[I just want to roll my new shiny stats. Awareness.]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8) ( success x 4 )
Kiara
The gallery in question was hardly the most impressive of the selection on offer for Santa Fe.
Packed into what felt like free space between an overflowing café and a tattoo parlor with an impressive selection of blazing skulls and fiery hearts (dedicated to anyone for a low price but altered for the slightly more impressive price-tag as all regretted body art seemed to go for) hanging in its window, it was a narrow opening in the sidewalk that sprawled back from the street; the interior riddled with exposed piping and low hanging lights; casting bright contrast against the prints on the walls.
The exhibition was a celebration of movement in nature; there were sculptures and large, looming canvases with broad, aggressive brushstrokes; flurries of color and texture; lush, verdant landscapes and dark, moody captures of woods; storms over a savannah somewhere far, far away. A stand was set up by the door; a replica of that you'd rather more expect to greet you before setting foot inside some farmer's remote barn; old, polished wood that slid across to offer access; programs for the evening's event printed on glossy paper with informative blurbs about each piece.
There was an impressive turn out; enough bodies to make milling around any one artwork complicated; a myriad of dresscodes and lifestyles on display and housed back from much of it toward the far wall where she was scrutinizing what, on surface view, seemed like nothing more than frantic sweeps of a brush in blacks and bold, dramatic crimson - stood Kiara. There was a wineglass wrapped in one of her hands; her fingers painted a red a few shades darker than that of the canvas in front of her and her mouth colored to match.
Dark waves of hair were plied on top of her head and the effect was; in conjunction with the black cocktail dress unearthed for the occasion; quite striking.
SamSomeone at the back of the gallery has bolstered his thoughts against intrusion.
With so many bodies in the room and so many auras and thoughts and humming notes of conversation it would be easy enough to lose track of a friend with whom she had arrived. But the Verbena is learning to expand her consciousness and open herself to the world around her. She is a quick study.
Plenty of other people may forget the young man as soon as he steps back out of the gallery again but Kiara is not so easily swayed. She does not overlook him. Not when his presence is a piercing thing like a needle or a knowing gaze.
At the back of the gallery he is in conversation with another young man.
The Sleeper is dressed in black slacks and a burgundy turtleneck underneath a blazer. He's holding a bottle of beer in one hand. He is relaxed and animated and just killing time before some transaction or another occurs. He looks as if he belongs here.
His companion though. The one who has Worked to keep his mind secure. Nothing about him is relaxed. He stands at average height for an American male and has skin the color of good earth and wears his black hair in a knot at the nape of his neck. He's somewhere in his early twenties and is dressed as if he just stumbled out of a college exhibit opening and into this higher-end one. Like someone let him in through a side door. Gray jeans and a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket with a fucking red handkerchief shoved into a back pocket. Nothing elegant about him. He keeps his back to the wall and he holds nothing in his hands and he keeps nodding to whatever it is the Sleeper is saying but it's hard to tell if he's listening.
A new arrival. Excellent. He won't see her coming.
KiaraThat's the thing about the Verbena. A woman like Kiara in and of herself was difficult to overlook; not simply for physical reasons (though she was, by many standards, a beautiful woman) but due to the way she held herself; there was a self possession and confidence to her person that enticed the eye; drew lingering, perhaps admiring glances. Still, there were those who knew her (or of her) in the city who would suggest (not entirely without accuracy) she rather enjoyed it.
The idea of attention; eyes on her form as she strolled the gallery in black pumps. There's a jewel around her neck; cinched with a silver chain that gleams with the movement; at the right vantage point it becomes apparent it's some sort of impressive stone; a ruby; judging by the hue.
She pauses to sample a tray of delicate looking appetizers doing the rounds and at some point between sipping from her wineglass and letting her gaze skim across those gathered - she finds him. The source of that sensation prickling under her skin; like that of a knife's point; pressing in against her. Kiara's eyes settle there for a beat; on Sam; on his Sleeper companion and her attention feels - weighted; for a moment. As if he were being turned over and scrutinized as intently as the works of art hanging on the walls around them.
