Armand

Thu 12:57AM
It takes some time to awaken, to emerge from the deep oneiric drifts in which he had lost himself. Opening his eyes, he looks at the ceiling for awhile without comprehending, examining the white surface with quick, fleeting sweeps of his eyes. The sheets are cold, clammy, and he doesn’t know why. Taking a deep breath, he imbibes consciousness, and slowly it comes back, the alleyway, the chitin, the black ichor. He felt empty, used, spent. He’d pushed himself as far as he’d been able, and then further. Lying there, Armand tries to focus on what woke him up, and finally realizes that it’s the sound of someone knocking persistently on his door.

He struggles up onto his elbows, sweeps the room for the other kin, finds her gone. Good. Looking down at the sheets that lie pooled around his waist, he sees that they stained a violent crimson, large, smooth swathes of blood having seeped into the covers and mattress from a wound that had finally closed while he slept. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pulls the dank covers aside with distaste, and with an effort, pushes himself to his feet.

For a moment he simply stands there, hands on his hips, eyes cold, feeling some measure of strength grow in him, a small wisp of smoke rising from the smoldering ash of his rage. He takes a deep breath, straining his ribcage as he holds it, and then, quietly, lets it all escape as he moves towards the door, the knocking, pauses, and then opens it.

Dressed only in his black boxers, haphazardly cleaned of the black ichor that had drenched him and his own blood, a deep, ragged gash sweeping along his right ribs, vicious and snarled, another cut slicing over his right eye, the rest of his body marked with a multitude of lesser cuts and contusions, it is clear that the Ahroun has been badly mauled. Yet one can only guess at the condition of that which he faced.


Rachel Cavanaugh

Thu 01:18AM
Some of us have more interesting nights than others. Or... interesting in different ways. Who knows what it is Rachel Cavanaugh was up to last night, nor what she awoke to in the morning.

She certainly isn't telling.

Open the door and there she stands... glorious not in physical perfection, but in the use.highlight.accent of assets and turnaround.manipulation of flaws. Standing poised and fluid, she is snow falling... she is blanketing and chilling, while she still manages to burn. She is lovely to watch and tempting of play...
...stay there too long and you'll freeze.

Winter colour themes; her body with skin a creamy beige, light and fair... contrasted to hair dark and smooth as blackest satin. It falls loose this evening, styled straight and delectably wind tussled. Dressed tonight in... clubbing gear, really. An intricate drape-necked, halter-tied tank top made up of black beads and sequines... coming off as just shy of completely see-through. Enough covered for basic modesty... though more vigilant mothers might cover their sons eyes should they spot her on the street. Deep blue denim pants, low-riding and boot cut. Black leather boots peeking out beneath, heeled and increasing her average height.

Henna tribal designs dance along her artisan hands, up her slender forearms... one hand at one tapered hip, the other laying idly calm on the beaded slope of her stomache....

...eyes the green of olive-leaves in golden rays slide along his form. It may seem like an eternity, but its a mere moment... a breath in eternity. A blink, where she digests the wounds...

And, for once, she doesn't incline her head and murmer demure words of shadowy-respect and politeness. An instant of what just might be real concern flickers in that too-often unreadable gaze...

"Arma-- Mister Couvier..." That's the only slip, the only falter and then she's distancing. Her eyes going again unfathomable.. her low, breathy tones concerned, but in manner far more business orientated. "Do you require my assitence?"

A delicate, subtle motion of one hand... so feminine. So much spoken with so little motion, adept at the art of expressive, yet subtle body language.

Do you need to have your wounds tended to?


Armand

Thu 01:27AM
Armand takes a moment to drink her in, to let his eyes move up and down her body, sweeping up her curves and across the soft planes until they reach her eyes, at which point he shakes his head, pushes off from the door on which he was leaning his shoulder, and steps back into the apartment. As he moves away, she may notice that there are not cuts or wounds on his back. Also, that the door frame to her left is covered in thick and now dried black and red blood, as if something, bleeding profusely, had brushed against it hard when entering.

