Desmond Cusick's Diary

"We need fresh gossip."

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 00:38:13 GMT

OOC Note: Log follows.

[KT] Blood Meridian HQ - Common Room
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"Lounge" is more the title to give the common room of Blood Meridian Headquarters, for its members are often seen lounging around in it. The space is large and square, decorated in muted, sandy tones, dark reds, and browns, and it is lit by hanging alabaster lamps that give off a diffused glow. Two large windows frame the entrance, but they are hidden behind blood-red curtains, cutting off the terrible view of Old Koreatown's lower riverway. In the center of the room is a circle of high-backed chairs and a few sofas, all made of fine chocolate-colored leather. These are arranged around a low oak coffee table adorned with an old bronze statuette depicting a puma snarling atop a fallen log.

Scattered about the room are more chairs and couches, some accompanied by small end tables and reading lamps. Most of them are placed so that the viewscreen at the far end of the room is visible to the people sitting on the furniture. This viewscreen is usually tuned into the newsfeed, when it's on at all.

Several doors branch off into other parts of the building. Most of these are private rooms, some of which have been personally claimed by members of the Meridian. Most notable of these is the door immediately to the right of the entrance--this leads to the "office" of Desmond Cusick. There is also a door that leads to a mid-sized sterile-white infirmary, and another that opens into the small kitchen alcove where one can get a damn fine cup of coffee and perhaps a small bite to eat, if one so desires. The door immediately across from the building's entrance leads down into the basement.
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HQ is kinda empty today, at least the common room is. Only wes is in laying on his back atop a sofa, eyes half closed and fingers drumming on his stomach. He's only bothered with a pair of trousers and is in his hybrid form, green eyes fixed on the ceiling as he purrrrs happily.

Late afternoon means that Desmond is usually working, but not today. Today, he finished early, and so he decides to drop in at Headquarters before going home. There are a few things he needs to finish up for the Meridian. The puma--dressed in a tanktop beneath an open dark blue dress shirt, a pair of black jeans, and sandals in light of the unusual warm weather--slips through the door of the common room and glances about as he closes it behind him. Finding only Wes, Desmond smirks a bit as he moves toward his office door. "On the job as always, hmm?" he remarks jokingly.

Wes opens his eyes fully and turns to look at Desmond and nods as if confirming something. He's been listening to Desmond's approach for the past two minutes. "Yes just got here about...an hour ago." He stretches and purrrrs again, "I finished someone it was good."

"Glad to hear it." Desmond disappears into his office for a minute, and the sounds of papers rustling and desk drawers opening is audible even to the less keen of hearing before the puma reemerges carrying a black briefcase. The office door is closed behind him once again, and Desmond makes his way to one of the chairs, into which he drops in the usual manner of the feline. The briefcase is set nearby, and the puma rolls his head back, closing his eyes. Ahhhh, relaxation. "How have you been getting on?"

Wes purrrs, "Not bad, switching bars at the moment, current ones got stale on the gossip front." He stretches out fully on the sofa and kicks his paws idly, "We need fresh gossip."

Gossip? Desmond smirks. "There is always fresh gossip," he grunts. "One simply needs to know where to put his ears." But of course, he need not tell the serval this. The puma almost melts into his chair with a contented sigh. He does so love the chairs here. "Have you heard anything from our friend Darius?"

Wes shakes his head, "I heard he wants to see us both, but that is all. I've also heard lots of rumors about him visiting that Lady friend of yours. Private meetings in that confounded maze of theirs." He leans forwards and peers at Desmond. "And I know there is always gossip, but you have to be in the right bar."

Lady friend? Desmond really only has /one/ 'lady friend'. His brows crease a moment in puzzlement, but then the mention of the maze sets him to rights again. Ah. Wes didn't mean /that/ sort of 'lady friend'. "What--and who--Darius En does in his free time is of little concern to me," he remarks with a vague wave of his hand. The puma has never much cared for the intrigue and affairs of the upper class, unless he can somehow gain from it. "I don't see any danger in him having a tryst with Lady Na'Ostiria." The lion surely wouldn't run his mouth about the Kent Ranch plot. Desmond is quite certain the man is trustworthy.

Wes laughs, "Of course it doesn't bother you, but it is good to know these things. You never know when it might come in handy." he snorts, "I still think the lion is too soft hearted and /tame/" to do it.

A grin parts Desmond's lips, but his eyes remain closed. "That only makes him more palpable," he rumbles mischievously. "Make no mistake, however: Darius En is a noble cat. His kind-hearted nature makes it easy to sway him, but he is nothing like the pacifists in the Belfry. He'll pull through." The puma is quite sure of this. And if the lion wishes to speak with himself and Wes, then that most likely means Darius /has/ pulled through already.

Wes nods his head and purrrrs, "I'd not be going into some slavers cage if i did not trust him Des, you know that."

That gets a lifts of Desmond's eyebrows and an acquiescent smirk. Yes, he knows. And he wouldn't be asking Wes to do it if /he/ didn't trust Darius as well. The puma feels good about the concept. Sacrifices are always being made for the greater good, and he would never ask Wes to do something like this if he, himself, weren't willing to do it as well. "It's good to have men like you on my side, Wes," he intones sincerely. "Anyone else might have balked at such an idea."

Wes smirks at Desmond, "No one else is mad enough to try, you know that, our lion boy also helped me work out a way to keep the key hidden, not the nicest of methods but it'll work."

"Oh?" Desmond lifts an eyebrow and cracks an eyelid to regard Wes with vague interest. What key? He hadn't heard about such a thing, to his recollection.

Wes peers at Desmond, "Remember when I agreed to do this, I said I wanted a way out of that cage if I need it. Otherwise you can count me out. I trust you and Darius, but I'm not still alive by being stupid Des."

"And I told you that we would be getting you out," Desmond responds levelly, opening his other eye to regard the serval with a frown. He doesn't remember Wes saying anything about a way out of the cage either, unless he's referring to his expressed wish not to be 'stuck there' at the Kent Ranch. "I can understand your apprehensions, Wes, but there is no way I can guarantee you free roam of the ranch. That's why I didn't ask this of you lightly."

Wes leans forwards, "I know, but I am still not clear on what I will be doing, when you attack the ranch i'll be sat in a cage. Why do I even need to be there. I'll be no help at all during the attack if I'm not free /and/ I can hardly set the other captives free if I have no way out of the cage."

Yes, Desmond has thought of this. He thought he had made such things clear when he first laid out the plan, but there have been slight alterations now that would perhaps put the serval's mind more at ease. "Your job is to gather information about the quarters where the condemned shifters are kept," he utters evenly. "If all goes well, you won't be there during the attack. I will have to speak with Darius about it, but he can withdraw you from the canned hunt beforehand. When you return here, you can relay such information. If, for some reason, Darius is unable to withdraw you from the canned hunt beforehand, we will release you when we attack the ranch itself."

