Konrad Vrdoljiak

Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 01:08AM EST
When was the last time she saw sunlight? Other then that one nigt on the cliff, no night either. JUst bright. whit. light. Artificial. Hard on the eyes. Did hey ever turn it off? That would ruin the simplicity of the sheer white room then. . help cast shadows, which would ruin that motive. Her back healing slowly, and she moves now, if not quickly, with a return to the grace she normally possessed. Dancer Nadja. Fluid Nadja.

Beloved Nadja of the Waters.

So when Simon comes for her, she is still resolute. Silent for the Ragabash, at least having her dignity in going with him. Choose the fights you know you can win or at least have no option but to fight. Everything else take as best as you can. So following the Ragabash to. . .

The Cliff.

Why is she not surprised? Night's gentle folds fallen, and that same place once more. Air, Earth . . . child of the elements brought forth once more.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 01:15AM EST
The cliff. East-facing. From the position of the stars - if she knew the stars at all - the night was not young. Still, though, the horizon is dark, and so is the shadow beside the opening door, arms folded across his chest, thick fur rippling and reversing under the stiff breeze.

It's cold up here, thousands of feet above the plains floor. Snow has retreated to a higher still altitude, but rain still comes where they are (though it is clear tonight), and the ground is often crisp with frost.

Not that she would know.

"Thank you, Simon." Crinos, the voice is deeper, gravelly, and this is her first indication of his existence there. In retrospect, though, she had always felt his rage on her back as the moon waxes toward full (not that she could see that, either, with the moon behind the mountains already), and had heard the quiet slow rhythm of his breath.

After the door shuts, silence reigns. His yellow eyes are narrowed against the wind, cast over the plains.

"Where is your brother, Nadja?" His head cranes forward ever so slightly, nose sniffing the air for her scent before he raises his chin again, resetting his head at its original, imperious height. She is not a tall woman, and he is, in this shape, a very tall beast. "And your sister. They do not come."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 01:24AM EST
She can feel that Rage. Grow up with Garou and you learn to feel it, when the moon brings it high. . . because thats a dangerous time for anyoen, and in some cases, kin even more. She had had no doubt he was out here. . and confirme with his voice. Her turn to face him slow, fluid grace to face him, green flecked brown eyes large and blank. Her questions, confusions, and fears hidden inside. For now only wondering what new game, what new torment he wished to indulge in. . .

Simon leaves. Silence. Somewhere in all that silence was her family. Somewhere in all that silence was her death. When? Would it be here? By him? It no longer surprised her. . . and she sn't even sure she feared it.

"How should I know that? I've been enjoying your lovely white room."

Faintest bit of sarcasm. Fuel strength with anger, with righteousness. . . because without it? No, don't think about that. Facing him as always, eyes lifted to his face, where his eyes would meet hers if he faced them. . . bold and graceful Roma girl. Why are you locked from the world?

"I would think you would know that, with your much vaunted resource and wealth. Or have perhaps the Roma proved too wily?"


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 01:33AM EST
The great wolven face: implacable, unreadable. Yellow eyes glint in the starlight as they move over her. He does not seem amused, nor angry - simply uncaring. He could be amused, or angry, but likely not uncaring.

Sudden motion, smooth and powerful: he straightens. Long corded arms unfold from a deep chest, the proportions not quite the same as those of a human. The arms are a notch longer, the clawtipped fingers trailing to his slightly bent knees. Below those knees, the stance is digitigrade, weight born by his toes, heels reared into the air: the classic appearance of "backbending" knees common to wolves, cats, and goats.

He could be the devil with shaggy goat legs.

"Walk with me," amused, then, after all, as he turns to the sharp slope behind them, the rocky cliff-face edged in wildgrass and a few tenacious trees. His great curving claws find no difficulty in the climb, however, digging deep into crevasses. Muscles bunch and flex and roll beneath a glossy black pelt: the massive biceps, the broad sheets across the back, the twisting definition in the flanks and thighs and calves; the ridges flanking his spine - analogs to the same muscles he'd sunk his claws into to save her from the well. In a blink he's twenty feet up the rock face, and apparently expecting her to follow, wounded back and all.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 01:43AM EST
Of course he expects her to follow. She's shown that stubborn (will.not.break) pride on a number of occasions now. Besides, pain? Proved she was alive. . .fueled the anger, the strength. Everything he did that hurt her she would only strengthen the resolve to fight him. Vicious circle, that, but unlike him, she had limited time. Could only hold out so long, stave off the white room. . .~She'enedra!~ So while he makes his climb effortlessly, quickly, smuggly, she pulls herself up in much slower, less skilled a way. Hand over hand digging and fidnign purchase, biting her lip as she used legs and muscles in a way she had not since he has sunk his claws there. Pulling at healing skin and muscles painfully. nO sound form her, though she pales as sh goes, biting her lip, so hard it begins to tricles blood, but no sound. Her's is a stubborn will. Breath coming high and fast by the time she makes it to where he has, hands sore and abraded, back aflame again, and her lip bleeding but fury in those eyes. Would never give him an ounce of satisfaction if she could

Suffer in silence. . .

~She'enedra. . .please come soon. . .~ Straightening but not a word for him. Stone cold (pained) silence.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 01:49AM EST
It might be amusement in those eyes blazing down at her - like Helios, like flame - or there might be simple interest. Evaluation.

"Mm," a sound low in his chest, acknowledgment, rumbling. Then he turns and starts up the next leg of the trip. Twenty feet. Thirty. Forty. Fifty...the cliff seems to stretch forever, and the stars never seemed so far away before.

It's too high for her to climb. Unquestionably. It's too high for any human to climb barehanded in the dark - even skilled climbers, those who made it their business to conquer bare rock faces, much less a wounded dancer raised in the rolling Mediterranean foothills of southern Spain. Perhaps he's tormenting her again. Waiting for her to break. Waiting for her to fall. Perhaps this is his death sentence; perhaps he lacks the courage to strike fast and true, or perhaps he lacks merely the compassion.

On and on, upwards.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 01:57AM EST
He starts up. Her only reaction? One long lingering look upward after him. How mnay times now had she faced the impossible? She'd jumped into the well. She'd flshed in Sarrathian speed for his face, to stop minutely form it. Now? She takes a deep breath (be still my beating heart) and starts again. She can't do it. She knows this. Somewhere up that face she will slip, she will not find a grip, she will be too hurt to take th next pull upwards.

But. she. does. not. stop.

In the Greek Hades, the punished some with endless, futile tasks. One to roll the boulder up a hill for eternity. Another to be neck deep in a pool and be unbale to drink. Nadja's task within this Hades? To keep going. If he's testing her he is rigging them unfairly. But then, he is a monster. They don't play fair.

Hand over hand, foot pushign upwards, other moving up, until her hand begin to bleed too, and not even half way. Spanish Rose. They grow in soil, not on rocky mountain faces. And its then she finally meets the inevitable . . . cannot find a foot rest, and hands stinging, arms burning, back dying. . and she slips. . .

Fallen angel.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 02:09AM EST
He'd been stretched along the rock wall, three sets of claws dug firmly into crevasses, a fourth reaching up for a new handpawhold, when the sound of rocks slipping loose below swivels his ears around.

For a terrifying instant he simply turns and watches, yellow eyes unblinking.

But it doesn't take an eyeblink. Not even that. In the next instant he swivels as his ears did, an amazingly smooth twist on the rock face, clinging with feet and one handpaw, reaching down to catch her neatly by the forearm with the other. Jerked to a stop in freefall - again - she doubtlessly suffers pulled muscles along the arm, down the wounded back. His handpaw is large enough to close around a man's head the way a man's hand could close around a softball; it swallows her forearm entirely from wrist nearly to elbow, and in his huge palm her arm feels no thicker than the padded steering wheel of his much-beloved BMW.

