to avoid any accidental contact. It's not precisely awkward (the way he moves could never be described that way) but anyone watching closely might wonder if perhaps he's not wholly comfortable being around children. His eyes ghost over the baby for a moment before hovering with more focused attention on Kiara's hand (on the way she reaches out to touch the infant's foot.)

Deb greets them, and Ian lets his attention refocus on her. He smiles when she calls him handsome and something about that seems to relax him a little. Less the compliment itself than the fact that he understands how to respond to it.

You'd better hang onto him tonight.

He raises a brow at that, but seems mostly amused. When Kiara says that he can hold his own, he utters a wry, gentle laugh. "It's nice to meet you. You have a lovely house." There's a longer pause before he adds, "And a nice family."

(Look at him, on his best behavior.)

Deb makes her way out; tells them to make themselves at home. Once she's gone, Kiara tells him about the family's history. There's a sympathetic glance from Ian at that. That they had to cut back because of financial troubles.

"Or maybe they just like you," he offers knowingly. After a pause he adds, "They seem like good people."

Kiara

She's quiet for a moment, then.

Her fingers sweeping along their mantle, careful in the way you were in another person's home. "They are. Though I sometimes think - " She pauses and a tiny line creases her brow, tension creeping in around her mouth. "They think too highly of me." There's a flash of her teeth when she smiles. This abrupt, tense little reflexive thing. "There's the Kiara that they trust and know and then there's ... " Her eyes tick to the window, outside dusk was settling in and the lights burning on the table emitted a cheery glow; the voices rising and falling scattered with laughter.

Someone had brought out a guitar and was absently picking at chords with lazy consideration.

The curl of wood-smoke seeping inside, someone was likely stoking the bonfire; jostling the logs into feeding the flames.

The pagan's eyes are a complex mix of emotions; the tension not wholly leaving her frame as she refocuses on him. "The real one. The realer one. I don't think I'd ever want them to know that version." There's phantoms here, dancing on the edges of Kiara's expression, the soft confession of her words of their conversation in the woods.

(I don't think I'm built for that.

I don't think I'd want to be.)

She leans in, after a pause, apropos to a branding of her words and kisses the edge of his mouth, a little aggressively, a little hungrily. As if to maintain some boundary between the Kiara of this place and the version that belonged with him, within the city limits. Belonged to magick and danger and the swirl of potential catastrophe that seemed to perpetually circle their lives.

The screen door swings open as she draws back and there's a deliberate, loud clearing of a throat. Kiara's face lowering for a moment, into the crook of Ian's neck to half muffle her amusement. "Not to break up the moment you're clearly having in my living room but the food's about ready." Neal's arm was braced against the wall, his fingers scratching at the edge of his jaw.

"Okay, we'll be right there." Kiara's fingers swept over his back, she drew away with some semblance of regret.

Ian

He doesn't interrupt her while she speaks, but there's a sudden way that he looks at her - when she says that Neal and Deb think too highly of her - where she can see this warring moment of tension and empathy in his eyes. He's being so careful not to dislodge anything, not to leave so much as a fingerprint in his wake, and perhaps part of that is because he's thinking something not all that dissimilar to what Kiara says out loud. But the way she says it... it crystallizes things.

He steps in close, placing a hand on her arm, and he's about to say something when she leans in and kisses him. He makes a sound then, soft and... complicated. (It sounds both happy and concerned.) His lips move slowly beneath the more aggressive push of her own.

He hears Neal coming, but he doesn't try to pull away until the man clears his throat and Kiara hides her face in amusement. Her breath is warm against his neck (distracting.)

The food's ready.

Ian isn't really there for the food. (Has Kiara ever even seen him eat? Maybe once or twice. Certainly he does eat, but it doesn't seem to be something he socializes around.)

He grasps Kiara's wrist before she can start out the door. Waits until Neal is further away before he says, "I know you. Better than they do, anyway. And I still think highly of you. Not just because I have feelings for you, either. I know it's..." he hesitates. "...Easy for us to do that. To think that people don't know us. That if they did they wouldn't like what they saw. But everyone is like that. Everyone has shit that they hide. Even them." He glances after Neal's retreating form through the doorway.

"None of us are just one thing." He puts his hand to his lips as though to mark her kiss to memory.

When the hand drops, he steps out the door. "Come on. Neal probably won't be happy if we have sex in his living room." There's a slight lift of his mouth there. A glance thrown across at Kiara that's both intimate and teasing.

Kiara

In truth, the food was merely part of the process.

A portion of the ritual to honor those who had passed on, to mark the passing of the Sun God into other lands. The plates of food laid out around the house too, seemed far less anything set out for consumption so much as offerings. The fruits of the season laid out to guide those onward who needed it.

The barriers between the worlds, this one and the next, were at their thinnest tonight and she'll react to it, for a moment, the Verbena, when they step outside and take in the feast laid out; the stars winking into existence high above. Breathe in the sights and sounds and for a moment seem so far away - her eyes on the crackling flames rising up from the bonfire. It hadn't yet risen to its full height but already the heat it gave off could be felt; the shadows glimpsed dancing across the side of the barn, throwing long patterns into the paddocks.

But first - Ian takes her wrist and she turns into the motion, her smile diminishing only at the expression on his face, the quiet sincerity in his words. He knows her. Everyone has shit that they hide. Even them. Kiara's dark eyes bear down on him for a long moment and it's not until Neal's footsteps retreat that she seems to relent, to allow tension to seep from her bones.

"I know. I know they do, but the things I've done for them. For their baby." Her voice drops lower, hushed. "I don't regret that I did them but truths like that - " Kiara's mouth flexes into a supple tilt down. "I think there are some walls that have to stay in place. For their protection, if nothing else."

Neal won't be happy if we have sex in his living room.

Her smile resurfaces and she treks after him, toward the door. "It'd certainly make a bold impression."

Then - Kiara's eyes on the fire for a moment, the chatter of voices, chairs scraping back against the ground. She leans into Ian's space, her fingers curling into his shirt. "After the meal, we gather around the fire. Remember everyone who's passed on. Sometimes there's dancing." Her eyes gleam for a beat where they rest on his face.

"Maybe you can show everyone up later." A low murmur that, she nudges into his space before treading down the steps. Two chairs had been left for them, seated directly across from each other, food already being passed along. There was a subdued note when Debra rose to her feet, her pale eyes sweeping the length of the tables; a Samhain breeze playing in the candleflame, flickering it wildly.

"Tonight, we come together to honor those who have passed before us and those that will pass after us. We celebrate their lives and let our great light guide them."

There was a low ripple of agreement and Debra lifted her glass toward the bonfire before taking a careful sip. Kiara's eyes found Ian's across the table, the firelight was reflected in them, the candlelight dancing across her features, the slant of her mouth.

"Now, everyone eat." Man of fewer words, was Neal.

Ian

There are some walls that have to stay in place.

He doesn't respond to that except to nod slowly, his eyes reflecting this subdued sense of shared experience. These are secrets they both keep. Outside, the bonfire's been lit. It glows bright and hot in the dark, flames licking high toward the shrouded sky. Ian can smell traces of ash in the air. Kiara's fingers find purchase in his shirt, though there isn't much of it to grasp. The cotton fabric is soft beneath her touch, melding over the shape of his torso. She tells him that after they eat, they'll gather around the fire to remember those who've passed.

He looks at the flames for a long moment, but keeps his thoughts to himself.

Maybe you can show everyone up later.

"Maybe."

They make their way to the table, parting from each other's side so they can settle into their seats. The combined scent of the food, warm and rustic and welcoming, permeates the air around the gathering. Ian's attention slides over the assembled crowd, taking them in one at a time. These are the people Kiara calls family (or at least the closest thing she has to it.) There's a longer glance and a quiet greeting offered to whoever happens to be seated beside him before Deb stands up to speak. When she rises, a hush falls over the group. Ian tips his head a little as he watches her. His body language is very still. Kiara's eyes seek him out across the table, and though he can feel the weight of her attention he doesn't let himself meet it until after Neal offers his own (brief) words.

Now, everyone eat.

There's a small, private moment then when their eyes meet. The light from one of the candles reflects in miniature off of Ian's dark irises. Then there's food being passed his way, and the energy around the table settles into something more relaxed.

There are things one can glean about a person based on the way they eat. Ian's plate ends up neatly partitioned. Given the offerings on display, he could easily overfill it, but he doesn't. There are things he avoids - carbohydrates, mostly. The fact that he does take some of the pastry Kiara brought is notable.

Kiara

The food was generous, to say the least. There's a lot of it on offer (pies and pastas and salads and bowls of seasoned, steaming potato, tiny round pumpkin cakes decorated with the spices of the season, scalloped corn and freshly baked rolls, golden brown and still warm from the oven) and as food is passed around, commentary falls into the predictable sort of a holiday gathering. With some clear differences.

"John's not here this year, Neal?"
"Went wild walking over Mabon. Decided to keep going."

" ... said to me they found a Cairn out near Woodland Park. Big old pile of stones."
"They're always claiming they're finding the next Stonehenge."

"Any news on your foal, Deb?"

"Would you like a Remembrance cookie?"

The last directed at Ian, a plate of cookies shaped like people offered his way. They smelled faintly like vanilla and the plate's holder wore both a smile and a blush. She was one of the younger women in attendance with long, curling blonde hair tied into plaits and a wreath of flowers woven into both, her fingers covered in rings; a piercing in her nose and clear eyes that openly read appreciation for what she was looking at (which was the newcomer she'd happily found herself next to). Down the table, Debra Perry caught Kiara's eye over the rim of her glass and delivered a pointed look.

The edge of the brunette's mouth curled and she cast a fleeting back and forth look between Ian and the teenager. "We bake them fresh every year."

"Ian, meet Cassie. She lives across from Neal and Debra. She's a junior this year."

Cassie, so introduced shot Kiara a sharp little look, coupled with the toss of a braid. "I'm also on the school council and I'm the leader of the Junior Pagan Society."

Kiara's smile grew and she reached over to take up a cookie shaped like a slightly misshapen human being. Cassie's smile wobbled and it looked like it took effort not to rip the plate away from the brunette's reaching fingers. "I stand corrected."

-

There's other discussion, after that. Kiara's opinion, Ian would notice, was readily sought. Mostly, it seemed, regarding physical maladies. This was aching, what did she recommend. What herbs had she given Deb during the last months of her pregnancy, why didn't she come around more often. How was her clinic doing. Ian too, it seemed, was a ready source of interest to more than just Cassie.

"So, Ian." Neal had craned over to spot him down the table. "Kiara here tells me you're a dancer. Course, that's about all she's told me." Several pairs of interested eyes turned on the newcomer.

Ian

It is perhaps not a tremendous surprise to anyone at the table (certainly not to Deb) that a girl Cassie's age might find Ian attractive. The look that Deb shoots across the table to Kiara might as well be an I told you so. Ian turns to regard Cassie when she offers him a cookie, eyes lowering to the plate in her hands before rising again to note the soft flush of color on her cheeks. There's a second's pause where he considers his response, and Kiara takes the opportunity to introduce the two of them. There may or may not be any ulterior motive behind the information she elects to present.

Kiara takes a cookie. Cassie seems less than pleased by the interruption. Ian, meanwhile, looks at the human-shaped Remembrance cookies like maybe the entire concept is a little unsettling to him.

"That's a lot more motivated than I ever was in high school." A softly appealing smile lifts the corners of his mouth when he meets Cassie's eyes, and though he wants to tell her no, he reaches out and takes one of the cookies anyway. "Thanks. I like your hair, by the way." Smile still in place, he neatly bites off the cookie's head.

As soon as Cassie looks away, he shoots Kiara a conspiratorial glance.

Conversations resume. Many of those at the table seek out Kiara's advice. Ian seems largely content to observe, but he makes enough casual small-talk not to appear disengaged. When Neal addresses him from across the table, Ian leans forward a little to make eye contact.

"Well, you know. We like to keep the mystery alive. I only just told her my real name yesterday." He's joking, of course. There's an edge of dry humor in his voice that falls away as he continues. "I dance contemporary ballet with a company in the city. We just finished a show this week."

Kiara

Morrison was not so far removed from city life that something like what Ian mentions he does professionally garners blank expressions or murmurings of confusion and mistrust. It was, after all, home to the Red Rocks Amphitheatre that had seen its fair share of celebrity. But his confession, of contemporary ballet, does draw a raised eyebrow from Neal Perry.

It also drew lingering consideration from Cassie, who had taken to fussing with one of her long braids ever since Ian had complimented her hair.

"You know, that really wouldn't surprise me with Kiara. Took me months just to convince her to come out here and visit." There's a fork with potato attached that finds the brunette down the table, her lips curving in a smile as she swallows a mouthful of food discreetly and lifts a slender shoulder in a casual little shrug. "Course once she did, she wouldn't stay gone. Damn good of you to take her off our hands."

There was laughter from a few sources and Kiara's eyes narrowed as she stabbed her fork into a slice of pie, focus flitting to Ian's face. There was a liveliness in her gaze that suggested she was accustomed to the barbs being flung her way and that, if anything, the presence of them was reassuring to her.

"Ignore Neal, he's all talk."

"That's very impressive, Ian." This interjection from Deb, cutting off whatever retort had been about to leave her husband's mouth, who filled it with a forkful of food, instead. "Kiara took us to see a show in the city the other week. I have to admit, it had been a while since I put on anything other than jeans." There was a flicker of answering warmth in Kiara's smile for the older woman.

"You looked great, Deb."

-

Once the meal was done, there was a general unspoken consensus about what came next. Chairs pushed back and bodies began to meander toward the bonfire; some taking chairs closer, others laying down blankets to sit and watch the dancing flames.

Kiara, slower to rise than some, snapped a cookie in half and slipped a piece between her lips, canting a glance across at him as some of the ladies carried dishes into the ranch. "So, you survived. I think I'm a little impressed."

Ian

"You should come out more. I could probably get you cheap tickets." This to Deb, who Ian regards with quiet consideration as he rests his elbows against the table. "I know a lot of people in the arts scene, so if ballet's not your thing..." he glances at Neal briefly, then shrugs. The offer is an open-ended thing. They can take it or let it pass - as people often do in these sorts of conversations.

The meal slows down and people begin to wander toward the bonfire. Ian watches them lay out blankets with a subdued, thoughtful expression. He doesn't seem to be in any special hurry to get up from the table, though he finished eating long ago.

Kiara's impressed he survived. Ian lifts his gaze, then slowly rises to his feet. "I've survived after-parties during Fashion Week. This was pretty calm by comparison."

Calmer, yes. But that doesn't necessarily make it easier.

"It's actually a a lot more low-key than the last pagan ceremony I went to. There weren't any kids there, though."

(There also hadn't been any Sleepers.)

He slides his arm around Kiara's waist and leans against her for a moment. "Let's go sit by the fire."

Kiara

"Mm." She makes a low noise of agreement when he suggests it's more low-key than some pagan celebrations. "This year there aren't as many of us." Kiara seems to regret it, if the way her eyes travel over the figures beginning to mill around are any indication. Plates of leftover food are being carried over to the bonfire by some of the guests and set out.

Others, like Cassie and Debra, stand beside the crackling flames and throw pieces of the remembrance cookies into the fire. Their progress watched by others settling down. The gentle twang of guitar drifts across to them and when Kiara feels his arm slide around her waist she turns a smile on him and her fingers lift to briefly trace the edge of his jaw as so often seemed to be her habit.

This brief, tactile reminder of his presence.

Let's go sit by the fire.

"Okay. C'mon." She slides her fingers through his and draws him forward, walking backward a few steps before she twists and leads him toward the bonfire. In times gone by, there would have been revelries that far outstripped the more sedate atmosphere of the Perry's Samhain gathering. Most of those settled by the fire seemed content enough simply to enjoy the radiating warmth coming from its presence; to sit, cradled against each other and chatter in low, somber tones.

