(konrad)
The grounds are spacious, full of light, lovely; the house that crowns it all, doubtlessly even more so. Through all this the Shadow Lord strides. Versace sunglasses in gunmetal grey. Dark-olive shirt, platinum tie. Black suit, falling from his powerful shoulders in sleek, crisp lines with just a touch of Latin style. There's nothing Latin about the face, though: flat, harsh bones, strong nose, high and wide cheekbones. Pure East European. Pure Czech wolf-king.

He inhales the light.

Coming up the front veranda, he undoes the coat with a thoughtless glance of the hand. That same hand comes up and knocks, firmly, on the door.


(rachel)
The most stunning attribute about the Cavanaugh Estate isn’t so much its size – that over the over all grounds nor that of the home itself – as it is the surprise of it. Nestled among tall barriers of trees, hedges, and ivy laden stonework walls in what was once the outskirts of the city; now engulfed by outlying apartment complexes, shopping areas, homes and businesses, lays a ‘hidden garden’. Step onto the front drive and the home itself, while not at all imposing in size, gives off the feel and vibration of stepping suddenly into Provance. A home of sand/soft peach coloured brickwork, dominated with sweeping French windows and subtle scrollwork ornamentation. Cultured front lawn with beds of perennials and thick, velvet (soft…fragrant) rose vines creep and beckon. Magnolia trees, not so common in this part of the South as they are in those states nearer the Gulf, spread their shade and the last scents of blossoms come late in the year. Abnormally late…

…but the Cavanaugh’s, you see, have the Touch; the Green Touch.

From the front of the estate, facing the house, you are facing the East. Sunrise. Towards the North lies a building as large as, if not larger than, the home itself. A giant Greenhouse from the looks of it, in fact several smaller greenhouses, a hothouse, a still room… the Green Touch indeed. You cannot see the Garden itself from this vantage point. From the looks of the grounds before and around the home proper, one might expect something pristinely cultivated. Everything prim and proper, grasses kept cropped short and lushly green. Nature, but nature in the manmade sense. Nature inhibited. Is that what the Shadow Lord visitor will see if and when he comes upon the Garden? Would that not be so typically…. human?

He knocks upon the French double doors, white and clean, and…
…nothing happens. A moment passes…. two…. three… four

“Bonjour, Monsieur Vrdoljiak." The voice is more than pleasant. It is pleasurable. Breathy and low in the way of women when they were raised up to use their gender as their greatest asset. Tempered by a soft, supple dignity of proper upbringing. A sound that is sexual in its gender-strength, but too passively polite to be pornographic. Scented Southern breezes, she comes with the smell of Jasmine in her midnight hair; with the cooling caress of palm fronds in her Grace Kelly walk; with the satin smoothness of orchid petals in her voice. From the North. From the greenhouse complex, down a stepping stone path that cruises the lawn as though earth was water.

When he met her that night in Armand’s apartment (so modern, so sterile, so hard-edged-fierce compared to these surroundings) she’d been decked out in clothes best suited for an up-scale club. Black halter-top, tantalizingly close to see-through made up of jet beads and sequins. Pliable, soft, fit-as-a-glove low riding leather pants, hair styled straight and long, shimmering in a manner to put Pantene Pro-V commercials to shame. Today, however, she is far more subtly dressed. A button down shirt of deep purple hue; fitted to her form but casual in the unbuttoned roll of the cuffs and likewise undone top three buttons of the collar. Cleavage is not shown; save she should bend over just right… but would she? Even in more revealing attire there is a subdued sense of control in her sexuality. All that come-hither femininity kept at a distance. Like serene snowfall, she is cool and delicate – but welcoming and soft, as opposed to a winter of chill, harsh winds or barren tundra. Dark blue denim pants, boot-cut… barefoot, her toe-nails clean polished in nude tone to match the natural French manicure of her trim, well-kept hands.