He moves into the circle of crimson couches, around the cirular black table and allows his body to fall on the furthest set, the one with their cushioned backs against the massive windows. Almost groaning with pleasure, he sinks into the soft embrace of the couch and lets his head lean back, his eyes closing for a moment as his muscular, savaged body relaxes. It is plain that he’s bleeding no more, but if she’s aware of her Full Blood lore, it is also plain that he’s not healing any in his breed form. Raising his bare feet, he crosses them on the table before him, his lower body clad in loose fitting white cotton pants, clean and clearly donned after whatever battle he engaged in. Clean, that is, except from the heavy cloud of dark red that tints the cloth around his right hip, directly below the recently closed cut on his ribs.

He raises his head and opens his eyes, looking at her as she enters, “Make me something to drink, will you Rachel? I don’t know what. Something warm. Something hot. Strong – spike it for me.” He lets his head fall back, the eyes closing once more.


Rachel Cavanaugh

Thu 01:44AM
She enters behind him (how symbolic, how fitting... or not), closing the door as she does so. Making note of the blood... on the door. On him and what was once clean clothing. The state of wounds and...
...a flex of one raven-wing eyebrow.
(why aren't you in a healing Form?)

Curious, now... no longer that moment of riptide concern. Curious, but she merely nods a silent assent at his request (command) and moves into the kitchen with the click.click.click of her heels along the tiles. Light. Smooth. She glides more than she walks and if she was barefoot, there would likely be no sound to mark her passing.

The sounds of domestic labour emerge from the area... light and passing. The smell of strong coffee brewing. The overtone of liquor. The soft click of ceramic mug to counter-top and wraithly carress of pouring out...

...in due course she is returning. Bringing him the mug, plumes of steam rising. Crouching down lightly - flowing motions of languid waters - she holds out the mug...

"Here." Soft spoken, southern lilt a magnolia-scented cadence.

Again her eyes sweep over him and, "Would it not be better for you to Shift?"

The question is idly asked, really. Driven, again, more by curiosity than concern, now. He is alive and would not be lounging about biding his time in healing if there was some immediate threat... right?
...perhaps he enjoys the discomfort...


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Thu 02:48AM
Black BMW M5. Capable of going 155mph - computer limited. The computer on this one has been hacked. The sky's the limit now.

Thankfully, Konrad doesn't go nearly so fast as that. He gets them there safely enough, him and his loving mate. Parks right in the middle of two spaces, pulls the handbrake, kills the engine and opens the door. One shoe crunches asphalt, and then the other. Konrad rises out to his full height.

And stretches, first. Leonine. Popping joints, loosening muscles.

Then, reaching into the back, he whisks his coat out and lays it over his shoulder. Circles around to unlatch the door, almost carelessly, for his companion. While she emerges, he slips into his coat - supple black leather, european cut, tailor-made, absolutely no studs or spikes - the lining slicking soft over a thin, dense-woven crewneck. A tug at the lapels adjusts the fall. Then he sweeps his hand out include Edyta into his sphere of being, his fingertips touching upon the base of her spine.

It looks like consideration.
It's more like claim.

"Let's go."

Inside, upstairs, down the hall, to the door. There's a buzzer there. Konrad looks at it for a moment, and then he raises a hand to knock instead.


Edyta

Thu 02:54AM
Nothing like a little Death in your life to make a girl Smile

Well, not that she was ever really smiling but perhaps something akin to it; a vague sense of amusement mixed into the faint dilation of pupils from the pull, tug and rub of material and movement against the fresh(ish) stitches along collar bone and into the meat of the shoulder. All of it trapped and frozen behind a veneer of glacial cool and empathic detachment that could give a person freezer burn.