She does approach but it's indirect; a slow; almost predatory circuit of the gallery; slipping amongst the gathered like the proverbial (but so fitting) wolf amongst the sheep before she's apparent, there, standing in front of a small canvas with her eyes roving the scope and shape of a dark, atmospheric depiction of a storm lashing a tiny farm; horses drawn in reared up; nickering panic.
He won't see her coming.
He might, at some point, feel her. Not a piercing thing but a rush; like breaking the surface of the water; the brunette feels like a subtle, thrumming energy. One that, after a pause; sets her eyes on him and smiles over the rim of her glass of wine.
SamBravery comes in different forms. Sometimes a person has to be brave to even step foot outside of his house. Has to stay brave to talk to a bus driver or a cashier. To breathe in and out and stay in the present moment when he looks as if the present moment terrifies him.
Hard to tell from watching someone if he is brave or anxious or hopped up on enough pharmaceuticals to keep a blossoming rock and roll band awake for an entire weekend. Kiara does watch. As she watches the young man removes the handkerchief from his pocket and reverses the fold quick before putting it back. It seems like a thoughtless gesture. The Sleeper does not notice it.
His hands remain in the pockets of his jacket afterwards. Even as that push hits him. She can see when he registers her presence. He inhales deep and a faint stitch pulls between his brows. If he is nervous in such a social setting it has nothing to do with his physical appearance. Ill-dressed or no he is an striking young man.
Low murmuring as they bid each other farewell and slap palms to seal it. The Sleeper holds up his fist to pound with his and after a pause to register what the hell he's supposed to do the young willworker laughs an uneasy laugh and taps his own fist to the other man's.
"Take it easy," says the Sleeper as he slips his free hand into his pocket and walks away.
A held-breath exhale and he turns away from the exchange in time to catch Kiara's eye. A subtler inhale this time. Whoa say his eyes though the rest of his face remains placid. They tick off to one side like she could be smiling at someone else. He's got the immediate space just about to himself now.
Okay. She's not. Shit.
Now he glances around and finds her eyes like to confer from a distance who is going to approach who. His would be so much easier with a drink in his hand.
KiaraHer smile widens a little at the way he checks around himself as if to ask the immediate space around him (empty now his friend has drifted away) if she was in fact, smiling in his direction.
She is; his eyes betray momentary surprise but he seems, overall, rather contained about the realization. The brunette apparently has decided its on her to make the initial approach and she does; Kiara; after a protracted moment where her eyes flit away to gauge the crowds and then return to Sam. Does drift over with what must be to some extent practiced ease.
One would not imagine on the surface they were warily sizing one another up. For all the fact the Verbena's mouth is tipped in a subtle expression of mirth, there's an certain awareness to how she holds herself; even the way she keeps that glass held in front of her body; that speaks to polite caution.
"Is this your favorite?"
She tips her head toward the canvas across from him; it's another abstract; something with slashes of bright orange, earthy browns and white; zig-zagging across a frame half the size of the wall with splashes of green thrown in to signify some facet of nature's changeability; or so its artist would have the world believe. The brunette adopts a casual stance a little nearer than was quite comfortable for strangers and makes a convincing display of admiring it.
"I've always had the impression half of art is a mistake and the other a lucky coincidence." Her mouth strikes a sharper smile; eyes canting to him. "What do you think?"
SamReally what they look like is one young person alone finding the only other young person alone in the room and deciding they may as well be alone together for a time. A sea of turtlenecks and pencil skirts swirls behind the Verbena. He glances over her shoulder once just to assure himself it's still there and then she's beside him.
As if for the first time he looks at the painting. His eyes are brown and keen and do nothing to bely the intelligence he carries with him. They move across the canvas as if reading script scrawled in a language he does not speak and as it registers that she is standing rather inside his personal space the young man takes another deep breath.
He does not step away from her. He puts his hands in his pockets and accepts it.
When he speaks it is with an accent difficult to identify. He must have moved around quite a bit not just in this country but abroad. Plenty of people in Denver are nomads. Mountains are logical places to hide.
"I always thought you needed a combination of imagination and technical skill," he says. Canadian. That's the easiest guess for where he's from. After a beat he meets her canting gaze and goes on, "But I don't know shit about art."