Hands which are holding a pair of gardening gloves and a ball of beige-coloured twine.

She is smiling, lips curved up in welcome. Welcome as said hushed-falling, blanketing snowfall… the sort one cozies up to with a mug of hot chocolate or walks through hand in hand with a lover. Eyes the green of olive-leaves held up to the noonday sun; luminous with gold flecks – they slide over him upon her approach, but remain respectfully away from his direct gaze as she speaks.

“You honour my Families Estate with your coming.” Regal words… old-world words and you’d expect her to curtsey, but instead she inclines her head in subtle motion that somehow (how –does- she do it?) manages to convey just as much respect – if not more – than most would ever achieve with a full-out bow. “I hope you have not been waiting long. At this time of day all on the property are more likely to be found within the Green Rooms,” A flowing gesture of her right hand in the direction of the greenhouse complex. “Or within the Gardens proper.”

She stands comfortably, poised in a tangible serenity of being as-one with ones surroundings. Likely she was born and raised here… likely she expects to die here. If such is the case, she couldn’t seem more content – at peace – with such a destiny. For all her placid air, however, there is the wolf-mark upon her. It shimmers just below the surface in the unconscious shift of her stance, the maneuvering of body-weight that has nothing to do with martial training and everything to do with inborn sense. The lines of her face that define and rule… yes, there is the essence of a matron she-wolf about her. A hunter; though not in the ways of Edyta, to be sure.

More so is the sense – the mere inkling beneath it all - that he sees these things… because she is allows him to.

“How might I be of service, monsieur?”


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Thu 02:18AM
In the time he's waited he has not been idle. Though at first he watches the door for signs of its opening, soon enough he turns his back and looks upon the sundazzled front lawn, the carefully trimmed boxwoods and flowerbeds, the magnolias unfurling over it all. Through his sunglasses everything takes on an ochreish tone, apocalyptic: the rot that lines beneath the flourish.

Her speaking to him causes him to raise his chin a fraction of a degree, though it's another second before he turns to her. A smooth arc of one swarthy hand pulls the sunglasses off. The light falls into his eyes, the lashes casting jagged black shadows into a pool of molten amber, filigrees of a brighter gold threading through the irises in spiking circles. The pupils are constricted but still large: a wolf's eyes, incapable of mercy, and they sweep over her with neither shame nor hurry.

Tonight the moon is full. His rage is a steady trickle into the air. At ten yards it slides insidious and unnerving beneath the skin. At arm's reach, it will saturate the very air she breathes.

The large Ahroun watches her for a moment, the proper words spoken, the proper submission given. When she is finished, there is a measure of rest. Then Konrad laughs, his hands coming up to applaud her slowly: once, twice, three and four times.

"A very pretty performance. My accolades to your family."

Three steps takes him off the veranda. He has a certain lithe loosejointed way of moving, a purposeful and controlled asymmetry. When he walks his shoulders sway, the way a wolf's might when he paces with his four large paws.

Three more steps takes him close enough to her that she can see the beginnings of stubble shadowing his jaw. He slips the sunglasses into his inner jacket pocket and nods toward the house.

"Armand is inside?"


Rachel Cavanaugh

Thu 02:34AM
Rage burning strong. A pregnant moon, filled up with the need of release... release. A cherished burden to be expelled, then nurtured and tended...

...or abandoned to the wayside. Wild and unfettered. Dangerous.

But nature isn't made up of perfect Mothers.

He applauds her in manner far removed from respect or earnestness but she shows no signs of surprise.. no inkling of being perturbed. Such is the norm among this tribe and, if anything, her lips seem to curve up ever-so-slightly-more...

...she is indeed well aware of the fine job her family did in raising her. And all of the lovely (poisonous flora and fauna are often times the loveliest) Cavaunaugh's before her.

Again that subtle-perfection, the inclination of her head, to the side now rather than just downward. His proximity no doubt sets her blood rushing (to run. to serve. to meld. to mold. to submit. to soar.) but she shows little, if any, sign of it. Too cultured, too trained for all that.

