[Danicka Musil] The dance floor is uneven. If there's air conditioning it's shoddy. The drinks cost too much. The sound system is amazing. There are billiards and a photo booth downstairs. The crowd is thick and unpretentious. People are there to dance. And dance. And dance.
Danicka has been to almost every nightclub in Chicago at least a few times by now. Some she goes back to. She keeps her ears open for talk of new ones, and there are people from school and people from her old -- briefly held -- job and people that she met through Paul who sometimes call her up because she's a hot girl, a good dancer, and she'll sometimes pay for your drinks if you're not a douchebag and you're younger than she is. She also has an uncanny ability to get people out of trouble. Or into it, depending on the situation.
Tonight, as most nights when she's out dancing, she is not alone. But she's quickly separated from the people she arrived with, at least for the time being, as soon as this person hears a song they love and that person gets bought a drink and then there's Danicka, in a mellow but pleasant mood, taking her drink away from the bar. Her skirt is short, her shirt drapes loose and dangerous across her chest, her boots go up to the knee and are surprisingly comfortable to dance in for hours on end, and her earrings glint as they sway from her ears. They're the only jewelry she's wearing.
Her drink is bright blue.
[Christian del Piero] That fight last night served a purpose. If he had not burnt nearly all of his Rage fighting a Bone Gnawer and a Fiann, he would be intolerable right now. He would be a monster. Right now, he's okay. Sort of. He made the mistake of looking at the sky when he went out of doors tonight. The clouds weren't enough to hide the moon, and he saw it. His vision went red. Faster than a shot, he put his fist into a trash can and went on his way.
Last night he had not been dressed expensively. He isn't tonight, either. He's wearing dirty running shoes, loose jeans and a black t-shirt. The sleeves aren't enough to conceal his muscles. He's not going to win any competitions, but anyone looking at him can see how strong the young man is. He could hurt someone...if the planets were properly aligned and the cosmos willing. Last night they hadn't been.
He gets a permanent black X on the back of his hand instead of a paper bracelet. He's not old enough to drink. He's old enough to listen to music and dance and look at girls, at least.
[Robbie Murdoch] It's all right that the drinks cost too much here because Robbie has no intention of buying one anyway. It's a Sunday night and cover's only $10. Free if you're in before 10pm. Which Robbie was, which makes this a good deal.
And given the plainness of his clothes, he could use a good deal. There are women here in two hundred dollar shirts. There are people wearing eclectic, funky outfits that, for all their plain weirdness, cost more than some people's monthly salary. Robbie: he's in cheap sturdy jeans and a cheaper brown t-shirt which only barely falls past the waistline of his jeans because going one size larger looked like he was wearing a sack on his lean body. Amelia would recognize these things because, well, she bought them for him. Indirectly. He's plainly and cheaply dressed, and he doesn't chat anyone up, and he's not drinking the overpriced drinks.
He's dancing. He's here to dance, this Galliard who can't sing, can't write poetry, can barely talk clearly when pressed. He's out on the floor -- out past the shallows where the sharks lurk, eyes on the women. Out past the groups of friends who are there mostly to talk and laugh. Out in the deeps, the eye of the proverbial storm, the space where associations between moving strangers are as free and transient as particles whirling in the heart of a star.
That's where he is right now, caught up in the primal rhythm of it, lean body snapping and thumping to the rhythm. Sharp and fierce. Unchoreographed, utterly attuned. Feet quick, footfalls heavy, footwork complex and smooth as he spins and slides and steps, moving amongst and with and around and away from utter strangers who are, for a moment or two at least, plugged into the same beat; part of the same pounding organic mass.
[Amelia Conway] Coincidence be true, Amelia was at the very same club that evening as well.
'Come see the nightlife,' insisted one of her neighbors that was straddling the line between acquaintance and friend. 'You've been here for like two months and I haven't seen you go out once. What are you, fifty?' The girl was charismatic, Amelia didn't need to be into the shop for any particular pressing reason any earlier than ten a.m. the next morning, so she decided to go out a limb and accept the invitation.
So, settled leaning back against the wall was Amelia Conway, a sturdily built woman somewhere in her mid twenties with short pale hair that was slicked back from her brow to glue to her scalp and the back of her neck. She'd dragged a dress from two years ago out of the closet and it'd passed inspection by her apartment building neighbor, the girl that had escorted her out to this destination, but she had to borrow the girl's shoes because all she had to offer were clunky red things that warranted several Wizard of Oz jokes on the drive out. The dress was simple, silvery-gray with sequins straps that rested easy on semi-broad shoulders and loose fabric that dropped just a few inches above the knee.
She had a bottle of some cheap beer in her hand ('No way in hell am I payin' five bucks for one damn bottle') and her other arm folded over her stomach. A small grin quirked her wide mouth while she watched the petite curly-haired woman flash her a thumbs up from a dozen feet away where she'd found herself a tall swarthy dance partner. That made one.
[Cordelia] Thos glasses are atrocious.