KiaraShe doesn't make any moves to invade his space further; though at this close proximity to her he can smell the traces of wine in her glass; the perfume on her skin and beneath it something vaguely aromatic. It's like a near extinguished hint of incense; as if her clothing had been hanging somewhere infused with it.
Or perhaps that was just her.
"Maybe you need a little of all of them," she offers back with a smile staining her words; her accent bleeds that of a city upbringing; the wealthy Inner West Side Manhattanite; a child of private schools and trust fund parents. There's a frankness too, that speaks of it. A certain way she doesn't hold back from pressing, just so, against the boundaries of impropriety; stepping over the mark.
He doesn't know shit about art, she makes a noise; a quiet, sub-vocal hm and takes another sip from her wineglass; turns to face him now; her eyes bright; perhaps a little playful. "Ignorance isn't the worst sin, refusing to adapt or learn on the other hand - " She twists that glass a little; eyes skipping over his features.
A hand is offered; it's long fingered; the wrist deceivingly fine boned. "I'm Kiara. Woolfe." A flash of white teeth; she flicks dark bangs from her eyes; the lashes that adorn them are thick; her eyes painted in as dramatic a fashion as her mouth in black. "And you're - new."
Not a question and she doesn't pose it as such, but rather measures him before turning her attention to the gallery; the art work in front of them.
SamLike plenty of others with youthful features persisting into adulthood he appears harmless enough as she considers him in profile. His eyes return to the canvas as if it's going to change on him and then she's offering her hand. It's a necessary next step in making another person's acquaintance but she startles him out of thought.
Must be the wisdom she just dropped on him.
This isn't his first time out in public ever in his life. As long as she has had her eyes open and as many other Awakened as she has met in her life this one is not the jumpiest. A little overstimulated maybe but with even everything to take in the stimuli does not present a threat. A beautiful woman coming over to talk to him could be a trap but once he realizes her intention something melts out of his shoulders. Some tension that had threatened to set itself into his bones.
Now he's looking at her face instead of at the painting. His smile in response to hers is slow like he is not used to wearing the expression and then it's quick to fall away again.
He takes her hand. She can feel the anxiety humming through him. Jangling electricity where sweat or coolness would be in a normal person.
"I... yeah. I am." A huff of laughter and he gives her back her hand. "To town, anyway. Are you... do you know the artist, or..."
KiaraHer hand is warm around his where she takes it; fingers curl around his palm for a beat and her eyes drop to it; their linked hands; as if in consideration for that edge of electricity sparking. She doesn't linger on in some teasing pretense; though she does return his smile after a beat with a little curl of her lip; a subtle; sure sign she's pleased with his agreement to meet her half way and acknowledge the handshake.
"Not really," she offers idly, pausing as a cluster of viewers move past; swallowing around a mouthful of alcohol and waiting a beat before continuing as if weighing the certainty of them being out of earshot. "I guess you could say the subject matter appealed to me." Nature in motion, indeed. She slides him another look, this one perhaps a little furtive; a thin eyebrow winging upward in silent commentary before she continues, flicks a wrist out dismissively.
"I tend to find too many of these events depress me. Less artistry and more - society types mingling for the benefit of being seen. Still," a beat, she hooks another little suggestive smile. "Sometimes they're worth it just for who shows up.
Have you met anyone else, yet or am I lucky number one?"
SamNow: she had been watching him while he spoke to the Sleeper and while one could deduce from their interaction that the two were friends the entire affair had more of a businesslike tone to it than one tends to witness in those who are comfortable around each other.
Though she offered her name first he has not yet returned the favor. Already though he is paying her more mind than he had paid the Sleeper. Attending to what it is she's saying and not just nodding along and making noncommittal noises in the hopes he is passing himself off as an active listener.
He could say the subject matter appealed to her. That single eyebrow is met with a suspended expression for a second and then the subtext dawns on him. She can see it spread across his features as the sun would in the morning. Ohhh he does not say.
