Étaín
It's late afternoon on a Monday, and thus Étaín is done with work for the day and on her way home by way of one of her favorite neighborhoods. There's a certain coffee shop, arguably one of the best in Denver, on which a mural is painted - and it's on the patio outside of such that she sits now, basking up the heat and sun while it lasts. Her Earl Grey latte (a long-time favorite) and muffin sit beside her.
It's a good day for her. She may have grown up in Colorado, but like so many she perks up when the weather takes a turn for the nice.
BlackIt's warmer, so Black has shed layers of clothing. Dickie black shorts, knee length, and a white tshirt. His socks are low cut and barely noticeable against the tennis shoes he's wearing. He's sporting a mustache, his hair cut close to the scalp all around and the top left long, flopping to one side and untouched by anything but his fingers when he woke up at wherever he slept.
He almost passes up the coffee shop and the kin, but something catches his eye (maybe it's the mural) and he stops, noticing Etain, and alters his direction to head toward her.
" 'ey." He says in greeting.
Étaín
It's been a few months, perhaps a year, but for whatever reason it's unlikely to have been longer than that; since those first meetings in Scotland and New York, Étaín has changed quite a bit and not at all. Ciarán has seen her at home in 'your Fort Collins', in California, in any number of places and spaces, but none were quite like this. Today, his kinswoman is dressed like a 'responsible adult' in a smart-cute skirt suit as if she's just come from work . . .
. . . which she has, quite frankly. She still smells like the office, like other people and animals layered over and under and through her own scent, her own Breeding.
She's given up on being surprised when Ciarán appears in her life, and instead turns towards the familiar voice, already twinkling with pleasure. "Hey. How're you?"
BlackHe smiles at her, rests the palm of his hand on the top of her head, letting it drift away as he takes the seat opposite her and sprawls out on it, elbows pushed out and propped on the arms of the chair, the fingers of both hands lazily threaded together over the flat of his stomach. Black just stairs at the kin for a solid minute before he smiles and nods at her.
"Guid, hoo hae ye bin? Whit ur those clase yoo've gotten yerself in?" He asks casually.
Étaín
It's amusing, perhaps, that while Ciarán has grown more likely to touch, Étaín has grown less so; it's not propriety or anything ridiculous like that, but 'growing up' . . . which, really, is both more and less ridiculous than propriety. The Garou across from her has seen her ecstatically happy and in love, and he's seen her in the wake of it ending - it was that that sped and cemented the change. She's still tactile, still prone to random physical contact, but there's less obvious affection. Even with as open as she is, Étaín gives less of herself away these days.
"I've been alright," she answers, "busy, you know. These clothes? Just work stuff." It's given with a shrug, that last. "It's gorgeous out. Maybe spring's finally here for real."
BlackHe doesn't comment on her lack of outward affection. Just watches her with that dark eyed stare that gleams with both violence and mischief - a lethal combination of things to be bound up in one man. "Reit, yoo're workin' wi' th' animals." He clarifies for himself. A woman skirts past them, a waitress, and he waves her off with one hand. He doesn't bother smiling, it only sets them on edge worse.
"Sprin' will come when she's guid an' ready an' nae afair." Etain is reminded. He nudges her with the toe of his tennis shoe. "Yoo're aff tae haem 'en?"
Étaín
"Hush, you. We used to light Beltane fires on the farm, sometimes do rites, when Mom was still there. Maybe I'll find some to go to this year, to help urge things along."
It's a little teasing, that, and given how he's come to know her over the handful of years since their first meeting, it's not at all difficult to imagine her celebrating the coming of spring in the Old Ways in any number of capacities. Since the beginning, she's seemed to have ties to that sort of mythos.
"I'll be on my way home after my tea and muffin, yeah. Where are you headed? Are you in town for long?"
BlackHe shrugs at her, non-committal as always. Just as quickly as he sat though he's standing, gathering feet beneath him and bending at the waist to press his mouth to the top of her head.
"Th' Carey's hae a Beltane celebration. it's a fin time. i've got tae be aff noo, we'll spick suin hen."
And just as easily as he drifted into her afternoon, he drifts out.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Thursday, April 18, 2013
To Be Continued [NYC, Retro circa June 2009]
Étaín
I've got the magic in me
Every time I hit that track it turns into gold . . .
Welcome to finals week in a college area - near the end thereof, a Friday night when almost everyone is done and looking to blow off steam. Everywhere are kids in their late teens and early twenties looking like the weight of the world has been lifted from their shoulders. Everyone is triumphant or devestated, and there's very little in between. As may well be expected, Étaín is on the upper end of this scale; she's fairly certain that she's finished her time at Columbia with a 4.0 or better, knows that Davis is waiting for her at the end of the summer and that between now and then, the amazingness of a season at home waits for her.
Everyone knows I've got the magic in me
When I hit the flow the guys come snappin' at me . . .
This is, perhaps, why she's been coaxed (without much effort, it should be said; it's one of the kin-girl's favorite ways to spend an evening and into the morning, after all) out to a college bar that boasts a karaoke night. It's crowded as such places are wont to be at such times, but not painfully so. It's not exactly a trendy hot spot, this place; were it not for the students and their money, chances are good it would be nothing more than a hole-in-the-wall dive.
As it is, though, there she is when Black walks in; the hair is cut similarly but a bit shorter (it's only been months, after all), the clothes are casual-cute, and she snaps with that same fire [magic] he'd witnessed before. In all truth, there isn't a better song she could sing (she does have a partner doing the rap parts, naturally). And that she's singing it now, when he walks in for the second time? Fancy that. If it happens twice, it'll be a theme.
Having finished the song, Étaín replaces the mic in its stand and heads for the bar; it's warm for early-mid-June in New York, and she's wearing a couple layers of contrasting tank tops, more jewelry than usual (more funky-fun than expensive), jeans, and cowboy boots. It's far more of her than Black saw before, though she's certainly towards the modest end.
"Beer, shot of whiskey," she calls to the bar tender. "I'm done with finals!"
Soon enough she has drinks in hand, and her attention turns to the crowd, watching and listening. In short, it's a fun night out.
Black
Come to the bar with us, the kin said. It'll be fun, she said. When the group he's with - and it is a group, 2 more wolves other than Black and 3 female kin - push through the front door of the bar the space between those four walls becomes a vacuum the combined Rage and other-worldliness makes it hard to breathe or think or do much of anything but maneuver your way to a part of the bar where they aren't. It's warmer, Spring, and so everyone has shed layers of clothing for comfort and he's no different: white tshirt, faded jeans and scuffed up boots that look like Doc Marten's but are probably something far less popular and expensive. His hair is longer, the sides shorter though the top and middle are longer, braided down the back of his neck.
He doesn't see her at first, his attention is on the company he's currently keeping as they head for the bar. One palm drags down his face and he nods to the bartender and orders a pint - or whatever it is that passes for such in America - and begins to scan the crowd, then the length of the bar.
Pause.
His mouth splits into a wide grin but he doesn't move at first, he's waiting on his beer after all.
Étaín
To the kins' defense, it is fun. Everything about this particular bar tonight (and many others in the vicinity of NYU and Columbia this time of year) screams of people who really just want to let go. When Ciarán catches sight of Étaín is about the time she's tossing back her shot of light honey colored liquid, a full beer (yes, real pints - and a pretty decent beer list too, as far as dive bars go) in her free hand. She's at the other end of the bar, and though she'd felt something when he and his friends came in - a change in pressure, in mood, not necessarily the force of Rage itself yet - she's hardly expecting it when she turns to find a spot in the crowd and her eyes meet his.
It's just like that, yes, across a crowded room and everything - complete with answering grin. It could be a scene in a movie. There's an amused puff of air that pushes an ill-advised shag of bangs out of her eyes, and then she's weaving towards him, giving polite nods (and curious looks) to his companions before her attention snaps back to Ciarán.
It's just like that, yes.
"Hey," she says, with a little wave of fingers - an invitation and not. It's different here, in her world, than it had been on the moors of Scotland that couple of hours months ago, and the same, too. "It's really you, right? I'm not just talking to someone who looks like you."
Drunker than that night, then, but still functioning. She's Fianna, after all, and Ciarán and his packmates know it without her telling.
Black
"Awrite hen, hoo hae ye bin?" He asks, unwedging himself from between one of the other wolves and a little dark haired female. One arm is tattooed, not quite a full sleeve but enough so that there's more ink than flesh visible. The warmth of his palm rests against her cheek and he grins, reaching back to grab hold of his pint and continue to move forward toward Étaín.
"I've nae mit Gaia yit, Ah hiner ye feel better abit it." He hasn't grown in height but his body has become stronger. Muscles are corded beneath tan flesh, obvious beneath the cotton of his short sleeved shirt.
Étaín
Étaín is, but for the haircut, as she was then - six inches or so shorter than he is and lean but shapely. Much as she was that night on the moors, she's comfortable in her skin and the company (thankful that Ciarán's making himself a wall between her and the other Garou, perhaps, but she'd call anyone who said anything about it a liar), at home. She fits well anywhere, does Étaín. She bends, and doesn't break.
"I didn't really think I'd see you again, whatever happened with . . . your trip. It's kind of a long shot, isn't it? But I'm glad you're well."
Her skin, at least what he can see, is unmarred but by freckles - a surprising amout of them splattered across the pale skin of her shoulders and chest, matching those new ones that have appeared on her face with the jucicious application of sun.
"Nice ink. I was thinking of getting one before going home - just something little, though. A pretty lighthouse, here."
Her empty hand rises to point at a spot at the top of her back, between her shoulderblades and right below the nape of her neck. One might not that she hasn't pulled away from his hand on her cheek in this process and though her polite nods were all the kinfolk with Ciarán and his pack had gotten, the Garou are afforded more attention. It's careful, a bit wary; she doesn't know much about the True as a whole, after all, let alone these people. She's friendly, certainly, but on her guard.