They really are. Cordelia could be all sorts of things- a doctor, a lawyer, a dance instructor that could be taken seriously instead of getting a what the Hell reaction every time she hits a studio. She could be a lot of things without those glasses. Instead, Cordelia lookins like a computer programmer. A computer programmer from a nineteen eighties film. Well, maybe not. Because, if it were an eighties movie, no girls would be computer programmers. Or, well, whoever Cordie was playing would be played, instead, by Molly Ringwald.
And fuck Molly Ringwald.
She comes in, and she's here to actually dance. Shes a tall woman, and the fact that she's wearing a skirt makes her legs look like they're a mile long. She's wearing heels, and has little regard for the fact that she is so muh taller than most of the men here, that she stands a head above most women- and that, in heels, she's six foot three. she doesn't seem to care- she wears color. The skirt is black but the shirt is blue and has an open back. It matches her heels, which are also blue and have a (mostly) open back. Her feet are going to hurt in the morning, she doesn't really care.
She's got a paper wristband. She came alone. The music's good enough, so she doesn't care that she's tall, lanky, and generally unremarkable.
Except, you know, for that whole purebreed thing. Being a six-foor-three purebred blonde with bad glasses in a club doesn't make you not stand out much. So, she goes for the dance floor. She's less head-above-the-rest there.
[Cordelia] (when I pass on, remember me for my wit, not my typo-ridden posts. Please disregard the typos!)
[Christian del Piero] The humans give him room as he moves. There is not much room to give, but they find it. It's better than getting close to him. Even in the dim light, they can see unchecked fury in his eyes. Accidentally bumping into him would be seen as a challenge. He is not old enough to be alpha to anyone but himself. You have to be tough to survive on your own as long as he has. You have to be able to pretend being a lone wolf in a world of packs isn't alien and aggravating.
Christian is Ahroun. They cannot pretend to save their lives.
At least one blonde catches his attention tonight. One of them has red shoes. Another one has a blue drink. The one he spends the most time looking at has round, ridiculous black glasses. She isn't a stranger...and of the three of them, she is the one who could be said to be "his" in any context, even if it is only "his" kin.
He starts through the crowd towards her, glaring at one person who gets too close.
[Danicka Musil] That poor trio of girls who suggested going out dancing tonight have found other things to do, and quickly, thanks to Danicka inviting that other blonde along. That other blonde whose rage makes her stand out as much as her breeding. That other blonde who is going to have to reconcile herself with the amount of sweat pouring out of various bodies on the dancefloor. That other blonde that no one in a million years would think Danicka would invite out for a little clubbing. Since, you know.
Supposedly they hate each other.
Out there on the dancefloor or over here by the bar there are a growing number of the well-bred, the special, and the frightening. Danicka has only briefly met one of them, and she can't see him in the throng of dancers. She sips at her drink, shaking her hair back off her shoulder, eying all those beautiful people out there.
In a way, watching people dance is like being the sober person at a party full of happy and cuddly drunks. Danicka does not seem like it makes her feel awkward, though. She drinks, and she observes, as though she's waiting for something.
[Cordelia] She is decidedly less of a space cadet tonight. She isn't fixating on something that isn't there. She isn't not talking, and she isn't even acting as though this isn;t her element. Maybe it's not her element. Maybe Cordelia can't deal with nightclubs, for fear of needles and sex and messes and all the things that come with being awake and having a nightlife. Or, possibly, she thrives in these places, where people are too drunk to know, or care, that she's unremarkable and incredibly tall.
She's got almost six inches on Christian right now.
"Hi," she says, and it's accompanied by a little wave. Her voice gets lost in the crowd, but she does move to bridge the gap. People part. Oh god, they think what the Hell is she doing.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine Bellamonte was flawless.
No, wait. That's not quite true. She had flaws, they were just beneath the surface of that perfect complexion and those high, crafted cheekbones that caused envy in plastic surgeons everywhere. This isn't an introduction to deliver false pretenses of beauty in a human being that could not possibly deliver -- because the simple fact was Katherine Bellamonte was not human. It was, in fact, one of the key flaws to the figure that slips from the Ladies Room in a wave of simmering gold sequins and black leather.
Naturally, trust the Half Moon to encase her lower body in leather on a night like this. Evidently, Katherine had not come to dance, but rather to be admired [oh, the vanity wasn't one of the flaws, really] as she passed among the writhing dancers on a quest to locate her partner for the evening's festivities. She caught a glimpse of fair hair, something radioactively blue in a hand and the tell-tale aroma of breeding.
The top [or rather the piece of fabric passing as one] that tied around the Silver Fang's neck and secured itself again around her lower back was covered in tiny sequins that winked and toyed with the nightclub's lighting. It also revealed the graceful neck and shoulders, the deceivingly slender arms and lower back of the woman moving amongst the crowd with the little smile of a playful predator. One who knew her moon was barely past and her Rage-drenched presence sent pulses racing.
One who knew the level of her power.