(“Fucking her would be like humping a block of ice,” a Ragabash had quipped - - and turned up dead a week later…)

Long pale blond hair that was normally left to trail down the length of her back was pulled up in a loose rope and turned on itself to create a half-bunned pony tail loose at the nape of her neck and secured with a silver hair clip (… “Insurance?” he asked … “Fashion.” she replied …). Similar black (matte) leather pants that hugged long muscle toned legs, but at least not the pair that she had been wearing at the ass-crack of dawn this morning.

It was debatable as to whether she’d ever get the stench out of the other pair.
(at least not without ruining the material)

By technicality she belonged to Lukus Veles, otherwise known as Crushing Dragon’s Jaw, but in the eyes of the Ahroun she accompanied - - well, she was one of his many and varied possessions. His reaction to a mere wedding band had proven just how possessive said Ahroun was about his ‘things’ too.

She’d moved to pull on the specially tailored sleek black coat over the clinging black satin chemise (not need to cause too much aggravation) before leaving her apartment, howeverthe irritation had merely started to put her back into a foul mood and the last thing she needed was to be snappish at the already taunt Konrad. It let the bandaging tapped to the stitches on her shoulder show, but it wasn’t like she was making a fashion statement (she has a killer instinct, not wardrobe).

Without the coat it meant that she wasn’t wearing a holster (ouch), but that didn’t mean that she didn’t have other things stowed elsewhere…

Want to frisk me, beloved?

She waited beside Konrad after he knocked on the door, saying nothing and expression back into its blank neutrality.


Armand

Thu 02:57AM
The sound of the knocks echo through Armand’s loft, their brusque, powerful nature revealing much about the man behind the door. Not Gregory. Not the Aftershock – no – they would not be so forward now. No – this was somebody new, somebody intent on a first meeting, somebody of direct character, proud, forceful. All this flickers through Armand’s tired mind as he rises from the couch stiffly, disengaging himself from Rachel’s hand, coffee still in the other. Moving around the circular black coffee table, he slips out from the larger square of crimson couches that encircles it and moves towards the door, pausing only to look out the spyhole, and espying Edyta and some strange man, he concludes, Ah, the Ahroun.

He steps back as he swings the door inwards. Dressed only in white cotton drawstring pants, haphazardly cleaned of the black ichor that had drenched him and his own blood, a deep, ragged gash sweeping along his right ribs, vicious and snarled, another cut slicing over his right eye, the rest of his body marked with a multitude of lesser cuts and contusions, it is clear that the Ahroun has been badly mauled. Yet one can only guess at the condition of that which he faced.

His is a mature face, in its early thirties, all harsh planes and angles, softened now by fatigue and drawn by lingering pain. His hair, graying prematurely, is cut close to the scalp, barely longer than a fraction of a centimeter, and receding already from his forhead, emphasising the fierce and harsh features that gaze on the couple without.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Thu 03:07AM
The door opens.

On one side is Armand: a hardbitten face on a hardbitten man. A wanderer without home, seeking the best thing possible: sweet vengeance. Or that's what the rumors say.

On the other, Konrad. The Vrdoljiak. The high, wide cheekbones of Eastern Europe; the kingly brow and pitiless mouth of his family; eyes that were just a shade too light to be called hazel, that were all his own. Tawny, the better word for it. Animal.

These eyes flicker over Armand. At the same time, he inhales of the air. Every minute, every second, every instant, you shed parts of yourself into the atmosphere. Tiny molecules dissipating from you in concentric waves: these make up your scent, and these he draws in, tastes, even in this form. The strange and fierce eyes are narrowed slightly, as if in thought. Then a half-smile begins to tug at his hard mouth.

"I thought it might have been you." There's a note of satisfaction there. "It's a long road from the East. Still searching, are you?"