(The lighthouse is, perhaps, a fitting idea. Kin are - and people like she, especially, are - lights to lead Garou home, to keep them from drowning amongst the rocks.)
Black
"Aam havin' th' trip, went tae Irelain 'en hud tae come tae new york fur business wi' th' nation." His grin never fades but the touch at her cheek does fall away as she reaches back to point out the spot where she'd like to get her own bit of ink in her skin. "Ah see, it'll hurt ye ken hen. a lot ay nerves an' tender spots thaur." His beer is drawn to his mouth and he lifts a shoulder in the faintest of shrugs. Where she is fair and freckled and delicate, he is sturdy and strong and dark (befitting his name) and tan. He doesn't exactly look like a Scotsman and would probably be labelled Black Irish before a Scots.
"Aam glad yoo're daein' guid. ye swatch weel, nae bairn fur ye yit?" Is said with the slightest of mischievous grins. His eyes track the movement of the crowd within the bar, watching groups move away while others made of stronger stuff move closer to get their spirits.
"Whit is it yoo're skitin'?"
Étaín
There's an amused roll of her eyes and teasing swat at the question about babies; goodness knows how long it's been since a 'regular girl' (which Étaín isn't by any estimation but her own, one imagines) was capable of acting so with him. "No babies, no pregnancy. I told you, they aren't in the plan for awhile yet - not until I'm at least twenty-five."
Asking what she's drinking reminds her that she does, indeed, have a drink in her hand and that she's thirsty; it's downed admirably before she answers. "Brooklyn Dry Irish Stout. It's local - you want one? I'm celebrating my rapidly nearing graduation."
Black
He lifts the bottle of beer in his hand and grins, tipping it up for a drink. "Nae, still hae some left." His chin lifts and to one of the other wolves with him he yells something over the dirge of music and voices all around them that sounds something like, I'll be back. Étaín can feel his arm stretch and his palm slide down the curve of her spine to the small of her back, urging her toward the back patio of the bar itself so that they can sit and drink and talk in silent. If he was with one of the girls that accompanied them, it isn't apparent because he leaves her standing there while he walks away.
At the first empty table outside he tugs a chair out for her and then takes his own, legs stretched as he sprawls in the chair. Dark brown eyes focus in on her face and he stares for a long moment then nods. "Odd tae meit ye haur, isnae it? Ah hadnae thooght a lot abit it afair seein' ye standin' at th' bar." Leaning back in the chair his eyes casually watch people come and go, not nodding or smiling politely but staring with cool dark eyes.
Étaín
Before allowing herself to be steered out, Étaín calls out for another beer; only once it's in her hand do they head outside. That's where the smokers have congregated, naturally, given bans on such in most public places in the city, but it doesn't take long for them to clear out upon seeing someone like Ciarán in their midst - not that any of them know anyone like the Ahroun, but still. It doesn't take much for herd animals to sense a hunter.
There, though, there's the streetlight hitting Étaín's hair, bronzing it, filling it with sparkles and stars.
"I hadn't thought about it either," she says honestly. "And it is pretty strange. The world's a big place and New York is a big city. I'm not complaining, though! It's good to see you." And it is, that much is obvious - there's a contentment, a satisfaction that hadn't been there even in her obvious happiness and relief to be done with school for awhile. "What about you? Are you sowing your wild oats while you're on walkabout?"
Black
"Ay coorse." He says, legs stretched and body sprawled over the chair. His posture is horrible, spine curved, the beer hanging loose and perilous from two fingers being drawn to his mouth lazily when he thinks about wanting a drink.
"Hae ye mit onie other true born?" The question is posed casually, dark brown eyes shimmering in the faint light, his line of sight trailing along after a group of college boys who've decided the inside is better than the outside now that Black is in it.
Étaín
"Not that I know of, but I don't really have a radar for it or anything. It's just . . ." Here, a cute wrinkle of her nose, almost apologetic. "You're kind of obvious. Not because of what you do or say or whatever but . . ."
Étaín, whose posture is actually very good and who doesn't often trail off into nothing shrugs, unsure how to word it. She'd told him those months ago that she didn't know much, and she hasn't tried particularly hard to change that yet. She doesn't know how to articulate what it is that makes him different, makes him stand out as a predator amongst sheep. (Really, she just hopes she doesn't look as intimidated and wary as the normal people who've gone inside and left them alone do. She can't imagine that makes people feel good, being run away from.) There's a sip of her beer, then, which she's drinking slower now; she may not be afraid or wary on the same level as the more garden variety humans are, but she's fairly certain further dulling her senses isn't necessarily a good idea.
This isn't because she doesn't trust or like Ciarán, mind, but because things happen and this is still foreign ground for her.
"Are they . . . I mean, I've heard stories, you know. I don't know how much is true and how much isn't. Nothing . . . really bad, and you're nice enough. I guess it'd be nice to know what to expect."
Black
"Whit ur these stories yoo've heard hen? We're aw th' sam as ye, an' yoo've got it guid as far as tribes gang. Fianna cherish their kin, treat them huir uv a braw." His words roll smoothly together, one flowing into the next with the unconscious rolling of his tongue. The tone of his voice is a deep, rich sound: half-growl, half sing-song.
"Ur ye back aff tae yer Fort Collins suin?" It is worth noting that this all seems to interest Black greatly. Just as when she had wrinkled her nose he seemed captivated by the nuance, smile briming wide across his handsome face. The bottle is brought to his mouth, tipped up and drained before he leans back in the chair and drops it in the nearby garbage bin.
Étaín
"Oh, I don't know. Stuff about how - well, yes, that Fianna are amongst the best with and to their kin, but that's not always saying much. That the less moon that shows . . . I'm not sure if that's for when you're born or when you change. Which is it, please? . . . the less temper - no, worse than temper - is an issue as a general rule, but it's always there and one should keep that in mind. That some are haunted and mystical-magical, some are the harshest judges there are, some are talesingers," that explains that, then, "some are born fighters - well, that they all are, you all are, to varying extents - some are tricksters. Mostly, it just kind of sounds like different sorts of people until you get to the shape shifting part."
There's a pause then, and a bit of reluctance before she adds, "Also that there are claimings that aren't the same as weddings but may or may not involve them, depending on what the . . . Trueborn one wants. And that sometimes it's like the fifties and sometimes it's practically prehistoric and sometimes it's almost like everyone else. I asked some questions after I met you - my dad knows more than he told, but I don't know how much. And I don't know who else to ask, and he seemed kind of bitter about some of it, so I didn't want to press. I made him dinner instead."
There's all that, gotten off her chest in a somewhat nervous, rapid fire way; she doesn't want to give insult, but, well. Clearly she's been pretty well protected from this part of her heritage. Then there's the question about if she's headed home and when, and the smile that answers it is bright shining as the sun. Her family may have its problems, but there's no doubt that she loves the home she's going to.
"Yeah, my flight's next Thursday. Then I've got three whole months before I have to be at Davis. Do you know where your next stop is?"
Black
For all that she throws a barrage of rapid fire questions at him, he soaks it all up and his brows knit tight together. He muddles it over quietly long after she's stopped speaking, even as her mood lightens - her face brightens - Black smiles, but his mind doesn't leave the way that he should - can - answer all of those questions she's posed. It's like giving her a crash course in her heritage and being a full moon, making all of it sound nice or even pretty isn't something he's very good at.
After a long moment he leans forward toward her, back now slightly hunched and shoulders drawn forward. One arm stretches across the table toward her, all of his fingers but the index curled just slightly under into a very loose fist.
"Och aye, yoo're reit. it is a lot tae learn an' yer parents did ye a disservice nae tellin' ye th' truth hen." A pause and he tops one index finger on the table, eyes on his hand and not her face. "We're aw created by gaia, loch clay, but luna is th' a body 'at gi'es us uir shape. th' phase ay th' moon we're born beneath is uir auspice. Ragabash is th' trickster, th' questioner. Galliard is uir lair keepers an' tale tellers. theurge is uir shaman an' spirit wranglers. ahroin ur th' foo moon born, th' warriors - aam born under th' foo coopon ay luna."
"It's true, 'at some ay us hae archaic ways when it comes tae takin' mates. but it isnae sae wi' fianna, nae aye, nae nearly 'at aft." To that he draws one shoulder up and half-shrugs before leaning back in the chair, arm still out stretched.
"Dae ye kin?"
Étaín
"I guess they thought there wasn't much reason," she says with a hint of stubborn defense; it's one thing for her to question her parents' motives and methods, but she knows them. She's lived with them all her life. But mostly, there's quiet, thoughtful listening and a delicate but clearly strong, work-calloused hand that finds its way to rest on Ciarán's for a moment, light and sweet, as impulsive as the kiss she'd given his cheek all that time and space ago. "I mean, one of the questions I asked after saying something along the lines of 'holy crap, the stories are true' was if we really were related and if it was really true that none of us here had changed. My dad said no one in the branch of the family he knows has, but the rest aren't his purview. So if there's no Herne . . . Garou . . ." this is said as if she's tasting a foreign word for the first time, and maybe she is. "And we're not near any others, I guess I can see why he'd think so. But . . ."
Here, her brow furrows. "Is it really all genetic? Like the sequence that leads to freckles or hazel eyes? It would suck to not know and end up with a kid that needed to." Because of course she'll have one (or more, who knows) eventually; she's just that type.
I've got the magic in me
Every time I hit that track it turns into gold . . .
Welcome to finals week in a college area - near the end thereof, a Friday night when almost everyone is done and looking to blow off steam. Everywhere are kids in their late teens and early twenties looking like the weight of the world has been lifted from their shoulders. Everyone is triumphant or devestated, and there's very little in between. As may well be expected, Étaín is on the upper end of this scale; she's fairly certain that she's finished her time at Columbia with a 4.0 or better, knows that Davis is waiting for her at the end of the summer and that between now and then, the amazingness of a season at home waits for her.