The brunette leads him over to the far side of the fire where there were fewer couples and draws him down onto the grass. Behind them, the fields dipped into shadowy vastnesses of space, undefined and mysterious. Above their heads, the stars were visible where the clouds had rolled back and everywhere, the aroma of the wilderness - the grasses, the dampness of the soil, the woodsmoke - drifted and wound around them.

The rise and fall of voices blending with the slow picking at a melody on a guitar.

"Aisling always used to love this time of year," Kiara notes quietly, where she settles back against him. "I think she'd have liked them." She tilts her chin toward the Perry's, Deb had carried their son over to watch the fire from a safe distance and was jiggling him up and down on a hip while his hands reached toward the flames and opened and closed on thin air.

"Though she'd have been scandalized that I was letting myself get close to them." She lifts her face up. "She had attitude about the unenlightened, as she called them. Said it was a recipe for disaster to get attached." There's a twinge of something almost wistful there, for a beat. "She was crazy but - maybe she wasn't entirely wrong."

Ian

The fire relaxes him a little. The air outside is late-autumn crisp but the heat from the flames radiates out like a furnace, baking into their skin and clothes as they settle in beside it. Ian makes himself comfortable on the ground, creating a cradle with his body for Kiara to tuck herself into, both legs bent at the knee as they rest outside her hips. He watches the flames lick high toward the stars, brushing a section of Kiara's hair from her shoulder in this slow, quietly affectionate gesture. He tilts his head down and kisses the bared skin there, at the spot where her neck and shoulder meet.

He's quiet for a while. Kiara talks about Aisling - says she would have liked this place (these people.) Ian voices a subdued sound when she suggests that maybe her mentor wasn't entirely wrong about forming attachments to the unenlightened.

"I try not to form attachments to anyone," he admits quietly. "For a lot of reasons. With them... I worry I'll put them at risk. But I don't think it's good for us to do that - live like we aren't all part of the same world. Some days I think maybe it isn't good for anyone."

Kiara

He kisses Kiara's bare shoulder and she makes some quiet noise of pleasure, tipping her face further to the side to bear the stretch of her neck to him if he so wishes. It was not the only open sign of affection among those gathered at the fireside. There was little modesty here with those who shared Kiara's beliefs, her connection to the earth. It had never particularly been part of Kiara's nature, to exhibit anything less than total confidence and acceptance of her body.

It seemed to reach further than simple physicality, though. It was part of her, on a deeper level. The way her essence seemed to thrum with the very vitality of it; the slow, steady pulse of life. The surge that came with that first, deep lungful of oxygen after the plunge.

They didn't share that aspect, the Sleepers around them, didn't possess the same crackling awareness in their bones, in their blood. Feel the way the world shifted and moved around them (with them), the way it shuddered when a Will was forced upon it. Understand the way their patterns were spun into a greater design. There is some sense of that - the differences between them and the others in the way Kiara observes them after Ian speaks.

Admits what he does.

She drops her eyes to where their fingers are entwined over her knee and draws the edge of her thumb along the tiny bumps and planes of his finger; down to the knuckle and back.

"It's strange to think there's even a line, sometimes. That they couldn't look into the fire and see what I do. But they believe the same things. Even without knowing the things I do." She murmurs, her gaze ticking over her friends faces; Neal's, open with laughter; a dozen tiny lines crinkling around his eyes; Debra's quieter pleasure; her chin lightly resting on top of her son's head.

"It's just - a simpler acceptance of it. Maybe a more honest one, too." She's quiet a beat, then curls her palm over the top of his hand, squeezing down on his fingers, her voice a low, teasing curl of humor. "Does that make me the exception to the Ian Lai rule of forming attachments?"

Ian

It would be very easy for them (for him) to believe themselves some higher form of being. Many of the Awakened do believe that. Ian, with all the things that set him apart from other people - he says it isn't good for them to think that way. Perhaps he speaks more from experience than idealism.

It's a harsh thing to say to someone he loves - that he tries not to form attachments. To anyone. It likely says a lot about how far they've come, as people and with each other, that Kiara's response is to quietly tease him. She squeezes his hand and asks, amused, whether that makes her the exception to his rule.

Ian exhales this brief note of laughter. He leans his head against hers, nestling his face into her hair. His answer doesn't come for a long moment, until he lifts his head away and kisses her temple. "I've made a lot of exceptions to that rule lately. You... in particular."

In the background, someone is playing the guitar. Ian closes his eyes and lets the notes sweep over him. Then he lifts his hand to Kiara's jaw and turns her head gently into his own. They're far enough from the others that it doesn't really feel as though they're on display, though anyone looking their way might notice their affection - the easy way they touch each other. The emotions they communicate through their bodies. Ian kisses Kiara slowly, his lips lingering and soft. To anyone looking on, it feels like a private moment.

Kiara

It's deceptively easy where they are, surrounded by the notes of nature and the slow, dreamy strum of guitar strings to believe that they're beyond the reach of terrors in their respective lives. To cling to each other on a crisp October night and put faith in nothing more than that. The way it felt to be here and now, to listen to the slow, steady beating of each other's hearts. To watch the others around the bonfire as they in turn watched them. To slide fingers over faces and draw lips into a sweet embrace.

Kiara would come face to face with the extremes of their reality in the days to come. Would help set the spirit of a tormented young woman free and come face to face with the poisonous essence of a true Fallen One.

But she doesn't know of that now, is no Seer the way her Mentor had been. Can only cup Ian's face in return and allow herself the pleasure of being kissed and feel the warmth of the fire against her skin; feel the affection in Ian's touch against her face like a balm. It's worth holding to, the sensation. The awareness of it. It was partly what drove the brunette's survival instinct in the Umbra. It will be the underlying steel to her endurance in days to come. The capacity to feel. To understand.

To love.

In the here and now: someone begins to sing along with the guitar. This soft, sweet voice that rises into the night air.

"Samhain, Samhain, let the ritual begin,
We call upon our sacred ancestors to come in
Samhain, Samhain, we call upon our kin,
We call upon our dear departed loved ones to come in

The Veil between the worlds is thin
Our hearts reach cross the sea of time
To bring our loved ones in
Samhain, Samhain we honor all our kin
We honor those who've gone before
As the Great Wheel turns again."

There's a wistfulness to the song, the lyrics offering a lullaby and recognition to the departed, the ones long gone and those seeking the bright beacon of the bonfire to guide them on. Kiara seems lost to it for a long moment, staring into the flames before she turns her face, murmurs against his neck. "Let's take a walk."

Ian

Ian seldom speaks of the people he's lost. Here they are on Samhain, a day meant for honoring the departed, and he still does not speak of them. He exists in this place and this moment not as an active participant but as an observer. Perhaps there is some regret, in that. That for all the things he and Kiara share, there are places where their beliefs do not fall into sync. But there is no correct way to grieve. The process of losing loved ones, of comprehending the nature of life and death, is a maddening experience - that people can one day exist and the next day... not.

He is not accustomed to the idea that grief could be a communal experience. But then, many experiences have always been solitary for him. Perhaps there is some element of fate in that. Perhaps it's just his nature. And yet...

He is not alone now.

Some would say that it's a blessing - not being able to see the future. If Ian could, he would be terrified to leave Kiara's side. Already that urge plagues him. Will there come a day when he's grieving her too? When she is grieving him? They take what they can with each other. And right now, it's enough. (To keep them alive. To keep them sane.)

The song starts, and it feels for a moment as if they've been transported to some other place and time. Some experiences are as old as life itself.

Let's take a walk.

Ian's response is slow to materialize. They're both gazing into the flames as though the fire holds some vision of what's in their hearts, lost in each other and in their thoughts. First he makes this low, thoughtful sound, then he pushes up to his feet, taking her hand so he can pull her up with him. "Alright."

Kiara

She doesn't articulate beyond the suggestion why she wants them to walk.

To slip away from the comforting warmth of the fire and into shadowy fields where the insects sang and the smell of the horses grew stronger. Perhaps there's a mercy in it for him, some recognition cutting deep in Kiara that this part of her belief, this open grief, the unflinching acceptance and honoring of the dead would be difficult for him to accept. There was a way that the pagans (and even, perhaps more so, the Verbenae) dealt with death. They pressed down on old wounds and scars with a deliberateness, an intent to regenerate those emotions, to feel the well of blood back to the surface.

To live in the memory of those pains, those losses, for one night. It was part of the celebration. Part also, of the way they honored their deities. Shared in the death, however temporary, of their Sun God before he was returned to them at Yule. The seasonal change that was a death but only in the way a regeneration could be.

Should be.

So she (rejuvenation herself) takes his hand after he pulls her up and tugs him into a direction, down the sloping hill, beyond the dancing flames. Someone calling out after them, Neal's voice, perhaps, but the words are lost to the widening distance and the laughter that rises up in their wake. Teasing, no doubt, the lovers escaping the gathering.

-

Darkness settles in as the sounds and sights of the gathering fall behind them, light chasing over the blades of grass as they pick a pathway that winds along the fence, great slabs of wood protruding from the earth at intervals, wire twisted around to keep the paddocks secure. Wild snares of drying weeds tangling in the lines of it. As if nature were slowly consuming Perry Ranch's attempts at taming it.

Somewhere nearby the horses nicker, moving about in the dim.

It's hard to make out much of Kiara's face, but she's looking into the distance, out toward where one imagined the horses to be. Their fingers still wound together. "Do you ever talk to them?" She looks over at him, the movement feels as if she is, anyway. The way her voice seems to grow closer, drawing in. "Your family, I mean. I used to talk to Aisling a lot. Not so much these days, but, the first few months."

A beat. "I used to tell her how angry I was at her."

Ian

They drift away from the fire. Ian's head tilts a little when Neal calls after them, a subtle lift of an ear toward the sound. Perhaps he does hear what's said, but if so he doesn't react to it. It's dark in the country. The stars are much brighter out here than they are in Denver. As they walk, their eyes adjust to the changing light. Everything around them is shadows and indistinct shapes. Glancing toward the pasture, Ian can just make out the rounded outline of the horses.

He never used to like holding hands. Couldn't really tolerate it for long periods of time. With Kiara it happens like second nature. Every now and then, it occurs to him to wonder about that.

He looks over when she asks if he talks to his family. In the dark, it's difficult to read his reaction.

"Sometimes," he admits quietly. "Not very often. Usually nothing that bears repeating." There's a long pause before he says, with more hesitance, "There's a book I used to read to my sister. About once a year I get it out and read from it. I think that's more ritual than conversation though."

He steps in a little closer. Flexes his fingers before wrapping them more securely around Kiara's own. "Are you still angry with her?"

Kiara

She's silent for a moment after he mentions his sister. His own private ritual with her favorite book. Doesn't say anything directly about it but does move a little closer, does untangle their hands only as long as it takes for her to thread her arm through his and tuck herself against the curve of his body, her head briefly brushing his shoulder.

Her hair spilling over it in a wild tangle.

She re-links their fingers and breathes in, there's a crispness to the air as they wander further from the bonfire; late October chill creeping beneath their clothing. "No, I don't think I ever really was. Being angry at her just helped me deal with her being gone for a while."

There's a beat, she lifts her head from his shoulder, sweeps the fall of it over her own. "I saw her, that night. Out here. I don't know if was really her or just - what I wanted to see, but - she looked the way she was before. Happy, I think. She smiled at me and then I woke up."

There's another moment of silence, broken by another, closer, hard exhale from one of the horses. It's moved toward to the fence as they've been strolling closer, all but invisible with its black coat, one large eye turned toward their approximate position as if in anticipation of being fed. There was a flick of its ears.

The Verbena made a quiet noise.

"That's Artemis."

There's a smile in Kiara's voice, a low threaded murmur of it. "She's one of Deb's. The others don't tend to come as close but this girl," her fingers stroke over the slope of the mare's nose, "she's a little more fearless. She just doesn't seem to be able to breed." There's a twinge of something almost wistful in the pagan's tone, her eyes shifting to Ian's face.

Ian[Cha+Animal Kinship - can he manage to charm the horse?]

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

Ian

Horses don't always tolerate Ian well. They know a predator when they see one (even wearing human skin.) Last Christmas he spent time with another Verbena, a man who (owned is not the right word) befriended a beautiful Andalusian stallion. That horse had also been more than what it seemed. While Ian was being introduced to it, it looked at its friend and said: You should know better than to trust a tiger.

It hadn't really been wrong, in that case.

But there was also Dusk, the mare who'd carried him through an endless wasteland. Who not only tolerated but loved him. Some horses see a predator. Others see something else.

Artemis doesn't seem especially intimidated, though perhaps that's as much Kiara's doing as anything. When she approaches the fence, Ian lets Kiara lead him closer. He watches as she runs her hand over the mare's muzzle. Listens to the hard exhale of its breath with a nostalgic smile that's gone by the time Kiara looks at him.

"Appropriate name, then." He slips away from Kiara's grasp, reaching up slowly to trace a hand over the arch of the mare's neck. The touch is slow, soothing and exploratory. And he makes this sound, whisper-soft and reassuring. It isn't so much intentional as reflexive.

If she lets him, he puts both hands at either side of her cheeks and slides them down the length of her muzzle.

"I've never seen my family like that." (In visions. In Seekings.) "I dream about them sometimes. It's hard when I wake up from those."

(To remember all over again.)

"I get angry at my parents sometimes. Just... things kids are always angry at their parents about. I had a fight with my mom before she died. She didn't want me to go see my girlfriend. We used to fight about that a lot."

Kiara

Animals had degrees of sensitivity to the woman at Ian's side, less for reasons of fear (a predator could always be felt, deduced by a myriad of primal, instinctive tells that perhaps even Ian did not fully understand the nuance and complexity of) the way they did the tiger in him but more simply for her essence. The thrum of Awakened energy, the pulse of nature, of her Tradition in her veins.

Some, like Artemis seemed more naturally drawn to Kiara's side, nudging against her palm. Others set their tails between their legs, whined and grew agitated.

In some ways perhaps there was a likeness there, the tinges of otherness in them both coloring the way the world and the creatures within it observed them, interacted with them. The earth witch has never spoken of it with him, the fact that it happens - that animals sense it. It's occurred to her, fleetingly, that perhaps some tiny spark in him is drawn the same way. To her energy, to the way it radiates.

She strokes her fingers over the slope of the horse's muzzle as Ian's fingers find her neck, there's a tiny flick of the mare's tail and one great eye seems watchful of him, the animal shifting its weight from hoof to hoof by the fence, lowering its great head after a moment in search of food, strands of dry grasses were growing through the gaps in the fencing.

Kiara's gaze shifts, then. From the horse to Ian's face, when he mentions his mother. The girlfriend Kiara knows only in hazy, vague formation. Wisps of knowledge that he's offered. Her eyes return to the mare's form, her fingers reaching to gently stroke against the warmth of its side. She can feel the strength of her, the steady rhythm of Artemis' heart, the great muscle pumping blood through her body; fueling every toss of her head, every tiny flick and turn of her ears.

The brunette's brows constrict, briefly. "She didn't approve?" She fights for detachment with the next, though there are traces of interest she can't begin to conceal. "I wonder what she'd have made of me, then." Kiara's mouth ticks upward.

Ian

"I'm not sure what she would have thought of you. My mom could be kind of... hard to gauge." (A family trait, perhaps.) "I don't think she'd have disliked you though." He takes a step back from the fence and brushes his hands together, as though to rid them of potential detritus (horse hairs, dirt.) "It wasn't Naomi she didn't approve of. I think she just thought I was growing up too fast."

A sad irony then, given how her death affected him.

This is the most Ian's spoken of any member of his family in a long time. The vulnerability of it feels delicate in a way that's less strained than usual. Maybe that's to do with the darkness (the way it shrouds and blankets them,) or Artemis (animals have a way of bringing calm) or... perhaps it's because it's Samhain.