Honor's Compass was never to be trifled with; most knew it, and if they didn't, they had enough instinctual wit to slip out of her reach as she passed by. She catches Danicka's eye at one point in her little game, but then is distracted by other, less familiar but recognized scents. The female's nostrils flare, pale eyes narrow on a couple, a fashion-crippled girl and a tall boy with enough Rage to fuel wars.
She moves toward them.
[Christian del Piero] He's not smiling tonight. Not even when he sees Cordelia. He looks angry, feels like an exposed power line. This isn't the sort of anger that causes him to go blind, but he isn't relaxed tonight. Why he thought surrounding himself with reminders of what he isn't anymore was a good idea, he doesn't know. It's crowded in here. It's noisy. There are too many perfumes and people are getting too close and he knows some of them are staring when the kinswoman actually approaches him. The guy he fought with last night is nearby. He can sense his blood.
Cordelia greets him, and Christian gets close so he can hear her over the bass.
"Sono stato qui per due minuti e ho già la odio!" he says. It's hard to tell if he's joking. He sounds pissed off. Though he cannot hear her approach, he can still sense the approach of the Fostern. He turns toward her. His nostrils flare. He does not speak until spoken to.
[Matthieu] As a Galliard he was as drawn to music as he was to the soft laughter coming from the place. The sounds of mingling, the pungent tinge of desire that wafted through the air and teased the nose of the beast who happened by in passing. He decided to check his watch which revealed there was time for a drink or two. So that is what he decided he would do, settle in and calm the nerves. He deserved a break, and the place looked like it might be deserving enough to welcome a man of his discriminating tastes.
He wore a look of distaste on his face as he toyed with the wristband. He didn't like being manhandled by the hired help, there was little more humiliating than having the fingers of some filthy savage touching at your perfect pristine flesh. Mattheiu was as his blood would imply, bold, commanding, and delightfully bigoted, he was as Silverfang as a Silverfang could be. Self absorbed, and you would be too when you found yourself trapped pinned down while your elders crammed story after story of your greatness down your throat from the age of five. He was not a young man, nor was he a beast he was a Silver Fang and with that came a certain air of confidence and superiority. He intimidated with the stench of old money, and aura of power that surrounded him rather than a savage and unkempt demeanour. In fact the man was incredibly well dressed. His dark suit was custom tailored and fit his trim lines perfectly, his hair cut, the light and shadows seemed to bend to his whim so that no matter what angle one was looking at him from it appeared to be his best angle.
Mattheiu Louvel de Pontheiu was more than a man he was the culmination of thousands of years of selective breeding. He was not a prom night mistake, he wasn't even a planned pregnancy he was the result of countless ages of strength and heroism brought together in a beautiful dance of song and seduction to produce one of natures most perfect creatures. He was simply, like all Silver Fangs, better than everyone who did not share the history of his kind.
A drink seemed the best place to start off the evening. It was his reason for coming here after all. To settle his nerves which had been frazzled earlier in the day at a salon which obviously knew nothing of proper nail care. Luckily he always carried a pair of gloves to mask the hideous mistake. He would have made it his personal mission to get the woman fired but she simply didn't appear worth his time. Few usually did... Usually.
His eyes flickered, first over Kate and then towards two others who captured his attention. It was as if everyone else in the room were in black and white save those three. His smile twisted into a brilliant grin but he wasn't about to make his way directly to them not until he had a drink. So he made his way to the bar and ordered the bars finest cognac, which was a little lower grade than his typical tastes but a man can't expect too much from an establishment that makes it's patrons wear paper bracelets around their wrists!
He gave a smile and even a generous tip in the direction of the bartender. Kindness was a part of the nature of the Silver Fangs just look at the Bone Gnawers. Certainly the tribe should have been eradicated long ago, for breeches of etiquette, lack of fashion sense, and funny smell alone, but the Silver Fangs under stand that by allowing such wretched creatures to live they are displaying to the nation their compassion in dealing with their loyal subjects. No king would make it far murdering everyone he saw for the crime of being a filthy commoner. That is more a personal pleasure you do on your own time for fun... In the privacy of your home.
[Danicka Musil] Kate comes out of the ladies once again and -- to be honest -- it's next to impossible not to notice her. Danicka does indeed watch as the Philodox makes her way through the crowd, sipping steadily at a drink known for creating black holes in one's memory of an evening. When Kate catches her eye, one of Danicka's eyebrows flicks slightly. The people here are scared of her.
As they are scared of Robbie. As they are scared of Christian. As they are scared of Matthieu. But in a place like this some of that urge to flee fades. In an orgy of sound and movement, some of them decide to feel safe. Safe enough to get trashed, dance with strangers, make out with whoever happens to be attractive enough and willing to share their booth. So they go ahead and dance with Robbie and they try not to bump into Kate or Matthieu or Christian, but
well.
Things happen.
Danicka follows Kate's proposed trajectory over to the insanely tall girl in glasses. She looks at them for a moment, making a mental note of how deliberately Kate is making her way over there. She makes a decision, removes the straw from her drink, and drains the glass of the rest of the fluid, head back. When it's empty, she lowers her head again, licks an errant drop of blue liquid from the corner of her lips, and sets it on the bar, walking out into the crowd of dancers.