Wes nods his head and rows softly, pawing at the cushions beneath him with his claws, "I understand, Desmond, I'll go arrange that meeting with Lord En and we can get this ball rolling."

"Very well." Desmond smirks slightly, then rises to his feet and picks up his briefcase. "Be safe, Wes." And with that, he turns and slips out into the warm Bleaker afternoon.

Wes has a few apprehensions about the ranch plot, and Desmond seeks to alleviate them. Wes also tells Desmond of Darius and Isabelle.

"...liebe."

Fri, 21 Sep 2007 07:59:12 GMT

I knew she still loved me.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Cusick Residence - Master Bedroom
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The master bedroom looks a little too roomy for just one person, but obviously only one person lives in it. In the far right wall is a pair of sliding doors that lead into the large closet, which contains a variety of clothing for a male. A small shelf along the top of the closet holds a few unmarked boxes--probably pictures and mementos. To the left of the closet doors is the entrance to the master bathroom, which is simple: a sink, a toilet, and a bath/shower combination.

There is a dresser against the far left wall, and in the corner next to this is a display case of finely sculpted figurines depicting all sorts of large cats in various poses. Up against the far wall is a king-sized bed that was made with comfort in mind. The bed faces the opposite wall and the viewscreen placed before it, and above this is a small nail where a painting once hung. There is a single nightstand--crowned by a lamp and an alarm clock--off to one side of the bed.
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After a rather uneventful, yet exhaustingly busy day, Desmond has come straight home. There was no stopping off somewhere to get dinner--he wasn't hungry, really, and there's plenty of leftovers in the fridge--and there was no idle chatter with anyone along the way. There was just home. Glorious home. After leaving shoes, hat, and coat at the door, he took a detour through the kitchen to get a glass of milk, then prepared for bed. That's where he is now, sprawled out on his stomach with his face buried between two pillows, the untouched glass still resting on the nightstand nearby. He is dressed in his usual sleepwear: black lounge pants.

As much as Ilse 'enjoys' slipping through windows and picking locks, walking through the front door is easier. And this time, Ilse isn't too desperate to get inside. She took back her key the last time she was at Desmond's so entry isn't a problem. Getting to the door is. Ilse doesn't enter the front yard from the street, but from the alley between Desmond's house and his next door neighbor. Knowing that Larry lives nearby, Ilse doesn't want to clue the spin-artist in on her location. Scents are easy enough to muddle and hide, especially in high-traffic areas where people own pets. Dressed in her usual fare, Ilse only sheds her cloak and sneakers once she's in the front door before she makes the trek to the master bedroom. Desmond's scent is fresh. He's home.

And snoozing, or holding the appearance of such. The puma's face may be covered and obscured by fluff, but his ears aren't. The opening and closing of the front door is noted, but the lighter step tells him that it isn't Callisto. Desmond smirks faintly. How long has it been since the opening of the front door brought him such joy? But he doesn't make any moves to rise from the bed or lift his head. Nope. The cat is comfy, and he's going to stay that way as long as he can.

There is a pause in that sound once the bedroom door is opened and closed. The rattle of a bottle and the faint sound of swallowing can be heard next, right before that bottle is set down. The shuffling of fabric signifies the removal of clothing, and the creak in the bed is only the auditory stimulus that gives Desmond the clue that Ilse has climbed into bed beside him.

It's only then that Desmond lifts and turns his head, laying his cheek on the pillow so that he can squint over at Ilse, smiling a little. "See how much easier life is when you aren't breaking into the house like a common thief?" he remarks in a voice that is quite glossed with sleep--so much so that he gives up a yawn soon after the sentence finishes.

Ilse chuckles as her own head hits the pillow, eyes closing soon after. "And here I was thinking you might be impressed with my criminal acts." Ilse didn't get to speak to the puma last night, so after she yawns and nuzzles into her pillow, she continues. Highlights. "I saw a ghost. Told me that I still loved you."

Once his yawn finishes and Ilse's head drops into the pillow nearby, Desmond slides his arms forward beneath his own pillow and streeeeetches in a decidedly feline fashion. Then, he rolls over onto his side, facing the wolf, and slips his head forward to rest his brow against hers, eyes closing. "Mmn, I hope so," he mumbles lazily. "But I suppose if the dead are telling you such things, it has to be true."

"You think the dead are that wise?" Ilse asks in a whisper. She tilts her head toward him when Desmond presses his against it, keeping her eyes closed. "They could just be lucky, you know."

"I suppose it depends on the dead person." Desmond doesn't sound like he's putting much stock in this ghost-theory. Then again, he doesn't much believe in an afterlife, or the restless dead, or anything of that nature. Death is a very final thing.

"She knew us both pretty well." The wolf hums, the sound a tired sort of release, like a machine winding down after running all day.

Which is a fine way to describe Desmond's brain at this point: tired, winding down after running all day. He's already on Sleep's doorstep anyway and isn't very attentive to conversation. He does make a few half-hearted attempts to solve such a riddle, but finally gives up and simply nuzzles against Ilse's face lightly, tiredly. "Well, if she knew us both pretty well, then it would be silly to question her, wouldn't it?"

The wolf only hums at first. She's hit that pillow, and hit it hard. Sleep is closing in. She moves her head to nuzzle at Desmond in an effort to get comfortable before sleep finally takes her and refuses any conscious moves. Ilse is content - the pain has subsided with the help of pills, and she has... "...liebe."

It's been months since Desmond heard that word, and at first, it would seem that sleep has caused him to miss it entirely. However, a softly exhaled purr soon follows, accompanied by the faintest of smiles. Other than that, there is nothing. Sleep is an easy accomplishment for both shifters, tired and contented as they are. It's much easier when shared.

Ilse has a house key. She vaguely references her meeting Gretchen, but sleep happens before any connections can be made.

"I'm just at a higher state of mind, pussycat."

Thu, 20 Sep 2007 05:45:04 GMT

~~Callisto high, Ilse drunk. I can't help but wonder what could come of such a combination.~~

It's hard to fall asleep. The house smells like Siddartha's, and my mind will not rest. I hope the open windows will help. It allows things to air out, and more importantly, it's cool outside.

I almost wish it were colder.

~~I miss the s~~

~~I miss Il~~

I think I need a drink.

----

OOC Note: What follows are Desmond's sleep-laden thoughts after rolling over and discovering that he is not alone.

Ilse?

Charon.

Mmmngh, Ilse. Rrgh, Charon. Smells. But Ilse. Warmmm Ilse.

Zzzzz.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Cusick Residence
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The first thing one sees in this house upon entering is a small narrow hallway that angles off sharply to the left at the end--this branch leads to the bathroom and the kitchen. The walls are white, and immediately to the left of the door is a set of hooks for the hanging of hats and coats. The floor is hardwood paneling and plain, rugless.

