Ghosts of the Past
8/26/2007
01:02 AM
Logfile from GarouMUSH.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (85% full).
It is currently 00:57 Pacific Time on Sun Aug 26 2007.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is partially cloudy. The temperature is 59 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.95 and rising, and the relative humidity is 80 percent. The dewpoint is 53 degrees Fahrenheit (11 degrees Celsius.)
Dark Alley
A fairly typical alley way for this part of town, this narrow way knifes its way north-south between tall brick buildings. Not much wider than the dumpster that lies near the south end, it appears that a great deal of the refuse never makes it into the dumpster, or else, it's scattered to and fro by homeless persons, cats, and rats, all looking for food and other treasures.
Contents:
Rina
Obvious exits:
Regan Avenue Bridge Street
He's walking through the dark parts of the city when he hears it: whispering, the words not quite clear enough to make out. The slide of a gun, and a muffled, choked sound, perhaps a sob or a noise of struggle.
Late at night, the fat moon casts its glow down from the skies, only to be washed out by grungy street lights and dirtier streets. Though they're largely empty of inhabitants save for the typical life - strays, both human and animal - one of them who mixes with both walks amongst them. Kenneth strides down the sidewalk, his path seemingly aimless, but taking him towards the mouth of a darkened alley. And as he passes, the stuffed up sound clicks towards his predatory nature to investigate that source of weakness. Opportunistically, the Shadow Lord steps closer, but remains in the shadows. Eyes focus towards the dark, ears attune further with his gift.
"I'm sorry-- I'm sorry-- please. Please, you have to forgive me--what's done-- what's done--"
Kenneth narrows his eyes for a bit, and takes another step forward. His breath slows to a shallow flow.
Huddled against the brick wall, Rina cradles the nine-millimeter close to her body. Her eyes are closed, her cheeks streaked with the tracks of her tears. "I can't," she whispers, pale with terror. "I can't, it's too much, I--"
Another step closer. Kenneth comes well into the shadows, eyes adjusting to the darkness. The rustle of his clothing against his skin announces, possibly, his presence.
In an instant's time the gun is trained on him, trembling. Her tears blur her vision.
And in an instant, Kenneth stops his approach. The tension is palpable as a trigger. His eyes stare blackly. "Make a decision."
Rina swallows. "Who are you?" she whispers hoarsely, her voice rough-edged.
Kenneth answers with silence at first. Then after a moment, he replies. "Just a watcher." It's followed by a slow, almost softer despite that Rage-edged tension. "Your voice. It sounds... familiar."
"I can't see," she says quietly. Carefully, slowly, she lowers the gun. "Step away from the light."
Another heartbeat, and Kenneth moves to a spot where he can be seen in the pale moonlight struggling to make its way into the alley, reflecting off the shinier parts of grime.
Rina swallows. "I don't-- know if I know you." The gun remains in one hand, as she dashes tears from her cheeks with the back of the other. "But then that's okay because -- I don't really know me, anymore."
Kenneth winds a hand out, slipping it forward to the woman on the ground. "Kenneth," he allows for a brief intro. Or re-intro. "Most people don't know who they are. You're just one of the few who're actually bothered by that."
Rina shoves the weapon into her jacket, and reaches out to take the proffered hand. Her own is slightly sticky, and he catches sight of a smear of blood in the moonlight. She sways a little when she reaches her feet, and catches herself with the other arm, against the bricks. "Shadow Lord. Ha. Never show weakness to a Shadow Lord, and here we are." The hazy eyes meet his, and focus. "Good thing I'm only a worthless fucking Kin bitch, yeah?"
Kenneth's older now. And yet when she mentions his tribe, things suddenly click. The stickiness and blood isn't commented on, but she can hear him sniff. "Shit," he recalls. "You're Kin. Walker Kin." There's silence as he fishes more. "Rina." The grip on her hand tightens.
Rina averts her eyes. A swallow disturbs the line of her throat. "Yeah."
"You hurt?" His tone turns even tighter. The Shadow Lord does his best not to let it translate to his physical grip on her hand.
Rina glances to him only for an instant, and shakes her head slightly, her eyes lowering a fraction. "It's nothing."
Kenneth examines her in the darkness, but in a seemingly futile gesture. "I hate when you girls have guns," he growls with a thinly masked annoyance. He turns, her sticky hand still in his, to head for the alley mouth.