[Cordelia] Christian and Katherine have things in common, but Cordelia doesn't know that. What she knows is that Katherine Bellamonte is a beautiful woman, and she is headed her way. It conjures a sense of immediate, but quiet anxiety. Makes her stomach muscles tense. She knows that this woman is damned near close to perfect.
It makes her stare for a second, but her attention falls back on Christian, over the tension in his frame and makes her aware of distance. She doesn't realize that she stands nearly arm's length away and has to yell to be heard.
"Respire por tu boca, su sabor es mejor de lo que huele," she tells him. She's probably referring to the perfume smell in the place. or the sweaty bodies or the too many people. She can't tell if he's joking, so she has to ask- "ha estado en un club antes de?"
[Robbie Murdoch] There's a ripple through the dance floor as one, two, too many Garou enter the mix. People are leaving suddenly. Going to the booths. Going outside for a breather. The discrete elements Robbie is moving around, orbiting, dancing with: they're drifting off, leaving a vacuum in the center. And the song's ending anyway, diminishing to a simple heavy bassline, mixing with the next.
And Robbie comes out of whatever headspace he goes into. He slows. No one to dance with, no one to move with. He straightens. He looks around, and there are Fangs everywhere suddenly. Crowding the dance floor, thickening the air with Rage. So much for solitude. Robbie starts to ease his way off the dance floor, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. He's flushed with exertion, sweat on his brow, sweat rolling down his taut cheeks. If it's possible, the stretch of midsection briefly exposed is even paler than his face. He's pale, and lanky, and skinny, and redheaded, and he doesn't look the least bit like a threat.
Still. People get out of his way. They scatter when he passes,
except for those who don't.
Robbie comes to a halt, a handful of feet from Danicka. Any other man and it'd look like what it was: a screeching stop. On Robbie, it looks balanced, purposeful, deliberate. And he looks surprised. She's in his territory. That space, that clarity around him when he moves. How can this be? -- then he recognizes the blood, the breeding, and she can see his nostrils widening on the inhale.
[Katherine Bellamonte] [belated empathy roll, I wanna know what that look was, Ms Musil!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Danicka Musil] Other than Katherine, the only person here Danicka has encountered is the sweating Galliard she passes on her way into the dancing, on his way out of it. He stops dead in his tracks, smoother than some who would go tumbling over their own feet, and she turns her head slightly as she walks by him. It's a slow notice, a sort of Yes?, followed by the faintest of nods of recognition. At the next step of her feet she's looking forward again, weaving through people who in the dark look as faceless as they probably feel.
Danicka dances, and she dances the way she always did: freely, and alone. A few people try to dance with her. She indulges them for a few moments, til their knee tries to make a path between hers, and then she's turning away, or moving elsewhere. The crowd is relatively mellow, though getting more agitated the more rage enters the place. Tonight hasn't so far been a night she thinks she'll have to straight-arm someone away from her. That could change.
For now, though, she starts to loosen up, and she starts to dance, well out of range of whatever Katherine is going to be doing with her ilk, her people, who have always held themselves apart for centuries on end. Her footwork isn't as fancy as Robbie's was -- truth be told, with her body, it doesn't need to be. And Danicka doesn't seem to care much. She just moves, and the music moves her, and that's alright. That's enough.
[Christian del Piero] What Cordelia tells him makes him scoff. It's close enough to laughter to serve its purpose, though. He breathes through his mouth. It calms him, if only enough that he can hear more than his blood in his ears. She asks a question, and Christian frowns. He looks away from the approaching Garou.
"Una volta. In California. Non mi piacqui. Adolescenti normali andare a club, però. Loro non si azzuffano ogni sera."
[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine hangs for a moment when she catches Danicka's eye, when she reads her reaction. It's a momentary thing, barely there to be glimpsed before its gone again, snatched away by the crowds and the music and the tug at the Fostern's senses of so many of her ilk gathered together at once.
Still; it does bear witnessing that her smile dims a little; the capricious enjoyment settles into something milder as if she'd caught herself in the mirror and not entirely lavished in the reflection seen there. Robbie -- whomsoever he is, though she knows what -- will be observed closely in gaps in her own forthcoming conversations. He was near to her Alpha's mate and by simple animal hierarchy, that made Danicka her own to protect. It was not even a thought in the Philodox's head, truly. It was simple math; should danger arise, her own Kinfolk and the Shadow Lord Kinswoman would be the first she searched for.
Honor's Compass, indeed.
Now, though. Katherine's eyes are locked on Christian, and in turn Cordelia. The shimmering Bellamonte approaches them, and her mouth gifts them a little coy quirk; her voice is everything sparkling and light, full of a misleading brevity. "You are both newcomers to the city, I can tell." A fair eyebrow wings upward, she cants her head; her eyes on the Ahroun, and beyond him, Matthieu.
"I am Katherine Bellamonte, known to this city as Honor's Compass, Truth's Meridian." A beat, she seems to savor this dance of their tribe. "Fostern Half Moon of House Wyrmfoe and elder of our tribe in Chicago. You are, whom?"