At the end of the hall is a door leading into the den, which is furnished with a glass-topped coffee table topped with a small resin statuette depicting a panther lounging upon a rock. Next to the table is an overstuffed black leather armchair that looks rather comfortable. A viewscreen is within easy sight of this seat, and a few bookshelves line the walls. These are empty, for the most part, and accented here and there by a figurine of some sort. There are a few paintings strategically hung about the place as well, and the floor is carpeted in dark soothing green. There are two doors on opposite sides of the den: one leads to the master bedroom, and the other is locked.

The hardwood flooring in the hall continues into the kitchen, which is small, but functional. The counters are chestnut in color, and the bright yellow bulbs in the light on the ceiling fan are diffused by frosted glass protectors. There is a stove against the left wall, and a refrigerator against the wall at the far end of the room. A microwave has been set up between, next to the coffee maker and the toaster. In the center of the room is a rectangular wooden table with a single chair to keep it company.
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While the puma is away, the bear will play--and with almost every window in the downstairs wide open. Callisto has stolen away the sofa for the sole purpose of sitting on it and lounging all the same. She is upright, legs stretched out lazily and arms slung over the sides of the back. Changed into a t-shirt and jeans with her hair pulled up into a loose knot, the lounging position Callisto is in is only accompanied by a trail of sweet-smelling smoke from a long unseen pipe. It smells for all the world like normal pipe-smoke, and if it her not for the complacent smile under closed eyes and a tilted back head, it may as well be assumed as such. But as with many things, pipe tobacco is not known to contain a large amount of this artificial happiness. The bear is smoking something else in Desmond's living room; and though most of the after-burn skates invisibly out windows, there still lingers the homely smell.

Having had a most unpleasant meeting with his mother after work, Desmond is tired and looking to relax. However, upon entering the house and catching a whiff of what lies within, relaxation doesn't seem to be in order--at least not the sort of relaxation /he's/ looking for. Drugs don't count. The puma's been in the opium den within the Bazaar enough times to know the difference between plain tobacco smoke and something that's been tampered with. Now he has to figure out how that smell has followed him home. The cat leaves hat, coat, and shoes at the door before wandering to the doorway of the den and staring in shocked silence at Callisto. He remains there for a moment before he finally finds the words: "What are you doing?" What a stupid question.

Callisto's kneaded eyebrows lift at the voice, eyelids still shut for a moment longer. One cracks open and peers upside-down at the man in the doorway. "Mornin', Des." Her voice almost groans a little. Aw, fook. He's back--who is what doing are? "I open'd th'windows." This makes it all okay. Callisto is not in the least bothered by the staring or the silence. All is well.

No. No, this doesn't make it okay. Not really, anyway. The avoidance is something Desmond could somewhat tolerate, but drug-use in the living room? Not so much. However, there /is/ still the issue of the spat with Ilse that Callisto witnessed. He still hasn't apologized for that. This counts as atoning. The puma squeezes his eyes shut with a low growl and starts to head for the bedroom, his limp completely gone by now. "Thanks," he grunts in a tone that doesn't sound at all grateful.

Callisto sits up on the sofa, eyes blinking open and following after the puma with a fidget. She's smiling at him across the room, though. "Desmooond~. Don't leave! I missed you. I've been avoiding you for days. Talk about -awkward-." The woman snorts and laughs the word at the same time. Guffaw. Awkward. "Ohlook. Your ass isn't gimpy."

And this /isn't/ awkward? Desmond pauses in the doorway to the bedroom and glances over his shoulder at Callisto, eyes narrowed slightly. This is far more awkward for him than the little spat with Ilse could've been for Callisto. Right? At the mention of his ass, he glances down at it, as though expecting to see something--but of course, there's nothing but a pair of black slacks covering it. His eyes soon snap up to Callisto again and he snorts. "No, I've healed," he states.

Callisto raises her eyebrows a little more. "Ahaha! So it did. This means I can slap it next time, right?" She peers over expectantly. "Cause, I mean." She points at this backside. "I'm not gonna lie an'say its a /bad/ ass." A pause. "...Hah. Bad ass. Nevermind, Des. You -are- a bad ass, but you don't have one." Saying this with a pipe in her lips is a chore, but it is a fun chore.

High or not, such compliments are a major boost to Desmond's ego. Yes. Yes, he has a good ass. It is slappable. But Callisto isn't allowed to slap it. She'd probably break something. The puma can't help but smirk a little, amused by such inebriated babbling. "Thank you," he intones levelly. "I think your mind is a little clouded." Stating the obvious seems to be something of a habit with him today.

Callisto shakes her head and smiles broadly. "Nah. Never. I'm just at a higher state of mind, pussycat." Her hand holds the pipe still while it gives a large cloud of smoke that soon floats toward the open window. "It opens my eyes to another plane of -exuberance-. You want?" The bear offers the pipe outward. "You'll like it, I bet. And I -see you smiling over there-."

Which means that Desmond's smirk only widens a little. Yes, he's smiling. This is /funny/. Usually, being flirted with in some strange way would bring about reciprocation, but things with Ilse have been very good, and thus he's doing his level best to be a perfect gentleman. "No, thank you," he chuckles, grinning. "I'm afraid that if /both/ of us lack inhibitions, we might complicate a few things." Well . . . he's /trying/. "Besides, I don't smoke anymore." But he's tried a bit more than tobacco before, certainly.

Callisto huffs in disappointment. "Aw. Come on. If you want complications, I can do that. But--" She smiles like a fool again. "E ain't the thing y'need to worry about makin'for awkward things later." It's true! E is the worst thing for the 'complications' Desmond has in mind. In fact, it almost prevents them. Sure, there are other things like being touchy-feely and aware, but no problems like the usual.

E, hmm? Desmond shakes his head, still grinning. E is something he's not tried before, but he's not about to start. He got out of the drug thing a long time ago. "I'll pass, thanks," he utters. "Just be sure to close the bedroom door next time, hmm?" The smell is familiar, but it reminds him strongly of business, and he likes to keep business out of his home as much as he can.

It reminds Callisto of everything that -isn't- important, so it's almost an opposite effect. She flops back on the couch again. Good thing he wants rid of it, cause it's pushing its luck staying up with all this flopping about. "You poor, unfoooortunate sooouuul~." Callisto pities you. With sing-alongs.

/Singing/ now? Desmond's grin widens, and he even laughs quietly as he disappears into the bedroom. The sounds of things being shuffled about can be heard--closet doors, clothing--and when the cat reemerges, he's changed into a white tanktop and black lounge pants. He's home now, damn it. He gets to relax. Even if the house smells like Siddartha's. Thusly dressed for relaxing, Desmond heads to the chair and drops into it with a deep sigh, sinking into the furniture like only a feline could.