"You girls? The fuck is THAT supposed to mean?" It isn't antagonistic, just mild and resigned--as if she's too exhausted to muster any resistance. "And could you let go, before you start turnin' me on?"
Kenneth almost doesn't let go. His grip tightens, even, before the shock wears off and he uncurls his fingers from hers in a blood-stuck loosening. The philodox lets out a slow breath. "Means," once he's clenched that awkwardness until it suffocates, "just what it says it means. You're the second Kin I've come across now... who wanted to blow her beautiful face to shit with a gun. And probably over a guy. You're fuckin' unpredictable."
Rina shakes her head ruefully, almost laughing. "Yeah. Well, fyi, the gun's not for *me*, it's in case the fucking dancers come to visit. And I only *occasionally* want to stick a bullet in my head." The humor is half-bitter. "You caught me on a bad night."
"Keep it up, and they might. And a little gun's not gonna stop 'em," Kenneth utters with a deeper, angered urge in his tone. "What's your /good/ night, then?" he queries. His tone, it's trying to be flat. Trying to climb back up out of the pit of darkness.
"Sorry..." There's actually a genuine softness in her voice. "Apparently it's mutual. So why does *your* evening suck?"
Kenneth turns his gaze away, towards the alley mouth. "It's nothing," he echoes of her previous answer. Only he's an even worse liar.
"Mm." The noncommittal sound expresses her patent disbelief, and an unwillingness to push past personal boundaries. "Sorry if I made it worse, then," she offers.
"It's not your fault," Kenneth is quick on the rebound. A heavy sigh issues out of him, and he starts to looks back. "Believe me, there's nothing wrong on your end."
"Wanna get a drink? And continue to not talk about it?" There's a touch of something wry in the offer--as if her mood is lightened by the knowledge that misery is universal.
Kenneth lapses into silence again. Then. "Sure. If you can keep it secret that I'm still underage, 'ccording to drinking law."
"I don't think it'll be a problem, where we're headed," she murmurs. "Just let me say right up front that I am *not* coming on to you. 'S'just safer at my place, right now." She glances over to him as she shifts direction, heading north. "Just don't hurt any of my paintings."
Kenneth steps aside, following with a blink at her clarification. His continued silence says a lot, and nothing all at once. Appreciation. Agreement. An unspoken promise. As they walk, he studies her gait, looking for the blood source.
She walks with a slight stiffness in body and shoulders. "And I might disappear for a quick shower," she mutters. "Which you should NOT take as an invitation."
Kenneth shakes his head. "Won't even think it," he claims with what sounds like genuine sincerity. "Even if I did, Salem might get a bead on it and tear my head off." He pulls his jacket in.
Rina laughs a little. "Nah. Jack knows me." What that means... is anyone's guess.
"That's what frightens me," replies the philodox wryly.
They walk together to the apartment--some distance away, in a rather better part of town. She doesn't force any conversation, content to move warily through the city.
And in silence, Kenneth is content to move beside her. Once they do reach a part better off than the dingy alley, the Shadow Lord seems to relax a tiny degree. It's only when they're at her doorstep that he offers, "I can wait out here, if you like. Come get me when you're done in the shower?"
Rina laughs. "Oh, seriously." She cards the door and waves him in. "Come up. Pretend it's an art gallery. D'you like scotch?"
Kenneth narrows his eyes at the laughter, uncertainty on how to take it showing. But, he nods as graciously as he can and follows her in. "Never had it," he confesses, looking about at the pieces. "Tried vodka - the real Russian shit. But I don't honestly remember what that was like, and I'm not entirely sure I /want/ to."
Apartment and Studio(#2790RFJ)
A short entry hall opens into a large, bright livingroom lit by tall windows and two sets of French doors, all on the far side from the entrance. An archway on the right side of the hallway leads into an alcove kitchen and an open dining area. At the left side of the living room, a hallway opens onto the bathroom, closet, and bedroom.