Everyone knows I've got the magic in me
When I hit the flow the guys come snappin' at me . . .
This is, perhaps, why she's been coaxed (without much effort, it should be said; it's one of the kin-girl's favorite ways to spend an evening and into the morning, after all) out to a college bar that boasts a karaoke night. It's crowded as such places are wont to be at such times, but not painfully so. It's not exactly a trendy hot spot, this place; were it not for the students and their money, chances are good it would be nothing more than a hole-in-the-wall dive.
As it is, though, there she is when Black walks in; the hair is cut similarly but a bit shorter (it's only been months, after all), the clothes are casual-cute, and she snaps with that same fire [magic] he'd witnessed before. In all truth, there isn't a better song she could sing (she does have a partner doing the rap parts, naturally). And that she's singing it now, when he walks in for the second time? Fancy that. If it happens twice, it'll be a theme.
Having finished the song, Étaín replaces the mic in its stand and heads for the bar; it's warm for early-mid-June in New York, and she's wearing a couple layers of contrasting tank tops, more jewelry than usual (more funky-fun than expensive), jeans, and cowboy boots. It's far more of her than Black saw before, though she's certainly towards the modest end.
"Beer, shot of whiskey," she calls to the bar tender. "I'm done with finals!"
Soon enough she has drinks in hand, and her attention turns to the crowd, watching and listening. In short, it's a fun night out.
Black
Come to the bar with us, the kin said. It'll be fun, she said. When the group he's with - and it is a group, 2 more wolves other than Black and 3 female kin - push through the front door of the bar the space between those four walls becomes a vacuum the combined Rage and other-worldliness makes it hard to breathe or think or do much of anything but maneuver your way to a part of the bar where they aren't. It's warmer, Spring, and so everyone has shed layers of clothing for comfort and he's no different: white tshirt, faded jeans and scuffed up boots that look like Doc Marten's but are probably something far less popular and expensive. His hair is longer, the sides shorter though the top and middle are longer, braided down the back of his neck.
He doesn't see her at first, his attention is on the company he's currently keeping as they head for the bar. One palm drags down his face and he nods to the bartender and orders a pint - or whatever it is that passes for such in America - and begins to scan the crowd, then the length of the bar.
Pause.
His mouth splits into a wide grin but he doesn't move at first, he's waiting on his beer after all.
Étaín
To the kins' defense, it is fun. Everything about this particular bar tonight (and many others in the vicinity of NYU and Columbia this time of year) screams of people who really just want to let go. When Ciarán catches sight of Étaín is about the time she's tossing back her shot of light honey colored liquid, a full beer (yes, real pints - and a pretty decent beer list too, as far as dive bars go) in her free hand. She's at the other end of the bar, and though she'd felt something when he and his friends came in - a change in pressure, in mood, not necessarily the force of Rage itself yet - she's hardly expecting it when she turns to find a spot in the crowd and her eyes meet his.
It's just like that, yes, across a crowded room and everything - complete with answering grin. It could be a scene in a movie. There's an amused puff of air that pushes an ill-advised shag of bangs out of her eyes, and then she's weaving towards him, giving polite nods (and curious looks) to his companions before her attention snaps back to Ciarán.
It's just like that, yes.
"Hey," she says, with a little wave of fingers - an invitation and not. It's different here, in her world, than it had been on the moors of Scotland that couple of hours months ago, and the same, too. "It's really you, right? I'm not just talking to someone who looks like you."
Drunker than that night, then, but still functioning. She's Fianna, after all, and Ciarán and his packmates know it without her telling.
Black
"Awrite hen, hoo hae ye bin?" He asks, unwedging himself from between one of the other wolves and a little dark haired female. One arm is tattooed, not quite a full sleeve but enough so that there's more ink than flesh visible. The warmth of his palm rests against her cheek and he grins, reaching back to grab hold of his pint and continue to move forward toward Étaín.
"I've nae mit Gaia yit, Ah hiner ye feel better abit it." He hasn't grown in height but his body has become stronger. Muscles are corded beneath tan flesh, obvious beneath the cotton of his short sleeved shirt.
Étaín
Étaín is, but for the haircut, as she was then - six inches or so shorter than he is and lean but shapely. Much as she was that night on the moors, she's comfortable in her skin and the company (thankful that Ciarán's making himself a wall between her and the other Garou, perhaps, but she'd call anyone who said anything about it a liar), at home. She fits well anywhere, does Étaín. She bends, and doesn't break.
"I didn't really think I'd see you again, whatever happened with . . . your trip. It's kind of a long shot, isn't it? But I'm glad you're well."
Her skin, at least what he can see, is unmarred but by freckles - a surprising amout of them splattered across the pale skin of her shoulders and chest, matching those new ones that have appeared on her face with the jucicious application of sun.
"Nice ink. I was thinking of getting one before going home - just something little, though. A pretty lighthouse, here."
Her empty hand rises to point at a spot at the top of her back, between her shoulderblades and right below the nape of her neck. One might not that she hasn't pulled away from his hand on her cheek in this process and though her polite nods were all the kinfolk with Ciarán and his pack had gotten, the Garou are afforded more attention. It's careful, a bit wary; she doesn't know much about the True as a whole, after all, let alone these people. She's friendly, certainly, but on her guard.
(The lighthouse is, perhaps, a fitting idea. Kin are - and people like she, especially, are - lights to lead Garou home, to keep them from drowning amongst the rocks.)
Black
"Aam havin' th' trip, went tae Irelain 'en hud tae come tae new york fur business wi' th' nation." His grin never fades but the touch at her cheek does fall away as she reaches back to point out the spot where she'd like to get her own bit of ink in her skin. "Ah see, it'll hurt ye ken hen. a lot ay nerves an' tender spots thaur." His beer is drawn to his mouth and he lifts a shoulder in the faintest of shrugs. Where she is fair and freckled and delicate, he is sturdy and strong and dark (befitting his name) and tan. He doesn't exactly look like a Scotsman and would probably be labelled Black Irish before a Scots.
"Aam glad yoo're daein' guid. ye swatch weel, nae bairn fur ye yit?" Is said with the slightest of mischievous grins. His eyes track the movement of the crowd within the bar, watching groups move away while others made of stronger stuff move closer to get their spirits.
"Whit is it yoo're skitin'?"
Étaín
There's an amused roll of her eyes and teasing swat at the question about babies; goodness knows how long it's been since a 'regular girl' (which Étaín isn't by any estimation but her own, one imagines) was capable of acting so with him. "No babies, no pregnancy. I told you, they aren't in the plan for awhile yet - not until I'm at least twenty-five."
Asking what she's drinking reminds her that she does, indeed, have a drink in her hand and that she's thirsty; it's downed admirably before she answers. "Brooklyn Dry Irish Stout. It's local - you want one? I'm celebrating my rapidly nearing graduation."
Black
He lifts the bottle of beer in his hand and grins, tipping it up for a drink. "Nae, still hae some left." His chin lifts and to one of the other wolves with him he yells something over the dirge of music and voices all around them that sounds something like, I'll be back. Étaín can feel his arm stretch and his palm slide down the curve of her spine to the small of her back, urging her toward the back patio of the bar itself so that they can sit and drink and talk in silent. If he was with one of the girls that accompanied them, it isn't apparent because he leaves her standing there while he walks away.
At the first empty table outside he tugs a chair out for her and then takes his own, legs stretched as he sprawls in the chair. Dark brown eyes focus in on her face and he stares for a long moment then nods. "Odd tae meit ye haur, isnae it? Ah hadnae thooght a lot abit it afair seein' ye standin' at th' bar." Leaning back in the chair his eyes casually watch people come and go, not nodding or smiling politely but staring with cool dark eyes.
Étaín
Before allowing herself to be steered out, Étaín calls out for another beer; only once it's in her hand do they head outside. That's where the smokers have congregated, naturally, given bans on such in most public places in the city, but it doesn't take long for them to clear out upon seeing someone like Ciarán in their midst - not that any of them know anyone like the Ahroun, but still. It doesn't take much for herd animals to sense a hunter.
There, though, there's the streetlight hitting Étaín's hair, bronzing it, filling it with sparkles and stars.
"I hadn't thought about it either," she says honestly. "And it is pretty strange. The world's a big place and New York is a big city. I'm not complaining, though! It's good to see you." And it is, that much is obvious - there's a contentment, a satisfaction that hadn't been there even in her obvious happiness and relief to be done with school for awhile. "What about you? Are you sowing your wild oats while you're on walkabout?"
Black
"Ay coorse." He says, legs stretched and body sprawled over the chair. His posture is horrible, spine curved, the beer hanging loose and perilous from two fingers being drawn to his mouth lazily when he thinks about wanting a drink.
"Hae ye mit onie other true born?" The question is posed casually, dark brown eyes shimmering in the faint light, his line of sight trailing along after a group of college boys who've decided the inside is better than the outside now that Black is in it.
Étaín
"Not that I know of, but I don't really have a radar for it or anything. It's just . . ." Here, a cute wrinkle of her nose, almost apologetic. "You're kind of obvious. Not because of what you do or say or whatever but . . ."
Étaín, whose posture is actually very good and who doesn't often trail off into nothing shrugs, unsure how to word it. She'd told him those months ago that she didn't know much, and she hasn't tried particularly hard to change that yet. She doesn't know how to articulate what it is that makes him different, makes him stand out as a predator amongst sheep. (Really, she just hopes she doesn't look as intimidated and wary as the normal people who've gone inside and left them alone do. She can't imagine that makes people feel good, being run away from.) There's a sip of her beer, then, which she's drinking slower now; she may not be afraid or wary on the same level as the more garden variety humans are, but she's fairly certain further dulling her senses isn't necessarily a good idea.
This isn't because she doesn't trust or like Ciarán, mind, but because things happen and this is still foreign ground for her.