"My dad would have liked you. So would Jenna. Jenna had good taste in people." He smiles a little at that. The edge of it is sad, and it doesn't linger long.

"I had that fight with my mom the day of the accident. Before they left. I was supposed to be in the car with them. Instead I called her a Communist dictator and ran away so I could go have sex with my girlfriend."

He doesn't explain the exact degree to which his choice of words had hurt her (had hurt his father, who lost both parents during the cultural revolution,) but there's some sense of it in his voice. In the way it constricts. In the way his eyes glisten when he turns to look at the moon.

Kiara

There is something cathartic, perhaps, to talking about this now. Here, in the darkness on the night when the barrier between the living and the dead was fine toothed. When to some it felt as if there were barely a curtain to be brushed aside at all to feel the presence of those who had gone before, who came back.

Kiara, petting Artemis once more, draws back in the wake of Ian doing the same and the horse seems to regard this as dismissal (and the lack of any food forthcoming) and begins to slowly move off to graze further out in the paddock. She dusts her hands off against her jeans and leaves them there, threading her thumbs through the belt loops and leaning back on her heels.

Watches him as he talks of his family, her gaze searching his features for a long moment before her eyes lift to follow his. Finding the bright certainty of the moon. In the distance, over the crest of the hill they'd descended from, there is the rise and fall of voices, the smell of the bonfire smoke, curling up into the night.

The quiet commiseration being offered through the strokes of a guitar's strings.

She could say a lot of things. It's in her to offer them, to hold them out to him as some sort of balm to apply to the old, deep lashings guilt has left on his soul but they would feel as paltry and superficial as commiserations often are - given for the sake of something to mold and shape into comfort. Verbalizations of sympathy. Instead, she moves toward him where he watches the sky and slides her arms around his waist, clasps her wrist to loosely chain herself there and sets her face against his neck.

This close, she smells like woodsmoke and grass. Like the subtle notes of perfume in her shampoo.

Her nose brushes against the slope of his jaw and she turns her face after a beat, after there's little to break the silence but the sounds of nature surrounding them; the chorus of insects in the grasses, the sweep of an evening breeze rolling down the slope of the hill. The creak of old, rusting metal as time wore down the mechanisms.

She kisses his temple. It's a brief, fleeting imprint, her lips cool for the evening air. "We can walk back, when you're ready." She murmurs eventually, her weight against him neither an anchor or a means to move on. Simply a presence, solid and warm and there.

Ian

It isn't something he can easily process in that moment - the nearness of her, the quiet empathy and reassurance in her presence. Kiara laces her arms around his waist and when she does it she can feel the ripple of tension that crawls up his torso. It isn't the reaction her touch usually elicits. There's an urge, sudden and irrational, to push her away. To deny the thing she tries to offer. One of his heels steps back and there's a muted flinch when he turns his head to look out into the field.

He doesn't push her away, though. Instead he just... breathes.

He starts to try and put his arms around her, but some subconscious instinct won't let him do it. The nuance of it, the way he lifts his arms and hesitates, feels less like he doesn't want to touch her and more like he's afraid he might hurt her if he does. Finally he curls his fingers and drops his arms back to his sides. A moment later he lets one hand settle on the small of her back.

Her breath is warm on his neck when she leans her face into it. That more than anything seems to get his nerves to calm.

He couldn't say really, how long they end up standing there. Time passes. The horse moves away to feed in another part of the field. Distantly, people sing songs by the blazing glow of the fire. At some point, the tension in Ian's spine relaxes and he tilts his head to rest against Kiara's own.

She kisses his temple. We can walk back, when you're ready.

"Sure." He steps away and allows the two of them to untangle. Then he leans down and rips a blade of grass from the ground. He plays with it as they walk, occupying his hands. By the time they get back to the gathering he's tied it into a string of little knots.

When they stop, he tosses it quietly into the fire.

Ian

It's late by the time Ian arrives at the Diamond Cabaret. Somewhere close to midnight, and he's tired enough from performing that he could conceivably claim ignorance as to the nature of this particular establishment. When River texted him, she didn't offer up any sort of warning. But let's face it: Ian knows exactly what this place is. He doesn't need to have been here, or even googled the website, to know that a place called the Diamond Cabaret is almost certainly a strip club. And if he wasn't one hundred percent certain before he arrived, he is now.

There's a moment after he parks his car in the lot where he looks out at the building, awash in a glow of blue and orange light, and contemplates whether this is something he actually wants to do. Maybe it's the exhaustion talking, but in the end he gives this little huff of laughter and gets out of the car.

Fuck it. Why not.

So he goes in. The girl at the door is pretty and attentive, and she smiles at him as he walks past. The interior of the club is plush and faux-decadent, as higher-end strip clubs often are. There's a room nearby featuring a display case full of imported cigars, which might be the most heterosexual thing he's seen all day. He doesn't sit down immediately. Instead he looks out over the layout of the club, searching for some sign of River's vaguely-familiar face.

He's dressed appropriately enough, all things considered. His jeans are a designer label, and the leather jacket he has on over his t-shirt looks expensive. But he isn't suited up like some of the other clientele.

River

Well and so, she had to actually go to work. The community was small enough that she couldn't No Call/No Show at the club and, frankly, she still had Work to do. Life had to go on, despite the fact that she was now sleeping in a bathtub at a hotel with her former mentor and they were not exactly on the best of terms. The bathtub, oddly enough, had been her idea. River actually slept in the bathtub even when they were on good terms, having since concluded that she liked the enclosed space and the occasional feeling of cold porcelain on her skin juxtaposed with a nice blanket. She usually came in a few moments before sunrise anyway, slept a little bit, and then continued her day.

Admittedly, having a random woman covered in glitter sleeping in a bathtub scared the ever loving shit out of housekeeping. Without the lights on, she looked a bit like a dead body and then people had to wonder oh god, is there a dead stripper in the bathtub or is she sleeping? The answer is not usually don't worry, she's just sleeping so inevitably she gets woken up by housekeeping, vacates the room to go swimming or do yoga or whatever it is she does in the morning, and then crawls back into the tub to go back to sleep.

River is at work, and she isn't dressed like a cowgirl or a cheerleader- she's wearing a cocktail dress. And not an excuse for a cocktail dress, either, not something lycra stretchable I-can-see-practically-everything number. Grant you, it's gold and covered in sequins, but it actually does leave something to the imagination. River Vasquez rents space; she doesn't intend on giving people a show that they didn't explicitly pay her for. She had been talking to a business man, presumably. Someone with graying hair and a tan who brought out a wiry, nervous looking sort with him. The table smelled like Big Oil money, like people who made their fortunes in black gold and they were showing their new accountant a good time from out of town.

Her eyes go to the door, the way everyone's eyes go to the door when someone new comes in and she smiles, barely grazes the older man's shoulder and flashes him a smile. He calls her a Mexican rose. (Cuban, she corrects, laughs but corrects) and she continues on her way to go greet the rather attractive, probably exhausted man who just entered.

"You made it," she told him, smile bright but not too bright; he can probably figure as to why. She puts on a great face for the clients- flexible. River is flexible, "Janette is running the bar tonight, if you want anything I can cover it."

Ian

He spots River near a group of business men, her gold cocktail dress winking and glittering in the warm light. She looks busy, so he doesn't immediately approach her. Instead he offers a subtle nod of acknowledgment when she looks his way. There's a girl carrying a tray of empty glasses who brushes past him and asks, in a trained and flirty voice, if he'd like a drink. But River is already heading his way, so he declines. When she gets to his side, he smiles and quirks an eyebrow just slightly. This knowing little look that says - you did not tell me you worked at a strip club.

But he doesn't give her a hard time - because he gets it. And besides, he's seen much worse than this place before. Given a slightly different set of circumstances, he could very well have ended up doing something similar.

"I could probably use a bourbon, if you have any good ones."

He could use more than one. But probably not as much as River could. Ian doesn't know yet that River just lost her cabal-mate. He doesn't know that she's been sleeping in a bathtub. There are a lot of things he doesn't know - yet.

"I like your dress," he adds. "Do you dance here?" There's a nod of his head toward the stage.

River

River must be a phenomenal dancer on stage because she is not, in fact, the most flirtacious of the people in the area. Keeps her sense of personal space just that- personal. Is personable enough that she can convince people that they want to buy her time versus being able to enjoy it without a price. Supply and demand, and in the particular business she is in? River has learned to be able to market herself as a very limited product.

"Widow Jane, eight years straight?" she asks for a confirmation. They have some pretty good bourbon here, as far as she knows. River knows what she gets in her flask at the beginning of her night off, knows that she cracked open a bottle with Janette recently and knows that the deep cherry notes are not always everyone's cup of tea.

Or, in this case, glass of bourbon.

She compartmentalizes well. Puts things away and handles herself whens he has a job to do and, provided there isn't anything to churn her stomach, she might be able to handle it. Or, perhaps, the distance is her way of mourning, being unavailable even if it comes down to people who don't matter. Whatever the case. "I do, dance here, I mean," she tells him, "I'm main stage in about ten minutes if you want to stay? I don't know if this is your preferred location and I kind of feel like I need to ward people off so you can actually, you know, relax without being hit up for a lap dance."

A second, and she realizes he complimented her dress and she laughs, looks up, "oh! Yes, thank you. It's hard to take off, which is actually why I like it."

Ian

Widow Jane, she suggests, and Ian smiles, nodding in confirmation. The two of them head to the bar and he leans back against it on two elbows, casual and languid. This place may not be his preferred haunt, but he's far from uncomfortable. There's a glance thrown to the bartender when they get there. River confirms that she's about to go on stage and Ian laughs when she suggests it might not be safe to leave him alone.

"Are you worried about the dancers or the customers?" Because all things considered, she could have meant either one. "I don't think I could afford a lap dance here," he observes. And although he's teasing it isn't entirely untrue. He's wearing a thousand dollar jacket and three hundred dollar jeans but that kind of clothing budget leaves precious little expendable income when one dances ballet for a living (even taking into account the investments he set up back when he was modeling.) Sometimes appearances can be deceiving. And Ian, well... he's all about appearance, isn't he?

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

River

She does order him a drink, and true to her word does put it on her tab, which she actually has open. Orders a bourbon with him because, sometimes, you need to drink with the clients. Also, River just lost a friend. A very, very dear friend; the boss seemed to stay away from her for the week because she came to work on Saturday and spent half of the day crying backstage. Grant you, in some establishments this is not an uncommon sight. For the Diamond Cabaret, this made management concerned.

She said she'd lost a family member, didn't say which one. Let one of the bouncers give her a hug because (ironically) she found him incredibly non-threatening.

"Dancers, mostly? The customers are more like islands- so long as you don't overlap they're fine. I haven't run into too many-" she makes a little uncomfortable sound, takes a sip of her bourbon (she takes it neat, thank you), "-you know. Overly familiar people."

"It's not a bad place to work, but I'm an independent contractor right now."

So despite the fact that this was the kind of place where your lapdances might cost more than the standard twenty? She wasn't raking in much in terms of take home.

Ian

Given the clientele, he's also probably not their type. Ian, of course, knows this. It's more likely that one of them might sit down and try to make small talk than ask him for a lap dance. River says it's not a bad place to work - that she hasn't run into too many overly familiar people, but when she makes that little sound Ian affords her a careful gaze. He knows what she means by that. Knows why she might want to wear a dress that wasn't easy for straying hands to remove.

He picks up his bourbon and breathes it in for a moment before taking a drink. The taste is smooth and warm and it makes his tired muscles uncoil a little.

"Yeah, it seems alright." (For a strip club.) Ian's gaze slides over the room, taking in the atmosphere. There's an older man a few seats away who's getting a lap dance from a girl who's wearing significantly less fabric than River is, and Ian watches this with an almost clinical gaze - like maybe he's analyzing her technique.

His eyes sweep back to River. "Provided you don't mind the work." It isn't really stated in a judgmental way. More... questioning. Some people take off their clothes for a living because they like it. Some people do it because they have to.

"There are naked pictures of me on the internet, so I can't really judge."

River

"I find the idea of being able to hang seven feet in the air by my thigh muscles alone to be ridiculously empowering," she laughed, took another sip of her drink. She's got about half of it left and she knows better than to leave it, doesn't make enough to feel particularly good about tossing it but, there she was. Pushing it back to the bar and giving the bartender a little unvoiced thank you. The drink goes away. She's smart about what she drinks, doesn't leave things unattended and knows she can't really enjoy her drink if she's still working.

River took a few steps back, impossible heals and completely comfortable in them. They can't be much different than pointe shoes, she thinks sometimes. Except, of course, when they are different. And they are different, heels distribute differently.

"I like the style, but I don't much care for people taking liberties they think a twenty affords them," she says. Probably shouldn't say while she's at work but the woman is frank. She smiles something quiet and pleased, "I'm gonna go get ready. Mainstage, my time slot. I had to do a lot of negotiating to get it so I don't want to miss."

Ian

He laughs at that, because he gets it. There's so much ritual and expression and power in the kinds of things they do - the way they work their bodies. Maybe it's different for her than it is for him. People dance for all kinds of reasons. But empowering certainly isn't a bad word for it.

She slides the rest of her drink back across the bar. Ian's eyes follow the movement and almost he wants to tell her not to waste it, but he gets that too - why she doesn't leave it. Even with him there (perhaps especially with him there.) This is not a place for blind trust.

She has to go get ready. Ian nods toward the stage. "Go do your thing. I'll be here when you get done."

Once she's gone, he takes his drink and finds a seat closer to the stage, settling down into the plush cushions with perhaps a bit less comfort than his relaxed body language would imply. The chair, see, it has a smell to it. All the chairs here do. He can pick it up better than most - the lingering traces of old pheromones woven into the fabric.

There's a man a few seats away who looks at him like he doesn't belong there. Ian just sips his drink and pointedly avoids eye contact.

River

[Dex+art (dance), diff 6 - 1 (aptitude!)= 5. Let's see how this actually goes?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens] [WP]

River

She disappears off to back room/dressing room because she does have to get ready. It's a production, after all, even if she's on for all of three minutes but it's a solid three and a half minutes of actually focusing on what she's doing while simultaneously trying to make money. She has to get her head in the game.

River's head, most definitely, is not in the game.

She looks in the mirror, is in the process of pinning her hair up and away from her face. She hasn't talked to too many of the other girls aside from the perfunctory conversations. There's a strange aire of both camaraderie and competition- everyone gets time, and frankly River got a damned fine slot and she didn't necessarily operate like some of the other dancers. More like she's channeling her inner courtesan. We digress.

The lights dim and, after a few moments, she does come out. Knows her audience, knows said audience might have a thing for secretaries, or at the very least knew she could milk getting out of a pencil skirt and a blouse for some time. The heels are impossibly high; it seems to be a standard issue for the girls, something about the way it makes the body move. It's an aesthetic. Beyonce plays, but it's a slow song- Crazy in Love. Starts with a piano introduction and she walks out- hips move.

Her lipstick is brick red. Cheekbones high. Lashes thick.

The first few moments are punctuated with a purposeful gait and the occasional moment of fairly intense eye contact with that poor accountant that the big oil boys brought to the club. She moves and the world feels like it's breaking down, for her at least. It's the motion of the universe and she turns, a slow and purposeful moment where she's slipping out of her skirt, the way that she has to push it off of her hips before it just falls tot he ground, carefully discarded far enough away that she won't slip on it, the blouse she's wearing is long but when she takes herself back to the pole, drops down and there's a peek of a garter belt and the hints of how very... very little she's wearing beneath that shirt.

She smiles and it hits one side of her mouth, closes her eyes because she doesn't want people to realize the smile won't hit her eyes, doesn't want to break the illusion of seduction, that there might be a room full of people but she's not dancing for the other dozen people there. There is a moment when the shirt disappears, the music intensifies and the motion to remove clothing is more intense- more purposeful. The kind of frenzied intensity that comes with passion and then there is art. The pole had merely been there as an accessory, a prop to hold her up in moments showing off provocative flexibility but at that moment she went from mere seductress to acrobat.