Callisto keeps humming the long-gone tune, flopping herself over the arm of the sofa closest to Desmond's chair. "You poor unfortunate soul~~It's sad, but true~If you want to cross the bridge, my sweet~You've got the pay the toll~~" Callisto has a nice and deep voice, not one shared by most other women; it's still a 'her's', though.

More singing leads to more amusement, and after Desmond has stretched out his legs and lazed back into the chair, arms dangling over the sides, he smirks at Callisto with a lifted eyebrow. "What are you singing?" he asks, a chuckle painting the edges of his tone.

Grunt! "I think I sang the last part -first-. Piffle." Callisto grins over at him. "It's an ollllld song." Well, duh. She lazes out like him now, pipe in her mouth and arm slipping over the edge of the couch. "From...a musical. Or something. With a talking crab in it. And a Mermaid. Um." She squints her eyes and pauses.

"I see." Desmond sounds no less entertained, and his smirk breaks into a grin. "This is all part of your, erm, 'other plane of exuberance', then?" He waves one arm casually, vaguely, bobbing his head a little for emphasis.

Callisto tilts her head and shoulders along with Desmond's head bobbing, suddenly wide-eyed. "Of course! You have no idea, cause you haven't tried it." Her hand, meanwhile, is stroking at the fabric of the couch arm. Hm. "Hey--this is really soft. Kinda dusty. You should get a new couch." But, she's stilll rubbing lightly at it anyway. Heeee. It makes my palm feel fuzzy. |D

It's probably a good thing that Ilse isn't around, then, as the poor woman's head would be assaulted. Even /Desmond/ finds the urge to rub her fuzzy scalp irresistible. It's taken inhuman amounts of restraint to /not/ do such a thing. The kiss on it last night was the closest he's gotten. "That isn't my couch," he remarks. "It's Ilse's. You'd have to talk to her about it."

Callisto chuckles to herself. Heehee. "Haaah...Ilse's couch." Chuckles. The bear just buries her head in the fabric, giggling like a moron.

Apparently, the phrase 'Ilse's couch' is a huge joke on the Other Plane of Exuberance. Desmond finds it most amusing, or perhaps giggling is addictive, but he's soon chuckling quietly and grinning wider. "What?" he laughs after a moment. What's so damn funny?

Callisto giggles into the fabric, giving it a small sniff. "Ilse's couch!" Dork. It's -hilarious-.

Still, Desmond doesn't get it, but he'll chuckle anyway. "If you say so," he remarks finally in the manner of one who can't even hope to comprehend the joke and doesn't even want to try.

Callisto puffs the pipe again, taking it in her hand and now using this turn without the obstruction in her mouth. "Look for the bare necessities~~The simple bare necessities~Forget about your worries and your strife~~" Oh, she loves this song. Clearly. Her grin is hardly letting her sing it properly, and the wiggling of her shoulders isn't helping. Bop-bop-bop. Desmond gets serenaded now. Again. "I mean the--bare necessities~Old Mother Nature's recipes~That brings the bare necessities of liiife~" Pussycat!

High!Callisto is arguably more entertaining than Drunk!Ilse. Having both in the same room would be a /true/ comedy act--and hey, maybe it'd lead to something /very/ entertaining. Ahh, fantasies. Desmond doesn't seem to mind being serenaded, and he simply sits and listens with a grin on his face.

Callisto sits up again, leaning towards Desmond. Come on. Smile -bigger-. Desmond just seems to need entertaining. "Wherever I wander, wherever I roam~~I couldn't be fonder--of my big home~~The bees are buzzin' in the trees to make some honey just for me~When you look under the rocks and plants and take a glance at the fancy ants~~" She waggles a brow. "Then maybe try a few~?" And Callisto might delight in letting Desmond see those fantasies, but there may be conflicting thoughts later. About now, she's at the point where she's singing at the house. "The bare necessities of life will come to you~They'll come to you!"

Desmond can't really grin much wider, and once the song seems to be drawing to a close, he tilts his head to one side and lifts an eyebrow. "More from your 'other plane of exuberance'?" he inquires laughingly. "You ought to go to the Belfry and try this act there."

Callisto isn't done! Nope. She hums the first part of the next chorus, words in the same tune. Or what might sound like it. Probably far off. "They ain't never seen this kinda talent, natch." On the offchance she's changed his mind, the pipe is held out with a hum. No? -Really-? "Now when you pick a pawpaw, Or a prickly pear--And you prick a raw paw, Next time beware~"

"Don't pick the prickly pear by the paw--When you pick a pear, Try to use the claw~But you don't need to use the claw, when you pick a pear of the big pawpaw~~

Once again, however, Desmond refuses with another wave of his arm and a shake of his head. None for him. Watching Callisto is entertainment enough. "You could call it Other Plane of Exuberance Theater," he continues on absently, his business mind starting to kick into gear despite his best efforts. "Tout it as something enlightening. Then fill the room with fog--drugged fog. Drugged patrons will find enlightenment in anything you sing."

"Don't pick the prickly pear by the paw--When you pick a pear, Try to use the claw~But you don't need to use the claw, when you pick a pear of the big pawpaw~~" Callisto sticks the pipe back in her mouth, leaning over to nudge at Desmond's chin with her hand. "Have I given you a clue~?" At this, she cracks up too much to continue. "I am -always- enlightening, pussycat." Yes. Nothing but truth.

There's not much room for Desmond to get away from the encroaching hand, but he makes a lazy attempt to do so anyway, tilting his chin upward slightly. Callisto's fingers still bump against it, and the cat snorts quietly. "You've given me no clue, except that you are a little high," he chortles. "I don't feel very enlightened at all." He smirks, and his face grows a little more serious as he adds, "You were rather enlightening when Ilse and I were fighting, however. I haven't had the chance to thank you or apologize for that night."

Callisto grins. "That's what I've always done. Ask her, and she'll vouch for me." The bear leans back and lies down on the couch with her arms over the arm of the sofa. "If I don't do these things, then nobody will! And then -nobody will be happy-." She nods, adopting a solemn look past her little haze. It does not last too long. "I like it when people are happy." Hrr. "Bear is happy right now." The woman chuckles.

Not much of that makes complete sense to Desmond, but he gets the gist, and his smile widens again. "All the same, thank you. What we did--it was ridiculously childish, and I'm sorry you had to become a part of it, but I'm also glad you were." Otherwise, it might've ended with another bloody encounter, and those really didn't seem to be working to improve the relationship.

Callisto tilts her head at Desmond, brown eyes alight. "It's because I'm a shiftless two-bit jungle bum." AKA-No problem.

That gets another lifted eyebrow from Desmond and a grin. "Or a catacomb bum, whatever the case may be," he chuckles. "There aren't many jungles around anymore." At least not around Bleaker. Shame.