[Amelia Conway] Somewhere along the line, a girl had turned into an adult, and in that process the loose inhibitions that her bloodline was renowned for had tightened considerably. Her friend had waved for her to come out onto the floor, to join the man standing too close behind her, nose dropped into a head full of curly hair and hands secure at her waist. Amelia shook her head and lifted the overpriced beer bottle in kind of a 'cheers anyways' gesture, then brought the bottle to her mouth and took a swig.
Fostern... Wyrmfoe... Half Moon...
Pale eyebrows lifted, and similarly light eyes hopped off to her right. There was a congregation of outstanding people to the immediate side of her. They had to speak loudly to be heard over the heavy thump of the bass-- this meant that Amelia could pick up on some words, but even still she wasn't able to catch the entirety of the conversation, to pick out the small words that strung everything together into coherent sentences.
Still, the words she did catch were vital ones. The stout young woman leaned back against the wall, sipped her beer, and studied the sides of each respective Silver Fang's regal face from the cover of wallflower status and unremarkable everything-- appearance, breeding, dress and all.
[Matthieu] He holds his glass in one hand and doesn't dare sip the cool amber liquid. He leaves it open and exposed to the air around him. A gentle swish was all the glass needed as it warmed against his flesh. He would drink when it was ready, and that was just one of the many characteristics that set the Silver Fang apart from the average sniveling garou. They were not beasts, they were capable of forethought and restraint. They were capable of keeping a cool and level head... Well most were, there are always black sheep in every family especially when ones family is so large. We don't speak of those, however, their problems are best dealt with by their own.
He was patient in his approach, he didn't dart directly towards them but rather he wandered. He took the time to examine the bits of artwork in the club. The vile tasteless little bits of decoration that serve as little more than something to fill the empty space and make it look more welcome. He couldn't help the scowl that formed as he drew in the tastes of the clubs designer. Reminding himself to find out whoever was responsible for this place and have them beheaded... Wait... Damn we can't do that anymore!
A short spiral with a bit of a twist. It was his own way of approaching without daring to show too much eagerness to find and speak to the other members of his tribe who had decided to gather in this place. His blood burned like a fine liquor at the back of the sinuses. It was both powerful and pleasant to draw in the scents of so many lovely creatures all at once. It might be overpowering and overwhelming all at once for any who weren't accustomed to the gatherings of their tribe. Still Mattheiu did not quite yet make his approach final. Instead he took a seat, pulled it up to where the others could see him. He drew his glass slowly upwards to his nose and drew in the aroma of the fine piss water the bartender tried to pass off on him as Cognac. His face goes straight, his eyes narrow as he glances back towards the bar and he promptly stands.
In a calm and almost militant fashion the Silver Fang makes his way to the nearest trash receptacle. Tossing his glass away with that tainted amber liquid attempting to pose as cognac. He wouldn't try to feed such filth to his worst enemy let alone ask him to drink from a glass that had been stained by its presence. No he would rather drink raw sewage than trash to pass his lips.
A sigh of annoyance, and a roll of his eyes. The Silver Fang would have to find something to do in this place other than drink. The scent of arousal soon loses it's luster and is replaced by the stench of commoners. Filthy and unkempt little creatures who have apparently spent their days rolling about in their own bodily waste... The stench of a sweaty woman passing him by draws a glance before his eyes return to the Gathering of Silver Fangs. It would seem there was only one thing left to do in this place.
[Robbie Murdoch] The Galliard -- only she doesn't know he's a Galliard, so he's simply that redheaded freak who's staring -- turns to watch Danicka go. Soon enough the crowds eat her up, and that's when Robbie's eyes flick past her to land, albeit briefly, on Katherine. An animal's instinct of being watched, see.
A moment, eyes held. Then Robbie's turn away with a blink so easy that it seems deliberate. This, too, is instinct. He recognizes who the superior wolf is.
Out, then, past the last lingering dancers. Now he's on the wall, too, finding where he'd set down his bottle of water ... however long ago. It's not some chic six dollar bottle of water from the bar -- just an Arrowhead he brought himself, flimsy plastic crackling in his hand as he unscrews the caps and tilts his head back to gulp.
And gulp, and gulp.
When half the bottle's emptied, Robbie lowers it again, scrubbing the back of his wrist across his mouth. Caps it. Starts to head back out; notices something; diverts; somehow ends up pushing out of the crowd next to that wallflower of a Fianna kin, for whom he actually has a greeting more polite than a dead stop and a five second stare.
"Didn't think you were the type to dance!" He's far enough to have to shout over the music.
[Cordelia] She gets something that's close to a laugh out of him. It's a scoff, and the breathing seems to do its job. It makes her smile, though it only vaguely stays. She catches the general gist- she can't lie to him. She can't tell him that he's normal or anything to that effect. Or even tell him that the club would grow on him.