River shouldn't be as strong as she is, most of it is due to the fact that she's lighter than she looks, keeps a relatively low bodyweight and practices the sort of control necessary to maintain effortless spins and pirouettes and drops (and she does drop, at one point, held high in the air when she;s taking off her bra and she plummets with arms out and back arched and stops a foot above the ground. Walks herself outward and back like she's a gymnast.

The climax of the music has ended, and the woman takes the time to collect what she'd earned, comes close enough to people to accept whatever they'd offer in rare moments. Her mascara is smudged, eyes bright and glistening and the world threatens to fall apart, only to be built back again.

She dances like a force of reverent entropy, like everything comes together for a reason, for a price, and it will all end just like the song does... but she'll dance anyway because it's life affirming. It's in the almost half-hearted way that she collects her money that it becomes clear-

River Vasquez would dance, even if she never saw another cent again. It's fundamental to who, and what, she is.

Ian

It's a good performance, technically speaking. River has more grace and artistry than probably any exotic dancer Ian has seen live. That alone catches his attention when she gets on stage. The way she moves. The precision and the agility. To a dancer's eyes, it's impressive. He knows how difficult some of those moves are. And if his response to the dance is a slightly different sort of interest than the men around him, they hardly notice. They aren't looking at him.

There's an air of detachment about it though - and he notices that too. Notices the way she plays the part without fully feeling it. It's the only thing that keeps her from truly lighting up the stage.

But he doesn't judge her for that.

The other men in the audience shout encouragements at the stage, tossing bills out to try and attract River's attention. Ian is the only one of them who remains calm and seated throughout the whole performance. At some point he finishes off his drink and sets the empty glass down, leaning his head against a curled fist as he watches.

She's beautiful - with or without her clothes. And it isn't as though he doesn't notice that (of course he does.) Even appreciates it in this quiet sort of way. But he doesn't look at her with hunger, the way many of the other patrons do. Instead there is this reverent appreciation of the dance itself - the skill and the seduction that she works on the crowd.

When it's over, he watches her collect her earnings and exit the stage. Then he stands up and migrates back to the bar to wait for her.

River

The whole night is a performance like that- someone has to know she's going through the motions. People have to know that while River Vasquez is technically superb she's not connected to this, as much as she isn't connected to anything. She had connections, some didn't stay buried and others don't get to rest in the ground; it's a difficult juxtaposition but if she can teeter on those heels surely she can manage her own personal life.

River's staying in a hotel, getting to know Ihsan, who she has deigned to be a perfectly enjoyable young woman. Someone she can talk to without, well, getting to say very much. Maybe part of her allure comes from the willful detachment, or perhaps people just don't notice. At the end of the day, she's a commodity. At the end of the day, the role she's been cast for has the wrong actress in it but the production certainly makes due.

And she does come out again, after she's fixed her makeup and pinned her hair back and put that gold dress back on that is visually stunning but difficult to remove (there's a trick to it, she told a client recently, but I don't think you'll get to figure it out while I'm on the clock. There's other reasons she does this job, and those reasons have more to do with karmic duty than thrills. She may be seeing that man again, though she hopes not. Hopes that when she checks in again that he's managed to redirect his path, as of yet River has not met someone who seeks the kind of forgiveness she offers.)

River dallies, goes back to talk to the big oil boys and actually does give the poor little accountant her attentions briefly. She laughs, kisses him on the forehead like he's an errant first grader. "Congratulations on your promotion," she tells him. The boys roar and he settles in to a quiet blush, "don't let it run you ragged."

Walks away, heads back to the bar. Gives Ian a little wave which is little more than a wiggle of her fingers and a smile.

"Should I quit my day job?"

Ian

"Mm, depends. You're certainly good enough." It's a diplomatic answer, but not a dishonest one. By the time River arrives, he's seated on one of the barstools with a second glass of bourbon (he paid for this one himself) resting half-empty in front of him. None of the other dancers have attempted yet to ply their trade with him. They know how to spot where the money is flowing, and guys like Ian? They aren't nearly desperate enough.

They also likely noticed that he didn't take out his wallet while River was dancing.

"I did think about tossing a twenty up there, but... it seemed a little cheap." (It seemed a little like he'd be saying that she was cheap.) Rationally, of course, he knows that it's her job. That this is just how exotic dancers get paid. But the social dynamics of it have never sat right with him.

Instead, he pulls something out of the liner pocket of his jacket and slides it across the bar. If River looks at it, she'll see that it's a ticket to his show. (The title is called: Rituals. And the dance company: Pulse. The performance is in the Buell Theatre.) "So I thought maybe... a trade. A dance for a dance. Or, alternately, you could scalp that and probably get about fifty bucks." His mouth curls into a dry smile. "I won't hold you to it."

There's a pause before he adds, more seriously. "You were beautiful up there."

River

She does take a seat at the bar, crosses her legs and leans against the bar as though she is actually talking shop with someone who she could actually talk shop with. River's done this with some of the other girls, things she's shown people that you can do on a pole without conceivably breaking your neck- unlike some of the things River did tonight, which could actually cause a minor concussion if done incorrectly.

But there is a ticket in hand and she does take it between her fingers, feels the paper and looks over the printed pieces and the raised ink. She doesn't have the kind of feel for paper some people do but she certainly does have an eye for the way tickets look. They're unique; this is no different.

"I'd rather see you dance than stand in a parking lot to get cash," she says with a little wave, as though she were dismissing a thought, "unless you can do that on the internet now?"

Given her tone, it doesn't sound like she'd know how to scalp tickets on the internet. Shrugs it off because, eh- technology. What can you do?

"And you already had to pay cover to get in, if you paid any more I'd feel guilty," truth to that, even though she has a playful smile on her face. He tells her she was beautiful while she performed and some people might have taken that as flirtation, but she hadn't. In fact, the entirety of her interaction with Ian, while occasionally playful, wasn't necessarily flirtatious. She wasn't trying to get into the man's pants even though, ironically, she was paid primarily by her ability to make people think that she did want to get into their pants.

Her cheeks turn pink, not because she thinks Ian is hitting on her (she does not, in fact, seem to believe this) but rather because he'd given her a compliment that seemed to mean something.

"If you're ever interested in learning some of this, let me know? It's actually easier barefoot," River says, "or, if you want to see me perform again. Either way, don't be a stranger."

Ian

There's a soft laugh at that - less because he thinks the suggestion absurd than because he actually had been thinking about the last time he attempted to pole dance. River blushes a little at the compliment, and if Ian had been flirting with her he would have said something else then. But they aren't flirting. It's probably the first time in a while that Ian has been in this kind of circumstance with someone and not tried to follow it up into something more intimate.

"Who knows, maybe I'll take you up on that. I don't think the clients here would like me though."

Maybe not, but there are certainly places where he could make a tidy profit doing this kind of thing - were he inclined to do so. He certainly had the body for it.

He finishes off his drink slowly. When he sets it down, he purses his lips together and runs his tongue between them thoughtfully.

"I'm glad you invited me. Even though I'm about half-ready to fall asleep on this stool - through no fault of your own." He slides off the seat like he's maybe getting ready to go.

"We should talk more. Maybe somewhere more private next time." That probably does sound like he's hitting on her, so he clarifies: "You know, away from prying ears."

There's a pause before he adds, "You should call my friend Emma by the way. I think she really likes you."

River

He says that she should call Emma, because he thinks that Emma really likes River and she ducks down, covers her mouth brows raise and the look on her face can only be described as delight.

"Really?"

Oh, that doesn't help her not blush at all. "I kind of thought she was out of my league," she admits.

Ian

He laughs again, and the sound is fuller this time - warmer. "Yeah. Well, she's a bit... aloof." (Pot - kettle, Ian.) "But when I told her I was going to see you she made this face... I can't do it justice. It was a very Emma face. But anyway, I could tell she was a little... disgruntled."

That was really the best word for it. Because Emma Lakshmi was far too composed to ever exhibit obvious jealousy.

"Don't sell yourself short." He starts to step away, but turns back long enough to say, "Thanks for the drink. And the dance." Then he offers her this lingering smile as he turns and walks out into the night.

Kiara

The place she takes him is surprisingly tranquil.

Surprisingly, because even at the height of October as fall settles comfortably over Colorado and turns the hillsides into a kaleidoscope of oranges and golds and brilliant, burning reds, it's still popular with the citizens of Denver looking for an escape from their daily lives that doesn't take hours and hours cramped inside a car to reach. Still thriving with camper vans and pitched tents and excitable children racing around the bike trails. The park itself was an impressive oasis pressed into existence around a body of water in Arapahoe County.

Surrounded by prairies and dotted with everything from cottontails to coyotes to white tailed deer, it was a strange compilation of man-made invasion and nature co-existing. Imported sand on the north-eastern side offered a swim beach near the parking facilities and entrance and long, twisting trails etched themselves into the landscape.

At any given moment, the tranquility was prone to interruption by bike, boat or even horseback. Still - the trail Kiara sets out on with Ian in tow leads them over several small hillsides and down further into a bracket of trees, they dip down past a well loved track and further on - the landscape devolves into knee-length grasses; prickling and wild where they sway in the breeze. It's beyond tall, imposing pines she hikes, they scatter on the other side and give over to large rocks; craggy plantlife struggling to protrude from gaps between and a tiny alcove cut into being down below a sharp cliffside.

Below, water laps at the sand and a perilous track with barely room for one foot has been worn into the earth.

The view is worthy of the hour long trek away from the main camping area, however. The mountains in the distance; the occasional boat anchored far out and the cries of the campers a muted, vague echo. Here, it feels far more like the natural world the park proclaimed itself and when they reach the lip of the rocks, the edge jutting out, the Verbena stops and holds a hand up to shield her eyes.

Peering down over the edge to what she'd shared was 'her spot'. "People don't camp out this far," she confirmed, uncapping a bottle of water and sipping from it. The afternoon was warm enough that Kiara's cheeks were pink with it; sweat collecting between her shoulder-blades where her pack sat, heavy on her back. "It's not connected up to anything but it's quieter." She cants her head at him. "Come on, I'll show you where I set up camp."

Ian

It's getting to be that time again. A new show, another run of rehearsals. Ian's schedule waxes and wanes like the moon, and this brief, welcome reprieve is likely the last chance he'll get for some real time off this month. It's clear he's glad for it when he shows up to meet Kiara at the park. When he steps out of his car he gives this long, luxuriating stretch and closes his eyes, turning his face up to the sky to absorb the light and the cool breeze.

He's dressed in dark green hiking pants and a white t-shirt layered with the same thin black hoodie she saw him in at Red Rocks. There's a small but expensive hiking pack in the trunk of his car, which he pulls out and slides over his shoulders before they begin the trek across the landscape.

The first sturdy tree they pass, he leaps up and snags a heavy branch, swinging around to hook his knees over it and pull himself into a seated position. Arionna accused him once of showing off this way, and maybe he is - a little. But mostly it just feels fucking good to be able to stretch his muscles in a natural setting. He doesn't stay up there long. There's a grin thrown down to Kiara, then he lifts up on his arms and jumps down. The weight of his bag thumps and rustles against his back when he lands.

They walk for a fair distance. Past the other visitors. Past a stretch of pines. Along the rocks to a small secluded beach. When Kiara takes out her water bottle, Ian mimics her, downing about half of his in a few deep gulps. A drop of it runs down his chin and he catches it with a swipe of his thumb.

"Quiet is nice. So's the beach." He tips his head toward it with a soft smile.

Come on, I'll show you where I set up camp.

He tucks the water bottle back into his bag. "Lead the way." There's an edge of something a little playful in his tone. Like they're about to go adventuring into some wild, unfamiliar landscape. "Did I ever tell you I went camping with Elijah once, during the winter?"

Kiara

[Doo de doo.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 8) ( success x 1 )

Kiara

It's getting to be that time again.

Kiara's own schedule, which has never been precisely normal, has been picking up of late too. More clients signing on to regular visits to find some semblance of comfort in alternative healing. The burden of life in a city being such that every so often - stress levels skyrocketed. No small part of the brunette wonders if there isn't a correlation to the fact the news is replaying details of fresh murders and disappearances.

That Samhain wasn't around the corner.

She's certainly felt it, in the air. In the press of the atmosphere around the city limits. Still - it was harder out here, surrounded by the crisper air and the chattering of songbirds in the trees to cling to it. The tendrils of unease that felt as if they had been clinging to Kiara's body like cobwebs. Harder to recall why she'd wanted to run so desperately the first time she'd heard that the Technocracy were close by.

She shoots him this tiny smile when he notes that the beach is nice, too. "Mm, nice and secluded."

The tiny track that leads down to the alcove is nothing more than a wedge of worn dirt; long weeds crowding over it; pebbles scattering as they progress along it and kick up whirls of dust. Somewhere high above them a lone hawk is circling, on the hunt for food for its young. The track tapers out after a point and Kiara moves over onto the boulders; her arms held out to her side to balance herself as she brings her body down into a crouch and turns to slide a leg down onto a lower perch, dropping down after a beat and dusting her hands off.

She moves aside for Ian to join her and hops down a second time easier, onto soft, giving sand. It unbalances her a little, the sudden give to the ground after miles of harder earth and she takes a minute to breathe; pushing her hair from her brow with the edge of a wrist. "You and Elijah, huh?" She offers, with a little breathless smile, waiting for him to reach her before gesturing off to the right where the tiny stretch of sand ended in a half formed cave; the rocks underside forming a small alcove.

It was, quite as Kiara had indicated, a quiet camping spot protected from both other people and the elements, should nature take offense to their plans for the evening. She curls her fingers into the straps of her pack and looks down at the sand as they meander along, watching her sneakers sink into the loosely packed earth. It was different to most found on a beach; not riddled with shells and debris; but packed finer. Transported here from some man made location.

The Verbena had elected to wear soft cotton shorts and a pale blue shirt; it was cut in a soft vee and left Kiara's arms mostly bare, as was typical for her when she visited nature, all but a sole necklace had been removed; her face devoid of its usual bold touches - it left her looking younger, somehow. Her dark hair curling and wild where it hit her shoulders.

"We went looking in caves around Red Rock together not that long ago, he and I. He's good like that," she half turns a look across at him, then turns to slowly trek ahead of him facing backwards; her expression lighter.

"So what did you get up to on this camping trip, together?"  Teasing, with the edge of her mouth curving up as if she absolutely had ideas of what they had, but wanted to hear him say it, nonetheless.

Ian

[are we slightly more graceful?]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

Ian

Nice and secluded, she says, and Ian acknowledges that with a subtle grin as his gaze slides over the landscape. Kiara leads the way down the tiny trail, setting her feet carefully so as not to disrupt the loose earth. Her descent is slow and measured, and when she hops down onto the sand there is a moment where her balance wavers. Ian gives her time to get ahead of him, waiting patiently at the top of the cliff. When he's ready, he sets out onto the fragile track and makes his way down with quick, agile steps. When he gets to the place where the track runs out, he hops onto the nearest boulder, then jumps down into the sand.

He makes it look disarmingly easy.

"He's not a bad adventuring companion. I was a bit worried he'd be woefully unprepared, but he actually did alright. Granted, I was the one who set up camp." There's a little twist of a smile at that. But when Kiara asks in that oh-so-leading way what the two of them got up to on the snow-capped mountain, Ian feigns ignorance.

"Hiking, mostly. We went up a mountain trail in the Rockies. There was a lot of snow so it was slow going, but really beautiful. We talked about our families a bit." There's a pause as Ian crouches down to slide his fingers through the sand. When he stands up he adds, "Sadly not a very exciting story. Though we may have gotten a little handsy in the morning."

(They did. He remembers it.)

He trails a hand along Kiara's side, snagging the edge of her shirt gently between his fingers. "Race you to the cave."

