Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 07:45AM EST
In the lilting tongue of the Romani came the words. No one else meant to know what she said, except maybe eavesropping family. Facing east, as sun rose, she knelt in supplication. Odd sight to see for her. Easy smiling, playful Nadja. .so serious. . so contrite. . .

so diminsihed

"Daenna who gave life and family unto the Rom, beloved sister of Sarrath, mother of our blood, please give me forgiveness, give my blood back its honor, give me the chance to make amends to the Romania."

Fervent and heartfelt

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sun 07:53AM EST
The Knife wouldn't know her as easily smiling, playful Nadja. He had, after all, only seen her a handful of times, and most of them from afar. The once they spoke in length, he managed to offend her immediately. Usually he has better luck than that.

When the sun rises, he's returning from a last patrol of his lands before sleep. Predators and enemies stalked at night, and so it's at night that he's most active. A nocturnal creature, the Knife: black as the night, and as im(op)pressive.

Black in the dawn, too, the tips of his fur barely gilt by the sunrise. From the stand of trees fifty yards away he watches her, yellow eyes gleaming like coins. He is standing on his land, a hundred feet or more from the border, but clearly visible if she turned to look. When she finishes her prayer and rises he barks once, a deep rough sound issued from a broad, barrel chest.

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 07:59AM EST
Black, blscker, blackest. . . even she bore some herself. Her rise accompanied by soft bellsong once more. Not the silent rom now, but the marked one, though only Rom knew the signifigance of those darkly painted bells. Black bells (Scarlet Letter) around hips, slung low over poured on jeans, black bells on wrists peeking from beneath her winter's jacket, and black bells strung rather artfully through her long long night balck hair. Can't see them so easily. . . but hear them. Oh yes.

His bark and she whirls, surprised. He seemd to do that to her, though why she didn't just expect the Lords is unknown. Maybe she just assumed everyone slept at dawn. Half expecting to see Simon appear somewhere too she moves somewhat closer, watching Konrad with Hazel eyes that look tired. Long night though hadn't been ill in hours.

"Good morning"

English for the rom impaired.

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sun 08:04AM EST
At first glance it's hard to tell him from his tribemate. Both are night-black, thick across the shoulder in a way wolves known to man are not. But this one is larger, even more powerfully built, and carries himself with a self-possession that the Beta did not have. His head and tail (a full tail with a full brush, unlike the stub his Beta had) are both held high, though as she speaks he becomes larger and larger still, then smaller again.

She will be glad to know he wore his dedicated clothes today, fabric growing out of fur. He speaks, the last of the toothy lisp leaving his low, smooth-as-wine tones even as the last of the feralness leaves his face - except, of course, in the tawny hue of the eyes that, even at this distance, resonant with the light of the sun.

"And a good morning to you, Nadja." Crouching on his haunches, he studies her, his head tilting ever so slightly to the left. "You look tired."

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 08:09AM EST
Yes, thank god for small miracles, he wore dedicated clothes. The whirling dervish of trouble (for.men) might yet be a bit gunshy around the gajo. She had been played rather neatly by them lately. They walked abouit smiling and fancy free. . .she was stigma to her people.

"Perhaps because I've yet to sleep."

No invitation, nor does she cross that line, likewise lacking invitation. A meeting over territory lines. ~Can't invite him in as she was only kin. . . ~ Gemile's word still fresh.

"And what brings you here at Day's birth?"

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sun 08:14AM EST
A small smile touches his mouth as though something she said had amused him. Rising to his feet, he comes down the slope of the hill, the placement of his feet sure and certain without his ever having to look down. Again, he stops quite neatly at the border.

"Morning patrol." He turns to look over the spread of snow-whitened, dawn-pinked forest. "Visiting my lands before I sleep. You never did answer me the other night...why do you now bow to the sun and moon each and every night? A sudden religious conversion doesn't seem to be your thing."

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 08:20AM EST
Daenna and Sarrath, brother and ister Rom, the first from whose children sprang the powerful and ancient lupine Rom. There was hidden in them more then just Garou and kin. . . oh secrets within secrets within secrets. Summoning up that smile, like a familiar spirit, sweetly beguiling, wholly coy, meeting tawny eyes from across teritory lines.

"And why should religion not be within my pruview?"

Was she offended? He did have the knack, had indeed insulted her with almost the first words ever spoken between them. . but had been as quickly forgiven, for his ignorance and with an apology given by him. Letting the clever facade slowly dribble back into place, the mask that Gaje see, love, adore, want. . .

"Perhaps you should try it, Konrad of Thunder's Children."

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sun 08:29AM EST
Ah, but a mask once removed is hard to don again. For this he has only an everlasting silence while his head tilts, slowly and slightly, the other way. He studies her, and there is much of wolf and little of man in his eyes.

"Do you suppose I am so foolish as to believe in this lighthearted coyness, when a moment before I watched you nearly weep before the sun?" Understand, now, there is no anger in his tone. There is only a gentle, warm curiosity, as enveloping and alien as some womb-warn ocean. "Do you suppose I am like that Fianna whose lustful scent I have caught half a mile away, to be so easily gulled, guiled, beguiled by your temptress ways?"

He raises a hand and, greatly daring, daring much, touches the loop of bells that hangs upon her body. Perhaps only the experimental, curious, and rather impersonal way in which he fingers the bells excuses his actions. Thoughtfully, "You did not wear black bells before.

"I asked you a question, Nadja of the Rom, and the longer you wait, the more curious I become."

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 08:39AM EST
"Religion is a very deeply moving thing. Why shouldn't tears threaten in sublime communion?"