Edyta

Thu 03:09AM
Her eyes at best were on Armand’s lower lashes, never making pupil contact with a direct gaze - - something she seemed good at, as if after years of practice you can appear to be looking at someone politely (as is ordained in polite society) while not actually directly focusing on their eyes (never forget they are not Men, but Monsters in Men’s Clothing). She also didn’t gape or stare at the wounds, ghastly as they might be, because she’d seen them when they were worse. She’d seen the creatures that dealt the wounds and it wasn’t very impressive anymore.

Jaded Little Popsicle.

She inclined her head slightly, eyes dropping a fraction of an inch further, to Armand. A polite and silent acknowledgement and greeting. If she wasn’t sandwiched between the sheer amount of Rage (at her side/back and at her front/side) she might have even, given the adrenaline rush the Kills had given, asked the older Ahroun if he wanted to go kill something. After all - - as she’d said on the car road back to his place after the fight: “Well… that was fun.” And she’d meant it.

She and Konrad were something of a pair at least - - she was older than he was, but his Pure Breeding was stronger than hers would ever be. Like those fabled ‘lucky few’ they were also both attractive, which would make more than a few people on the streets huff and curse under their breath (although never directly - - not to that Rage) at Fate and Unfairness.

She remained between the Rage and seemed either not to notice or by will, to ignore it’s presence for the time being. Not a flicker of reaction to expression or eyes when Konrad espoused some knowledge of Armand. Everyone had their own little knowledges, secrets, contacts and histories. So be it. The feral little Ice Cat just stayed her place.


Rachel Cavanaugh

Thu 03:11AM
Rise.
Ingrained. Engineered like clockwork. Well oiled and finely tuned. She's been made. She's been created to fullfill a role. To suit a purpose. Left then to her own device. To run as she should (tick.tock).

Appearances.
Winter tones. Contrast play of hair of deepest ebony-toned satin. Midnight clothing, of modern detail. A halter-top of black beads and sequins, see-through enough to provoke (arouse), modest enough to become chic and modern rather than trampy and low. Deep blue denims, low riding, boot cut. Black leather boots, high and square of heel. All of it to bring out the creamy smoothness of her fair skin.

Watch.
She stands in the living room, among the crimson sofas. Eyes the colour of pointsettia (poison) leaves, hled up to a noon-day sun so the gold shines through. Luminous. The feral kiss of her bone structure.. she-wolf, feminine and supple. Pliable and shadowy. Feminine mystic. One hand at her beaded stomache... henna marked.

...a whisper of a caress of a hushed smile...


Armand

Thu 03:16AM
Armand gazes at Konrad for a moment, his brow furrowing as memories surge to the fore – and then his brow clears, and he laughs, a sharp, barking sound of amusement, his eyes suddenly gleaming, a swift change from their lackluster glaze from moments ago. Swinging his arm forwards to clasp Konrad’s arm in a warrior’s grip, he throws his other hand forwards, grabbing the Lord by the back of the neck and nearly dragging him into the loft, pulling Konrad’s shoulder into a tight squeeze against his chest, an affectionate gesture which he releases as he steps back to get a good look at the Garou.

“Konrad Vrodaljiak. I’ll be damned. Boy, it’s been nigh on three years. I thought you wouldn’t last this long.” His eyes study the youth, and then he nods with approval. “When Edyta had said an Ahroun was showing up, I never thought I’d be unlucky enough for it to be you.” He grins again, the expression feral, and then he turns and nods to the kin who walked in with the Ahroun, his expression retaining the warmth from his pleasure in seeing Konrad.

Turning, he nods towards Rachel. “Let me introduce you. This is Rachel Cavanaugh, owner of the Cavanaugh Estates, a haven for Lords in the city. Rachel, this is Konrad, an insolent pup I ran into in the Czech Republic a few years back.” Turning back, he studies the man, and shakes his head. “I take that back. A pup no longer. And this is Edyta, kin and also recently arrived.”


