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.