Callisto bops her feet. Dance, dance, music in my head~. "/Urban/ Jungle, man." ~_~

"Right." Desmond shakes his head, grinning still, before he rises to his feet and gives a stretch and a leisurely yawn. "I'm going to bed, now. Try not to sing too loudly, hmm? And remember what I said about the bedroom door." Namely closing it before you light up, kthx. As he starts for the bedroom itself, he pauses and adds, "Oh, and close the windows when you're done." No sense having a freeze-out tonight.

Callisto nods after the puma. "Aaaalllrighty. An'if you ever wan'somethin', just ask." She gives him a wink before leaning into the sofa with a hum. The bare necessities of life will come to you~. There is a chance that next time Desmond looks, there will likely be a certain feature perched near the vidscreen in the den.

Desmond comes home after a harrowing day to find Callisto smoking something decidedly not legal. Desmond gets serenaded by a high bear.

"I didn't raise my /son/ to behave in such a way."

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 23:39:25 GMT

Rajini Singh has more brains than I gave her credit for. Mother will have to be moved again, if someone like Singh can find her so easily. Damnable woman.

She told Mother of my little gift, and then said that she extended an invitation to have me attend her fashion premiere show. She failed to mention that it was only my tail she wanted to see.

It ought to be Singh's head I leave on someone's doorstep next time. She has distressed my mother and forced her to undergo another move.

All this just as news reaches my ears of Charon and his cronies branding cats with the Slaver's Guild's seal.

I believe more than one head will grace a doorstep come the end of the month.

"I don't suppose you have any books you need balanced."

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 22:59:46 GMT

OOC Note: Backdated to the 17th.

Babenkov has been living like a bum, wasting his life away. I hope this job will give him some sense of purpose. ~~I suppose, in a way, he and I are not much different~~

Perhaps I am a philanthropist.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[???] Monorail Car
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Each monorail car is large enough to fit twenty people standing, but if you've caught Bleaker's only mode of public transportation at a good time, chances are you'll be able to find a seat on one of the benches attached to the grungy, graffiti-covered walls. Overhead, the lights occasionally flicker, especially when going through tunnels, but it's never so dark that you can't make out your fellow occupants. Outside, the city seems to pass by you by, zipping along so quickly that buildings appear as bright steaks of colour one moment, and vanish into blackness the next.

Every car is equipped with a list of stops, A-F, written in a dozen different languages so that there's no miscommunication about when to get off. But, just in case, an automated announcement system announces the name of each station before the monorail grinds to a halt.
================================================================================

Huddled on the C car of the monorail is a figure huddled in a heavy coat and a few blankets: unshaved, dirty, and stained with the various things that living in Bleaker inflicts on a person. The man - and it is a man - seems to be asleep, for his mouth is partially open and his breath whistles a little between his teeth. Now and again there's a gentle, wheezy snore. Not many people'd take this individual to be Vasili Babenkov, especially considering the lack of weaponry.. but those with the olfactory senses and information could tell after a moment. It's a blessing that the car is mostly empty since it's late in the evening.

Late in the evening means that Desmond is heading home, after staying a little later than usual at the Bazaar to oversee a few things. He is lacking the cane usually seen on his person the past week, but he still walks with a slight limp. He is dressed in the average black overcoat and Fedora over a pinstriped black suit. At first, he pays no attention to the bundle of coat and blankets in the car, but after he's seated himself and the train jets off to its next destination, the scent wafting up from Vasili strike the puma's nostrils. It takes him a moment to recognize the smell for what it is, and when he does, the cat shoots the other shifter a glance. Could it really be--? It's almost sad to see the rat in such a condition. Desmond scoots down a bench or two, moving nearer to the bum. "How the mighty have fallen," he mutters, loud enough to be heard by keen ears, but little more.

The former master of Guild Hall is nothing if he doesn't have his hearing - which is excellent. His eyes snap open almost instantly as Desmond begins to speak and there's a short fit of movement during which he reaches for a knife... a knife he no longer carries. Vasili just ends up looking rather foolish with his back pressed up against the wall of the monorail car, his breathing shallow and swift while his pulse picks up into a rapid rhythm. "...what?" The question forms only after several seconds, and is spoken with a heavy accent and quite a lot of grogginess. He's just woken up, after all, and it's a miracle that he isn't responding with a pure stream of Russian.

When Vasili moves for the invisible knife, Desmond tenses in his seat, preparing to defend himself--but there is no need. The puma relaxes again once this becomes apparent, and he gazes over at the other shifter with an almost apathetic expression. Really, he almost feels sorry for the rat. "I hardly expected to find you here and in such condition," he states, as though this will clarify a few things.

The ex-slaver slowly settles back down on his seat, though his eyes never leave Desmond's face. He's already spooked, and now his fright is bordering closer to terror. "Where did you expect to find me, then? A mansion on the Upper Level?" Vasili could afford it. Vasili, technically, owns two houses. But that doesn't matter very much to the rat.

"Why not? I would assume that Muldoon gave you a handsome severance pay," Desmond utters, keeping an eye on the terrified rat. He lifts an eyebrow and, after a pause, he adds, "You can calm down, Babenkov. I'm not going to attack you." There's no need, no point. Vasili isn't his enemy anymore.

The rat has the grace to start feeling self-conscious about his appearance, which is deplorable. He lifts his right arm so he can rub some of the grime on his cheek away, still not tearing his gaze away from the puma. "Why not? You hate me. It would be logical to expect an attack."

Logically, yes. But Desmond has had time to cool off. Perhaps things have changed. He doesn't really feel the need to kill the rat anymore. The puma shrugs and settles back against the bench, turning his gaze to something across the car, though his face is at an angle that he can still keep an eye on Vasili. "I've done enough to you," he utters matter-of-factly. "You are no longer with the Slaver's Guild. Besides--" he snorts softly "--it would be a waste of Gretchen's life to kill you."

Desmond has said the magic word... or, rather, the magic name. Vasili sits up and actually leans forward a bit, looking a great deal more animated than he had mere moments past. "How is she?" She's more or less the obsession of the rat's every waking moment. Was it worth it?

It's a shame that Desmond can't answer that question definitively. He smiles wryly and glances at Vasili from the corner of his eye, lifting an eyebrow. "I was hoping you could tell me," he grunts. "The last I heard from her, she was going to save you."

The little flicker of life wilts promptly. "I think she made a deal with Charon," Vasili mumbles grudgingly. "I was let out soon after, released to Muldoon. You have not seen her at all?"

Desmond shakes his head a little, the smile fading just as quickly as Vasili's animation. "Not at all." What kind of deal would she have made? Any kind of deal with Charon would have been horrific, the cat imagines. Desmond sighs quietly, pursing his lips. "Charon assured me that he would release her, but I can't be certain that she would even come to me afterward." Not after everything that's happened.

After a moment Vasili abandons his blankets and his coat, shrugging all of the above off so that he can move over one seat, staring intently at the puma. "You were foolish to try to get her to hurt me, just as Muldoon was foolish to try to get me to hurt her." It's a gentle admonishment, and is surprisingly spoken with very little malice.