Edyta

Thu 03:26AM
There was barely a faint incline of her head to the other female Kinfolk, her movements following Konrad as he was pulled into the apartment by Armand’s lusty welcome, more that of a prowling predator: dangerous, sinister… liquid. For all her pale hair and olive complexion, the (drowning) blue of her eyes she conjured the idea of a panther than moved silently through the canopies of a jungle, following it’s prey with an almost otherworldly grace captured within a feminine physique.

She doesn’t fidget with her clothing, she doesn’t cross her arms and clench her hands; long slender arms rest at her sides with her hands loose (always ready). There was no perpetual motion to her, she was just there - a chilling, emotionally detached extension of the Rage-imbued Ahroun, Konrad.


Rachel Cavanaugh

Thu 03:28AM
The smile smooths. It lengthens. A small birthmark just at the left side of the indent of upper lip accenting the motion as she watches Armand greet the stranger with welcome affection. Old aquaintences. Tribe.

It seems to please her.
...a new strand to the weave...

Stepping forward, she inclines her head to Konrad first. THe gesture subtle, and yet within it she manages to show more respect and aknowledgement of heirarchy than most would even come close to mustering with the most sweeping and deep of prostration. Submission with dignity.. not aloofness.

"A pleasure, Monsieur Vrdoljiak. Edyta." Just as subtle, the nod to Edyta is polite and fully welcomeing... but not denoting of lowered status.

...wolves aren't the only ones skilled in the art of body language...

"Welcome to Charleston." Her words a souther-breeze, magnolia-scented. Low toned and naturally breathy. Evocative. Alluringly charming. French formailities flawlessly pronounced.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Thu 03:43AM
Something of a pair, at least. Different. Juxtaposed. She, sleekly blonde and oliveskinned. He, huskier, dark of hair, swarthy of skin. Complemented, because both have about them a careless sort of elegance. Arrogance. Attractiveness, yes - at least on paper. In life, one is too cold; the other, too untamed.

Something of a beast, Konrad. That cultured veneer could crack away any second and all that would remain is tooth and claw and night-black fur.

Pulled forward into Armand's grip, Konrad returns the embrace with a solid thump on the back and a kiss on the cheek (...europeans. don't gawk.) before putting his hands on the other's shoulder and stepping back. Konrad is grinning - toothily, which is the only way he ever grins.

"You thought that?" Surprisingly low and smooth, his voice, like good wine. A touch of class. Another layer to the disguise. "Shame on you."

A pup no longer, him. A true pup never, to be honest: a late changer, he was twenty-one before his beast ever surfaced. But even that was a blessing. He was the first of his family for a century and a half. He'll count his blessings. And strive for more.

Turn, then, to Rachel. Having stepped past the threshold, light falls beyond the dark lashes, touches the irises, makes them molten gold. These eyes click over the kinfolk, taking stock without shame, and when he has completed his inspection - and only then - does he smile again.

Smaller, this time. Gentle, but not reassuring. A nod in return. "Likewise. Thank you."

Returning to the full-blooded, "By the way. Accept my gratitude." A nod to Edyta. "For seeing her safely home."


Armand

Thu 03:52AM
Armand nods, his eyes flicking over to where Edyta stands before returning to Konrad. “It was my pleasure, Konrad. Is she yours?” The question asked with a certain studied curiousity – wondering into what waters Konrad may have immersed himself, to what degree this kin who was as wicked with her attitude as she was with her gun, may have got her claws in his friend.

Turning, he moves towards the kitchen, to the pot of coffee Rachel no doubt left simmering on the counter. “And no, I search no more. I finally found the last one this year. Spring. I left him nearly torn in half. It was strange; he was old, and cried at the end. But now I know peace.” This all said as he pours the coffee into two other cups, Rachel’s decision not to pour her own deciding his not pouring three. Looking down at the coffee, swirling and steaming below him, he seems to lose himself for a moment in his memories, no doubt Konrad’s sudden presence and his fatigue summoning them to the fore with strange intensity. Shaking his head, he takes the cups up and emerges from the small kitchen once more, extending the coffee to Konrad and Edyta.