Flesh and blood, though. Blood and bone - creaking - as he hauls her up alongside him, dwarfed, and indicates a foothold with a short nod of his head.

Then his head rears back; he looks down at what they've covered, up at the remaining distance. Fifty, sixty feet in either way. Half.

"Not inconsiderable," rumbled softly, where she may have instead expected scorn. Claws flex; rock cracks but does not give. The strained growling tones, "We will. Keep going. Hold on to me."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 02:24AM EST
Freefall.

That one terrifying instant when everything freezes to perfect clarity. The moment she knows she has lost her own personal battle with body too weak and odds too strong. Feels the rocks shift beneath foot searching for foothold and . .slip . . and then there is nothing holding her, she can't hold on. Ground below rushes upm air won' cradle, and not even time to think to scream (if she even would) and is jerked up short, head snapping painfully on slender neck, arm wrenched painfully all the way to her legs. . . another stroke against her back. The surprise is plainthough. . . that he had pushed her to the edgem she had taken the jump and he had saved her again. What game was he playing? PUlled up by that arm (by.paw.that.could.so.easily.crush) and she clings to the wall where he shows her. The next surprise . . hold onto me. Long stunned pause and then she complies because you choose the battles you can win and she had fought this one as far as she could. Not sure going high on a mountain in her best interests but better forward and hope for the best then fall into th past where she knew it wasn't. A nod, teeth gripping lip (poor.abused.lip.that.smeleled.sweetly.of.blood) in pain but still pushing herself. Holding onto him as tightly as she can manage.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 02:42AM EST
Piggybacking on a Crinos is difficult. The torso is too wide, as broad as a strong man's shoulders even at the narrowest point, the lean hips. It's impossible to lock the arms across the chest, and it may be difficult to get her knees around his waist. She likely has to settle for grabbing double handfuls of fur and clinging. He waits until she's settled as best she can, and then a long arm wraps behind his back, large handpaw scooping under her flank to hold her in place.

(Kinky.)

Or perhaps not. In the next breath he's climbing again, great muscles churning beneath thick, dense fur, propelling him upwards at speeds that make her realize he had deliberately kept the pace slow to accommodate her. This must be what it feels like to ride a sabertooth, or some other great beast of myth and legend.

Up, and up, and up, three-pawed, until his claws as scraping the lip of the summit, and his breathing comes with just the slightest hint of rasp. He shrugs massive shoulders as the hand beneath her gives her a push - "Up." - indicating she should scramble up onto the summit of this cliff.

She can see the moon from there, enormous, pregnant but not yet full, sinking into the west. Between there and the horizon are the ridges of moonlimned mountains even higher than this one, huge shadows crowned by silver and grey, moonlight and snow. The Rockies. Past that, the deserts; past that, the Sierra Nevadas, the central valley of California and the woodlands of Oregon; the coastal ranges. And beyond that, far beyond the horizon was the sea, the Pacific. Water. Her element and the greatest ocean in the world, large enough to swallow all the continents whole and more.

Behind her, the Plains stretching east, where the night has just barely begun to lighten toward dark blue. Sunrise is perhaps an hour, two hours away. Behind the sunrise is New Jersey, her kumpaniya.

A scratching of rock, and a sudden warm presence behind her: he too crests the summit and crouches on one knee, one elbow propped on the other, looking west. He does not seem inclined to speak. He waits for her to speak as long as he must.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 02:52AM EST
For every cruelty he does something that might have smacked at considerate, even compasionate, and still she looks for the ploy. th games. Would never admit she was grateful for the help up. Then again, she would never have had to be gratefl if he had not insisted on taking her, injured by him, up there. Quiet as he surged up the moutain, making that last manuever to the summit as he commanded, because what else could she do? And stares out over everything.

Freedom in an eyespan. Wind clean of taints. Not the artificial warm air of her room. Not the close, sterile air of the compound, but clean wind. The sister element to hers. Taking in the deatils around her, marking a tentative place in her mind of where she was.

A lingering glance towards New Jersey and where Gemile ad Ra'gon were last. They had to be coming. . . and as the silence grows she realizes he is waiting on her. . .but for what.

"Impressive, but I doubt you brought me all the way up here just to admire the view, Konrad."

Cut right to the chase, in her lovely accent, rolling into the wind. . ~Carry my words to ym she'enedra's ear little wind~


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 03:13AM EST
Kneeling, he's eye to eye with her. The inhuman intelligence in those yellow eyes gleams out at her. After a long time, he shakes his head like a dog coming out of water, but slower, and as he does the battleform falls away and leaves the smaller, svelter homid form. The shake of the head becomes a roll of the shoulders as though to loosen them, and he gets to his feet.

The west slope is significantly milder than the east. It's a gradual downhill, the bare cliff receding into a treeline of sentinel pines standing tall. He looks toward them, frowning, getting his bearings before he points at a southwestern peak.

"Do you see that mountain?" His voice could nearly be intoxicating in this form, low and smooth, mahogany and oak, two hundred year old wine as found in the cellars of the Vrdoljiak family manor in the Czech mountains. Those mountains were not unlike these in the night... "Go straight toward it, ten miles or so, never waver, and you will come upon a road. Follow that road west for another five or six miles and you will find a small town. Motels, pay phones, a ranger station. If you go now, go fast, perhaps I can keep from following until it is too late."

A tattoo on his arm moves; drops suddenly off his skin and lands in his hand as his jacket - thick supple leather, beautifully tailored to his broad shoulders, muscular waist.

"It's cold before dawn." Goosebumps are standing on his skin. He folds the jacket over his arm and holds it out to her. "You'll need this. There are five hundred dollars in the left pocket, which should last you until your family comes for you. There's a knife in a sheathe sewn into the right pocket. Take care of it, if you will. It's been in my family for a very long time. My family ends here, though, and so there is little enough reason to keep it."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 03:27AM EST
Do you see that mountain?
A nod, looking where he pointed. Its not until he keeps speaking her eyes go ftom the mountain, to him, and stare. . . then let me go. . . Not now. Not any more than you can tell me your secrets. It would run counter to all that I am. . Green flecked brown eyes wide, unbelieveing, and only get wider as he hands her the jacket, listens to the instructions.

"If I go now and fast perhaps you can keep from following?"

Caught her offguard, completely. Hands accept the jacket, smooth it over her arm but she stands there with those words hanging between them. . . like she can't believe her ears, or perhaps min will not comprehend such a thought as him letting her go. . . after all this. . that he would acknowledge defeat in anyway, especially to her.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 03:29AM EST
Tawny eyes trace the jags of the mountain, the proud thrust to the sky, its peak crowned in stormclouds. "Go, Nadja," very softly.

A breath, and when she does not move, his eyes flicker to her. Trial by water in the well. Trial by air on the cliff. Trial by earth in the climb.

Trial by fire?
In his eyes.

"Go now."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 03:32AM EST
The Spanish Rose. The exotic romany flower i its new, chill garden of America. Rom, trapped many weeks in that awful room. Hurt, confused, and heart sick and the door is open. Who would not rush for it (move as quickly as she can as she is). Eyes flicker to him, half expecting some new ploy, some cruel game. Offer hope and fredom and snatch it away. . could she survive that?

No response. . .

She goes. Not as graceful for her newest pains suffered gettign this far nor so quickly as she might wish, but she goes. . .

Free


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 03:40AM EST
He lowers his head, chin nearly touching his chest, hands lax, exhaling a slow breath. Her footsteps away, crunching over frost, ring clear in his ears.

Inhale: raise head: and what she doubtlessly fears to hear.

"Nadja."