"Are they . . . I mean, I've heard stories, you know. I don't know how much is true and how much isn't. Nothing . . . really bad, and you're nice enough. I guess it'd be nice to know what to expect."
Black
"Whit ur these stories yoo've heard hen? We're aw th' sam as ye, an' yoo've got it guid as far as tribes gang. Fianna cherish their kin, treat them huir uv a braw." His words roll smoothly together, one flowing into the next with the unconscious rolling of his tongue. The tone of his voice is a deep, rich sound: half-growl, half sing-song.
"Ur ye back aff tae yer Fort Collins suin?" It is worth noting that this all seems to interest Black greatly. Just as when she had wrinkled her nose he seemed captivated by the nuance, smile briming wide across his handsome face. The bottle is brought to his mouth, tipped up and drained before he leans back in the chair and drops it in the nearby garbage bin.
Étaín
"Oh, I don't know. Stuff about how - well, yes, that Fianna are amongst the best with and to their kin, but that's not always saying much. That the less moon that shows . . . I'm not sure if that's for when you're born or when you change. Which is it, please? . . . the less temper - no, worse than temper - is an issue as a general rule, but it's always there and one should keep that in mind. That some are haunted and mystical-magical, some are the harshest judges there are, some are talesingers," that explains that, then, "some are born fighters - well, that they all are, you all are, to varying extents - some are tricksters. Mostly, it just kind of sounds like different sorts of people until you get to the shape shifting part."
There's a pause then, and a bit of reluctance before she adds, "Also that there are claimings that aren't the same as weddings but may or may not involve them, depending on what the . . . Trueborn one wants. And that sometimes it's like the fifties and sometimes it's practically prehistoric and sometimes it's almost like everyone else. I asked some questions after I met you - my dad knows more than he told, but I don't know how much. And I don't know who else to ask, and he seemed kind of bitter about some of it, so I didn't want to press. I made him dinner instead."
There's all that, gotten off her chest in a somewhat nervous, rapid fire way; she doesn't want to give insult, but, well. Clearly she's been pretty well protected from this part of her heritage. Then there's the question about if she's headed home and when, and the smile that answers it is bright shining as the sun. Her family may have its problems, but there's no doubt that she loves the home she's going to.
"Yeah, my flight's next Thursday. Then I've got three whole months before I have to be at Davis. Do you know where your next stop is?"
Black
For all that she throws a barrage of rapid fire questions at him, he soaks it all up and his brows knit tight together. He muddles it over quietly long after she's stopped speaking, even as her mood lightens - her face brightens - Black smiles, but his mind doesn't leave the way that he should - can - answer all of those questions she's posed. It's like giving her a crash course in her heritage and being a full moon, making all of it sound nice or even pretty isn't something he's very good at.
After a long moment he leans forward toward her, back now slightly hunched and shoulders drawn forward. One arm stretches across the table toward her, all of his fingers but the index curled just slightly under into a very loose fist.
"Och aye, yoo're reit. it is a lot tae learn an' yer parents did ye a disservice nae tellin' ye th' truth hen." A pause and he tops one index finger on the table, eyes on his hand and not her face. "We're aw created by gaia, loch clay, but luna is th' a body 'at gi'es us uir shape. th' phase ay th' moon we're born beneath is uir auspice. Ragabash is th' trickster, th' questioner. Galliard is uir lair keepers an' tale tellers. theurge is uir shaman an' spirit wranglers. ahroin ur th' foo moon born, th' warriors - aam born under th' foo coopon ay luna."
"It's true, 'at some ay us hae archaic ways when it comes tae takin' mates. but it isnae sae wi' fianna, nae aye, nae nearly 'at aft." To that he draws one shoulder up and half-shrugs before leaning back in the chair, arm still out stretched.
"Dae ye kin?"
Étaín
"I guess they thought there wasn't much reason," she says with a hint of stubborn defense; it's one thing for her to question her parents' motives and methods, but she knows them. She's lived with them all her life. But mostly, there's quiet, thoughtful listening and a delicate but clearly strong, work-calloused hand that finds its way to rest on Ciarán's for a moment, light and sweet, as impulsive as the kiss she'd given his cheek all that time and space ago. "I mean, one of the questions I asked after saying something along the lines of 'holy crap, the stories are true' was if we really were related and if it was really true that none of us here had changed. My dad said no one in the branch of the family he knows has, but the rest aren't his purview. So if there's no Herne . . . Garou . . ." this is said as if she's tasting a foreign word for the first time, and maybe she is. "And we're not near any others, I guess I can see why he'd think so. But . . ."
Here, her brow furrows. "Is it really all genetic? Like the sequence that leads to freckles or hazel eyes? It would suck to not know and end up with a kid that needed to." Because of course she'll have one (or more, who knows) eventually; she's just that type.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Without music life would be a mistake. ~Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
In no particular order, a snippet . . .
Leaves Eyes, Étaín
Adiemus, The Wooing Of Étaín (instrumental)
Anna Kendrick (Pitch Perfect), Cups
B.o.B feat. Rivers Cuomo, Magic
Phoenix, Lisztomania
Leaves Eyes, Étaín
Adiemus, The Wooing Of Étaín (instrumental)
Anna Kendrick (Pitch Perfect), Cups
B.o.B feat. Rivers Cuomo, Magic
Phoenix, Lisztomania
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
I won't ever promise tomorrow [Scotland, Retro circa 2009]
Étaín
Studying abroad for a semester in high school had been one thing; her host family had lived on a farm in Ireland and kept the old ways in so many things. It was there and then that she'd first dipped her toes into the Gaelic language of so many ancestors before her, that she'd read more of the myths and legends that lent themselves to form her name. She'd roamed the Irish countryside like one of its own lasses, and experienced horse breeds that few get to see
o those wild seashore days the smell of salt and sweat the taste of leather the feel of a sort of horse she'd never known between her legs the looks as she rode as fast as the boys laughing all the way
outside of very specific parts of the British isles. She'd grown experienced in many ways, but this had only brought the bright shining wonder she held to the fore. It was't childlike even then, this wonder, but something deeper and more moving.
Going home had hurt, in a way.
Now, years later, Étaín is in her twenties. She's older, some might say wiser, but her laugh is as quick, her smile as brilliant, her very bearing enough to make people want to do better, to be better. Though she leans towards the small in stature (she crests at only a handful of inches over five feet, is slim and slender in a lithe, strong way that brings to mind willows and similar young trees), her personality is anything but. Herne is her last name (Ahearne in the Isles, where the old ways are still kept), and she could definitely be one of the Horned One's children.
It's something in her hazeldark eyes, in the curve of her lips, perhaps, that makes this known. Subtle, but there, she bears the marks of countless generations of gods and heroes, Garou and human alike.
Now, though, it hardly matters. She's on Scotish soil and slips between harsh American consonants, Irish lilt and Scotish brogue with equal comfort. She has Gaelic of the three modern varieties, as evidenced in her occasional exclamations as she dances and sings along with the others here.
There's a well-kept fire, there, is, that stands taller than she and drives away night chill. There's a makeshift bar somewhere, from which libations flow liberally.
Étaín's cheeks glow, her eyes snap, and she's keeping up with the rest readily though not as if she has something to prove. This girl is at home in her skin amongst the company, whatever it holds.
Black
Scotland is a study in contrasts: varying shades of greens and oranges and blues. Unlike the states it's rural parts are thoroughly so, the trees are decades old, limbs reaching heavenward and during the spring budding and full of life. Seas roll and crash against the shore, the lingering scent of it clings to hair and skin and clothes. This land is rooted in Ciarán's bones. In his family's and ancestors who's blood has nourished this land for as long as any Blàrach can recall.
Four years ago Ciarán would have been 21 years old - a year past his first change and just off his Rite of Passage. The Highlands are scattered with a people who know one another. That's not to say that they always get along with one another, and in fact that's not true at all ...there are feuds that reach back to the Jacobite Rising. A Scotsman's memory is as strong as his heart.
Over the vast moorlands and up the Am Faochagach is the farm overlooking the Loch Ewe. He's striding toward the bar, wearing faded and worn jeans, sturdy scuffed boots made for this terrain, and a ivory colored cable knit sweater that hangs too long down his arms. His skin is somewhat tan from hardwork in the sun and his hair is cut close to his scalp save for the top, which is a little longer and does what it wants.
"Cauld ale, aye?" He bellows, walking straight for the fire once the beer is in his hand.
Étaín
The ale is, indeed, cold (though the mixers for those few drinking things that require them may leave something to desire). There's music of a few varieties; somewhere in the crowd that is fairly large as such things go, someone has a cheap stereo playing an apparently random mix of songs popular in various decades and places, while groups here and there shout out bits of whatever lyrics or poetry take their fancy, some with more skill than others. Étaín is not precisely alone, but she doesn't quite fit either
- one of these things is not like the others one of these things does not belong -
despite how at home and comfortable she appears. She stands out the way a higher watt bulb does amongst lesser cousins, and not just because of the faint hint of breeding apparent to those who know how to look, what to look for. Something about her seems to bring out the best in her companions, seems to make them strive to do more, be more, and now is no different though in a slight break someone calls out, "Really, Étaín, give us a song!"
Ay-DEEN, they say her name, a laughing, bittersweet name out of old times and stories, something that fits her where she stands with her hair wavy and free, her laughter rolling out clear.
"Alright, alright," she answers, and the quiet-calm starts with those closest to her as she starts surprisingly low, bordering on tenor and still somehow clean and sweet.
By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes, Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond, Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
It's a song everyone present knows, of course, and despite the shifting accents it's Scottish that holds now, in the grasp of a song that lifts and carries over rocks and crags, over water and shore. Somewhere, someone takes up the harmony, and a line or so later someone else until it becomes a four part song in many voices - and even in this, so small a thing, somehow Étaín makes the people who join her better. It's no small talent, that - she is the flame to which moths are drawn, perhaps, though it's difficult to imagine her burning those who come to close.