A zealot? Thats a odd picture for her. The oh too vivid memory of her lesson from the previous night making her words very carefully chosen, carefully concealing. No, not all gajo believed the vision she created. . . for them she gave back the facade anyways. Its annoying looking at an illusion you know is there but can't banish. If his hands on the bells bothered her not even a twitch betrayed it. She almost seemed to wear them with pride, stubborn (I.will.not.be.broken) pride. The rom did not tend to create secondary roles for their kin. . . did not enslave them, mistreat them without cause, or look on them as property, prized possessions or worse. . . they were as equal as garou. . because they were Rom. In some cases treated better. . . becuase they carried rarer gems within thier blood.

"Why you assume your question being asked means it will be answered I don't know, Konrad. . . you may be a wolf, but even a wolf can be killed by curiousity. Put simply. . . I miss my home."

Ah warm simple Castile, where roaming bands and blood family thronged. Gaje not so prevalent in the teeming camps of her people. . . Spain not so bitter as New Jersey. Mediterranean flower blooming like an exotic additon to America's garden state.

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sun 08:43AM EST
Thankfully, his curiosity seems to have diverted. He inclines his jaw a half-inch, perhaps in recognition of her skillful words; those strange tawny eyes half-lid, and look over her head at the golden sun before returning to her. Looking down, his lashes shade his eyes in complex, quasichaotic patterns: shadowblack upon amberhue.

"Tell me of your home," he invites.

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 08:48AM EST
A simple, non threatening topic, one for which she could relax a bit, but never completely. No, there is no loss of careful control around gaje now. Once bitten. . . always shy. Watching the contrasts of dark and golden with a smile, a smile drawing into one of lovely reminscing. . . perhaps she did indeed miss home.

Tell me of the waters of your home . . Simon's words weeks and weeks ago.

"Its a good deal milder then this country, and warmer. Emerald foothills and snatches of old wood forests where we make our camps, larger then this one. Its a comforting place."

Could have described in such simple words any number of places. Could he identify that faint accent, that spanish accent, the vague spanish tinge to her appearance. Even purer blooded Rom could bear the signs of centuries of mingling. Castellan Rom, Spanish Rom. . .

"What of your home, Konrad? As much an ideal for you?"

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sun 08:55AM EST
"My home?" It's spoken with a smile as though at some secret amusement. He takes a step to the side and finds a tree to lean his broad shoulder against, watching the eastern horizon over her shoulder. "Which one? I was born in the States, not far from here. My family," the word is spoken in a way that denotes not a family but a clan, a dynasty, "has a place in upstate New York, where I spent much of my early childhood. I don't remember much of it - my childhood - but I can tell you upstate New York isn't nearly so dismal a place as this. There are many trees there, deciduous ones that change their colors in the fall. Winding paths take you deep into the countryside. Treelined, brisk, mountains rolling down from the Catskills.

"But I grew up in the Czech Republic. It was Czechoslovakia then. Very different, that land. Larger mountains, rockier, darker. Stormy. Awe-inspiring, when lightning illuminates the landscape in a flash of cold white. It's the ancestral home of my family.

"So I leave it up to you to decide. Do I sound like I miss my home?"

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 09:01AM EST
"Miss it? Perhaps. Acknowledge its place in your blood? Certainly."

Even if she hd hated Castile, it would still be home, still mark itself on her in a hundred tiny indescribable ways. He came from storm tossed Eastern Europe. . he of Thunder's Children. Coincidence? Likely not. Coincidence that Prala came from similar areas, with his dark, stormy personality? Again, likely not. The information gleaned stored away where her secrets of gaje rested. Noah's secrets, Konrad's secrets, Simon's secrets and countless more. . . a vault of the mind.

A soft peal of song from her bells as she shifted, weight from one foot, to rest in a casual pose, body subtly apparent, subtly sensual, and always graceful. Its innate now, long years of work to create movements she no longer even thought of. He cool calm and collected in his games. . .she warm, alluring and temping in hers.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sun 09:13AM EST
It's a gentle tease, "For one who misses her home so much that she's moved to religious breakthrough and tears, you certainly don't seem to know the sound of homesickness very well, Nadja."

The soft peal of bells draws his attention to her body - which, of course, is the purpose of the bells. Adornment. Attention-catcher. There is appreciation for feminine beauty in his long lingering glance, but he is mated, and she is Rom. There is that, also, in the lack of returning motion in his form. The unspoken dialogue of bodies is silent. He is relaxed and still, leaning against the tree for another moment or so.

"If you must lie," laughing now, "you must learn to lie better than that."

Then, nudging away from the tree bark, "But you're right. My asking questions does not correlate with your answering them. I'll leave you to your secrecy. It makes you more interesting, anyway. Sleep well, Nadja."

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sun 09:23AM EST
"Ah, but not every answer can be measured by a simple yes or no nor would I ever want to be so dull as to answer like that."

The language of body. The dance, the song, the game. . . her bujo, which she did well, knew intimately, and lived within. Not for her to spend every moment eeking out existence on pickpocketing, clever games of chance or playing music for quarters in a park. No, she was the bujo. . not her talents, herself. Gemile leads from shadow, Ra'gon guides in darkness, and over them all is the mask of Nadja, the face many see within the camp. Idly wondering if the sneaky lords watched her other campfire activities as well, the dance, the song, the acrobatics. . .

"I am glad I am interesting, then. It makes for such a lovely game of cat and mouse with words for the future. I could say the same for you. . . ."

I prefer this mystery, cancels out my misery, and gives me hope. . .

"Te na khutshos perdal tsho ushalin"

Before turning to go in a cloud of her own bellsong.