His has always been a voice that could command thousands. Something in it - quiet as her name is spoken - compels her to stop. Perhaps even to turn. And if she does turn, by then he's caught up to her, and as the east behind them lightens toward a paler blue, another sunrise is recalled and his hands are on her shoulders, on her upper arms, and he is pulling her forward and up into his kiss.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 03:46AM EST
Yes, she does. So strong the entire time, and its that one word that makes her tremble. If he had wante to, right then was the moment to strike. . she would have broken, shattered to a thousand pieces. . .or maybe not. Deep wells of resolve in her, but he whispers her name and a trembling stop, a hesitant turn, and . .

Shock.

She had been stunned before by his words, now her mind refused to comprehend what was going on. Completely refused to work. . . strung out to that near breaking point in endurance. Mind strained by the fear and his room. . body strained by her injuries and his tests. . .and now that edge she's pushed over.

Did. not. jump. this. time. . .


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 04:01AM EST
A beat later, he draws back just a notch, half an inch, less. The tawny eyes are shut; his breath comes quick across her mouth. By degree, his hands loosen on her upper arms, though he maintains a hold.

"Don't be so surprised, Nadja," spoken between breaths, even as he quivers with restraint, "don't act so surprised. From the day you refused to cave...chose death over defeat...you knew this would happen."

An exhale over her lips. His eyes remain closed, as though by not seeing, he would feel her nearness better. "Don't be so surprised."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 04:10AM EST
A beat later
Eternity
Immortal moment spun across the head of a pin

Draws back, allows space, bare as it is, to think, and can't. Her eyes wide in shock staring at him like she didn't know him, could not fathom the creature (man) before her. Breath coming in short, shallow breaths, high in her lungs. Blink. blinkblink. . . had expected him to stop her, grab her, hurt her more. Had been prepared for it, steeled, resolved. . .

And he threw her a curve ball instead. . .

What game was this? God, let it be a game. . . she could understand that, expected that.

London Bridge is flalign down, my fair lady
Take the keys and lock her up, my fair lady.

"Why?"

Not no, not unhand me, not a scream, a cry a protest. . . a question. She had been so resolute, that he would not break her. . and then lightning from clear skies. . adn trying to gather up the shreds of courage, self contorl, and willpower to maintain her battle.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 04:19AM EST
"...why?"

He gathers himself as she draws back. The sky behind him is going from pale blue to pale grey. Silver. His eyes open. Gold.

"Why?" again, a note of incredulity now, as though he held such truths to be self-evident. "You're no shrinking violet, Nadja. You need no flattery. You know well your charms."

But he doesn't name her beauty among them. Her grace. Her flirtatious ways. Her beautiful deceits.

"Your nobility. Your will. Your wildness. Your..." a frown; a moment's thought. His right hand, the sword hand, moves from her shoulder to touch her cheek - ever so lightly - as though she might jerk away from his touch any moment. And if she tried, she could. His grip is strong, but not unshakable. He finds the word at last, "...strength."

Another slow ragged breath out. In the gray false dawn, he's dark hair dark clothes, swarthy skin and eyes like candles' hearts.

"I recognize you. I know you, beneath your temptress' mask. And you know me too."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 04:29AM EST
Used to many things. Nadja the teptress. Nadja the dervish of trouble. Nadja the tease. Nadja the marhime. Nadja the liar, with a carefully painted face adn carefully choreographed song and dance to lead everyone on. . . and in weeks he has peeled it away to the sheer, iron, hard center. The indomitable will and strength of being persecuted as a people through time and bearing secrets beyond compare. Being more then kin. . . and less then Garou. . and always Rom. All the balls she juggled with ease and efficiency and in this one moment she is none if but Nadja.

Heartsick, confused, youfn Nadja. Buffered by courgae and self. No family here to help her. No friends. Just herself, for the first time. And when he touches her. . she does not flich away. She's still peering at him with those swirled eyes for an answer, a truth, something she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. Lips part, as if she searched for words. . and nothig emerges except warm fast breaths. Speechless, and thoruoughly confused. Duid not thinkt could happen. . . but it has. .

The card have been dealt . . and the third hand goes to him. . .

"I. . I don't know what to say. . " so quiet, so exotic. . but no special inflection, no coy. Nadja, speaking as Nadja. . .


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 04:45AM EST
The moon has set, pulling the tides of the world with her. The sun is nearing the horizon; threaded through the pale grey is the first tentative hint of rose, and by the lifting light he can see, now, that same hint of rose reflected in her dusky cheek, parted lips.

When she does not flinch away, he dares to lay a second hand on her cheeks. Before the sunrise there is the sun: held in his eyes, liquid molten amber, tawny like a lion's, a brighter bolder more animal rendition of her own hazel irises.

Perhaps they took on flecks of green when she wore a garment of that color. Konrad, though, likely would not live to find that out. Their time together, strange as it was, was almost at an end. His time was almost at an end, and he knew it.

He has a plan for everything. A contingency for every plan. He is never surprised, never caught off guard - except once. Except now, this, all this. Nobility, will, wildness and strength: traits most prized by he and his, found in one that was neither him, nor his kin.

Nadja the temptress. Nadja the dervish. Nadja the tease. Nadja the marhime. Nadja the liar. Nadja the lone. Nadja the lost. Nadja the confused. Nadja the wounded. Nadja the courageous. Nadja the strong.

Nadja of the Water.
Beloved Nadja of the Water.

"You don't need to say anything," he murmurs, and his thumb traces her lower lip once before he, once again, tentatively this time, replaces his touch with his mouth.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Sat 04:53AM EST
Not hours earlier she would have begged for silver to gut him with. Not days ago she was sure he was driving her amd in her tiny prison. Not weeks ago she could barely recognize her surroundsings for the drugs he gave her. That and so many more, things, eacha twist, a tear, and pull at her somewhere or even if they weren't meant in cruelty, they were seen as such, grouped with everything else.

She does not move when the second hand comes up. Was she mad? Thumb, so intimate, so light along her lip. . . and he kisses her again. . and she. . . returns it?!

She was mad. . . had to have lost her mind. . . but for the first time in weeks, something that doesn't come limned in pain. Something that could break her yet. . . she kisses him back.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 05:13AM EST
She kisses him back: wild Spanish rose, she and all her thorns.
She kisses him back: and there's sudden breathing confidence in him, his touch on her.
She kisses him back: madness. She's worn nothing but white for days. She'll wear nothing but black for weeks, months.

She. kisses. him. back.

Was she mad? Was he mad? Did it matter? (His hand on her neck.) The sun was nearing the horizon. Pinks glow to livid red. Gold and orange stain the east. Colors like blood and sin and passion and pride. (His hand on her breast.) Colors as bright as she tastes, and he's taking his coat back from her to toss upon the summit earth, beyond the ring of trees, upon dirt and rock, surrounded by sky. (His mouth on her throat.) She of the water and he of the fiery eyes. It all came full circle somewhere.

His hand on the fastenings of her clothes. Goosebumps rippling over exposed skin. His mouth on her skin. Leather at her back, and his hand covering the wound, protecting it from abrasion. Leather at her back and the ground, and he above her, now, in the crisp and dawning light.

It's madness. It didn't matter.

Nadja

Fri 03:15AM EST
Fury. Thats been the best one word description for her. From the moment she woke up in that car till the present. Bujoed by gaje. . could she live down that shame? Stalwartly refusing to cooperate whatsoever. If she could not escape and salvage her romani honor, or kill him, she could at least make sure it was not an easy captive to keep. And do not doubt she would try to kill him at fist chance now. . . use her? Not something she would deal with lightly. Wondering if her kumpaniya had abandoned her as wholly mahrime. That last sight of her could not have been taken well. . .


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 03:21AM EST
Oh yes, their last sight of Nadja the temptress. Nadja the forbidden fruit. Nadja, the ripe flower in the desert east of eden.

Draped. All. Over. A. Gaje.

The indignation.
The shame.