He doesn't give her a chance to confirm or deny this request before he's off running across the sand.

Ian

[and running]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

Kiara

[!! Catch him, Kiara.]

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

Kiara

She has an innate appreciation for the wilder aspects of life, Kiara, but her appreciation, while sincere, does not mean she has the same natural grace her companion does when it comes to leaping from heights and landing (like a feline) easily on the balls of his feet. The Verbena was a runner, but she was not a trained athlete, not quite the way Ian was. So when he takes off running toward the cave in the near distance, her reflexes, while not horrendously belated, are those of someone who cannot control her body quite as finely as he can.

He's off and she twists and calls something that's half snagged up by growing distance between them.

("Okay, Tarzan, you're on.")

She does put effort into it, that being said. He can hear her behind him; her steady breathing; the total focus of her energy as she manages to gain back some of the space between them. He's far enough ahead of her though, that he reaches the rockface first; that he can reach out and touch the rough surface; peer up and see the track they'd taken; the way the grass manages to find a way to grow; even pressed out so far between boulders; as if it were desperate to reach the lake's edge.

The cave itself isn't terribly deep; light penetrates far enough into it to highlight that it gets use as something of an occasional hideaway. Small boulders inside create a natural semi-circle around darker, damper sand. The air feels wetter; heady with recent rain.

When Kiara catches up to him; she curls her arms around him from behind and rises up on her toes to press her chin over a shoulder. "You only won because your legs are longer," she whispers, her voice still threaded through with exertion; her heart beating through the thin layer of her shirt. She smells like sunshine and the hike they'd just taken.

She doesn't comment on it, on what he'd mentioned of his trip out with Elijah until their breathing has evened out a little, until she can shrug off her pack and slowly rotate her shoulder where a cramp had begun to set in. "You're close to Elijah." It's not really a question, she knows he is, has seen the same concern reflected in his eyes when she's spoken of the danger the blonde so frequently finds himself in.

She drops her shoulder, rubs at it absently. "I never really asked. How you met him. Before I was even here."

Ian

The distance isn't far, but the sand and the weight of their backpacks (the way they throw off the runners' centers of gravity) make the race more difficult than it otherwise would have been. Even Ian is not as fast as he might have been unencumbered, but he pulls ahead quickly and remains in the lead, his shoes leaving long, shifting tracks in the sand.

When he gets to the cave he stops, sliding the pack off his shoulders. His breathing is deep, but far from winded. He can hear Kiara approaching behind him and waits with this soft, expectant smile curling the edges of his mouth. She comes up from behind to wrap her arms around him, and he turns his head to regard her through the edge of his peripheral vision, sliding his hands over her arms affectionately.

You only won because your legs are longer.

"That's one reason," he concedes, smiling. There is perhaps a whisper of gloating to it.

The flash of playful competition fades, and after a moment his breath relaxes. There's a feeling of absence when Kiara pulls her arms away. In the wake of it, he turns to regard her.

She wants to know how he met Elijah.

"We were in a club. Beta, I think. It wasn't much different from how I meet a lot of people." There are obvious implications to that, but he doesn't dwell on them. Doesn't feel the need to either apologize or revel in it. He is who he is. So is Elijah. So are they all.

"We didn't really talk, that time. Just went back to his place and..." he shrugs. "That was... a year and a half ago, I think. We used to hang out and sleep together, on and off. Now we just hang out." He pauses a moment before adding, "I try not to think too hard about his tendency to court perilous circumstances."

Kiara

There are obvious implications to it.

There's a brief, catching smile that surfaces on Kiara's face that reads she knows full well there were. She winds her hair up as he goes on, twists it out of her face into a knot and secures it there with an elastic. Her hands dropping to her sides as he offers the last and she studies his face for a moment, dark eyes ticking over his expression.

"Yeah. I try pretty hard not to as well."

A beat, her eyes drop away from his as if she's fully aware that of late, Elijah is not the only one who had been courting peril. "He was the first person I met here, you know." She reaches for her pack and carries it over a few feet, setting it carefully against one of the boulders and rising, rubbing a hand absently against her thigh. "I'm not sure if he'd even remember it, to be honest." She casts a look over a shoulder toward the cave, her smile returning when she finds his eyes again.

"I found this place not that long after. I come out here sometimes when I want to forget that anything exists beyond it." She settles down on the rock and unlaces one sneaker, toeing it off and then the other to burrow her feet into the fine granules; Kiara's toes are painted a bright pink; she makes a quiet noise of pleasure as the cool sand slides in around them, engulfing them.

"You're the first person I've brought out here." She tilts her chin back at that, levels him with this assessing little gleam in her eyes, hooking at the edge of her mouth. Affectionate and challenging and somehow every bit the same creature he'd met, so many months ago. The woman who'd been taping fliers to streetlights and taking up residence in his space at a café table as if she'd had every right.

Some things, apparently, didn't change.

"Do you like it?"

Ian

"I do." There's a sweep of his eyes over the shallow cavern, a longer, more considering gaze than he afforded it when he arrived. "It feels..." he pauses, searching for the right word. "Like a refuge."

The exertion of the run has left his body a little overheated, so he discards his over-shirt - pulling his arms through the sleeves one by one before tossing it gently onto one of the rocks. He paces toward the spot where Kiara sits, crouching down in front of her to slide his hands up over her feet. When he reaches the ankles he lingers there, tracing over the shape of bones and ligament.

"What happened to the two of you when you went into the Umbra?"

He's looking up at her with this quiet expression, dark eyes open and soft.

Kiara

He can see the way her expression changes, see the flicker of unease and agitation, the sudden realization she has that she's not easily going to escape answering the question. He has his hands on her ankles and the afternoon sun is glinting on the water and Kiara's silence is palpable.

She licks her lips and there's this little give to her shoulders, they curl inward a little as if some argument had finally been resolved and she were conceding defeat on a point. "I didn't want to tell you," she does look up, then. Meets his eyes and reaches over to trace her fingers over his jaw for a moment. Lets the sensation ground her before they drop away and she sets her hands beside her, framing her body on the small boulder.

"What I said happened, that was the truth, but - we had a choice to make. Whether to go on or come home. Going on meant facing a dragon. We put it to a vote. Elijah said - " Kiara's tone changes, becomes almost regretful. "He was willing to find another way but I knew if we didn't try. There was every chance others would and they might succeed."

She sits forward, searching his expression. "All that power, Ian. In the wrong hands? How could we have risked letting that happen? So I voted yes. And we found the cave and the dragon guarding the crown and we fought it. We had help, but - " She frowns hard, down at her hands. "At the very end, when the dragon realized it was dying, it went after Leah and Henry and I, we stayed behind. Tried to lure it away but there was an avalanche and," her shoulders lift and she breathes out.

"We all got buried. Elijah managed to get out first but," she manages a tight smile, laced with remembered uncertainty. A trickle of echoing fear. "It was close."

 Ian

I didn't want to tell you.

His jaw flexes when she says that, nostrils widening on the inhale. When Kiara touches him, she can feel the subtle tension under his skin. She goes on to tell the story - the whole story this time - and as she talks Ian's hands slide slowly from her ankles and drift over the sand.

It both is and is not what he expected.

He doesn't interrupt her. Keeps his attention focused and (for what it's worth) calm - though there are some small indications of emotion. The muscles around his eyes shift; widen; go tense. Finally he sits back and drops his gaze, curling his fingers into the sand.

"I thought he would be the one..."

See, sometimes people surprise you.

He looks over at the water. Where the sun strikes it, the surface gives off this bright, burnished glow.

"Elijah told me you saw a dragon. He didn't tell me the rest." He doesn't say what he's thinking, but it's possible to get some sense of it in the way he frowns and looks down - gets this expression like he's putting something together in his head. For this very brief moment, he almost looks a little wounded. Almost. But it slides away like rain.

Finally he looks up again. Slowly, he uncurls from his position and sits up on his knees. His hands settle on her thighs. There's a bit of sand on him still, clinging tenaciously to his skin, but he's not thinking about that at the moment. His palms slide up to her hips, resting there as he leans into her space.

"You could have died. You all could have."

They nearly did.

He gives her waist a little tug, pulling her off the rock and down into the sand with him. Once there, he wraps her up in his arms and just... holds her. Like he's half afraid she might disappear if he doesn't hold on.

"I hate that I wasn't there. That you had to do that alone."

That she had to be there, buried and suffocating and thinking those might be her last moments alive. There's a little sound in his throat, soft and pained. Then he takes a slow, deep breath and pulls back just enough to look her in the eyes.

"Don't keep things from me."

It isn't a request - or, precisely, an admonishment.

Kiara

You could have died.

"We could." She echoes, agrees with him with little hesitation. There's no agitation in it, now. That seems to have gently unspooled in her, she just looks intent on him, on his face. Reading the play of emotions that surface with no small amount of regret contained in her dark eyes. For holding back what she did, for paying witness to the very reason why she attempted to.

Her mouth flexes and dips into a supple little expression of it. Of the memory and she's looking away, sharply off to the right when he puts his hands on her and curves into her space. That, more than anything, makes her react. Makes Kiara shudder a little and become this responsive, clinging weight as he pulls her forward off the rock and she wraps herself around him. Melts into the embrace and keeps him close as if she had been terrified confessing her truth would tear that from her, too.

She's petting him, when he makes that pained noise and draws back. Just - rubbing her fingers over his skin as if to somehow reinforce and make her amends through physical touch alone.

(I know, I'm here, it's fine.

I'm sorry.)

Meets her eyes and she gives him that much, now. Lets them connect and hold and he can see the fine shape of them this close. The long lashes that frame irises the perfectly darkest shade of the earth, the faintest smattering of freckles that dot her nose and finely dust her cheekbones; seen the clearest now she's beneath the sun.

"I don't know why I did, just that it felt worse, somehow. Making that choice and knowing that I might have been leaving you behind." She slides her hands up to cup his face, framing it with her thumbs and drawing slow, sensory circuits over the line of his jaw while her eyes search his. "I would have done whatever it took to get back here." She doesn't kiss him, but there's an indication she wants to. Be closer, peel away the layers between them.

It's there in the way she touches him, Kiara. With slow, lingering intent.

She sits back far enough to drift her hands down over his chest and let them rest there; lightly settled. "I did do whatever I could." This time, it had been enough. There's a weighted awareness to the way she says that last that speaks to a fear one day, one close call, it may not be. Still - the water is collecting tiny prisms of sunlight behind them, sparkling and shifting and Kiara is uncomfortably aware of all the places their hike has left her sweating; skin gritty with sand.

Her fingers dip to tug at the edge of his clothing and the smile she locates is brighter, edging toward flirtatious.

"Come swim with me."

Ian

It wasn't long ago they'd been running, smiling, teasing each other. Strange how things can turn that way. Now Ian's energy is still - contained - his mood heavy enough that the easy warmth is gone from his eyes. Kiara says she did everything she could to get back to him, and Ian looks at her with this slightly troubled expression, but he lets it go. Exhales and feels some of the building tension uncoil from his shoulders.

Kiara is still there. She has not disappeared.

She tugs the edge of his t-shirt, and he glances down before following her gaze to the water.

Come swim with me.

He smiles. It's slow to materialize, but genuine when it does.

"You just want to see me naked." (As if that were a difficult thing to achieve.) Slowly, he gets to his feet, giving her hand a tug to pull her up with him. He shrugs out of his shirt easily, but makes a point of leaving it on the rock so it doesn't get covered in sand. Next come his shoes and socks. The sand feels cool and grounding beneath his toes.

Kiara

"Nudity suits you." She offers back, with a neat little riposte as he pulls her to her feet.

She's not quite so methodical, the Verbena, when it comes to shedding her clothing. Ian makes a point to leave his shirt on the rock, Kiara wiggles out of her shorts and lets them drop into a pile at her feet in the sand. Her shirt goes much the same way and there isn't hesitation borne in her to contemplate whether or not she should leave some scant ideas of modesty in place - she gently unhooks her bra and unwinds her hair from its brief capture at the nape of her neck.

She does pause for a moment when she's finished the pagan, steps out of the neat circle of disguarded clothing and tilts her face back to drink in the afternoon sunshine on her bare skin. Stays like that, still, with her face upturned long enough for it to become something ritualized. Something deeper than simple enjoyment of the moment (though there's that, too). Her feet leave small grooves in the sand as it grows wetter where the lake's edge greets the beach and the brunette is there, on the shore, drinking in the sun and then just as suddenly -

She plunges into the lake and vanishes, surfacing a few feet away and pushing the heavy fall of wet hair from her eyes, blinking and treading water. It's not so deep that maintaining balance becomes a hazard, at least, not so close to the shore but the first contact is startling. It's mid-October and despite the pleasant warmth of the afternoon, the water is crisp, the surface dancing with ripples as Kiara moves her fingers across it.

The silver chain around her neck has wrapped itself closer to her skin; pressing into the hollow point of her throat; the concave dip of a collarbone. Her eyelashes are spiked with water as she lowers herself into the lake a little further, observing him from a distance with some vaguely coy little expression chasing itself across her face; glinting in her eyes.

Out here, surrounded by nature, much of Kiara seemed wilder in response. A little more predatory, a little sharper and refined. "Come here," she instructs when he joins her and swims out a little further, pushing out where she cannot touch the bottom so easily.

Ian

It doesn't take long for him to shed the rest of his clothes, but by then Kiara is already plunging into the lake. Ian glances over to watch her dive. The ripples left in her wake glitter where the sun catches them. It's a beautiful picture, really. The water, the light, the trees...

For a moment he stands there taking it in, etching the place into his memory like a photograph.

He doesn't dive in right away. Instead he walks to the edge of the sand and puts his hands behind his head, closing his eyes as he lets the sun bake into his skin. It isn't properly warm - not like summer. The breeze is crisp enough to make the fine hairs stand up on his arms when it brushes past.

Come here.

He drops his hands and looks at her, this wry little smile playing across his lips. Then he wades into the lake and makes this smooth dive backwards into the water, leaving waves and ripples in his wake.

He stays under for a long time. Certainly longer than he needs to. When he surfaces, he comes up behind her, pulling in a deep breath and brushing the hair back from his forehead with a quick swipe of his hand. When he blinks, water falls from his eyelashes.

The lake is cold. It makes his heart beat faster.

He doesn't ask if she thinks someone might come by. Doesn't even check to be sure.

Kiara

Someone could come by, is the thing.

They've picked a secluded little patch of the park but the water isn't so solitary that a boat couldn't drift past them; that a family might not stumble on their camping site during a nature hike; they aren't alone. Not by a long shot and yet - it feels as if they could be. Beneath the surface, there's a myriad of patterns around them, in the trees and in the earth and circling far above in the sky but somehow, diving into that cool water - it feels entirely theirs.

Quiet and contemplative and miles and miles from the possibility of danger.

Perspective, you see.

The danger was never really gone for any of them, certainly not for Awakened like them but they could perceive, for a scant few hours, that it was. That reality was nothing more aggressive than a bad case of sunburn if they stayed out too long and even that, in the fall air, seemed unlikely.

He surfaces behind her and she turns slowly to face him; feels the stirring motion of his legs as they move under the water.

Bridges the distance between them and loops her arms around his neck.

In the water, their bodies drawing together brings sudden, vital heat, it lashes where she presses close to him, the curves of her body fitting against the harder planes of his; like puzzle pieces. "Hi," she smiles, droplets of water sliding over her skin, beneath the surface, the water turns their bodies into shadowy reflections. The crystal around her neck presses against his skin like a sharp reminder when she draws in closer, close enough to feel the tickle of his eyelashes.

"I could stay out here forever, you know." She murmurs it like its a confession, the pagan. Offers it tangled up against him in the water. "Sometimes I really want to."