It's fortunate that Katherine is speaking to them now, because now Cordelia has something else to focus on... which happens to be Katherine's mouth. One could chalk it up to the music being too loud, but Cordelia is watching her mouth for an entirely different reason. Her brows draw together briefly and her mouth presses into a line. She catches-
Bellamonte.
She recognizes this name.
"Je m'appelle Cordelia Eulália Maria Rosenberg Sarafin-Diego, encantado Madamoiselle Bellamonte," she says. She seems to have no problem transitioning between languages, to the point that Spanish crept into her french occasionally.
[Christian del Piero] Neither of them is speaking English. They aren't even speaking the same non-English. They're able to understand each other, or at least pieces. It's how they get by. Between his menacing aura, her awkwardness, and their yelling at each other in a foreign language, no one is going to approach them without good reason. Katherine has good reason. When she joins them, Christian turns away from Cordelia. He doesn't give her his back. She stays in his sight.
When Katherine introduces herself as a Fostern, the teenager's eyes drop. Just for a second. Then he's looking at her again. She asks who he is, and he stands up straighter.
"Christian del Piero," he says. He'd like to think that no one around them can overhear them. If the elder of his tribe isn't shrouding her speech anymore than necessary, though... "Cliath Full Moon. I don't...belong to a House. Or have another name. And I just got here last week." He looks at Cordelia, quickly. She introduces herself. He adds nothing else.
[Amelia Conway] It's in places like this that the senses go numb. It takes you a second to realize that someone's too close because you're so warm and sweat-sticky that you can't tell your heat from everyone else's. You can't hear because your ears are ringing from how loud the music is, you can't smell smoke or war or warning because of the fog machines and the sweat and perfumes and colognes. You can't see far for all the bodies clustering about you, and you can't sense the danger because the bass has overtaken the rhythm of your heart inside your chest, you can't tell if it's racing or just following the song.
But still, a shout reaches her ears and her eyes pull away from the face of a very tall, very gangly girl with very thick glasses and instead search toward her left. No, no, no-- there, there's the face to match the voice, the only familiar one in the crowd aside from the button-nosed face surrounded by a mane of falling curled hair. Her answer is a shake of her head, a drink from the beer bottle, and to shift away from the wall so she could move a little closer. So that she could speak closer to his head instead of having to shout to the room (even if a few feet of space would swallow up her words).
"How'd ya guess?" It's accompanied by a smirk, and followed immediately by a fairly subtle gesture toward the gathering of Silver Fangs by a tip of the beer bottle's neck. "Know them?"
[Katherine Bellamonte] Cordelia Diego, who, Katherine noted, she might just have to adopt simply to cure her of the notion that those glasses did anything but made her appear a slightly startled owl caught beneath floodlights seems to recognize the name Bellamonte. That was good, expected, really. The Bellamonte lineage was well enough known amongst the tribe that such comprehension was a sign of respect, and marked the newcomer in the good books of her new Warder almost at once.
She extends her little hand toward Cordelia in a display of pleasure and [one assumed] friendship. "Très bien," she commends her with a pretty little trill of French laughter then her blue eyes flick and settle on a pair quite the match for her own in shade and potency. "Christian del Piero," she repeats his name back to him, her expression as considering as the gaze which slides over him head to foot and back again; marking him, measuring him.
Matthieu, approaching, is gestured at with a hand. "Mirror's Whisper, meet Christian del Piero and Cordelia Diego, Kinwoman and brother of our tribe." This, she does without a break in conversation; it was the mark of smooth diplomacy, of her genteel schooling in matters such as these. "This is Matthieu de Ponthieu, Galliard Cliath of Falcon. Now," she's back to Christian, leaning in as if to suggestively brush against the Ahroun, but no such action is forthcoming.
Rather, she's smiling with her eyes, as Katherine was often found doing.
"You have no affiliation with a House? This is unusual, but," she idly threads fingertips through her golden mane, "It is not the end of the world. As you are in my city, you shall be an adoptee of my own fair House, Wyrmfoe."
[Robbie Murdoch] They close the distance easily enough. No one wants to be in Robbie's way for very long. Now he's close enough not to shout, folding his arms easily over his chest. That's becoming a trademark posture: hands tucked under biceps, shoulders a little hunched as he bends to close their height differential.
He's still flushed, sweaty. Truth is as soon as he's caught some of his breath he'll be back out there again. Until then -- he shakes his head no, then corrects himself.
"I've seen the blonde woman at the moot. She's the Fang elder, amongst other things. The others are her kin and tribe." Pause. "What are you doing here if you're not here to dance?"
[Amelia Conway] Room was made for the Galliard to press through the crowd, he didn't need to touch people to move them. People like Amelia, they had to navigate through the crowd by touching people in the shoulders and backs and at the waists, nudging them out of the way, alerting them of your presence so they didn't throw their arms back and nail you in the neck or anything. For a Garou, though, they instinctively press closer to their partners, their friends, the walls and pillars, anything to avoid brushing against the beast.