And it's one that Desmond won't disagree with. He nods slowly, jerking his eyebrows up briefly and canting his head a little in silent agreement. "She was foolish to try forcing me to give up Ilse," he utters. Like Vasili, his tone is level and free of accusation, as though he is recalling some well-known fact.

Vasili nods. "I have often read of tests of loyalty where the ruler attempts to coerce his people to kill their loved ones. It is, however, not one's loved ones that one must kill - it is the loved ones of others." And that is one of the longest statements the rat has uttered since resurfacing in public.

Desmond would be honored--if he had any idea of such things. Still, he can understand such reasoning, and he nods again. After a brief pause, he looks to the rat. "Why are you in such a state? Do you need money?"

Money? Vasili is, at first, too surprised to answer the question. "...No," he finally answers, "I am not in need of money. I have plenty saved. Why do you ask?" Why do you /care/?

A shrug. "Curiosity, perhaps." Seeing Vasili in such a state is cause for pity, and Desmond isn't a heartless man. "If you have money, you ought to go find a hotel and clean yourself up." The train seems to be approaching the puma's stop, for as the brakes start to grind, he begins to shift his weight to get to his feet. "Are you working anywhere, Babenkov?"

"I am doing Rajini's accounting." The answer is absent and lackluster. "It is not terribly stimulating, though." The fact that Desmond is informing Vasili that he needs to clean up is something of an eye-opener. "I don't suppose you have any books you need balanced."

That brings a faint smirk to Desmond's face and he shakes his head. "I do all my own books," he states. It's easier that way, and he likes the work. "However, I know a few merchants who could use a good accountant." Maybe then, they'd make dues on time. "If you like I can put a word in for you at the guild."

Frankly, the Russian is dumbfounded by all this /niceness/. He stares for a moment. Then Vasili nods. "That would be kind of you to do." He rubs at his scratchy chin with an absent frown, tilting his head. "Very well. Do you prefer them doctored or clean?"

Desmond can't help but grin. It's a genuine grin--not the usual antagonistic expression he uses when addressing Vasili. "That would depend on the merchant, I suppose--though I doubt any single one of them are wholly honest." The puma certainly isn't; he wouldn't be where he is now if he was. "I will let you know. Come by the Bazaar sometime later this week, and I'll have something for you to do." And with that, he touches the brim of his hat and turns to disembark.

Desmond happens upon Vasili on the monorail, and the two manage to actually be friendly. Really. No, really. Desmond offers Vasili a job within the Merchant's Guild and tells him to get cleaned up.

"Hot night on the town for the top cat?"

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 22:46:17 GMT

OOC Note: Backdated to the 16th.

I really have missed this.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Cusick Residence
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The first thing one sees in this house upon entering is a small narrow hallway that angles off sharply to the left at the end--this branch leads to the bathroom and the kitchen. The walls are white, and immediately to the left of the door is a set of hooks for the hanging of hats and coats. The floor is hardwood paneling and plain, rugless.

At the end of the hall is a door leading into the den, which is furnished with a glass-topped coffee table topped with a small resin statuette depicting a panther lounging upon a rock. Next to the table is an overstuffed black leather armchair that looks rather comfortable. A viewscreen is within easy sight of this seat, and a few bookshelves line the walls. These are empty, for the most part, and accented here and there by a figurine of some sort. There are a few paintings strategically hung about the place as well, and the floor is carpeted in dark soothing green. There are two doors on opposite sides of the den: one leads to the master bedroom, and the other is locked.

The hardwood flooring in the hall continues into the kitchen, which is small, but functional. The counters are chestnut in color, and the bright yellow bulbs in the light on the ceiling fan are diffused by frosted glass protectors. There is a stove against the left wall, and a refrigerator against the wall at the far end of the room. A microwave has been set up between, next to the coffee maker and the toaster. In the center of the room is a rectangular wooden table with a single chair to keep it company.
================================================================================

It's a chilly night, but that hasn't stopped Ilse from sneaking her way to the Upper Level, just as she had several nights previous. And once again, she's slipped into Desmond's backyard. But this time, Ilse hasn't gone in the house. Instead, she lies in the grass with her shoes off, staring up into the dark sky. There is very little moon, and the stars are dim, veiled by clouds. Her cloak is loosely wrapped around her, but a fair amount of the tattered fabric has been piled up behind her head to act as a pillow of sorts.

It's been at least an hour since Desmond left Rajini Singh's house. The puma wove through several fenced yards, leapt onto many a roof, clambered through brush and into trees, all to baffle his trail. Needless to say, the cat is rather tuckered out. But now he's home, and he clears the side fence with ease, clothing still clutched between his jaws (looking appropriately dirtied and ruffled, but mostly intact). He's about to head over to the kitchen door, but a smell stops him and causes his ears and head to go up. Rrr? Desmond follows the scent to the back corner of the house, around which he peeks to spot Ilse. And then his tail gives a mischievous twitch. The puma sets down his bundle near the corner of the house and peers over at the wolf, just to make sure she hasn't noticed him yet.

No, Ilse hasn't noticed Desmond yet. She's far too wrapped up in her own thoughts. One hand is resting on top of her bandage, or rather, on Imre's shirt over the bandage. The wolf lets out a small sigh and closes her eyes before she shuffles her legs and feet in order to feel the cool grass against her skin. It's calming.

Even with an injured hind leg--the limp more pronounced now than it was this morning, thanks to his fun at Hell as well as his trek through the Upper Level--Desmond is stealthy. He is very, very stealthy. The puma crouches and begins to slink toward Ilse and her bare feet, tail ticking behind him rhythmically, excitedly. He's certain to keep an eye on the wolf's face to ensure he remains unnoticed. Once he reaches Ilse's feet, the cat extends his neck far enough to snuffle at the bottom of one, perking his whiskers forward for maximum tickling effect. Pumakisses!

Why is it that Desmond is always much more playful when he's fuzzy? The tickles frighten Ilse, who pulls both feet back sharply. But the bend of her waist that follows is painful, and Ilse lets out a deep groan before she twists to the side, hissing with a wince. DAMMIT.

Whoops. Pain and agony wasn't what Desmond was going for, and now that he's caused it, he feels all kinds of awful. The puma flinches back, then creeps around to stand in front of Ilse. Shame isn't an expression that felines have--mainly because they never feel it--but with ears splayed, he looks remorseful enough. He dips his head to sniff at her face curiously, a soft purr rumbling in his throat. Apologies aren't something felines do well either.

"As soon as I," but the wolf's words are cut off by another wince, then peppered by them as she lies curled in the grass, "...can move...without... fucking... agah... I'm going to kick your ass."