“No, I search no more. I’ve decided to settle down, make a name for myself. No longer will I hunt in shadows. I’ve actually begun to create a new pack. Something I thought I’d never do. This Sept is weak, without leaders. A strong pack should have little trouble in picking up the reins.” Raising his coffee to his lips, he watches Konrad with interest.


Edyta

Thu 03:55AM
…for seeing her safely home…

She’d actually found her own way home (thank you very much), given the state of the Ahroun, but she wasn’t able to quibble on details. Whatever a Kinfolk did, it would always be the Full Bloods that had the reward. Look at Renown; it was merely the way the culture was structured. She’d had her attention fixated on a point of a far wall, a distanced look to the attention she paid to her surroundings (missing nothing, but seeming to see nothing), but her look slid sideways at Konrad when he spoke, moved as smoothly to Armand shortly thereafter before finding that spot on the wall again.

Perhaps she could have tried to initiate small talk with Rachel, but now was hardly the time (the Men were Talking), nor did she have much to say in the way of pleasantries… After all, it was a condition of their agreement that Konrad would, to an extent, protect her from her own charm.

Or more, the lack thereof.

She had the tact of a brick most times and had the ‘audacity’ to not even make it a ‘gift wrapped’ one. She lid her stance a little, resting more weight on one leg than the other for a moment, adjusting her balance with smooth, minute movements and rolled her left (good) shoulder slightly to ease the tension along the edge of her spine. She should have had more painkillers. Maybe a bucket (literally) load more wine. The stitches almost itched and the skin was still slightly inflamed, indignant over the wound inflicted therein.

But Pain was Life.

And it let you know that you were still Alive.

She takes the mug of coffee from Armand with her right hand, pulling at the stitched wound with a slight tightening around her eyes, but otherwise no noise of pain. Indeed, maybe the little Popsicle Cat enjoyed the sensation - - or she was a glutton for punishment.

”Thank you,” she said, reflexive politeness in the company of Full Bloods, but her voice without a trace of accent and tone as neutral as steel.


Rachel Cavanaugh

Thu 03:59AM
Again, the whisper of a nod that speaks volumes for those who know to see. No more spoken, for two Garou have met once more....

...and you speak when spoken to, don't you dear?
You come when you are called.

Among the humans she could no doubt dominate a room with the snow-kissed touch of matrons of the old world. Here there is no such need and she stands at ease... at the ready. But not in the martial, predatory fashion of Edyta's grace...
...her's is a silent, calm promise. Of growth and use and Spring to Come. The patience of Winter. The revitilization of Spring, in green eyes. The shadow-play of more (hidden to all present) in hair deep as midnight.

The only weapon for a woman is poison.
Amen.

Coffee is served. She receives none and shows no sign of disturbance at this. As pointed out: had she wanted any, she would have poured herself some when she made it.

Then, "If you will excuse me." Directed to Armand - a rise of one raven-wing eyebrow in the direction of the kitchen were, apparently, she intends to go. Barring his stopping her, she inclines her head once more to Konrad.... Edyta. So fetchingly. So charmingly. So dignified. So supple.

And moves to the kitchen where, soon enough, the sounds of water running and - presumably - clean up can be heard.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Thu 03:59AM
Konrad lets Edyta precede him into the room, not as a wolf might allow his alpha but as a man might shepherd his belongings. As he follows behind, casual, his eyes move over the interior. The couches. The lamps. The placement. The windows. A hand pushes itself into his hair and massages the scalp gently. Then he doffs his jacket, leaving it carelessly over the nearest available seatback.

This done, his hand remains on the coat a moment. He returns Armand's curiosity with a level, quiet look. A pause.

"Yes. There has been a small misconception on the issue," a glance toward the woman in question, "but it will soon be cleared."