Rina's apartment constantly smells of paint, and the windows and glass doors are perpetually left open to air out the fumes of her work. The furnishings are eclectic and mismatched, and the wall space of the living room is dominated by shelving and, in some places, paintings. The shelves tend to be hand-constructed, mostly in metal and rivets, odd bits of hardware exposed; a functional sculpture of brushed-metal shelving hangs suspended from thin steel cables. The paintings are disturbing multimedia landscapes, depicting science-fiction cities and cyberpunk vistas of light and metal. For the most part these are executed in somber or cool tones. The work that strays furthest from the colors of the room also occupies the most prominent real estate, across from the sofa and above the low storage file: it is a landscape dominated by volcanic fire, edged with darker shades trailing into black, in which a distinctly feminine figure seems to emerge toward the viewer through a red inferno. Trails of dark, flaming hair snake out around her head like a corona or halo; the hands are open, held low with the arms outstretched as if in offering.
In the center of the livingroom, a sofa with a wildly-curved back, upholstered in spring-green velvet, sits with a unique coffee table and two artsy-looking steel chairs that are half sculpture. The coffee table is another work of modern art, a collage piece made of mixed metals, recycled circuit board pieces in shades of blue and green riveted together and set under a layer of clear Lexan, half an inch of empty space in between. The shape is curvy, to echo the sofa's long S-curve back. Under the fiery painting sits a birchwood cabinet, perhaps four and a half feet wide by three feet deep, with five shallow drawers. Some might recognize it as a flat file for art storage. A big cushy-looking area rug in shades of natural, grey and green covers the floor in front of the TV.
A quarter of the room, one of the far corners with plenty of sun, clearly acts as a workspace; her easel is set up there, and the hardwood flooring is protected by a sheet of vinyl taped over it, splattered with countless colors of paint. In the opposite corner, away from the light, shorter bookshelves of pale wood split off a small office area, with a small modern desk and an elegant black mesh chair. The desk almost always holds a slim notebook computer and a phone, and little else.
Contents:
Rina
Rina leads him up, a dark sound coming from her. "Fucking *vodka*," she mutters.
She heads for the kitchen, and some moments later sticks a half-full bar glass into his hand. "Try this. Take it slow." She gives him a quick, crooked smile. "I'll be right back."
"I blame a Silver Fang," Kenneth utters himself as he steps further in, scanning piece after piece of artwork and not approaching any which one. And when she does bring a glass to him, the first thing he does is take a whiff. The blinking that follows and dubious look to her as she smiles and leaves pinpoint him as having spoken true of his inexperience. Independently, the halfmoon finds himself a seat on the couch as she occupies herself. Rather than contemplate the drink, his eyes stray to the colorful and dark, the whimsical and hard-lined art all on display.
Oddly, he hears her talking amid the sound of the running water, though the words are indistinct. It sounds almost as if she's trying to calm someone down in there.
Testing the scotch carefully, Kenneth takes another whiff of it. The strong odor gets almost a sneeze, but he closes his eyes to tilt a good bit back into his mouth and swallows quickly. It's perhaps a good thing there's no one there to see his reaction: coughing hard, setting the tumbler down, pounding his chest as the drink burns its way down his throat and clings to his insides before spreading out. Once he's over it, though, there's the talking from the shower and he looks in the direction of the closed bathroom door. A frown tugs at his lips.
She eventually comes out, in a wifebeater and a pair of low-slung knit workout pants, toweling her hair dry. Her shoulders and arms are aswirl with red cuttings, newly scabbed over--which probably draw more attention than either her chest (one nipple is pierced, apparently) or the other scars.
From the time it takes her to finish showering and dressing, Kenneth has dared at least another sip from the tumbler. Still, he's coherent enough to stand when the woman exits the restroom. Her new cuttings indeed draw the halfmoon's attention promptly, and the frown from before hasn't gone away. "The hell's up with your arms?" he asks abruptly now that he sees them in this light, starting forward towards her to look closer.
Rina stares at him for a moment, not understanding--and then she winces. "Oh, shit..." Turning for the closet, she says, "It's nothing, okay? Just some art. Don't worry about it, or anything." Grabbing a much-too-large man's shirt from the pile on the floor, she throws it on quickly over the tank top, to cover her bare skin. "There," she says, avoiding his gaze. "Now you don't hafta look at it.
[Cari pages: Knuckles are a little scraped up, as from a fistfight. He probably saw some scratches on her shoulders, and some redness around her neck and throat, too.]
Kenneth walks over to put a hand on her shoulder, clearly not having her brush it off (or cover up) quite so easily. "No, I do. What happened?" And this time, his scrutiny is all the more intense, like he's digging deeper for the truth.