Her suggestive smile meets a shy one as they pass between the two Awakened. The nameless man lifts his eyebrows at her question and then swallows as if his throat is drying up on him. Something about the question itself has him laughing a small laugh in prelude and rubbing the back of his neck with the name further from her.
"I don't, uh..." He clears his throat and puts his hand back in his jacket pocket. "I don't believe in luck. Spiritual cause, sure, I can get behind a spiritual cause for, ah, things that seem like they happen at random. One is lucky, in number theory, but you're... ah... the second. So far." A brief tick to check her facial expression. "And two is a magic number, so..."
Sam[... that should be "with the hand further from her," not the whatever the hell I actually typed in the second-to-last paragraph.]
KiaraTwo is a magic number, he says and the Pagan's eyes tick back to his face with sudden; sharp focus. There's something just this side of uncomfortable, the way Kiara does that. The way her expression can shift in tiny, nuances from open, friendly banter to abrupt, total concentration. Her dark eyes feel like a brand for the moment she makes a focus of his words; his smile; that nervous hitch to his voice.
It belies a sort of social uncertainty that Kiara doesn't possess herself but there are other ways to which she doesn't quite fit, here. She's too detached; too coolly unperturbed by the surroundings and the artwork and the vibe. She feels like a layer of something applied but not quite adhered; an artificial decoration; as much an interloper in many ways, as he was.
"I'd counter that three was, but that's just me." She considers him for a moment, then: "Did number one attach a name?" Beat. "And what's yours?" She holds her wine glass aloft; closer to that glittering stone set against her throat; the cut of it striking where it lay against her skin.
She's smiling again, but there's that lingering sense that she's pressing into his personal space once more; verbally this time, rather than physically. "Unless you'd prefer I not know."
SamThat searing turn her gaze takes does not startle him the way her initial interest and the ensuing handshake had. Maybe this is what he's more used to when he's dealing with other willworkers in the meatspace. A sense of circling each other.
Witches and technomancers have not had much luck in dealing with each other throughout history.
For all she knows he could talk for an hour on the significance of the number three. If the chance presents itself he does not take it. They've moved onto names.
Give him this much credit: he maintains eye contact so much as she will allow him to. A certain slash of light across her jewelry or a minuscule change in the musculature around her eyes and mouth will drag it away but he can center himself quick enough.
"I, ah..." Heh. "I don't... that's not a preference, that I would..." Shit, dude. Try that one again. He offers her his hand as if they didn't already perform that particular ritual. "Sam. Samir. Whichever one that you'd..."
Whether or not she takes his hand some internal sensor warns him that he's about to reach critical mass. Sam frowns a self-depreciating frown and indicates the door with his thumb.
"You wanna go for a walk? Get some air, or..." Strange man. Woman he just met. He shows the palm of that gesturing hand when he realizes a second later how that offer might present itself. "I mean if you want to stay here, that's... there's no pressure, I just... there's not as many people. Outside."
Social interaction. Nailing it.
Kiara
Her eyes tick down to the proffered hand; there's a spark of amusement in her eyes but it's not a cruelty; the way she looks at it; back to him. Rather the look of someone in the process of assessing and comprehending a puzzle presented to them. The pieces before her but the overall impression - uncertain.
"Samir, Sam. It's a pleasure to meet you."
There's something a little perfunctory to that, at least.
As if the effort to play at social graces grated at the Verbena (and given her earlier commentary, perhaps it did). "Sure, let's ditch." She tilts her head; beckoning him to follow with a universal sort of this way gesture and sets her wineglass on an offered tray en route; there's a collection of jackets hung from wooden pegs near the door and Kiara collects one as she passes; wrapping it around herself and turning to wait for her newly designated companion for the evening before sliding out into the Santa Fe street-side.
It's cooler, as soon as they're freed of the press of bodies and harsh lighting; pedestrian traffic weaving around them like water navigating a pathway around a stone.
"Better?" She asks softly, mouth quirking. "So other than art exhibitions, what brings you to the fair city of Denver?"
It's cooler and just so soon as they've breached the
threshold the sound of strangers' conversations and the press of their
energy dies away. A closed door swallows it up and distance digests it.
Samir puts both hands into his jacket pockets and sighs as if he had
been holding his breath this entire time.