This, of course, is how Ciarán first sees this girl, this kin of his tribe - the crowd surrounding them both is largely human, mundane, though one imagines there are kinfolk other than she amongst it as well; there's safety in numbers, after all, and though there's a crowd it often doesn't do to be alone.
But then she's foreign, so who knows?
Regardless, the song even sung at dirge-slowness (which Étaín does not do - she celebrates it, and encourages everyone else to do so as well) is only a few minutes long, and by the last chorus
O ye'll tak the high road and I'll tak' the low road An' I'll be in Scotland afore ye: But me and my true love will never meet again On the bonnie, bonnie banks o Loch Lomond.
she's singing alone again, as a berth clears around the Cliath who bears a heavy enough burden of rage to have trouble controlling it, which is more than enough to clear most normal crowds.
And it's when Ciarán is seeing her for the first time that Étaín sees him and . . . does the unexpected, perhaps. She smiles, blushes a bit, and waves.
"Hi."
Just one word, but also an invitation - the Ahroun's mother's farm animals don't like him, and one imagines the vast majority of people don't either. This girl, however, doesn't seem to mind.
Black
He did not join in the song, only watched from a few feet away as the crowd became swept up in the lyrics or the bringer of the lyrics, of which he couldn't be sure. There are two males as old as he and sharing in that same otherworldly feel that Étaín recognizes for what it is: Rage. They don't cluster up because they don't want to upset the flock. One goes one way the other his own and Ciarán stays right where his feet are planted and doesn't move.
Well, not until the singer offers the faintest of invitations to come closer. The beer is drawn to his lips and he drags one palm over his brown hair moving up next to Étaín with a confidence that is bred in nad not learned. "...was as foine as a song thrush, aye?" His lips twist into a coy smile, a hand in one front pocket of his jeans and the other grasping the beer lightly, lifting it to his mouth for a deep drink.
"A' dinnae mind y'quine." A pause, his eyes roam over the fire and then over the crowd before he adjusts his positioning to lay dark, deep brown eyes on the songbird kin. "Ciarán Blàrach." His hand is tugged from his jean pocket and extended toward Étaín.
Étaín
Her smile tends towards the contagious, does Étaín - and let us not be confused. She knows what she is, and thus knows a few very basic things about her distant cousins, but distant they are. She can stand in their proximity easier than most, but that isn't necessarily saying much as her friends take the scantest of moments to try to tempt her away before all but fleeing to some other part of the raccous group themselves. They'll have some explanation later, something like 'I needed another drink' or 'it was time to use a bush' or 'some cute girl was calling' or what have you. None will admit that they were afraid of the young man their own age that moved like a predator.
Meanwhile, though, there's a pause as this kin-girl attempts to parse the accent. It comes easier for her than many from the American midwest, perhaps, but it's still not her own and requires an attempt at translation.
"Oh, it was alright," she says, still smiling, "I mean, I know I'm decent so there's no false modesty or anything. But I'm no talesinger."
She says it in a way that's as near to acknowledging that she thinks she may know what he is (and what she is, to him and those he came with) as she's likely to come here and now, but it's something. And in that sentence, there's the essence of everything that is this place (not just Scotland, but the whole of this land, what it was, is and will be) twined harmoniously with the New World.
"Étaín," comes added as an afterthought, the hand holding her empty cup gesturing vaguely towards herself - head and heart. "It's nice to meet you . . . ?"
Black
"Moodest." He says the word clear - or as clear as the roll of his tongue will naturally allow. A brown eye tosses a wink toward the kin and he retains the same posture he'd acquired moments ago: shoulders squared, feet shoulder width apart, the whole of him facing her completely. His beer is half empty but he doesn't seem concerned as Étaín has managed to grasp his attention for the moment. "Ciarán, 's wha' ya ask fer? Boot 's foine ta call m' Black." He takes a step closer, breaching the circumference of her personal space. "If 's moire y' ask fer lass, 's mey nae b' tha place, ya ken?" Ciarán doesn't cut a physically imposing figure, not yet at least. His body hasn't bulked up yet, his face and eyes haven't grown dark and hard with war. The tattoos he wears are few and by the time four years pass his body will be a canvas for one artist or another.
"Yer bluid..?" The question is posed with a shift of his eyes right then left, always watching and always assessing. One of the other Garou he came with has found a pretty thing to dance with and his eyes watch them studiously for a moment before returning his attention to Étaín. "T'is nae yer hame tho..." His head tips to the side, trying to figure out the kin or so it would seem.
Étaín
"Ciarán will do," she answers - whether she means for now or forever is unclear, but she's not dumb. This is a party full of who knows what, and she has the sense not to air the family tree to just anyone. Even - or perhaps especially - if that 'anyone' is Garou.
They come in good and bad, she knows, though perceptions may skew depending upon which side of the line one positions oneself.
"I'm blood, yes. Irish, though, not Scottish, and removed by several generations on American soil." Removed from true born cousins, removed from cultural ancestry, either, both. Again, she doesn't specify. "It's vacation. My friends went warm, fun places and I came here."
It amuses her, this description, though it's clear she doesn't think this place lacks fun or warmth (though the latter is wanting, certainly, a good deal of the time as far as the weather is concerned) despite what those bound for party cities across the world may think.
And amongst this there is, of course, the hint of deference that most kin show most Garou; Étaín's eyes don't quite meet his, perhaps can't, despite the way her shoulders are relaxed, her body squared with his. There is no submissive tilt of her head, baring of her throat as she soaks up his attention, draws it in.
She could be one hell of a distraction, if she put her mind to it.
"Home is a ranch in Colorado. Horses, sheep, goats, cows, you know. Amazing place! But it's good to get away sometimes."
Black
A girl watches Étaín speak to the stranger with an obvious look of distress, the idea of a girl as obviously sweet as the Irish-American engaging a hooligan like Ciarán. He winks at her reassuringly in a rare moment of rescue and tips his beer toward her then up, draining it. "Yer froiends think a'moight gobble ye up."
Dark eyes sparkle and shine in the light of the fire not far from them. It casts shadows across their countenance and the dark stretches long beyond them.
"Ah...yer lang way off froim hame.." A pause and he lifts his bottle of beer for her to see how empty it is. "Drank?" He asks, brows arching high above his eyes, up on his forehead.
"Tis ma hame...t' Highlands...a' be oaf soon tho."
Étaín
"My friends will get over it. If they don't know I'm not a damsel in distress I can hardly call them friends, can I?" The last is a bit wry, but not bitterly so; whatever Étaín the American kin-girl has been through, it's either been easy as such things go, or she hasn't allowed it to turn her, to dim the light with which she shines. She's young, yet.
"I'd love a drink. Where are you headed, and why are you leaving? If you don't mind me asking, I mean. Oral history's important."
Where his eyes are dark, hers are light - not green or blue as Americans tend to stereotype the Irish, but a rich, deep hazel that's green and brown and gray all at once, and by turns. This, though, is difficult to tell at night, by fire light - all that can really be seen is there's nothing dark about this girl, and very little hidden. She's as close to an open book as anyone in her situation can be, truth be told. Auburn highlighted brunette hair traces down to mid-shoulder blade, layered in some fashionable, probably reasonably expensive cut that fits her face shape well and her hands, though clean, show the signs of someone well accustomed to the work that goes with living on a farm.
Black
He doesn't say anything else about the way her friends - or those that know her at least by sight and name - are watching them speak. She tells him that it doesn't bother her and so, by extension, it doesn't seem to bother Black. Two fingers grasp light the neck of the bottle and his free hand rests somewhere considered polite on her back. They're walking back toward the make-shift bar area, and all he has to do is nod at the man tossing beers and drop his empty in the bin before a bottle is sailing toward the Garou. One, then two, and he catches both with ease, opening Étaín's with ease before handing it to her.
There's a rock formation near the fire, one half larger and the ther slopped and a bit more small. That's where he's leading them. To sit and talk and not allow the kin to be cold in the early spring night air.
"Aff.." He says, finally answering her question as to where he'll be off to soon enough. "A gonnae-no in irelain an' mebbe Englain 'en th' states, aw part ay bein' whit it is 'at Ah am." He pauses and tips back his beer, settling up on the bigger rock and motioning for her to sit either next to or in front of him. "When is it yer gonnae hame?"
Étaín
"I spent a semester in Ireland when I was in high school," she answers first, giving more information about herself than she realizes, perhaps - it's not everyone who studies abroad, after all. "On a farm kind of like my family's, but near the ocean. They say the horses there are all at least part capaill, that they'd as soon eat you as let you mount them, that if given mere seconds of their own heads they'd run back to the sea no matter who was or wasn't on their backs at the time."
There's a fair amount of adventure-love to Étaín, it appears, as she speaks of such things with love and near-lust evident in tone and bearing. And only after that's out does she consider his last question.
"A little less than a fortnight, and it's back to school in New York for a last term. Home-home won't happen until summer. And you'll be going wherever the call takes you, and when, yeah?"
Black
"Och aye, got'ta pack ay mates fa bin wi' me since th' start. irelain isnae a bad start, 'en th' states mebbe." His eyes in the sharp flash of flame and dark edge of shadow glisten like copper coins at the bottom of a deep fountain. Thighs spread wide and comfortable and he leans forward just slightly, forearms resting on knees while his hands hold loose to the beer.
"Tarm? Yer in varsitie?" This is how friendships are built: by inches. She gives him an inch and he cultivates it into two or three. He's a full moon, and in a handful of years from this night he won't give not one single fuck about the inches it takes to cultivate and nurture a friendship. But now, in these early years of his youth, he understands the simple enjoyment to be found in casual conversation; in getting to know another human being - his kin - in a way that will, eventually, become next to impossible. He draws the beer to his mouth and listens to her reply with real interest and not feigned.