"Our gratitude for your accolades." The glove in her hand she slips beneath the waist of her jeans, a sublime motion. Balanced between the art of unconcious display of natural form and stintilating modesty of naught revealed. Her words delicately chosen, the meaning clear enough for those who wish to see: Our thanks, she says. For it is she who now speaks for the Cavanaugh's of Charleston.

The ball of twine she begins to wrap up, motions likewise timelessly practiced to the point of unthinking grace. A mild arching of one raven-wing eyebrow, then a shake of her head. Body language never in excess but forever highly readable to the wolfen kind. Portraying both the negative response that will come to his query... and the continued (proper) tone of respect and submission.

...so distant, yet so warmingly near...

"And no, Monsuier Vrdoljiak. Monsuier Couvier is not within."

Perhaps he does not come here. Perhaps he does, but he is simply out at the moment. Whatever the case, she doesn't clarify.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Thu 02:46AM
"Our?" His mouth tilts. It's a smile, but wholly unreassuring, feral in its total lack of human humor, at the heart of which lies human compassion.

Human compassion is alien to him. He was born into this form, but sometimes it seems he knows the pulse of the wild, the rush of the snowhunt, and the spurt of blood and the last kick of the prey - a thousand times better. "You are the highest of your family in this city?"

Deep inhale, broad chest filling out. His gaze drops, a predator following motion. He stops her hand with a firm pressure of fingers upon her wrist, before she can tuck her gloves into her waistband.

No feints. No dancing around the subject. Just a question. "Are you his?"


Rachel Cavanaugh

Thu 03:00AM
"Our." Repeated. Such a tangibly silken speaking voice. A voice for radio, to be sure. That lilt of a smile not leaving her lips, never smug yet never (that he's seen, that he's seen) shaken. He can smell fear, and her Jasmine laced odour lacks the pugent quality of it. But her body language remains, as before submissive...
...with dignity.
A fine, dangerous line to walk the balance between the willful dignity to serve and plotting haughtiness.

She walks that wire extremely well.
...imagine the books her family piled on her head to ensure it...

"I am the head of the Cavanaugh's of Charleston, yes." Poised. Sure. For all that his keen sense can tell him, she is placing not just herself, but her entire family here in the city, before him as a collective asset to be utilized.

...so much spoken in the merest bare cadence of the subtle place of muscle, tone, sinew and word.

His hand stills hers and there is no protest. There is the sinewy tautness of awerness, then seemless on it's heels the pause of motion to suit his silent (not to be confused with subtle) command.

"That would be for him to say, Vrdoljiak-Rhya." Not a flutter, not a falter. Not the merest indication of unease or uncertainty before her response. Serious in that velveteen-tone of hers.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Thu 03:13AM
He nods his understanding. A glance over her head (he is taller than her by several inches; he is some two or three inches over six, and confident in his height) at the house with its pretty curtains and stately facade, as though he expects to see her brethren peering from the windows. He doesn't, really. He knows they're too well bred for that. No Garou in her family, then, if a [mere] kin is made head of the family. No powerful men, either.

"And how many more accompany you?"

Then a chink in the perfection presents itself, and his attention snaps back to her. Crackle. There's a storm in the gold, an electricity charged in the fires of rage. "No. Not Rhya. That is for Garou with rank. You are kin. You have no rank."

Her wrist caught in his hand: it's the scent of her fear that will betray her. It's the spiking of her pulse against his hot palm, and both he expects. Welcomes. There is a line between bravery as befitting a kin to Thunder, and stupidity.

"Call me Konrad," he finishes, and with a surprising and deceptive gentleness, places her hand back at her side, the glove still held. "And a word of advice. Don't tempt me when the moon is full."

Hold.
Burn.
Release.

Look to the house. "Does he come here at all, then?"