Ian

There are times when he doesn't talk much: alone together in his apartment, sprawled out or tangled up on his bed, listening to each other breath; sitting together on her couch while he runs strands of her hair through his fingers. Hi, Kiara says, and he smiles. Their bodies come together so easily in the water, angles and curves and that pressing shock of warmth. He wraps his arms around her back and anchors her against him, treading water gently with his legs.

Almost, he tries to kiss her. There's this little dip of his head toward her lips but then... he stops. Just breaths, his gaze darting from her lips to her eyes.

She says she could stay out there forever. They're so close that he can taste her skin in the air.

Then he does kiss her. Suddenly, at first - pressing in to claim her lips like he can't stand to have that last sliver of distance left open any longer. Then his mouth softens, lingers, tasting the warmth of her breath and the traces of lake water on her skin.

When he finally pulls away, it's only fractionally. "We might get bored, after a while." Though his tone sounds as though he doubts it, and there's this soft smile when he adds, "...A long while."

"It's beautiful."

(You're beautiful.)

He brushes his lips against her jaw. "So what do I get for winning?" (The race.)

Kiara

"Clearly, you've never experienced a pagan festival."

She murmurs this between kisses and adds, as an afterthought while he brushes his lips against her jaw, her face tilted back, fingers lightly scratching at the nape of his neck, "You could come to one, you know. Samhain is nearly here, we're gathering out in Morrison for it." She doesn't expand on who we is, but perhaps the implication is there, somewhere. Others like her. In belief, if not shared Tradition.

There's a breath of laughter, then, when he asks what he's won for beating her to the cave.

Her eyes are warm where they refocus on his face, the stroke of her fingers teasing where they slide down his neck, dipping beneath the surface to explore the broad expanse of his back, skin turned slippery, almost silken in the water. "Are you suggesting you deserve something for winning?"

She turns her face and captures his lips, a little rougher than he kissed her, it gentles though, after a moment. Draws in and she breathes out; curling back into the cradle of his body for a beat close enough that he can feel the wild beat of her heart, the way it races for the rapidly cooling water around them, for all the tiny places they're pressed together.

Her eyes open, dark and intent on him.

"I suppose that depends."

She looks up as a flurry of birds take flight above them out of a cluster of tall pines, arching and diving into the water in the distance, half hidden by the sun as it dips toward the horizon, casting the surface into shades of deep orange and red. A breeze ruffles across the surface of the water; rippling it and playing in the treetops, shivering the leaves and the prairie-grasses beyond.

Back the way they'd come. Lifts tiny slivers of sand and casts them further along, weaving slow patterns into the shore.

She touches the corner of his jaw, her smile a gentle, considering little curl. "What do you want?"

Ian

"I have, actually. I might not mind doing it again." He says this with a curling smile, his breath coming a little fast - either from the chill in the water or the proximity of their bodies. Her question - does he think he deserves something for winning? - makes that smile broaden into a sharp grin.

He doesn't answer. She kisses him again - harder than he kissed her - and his fingers press into her back, dragging over her skin beneath the surface of the water. They're floating a bit further from shore, drifting slowly while they cling to each other.

What does he want?

He doesn't answer right away. When he does, he raises his eyes to look at her. His lips are reddened from kissing (and from the cold.) Drops of water trace their way down his neck.

"I want to fuck you so hard we both come apart." He lets that hang for a moment, then (somewhat paradoxically,) he unwinds his arms from around her body and slips away from her grasp, turning to swim back to shore. The progress he makes is lazy at first - unless she tries to follow. Then he gives a few quick, powerful strokes until his feet touch ground. The water slides off his back in gleaming droplets, catching the evening light.

Kiara

She watches him after he offers his terms.

What he wants for besting her and that little smile warms a little, blooms into something bright and toothy. She stays further out for a few moments as he heads toward the shore, stretching her arms out and kicking back with her legs; she watches the way the sky above them is ripening, bruising into darker shades and it's only after she glimpses him reach the shore that she dips, dives under the water and vanishes.

Resurfaces a considerable distance closer and swims in with a lazy stroke until she can set her feet down and wades out of the water with rivulets sluicing down her skin, her hair a dark tangle where it pastes itself against the slope of her shoulders.

She's winding it over a shoulder and squeezing water out of it as she climbs the shore; sand clinging to the curve of her calves, her ankles. Smiling as she catches up to him and puts her hands on his hips, leaning up and brandishing her lips against his ear.

"In that case, come and claim your prize."

Her teeth graze the edge of the lobe, nip down on his shoulder and she draws away, sliding a hand provocatively across the span of his lower back before sauntering past.

If he wants her, apparently, he's going to have to come and collect her.

Ian

[Life 1, like we do]

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

Ian

It is not necessarily a prudent suggestion, given their surroundings - the lack of real privacy, the sand, the lingering chill from the lake that is only slightly mitigated by the sun. But neither of them have been known for their prudence in this regard.

Ian's body gives this faint shiver as he leaves the lake, the wind drawing some of the wetness from his skin. Standing still is difficult - his muscles want to move. So he paces back to the cave and unzips his backpack, pulling a rolled grey towel out from the base of it. He uses it to dry off a bit, giving his hair a quick once-over as he paces back to the waterside. Kiara's just coming out of the lake, and he watches her - watches the way the water runs off her skin.  Lets his gaze slide down before returning to her eyes.

She closes the distance between them. Puts her hands on his hips and her lips against his ear and says come and claim your prize.

He doesn't chase her immediately. Instead he turns his head to watch her go. Then he walks after her slowly, leaning down to lay the (now slightly damp) towel over the ground. As though he means to lie on it. But - that is not what he does.

She's got a lead on him, but he closes it with a sudden sprint. When he catches her, his arms latch around her waist from behind and he half-leads, half-hauls her toward the wall of the cave. When they're close, he turns her around to face him, gives her this look that's wry and hungry all at once and lifts her off the ground.

The wall of the cave is hard and a little rough where it presses against Kiara's back. Ian gets his hands firmly under her thighs and slots their hips together so he's holding her there, her legs wrapped around his waist. There's a little gasp of breath before he kisses her - hard - his teeth leaving a bruise on her lip. He's already starting to feel less cold, the blood moving through his body at a spiking pulse.

Maybe she is too.

He doesn't wait, this time. Doesn't trail his mouth down to linger between her legs. He tastes her, breathes her in - opens up his senses until her heartbeat is thudding in his head. Then he just pushes in. Slow enough to give her time to adjust, the first few thrusts measured and restrained and... he moans against her neck. The way they fit together, Kiara can feel the way his muscles shiver with the effort it takes him not to just...

The next one is harder. And the next. His teeth find the juncture between her neck and shoulder and bite down.

Kiara

[Life 1, cuz!]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (1, 2, 7) ( success x 1 )

Kiara

[You know what, dice. Fine. But I'm going to extend just to spite you.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (2, 3, 8) ( success x 1 )

Kiara

It's not prudent. It's not, in all honesty, particularly safe.

But then, safe has never particularly been Kiara's style. It really isn't his, either. He picks her up and half-hauls her toward the cave and she makes this low, sub-vocal noise in her throat when he does. An inarticulate sound of mingled surprise and pleasure and she's breathing in this quick little way that reads hunger and raw, aggressive desire and that - he can see in her dark eyes when he turns her (when she allows him to).

See the way she lets her hair shake back from her shoulders where its starting to dry out; gives him the vantage of her throat, bare except for that lone chain that sits low, the crystal pendant between her breasts.

(Over her heart).

He lifts her off the ground and she laughs, at that. This breathless little gasp of pleasure that turns low and guttural when he pushes into her body; her thighs tightening around his waist; little heels digging in where she crosses her ankles neatly and rolls her hips into the motion of him. This isn't delicate lovemaking, it's not polite and it's sure as hell not elegant.

It's her lower lip bruised and throbbing where he bites at it, it's her fingernails drawing angry lines down his back and a hand sliding up to grab at his scalp. It's her back arching against that cave wall and breathing in sharp, harsh little breaths before they're torn with the next thrust of his body against hers. It's Kiara's eyes drifting closed and her palms sliding, scratching, seeking until she can feel nothing but the scattered, wild thunder of their hearts; blood pulsing through her veins.

Opens her senses up to every tiny sight and sound of it.

The pleasure mixing with the smallest sting of pain where her back is pushed into the rock; when his teeth find the juncture of her shoulder and neck and sink in. One of her hands scrabbles behind her, reaches out and feels the surface of the rock behind her, grips at it and grips at him and utters this exclamation that is equal parts his name and some provocation, some invocation to a higher power.

To several of them, as a matter of fact.

They're both going to be bruised, Kiara's hand leaves the rock to twine around his neck and her mouth latches onto his pulse; the wild fluctuation of it beneath his skin; she can feel it. Sets her sharp little teeth over it and bites down in return.

Answering the challenge. Laying her own kind of claim and just - pants into the side of his neck in the wake of it; shivering and coming apart (as he'd wanted).

Ian

There are things he felt earlier but didn't say. The fear of losing her. All those irrational anxieties (she is a being independent of him - something he cannot control.) Anger - that she made that choice; that she didn't tell him until now. He didn't say them because there were other things he felt too. Relief, empathy, understanding. Their lives are complicated and dangerous. In the same situation, would he have made a different choice? He used to think he would.

He didn't say those things, but there is a thread of them in his body now. In the rough and unrestrained way he fucks her against the cave wall. Like he needs to be that close to her, needs to feel her coming apart (needs to come apart himself - as he said.) Maybe that isn't healthy. Maybe it is. People are complicated creatures.

He makes a sharper sound when she bites him, and she can feel the way it spikes his pulse (already beating heavy and wild.) Feel the way it almost makes him come when he digs his fingers into the meat of her thighs and gasps against her. The sound goes low, his face still pressed against her throat so that the vibration of it hums against her skin. He presses her harder against the rock-face to make sure her weight is stable (that she isn't going to fall) and lets go with one of his arms - pushes his hand between her legs and gives this long swipe of his tongue up the side of her neck.

No, it isn't elegant. But it is primal, and raw, and honest. He waits until he feels her clench around him, feels the muscles in her body tense and shudder and that...

That tips him over the edge. He should try not to be loud but for a moment he forgets that, just lets out this guttural shout and thrusts into her hard enough that it pushes her higher on the wall. He does it again a few more times, the muscles in his back rolling and shivering. Then, slowly... he starts to come down from it.

He's breathing like he just ran a fucking marathon. Beads of moisture drip from his forehead. (He's not cold anymore.)

Slowly, he drags his lips up to kiss her. As he does it, he pulls out and lets her lower her feet to the ground. For a moment he looks at her and just gives this soft, blissed-out little smile. There's a mark on his neck where she bit him. (There's one on hers too. It'll bruise if she doesn't heal it.)

He wants to say something. Can't think of how to say it.

"You look..."

(Like kind of a mess, but in a good way.)

"Beautiful." He kisses her again, then leans his head against hers and tries to catch his breath.

Kiara

There is something almost barbaric to it.

The way they couple up against the bare rockface clad in nothing but their skin; half wild with their hair still damp from the lake and their bodies covered in sand and sweat.

(There's something that calls very acutely in the Verbena about it).

There's something entirely alive about them both, in the aftermath too. In the fluttering pulse at the base of Kiara's neck, the dark strands of hair pasted to her brow; the bright flush of blood where it bloomed beneath her cheeks. She looks ... (like a wild thing, with her dark, tousled hair and bruised mouth) beautiful and she straightens when he lets her down, her own breathing ragged and uneven. Leans into him as he does her, seeking out her mouth again and she gives it to him; parts her lips and delivers him this open mouthed kiss. Runs the edge of her tongue over the seam of his lower lip and breathes into them (him).

"Liar."

She offers finally, her voice low and intimate, husked with exertion. Says it smilingly, her eyes bright and slides her hand over the slope of his neck, down to where his skin bares her mark. Her fingers find it and there's a momentary focus there; a darkening of the brunette's eyes where she presses down on that spot just a little.

Just enough for him to feel it. The sensitivity, the burgeoning bruise.

Her gaze finds his face and she lets her fingers pass regretfully onward, skim down over his chest; press in against the wild gallop of his heartbeat. Over his heaving abdomen. Leans in and presses her lips to that point on his neck as she steps past him, smelling like musk and sweat and the water (like something wild and untamed). And if she has inclinations toward healing that soon-to-be bruise on her neck, she doesn't reveal them just yet.

Her back bears marks from the rock, though (his does too, though they're in the shape and design of Kiara's fingernails).

She trails over to where her pack rests, half fallen on its side and extricates a towel, wrapping it around her midsection and settling back on top of one of the many boulders that littered the edge of the shore by the cave; combing her fingers through her hair and watching him with this tiny, private smile edging into the corner of her mouth.

(And they're both going to have to dive into the lake again, to get clean but right now the pagan seems unconcerned by it, the fact she's covered in the scent of him, of sex, of moments ago up against the cave wall)

"You feel different out here. Not in a bad way, but - " Kiara's eyes drift back to the cave. "More honest. Unrestrained. I feel that way too when I come out here. As if there's something that fits into place I can never find in the city." She draws a pattern in the sand with a toe, spirals and circuits.

Ian

There's pain mixed with the afterglow, the flush of sensitivity and receding pleasure on his skin. He notices it more now than he did earlier. (Perhaps a better word is differently.) The marks on his back sting a little where Kiara's fingernails broke the skin and the bruises on his neck are sore and tender. There's a momentary blossom of dull pain beneath Kiara's fingers when she presses against the bite, but Ian doesn't flinch away from it. Just glances at her arm and smiles a little. He touches his neck when her hand falls away, ghosting his fingers over the marks there.

"I don't lie to you."

She's probably more sore than he is, all things considered. They're both flushed and bruised. Flecks of sand cling to their feet and legs. Their hair is damp and wild. They look very much like two people who belong in the wilderness.

Ian's a little winded. His breath slows a little with each inhale, winding down in the passing moments. He grabs his own towel and drags it over next to the rock where Kiara sits. Before he settles down, he grazes his hand over her back, feeling gently the marks made by the rock (by him, indirectly.) Then he lowers his weight onto the towel and lies back, stretching out with his arms sprawled loosely above his head and one leg bent at the knee. There's a looseness to his body, the way he relaxes. Lets the sun bake down into his skin.

"I am different, I think. I miss it when I'm in the city too long." He lifts one of his hands and trails the back of his fingers over her wrist. "Did I hurt you?"

Silly question. He knows he did. But that isn't exactly what he means.

Kiara

I don't lie to you. It must twinge, just a little, hearing him say that. It must make her progress over to her bag slow just for a tiny moment. He won't see that catch of remorse where it dips into being around her mouth, in her eyes as they find some point over the water where the sun's rays hit it and cascade dappling light over the surface.

Just a fleeting moment because she knows he doesn't. But she doesn't know she wouldn't, if she had to.

(To protect him).

Still, she's smiling when he comes to settle beside her, when he sprawls out on the towel and touches the edge of her wrist, her pulse flutters there, still beating faster. Dips her chin and regards him when he asks if he hurt her and the smile fades a little, a thin shoulder lifts. Falls. "I didn't mind."

Which must translate to yes, but then she goes on, her hand twisting to catch his fingers and twine them together; to frame the disparity between them, observe the size difference. She has such delicate, long fingers the Verbena, it's disconcerting, somehow. "I liked it." There's this little smile that edges there, at the corner of her lip, still kiss swollen and red.

"I like feeling that close to you. Sometimes I think being in the city, in all that concrete and steel, it cages who we really are." She shifts down, holds her towel around her body and settles down with her back to the rock, knees folded up and fingers trailing through the sand, lifting handfuls of granules just to watch them sift through her fingers and form tiny dunes. "That's why I come out here. It's why I go to gatherings. To the Chantry. It feels like coming home."

She catches his eyes, lets her gaze drift unabashedly over his body where he lays like a sleepy cat in the warmth of the sun.