It can't possibly help that her first clear sight of anything for days and days - how many? it could have been weeks...months - is the blurring, slowly focusing image of the hulking Ahroun in full Crinos. It's the eyes that come into focus first: blazing yellow, like twin suns in the jet face. Distance is the next detail to come to her. He's crouched on one knee, quiescent, one handpaw relaxed against the ground, the other draped across thickly furred, updrawn knee. He can't be more than a few inches from her, maybe a foot. If she tries to lunge, though, she'll find herself securely bound to a chair.

She's sitting on a chair. He's crouched on the floor.

They're eye to eye.

Seeing her regain consciousness, the edges of his mouth curve slowly up. Words rumble out, barely intelligible. "Good morning. Nadja. Sleep well?"


Nadja

Fri 03:29AM EST
He speaks, and she shakes the blurriness from her vision once more. Finding and meeting his burning eyes, with green flecked brown that are furious. Then a sniff and she turns her head, refusing to answer. One could imagine life in her kumpaniya would be hell when she was irtae. . . intead looking elsewhere then him, absently testing the bonds holding her to the chair. . would kill him. . she would.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 03:36AM EST
More details now, seeping into her consciousness, bleeding in around the edges of his gleaming yellow eyes. They're in a room. Small. 8'x10' maybe. Pristine white. Very clean. No windows. No furnishings, except for the chair she's bound to. Not uncomfortably, mind you - her bindings are secure, unshakable, but the materials are soft enough as far as ropes go, and do not dig into her flesh.

She's too pretty for that.

Where is she, then? Underground? Or just deep inside a complex somewhere? Hard to tell. He is wealthy. His family is old and powerful. He has his means and his methods, and he has his cruelties.

She glares at him. He drinks it in, pupils of bottomless black dilating in the midst of brilliant eyes. She looks away and she hears him laughing. His weight shifts; for a moment he is closer, and she might expect to be touched, ravished, hurt,

but no. He is only getting to his feet. The ceiling in the room is high, but he still has to stoop slightly to avoid bumping his head. The door is directly behind him, which she can see now around the furred outlines of his body.

"You should not be so angry." It is hard to speak more than a few words at once, but listening to him, you would not think so. He covers it easily; in the pauses he takes, he moves around her, claws ticking on the floor, tail sweeping tile. "Do you really think. Your sister and brother. Will come for you?"

He curves a huge handpaw into the back of her chair. The motion is delicate, but his strength is apparent; he moves a finger and the entire chair shifts. Soundlessly, the Ahroun crouches, behind her now, speaking into her ear, his breath hot and moist. "We could be together. For a very long time. You, me. And Simon, Nadja."


Nadja

Fri 03:43AM EST
Daenna , where was she? Eyes widen a bit as she looks around. Walls, perfect, white. . .close. They say to cage a gypsy is to kill them. . . looking at her you may just think truth to that rumor. Unconsciousness saved her that fear, but waking into a small enclosed space so blank? Terifying. . . struggling for some anger to meet his words, and just falls silent. They would. Rom never let an insult go unanswered. If not for her, then for Harlequin. But how long has it been> She doesn't even know.

He whispers, and she shivers. . . they would keep her alive, like toture. . she knew it. . did not doubt it. . .


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 03:50AM EST
Nothing. Silence.

A moment passes, and then the Crinos sighs (whuffs). Out of the right of her field of vision she sees his arm extending - as long as a human leg, longer. Four feet. Five. The proportions of the Crinos body is not the same as those of a human. When he reaches out like that, his claws graze the wall across from her.

"Look at that." Scriiiitch. White paint flakes away; beneath, more white. Flawless. "So blank. Nothingness. Nothing but white. I would go. Mad, Nadja. If you caged me in this. Place."

He's warmer than she is, warmer than any human. This close, waves of heat rise from the black beast. Bete noire. His hand falls from the wall to rest on the shining white floor.

"But if you do not speak. I might think. You like this place."

A beat passes.

"I might think. You would be happier. If I left you here. Undrugged." Left handpaw then: one claw piercing the veil of her hair, tracing gently the line of her neck, the line of her cervical spine. "Awake to enjoy. Yes?"


Nadja

Fri 03:56AM EST
He is warm, but she shivers still. Could he do it? Leave her here? Spanish rose left to wilt in this empty place. No sunlight, no fresh air. . . hell. He touches her and she flinches. He demands words. . . and she can find some anger in her, there is backbone there. . just fear too, too much phobia for this place.

"You know very well I do not like this place. You are not stupid Konrad, much as I might wish you were."

Cool. To accompany her shivers. Cold anger tinged in anxiety (would.he?) and leveled in that accented english.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 04:01AM EST
Laughter: soft.

"I am not stupid," he agrees. "And now I see. Neither are you."

The handpaw on the back of her neck opens. He could grasp her neck in one hand the way a man might grasp a swan's, but the taloned fingers do not close. Instead his palm rests on her upper back, the clawed thumb stroking the curve of shoulder.

"Lovely Nadja. And so hateful." He shifts again behind her, finding a more comfortable position, kneeling so his wolven maw was level to her ear. Flat tongue and sharp teeth strain to push out human words, "If your sister and brother came. What would you want them to do? How would you want them to." Insidious, "Kill me, Nadja?"


Simon Kovach

Fri 04:05AM EST
The door behind hopens on well oiled henges. This room wasn't the one with the scary creeeeeky hinges. That's down the hall to the left. He slips in. Behind them though there isn't much room with Konrad being all dramatic. He closes the door and stands with his back to it.


Nadja

Fri 04:09AM EST
Many things she is, stupid not one of them. Problem is stubborn comes on that list too. Stubborn and willful. . prideful. . . it makes her bold. It gives her courgae. . makes her vengeful. Some sound but for all she knew it could be Konrad. More of his torment. She almost preferred being drugged. Suppressing the urge to squirm away from that claw on her shoulder. . .

"As painfully as possibly, and slow. . . "


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 04:10AM EST
A single word, rumbled low, "...and?"


Simon Kovach

Fri 04:11AM EST
He smiles a bit and hishand comes forward. Just the mearest of touches on the tips of conrads fur. Then pulling away. When he turns Simon holds up two fingers. Then makes a motion like a gun. Then draws a finger across his throat.


Nadja

Fri 04:12AM EST
"Use your imagination, Konrad. Its obvious you have one."

To dream up this, Sick twsited imagination. . . closing her eyes to the white room. At least there she couldn't see walls. . only feel them


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 04:17AM EST
Another chuckle. He swings his head about to watch Simon. The only acknowledgment is a flick of a blackfurred ear. Then, in the same low, dulcet (rasping. growling.) tone, he continues, "So stubborn. Very well. Let me be. Frank, Nadja."

There's a pause, as though he had sensed she had closed her eyes.

"Open your eyes, Nadja," oh so softly. "Look upon your. Lovely. White. Room. Tell me of your sister. And your brother. Their abilities. What they might do. How they might strike. Surely you know."


Nadja

Fri 04:20AM EST
A shiver whe he talks about the room, mentions it but she refuses to open her eyes She couldn't wouldn't tell. . which meant he would liekly leave her here. Preferred defiance to other things. . . because her family would kill her if she spoke. She'd broken the Romania law once, unerringly. . .to do it knowingly? They did not care if it was under torment. . . that made you weak. Weak rom were culled. . .

"Why are you doing this?"


Simon Kovach

Fri 04:21AM EST
A soft breathy chuckel imminates from behind her.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 04:24AM EST
There's a longer pause. In the small white room, white walls white floor white fluorescent light, there is only the sound of breathing.

There might even be a note of regret there. "Survival, Nadja. We do what we must to survive. You should learn. Do the same.