The shirt beneath the coat is spotlessly white, the slacks charcoal-grey. They fit like they were tailored, the former draping heavy and thin over the shape of broad upper chest, powerful shoulders, the latter skimming the length of leg. He cuts a casual and arresting figure in a spacious apartment suddenly seeming too small for so much rage.

Bring two garou together and their rage does not sum together. It multiplies.

Keen hunter's eyes follow Armand into the kitchen, and out again. He accepts a mug with a murmured thanks: respect the territory of another. For Armand's curt tale of his search's end he has no words. For the rest, however, he has his quietly inhuman amusement, the somehow unsettling smile that so easily comes to his lips. "Oh? One might think you were making a proposal of a sort." A beat. "Are you?"


Armand

Thu 04:01AM
to Konrad Vrdoljiak: Couvier lives high. On the twenty first floor, to be exact, of the tallest residential high-rise in the city. Corner loft, glass walls, massive and thick, clear as a dream and revealing the whole of the city, spread out far below, a pulsing skein of steel and light, the sky illimitable, dominating, righteous and total. It’s an eyrie, not a loft, a perch spearing high into the firmament, a crows nest from which the Shadow Lord looks down on seemingly all of Creation.

The front door opens into what may be called the living area; the center of the loft is dominated by a low, circular table, lacquered black with a slender glass vase placed in its center, white orchids rising delicately into the air. Around this table, curving sinuously with breaks for people to enter and sit, is a large, crimson sofa, two capital L’s, interlocking, soft and enveloping. The far sofa is set flush against the massive window, the cityscape always visible to those walking in the door.

The left arm of the sofa curls around from the window directly ahead and down along a glass wall that extends perpendicularly towards the left of the front door. The glass wall is frosted, and a narrow opening immediately to the left, flush with the wall in which the front door is placed, leads into the bathroom. To the right of the crimson couches, in the far right corner of the loft is the kitchen. A short bar of black granite divides the kitchen from the couch area – two stools are placed before it for dining or simply drinking as the cook works. The kitchen itself is modern, aggressively so, the appliances made of stainless steel, pans and pots hanging from an iron rack suspended on chains from the ceiling, a multitude of oils, vinegars and other liquids arrayed next to the modern four stove top.

The bed is placed to the hard right of the front door, at 3 o’clock if you will, the foot of the bed immediately visible, the headboard pressed flush against the right wall. Sheets of black are covered with a thin, charcoal gray blanket. A twin bed, flanked by bookshelves, the sheets tightly made.


Armand

Thu 04:07AM
Armand is about to answer, when his cell phone rings. Frowning, he moves over to the bed, and pulls the blood drenched sheets over to one side, revealing the ichor stained cell. Raising his hand to his guests in apology, he flips the thing open, turning his back and lowering his head as he speaks in muted tones. A few moments pass and then he nods his head, closes the phone and drops it on the bed.

Turning back to the others, he comes forwards, downing the hot coffee with a grimace. “That was my packmate, Sleeper Child. A Silent Strider No Moon with a truly wicked tongue. I need to go, but we should meet, Konrad, and discuss this further. Agreed?”


Edyta

Thu 04:10AM
You’d think that anyone with an semblance of a personality or freewill would protest the way that the Ahrouns were speaking (and regarding) the females in their presence, as if they were possessions and nothing more than that.

But sadly, it was the truth.
And Women’s Lib would choke if they realized that the women were trained to their behavior.

Then again, no one on Women’s Lib needed to worry about their companions having a fit and turning into a proverbial shredding machine.

She was within a foot or two of Konrad, just standing and if she didn’t make the occasional shift of weight or twitch of muscle to relax a knot or strain, she may as well not have been there (or living at least - - just another piece of furniture).


Armand

Thu 04:11AM
Armand nods. "Agreed. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready." Shepherding Konrad and Edyta towards the door, he pauses as the other exits, stopping him with a hand on the shoulder.

"It's good to see you, Konrad."

And then the hand drops, an approving nod, and the door closes.