"That's where I saw Her, you know. Out in Morrison. Standing beside a bonfire just ... waiting for me. I put my fingers into the earth that night and I could feel," Kiara's brows draw together, she wears a particularly raw expression, for a heartbeat, her fingers lifting more sand, weighing it in her palm. "Everything.

I felt different, after that. Coming out here feels different." She traces a fingertip along his knuckle. "Being here with you does, too."

Ian

I didn't mind, she says, and he smiles in this way that makes his face go almost tender. His hand is larger than hers, the shape of it more masculine, but there's a similar elegance in the length and movement of his fingers. He'd told her, once upon a time, that when he was young he'd taken piano lessons (briefly.) It hadn't been his idea, but one can see, looking at his hands, why he might have been good at it if he'd cared enough to try.

I liked it.

The breadth of his smile edges a little wider at that.

It isn't precisely surprising, hearing Kiara talk like this. She is, after all, a Verbena. But it's the first time she's been candid enough to really share that part of herself with him; to talk about feeling caged in the city - about seeing her Goddess in a bonfire. Ian watches her quietly while she speaks, trying to imagine for a moment what she saw. What she felt.

This is another kind of intimacy.

"I think that who we are is complicated." He means to speak of human nature, but he might just as well be talking about any number of things. "I've thought about it a few times. Just... leaving everything. Going out into the wild and never coming back." He's quiet for a moment, turns his head to look at the sky. "When I Woke Up... I almost did. But I think I might die if I couldn't dance anymore. And I'd miss... people. All of the life that cities have."

His eyes find hers again, and his hand drifts to settle on one of her ankles. "What's it like for you? When you..." he has a hard time articulating it, see? Maybe doesn't quite know the right vocabulary. "When you meet that part of yourself?"

Kiara

She thinks often about sharing those details with him.

The way she communes with nature, feels it inside her body in a way that is, in many respects, the deepest form of intimacy she's known (and likely will). Thinks of sharing memories she has of her life before she Woke Up (though it seems far more like a rebirth, to Kiara, a total shedding of The Before). The time spent among a coven of women who, while welcoming enough, did not ever quite entirely approve of her.

Her bloodline was never quite pure enough for them and some darker, primal part of her had wondered at the irony of it, that for all their old, powerful ways, their blood had still spilled and hers had been spared. Its virility hadn't pardoned them from the Technocracy. She knows that he'd understand it, in a way. That darker aspect of her, that part that relished vengeance - that could deal in it, if it had need to. She wants to open up that part of herself, aches to do it but - it's difficult.

He can sense that much, in the complicated little expression she wears when she talks about it.

I think I might die if I couldn't dance anymore. "There's different ways to dance," she offers after a pause, shifting her weight and uncurling her legs, settling her body along the side of his and propping her head on a hand; allowing her arm to support her weight. The movement drags her towel higher around her torso; bares a not-so-modest sliver of her thigh but she wears it without the barest hint of shame.

Her body, the easy ownership the Verbena's always managed.

She's never showed a scrap of true hesitation on that front, sheds layers as if it's nothing to be feared, the revelation of bare skin (and they both knew there were far deeper layers to be gleaned than what nudity shared with the world, anyway). "It's like ... " she reaches over to set her hand on his stomach, just lets it rest there for a moment, feeling the way his body heat warms it.

"When we jumped out of that plane. That feeling when you're falling. Exhilarating, terrifying," her mouth curls a little, eyes gleaming before her lashes drop, half veiling them. "But the most alive you ever are. I feel Her sometimes. More now than I used to, she doesn't quite let me forget. There's no complacency." Her fingers skirt over his skin, trace the shape of his ribs.

"She's here, with me. She's my blood. She's every bruise." There's a beat, Kiara's eyes shift back to his face. She curls a little closer to him. "Do you feel it, when you dance?"

Ian

It's impossible for Ian not to notice (acutely) when he's being touched. The same way he can hear things sometimes that other people can't hear. Can smell the shifts in Kiara's body chemistry when he breathes her in. These experiences are sharper, more startlingly vivid. When he was young, he used to be terrified of loud noises. The first time he sneaked into a concert, he almost had to leave. It was like that the first time he had sex, too. Overwhelming. But people build up thresholds. He's used to noise now. Whether or not he likes it depends on the quality, and whether or not it's something he invited.

Kiara already knows this about him. That sometimes even these small, simple touches will make his body light up. She sets her hand on his stomach and the muscles beneath his skin flex in this subtly reactive way. It's always been a little too easy for them to get lost in that.

But he doesn't get lost in it just then, because he wants to hear what she's saying. So he exhales slowly and listens while she tells him that meeting her Avatar makes her feel more alive (the most alive she ever is.) And while she speaks he seems quietly enraptured for a moment, his dark eyes taking in the sight of her next to him.

Her hand moves, tracing his ribs, and he inhales deeply.

"I feel everything when I dance. More than just feel it, become it. That's what dancing is." He hesitates a moment. "When you're around me, do you ever think... that I'm not entirely human?"

It's an odd question to ask. Though perhaps not, given the setting and the things they're speaking of.

Kiara

It might be an odd question to ask but the Verbena laying at his side doesn't seem to consider it outlandish enough to recoil at, or raise an eyebrow about. Her fingers still for a beat when he does ask it, though. Her chin lifting, face canting up to capture the expression on his. Her dark eyes very focused, mouth bent into a frown of consideration.

"I think being human is a pretty relative thing. There are stories, legends of Verbena that can change themselves. Become different creatures. Does that make them less human? Maybe. I think - " She leans up, presses her mouth to his shoulder in a lingering, affectionate way. Murmurs against his skin. "You feel the wild in you like I do.

Maybe not the same way, but - I feel that in you. Under your skin." She draws back enough to reach a hand up and trace the edge of his jaw, caress it with this subtle, sensory motion. Her eyes searching his face as if to find the evidence of it, that feeling she speaks of. The anthem of the wild, playing under his skin, in the beat of his heart, the blood in his veins.

"Do you feel like you're not?"

Human. Kiara sets her hand over his heart, leaves it there like a unspoken anchor.

Ian

He doesn't really know what answer he was looking for. The one Kiara gives him is as honest as it can be. He turns his head into her hand when she touches his jaw - kisses her palm briefly before she pulls it away to find his heartbeat.

"I did that, once. Became something else." This is hard for him to talk about. The details are too wrapped up in other, darker things. When he mentions it, a little spiderweb of tension threads across his chest. "A tiger, when I Woke Up. It feels strange talking about it now. There was a while afterwards when I half-convinced myself it was a dream. But I know it wasn't."

"When I saw that woman. Sabine. She told me she thought I had shapechanger blood. I didn't say this on Ginger because I didn't think it mattered to anyone but me, but she's a shapeshifter too. A lion. The word she used was Bastet."

He goes dead quiet for a moment. Beneath Kiara's hand, his heartbeat goes a little erratic, beating fast and then suddenly slow. Off-sync. "I don't really fucking know how to react to that."

Kiara

He did that, once.

Became something else and that, of everything he says captures Kiara's attention. Has her shift her weight until she's half housed over him, her hand sliding over his chest, the towel wrapped around her body half sliding away. The crystal she wears drifts low and drags against his skin; it feels oddly warm, as if its holding some charge of the Verbena's body heat.

"What did it feel like?" She wants to know, asks it in a low murmur as if the very act of asking and his giving voice to it were somehow precious; to be offered and received with total solemnity and reverence. Her thigh settles between his and there's a careful way Kiara arranges herself over him; settles there so that he can feel her. The warm press of her body; the comfort it may offer.

The grounding force of it.

And then, because it's a heavy thing, that revelation. That he may not be wholly human, after all. Kiara's fingers trace over his skin. "It doesn't really matter what you are, you know. The place you come from, the blood you have in your veins. It doesn't mean you're doomed to become anything." There's a beat, Kiara's eyes search his, her mouth pulled into a frown. "It doesn't mean it owns you.

It's just a part of how you came to be here. There's no way to react to that in the right way. It's -" She breathes out, rests her chin against his chest. "- you don't owe them any allegiance because you happen to have their blood." She punctuates her words with another press of her mouth to his chest. "Whatever else this Sabine said.

Or showed you."

Ian

When Kiara shifts her weight, Ian moves to wrap his arm over her shoulders, keeping her tucked there against his body. Her necklace settles against his chest - this warm, subtle weight (the silver in the chain feels oddly alive when it touches him.) She asks what it felt like to be a tiger, and for a long moment he doesn't seem to know how to answer (if he even can.) Slowly, he lets his hand drift further down the line of her body. When he reaches her hip - revealed as the towel falls away - he traces this lazy circle over the jutting shape of the bone beneath her skin.

The thing she says next - it makes him look at her with this complicated expression that softens into something almost vulnerable. (Like maybe she said the exact thing he needed to hear.) Then she goes on to say that he doesn't owe them (his supposed kin) any allegiance, and he can't help but hear Sabine's voice in his head:

We're dying.

He doesn't tell Kiara that, but maybe she'll see the way his eyes dip down, his gaze focusing inward. "I know I don't," he says, though his tone sounds less certain than he means it to. "I don't even know if it's true." He doesn't say what he's thinking (that he doesn't have anyone left who he can ask) but perhaps he doesn't need to. He props his head up on his free arm and looks down at Kiara, at the sight of her draped across his body. Her weight and the contact draws him back to the present moment - keeps him anchored there.

"It made things sharper. When I changed. The things I was feeling at the time. I stopped thinking and just... let instinct take over. It didn't feel like I was becoming something alien. I mean, it was new. All the sounds and the scents and the way things felt on my skin. But it fit. Like it was all just this natural extension of who and what I was in that moment."

There's a beat before he adds, in a softer, more ambivalent voice, "It felt powerful."

Kiara

She doesn't offer some of her thoughts in the moment. Less to hold back truths she believes he should hear and far more because she isn't any more sure of them than he is. If it's true, if he really did have the blood of something other. She feels the stroke of his fingers along her skin and for a moment - it feels like enough. To be right there, with him, with the sky slowly darkening above and the distant calls of the wilderness around them.

This place, the secluded little cove cut into the landscape, has meaning for the Verbena.

She's spilled her blood into the sand and reached her perceptions out, felt the flutter and pulse of the earth, the myriad of lifeforms that thrived here. It forges a connection, in the pagan's eyes. The places you give of your energy, your power.

It's not until he tilts his head down and looks at her that she lifts her chin; rubs her cheek against his skin and resettles, meeting his eyes and watching; absorbing the nuances of expression, in his eyes and his voice. When it softens, she sits up, draws herself into a half crawl and looms over him; her dark hair falling over one shoulder, leaving the the curve of her neck bared; the skin unblemished save for the mark he'd bitten into it. It stood out there, the hallmark of their passion.

The physical reminder of what it meant: being here, alive. In the moment.

"Sometimes I think about that. What it would feel like. To just ... " she settles on top of him, sliding her hands over his skin with reverence. "Let go. Give in to our instincts." She leans in to press her lips to the mark she'd left on his earlier. "Does it scare you?" Her eyes search his when she pulls back a little. "Knowing what she told you?"

Ian

Ian watches Kiara when she sits up, his eyes following her movement. There's something about the way the light hits her just then - the deep mahogany glow of the sun striking her hair - that makes him go still. There's a slip of a smile when she says she wonders what it would feel like to just let go - dreamy and soft as her hands slide over his skin. "I think we already have." The press of her lips elicits a little hum of pleasure, and for a moment perhaps he does let go - of the things he once was, of the things he suspects Sabine and others like her would want him to be.

Does it scare you?

His expression sobers at that. There's a hint of quiet sadness in his eyes when he looks at her. "Yes, but not for that reason." For a moment it seems as though he might not elaborate, but then he says, "I don't have any connection left to my family but memories and blood. I feel like one of those is getting taken away from me. And I can't even fucking ask them... "

(If it's true, then where did it come from?)

His gaze turns away, finding refuge for a moment in the trees. "Whatever the truth, it doesn't change who I am." There's a softer dip in his voice when he looks back. "Or where I want to be."

Kiara

There's a twinge of answering sadness around Kiara's mouth, this tiny hook that tugs at the corner and pulls it downward when he speaks of his family. A registering of empathy in her dark eyes where she watches him; the way his gaze sweeps away, toward the trees as if to find some sort of retreat in their long, sweeping branches. In the shiver that overwhelms their leaves as the breeze plays in across the water. "I don't think it does, either." She strokes her thumb across his skin, back and forth in an absent, tiny gesture of comfort.

Or where I want to be.

She manages a smile, then. Leans up (and in) and presses their mouths together in a way that is nothing like the raw hunger and savage meeting of their bodies earlier but somehow - just as intimate. Perhaps more for the way she cups his face in her hands and cradles it as if it were infinitely precious and vulnerable to shattering (as if he were). Breaks the embrace but stays close, her cheek against his, dark hair tickling his chest. She curls herself on top of him and around him and luxuriates in the physicality of it.

Is quiet, for a long stretch, as the sun slid out from behind a scattering of clouds and warmed their skin, Kiara's hair drying into thick, untamable waves around her shoulders. There's a certain energy that settles over the Verbena when her mind is occupied, a way her fingers move over his skin in an absent, abstract pattern. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you. I wasn't sure if I should. " She lifts her face where its settled, nestled against his shoulder. Fingers skimming over the shape of his ribs.

"Sera's back in the city. I saw her the other night. Something happened in Thailand. She can't be seen by anyone but us." A beat, Kiara's voice reflects regret: "Not even Dan. I know things are - " She makes some small, acknowledging sound. "Difficult, between you both right now. But I told her if she needed somewhere to go. Someone to talk to. She could come and see me. Stay at the apartment."

Ian

There's more he could say. Though words are a poor translator when it comes to things like love and grief. He broke down at Kalen's house earlier that month and never told him why, but he doesn't break down now. Maybe he doesn't want to. (Maybe he's afraid to.)

He closes his eyes when Kiara kisses him, surrendering to it (to her) for those few brief moments. There's a soft flutter of his eyelashes, the way they lower almost in surprise. He doesn't tell her that she's the first person to kiss him like that in a very long time.

For awhile afterwards, he stops thinking and just lets himself be. Like the trees and the lake and the stones. Like Kiara's heart, beating warm and steady against his chest.

(I am here to be here.)

Then Kiara speaks, and he glances down at her - at the way her fingers drift across his skin. When she says that she wasn't sure if she should tell him what she's about to say, a shadow of tension comes back into his eyes - this little crease where his brows start to draw together.

Oh.

He sits up off the towel, dislodging Kiara's weight carefully. He draws his knees up to his chest and drapes his arms across them. "Is she alright?"

No, of course she isn't.

He lifts one of his hands and rubs it across his neck, feeling the bruises there, the little marks where Kiara's teeth left their impressions. Something about the gesture feels both ritualistic and nervous. "Things were always difficult between us." He sighs a little. "But I don't want her to be alone. Or hurt."

Kiara

The last time they discussed Serafine, it was to gently pry loose layers of truth to one another. It's different, now. The information Kiara gives she does with some small degree of confession but it seems less anything she fears divulging and far more simply - an awareness of the potential it brings to somber the mood. To draw them back from that cocoon of warm, naked skin and the solitude offered by the trees around them.

The solace of each others arms.

She moves easily when he dislodges her, folding the edges of her towel around her body and tucking the corners in beneath her arms, her legs crossing beneath her as she settles there across from him, her fingers lightly running through the sand, drawing shallow grooves into the surface. "I think alright might be a relative thing for her right now," she offers softly and then lifts her face, her mouth drawn into a slight smile. She tousles her fingers back through her hair and shifts the heaviness of it back over a shoulder. It leaves the other bare, offers the elegant line of her neck, the dip of a collarbone.

The brunette's body was not built like the dancers Ian worked with. There was a lean sort of strength in her arms and thighs but it was coupled with an innate delicacy; a strange harmony of resilience and vulnerability - much like the woman herself. It was entirely too easy to look into Kiara's Woolfe's long lashed eyes and believe little else mattered beyond her coy little smiles and competitive airs. She wore her charisma with ease, the pagan, but there were always tells. Glimpses of the deeper facets she kept well hidden from many.