"Tell us, Nadja. And you will go home. And no one will ever know. Or if you cannot recall..." the heavy handpaw on her back taps fingertips against her skin, as though in thought, "...then perhaps some time spent alone. Will help you remember."


Nadja

Fri 04:29AM EST
Why only Gemile and Ra'gon? Did thye not know about the Del? His addition to the pack had been fairly recent before all this started. And certainly others. . . Harlequin had not been without his allies. The rom as a whole should be outraged. Looking at the all concealing darkness behind her eyelids rather then that room. . . because she was afraid she was going to see much more of it soon.

"I can't, dear god, but I can't. . ."


Simon Kovach

Fri 04:30AM EST
Softly in a voice just above a whisper "We could clue her eyes open...."


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 04:35AM EST
The silences from the Ahroun grow ever longer. The Ragabash speaks to fill those gaps, but his voice, in this situation, is not something anyone would wish to hear.

Two words, thoughtful. "We could."

"But I would rather not. Yet." Addressing Nadja, then, "Of course you can. A few words and you will sleep. You will sleep and when you wake. You will be home." Whispered, "Free.

"Or you could stay here. Eyes open or shut, still here. You are not stupid enough. To believe that the room disappears. When you close your eyes. And I believe, Nadja. That you are not so different from me. You will go mad if I left you here. A day. A week. A month? Maybe longer. You will go mad. You will die.

"Survival, Nadja. That's all it is."


Nadja

Fri 04:40AM EST
They told stories of Rom who had been locked away. They told them like warnings or dirges. . because they eventually were released but something had died inside them away form the earth of Daenna. . . she was going to die. He was right. She would go mad. . because she could not tell. Better here and still have her pride, her Blood. They would not declare her spirit mahrime too if she did not tell. . .

"You're wrong. I can't survive this. . . home or here."


Simon Kovach

Fri 04:43AM EST
"Oh you could. They love you so much. Why. The first wave they sent to secure your freedom broke upon our blades like water. No doupt the heavy hitters will come next. Then we'll add to the 3 skulls aready outside.
Answer his questions and let us.... let you... go."


Nadja

Fri 04:50AM EST
"No."

Simple. She'd already said this. . but apparently this would linger on, be more painful. God, why her? She should have just accepted the offer from Draba Tulo now. . would be safely in another kumpanyia, rather then in this tiny, white room with them. . . and now no Rom would have her. Mahrime. . but if she lived, it would end eventually. . if she talked and lived, it would never die. Her soul would be cursed to the afterlife.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 04:51AM EST
A shift in his positioning: unspoken message to Simon. Keep your peace, now.

Silence. Endless. Complete. White.
"No?"

It's his other handpaw that taps now, claws tick-tick-ticking against the floor. Then all at once he moves, the talons on her back sliding down to pick and tear at a few strategic knots. Suddenly ropes fall from her in loops and whorls; though her hands remain bound, she is free to stand. She is free to turn to face him as he too rises to his digitigrade stance, ears brushing the ceiling.

"Then. Why not die now? Honorably." Yellow eyes flicker to the Ragabash. "Simon. Show Nadja to the well."


Simon Kovach

Fri 04:52AM EST
He moves fluidly twords her. He's dressed in his black uniform and never before now had it looked more sinister.


Nadja

Fri 04:56AM EST
Releasd from the chair, she did stand, to face him, legs stiff, sore, arms moreso and still bound. Movement better then sitting though, until he speaks. . . paling, but silent. Would Prala's spirits be able t tell him she had not broken with the people in the end, faced with this? And Simon. . . she had liked him somewhat, even if he had only been another bujo given her by Gemile. Not cringing though, just pale, and wide eyed. . .


Simon Kovach

Fri 04:59AM EST
He smiles and gently takes her by she shoulders from behind. Walking her softly though the door and down the hall. His look almost apoljetic. A resigned duty perhaps. He leads her into a room. Seemingly carved from the very rock of the earth. In the middle set apart by a simple one step lip there was a hole 8 feet across. WIth a winch rigging above it. He takes the clasp and off comes the bucket. It's afixed to her wrists as they are bound together. He looks down the hole and then to her.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 05:02AM EST
As the lithe Shadow Lord moves toward her, the hulking one takes a backseat to the action. He trails the pair from several paces behind, out the door, down the hall, following.

"Poor brave Nadja," murmured as he stops a good fifteen, twenty feet away, powerful arms crossing over ridged chest. "You will come back to haunt me, won't you?"

Unflinching yellow eyes. Gentle, merciless curve of mouth, visible even in this form, and never before so far from a human smile as this.


Nadja

Fri 05:09AM EST
"One can hope."

Resigned. It was them of her people, and this way she did not betray her people. They should have learned with Harlequin. . would have another lesson with her. Rom were not cowards. They became effective artyrs instead. She would die. Anger would burn hotter, and more would come after these two. At least she protected Ra'gona dn Gemile. Staring Konrad down. What did she have to lose?

"I curse you Konrad of Thunder's Children, to the last of your line. You will never know peace from my vengeance."

What was it they said about Rom? Their curses were true things and lived on for eons. . .


Simon Kovach

Fri 05:10AM EST
He gently walks her to the lip and tightens the whench till she's teetering on the edge. His eyes look to hers and seem to beg her. His whisper only for her ears "Please.. just tell him.. Don't do this."


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 05:12AM EST
There's nothing but darkness in the well - darkness, and the glimmer of water far, far below.

Beloved Nadja of the Water.
It would be a fitting final resting place.

"Lovely Nadja," and he faces her stare full-on, unflinchingly, and speaks the full, unerring, fearless, painful truth: "I am the last of my line.

"Now, jump."


Nadja
Fri 05:16AM EST
From water she was born and to water she will return. Ever fixed and ever fluid. Grace and trickery in one package. She was the epitome of her element, her blood purer then most, and she was to the end Roma. Simon's words? On deaf ears. She cannot.

"Would you, if you were me? Then you would be too weak."

And her bright hazel eyes on Konrad.

"Fine, Then you will know it. . ."

And she jumps. . .


Simon Kovach

Fri 05:18AM EST
He chuckels a bit as she jumps. The whench playing out as she plummets with a high pitched whine. He looks over to Konrad a moment and then back to the hole

"That was jus' mean...."

A bit of humor in his voice as she travels down down down. the darkness making the fall seem evem longer and she hits the water.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 05:31AM EST
And the darkness rushes up to swallow her.
And the water rushes up to take her home.
And--

the winch snaps to a standstill.

--fifteen feet covered in one liquid motion, faster than the human eye can see, nor the human mind comprehend. He plunges his arm after her. Pain explodes in her lower back: claws ripping into her flesh. Her downward motion has stopped. She dangles in midair, speared the end of the Ahroun's deadly claws, and his panting breath echoes down the wellshaft as her blood trickles out from the wound and splashes into water.

That was a test of her strength, replies the Ahroun in growls and snarls, before one (ripping) long steady pull of his arm hoists the girl out, lifts her to face him eye to eye by his claws dug into her back. Her blood drips to stain his black fur, to patter down at his feet.

"Well, Nadja," softly, with just a hint of a catch to his breath now, testament to the sudden motion, and perhaps even to his surprise, "you are stronger than I had thought. And I respect your courage more than you know. Under different circumstances. I could have admired you.

"But our cards are dealt. And we will break you."

At last the killing claws retract from her flesh. He lets her slip from his grasp, and nods to the Ragabash. Take her back to her room. No drugs. Leave her a while with food and water for four days. Nothing else. Perhaps that will loosen her tongue.


Simon Kovach

Fri 05:35AM EST
He nods. Gently kneeling beside her and looking into her eyes a moment. As if measuring her. Before gently lifting her into his arms.