His hand slides under the fabric, to stop her as she begins shouldering into it--and he touches skin, roughened with scars and the scratchy lines of those fresh cuts.
Rina tenses, turning to look at him with something undefinable in her eyes. Intense, whatever it is... apprehension? Wariness? Her breathing catches, and she jerks her shoulder away from the contact, averting her eyes and moving for the kitchen. "Don't do that," she says quietly. "Don't touch me."
It's quite chilly, in the apartment; the windows are open, and the night seems cold for August.
Even if it's cold, Kenneth doesn't seem to have noticed. "Answer my question then," he says, hand lowering but body moving to walk astride with her towards the kitchen.
Taking a breath, she pulls down a glass for herself and concentrates on filling it with Scotch. "I don't really wanna be accused of corrupting the cubs again, aright? Rather not talk about it?"
"What?" The question blurts out, but only in indication of Kenneth's focus crashing out of its mental lane. A few more moments skip past, and he shakes his head in frustration before turning away. "Fine. Suit yourself." He starts back for the tumbler left on the table by the couch.
Rina swallows, closing her eyes for a moment. "Sorry," she murmurs. "I ran into someone I trusted very much. I went somewhere private with him, and we did some things that both of us like. Aright?"
Kenneth slowly comes to a pause at the edge of the kitchen threshold. He doesn't turn around, though, hiding away his own facial expression. Only by the tensing of his shoulder line, and his take in of a deep breath before exhaling, hint at discomfort. "Whatever." The halfmoon resumes his walk towards the table, where he picks up the scotch and tilts it back against his lips again. There's a softer cough this time following. "You don't have to dance around it. Not like you're in any danger of it right now."
"People don't understand," she says quietly. "I don't expect you to." She takes a drink of the Scotch. "I'm sorry. I'm not such good company."
"Rina," Kenneth utters after another pause and exhale of heavy alcoholic fumes, "stop apologizing would ya." He turns around to look at her from afar. "Save for one thing: Don't tell me what I don't understand. Think I don't know? Then explain it already, 'stead of beatin' round the bush. If I don't get it, then I'll ask. But don't assume... alright?"
Rina presses her lips together, hard. "Sorry," she mutters darkly. "I just don't want anyone to get the wrong idea."
Kenneth snorts again with the 'Sorry', shaking his head. "Only way people aren't going to get the wrong idea's is if you come out straight with it. Fuck. I don't even know /what/ you're talking about now." The halfmoon drops himself onto the couch, cradling the alcohol close and looking down into it.
Rina stays by the kitchen counter. "I've gotten in trouble before over other people's cubs. Over certain parties getting the idea that I somehow was a bad influence. Et cetera."
Kenneth looks around the "art gallery" loft in an exaggerated motion before looking back at her. "I don't see any cubs here. Unless you're talking about one of those newbs in the farmhouse."
Rina winces. "Sorry," she mutters. "Christ. I can't fuckin' do anything right."
Kenneth narrows his eyes again, but this time it's with a puzzled look at her. "Okay, what're you apologizing for /now/?"
Rina shakes her head. "Nothing," she murmurs, tossing back half the whiskey.
"Why're you bein' so damn difficult?" Kenneth growls in exasperation. "It was just a question."
Rina wets her lips, studying the counter. "I don't mean to," she murmurs quietly. "There somethin' else you wanna know?"
Kenneth eventually finishes the whole overfilled glass of scotch and leans back into the couch, lapsing into silence for a while. Counting off the seconds, quite a few pass before he speaks up again. "Ever been married?"
Rina straightens, taking in a sudden breath--almost as if something has startled her. She shivers, visibly, and ducks her head. "Yeah," she answers, tersely.
Silence sits on the answer's coattails, riding away. "That's good," Kenneth notes after it, his own commentary turning brief. "You give your guy as much hell as you are doin' to me now?"
Rina laughs strangely, strain in the sound. "Oh, Christ," she says ruefully. "A hell of a lot more."
"Hard to imagine," Kenneth mutters aloud, eyes turning towards the empty glass. "Xia's somewhere in Russia now," he announces after a short pause. From the sound of it, he's both annoyed and resolved.
Rina takes a sip, and glances toward him. "Who's that?" she asks gently.
Kenneth thus takes his turn to be difficult. "No one worth remembering." And yet. "You got anymore of that stuff?" he asks instead, glancing up at her in the kitchen.
