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.
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