you fight well.

[Fabienne Bartelle]
*Grim clouds overhead threaten the city with a downpour. Sidewalks are cracked and dusty, the grass is mottling from green to dry brown. Rain would be welcome by most, a reprieve from sweltering summer heat. Most including the slender wisp of a woman currently executing a fleche against her opponent, grass crunching under booted feet. Fabienne's fencing mask was suffocating in this damndable heat, and its in savage irritation that she lunges forward with her blade, scoring a hit on her opposition. Point. Match.*

[Robbie Murdoch]
There's a crowd gathered here, because even in a big city like Chicago it's not often that one sees a public fencing exhibition. At the edge of that crowd, standing easily half a head taller than those around him, is Robbie Murdoch. A small circle of stillness surrounds him, a space that no one wants to stand long in.

It's hot enough that his cheeks are flushed where he stands, though it's also possible that his skin is just so pale that there's always color there. It's also possible he's sunburnt. The wind is in his face, gusting and humid, making him squint. Stirring his hair, which is a red-brown, haphazardly short. Probably cuts it himself. Also dull, lifeless, scrubbed clean but utterly without shine/body/bounce/whatever the fuck hair shampoo commercials talk about. It's entirely possible he washes his hair with the same stick of soap he washes everything else with. Including those faded, cheap, durable clothes on his body -- some t-shirt with the logo all but worn off, some pair of thick old Levi's that'll probably outlast him.

Maybe. Maybe not. Plain-faced peasant though he might be, there's a certain look of steadiness and sturdiness to Robbie. He looks balanced where he stands, rooted, durable. Long-boned and tough, sinewy rather than robust, wiry rather than built.

The match ends. Robbie barely catches it, the movements too fast, too light, too precise. Everyone around him claps, though, so he unfolds his lean arms and claps too. There are two combatants -- or are they athletes? -- but he mostly watches one. There's recognition there, you see: not for her, but for her blood.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Her match was over. Un-entertaining, but true skill often was. Fabienne had no idea of "putting on a show" in her fencing, she by necessity had quite enough of that in her personal life. Instead, she was skilled and efficient, and dreadfully boring. Mask whipped off in savage annoyance, short hair rubbed free of sweat. Damn this heat, wasn't the lake supposed to cool things off? She- nearly walks into Robbie in a private moment of churlish irritation. Glass grey eyes flashing upwards in indignation.*

Excuse me.

[Robbie Murdoch] Fabienne nearly runs into him -- but she wouldn't have. He's too quick for that, quick and sure on his feet, stepping back even as she's tearing her mask off to leave the scene.

"No problem," he says, quiet, flat-voweled, faintly bostonian. Another fellow would leave it at that, or perhaps at a word of congratulations. This one turns, falling in step beside her.

"Did you lose?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] *One can practically see the invisible hackles of the pedigreed kin rising as she looks to the scrubby man now falling in to step with her as she moves towards a bench. A light blonde brow arcs in silent, imperious challenge. Still, it would seem the nimble footed man was accompanying her with awkward questions. She glances over her shoulder to the match now beginning between two students, before Robbie is looked over with quiet unabashed appraisal. Voice crisp and polite.*

I did not. I was the winner.

.....


Did it appear I'd lost?

[Robbie Murdoch] That elegant rise of the brow would be enough to send most hopefuls scurrying off. This one, however, continues to shadow her, his hands in his pockets now. His jeans are not sagging, but they are low-slung. Even so, his arms are long enough that there's plenty of easy bend in his elbow.

"No," he says. "Most people just look happier when they win. But does it matter? Whether ya look like you lost," he clarifies.

[Fabienne Bartelle] I suppose it does. One should look appropriately grateful.

*The top two buttons of her fencing outfit undone in surrender to the heat, the slender blonde folds herself onto the bench.*

Was there something I might do for you sir?

*That was polite-ese for - "what do you want, weirdo?". A polite smile quirking bow lips slightly.*

[Robbie Murdoch] The stranger shakes his head. Now that she's come to a stop, he does too, though he doesn't sit beside her. He stands -- a little hunched, long body slouching, hands coming up out of his pockets again to fold across his lean chest.

"Just recognized you is all," he says. He looks to the side for a moment: the path, the spectators drifting off or staying for the next match. "You done here, or you going another round?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] *That eyebrow of hers just doesn't quit. It must have the strength of titans, the amount it hovers up in snooty question. Regardless of her expression, her tone is nothing but polite as she lifts a fine regal chin and somehow manages the trick of looking down on someone looming above her.*

I am done. I expect the others will be far more entertaining. If I might - where is it you think to recognize me from sir? I regret, I don't recall having met you.

[Robbie Murdoch] "No." Glass green eyes catch the Fang kin's and hold. "I mean -- I recognized you." A beat, then he nods to the path. "Walk ya to ya car?"

The accent's new england all right. Faint but pervasive, and the distinctive dropped 'r': kah.

[Fabienne Bartelle] I see.

*Glass grey meet glass green in what seems for a long moment to be a battle of wills, before the kin's gaze slides pointedly away. Silent communication of both resolve, and awareness of her place. She was no giddy debutante to be courted informally or anything else so inappropriate, whether he were Fang, or some lesser tribe. That established, she's all too pleased to accept his offer.*

Of course. That would be lovely.

*A delicate hand outstretched with practiced grace. Still slightly clammy from her exertion, and sporting faint callouses one wouldn't expect to find on a kin that must no doubt be coddled and pampered by her inbred trueborn keepers. Excellent breeding stock, as she was surely considered.*

Fabienne Bartelle.

[Robbie Murdoch] "Robbie Murdoch."

He takes her hand without hesitation. His is like the rest of him: long, lean, bony, hard. He doesn't squeeze overhard, but the grip is firm and unafraid, as if he is unconcerned about bruising one of the pretty caged princesses of the Nation.

After he lets go, he steps back for her to rise. Easily, he falls in beside her again, pacing her. His manner is quiet, even awkward, but that's not the case for his movement. His stride is low and liquid-smooth, as though every joint were cushioned in viscous fluid.

"I'm a Fianna," he adds when they're a little ways from the crowd.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Alike in grace, if nothing else. Fabienne's social awkwardness carefully concealed behind a strict set of behavioral parameters she seldom stepped out from. Safer, and more appropriate that way. Her mask tucked under her arm as they stride towards a white BMW. Words sparse between them.*

I am not. I am kin to the Silverfang tribe.

*As though the howl of blue blood in her every movement and feature wasn't enough of an indication. A bit of nothing is flicked off her sleeve as she tilts her head to better hear him over the crunch of grass.*

A pleasure to meet you Mr. Murdoch.

[Robbie Murdoch] His smile is quiet and a quick, a flick at the corners of his mouth. His humor is genuine, and it is warm; not the slightest bit at her expense.

"I know that," he replies.

They're approaching a white BMW. It's questionable whether Robbie has a car. It's questionable whether or not he even knows how to drive. He studies the car for a moment, and then his eyes return to her.

"You fight well."

Questionable, too, whether anyone's ever given her that particular compliment. Phrased like that, anyway.

[Fabienne Bartelle] Thank you.

*She's getting out keys and slinging her blade case from her shoulder, preparing to go, eyes downcast as she searches in a tiny designer purse. Finally, her car blips unlocked. She murmurs goodbye, tone conversational.*

Perhaps one day we might have the pleasure of sparring.

*Subtle humor flashes in pale eyes, gaze meeting the Fianna's an instant before Fabienne is sliding into her car, and on her way.*

Goodnight Rhya.