Rina's lips twist in a wry half-smile, and she brings the bottle over to him. "Always." Her glass is in one hand as she pours with the other; then she sits down on the floor, next to the couch. "You got a pack?"
The scotch glass refilled, Kenneth picks it up to sip from some more after a short thanks. His eyes shift in their sockets, eyeing the kin sidelong at her question. The topic is taken up, as the tumbler is taken away from his lips. "Not anymore," he admits slowly. "But maybe again, soon. Turned down the other Lords for this other prospect." His expression belies a discomfort to that admission.
Rina glances over. "What's the prospect? With who?"
The answer is long in coming. "Stacey," Kenneth replies with a look over. "She's younger than me by... four years or something. But, just helped her on her fostern challenge." With his free hand, he brushes away some too long hair getting in his eyes, though his gaze averts.
Rina laughs a little. "What about your own?"
Kenneth takes another sip of the scotch. "Don't know," he answers to that, though he looks contemplative.
Rina lets out a breath. "Well, no doubt you'll get some battle scars, with all the shit that's coming."
"Hah." Kenneth laughs lowly, though it manages to sound like something optimistic. "I'm a philodox, remember? Glory's for the ahrouns... and even then, with the right pack..." He turns to look at the kinswoman, chin tilting proudly. "Stace's challenge pack came away with barely a scar amongst the five of us. /Twenty/ of them, five of us."
Rina manages a faint smile. "Good for you. Who's this Stace? Anybody I know?"
Kenneth frowns at the woman next, though, for her question and blinks in confusion. "You... been away, haven't you? Stacey's the elder for the Children of Gaia. Been it ever since Alicia and Dakota skipped town. She's..." He pauses to calculate. "Fourteen, now."
Rina chokes on her whiskey. "A *fourteen-year-old*?" She stares at him, nonplussed. "And she made Fostern? What is she, a lupe or somethin'?
Kenneth cants his head at the kin, brow lifting. "She's no lupe, she's... well, she's Stacey."
Rina frowns. "Huh. She Urrah?"
"No," Kenneth answers frankly. "But she's not against coming to the city, if you're wondering. Just that she used to pack with the former Guardians, and they were all Wendigo or Uktena. Kind of... gave her a nature kick. And she was Groundskeeper, Reggie challenged for it."
Rina nods, satisfied. "That explains my utter lack of clue," she murmurs. Rattling the ice in her glass, she takes another drink.
Kenneth tips his glass slightly in Rina's direction. "Should get one of those," he smirks. "Hear they're all the rage. At least, get one of your tribe to lend ya one."
"Bite me, Shadow Lord," she says casually.
"Tempting, but I've a Litany to follow," Kenneth replies and sips his scotch again.
Rina laughs, and glances over to him--down the arm that extends along the adge of the couch. "What's that s'posed to mean? Not like I'm Garou..."
Kenneth blinks, mid-sip. His eyes shift down over the couch's arm, over his own, down to the woman. "You're not, no..." he replies a touch slower, tumbler moved off from his mouth. His lips press together after in a thin line.
Rina's expression turns wry, and she moves to drink again, downing the last of her scotch. "Din't mean to offend," she murmurs.
"You didn't," Kenneth replies after a moment as his gaze averts again. He takes a much longer drink this time, and the hand on the end of the couch arm tightens its grip in a degree of tension. "Beautiful woman like yourself, wouldn't offend anyone."
She laughs again, brief and humorless. "Oh, you'd be surprised."
Kenneth keeps his eyes off. "I mean it."
Rina wets her lips. "I got a knack for saying the wrong thing tonight," she murmurs. She lets out a breath and lets her head fall back lazily on the edge of the couch.
"Easy to do," Kenneth remarks after a smaller sip. "But there's an easy fix for that."
A low, throaty laugh comes from her. The whiskey has done something to mellow her mood. "Yeah. I should just shut up, huh?"
"This is your place," Kenneth indicates with a lifted glass towards the proper of the loft. "Say what you will. Who's to stop you? It's a free country." By now, the philodox too looks calmer by the drink.
Rina's smile turns wry, and she looks up at the ceiling. "You feelin' better?"