He's out of breath, cheeks and ears and neck flushed red and the sweat on his brow has a similar effect to a disco ball in the flashing lights, something that Amelia finds herself humored by for a moment but doesn't see as funny enough to share her notice of. Rather she glanced back toward the group as Robbie confirmed that he'd seen the woman once, then slid the topic back to her. The Kin had nodded, seemingly content with the answer, then gestured vaguely out toward the crowd.
"Got dragged out by a neighbor gal. She thinks I'm a shut-in." She tipped her chin up so Robbie could better hear her, aimed her mouth toward his ear. In the mess of sound and rhythm and movement that trademark drawl still shined through without being overwhelming. Evidence that she was as much a Chicago native as any Silent Strider that blows through, skin dark like black licorice and clothes so dusty their color had been lost for years.
[Danicka Musil] Right now it seems like only two of the many with ties to the Nation who are here tonight came to dance. One of them has already worn himself sweaty, but he'll be back. The other just got started. And yet she wouldn't be here alone. She isn't going to act like she is. When Danicka emerges from the throng after the song that got her dancing in the first place, she is crossing a few feet of floorspace over to Katherine and her kind, running her fingers through her hair.
Though her skin has a summerkissed tan and her eyes are a murky, enigmatic green instead of a glacial blue, there are more than a few who would look at her slender body and her golden hair and her growing proximity to the Silver Fang elder and assume she's one of them. Russian-born, perhaps. Matthieu and Robbie and Christian know better; Amelia and Cordelia do not.
The two Silver Fangs with Katherine know instantly what she is, and what kind of wolves she really belongs to. Not the pure ones, the white ones, the arctic predators, but the stocky black wolves who take their mates from the strongest of stock. The hard children of Thunder, like Katherine's Alpha, like that tattooed punk with the baseball bat, like the country singer, like the twitchy guy who poisoned his own pack with mercury as a prank or punishment -- that's who this woman belongs to.
This woman who does not look strong at all. Who looks fragile, especially when she comes near to those blessed by Gaia and Luna with their rage and shapechanging. She approaches slowly, and a bit cautiously, as though wanting to make sure she doesn't interrupt introductions.
When there's a moment, she informs Katherine: "The other girls --" the ones they came with, "-- have vanished into the ether. I got us a booth on the next floor up and bottle service." She looks over at the bar, seeing Robbie talking to Amelia, then back at Kate. "They're welcome to join, if you care to invite them."
And with a smile at Cordelia, Christian, the rest: "And you, of course," she says, to the Fang collective, before turning and heading for the stairs.
[Robbie Murdoch] "Well."
Lights strobe. Million dollar light-and-sound system. Green to purple, then to incandescent, electric blue -- briefly coloring him and his eyes and his sudden, laughing smile the hue of jet afterburners, gas flames.
"You're proving them right." He holds his hand out. "One turn on the dance floor. Then I'll let ya get back to wallflowering."
[Amelia Conway] From everything that Amelia has presented herself as, you'd expect some kind of a polite declining to the invitation to come dance. After all, she was dignified, a business woman, a hearty creature that was here to take care of her family and sacrifice fun and youth on the side of that particular road. There ought to be some kind of a hesitation, a hitch of shoulders or a tightening along the spine, an excuse...
Rather, she sets her beer bottle amongst several others (none of them her own) on the wall ledge behind her, adjusts the shoulder strap of her dress with her thumb, then takes the Galliard's hand and grins, an expression made to appear all the broader by the structure of her face.
"Only if that there's a promise, Murdoch."
[Cordelia] (ack! didn't refresh, sorry!)
[Christian del Piero] A brow quirks when the older woman looks him over. He's getting used to this...being appraised. There was a time it would have angered him. Now, he just waits it out. He doesn't return the look, as much as he might like to. Katherine introduces him to Matthieu, who is more polished now than the Italian-American youth will be if he lives to be 40, probably. The Galliard is given a nod in greeting, but the hardness in Christian's eyes keeps him from speaking. He has to remind himself to breathe through his mouth...especially when Katherine leans in like she does.
The density of bodies in here is making him sweat even though he's not moving. Not heavily, but there is a sheen to his tanned skin that wasn't there when he walked in. Katherine adopts him for House Wyrmfoe, and he frowns. He doesn't say anything, though. He doesn't explain why it is he's not in a House, and he doesn't argue.
"Okay..."
Then the blonde belonging to Thunder comes over, speaking to Katherine. Christian takes a breath, his chest visibly shuddering, and he steps back to speak to Cordelia. He doesn't shout like he had been. She might have to strain to hear him.
[Matthieu] He was called, summoned even brought forth by the woman who claimed leadership of their tribe in the city. That alone made it important that he obey the rules and respond accordingly. A smile written on his face as he strides closer to the others. His smile was warm and charming, the smell of wealth and importance radiated off him in waves that made him near impossible to ignore. He turned his attention first upon Katherine."I wouldn't wish to appear rude or in any way disrespectful to fellow members of my tribe."He says softly before turning his attention on the other two.