Sam
Better?
No
change comes over him. Blame it on the environment. Too much noise and
too much for him to attend to maybe. Nothing about him would have
stricken Kiara as suggesting an individual comfortable with any sort of
social interaction but he does relax a bit to have the night air around
him and not a horde of people he can feel but for whom he feels nothing.
He doesn't give her a proper verbal answer but he does meet her gaze and smile a shy smile in response. Yes. Better.
What brings him to Denver.
"I
think it was a Boeing 737." He pauses for effect and laughs that
nervous laugh of his whether or not she finds that funny. "No, ah... I
actually... don't know. I don't have an answer ready. Are you from
here, originally, or...?"
Kiara
He thinks it was a Boeing 737.
The
brunette's eyebrows wing upward, a smile teasing the corner of her
mouth. "Behold, a sense of humor emerges. We're making progress." She
tucks her coat around her body, inclining it so they drift easily out of
the direct stream of traffic meandering their way along; the neon glow
from the tattoo parlor pressed in beside the gallery casts the Verbena
in stark white and red; painting her some disarming canvas all her own
as the colors dance and warp cross her features; it speaks of what she
may just be beneath the flesh and bone. Some physical manifestation of
nature and its capacity to change and alter to suit its location.
Sam
At the teasing the young
man flicks his eyebrows just as thoughtless as he would flick the ash
from the end of a cigarette. No small amount of self-depreciation in it.
He knows he acts like a crazy person when he's out in public. That's
why he avoids it if he can.
She
smiles easily, this woman. Though they are contained and not always
easily deciphered things. Sharp little edged smiles; broader, brighter
smiles; the curl of a lip; subtle, suggestive things that offered
contemplation as easily as words did. Her shoulders lift as she shrugs;
both at once in a fluid movement. "Depends on where in New York you are.
And, a little, on how you define nature. On a fundamental scale, she's
everywhere."
There's the faintest stir of wind around them
as if in response to the Verbena's decree; it sends a can rolling along
the alleyway; sets an awning half drawn down from them snapping and
tugging at the ropes binding it to the ground out front of a restaurant;
whines and rattles screen doors and windows. The Pagan's expression
shifts; her attention straying outward again to a couple walking by
them; tugging their jackets closer to their bodies. "But - yes. I like
it here just fine. I wasn't sure I'd stay at first, but - " Kiara's
tongue runs along her teeth, she draws a hand from a pocket to tender
back strands of hair from her eyes.
"There's some
compelling reasons to stick around, I've discovered." Her fingers slip
back into the folds of her jacket; re-emerge with a bundle of cards;
they're glossy little white squares with green leaves decorating the
corner. Tiny black printing identifies them as business cards of some
order. The brunette slips one free and holds it out to Sam.
It's
hard to glimpse too much of what it says in the semi-darkness but it
would appear to house an email address and cellphone number. It also
identifies Kiara as a healer and qualified massage therapist. She taps
the edge of it with a nail. "If you intend to stick around and need to
meet the right people," her eyes gleam; dark and settled on his
features, "I can probably arrange that. Get word out to - " a beat, she
looks him over a touch more thoughtfully. "Whoever the right people are
for you."
He wouldn't be the first such Kiara had met,
only to hear after the fact had departed the city - or simply vanished
without a trace.
This darkness
though seems to call to him more than the bright white lighting of the
gallery. Like he could just as easily step out of this world and into
some grittier future where everything is metal and fiber optics and
cyberware and fit right in. Leather doesn't just lend his lanky build an
edgy appearance. It helps in the event of a knife fight or an
unexpected exit from a moving vehicle.
Again: why he avoids going out in public if he can.
Walking
the streets after dark with a wild woman doesn't have Sam dissolving
into schoolboy self-consciousness. He can breathe easier out here even
if the breaths bring with them the smell of hot garbage or cigarette
smoke. He doesn't feel compelled to manipulate his surroundings so much
when he's moving.
His gaze is softer on her
profile than the hue of his Work would suggest he's capable of gazing at
a person. He worries his lower lip as she stares off into the distance
like she can still see New York there.