Étaín
Even here, in relative seclusion, Étaín is comfortable in a way not many would be with Garou; there are few, no matter how balanced, that can keep a human at ease for long, even kin, and they tend to be born under lesser moons than Ciarán was. Now, she sits on the smaller, lower rock and leans close enough to speak quietly, intimately, though she doesn't touch him at all. That she is kind and friendly in a way that might demeaningly be called 'sweet' or 'old-fashioned' is evident, but there are boundaries. She may ride capaill, but she hasn't yet let them drag her into the frothy sea.
"Yeah, I'm in university at Columbia. And I'll be at vet school for anywhere from two to four years after that, depending on how it goes," she reveals easily. There's little enough chance, she thinks, of meeting this man [Garou] again. "What about you? Did you go, before?"
Before his change, before he grew into himself, before.
Black
"Nae, nae pest primary seven." He rumbles at her, tipping his drink back and watching the flames reach for the dark night sky. "A' can reid an' write weel enaw, cannae imagine a' need tae ken much mair." He falls quiet for a moment, eyes watching the sky and then the flames, revelers and then finally her again. Black's mouth is a generous thing, it sits askew on his handsome face and the generous swell of lips twitch while he appraises her, reluctant.
"Sae yoo're fowk, yer parents waur born true ur was it distant bluid?" Long legs stretch out, legs crossing lazily at the ankles.
Étaín
"Distant. As far as we know, there's been no true since we emigrated and Americanized our name, though we all spread pretty far once we hit Ellis Island. It's not the same there as it is here." It's said with a shrug, and though Étaín is only slightly better than average on most accounts, there's something about her that's interesting enough, attractive enough. "Distant on both sides, though, at least for my brother and me - both parents Irish, both parents 'folk. Same for them. So who knows, maybe someday it'll turn up again."
The moon-bound Rage, she means, the spirit-blessed Gnosis, and she speaks as someone who knows it would be an honor but also knows it would be a danger, a risk. She gives no indication of whether or not she means to be the one providing the chance for Gaia to bless the Hernes again, either, and says nothing more about the brother without further questions about him - they aren't close, then.
"Knowing things is nice, I think. But there's way more to know than school stuff - my parents are educated, but my grandparents weren't. You don't need a degree to work a farm and raise horses and other livestock - but you do to heal them if they're sick or hurt, and that's what I want to do. Between ski trips and jaunts across the country and ocean, of course."
This last brings a grin, and a quick forgetting of any notion of Étaín being average; her smile and good humor can take breath away. As said before, she's the sort of person who rallies people to her, who makes them want to be good, better.
"Maybe I'll hear about your adventures. I don't hear much, though - might have to remedy it if I'm going to go around running into the cousins at parties. What do you think?"
Black
He listens to all that she has to say and nods when appropriate. She isn't close to her brother and so he doesn't press her with more questions though he probably has a dozen or so hanging off his tongue. His shoulders are pushed back and hitched on the rock, legs stretched out before him. He isn't a tall fellow, not quite 5'11 but solidly built beneath that cable knit sweater. The chill in the night air doesn't bother Black because either he's used to it or (more than likely) he just runs hot. There's a quiet that is allowed to pass between them - her words are ghosts on the wind and he has yet to speak. Fire crackles. Conversation lulls. Despite his moon, he seems comfortable in this place, on that rock.
"Mebbe, but ye hae tae gie reacquainted wi' yer fowk, ye ken? aam sure yoo'll make a braw mammy, a body day." His grin is reprehensible it's sly and full of cunning and mischief It's enough to make most females damn his soul to the foulest hell before storming away. He looks at Étaín as if he knew her. Not so much on the level they spoke at now, but knew her intimately: the way her body moved in the hands of a capable man, the way her skin felt. It passes though, quick enough thankfully, and he drains his bottle and tosses it in the fire before standing.
"I've got tae gang mah hen, keep oan yer studies an' dornt lose tooch wi' yer bluid."
Étaín
"Well, other than my parents and brother you're the only one I know. Are you saying we should keep in touch then, hmm?"
There's a raised eyebrow and now she does touch, a slightly more than gentle nudge [shove] that says 'haha, I see what you did there - watch yourself, mister, I'm not that easy' that's, perhaps oddly, as affectionate as the pet name he's applied to her. They've only just met, after all. Still, the hand that came into contact is in no hurry to pull away (though it does, unless caught), and is small and (comparatively speaking) cool where it lands. There's surprise, then, as she looks at the thigh she'd touched -
He's not particularly large, this Ahroun, but one must remember that Étaín is quite a few inches shorter, and sitting below him.
- before looking back up at his eyes. She's wearing a sweater under a jacket, but is slender (a young, growing tree, strong and healthy, no skinny, slight thing she) and human. The chill is effecting her far more than him, though she's holding herself well enough with both it and the drinking that's going on. (Ciarán knows her cup was empty when he found her, and that she's been nursing one while talking to him, but not how many she had before. Were he to ask, he'd find out that she's had enough to feel good, a bit uninhibited, but not enough to be stupid.)
"Oh, I'm going to finish school for sure. Maybe I'll pop out a wee bairn," her accent on this is impeccable, and humorous, though posher than one might expect, "or more when it's done and I've established myself in a practice somewhere, but probably not before. I've got a plan, you see."
Black
She touches him and his body swings so that his leg draws behind her and this allows him to drop to the ground, soles of his boots meeting cool hard earth. She had touched his thigh and his own palm had rested warm atop her knuckles. When he moved, he didn't let her retract the touch but instead just held loose to her fingers as he shifted from being behind her to being in front of her.
"Och aye, mebbe we shoods keep in tooch. ur mebbe we lae it tae fate? See whit way th' huir nudges us?" He doesn't know what she's drank or how much. If she had a touch of the blood in her veins he trusted her to keep her liquor And, Black knew enough of the true born and their blood here to ensure that there would be no unwanted hands or attention troubling Étaín tonight.
Her hand is drawn to his mouth and he presses the fullness of his lips to her knuckles with a slow forming grin, his spine straightening before he lets the touch go, her hand free to drift back to her lap. "Ah main be gonnae, hen. if we bide tae see tha' moorns nicht ur th' next, i'll see ye again 'en."
"Let's gang ye fuckers!" He bellows at the other Garou who arrived at the bonfire with him.
Étaín
".....you don't half tease, do you?" But it's amused as her hand does, indeed, fall back to her own lap. "Herne, Fort Collins. Don't go riling up my horses and the rest, yeah? But wherever I land after grad school, my dad will know, and probably tell you."
There's a pause, then, as her brow furrows and she thinks of the best thing to say, taking the opportunity to rise to her feet in front of him - and impulsively rise to her toes to kiss his cheek to the dismay of her friends (and likely amusement of his).
"Try to stay in one piece, yeah? It would suck to lose the only 'cousin' I've met after only a couple hours' conversation. I think I like knowing you're out there somewhere."
Black
He was grinning even as she lifted up to kiss his cheek. Black doesn't miss a beat. His hand drifts to find the curve of her hip and he leans into the press of lips to his skin. There may be hoots and hollers and gasps and the bulging of eyeballs. It wouldn't be the first time he was the subject of such things, it probably won't be the last.
His cheek presses to her own as she speaks, tells him that she might like the idea of a guy like him being out there somewhere, and his lips are so near her ear she can hear him breathing lightly. "Ah willnae ever tryst tha' moorns nicht, but if Ah make it tae tha states, i'll fin' thes Fort Collins, alrecht?"
I won't ever promise tomorrow, but if I make it to the states I'll find this Fort Collins, alright?
Black presses his mouth near her ear and then pulls away and turns to go, though not before telling the man tossing beers to keep an eye on the kin.
Studying abroad for a semester in high school had been one thing; her host family had lived on a farm in Ireland and kept the old ways in so many things. It was there and then that she'd first dipped her toes into the Gaelic language of so many ancestors before her, that she'd read more of the myths and legends that lent themselves to form her name. She'd roamed the Irish countryside like one of its own lasses, and experienced horse breeds that few get to see
o those wild seashore days the smell of salt and sweat the taste of leather the feel of a sort of horse she'd never known between her legs the looks as she rode as fast as the boys laughing all the way
outside of very specific parts of the British isles. She'd grown experienced in many ways, but this had only brought the bright shining wonder she held to the fore. It was't childlike even then, this wonder, but something deeper and more moving.
Going home had hurt, in a way.
Now, years later, Étaín is in her twenties. She's older, some might say wiser, but her laugh is as quick, her smile as brilliant, her very bearing enough to make people want to do better, to be better. Though she leans towards the small in stature (she crests at only a handful of inches over five feet, is slim and slender in a lithe, strong way that brings to mind willows and similar young trees), her personality is anything but. Herne is her last name (Ahearne in the Isles, where the old ways are still kept), and she could definitely be one of the Horned One's children.
It's something in her hazeldark eyes, in the curve of her lips, perhaps, that makes this known. Subtle, but there, she bears the marks of countless generations of gods and heroes, Garou and human alike.
Now, though, it hardly matters. She's on Scotish soil and slips between harsh American consonants, Irish lilt and Scotish brogue with equal comfort. She has Gaelic of the three modern varieties, as evidenced in her occasional exclamations as she dances and sings along with the others here.
There's a well-kept fire, there, is, that stands taller than she and drives away night chill. There's a makeshift bar somewhere, from which libations flow liberally.
Étaín's cheeks glow, her eyes snap, and she's keeping up with the rest readily though not as if she has something to prove. This girl is at home in her skin amongst the company, whatever it holds.
Black
Scotland is a study in contrasts: varying shades of greens and oranges and blues. Unlike the states it's rural parts are thoroughly so, the trees are decades old, limbs reaching heavenward and during the spring budding and full of life. Seas roll and crash against the shore, the lingering scent of it clings to hair and skin and clothes. This land is rooted in Ciarán's bones. In his family's and ancestors who's blood has nourished this land for as long as any Blàrach can recall.