Nadja

Fri 05:42AM EST
And the darknes rushes up to swallow her .
And the water rushes up to take her home.
And -- she screams as his claws rip into her, forward momentum stopped by them. More then just her back where he had grabbed her would hurt from that. Gravity exacts its due after all. Pulled up, she's biting her lips now to keep form making any more sounds. That first (sweet) would not sound again now that she wasn't surprised. She comes about to face him, dangling like a doll on his claws. The eyes? Still held that fire.

Cards are dealt. First hand goes to her. . .

"Did not expect a mere dancer to have spirit? I am more then you will ever know Konrad."

Hissed out between teeth clenched in pain. Yes, more levels to Nadja he had not seen, and what more could she hide? They thought they knew. . . but in her, she cannot hide in in her pain now, is a trickling thing, that with her fury licks along her skin, soothing to her, but other to him. . . something feral in her. . something animal. . . something wolf. Then it is gone when he drops her, contact broken, fury's circuit severed. Simon kneels and she says nothing to him, face fallen into a flat stony (yet.somehow.exotic.maybe.for.that.feral) stance. She doesn't fight him as he icks her up. She's resigned to her fate. . . but her secrets?

They are hers.

Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 05:19PM EST
Days had passed.
How many?

In the little white room, in the merciless round-the-clock glare of white fluorescence, time became measured, at first, by the cycle of her hunger, growing until she went to her store: lunchpacks, like the kind kids take to school. Tuna salad kits. Ritz cracker sandwiches. Gourmet cookies and brownies. Fresh fruit, easily peeled. She isn't being starved, that's for certain.

Flowers cannot thrive in fluorescent light; did you know that?

She can also measure time by the sound of footsteps outside. The walls are thick and soundproofed, and the noises from outside are so muffled that in usual circumstances she would've never heard them. But then, hungry for stimulation as her ears must be, she would hear, though she cannot say for certain if the Lords are more active in the day or night. It would seem plausible that they live and breathe in the night, night-black as their fur is.

And she can measure time's slow crawl by the daily bandage changings, always at the same (unknown) time, a clock by which to set her life. She seems to be isolated in one corner of the compound, wherever she might be. She can barely hear them coming and going most times, but she can always tell when his footsteps are approaching her door. The door cracks open; the air of the hall seeps in, which always seems somehow more fresh, more vital, than the artificially warmed in puffing in through the vents.

(Vents set in the 10' ceiling. Unreachable, especially after Simon removed her chair after taking her back, wounded and bleeding. Konrad thinks of everything.)

He never speaks to her. Doubtlessly she doesn't want to speak to either, but after twenty-four hours...forty-eight... He comes in with bandages and first aid, twice in his Crinos form, which laid her down and changed her bandages and cleaned her wounds with a surprising gentleness. The same claws that sunk deep into the muscle of her back are capable of incredibly delicate work. Doubtlessly he can aid a fallen packmate...mate...kin with quite some skill.

Doubtlessly those precise claws can scoop eyes out like nuts from the shell in one swift hook.

Before he leaves, he takes her chamberpot and replaces it with a new one. The third day, he comes in his homid form. The familiarity is either reassuring or hateful; likely she can't decide which. Either way the procedure goes as usual. He removes her bandages; cleans the wound and replaces fresh bandages. Then he rises, gathering the refuse, and turns to go.

But this time he stops at the door. Turns with his hand on the handle and looks at her strangely: tawny eyes, the color of amber, of spanish grain in the sunset. For the first time in days, she hears someone speak. "We have some business to attend to, Nadja." His words are soft, as though he did not want anyone else to hear. "A few hours, no more. I will be back for you."

It's hard to say if that was reassurance or a threat. Nor does he clarify. The door opens and closes; the locks snap home. There is no keyhole on her side, only a smooth metal disc (white), and from the coolness of the surface, the door is metal.

A few hours, then. Silence outside, complete. Minutes bleed into hours...and hours stretch into infinity. Once, she thinks she hears gunfire outside, a few bursts. Then nothing again. Her store of food diminishes. It runs out eventually. Her water drops. It too, runs out. Her chamberpot fills. She seeps through her bandage and leaves smears of fluid discharge wherever she sits, lies.

Still, the everlasting silence.

Maybe they met her Kumpaniya outside. Maybe they slaughtered or were slaughtered. Maybe she was forgotten. Maybe she was abandoned, purposefully neglected, left to die in her pristine white cage as punishment.

Prayers are difficult when your throat is parched so dry all you can think of is water.
Songs cannot be sung with a tongue swollen from thirst.

Then, after an interminable emptiness: the sound of footsteps.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 05:30PM EST
Days had passed.
Too many.

Her worst fear was being trapped between 4 small walls. She'd grown up in open air, open sunlight, open laughter, open families. . . this closed off prison? Worse then death. Prayers, songs, because movement was hard when the muscles for your legs pulls at injuries. The lower back is a terrible place to be hurt. Always silent when he comes though.

Flowers don't talk; did you realize that?

Still his comment on that third day makes her wonder. And wonder grows to confusion, then curiousity, then puzzlement. . . then fear. As the water goes, food goes, back is not tended and she can not do it herslef, she begins to fear. Throat hurts now too. . .lips chapped, like Gemiles usually are. (she.takes.better.care.of.herself) and comes the first sound in days. . .

Footsteps. . .

She's laying there. Half on her side/stomach, where she doesn't irritate her back, and can watch the door. Where she can sleep and not have to move much. Hard floors can become quite soft when your exhausted. In the end. . they'd robbed her of even her own voice. Too dry to even pray. . .or cry. . . not that she had. She was strong. But the oak tree breaks in the wind. . . and the would be martyr is better broken then dead. . .

Watching the door with fear (anticipation). . laying there.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 05:38PM EST
The door opens.
(Her brethren? Is that Ra--no.)
Konrad.

A rumpled, beaten, battered Konrad: but Konrad. Those wounds are real. The angles and depths - they cannot be faked. He was in a pitched combat, to be certain.

(Hit me, he said to Simon. The Ragabash hesitated a moment, struck him with an open hand. He burst into his Crinos form and struck his packmate down with a massive paw. Snarling now, I said HIT ME.

And Simon did.)

The stench of Wyrm-stink, too. Not that Nadja would know what it is, but the unwholesome scent unnerves even the most obtuse of humans. And she is not obtuse.

(Konrad, crouching over a dead bane. Dipping claws distastefully into the ichor. Splashing it up across his own chest. Picking up the dead, corrupt thing. Rubbing it over his arms.)

In one (cut) hand, a pitcher of blessed water, the only clean thing on him. In the other, a gleaming knife dulled with blackish blood.

"I'm sorry," the first words out of his mouth, as he comes toward her.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 05:44PM EST
Door opens and eyes widen some, hoping. . and falling duller as he came in. Its obvious he is not whom she wanted to coem throuhg that door. Even now taking in critical details (drinking.it.in) and nose flares at the scent some, but barely a twist of the lips in distatse (it.too.at.least.soemthing.besides.this.room). . and in his hands . . .

Water

Her element. Had nearly died in it. Now was slowly dying without it. Cannot help but watch him (it) but o movement. You'd be weak too with no water, no foo, and injured, left for days? No words either. Her silence still hanging in the air as it had when she couldn't speak without pain.

One brow does move some, up, in what would haev been her sensual little face but for the pathetic figure she presented now on the floor. Went up ~I don't believe you~ and watched him.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 05:51PM EST
A grimace crosses his face at her state. "For Gaia's sake, Nadja."

Only the slightest of wolven rasps to his voice in his form. He leaves the door open behind him; as he moves away from it, she can see the hallway outside, sense what might be a breeze.

He drops to his knees beside her. Water splashes to wet the fabric of his clothes, to puddle on the floor and, as he reaches down and cuts her bound wrists before pulling her upright to drink, across her parched tongue.