"There's
worse places to be. I hear mountain air's supposed to be good for you.
... well, okay, I heard that about tuberculosis, that they used to send
patients off to sanatariums, and a lot of sanatarium patients, you know,
died. And we have antibiotics now." Jesus Christ, Samir. "But there's
more outdoors... green... type stuff here than there is in New York.
Right? And fresh air? That's... nature. I've never been to New York. Is
it..." He clears his throat. "Do you like it here, so far?"
Kiara
Kiara is looking at his face (and looking at
his face in that deeper way that only the aware could really muster) as
if she's scanning for some indication of what his make up were; as if
she were a heartbeat away from invoking her own working to peel away the
layers and feel around within his pattern, find the edges and surety of
it. There's a smile that grows in substance the longer he talks of
disease and sanitariums and nature; the presence of it being good; for
her; for them, it stretches across lips painted a glossy, brassy red and
the color of it seems almost a dare itself.
Sam
In a few weeks or months or
whenever it is their paths cross again all Kiara is going to have to go
by is the sharpness of his resonance to recognize him. Here now in this
moment when she's looking at him in a way he comes to notice as he
rambles on she can be sure of his realness. That he exists.
But
Sam fades from Sleepers' memories so quickly. It isn't as if he never
existed in the first place so much as he exists and people see him but
they can never agree on what he looks like. Tracking him down is a
difficult endeavor and calling upon the powers of bureaucracy and paper
trails don't help.
So far as the government can
tell he doesn't exist. So soon as they part from each other Kiara may
not be able to distinguish him from any other tall-ish dark handsome man
she's met recently. So Sam lets her look at him. If she were to Look at
him he would have let her do that too.
And
then that breeze picks up and it nudges at the physical world around
them and his eyes bright in the dark leave her face to glance around
them. One eyebrow lifted in curiosity but not suspicion. The ghost of a
smile traipses across the corner of his mouth and escapes on his breath
and then she wasn't sure she'd stay at first.
He
takes the card when she hands it to him. Without looking at the
sidewalk before them he continues on reading but not colliding with
anything. Aware of his position in space without attending to it. His
ilk are like that. He has never been to Denver before and he is sure he
won't ever get lost here either.
"That would, ah..."
She's
looking at him again. He looks back and taps the glossy little square
against the palm of his opposite hand a couple times. His eyes flick
down to it like to make sure it's still there. Really he's counting how
many times he tapped the card and catching himself counting and
corralling the compulsion to keep on doing both. Into his pocket goes
the card.
"That would be great. I'll send you an email later."
Kiara
"You do that."
There's
a measure of challenge to it, the way she offers it, the way she turns
her body half away from him but keeps her eyes on him for a measured
beat. Samir has the same talent that others in this city do, that one
the brunette might call a friend had. The ability to be invisible in
mind, if not by physical sight. To fade into the background of a moment,
of a crowd. To be the face skirted over and unconsidered; forgotten.
There's every chance that once they part ways tonight they might never
meet again.
It's there buried deep in the words
she offers to him, the way she says them with a certain demand
underlying them, an honest hope that she will, at some point, hear from
him or at the very least that their chance encounter tonight isn't the
sole occasion she glimpses his face in a crowd. "It's not so bad here."
She offers as a secondary aside, a seemingly careless, idle
afterthought; the cant of her eyes is away from him finally, out into
the crowds milling past them, ignoring them as surely as if they were
nothing but shadows and dust.
"If you're looking for a
place to hang out for a while. It's not so bad." Kiara mouth curves
into a brief, quick smile. "But don't take my word for that, stick
around and find out."
She steps forward
then and cuts him a parting look as if to steep the memory of his
presence into her bones; to keep it present til the last moment in her
eyes. Until she loses sight of him and it's the last glimpse he has of her
- this wild woman with her presence like rejuvenating, eternal life,
like the heartbeat of the city; the earth beneath it - the red lipped
quicksilver grin thrown his way; her eyes gleaming; bright in the night.
"See you soon, Samir."
Another step and she's sliding into the crowd and he's left with no reminder of her save the card, pressed into his pocket. 
No comments:
Post a Comment