Such threats would be effective, were they not said as Ilse writhes in agony on the ground. Desmond is somehow less than frightened. But he'll sit and patiently wait for her to recover, if she really wants to give the ass-kicking a shot. The puma drops onto his haunches, keeping his head dipped and purr rumbling.

Ilse does her best to uncurl, but afterward the rolls to lie on her belly, the tops of her feet and her palms against the grass. It's not as good as lying on her back, but it's a change. And for a few minutes, it might help alleviate the pain. It also causes her to brush her shorn head against Desmond's whiskered face.

And Desmond does the only thing that instinct dictates: his tongue flicks out to lick at that shorn head. Mmm, bristly tongue meet bristly head. Purrpurr.

The answer is a grunt. "So why're you all fuzzy? Hot night on the town for the top cat?" Ilse's eyes are shut, but she doesn't pull away from that tongue.

Which is why there is no verbal response from Desmond; just more purring and more licking. Can't talk now, Ilse's head needs grooming, kthx.

That grooming can be tolerated for a little while, but Ilse would prefer conversation to cleanliness. "I asked you a question," she reminds before she grunt-groans softly, turning around to lie on her back again. Watch out Des-toes!

Squish go Des-toes, but grooming doesn't immediately stop. Ilse might find a faceful of pumatongue when she rolls over, before the cat withdraws his head and scoots back a little, jerking his paws instinctively out from under the wolf. It wasn't painful, but paws are sensitive things that do not enjoy being laid upon. For a moment, Desmond just stares down at Ilse before muscles and bones start to shift and groan their way back to human physiology. Once there, the shifter remains crouched on the grass, smirking. "I was delivering a gift to Rajini Singh," he responds. "I think she appreciates human heads as much as you appreciate dog heads."

"You're courting Singh now, huh?" Ilse's eyebrows lift while her eyes remain closed, the ghost of a smile in the corners of her mouth. "I think she'd appreciate flowers more, but I don't know. I'd hate to think I have anything in common with that...well, is she really a woman, even?" Monster is a term Ilse reserves for Muldoon, so with the ex-whore, she comes up short.

Being naked in front of Ilse is something Desmond has no problems with--but it's a bit nippy outside, especially for someone who has just shed a fur coat. The puma rises to a standing position and limps over to the side of the house to retrieve his clothes, chuckling as he goes. "I was . . . expressing my gratitude for the gift she gave me," he states, pausing to point at the nearly healed wound on his left buttock. "She was the one who put out a bounty for puma tails. And no, she isn't a woman." The cat slips into his boxers and slacks, but opts to leave behind shoes, socks, and shirt. It isn't /that/ cold outside. As he starts back, he grins over at Ilse. "If I had known you would be here, I would have brought you something bleeding too."

"Like a nice big steak?" It's no secret Ilse likes her cow rare, when she indulges in it rather than Chinese food. She watches Desmond depart, but she's soon closed her eyes dreamily again, a smile slowly sliding onto her face. "That'd be yummy." And proteins are good things. And no, Rajini Singh is not a woman. At least, no woman like Ilse. "Where'd you get the head?" But really the wolf is asking the sort of profession that head once held...other than holding essential organs.

Actually, steak sounds rather appetizing to Desmond as well, but he's already eaten, to an extent. Since lying on his back is a little painful, he instead opts to sit on the grass next to Ilse, legs crossed, leaning back on his hands. "I think the only thing I can offer you is leftover Chinese." He brought home a lot last night. The cat heaves a sigh and yawns before answering the question: "I got it in Hell."

It's a sad day indeed when Ilse can say she's had her fill of Chinese for awhile. The food is cheap and abundant, so it's what she's been subsisting on. She did, however, make a stew tonight for Estelle...but it was for Estelle. "Hell, huh?" Ilse opens one eye, then wriggles so she can rest her head on Desmond's thigh. "How's Nic?"

"Evicted." This said with a casual shrug of Desmond's shoulders, and he uncrosses his legs to extend the one upon which Ilse's head rests, offering a better cushion--or perhaps simply finding a more comfortable position for his injured backside. "A tiger owns the place now. He's a good enough sort." The cat pauses again to roll his head on his neck, working out some soreness there, and then he smiles down at Ilse. "I'm sorry I startled you earlier."

Ilse chuckles softly, shaking her head. But it might be just so she can subtly rub the side of her face against Desmond's thigh. She did a lot of thinking today, and part of it included how she missed the closeness she once had with the puma, let alone any male she wasn't related to. "You couldn't help it," she says with a smile before she adds, "I met a lion today."

Eyebrows go up at that, and Desmond's lips part in an amused sort of grin. "Uh oh," he rumbles jokingly, tilting his head to one side. "Have I got competition?" Once you go cat, you don't go back! Or something. The puma shifts all his weight onto one hand so that he can move the other to lightly, idly stroke a finger along Ilse's jawline. He's missed that face.

Jaw-strokings encourage Ilse to close her eyes, her expression one of amused contentment. "No. But he did almost get in a scrap with Charon. Are all you cats so chivalrous? But I guess lions are more family oriented. And like the girls."

"Are you saying that I don't?" Desmond laughs, grinning wider. She probably didn't mean it as a jab at his masculinity, but it's amusing nonetheless. "I would think I'd removed any doubt of that." The jaw-stroking continues, and his thumb soon joins the endeavor, running over Ilse's chin lightly. Yes, he's missed this face.

"I'm not saying that." Ilse remembers all to well the night Desmond broke a chair rather than Charon's face. "But he didn't even know my name and was ready to brandish his sword to defend me." There's no innuendo there. Honest.

Oh-ho, a sword! Desmond laughs again, quietly. "A sword? I can't compete with that. I don't even have a cane anymore." He left it at Rajini's house. Whoops. "But I'm glad to hear that one of my kin was willing to leap to your defense. That makes them much nobler than some of your wolves." Bitter? Just a smidge.

"Only some, Desmond," Ilse is quick to retort with a smirk. "Though I think I'm safe in saying our population is dwindling...and we might even die out if this war actually happens."

"Mm." That causes Desmond's grin to fade into a faint smile, and his fingers stop their movements. "Just so long as you are not one of those who dies in the end." And with that sentiment, he gives Ilse's face one last stroke before moving his arm back to support the rest of his weight, then sliding both hands out to the side, easing himself down to lie in the grass. It's painful a little, but the grass is an excellent cushion.

Ilse lifts her head when Desmond lies down, but it's only for a moment. Soon it's back on it's pillow (read: Desmond's leg), and Ilse exhales a content sigh. Someone once said something about being lost in a moment forever.

Which is Desmond's sentiment exactly. He folds his hands behind his head and echoes Ilse's contented sigh, partially closing his eyes to stare up at the clouded stars. After a few moments of lying in silence, a question crops up in his mind, but he keeps it to himself. He doesn't want to hear a negative answer, as it would just shatter the moment. Better to just stay quiet and enjoy it while it lasts.