Four years ago Ciarán would have been 21 years old - a year past his first change and just off his Rite of Passage. The Highlands are scattered with a people who know one another. That's not to say that they always get along with one another, and in fact that's not true at all ...there are feuds that reach back to the Jacobite Rising. A Scotsman's memory is as strong as his heart.
Over the vast moorlands and up the Am Faochagach is the farm overlooking the Loch Ewe. He's striding toward the bar, wearing faded and worn jeans, sturdy scuffed boots made for this terrain, and a ivory colored cable knit sweater that hangs too long down his arms. His skin is somewhat tan from hardwork in the sun and his hair is cut close to his scalp save for the top, which is a little longer and does what it wants.
"Cauld ale, aye?" He bellows, walking straight for the fire once the beer is in his hand.
Étaín
The ale is, indeed, cold (though the mixers for those few drinking things that require them may leave something to desire). There's music of a few varieties; somewhere in the crowd that is fairly large as such things go, someone has a cheap stereo playing an apparently random mix of songs popular in various decades and places, while groups here and there shout out bits of whatever lyrics or poetry take their fancy, some with more skill than others. Étaín is not precisely alone, but she doesn't quite fit either
- one of these things is not like the others one of these things does not belong -
despite how at home and comfortable she appears. She stands out the way a higher watt bulb does amongst lesser cousins, and not just because of the faint hint of breeding apparent to those who know how to look, what to look for. Something about her seems to bring out the best in her companions, seems to make them strive to do more, be more, and now is no different though in a slight break someone calls out, "Really, Étaín, give us a song!"
Ay-DEEN, they say her name, a laughing, bittersweet name out of old times and stories, something that fits her where she stands with her hair wavy and free, her laughter rolling out clear.
"Alright, alright," she answers, and the quiet-calm starts with those closest to her as she starts surprisingly low, bordering on tenor and still somehow clean and sweet.
By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes, Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond, Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
It's a song everyone present knows, of course, and despite the shifting accents it's Scottish that holds now, in the grasp of a song that lifts and carries over rocks and crags, over water and shore. Somewhere, someone takes up the harmony, and a line or so later someone else until it becomes a four part song in many voices - and even in this, so small a thing, somehow Étaín makes the people who join her better. It's no small talent, that - she is the flame to which moths are drawn, perhaps, though it's difficult to imagine her burning those who come to close.
This, of course, is how Ciarán first sees this girl, this kin of his tribe - the crowd surrounding them both is largely human, mundane, though one imagines there are kinfolk other than she amongst it as well; there's safety in numbers, after all, and though there's a crowd it often doesn't do to be alone.
But then she's foreign, so who knows?
Regardless, the song even sung at dirge-slowness (which Étaín does not do - she celebrates it, and encourages everyone else to do so as well) is only a few minutes long, and by the last chorus
O ye'll tak the high road and I'll tak' the low road An' I'll be in Scotland afore ye: But me and my true love will never meet again On the bonnie, bonnie banks o Loch Lomond.
she's singing alone again, as a berth clears around the Cliath who bears a heavy enough burden of rage to have trouble controlling it, which is more than enough to clear most normal crowds.
And it's when Ciarán is seeing her for the first time that Étaín sees him and . . . does the unexpected, perhaps. She smiles, blushes a bit, and waves.
"Hi."
Just one word, but also an invitation - the Ahroun's mother's farm animals don't like him, and one imagines the vast majority of people don't either. This girl, however, doesn't seem to mind.
Black
He did not join in the song, only watched from a few feet away as the crowd became swept up in the lyrics or the bringer of the lyrics, of which he couldn't be sure. There are two males as old as he and sharing in that same otherworldly feel that Étaín recognizes for what it is: Rage. They don't cluster up because they don't want to upset the flock. One goes one way the other his own and Ciarán stays right where his feet are planted and doesn't move.
Well, not until the singer offers the faintest of invitations to come closer. The beer is drawn to his lips and he drags one palm over his brown hair moving up next to Étaín with a confidence that is bred in nad not learned. "...was as foine as a song thrush, aye?" His lips twist into a coy smile, a hand in one front pocket of his jeans and the other grasping the beer lightly, lifting it to his mouth for a deep drink.
"A' dinnae mind y'quine." A pause, his eyes roam over the fire and then over the crowd before he adjusts his positioning to lay dark, deep brown eyes on the songbird kin. "Ciarán Blàrach." His hand is tugged from his jean pocket and extended toward Étaín.
Étaín
Her smile tends towards the contagious, does Étaín - and let us not be confused. She knows what she is, and thus knows a few very basic things about her distant cousins, but distant they are. She can stand in their proximity easier than most, but that isn't necessarily saying much as her friends take the scantest of moments to try to tempt her away before all but fleeing to some other part of the raccous group themselves. They'll have some explanation later, something like 'I needed another drink' or 'it was time to use a bush' or 'some cute girl was calling' or what have you. None will admit that they were afraid of the young man their own age that moved like a predator.
Meanwhile, though, there's a pause as this kin-girl attempts to parse the accent. It comes easier for her than many from the American midwest, perhaps, but it's still not her own and requires an attempt at translation.
"Oh, it was alright," she says, still smiling, "I mean, I know I'm decent so there's no false modesty or anything. But I'm no talesinger."
She says it in a way that's as near to acknowledging that she thinks she may know what he is (and what she is, to him and those he came with) as she's likely to come here and now, but it's something. And in that sentence, there's the essence of everything that is this place (not just Scotland, but the whole of this land, what it was, is and will be) twined harmoniously with the New World.
"Étaín," comes added as an afterthought, the hand holding her empty cup gesturing vaguely towards herself - head and heart. "It's nice to meet you . . . ?"
Black
"Moodest." He says the word clear - or as clear as the roll of his tongue will naturally allow. A brown eye tosses a wink toward the kin and he retains the same posture he'd acquired moments ago: shoulders squared, feet shoulder width apart, the whole of him facing her completely. His beer is half empty but he doesn't seem concerned as Étaín has managed to grasp his attention for the moment. "Ciarán, 's wha' ya ask fer? Boot 's foine ta call m' Black." He takes a step closer, breaching the circumference of her personal space. "If 's moire y' ask fer lass, 's mey nae b' tha place, ya ken?" Ciarán doesn't cut a physically imposing figure, not yet at least. His body hasn't bulked up yet, his face and eyes haven't grown dark and hard with war. The tattoos he wears are few and by the time four years pass his body will be a canvas for one artist or another.
"Yer bluid..?" The question is posed with a shift of his eyes right then left, always watching and always assessing. One of the other Garou he came with has found a pretty thing to dance with and his eyes watch them studiously for a moment before returning his attention to Étaín. "T'is nae yer hame tho..." His head tips to the side, trying to figure out the kin or so it would seem.
Étaín
"Ciarán will do," she answers - whether she means for now or forever is unclear, but she's not dumb. This is a party full of who knows what, and she has the sense not to air the family tree to just anyone. Even - or perhaps especially - if that 'anyone' is Garou.
They come in good and bad, she knows, though perceptions may skew depending upon which side of the line one positions oneself.
"I'm blood, yes. Irish, though, not Scottish, and removed by several generations on American soil." Removed from true born cousins, removed from cultural ancestry, either, both. Again, she doesn't specify. "It's vacation. My friends went warm, fun places and I came here."
It amuses her, this description, though it's clear she doesn't think this place lacks fun or warmth (though the latter is wanting, certainly, a good deal of the time as far as the weather is concerned) despite what those bound for party cities across the world may think.
And amongst this there is, of course, the hint of deference that most kin show most Garou; Étaín's eyes don't quite meet his, perhaps can't, despite the way her shoulders are relaxed, her body squared with his. There is no submissive tilt of her head, baring of her throat as she soaks up his attention, draws it in.
She could be one hell of a distraction, if she put her mind to it.
"Home is a ranch in Colorado. Horses, sheep, goats, cows, you know. Amazing place! But it's good to get away sometimes."
Black
A girl watches Étaín speak to the stranger with an obvious look of distress, the idea of a girl as obviously sweet as the Irish-American engaging a hooligan like Ciarán. He winks at her reassuringly in a rare moment of rescue and tips his beer toward her then up, draining it. "Yer froiends think a'moight gobble ye up."
Dark eyes sparkle and shine in the light of the fire not far from them. It casts shadows across their countenance and the dark stretches long beyond them.
"Ah...yer lang way off froim hame.." A pause and he lifts his bottle of beer for her to see how empty it is. "Drank?" He asks, brows arching high above his eyes, up on his forehead.
"Tis ma hame...t' Highlands...a' be oaf soon tho."
Étaín
"My friends will get over it. If they don't know I'm not a damsel in distress I can hardly call them friends, can I?" The last is a bit wry, but not bitterly so; whatever Étaín the American kin-girl has been through, it's either been easy as such things go, or she hasn't allowed it to turn her, to dim the light with which she shines. She's young, yet.
"I'd love a drink. Where are you headed, and why are you leaving? If you don't mind me asking, I mean. Oral history's important."
Where his eyes are dark, hers are light - not green or blue as Americans tend to stereotype the Irish, but a rich, deep hazel that's green and brown and gray all at once, and by turns. This, though, is difficult to tell at night, by fire light - all that can really be seen is there's nothing dark about this girl, and very little hidden. She's as close to an open book as anyone in her situation can be, truth be told. Auburn highlighted brunette hair traces down to mid-shoulder blade, layered in some fashionable, probably reasonably expensive cut that fits her face shape well and her hands, though clean, show the signs of someone well accustomed to the work that goes with living on a farm.
Black
He doesn't say anything else about the way her friends - or those that know her at least by sight and name - are watching them speak. She tells him that it doesn't bother her and so, by extension, it doesn't seem to bother Black. Two fingers grasp light the neck of the bottle and his free hand rests somewhere considered polite on her back. They're walking back toward the make-shift bar area, and all he has to do is nod at the man tossing beers and drop his empty in the bin before a bottle is sailing toward the Garou. One, then two, and he catches both with ease, opening Étaín's with ease before handing it to her.