Distractedly, quietly, he fills her in: "The Wyrm found this place. Pure blood draws them always, and they have always hated my family above all else." That much was the truth. And this, this too is the truth - just the truth of another time, long ago. "There were more than we thought, not enough of us. We held them off. I lost many of my kin...slowly, now," drawing the pitcher back before her stomach cramped at the sudden cold water. "Come on," helping her to her feet, or lifting her outright if she cannot stand.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 05:59PM EST
What did he care for Gaia? Subjecting any of her children, even her distant Romany ones to this. . . his distracted (gentle?) manner cinfusing though. She could hate him when he was cruel. . . but when he was kind to her? Still it ws his fault she was like this. That glint in her eyes, that flickerflash of something. . anger fueld. . animal. If she'd been Garou she would be shifting by now. . . but she wasn't. . and she didn't feel like kin when she felt so much like wolf.

Cornered hungry animals will bite. She glares (growls).

But the water, needed the water and took is wordlessly, slowly (not.drinking.absorbing) into her mouth, instantly soothing tongue, throat, lips, filling empty cramped stomach. His come on? She struggles to stand, stubborn (I.WILL.NOT.BREAK) pride he has seen before. . in her campsite in one of their innocent meetings. Stands, obviously in pain but refusing his help.

"I can walk."

Clipped, soft, accented speech.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 06:10PM EST
He looks at her for a long, strange moment. Fluorescent light is unkind, making something stark of his noble (feral, in this form) face, but it cannot strip his animal eyes of their odd beauty. There's recognition in those eyes: he recognizes her stubbornness, her pride, her feralness, and slowly his hand falls from her arm. "All right."

He breaks the gaze only to lift the pitcher to his lips and gulp, throat working. When he's done he splashes the rest over his wyrmstinking head, cleansing water dribbling down his face, following the strands of his Glabro-form facial hair, which is soft and tapered at the fringes - closer to fur than a beard. He sets the pitcher down and nods at the door, not the one that leads to the well, but the one he enters through.

"Let's go." Where?

That becomes clear soon enough. Or perhaps not soon enough - she is weak, slower than she would like to be, slowed further by the painful wound. He walks behind her, walking through an endless series of labyrinthine halls, and finally up a series of stairs. There's a door directly in front of her.

"Go on."

It could be anything on the other side, but when she does open it (oh.), she opens it to the fresh air of the open night. They're high on the eastern slope of massive mountains, looking east across endlessly flat plains dotted with distant cities and, closer down the steep slope, with smouldering fires. They cannot hear the crackling of the fires, but they can smell the smoke. Overhead, the stars wheel, constellations bright as they will never be in the city. There's no moon to be seen, having already set or slipped behind the mountains behind them.

Behind her, he leans his shoulder on the doorframe and merely watches her.


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 06:17PM EST
Its an effort she is willing to make, using dwindling reserves of energy she had saved by not moving in her cell, to walk on her own. Was she doing permanent damage to her back? Would end her career as a dancer, and ruin all the lovely magick she could create with merely a sway and whirl. Had he ever seen her dance the Zapaderin? Simon had. . . the legendary dance of the Rom, and she was one of the most proficient now. Her greatest talent. Her greatest allure. . . when they reach the door, she glances at him ~what is this~ before opening, expecting some new travesty, and finding. . .

Air

Rom are creatures of the elements. Born to one, they still lived with the others. It was all about balance. Stepping out she cannot fathom his newest game, torment, but did not care for the moment, drinking in the clean fresh air. Campfire smoke is so familiar, so. . . touching. Home. Even barren rocky cliffs are beautiful. . they are earth. Taking a few moments to unguard herself, take it in to comfort her through whatever he planned next. Then she turns, slowly, favoring her aching back some. Wilting flower. . .

"Will you have me jump form here too?"


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 06:25PM EST
A silence. And then he moves away from the open door, letting it slip shut with a snick. Darkness: pierced by campfires, distant cities, those constellations of the earth reflecting those of the sky, glimmering faintly in his eyes as he turns to look at her.

A slow shake of his head is the only reply she has for a while. Then he comes forward, economy of motion taking on an art form in his powerful frame, even in this hulking ungraceful form. Standing beside her, he towers over her until he drops to a crouch and rakes his fingers through the earth, grasping a handful of dirt that slips slowly from between his fingers, caught by the wind into a trailing skirt.

"I thought you would want to see the night again."

The last of the earth trickles away and he dusts his fingers out against themselves absently, nodding at the campfires. "Some of those are human campers. Others are fomori. We don't know which are which, and how many more of them there are. But at night we can pretend they are all campfires to tell tales around.

"I am tired of fighting you, Nadja."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 06:31PM EST
Watches him, like the cornered animal, the wild thing, skittish. Anger slipped the leash of that which curled in her, that touched spirit. . that wolf. . and she was not angry right now. She was resigned. She had accepted her fate the day she jumped to the water.

Come what may. . .

She would survive it, or she would die. Simple. Easy. Economical. Eyeing him in his actions, touching the dirt. . . and she wodnered. Had felt all the elements now save fire. . . was that his next ploy?

"Why is it I do not believe you?"

She had wanted the night again. Whirling dervish of trouble, tempting vision of the forbidden, and caged off on a mountain with a monster. Beauty and her Beast. But she could not love this beast and make him a man again. Had he ever been human?

"Then let me go."


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 06:41PM EST
His fingers still. He looks at her and becomes still as well, a dark not-quite-human (never-quite-human) shape in the darkness. The wind moves like breath and he, it seems, hardly breathes.

"You believe me, Nadja. You only wish you did not."

At last, motion again. He wipes his fingers lightly on his knee, instinctively skirting torn and reknitting flesh, rising again to his feet. Distant starlight, firelight, give her just enough to see by. He has shape but no color.

"But I cannot do that," devastatingly soft. "Not yet. Not now. Not any more than you can tell me your secrets. It would run counter to all that I am."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 06:47PM EST
When the predator growls softly, it meant danger. He speaks so softly, and she watches him, heart racing faster. The fact she could not see him, read him makes that suspense worse, curls fear in the smallest part of the chest. It curls around her cramped, empty stomach, the painful wounds (he.had.given.her) in her back, and the trembling of legs that don't want to stand much longer. But what does she give him?

Defiance. Bold, stubborn, courageous defiance. She is not soem Thunder's Child to be broken as thier Garou dictate. She is Rom. She is Strider. . . She is Sarrath, and she is wolf. . .

"Then we are at an impasse."

Her words also soft, but curl like warm things, in her lilting accent, curl and crash. Bitter wine, poisoned fruit. Beautiful. . and dangerous.

. . . this flower has thorns. . .


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 08:55PM EST
The dark shape with the glimmering (gleaming) eyes cants his head ever so slightly to one side. With that one gesture he grows that much more distant, that much more alien, that much more feral, that much more predatory. He sees her. He sees her beauty, to be certain, but he sees the trembling as well, the fear.

Nostrils flare; he inhales the night wind, her scent, the tang of fear and the clash of defiance.

"No, we are not," gentle negation, but firm. "Nadja, once I offered: your freedom for your secrets. You break, I break. You refused me. I offer again, though I do not think you will accept."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 09:06PM EST
Back to this. He knew and yet he asked. . something more to this then a simple question. What did he have planned next? Nothing he did was wthout purpose. This she had figured out by now. This entire thing some facade, but for what?

Wtached him, and eyes drift up to take in the stars over head briefly. How many more times might she see them? She would probably never dance beneath them again. . . . letting those green flecked brown eyes, dark in the darkness fall back to him. So inhuman. . . so . .

Garou.

"Then why ask Konrad. You know my answer. It had not changed."

Fear tempered by courage, and sheer stubborn will. She had more willfulness then most people, and far more courage, and a goodly amount of control. Even the little white room had not. . yet. . perhaps he was right and in time, but now? She was still a wall in the face of his ambitions.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 09:25PM EST
A hint of a smile, slow. "Because I am a little at loss. I'm trying to find what I want to say."