The turn of her eyes. The edging, subtle smile that teased a corner of her supple mouth.

It dips down, now. That mouth, her brows constricting a little. "She was pretty drunk. Not that I could blame her, it's got to be rough. Not being able to talk to Dan or any of them." A beat, Kiara folds her arms over her knees, rests her chin on top. "I told Dan we'd watch out for her." We, apparently, meant all of them. "I saw Elijah, too." There's a moment, Kiara presses her nose into her arm; breathes out slowly. "He said there's a Nephandus in the city. That thing we found in the park, it was the work of one."

She reaches her hand out, brushes his ankle. "There's a Euthanatos here tracking it down. Trying to contain the situation." Her voice betrays a touch of disbelief. "Whatever that means."

Ian

Kiara isn't wrong in that. The news does somber the mood. But that's the reality of their lives, isn't it?

She suggests that alright might be a relative thing for Sera, and Ian acknowledges that with a subtle tip of his head. In truth, if someone were to ask, he would have a hard time determining precisely what Sera's version of alright even was. He thinks about saying more, but there's this closed energy about him now - quiet and contained in a way that feels less peaceful and more... distant.

Sera was pretty drunk. Ian makes this expression as though to say: of course she was and for a flickering moment this little sliver of resentment manages to bubble to the surface. His eyes drift away from Kiara's when she says that next thing - that she'd told Dan they'd watch out for her.

He isn't angry. Not really. (Not at Kiara.) Ambivalent might be a better word.

"It's good she has you."

But then... his eyes snap back to regard Kiara, and there's a a sudden sharpening to his focus. He looks.. worried for a moment, before his chest gives this exhausted heave and he just exhales and closes his eyes. "At least someone's dealing with it."

When he opens his eyes, his expression softens. He reaches across to touch Kiara's knee, tracing a circular pattern over it. "If you need anything, tell me."

His skin is starting to feel colder now. The rapid-fire beat of his pulse has slowed, and they've been still and exposed for a while, but he doesn't try to warm up just yet. "Is that why you wanted to come here?"

Kiara

Her expression turns rueful, for a beat, this flutter of guilt and awareness settling over her features.

Casting her dark eyes down, away from his face. "I know it's not exactly heroic, to run away from things but sometimes it feels like all we do is fight. I spent months running from New York and I felt, like - " Kiara takes a breath, carves it out of her body and sits up straighter.

Her fingers slide over his wrist; tracing the lines of his palm; curling her fingers through his. "- I could never breathe. There was just never time enough." She offers softly, regret woven into her voice.

"Out here?"

She lifts her face and lets her eyes stray beyond him, toward the water and the sand and over the towering rock facade, the tiny pathway etched into the earth, the wilderness all around them. The twisting beauty of the trees with their stretching, leaf-strewn branches and the untamed, rolling prairies. "All of that just feels like some distant, hazy dream."

A beat, Kiara's eyes tick back to his, her mouth offering a crooked little cant of a smile. "Or a nightmare." The afternoon has worn on around them, the warmth of the sun evaporating behind the breeze that whips up; stirs through the treetops and scatters the Verbena's traced patterns in the sand. Sends granules of it skittering across their legs; embedding into Ian's towel.

The clouds closing ranks across the sky as if to remind the world it was October. She rises up on her knees, the brunette and shifts a little closer to him, sets her hands onto his shoulders and skates them over, down his arms with her eyes following the motion. "I suppose I'm selfish enough to just want to forget any of it is there, waiting for us to come back.

Just for a while." She slides her palms back up to his shoulders. "When I come here, I can breathe." She searches his eyes. "I wanted you to see it. To feel that, too."

Ian

[Life 2 - alright, that's enough being cold. diff 5 -1 (practiced) -1 (surpassed instrument - touch/sexuality)]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Ian

Kiara's confession is far from surprising. Who among them hasn't felt that at some point? Ian lets his hand rest on her leg while she talks, keeping that small measure of contact, and Kiara meets it - takes his hand and curls their fingers together as though to stabilize them. There's something about the touch - or perhaps the confession - that closes whatever distance he'd begun to put between them. Reminds him, perhaps, that he is not (for the moment) alone.

Their hands drift apart, but only so that Kiara can rest her palms on his shoulders; slide her fingers down the length of his arms, over the firm curves of his biceps. When she does it his eyes drop to her lips. His skin beneath her palms is cool to the touch.

When I come here, I can breathe.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly. Knows exactly what she means. Then he bridges the distance and kisses her.

Something warm sparks between their tongues when he does it. Like he's kindling a fire. It travels down into his chest; spreads out across his body and over his skin like a wave. She'll feel it beneath her hands, the sudden glow of warmth.

When he pulls away, he isn't cold anymore.

"All of that... fucked up shit. It's real. But this is real too." There's this low, challenging sound in his throat. "They can't take every place and every moment like this from us."

He takes her hand then, squeezes it with his own as he stands. "Let's get cleaned up. We should set up camp before it's dark."

Kiara

She slides her hands over the span of his back when he bridges the distance to kiss her.

Traces the curve of his spine with her fingertips and presses in against him; towel coarse against his skin. Kiara curls her arms around his neck for a moment and allows the momentum to build; that spark to ignite and spread warmth through his system. His skin feels hot against her own and she chases his mouth, just for a second, when he draws back to remind her that this was real too.

That they couldn't take it all from them.

She stirs and breathes out against him, drops her lips to his shoulder briefly to press a gentle, lingering kiss there. "I know." She murmurs, and pulls away with some degree of reluctance as he climbs to his feet, tugging her up alongside him. In the interlude between their swim and discussion, the brunette's skin has dried, tacky and covered in the fine grit of the beach; her dark hair a wild tangle around her shoulders.

When she tracks a path down to the edge of the lake now, there's far less flirtation than perhaps there had been earlier. She wades back into the water until it reaches her waist, obscuring the dark lines of ink tattooed into the small of her back there. Twists her hair over a shoulder and scoops handfuls of water into her palms, letting it rinse away the traces of sand and sweat and sex from her skin.

It's rudimentary, at best. Brisk and almost comically brief the way she washes off the excesses of their earlier activities and dries herself off, again. The campsite she'd pointed out earlier in the shallow cave was warmer for the lack of reach the breeze had to penetrate beyond the scattered rocks inside it; forming a kind of barrier.

When she draws her clothing back on, the Verbena also drags out a sleeping bag and the makings of a tent. Neither belonged to her, a fact she points out with a smile, seated on top of one of the smaller boulders. Her fingers making quick work of the lacing holding the contents together. "The first time I came out here I barely brought anything. I think Neal is perpetually afraid I'm going to be eaten by something." She uncurls the tent; shaking it loose with a veiled little look at him.

The edge of a smile curling into the corner of Kiara's mouth. "I'll be seeing them, at Samhain. His wife." Something a little thoughtful creeping into her voice. "Their baby."

Ian

Ian's own cleansing process is less perfunctory than Kiara's. The water is cold but his blood is warm enough that the sharpness of it feels, if anything, invigorating. The things they spoke of... they're still rattling around in his mind. What happened to Sera. An as-yet unnamed Nephandus hiding somewhere in the city.

He lets the chill in the water chase them away. The act of it is purifying. The way he dives into the water and swims out, ducking under for a few long moments. Beneath the surface, he rolls back in a loose somersault and drags his fingers over the soft sand and silt on the lake's floor.

Eventually he comes back up. When he does he floats on his back for a while, gazing up at the sky. The evening light is dimming - dark blue and gold and shades of pink on the horizon.

He makes sure he's clean before he comes back in. When he walks up the beach, he runs a hand through his hair to slick it back from his eyes. Kiara's already there, redressed and opening up the tent. Ian collects his towel and shakes it out, using it to dry the last of the lake water from his skin. When he's done he drapes it over a rock.

"Out here? I think the worst you'll encounter is a pack of coyotes."

He finds his clothes where he left them earlier and starts to get dressed. Kiara mentions Samhain - seeing Neil and his family, and when she mentions the baby Ian glances at her. Doesn't say anything, at first. Just finishes zipping his pants up and leans over to pick his t-shirt off the rocks. "Is that something you think about much?"

(Kids. Family.)

Kiara

The tent Kiara's brought with them is simple enough to assemble; she's smoothing it out into the shape of one; squatting beside it and twisting the material so that the opening faces toward the sun. There's a small pile of poles waiting for assembly into the frame of it when she's done deciding on the positioning.

Is that something you think about much?

She's quiet for a moment in the wake of that; her fingers idly messing with one of the zips. "Maybe." She offers, her eyes on him as he moves to collect his clothing, tugs his pants up. Her focus there is brief, though. Her eyes leaving him to push to her feet and come around the other side of the tent. To begin snapping the poles together with dexterous, familiar motions.

"Maybe not. I don't know." She leans forward, sets two of the connected pieces down. The pendant around her neck gleams where it catches the lingering vestiges of the day, sending tiny glimmers of light dancing over the cave walls. When she straightens, he can see the complicated little expression on her face, the edge of uncertainty written there in the line of her mouth, the fleeting way she meets his eyes and then lets her own drop away, back to the tent.

"My track record with family isn't exactly wonderful." She knows his isn't either. For entirely different reasons, Kiara's eyes reflect that. The awareness of it, the lingering empathy for all he'd lost. "But if I had to name people I consider like family, they'd be at the top of the list."

She adds, after a pause. "I don't think I'm built for that." Children. Family. She thinks, briefly, of all that awaited them back in the city limits. "I don't think I'd want to be." Not with the world they lived in.

Ian

I don't think I'd want to be.

Ian's eyes dart away when she says that. The stillness in his posture feels like a confirmation. "I don't think I ever could. Bring another person into this world."

He slides his t-shirt on, pulling his arms through the sleeves. It's a simple act, but there's something heavy about it - like he's putting on armor. He crouches down next to the tent and picks up one of the folded poles, assembling it with a couple of quick snaps. Anyone looking in on them right then would think they were just like any other couple on a camping retreat. It's probably the most domestic thing they've ever done together - assembling this tent (building a home, however fleeting and transitory.)

"I wouldn't mind meeting them," he finally says, his voice quiet, eyes cast down to the agile movement of his hands as he fits a second pole together. "If they're important to you." At that, he lifts his gaze. "I meant what I said earlier." (About Samhain - going out with her to Morrison.)

He can't offer anything similar. Not really. He has no family - blood or chosen - to introduce her to. No Tradition to gather with. He doesn't celebrate the turning of the seasons in any such ritualized way (though perhaps it isn't fair to say so - he has always had his own rituals, personal as they may be.) Maybe there's a little awareness of that in his eyes when he looks at her. 

Kiara

There was something comforting to it.

The banality of it, the easy, mundane predictability. Assembling the tent as if they were nothing more than another young couple seeking a night away from the frenetic pace of city living. All said it really doesn't take much to lock the framework of the tent into place, there's a logic to it; sliding the cover over the poles; securing it to the ground; sliding the rain-cover over the top (though with their chosen spot, its an unnecessary precaution, the lip of the cave will provide all the protection from the elements they'll require). She'd canted this quiet, considering little look at him while they worked, after he says he wouldn't mind meeting them.

That he'd meant what he said about coming to her festivities.

Doesn't speak on it until they've finished with the tent, until the door is unzipped and Kiara's disappeared inside for a moment to stow her belongings inside. "I've never taken anyone out there, before." She settles on her knees, smoothing her palms over them, rubbing back and forth as if to return heat to her skin. "Lavinia, once." There's a tiny smile that flashes there, a flicker of humor in dark eyes as she unzips the entrance a little further down with absent consideration. "But that was mostly accidental. They'll read into it, you coming with me.

Everything is a sign with some of them." She pushes all that dark hair over a shoulder, settles down onto her side, bracing a hand there. The interior of the tent has a faintly damp, earthy scent. Old moisture and exposure to the elements never quite cleansed from the canvas. "But I'd like you to see." She offers her hand to draw him down beside her, eyes on his face, searching his expression intently.

"How we celebrate. What I believe in."

Ian

Once they get the tent set up, Ian tosses his bag inside. He's careful about how he enters - sits down at the entrance and takes a long moment to diligently brush the sand from his feet before he'll set them on the floor. He turns a little while he does this, angling his gaze over his shoulder to watch Kiara while she speaks.

They'll read into it, you coming with me.

His response to that is enigmatic - a soft lift of his brows and a thoughtful hum. When he's ready, he slips the rest of the way inside. Crouching on his knees, he slides a hand over the arch of the tent ceiling, feeling the thin fabric beneath the pads of his fingers. There's something exploring about it, like he's mapping out the space. His nose flares when he breathes in the scent of man-made fibers and old moisture. It's a familiar enough smell to him by now, but tents always carry something of their history with them.

Kiara reaches for his hand. Ian's eyes meet hers as she pulls him down beside her; says she'd like him to see what she believes in. He's quiet for a moment, then he leans in kisses the arc of her cheekbone. The gesture is intimate and affectionate, drawing his nose down to nuzzle beneath the corner of her jaw before he kisses her there too. "Then I'll come," he murmurs against her throat.

He draws away with some reluctance so he can unpack his sleeping bag. It's balled up tightly, and unfurls into something much larger and softer than one might expect at first glance. He leaves it open and unzipped, spreading it out along one side of the tent. When he's done he falls back onto it, reaching out to pull Kiara down with him.

They've only just gotten clean, but the moment he gets her close his mouth finds her skin again - kisses the side of her neck all slow and languid before trailing down to find the hollow where her pulse beats. His hand slides over her stomach, dislodging the hem of her shirt so his fingers trail over bare skin.

"What are they going to read into it, exactly?"

Kiara

It's going to rain at some point soon. October weather, even in Denver, made no promises of remaining dry.

There's a taste of it stirring in the air even as they settle inside the tent. It shakes through the old trees high above them and makes them creak and shudder; rattles what leaves remain on their branches and sends idle voyagers drifting down to touch the sand; to collect on the surface of the lake and slowly drift away. At different points of the night they'll hear distant noises, man made and calls from the wild, too. The rustle of deer and the twilight harmony of the chorus frogs, the low calls of the prairie dogs and the scamper of muskrats foraging by the water's edge.

A thriving ecosystem at work, with the patter of a late October shower.

Not yet, though.

Ian pulls Kiara down onto his sleeping bag and she goes easily, settling down on her back and resting her hands over her stomach, facing tilting just so to watch the way the shadows pull across his jaw. There's a small lamp the Verbena's brought inside but is yet to illuminate, instead she hums into the exploratory kisses he places against her skin and lifts a hand to stroke her fingertips lightly through the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck. It feels like another level of intimacy, inside the tent with its thin, pale light and the traces of past adventures lingering in the canvas, in the earthy aroma that clings to it. Being near the Verbena always delivered a certain sort of sense of it -

(Rejuvenating, pulsing life)

- but coupled with the where and when of them and Kiara's dark, gleaming eyes staring up at him, it feels potent. She feels more alive, more receptive the brush of his lips against her skin, her pulse beating erratically beneath his explorations. His fingers drag over her skin, under the hem of her shirt and her chin lifts a little, eyes traveling over the roof of the tent as she answers. "Mm, that you're the first person I've brought to a gathering to meet them. That it's the feast of the dead." She tilts her face, a subtle smile edging there as her fingers lift to stroke over his cheek.

"We come together and honor the end of the harvest. Those of us who have moved on. Spiritually," she adds softly, "it's the start of a new cycle. For us, it's not something we share lightly." She turns on her side, then, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, his palm feeling the way her body shifts with the motion. She tucks a hand under her face and watches him with the lazy ease of a sleepy feline.

"I think they'll see what they see." She murmurs and leans in to press her mouth to his.