There's a rock formation near the fire, one half larger and the ther slopped and a bit more small. That's where he's leading them. To sit and talk and not allow the kin to be cold in the early spring night air.
"Aff.." He says, finally answering her question as to where he'll be off to soon enough. "A gonnae-no in irelain an' mebbe Englain 'en th' states, aw part ay bein' whit it is 'at Ah am." He pauses and tips back his beer, settling up on the bigger rock and motioning for her to sit either next to or in front of him. "When is it yer gonnae hame?"
Étaín
"I spent a semester in Ireland when I was in high school," she answers first, giving more information about herself than she realizes, perhaps - it's not everyone who studies abroad, after all. "On a farm kind of like my family's, but near the ocean. They say the horses there are all at least part capaill, that they'd as soon eat you as let you mount them, that if given mere seconds of their own heads they'd run back to the sea no matter who was or wasn't on their backs at the time."
There's a fair amount of adventure-love to Étaín, it appears, as she speaks of such things with love and near-lust evident in tone and bearing. And only after that's out does she consider his last question.
"A little less than a fortnight, and it's back to school in New York for a last term. Home-home won't happen until summer. And you'll be going wherever the call takes you, and when, yeah?"
Black
"Och aye, got'ta pack ay mates fa bin wi' me since th' start. irelain isnae a bad start, 'en th' states mebbe." His eyes in the sharp flash of flame and dark edge of shadow glisten like copper coins at the bottom of a deep fountain. Thighs spread wide and comfortable and he leans forward just slightly, forearms resting on knees while his hands hold loose to the beer.
"Tarm? Yer in varsitie?" This is how friendships are built: by inches. She gives him an inch and he cultivates it into two or three. He's a full moon, and in a handful of years from this night he won't give not one single fuck about the inches it takes to cultivate and nurture a friendship. But now, in these early years of his youth, he understands the simple enjoyment to be found in casual conversation; in getting to know another human being - his kin - in a way that will, eventually, become next to impossible. He draws the beer to his mouth and listens to her reply with real interest and not feigned.
Étaín
Even here, in relative seclusion, Étaín is comfortable in a way not many would be with Garou; there are few, no matter how balanced, that can keep a human at ease for long, even kin, and they tend to be born under lesser moons than Ciarán was. Now, she sits on the smaller, lower rock and leans close enough to speak quietly, intimately, though she doesn't touch him at all. That she is kind and friendly in a way that might demeaningly be called 'sweet' or 'old-fashioned' is evident, but there are boundaries. She may ride capaill, but she hasn't yet let them drag her into the frothy sea.
"Yeah, I'm in university at Columbia. And I'll be at vet school for anywhere from two to four years after that, depending on how it goes," she reveals easily. There's little enough chance, she thinks, of meeting this man [Garou] again. "What about you? Did you go, before?"
Before his change, before he grew into himself, before.
Black
"Nae, nae pest primary seven." He rumbles at her, tipping his drink back and watching the flames reach for the dark night sky. "A' can reid an' write weel enaw, cannae imagine a' need tae ken much mair." He falls quiet for a moment, eyes watching the sky and then the flames, revelers and then finally her again. Black's mouth is a generous thing, it sits askew on his handsome face and the generous swell of lips twitch while he appraises her, reluctant.
"Sae yoo're fowk, yer parents waur born true ur was it distant bluid?" Long legs stretch out, legs crossing lazily at the ankles.
Étaín
"Distant. As far as we know, there's been no true since we emigrated and Americanized our name, though we all spread pretty far once we hit Ellis Island. It's not the same there as it is here." It's said with a shrug, and though Étaín is only slightly better than average on most accounts, there's something about her that's interesting enough, attractive enough. "Distant on both sides, though, at least for my brother and me - both parents Irish, both parents 'folk. Same for them. So who knows, maybe someday it'll turn up again."
The moon-bound Rage, she means, the spirit-blessed Gnosis, and she speaks as someone who knows it would be an honor but also knows it would be a danger, a risk. She gives no indication of whether or not she means to be the one providing the chance for Gaia to bless the Hernes again, either, and says nothing more about the brother without further questions about him - they aren't close, then.
"Knowing things is nice, I think. But there's way more to know than school stuff - my parents are educated, but my grandparents weren't. You don't need a degree to work a farm and raise horses and other livestock - but you do to heal them if they're sick or hurt, and that's what I want to do. Between ski trips and jaunts across the country and ocean, of course."
This last brings a grin, and a quick forgetting of any notion of Étaín being average; her smile and good humor can take breath away. As said before, she's the sort of person who rallies people to her, who makes them want to be good, better.
"Maybe I'll hear about your adventures. I don't hear much, though - might have to remedy it if I'm going to go around running into the cousins at parties. What do you think?"
Black
He listens to all that she has to say and nods when appropriate. She isn't close to her brother and so he doesn't press her with more questions though he probably has a dozen or so hanging off his tongue. His shoulders are pushed back and hitched on the rock, legs stretched out before him. He isn't a tall fellow, not quite 5'11 but solidly built beneath that cable knit sweater. The chill in the night air doesn't bother Black because either he's used to it or (more than likely) he just runs hot. There's a quiet that is allowed to pass between them - her words are ghosts on the wind and he has yet to speak. Fire crackles. Conversation lulls. Despite his moon, he seems comfortable in this place, on that rock.
"Mebbe, but ye hae tae gie reacquainted wi' yer fowk, ye ken? aam sure yoo'll make a braw mammy, a body day." His grin is reprehensible it's sly and full of cunning and mischief It's enough to make most females damn his soul to the foulest hell before storming away. He looks at Étaín as if he knew her. Not so much on the level they spoke at now, but knew her intimately: the way her body moved in the hands of a capable man, the way her skin felt. It passes though, quick enough thankfully, and he drains his bottle and tosses it in the fire before standing.
"I've got tae gang mah hen, keep oan yer studies an' dornt lose tooch wi' yer bluid."
Étaín
"Well, other than my parents and brother you're the only one I know. Are you saying we should keep in touch then, hmm?"
There's a raised eyebrow and now she does touch, a slightly more than gentle nudge [shove] that says 'haha, I see what you did there - watch yourself, mister, I'm not that easy' that's, perhaps oddly, as affectionate as the pet name he's applied to her. They've only just met, after all. Still, the hand that came into contact is in no hurry to pull away (though it does, unless caught), and is small and (comparatively speaking) cool where it lands. There's surprise, then, as she looks at the thigh she'd touched -
He's not particularly large, this Ahroun, but one must remember that Étaín is quite a few inches shorter, and sitting below him.
- before looking back up at his eyes. She's wearing a sweater under a jacket, but is slender (a young, growing tree, strong and healthy, no skinny, slight thing she) and human. The chill is effecting her far more than him, though she's holding herself well enough with both it and the drinking that's going on. (Ciarán knows her cup was empty when he found her, and that she's been nursing one while talking to him, but not how many she had before. Were he to ask, he'd find out that she's had enough to feel good, a bit uninhibited, but not enough to be stupid.)
"Oh, I'm going to finish school for sure. Maybe I'll pop out a wee bairn," her accent on this is impeccable, and humorous, though posher than one might expect, "or more when it's done and I've established myself in a practice somewhere, but probably not before. I've got a plan, you see."
Black
She touches him and his body swings so that his leg draws behind her and this allows him to drop to the ground, soles of his boots meeting cool hard earth. She had touched his thigh and his own palm had rested warm atop her knuckles. When he moved, he didn't let her retract the touch but instead just held loose to her fingers as he shifted from being behind her to being in front of her.
"Och aye, mebbe we shoods keep in tooch. ur mebbe we lae it tae fate? See whit way th' huir nudges us?" He doesn't know what she's drank or how much. If she had a touch of the blood in her veins he trusted her to keep her liquor And, Black knew enough of the true born and their blood here to ensure that there would be no unwanted hands or attention troubling Étaín tonight.
Her hand is drawn to his mouth and he presses the fullness of his lips to her knuckles with a slow forming grin, his spine straightening before he lets the touch go, her hand free to drift back to her lap. "Ah main be gonnae, hen. if we bide tae see tha' moorns nicht ur th' next, i'll see ye again 'en."
"Let's gang ye fuckers!" He bellows at the other Garou who arrived at the bonfire with him.
Étaín
".....you don't half tease, do you?" But it's amused as her hand does, indeed, fall back to her own lap. "Herne, Fort Collins. Don't go riling up my horses and the rest, yeah? But wherever I land after grad school, my dad will know, and probably tell you."
There's a pause, then, as her brow furrows and she thinks of the best thing to say, taking the opportunity to rise to her feet in front of him - and impulsively rise to her toes to kiss his cheek to the dismay of her friends (and likely amusement of his).
"Try to stay in one piece, yeah? It would suck to lose the only 'cousin' I've met after only a couple hours' conversation. I think I like knowing you're out there somewhere."
Black
He was grinning even as she lifted up to kiss his cheek. Black doesn't miss a beat. His hand drifts to find the curve of her hip and he leans into the press of lips to his skin. There may be hoots and hollers and gasps and the bulging of eyeballs. It wouldn't be the first time he was the subject of such things, it probably won't be the last.
His cheek presses to her own as she speaks, tells him that she might like the idea of a guy like him being out there somewhere, and his lips are so near her ear she can hear him breathing lightly. "Ah willnae ever tryst tha' moorns nicht, but if Ah make it tae tha states, i'll fin' thes Fort Collins, alrecht?"
I won't ever promise tomorrow, but if I make it to the states I'll find this Fort Collins, alright?
Black presses his mouth near her ear and then pulls away and turns to go, though not before telling the man tossing beers to keep an eye on the kin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)