Kenneth answers with a nod and another sip of scotch. "Stuff makes you feel warm inside," he remarks with a drier swallow. "I shouldn't be drinkin' though... against the- against the law. Not that I didn't sneak some of that wine at church before."
"Against the law? What, the Litany says don't drink?" She smiles faintly, looking over to him.
Kenneth turns his eyes back to the woman, a smirk half formed. "Human law, duh," he replies with an exaggerated hanging out of his tongue at her. "But, fuck it."
Rina rolls her eyes. "That shit doesn't exist for you an' me," she murmurs. "Except in how to AVOID it."
Kenneth sits up some more, eyes moving to focus a little more on the woman. "What do you mean? You're still human," he points out. "Unless you're meanin' to say being Kin puts you above the law."
She looks away. "We got more important things to worry about than human law, she says quietly. "All it does is get in the way, sometimes."
"Yet," Kenneth murmurs as he continues to stare, "it's still what binds us. Like a web. Garou avoid humans and their laws, fearing the Veil's going to break any moment. Can you imagine? A Garou? Going to jail?"
Rina lifts a shoulder. "Happens plenty, where I come from." She smiles thinly. "We tend to live on the wrong side of the law."
Kenneth suddenly looks rather interested as he takes another drink. "Yeah?" he remarks in question, "and what happens to 'em? They don't just get to rot like the other lowlifes, do they?"
Rina murmurs, "Depends on who they are, and whether they got enough control to be okay on the inside. Sometimes they get busted out, hafta disappear. Sometimes we can pull strings, get the time shortened, whatever."
Kenneth grunts softly in thought, expression turning pensive before he slides back down to a more relaxed appearance on the couch. He eyes the level of his drink. "You'd never see somethin' like that shit here I bet," he comments thinly.
Rina frowns slightly. "Not sure if anyone on our side's ever been to jail, here," she says. "Garou, anyway."
"Never seen a Garou get caught on the wrong side of the law here, myself," Kenneth replies with a slow nod. "Either we're really good at runnin'... or the police are really bad at dealin' with us."
Rina licks her lips. "Both," she answers. "Plus there's magic on our side, yeah?"
Kenneth's smirk turns wry once again. "Don't know. Ever get out of a speeding ticket with those good looks?" he asks innocently.
Rina lets out a breath, almost a derisive sound. "You kiddin'? I'm one of the goddamn usual suspects around here. Fuckin' pigs harass me any chance they get."
A silence given for consideration ensues. "And with the FBI sniffin' around, you don't think your place's bein' tapped?" he suddenly notes aloud, scanning about.
"I don't think they're onto this address, yet," she answers, glancing down into her empty glass. "I sweep every once'n'a while, though."
Kenneth finishes his minor, cursory inspection. "Oughtta do a sweep flipside, too," he considers with a low murmur. "Xia once had this--" he starts again, but then stops, frowns and shakes his head.
Her face turns away. "It's protected, I think," she says softly. "I don't want anyone going there."
"Well, I ain't goin' in there," Kenneth snorts with a swirl of his drink. "Even on this thick a moon, solo journey around there's probably still suicide." He takes a gulp of scotch, moving again to fill up the glass, but looking shakier for it. "Least you don't have to feel what that's like... the whole 'dead'ness of it all out here. The /wrong/ that creeps into every godforsaken corner of some places..."
Rina closes her eyes tightly. "I've seen it," she says quietly. "A long time ago."
The laugh that comes out of Kenneth is disbelieving. "What're you talkin' 'bout? Humans can't go into the Umbra."
Rina shudders. "I didn't, exactly," she murmurs.
"Then how in the hell're you sayin' you saw it?" Kenneth demands flippantly, finally getting his hand steady enough to pour.
"Once-- I was, I don't know. Taken." Her voice is flat, a little unsteady. "There was something that happened when I was in school. A-- a bane, some kind of--" She shakes her head minutely. "And then there was the shit that happened with the power plant, when everything... came out of the shadow, and into the city."
Kenneth, setting the bottle down with a heavier clink, pauses his hand over his glass at her small explanation. He turns to actually look a bit more purposefully at her, studying. "So... you're saying you've seen the Umbra," he makes certain. "You're sayin' you've seen the webs and the moon and the spirits that're all over this dirtball we call Gaia."
Rina shakes her head quickly. "No. Not like that. Not the-- the things that are beautiful." Her eyes are bleak, looking into an emptiness before her. "But the inside of the beast--the evil from the other side, that lives in the city. The-- the spirits that twist minds, and-- and worse. That much, I've seen."