Christian was young and likely full of all kinds of rage and angst. He welcomed that so long as the young man made an effort to display the outright superiority and civility of their tribe at all times. So with that he gave a bow of his head."It is my honor and pleasure to meet you face to face. Though I haven't heard much of you, I must admit, I am certain that you will be making quite a name for yourself in this city. Should you need anything of me, anything at all do not be afraid to ask. I live to serve my tribe however I might. I suspect I shall be telling your tails at the local moots in no time at all."He says before turning his attention to Cordelia.
She was frail and nerdy. WTF? Silverfangs aren't Frail and Nerdy? This will not do! His smile brightens as he suspects he is going to have to straighten this one out. Even kin must meet a certain standard if they wish to represent their tribe otherwise we will need to lock her away in a tower and make certain she is never seen again! She's such a pretty thing though who would want to do that? So he smiles and bows his head, his smile was charming and warm enough to melt the girls pants off her body right where she stood. His voice a hushed little whisper as he spoke to her in a practiced and seductive tone."A shame the surroundings are so common. Seems such a terrible place to make a suitable first impression. I should like to pretend that we were somewhere slightly more open and far less bland but I suppose we must occasionally take what we can get. Still I think you and I should meet again sometime soon."He says this softly to the woman in english. His tone was smooth and tempting, kept low and soft on purpose. After all if he is going to fix this mess of a woman he would have to get her out somewhere. No no... We must fix this travesty before she single handedly ruins our tribe!
[Robbie Murdoch] Regardless of what Amelia might appear to be, Robbie is not surprised when his offer is accepted. He doesn't have a right to be. Quiet creature that he is, with his working-class accent and his plain farmer's face, and here he is all the same. Moving to the beats like he was compelled to. He can't judge her for coming here, and he can't judge her for wanting to dance after all.
And wouldn't, besides. They're Fianna after all.
He sets his bottle down by the wall. His hand closes around hers, a hard blade of bone and tendon. Seems he doesn't use words when he doesn't have to, and he doesn't have to right now. So, wordless, he pulls her through the crowd, his broad bony shoulders glimpsed ahead of her in flashes of moving light: the 21st century successor to that discoball the sweat on his brow reminded Amelia of. When they're past the casual dancers, into the frenetic open spaces where the ones that are here to dance move and prowl and spin, Robbie lets go her hand, stands there a moment with his eyes down, his posture neutral, just --
listening for a moment. Then he catches the beat and, without so much as a break-in period, an ease-in, throws himself into it.
[Cordelia] Her hand is taken and they shake on it. Or, well, a little bit of a shake.
"Debo ir con usted?" she asks.
I want to come with you, the look and tone said. It's funny that her tone gets more across than her actual words do. The problem was, however, that people were talking to her. She catches a look at Matthieu, who regards her rectly, who speaks clearly and with that bright and charming smile and seductive tone. His voice is warm, practiced, and agreeable, but the words?
The words don't make a lick of sense.
She watches his mouth instead of his eyes, looks up occasionally to decypher facial cues and determine precisely what it was that he was saying to her. She comes up with nothing, though her brows are knit and her mouth is, again, pressed into a line, she looks up and smiles after he's done. She caught a few words, the important ones: sometime soon.
She smiles and nods," okay."
And tries not to look as confused as she is.
[Cordelia] (bah, that first line needs to go away, sorry!)
[Amelia Conway] Galliards were called Moon Dancers for a reason, and here was Robbie proving why.
Amelia on the other hand had to take a second to catch up. It's not that she hated dancing or had no sense of rhythm, it was more that she had to adjust her boundaries, accept the fact that some girl's elbow kept brushing against her back-- brushing, not bumping, so she'd let that slide. She'd let Robbie wedge them into the center of the crowd where everyone moved on a beat (though some were ignoring it in favor of one all their own), and she'd watched for a second before planting low heeled shoes on the floor and joining in.
Most of her motion was predictable and easy, but smooth nonetheless. Vastly shifting herself from left foot to right foot, caught somewhere between a sway and a bounce that had her skirt switching this way and that, along with the shift of hips and the turn of a head. Elbows stayed close to her sides, though hands floated just outside her waistline, turning over and forward, fingers curling and straightening on their own accord, led by the bass in her bones and the motion of the tall lanky frame before her.
Way to prove the world wrong, white kids. Dance the night away.
[Katherine Bellamonte] The Fianna are dancing.
Well, Riverdance and such, Truth's Meridian cannot say she's truly shocked by this turn of events. She glances out at them in passing at one point as if prepared to see them with their arms linked, feet kicking at lightning speeds. There's no such cliche to be seen, and then Danicka approaches; all beauty and bringer of the blood of Thunder's children. Katherine turns her body toward the Shadow Lord Kinfolk, this action may surprise some of the newcomers, the interest and consideration she casts the other blond female.
Almost, Falcon offer forgiveness, she mattered.
Katherine nods, and her eyes follow Danicka a moment before she swings back to face her tribe-mates, all glossy waves of hair and sparkling blue eyes. "My friend has invited us upstairs to recline in comfort, you are all more than welcome to join us there." She gestures toward the staircase, and begins to thread a pathway through the throng of revelers toward it.