He comes to the edge, back to her, and looks down at the steep slope - brush and low trees, shrubs, but nothing so large as to obscure his sightline out across the plains - and hopefully she is not so foolish as to try to push him off the edge.

For a while he looks at the camps below. The glow of distant fires. Then he inhales, raising his gaze to the stars. A slow exhale before he asks, "Do you want to know the truth, Nadja?" No pause. His hands clasp behind his back; he speaks to the stars in the full resonance of his voice. His is a voice that could enrapture millions: a king's voice. His voice can be gentle and hard at once, and cut as brutally as any blade. "I will tell you the truth.

"You had no purpose other than bait. You would have served your purpose just as well unconscious or conscious, alive or dead. I woke you because I was bored. Do you hear? Bored. Your sister and brother are so fucking slow, Nadja. If someone dared to lay hands on what was mine, blood would have spilt long ago. But they dawdle, and I wait. And I toyed with you to pass the time. How they intend to come for me is of no consequence to me.

"But you surprised me, nonetheless. And now things have changed. The pieces are moving on the board and I can't see where they go." Suddenly laughing, his back still to her, hair combed by the wind, "Nadja, you don't believe a word I'm saying, do you?"


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 09:37PM EST
Listening in silence. . cold. deadly. silence. If she was angry it was a cold anger that swept dwon from the north, a Wendigo's anger perhaps, or just a woman's. Listening with eyes on that back. (Oh how she longed to try and push it off) Listening and trying to find the truth between the lines, because he spoke and it seemed somewhat true, like seeds were there, but not the whole blossom.

Thunder's children work in shadows and deciet, Nadja. Do not invite them into our camp and do not believe them. . .

But listening to him, she could believe what he said. That arrogant, that cruel to torment her to only pass his time. Watching and living the games, she would not be surprised and in fact believed part of what he said was true. . .

Trouble is. Which part?

"So then where does it go from here? More blood? More games? More pain? And yes, I do believe you are telling truth. . . somewhere. . ."

Despite pain that shoots down her legs, and despite pain that curls through many parts of her body she draws herself up. He is a king. She could be Queen of the Rom. Beautiful and strong. Stilling the tremors in weak legs screaming muscles by sheer will and control alone.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 09:50PM EST
A slight shake of his head. "I don't know." Another slow inhale, sipping the air, discerning scents and textures, the layers beneath the plant-smell, earth-smell, fire-smells. His own blood rode the air, and so did hers.

The pieces are moving...
The King castled, the pawn at the eighth square, a Queen.

"Go within, Nadja." Absently, he traces the contour of an arm wound with a finger, avoiding the gash itself, rubbing the ferociously itching flesh about it as it reknit itself. "Simon is waiting for you. He will feed you and dress your wounds, and return you to your room."

Until when? He doesn't seem inclined to say. Another moment passes, and indeed he doesn't seem inclined to say anything else at all. She begins to turn or she begins to speak, and either way he hears and acts in preemption. "And Nadja?"

Turn. The distant cities and the distant fires at his back. He takes one, two, three steps closer, very close, close enough to see the true hue of his eyes even in this dim starlight. It doesn't seem fair that even wounded, he can still move with such powerful fluidity, like an animal.

"Why do I sense wolf in you?"


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 10:04PM EST
. . and from the First City Daenna came, bearing the four seeds of Knowledge from the Tree. With her? Came her brother Sarrath, the wolf, whom when they lay together gave birth to he line of Sarrath, teive blessed of the Romany blood of the Firsts and children of the wolf. . .

His words almost make her balk. Back to that roooom, bright white hell and silence. . . supress ing the shudder. Caged like an animal, plucked from vibrant soil to wither in that sterile room. She'd almost rather jump form here again. . almost but not that desperate. . .yet. . .

His question catches her offguard. No one had ever caught it. She'd even called up that wolf on occasion and not been recognized. Within the line of Sarrath hid another line. . . her line. . why she had such a value. She was direct descent and purely blooded. He moves up on her, fluid and speed. She herself would be but for the wound inhibiting her in the back. . . In front of her and his question.

Why do I sense wolf in you?

Looking up at him, those glowing golden eyes, so inhuman. A smile curling on her lips at last. She has not smiled in. . weeks? . . and yet she does now. Her secret hardly even glimpsed. In time she, kin, would be almost equal to lower ranked Garou, if the blood was allowed to grow. One hand? Shoots up at his face. . . fast. . inhumanly fast. If he catches it, she expects that, otherwise she pulls ti up just before his face, nails poised like claws (not.claws.yet). . .

"Because I am a Child of Sarrath, Konrad."

Her speed? Imagine it with her before seen lithe grace and one can imagine. . she mores less like a human and more like. . a garou. . . the hand, if it had claws, would be deadly dangerous. . .

What have you caught indeed. .


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 10:16PM EST
Catch her hand? No. Jerk back? Never. His confidence is unshakeable, his arrogance absolute. The tawny eyes never even blink as her hand lashes toward his face: perhaps he thinks he can fight blind.

But look down. His hand has come forward almost of its own accord, fingertips barely grazing her stomach. A thought is all it will take to give the holes on her back a deadlier matching set.

Confident. Arrogant. But not careless.
Perhaps she thinks she can fight without intestines.

She smiles. He smiles. His fingertips, relaxing, run ever so lightly down her belly and lift away, at the last second snagging the cloth of her shirt and dragging her a staggering step forward.

"You should be careful, Nadja," conversational, though perhaps underscored with just a hint of growl, just a touch of huskiness. "You are strong. But not that strong."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 10:23PM EST
"Strong enough, obviously."

What ho? Whats this? Old Nadja. Nadja predating kidnap and captivity. Coy, flirtatious, distant Nadja. Words and face fallen into those sweet beguiling planes. So familair. . so natural. . . such a good mask for a more feral aspect. Imagine the Striders she will one day give birth to, kin and likely wolf, knowing her. Imagine them with that fire in her, and that strength . . is it any wonder family would pursue her.

He pulls her closer, and legs nearly buckle. She is string, but her body is ravaged, not at peak performance. Catching herself, on him, and pulling back. Taunt and tease and deny. The dervicsh of trouble. . . forbidden

Pinning him with fierce eyes and alluring face. Such a good actress. . .


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Fri 10:34PM EST
The smile fades a notch. Coy, flirtatious, distant Nadja - just like polite, civilized, honorable Konrad. A mask for the savage inside. A touch of wolf in her. A touch of monster in him. Amorality. Good and evil mean little enough. Gentleness is a precursor to mercilessness. The ends justify the means; balance justifies all.

"Are you?" Intensity. He sees right through her mask, and she, surely, sees through his. The light that gleams brightest in his eye is neither lust nor scorn (though certainly both are present), but contemplation. Consideration. "I wonder."

He unravels fingers from her shirt at last and gives her a little push backwards. "Good night, Nadja. Simon will see to you now."


Jastima Ves'Tacha Nadja

Fri 10:41PM EST
Lust.
Scorn.
Contemplation.
Consideration.

Not her. Eyes fierce with that price and courage as they have been since they placed her at the brink of a well and said jump. She'd faced down death. She had gained a measure of strength from that itself. Meeting his eyes, his mask nothing but tissue paper now having seen what lurked beneath. And he? Had not the faintest inkling exactly who or what she was. . .

He pushes her back, and catches herself on stumbling. Riasing herself back up. Like a queen, confident. . flippant and merely watched him wordlessly before going inside. Let Simon do his work. Return to her hell. Test her resolve once more.

The cards have been dealt. Hand two hers . . .

Because her secrets? Still buried behind a lovely face.

They are still hers.