Kenneth continues eyeing the kinswoman for a long time before he reaches over to take a drink. "How long ago was that?" he asks quietly.
Rina presses her lips together, hard. "I don't know," she murmurs, "what, maybe ten years? More than that, even."
Kenneth stares down into his glass. "Damn long time ago," he notes into the liquid. "And you're still fucked up over it?"
Rina shakes her head minutely. "Not so much," she answers. Glancing over her shoulder, she gives him a rueful attempt at a smile. "I got plenty of other reasons f'bein' a psycho."
"Like," Kenneth obsreves in a gravelly voice, "bein' female, for one."
Her smile deepends a touch, though the humor doesn't quite reach her eyes. She flips him a bird, casually.
Kenneth gazes sidelong at the gesture. "Don't hear you disagreeing," he notes just as casually. "Unless you care to prove otherwise?"
Rina laughs a little. "What, prove I'm a man, or prove I'm not fucked up about it?"
Kenneth gives Rina a funny look at that. "I mean, proving that bein' female don't fuck ya up in the head a bit," he clarifies, "'cause I haven't met a one of you yet who wasn't."
Rina looks over to him with a feral smile. "Fuck you, Shadow Lord."
And Kenneth blurts out before he can stop himself, "If /only/, woman. If /only/."
She looks away, and tips her head back, closing her eyes. "Yeah," she murmurs, "he gets pretty touchy about people even *comin'* here, lately.
Kenneth blinks blearily, two and a half glasses of scotch down and working on that third. "Who is?" inquires the halfmoon rather innocently considering the lewdness of his previous statement.
Rina wets her lips, and her eyes flicker open dreamily. "My husband. He was always jealous."
"Was?" Kenneth echoes back.
Rina swallows. "Still is," she whispers.
Kenneth snorts. "Where's he now, then? He ain't here. Bet he don't know his girl's cutting, or she's getting in fights, or doin' stupid shit like pullin' guns on people and jumpin' at shadows." He shakes his head slowly, disdaining this phantom. "Some piss poor husband ya got."
The chill in the room increases, and she moves abruptly, rolling to her feet and turning to look to the windows. "Don't talk like that," she says quietly, tension suddenly coming to her voice. This time, when she shivers, her shoulders lift involuntarily, and a faint wince crosses her features. "I think you'd better go," she whispers.
There might be something in the room, or there might not--an aura of tension, something black and furious. Or perhaps it's just her: those dark, dilated eyes, the way she is almost shaking with anger or cold.
He might be three-quarters of the way drunk, but Kenneth's instincts can still function on the basic level. The tense aura, the unnatural chill, prickles the hairs on the back of his neck and he sits up just that much straighter and his lips start to peel back from his teeth in a feral show. "Hsst," he hisses with trying to get the woman to be quiet. "You feel that?"
"You pissed him off, sayin' that," she says quietly. She watches something in the glass of the windows, guardedly. "I really think you should leave now."
Kenneth staggers up to his feet, almost looking like he would leave, but instead stands in place and continues a dull-eyed glare about him. "The fuck..." he growls slowly, shoulder muscles bunching beneath his skin. "What the hell is going on here?"
Rina turns to look at him, her posture tense. "Nothing," she says tersely. "You insulted my husband and I think you should *leave* is all." She gives a jerk of her head toward the door. "Please."
Kenneth stares back at the woman now, eyes finding it hard to focus due to all that drinking. "Your husband," he begins to say, but never gets about to finishing the thought. The philodox's lips lower about halfway, the tips still showing vaguely, and he narrows his eyes. "Fine," comes the eventual conclusion, followed by a turn and slight stumble from the halfmoon. He plants his hand on the back of the couch for momentary support, straightens as much as he can, and with as much dignity as he can muster starts again for the door. But as he gets to the door, he pauses long enough to look back over his shoulder at her.
She is watching him with wild eyes, both arms wrapped around her body as if to control the shivering. "Go," she says, urgency in that low voice.
Kenneth blinks slowly once more time. "Sorry," he utters out, just loud enough for it to be audible, but not nearly enough to make out anything but its curt flavor. Then he opens up the door, walks waveringly out, and shuts it behind him to disappear back into the night.
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