But that silence is bound to be broken. Ilse opens her eyes to stare down at Desmond's toes, simply because there are there in her line of sight. "Chit for your thoughts?"

"Mmn." Clearly, Desmond's thoughts are full of rationale and vast intelligence that can only be summed up by such an utterance. Or he's digging for some other thought. After another pause, he finally comes up with something: "How have I changed, Ilse?" He sounds vaguely curious, not troubled.

The wolf is silent for a few moments as she considers her answer, knowing that it has to be exact in order to preserve and ecourage the soap bubble that might just form, if it hasn't already. "You...maybe you haven't. I have. And maybe... well, maybe I just saw you in a different way as just...*things* changed." Ilse furrows her brow as she studies Desmond's big toe.

"Mmn." Another brief pause. "I /have/ changed," Desmond remarks finally. "You know, after the catacombs, I went and purchased a carton of cigarettes. I thought that, since you were gone, it didn't matter whether or not I smoked." And maybe he was doing it to spite her memory; it's quite possible. "I opened it, but I never smoked a single cigarette. Every time I looked at them, I saw your face--that look you always got when I still smoked--and it stopped me." The puma closes his eyes with a quiet exhale. "So . . . I have changed."

If Ilse had her way, there would *be* no cigarettes in Bleaker to tempt anyone, let alone shifters. There survival rate was bad enough already. "I'm glad," she answers in a quiet tone. Of all the ways she could have changed Desmond, Ilse is proud of that one.

Another bout of silence follows before Desmond finally resigns to his own inherent curiosity. "Will you be staying tonight?" It's asked in an almost pinched voice, both hopeful and also a little afraid of what the answer might be.

"For a little while," but not the whole night. Or at least, that's the implication. Ilse closes her eyes again, worried that Desmond won't accept it well.

But there's not much reaction from Desmond--at least not an obvious one. He simply grunts ambiguously, nods a little, and goes silent once again. Short pauses seem to be the order of the night, but this one lasts a little longer than its predecessors. He didn't expect her to answer in the affirmative. He may be slightly disappointed, but he'll take what he can get. At least she's not leaving immediately.

But Ilse might not leave at all. Maybe. She isn't sure yet what she wants to do. Ilse exhales a small sigh before she nuzzles into Desmond's leg, doing her best not to focus on the pain that's begun to nag at the back of her mind again.

The nuzzle at his leg causes Desmond to smirk a little. It is not only a nice, affectionate gesture, it also tickles a little. He untucks one of his hands from behind his head and extends his arm toward Ilse. She's just out of reach; he can only brush at her shoulder with the tips of his fingers, but the gesture is enough at any rate: come snuggle up /here/. It's probably not safe to go nuzzling at his thigh.

It would be more dangerous if that thigh were still bare. But Ilse gets the hint and scoots herself toward Desmond's torso. She remains at a ninety degree angle to him, and her head slips onto the grass. But that doesn't stop her from placing a brushing sort of kiss on his side.

Which causes his smirk to break into a grin, and a quiet chuckle to escape his lips. That /also/ tickles a little. The hand that had been used to bring Ilse upward takes advantage of the fact that the wolf is now within reach and moves to resume stroking at her jaw and chin, fingers playing over her skin lightly.

Ilse says, "I don't suppose you have any more of those pills, huh Des?" The question is asked in a soft voice. No, Ilse didn't come here just for drugs. But while she's here, it doesn't hurt to ask."

Even if Ilse's sole intention was to come get drugs, Desmond has enough evidence that he isn't being used. Such a question isn't an affront, and instead the puma opens his eyes and cranes his head to the side to smile over at her. "Are you out already?" he asks with a lifted eyebrow, his fingers never ceasing their efforts. "I still have some. You can take them, if you want; I have no further use for them." He's healed enough that the pain doesn't bother him so much.

"Yeah, I'm out," Ilse admits in an even softer tone. "And thanks. Not all of us are blessed with weird immune systems." Because they certainly aren't 'normal'.

"It comes from eating those horrible hunters and slavers," Desmond chuckles, removing his hand from Ilse's face so that he can push himself into a sitting position, emitting a sigh. "I've built up an immunity to most anything." He grins, then adds, "Do you want me to go get them?" He can only imagine that the subject was brought up because there is some degree of pain going on right now.

A small shrug and a "Sure," are what Ilse's answer consists of. She angles her head to press her nose against Desmond's side in a distinctly wolfish manner, but otherwise she doesn't move.

And Desmond doesn't seem keen on leaving immediately. Nope. Wolf-nose in his side is a very anchoring sort of thing, especially since he hasn't enjoyed such attention since . . . well, the last time Ilse was here. But it wasn't enough, obviously. The cat smirks, then contorts himself in an attempt to plant a kiss on Ilse's fuzzy head. It may not be the most graceful of maneuvers, but who cares?

Ilse actually giggles at the kiss, shaking her head to rub the fuzz against Desmond's face. Still, knowing that he doesn't have the goatree to combat her own 'scruff' is slightly upsetting. Why had he shaved it?

It's the scruff-like texture of Ilse's head and the subsequent rubbing thereof against his face that causes Desmond to laugh breathlessly and draw back a little. "Ugh," he chuckles, grimacing in a joking fashion. "How could you /ever/ stand to kiss me?" He may not have the goatee, but his face is still fuzzy. He hasn't been clean-shaven in years.

"Oh, shush," Ilse answers with a frown. "It wasn't *that* bad. And having lips in the middle of a piece of sandpaper helps." She's smiling at the latter comment, and then winks one blue eye. Desmond *does* have such nice lips.

Such could be said of Ilse as well, and the puma smirks at the wink as well as the comment. This would be the perfect opportunity to test such theories, but he hesitates a little. Just a little. Then, he shifts his weight around to rest on his stomach--a more appropriate angle--and dips his head to put his face quite near to Ilse's. "Having lips surrounded by no sandpaper at all is nice, too," he murmurs with a grin.

"Are you saying you wouldn't want to kiss a scruffy girl?" Ilse doesn't have far to go in avoiding a kiss from Desmond, as her head is already against the ground. But she does tuck her chin to avoid contact just yet.

And Desmond doesn't press to close the distance, content instead to simply hover, weight upon his elbows, which are pressed into the grass. "Or a scruffy man either, for that matter," he adds with a chuckle, still grinning. "Or /any/ man, actually." Just to clarify.

Desmond *is* a man. He's also a cat, but that's secondary, just as Ilse's primative side is a secondary nature to her humanness. Reminding herself of this, Ilse lifts a hand to stroke that scruff that has become part of the topic of conversation. "That's good to know," she muses softly.

And Ilse happens to be a woman, which makes her kissable in Desmond's book--moreso because of his feelings for her. Still, he hesitates. Should he? Would doing so be a renewal of the leash she spoke about? He's not sure. The hand at his cheek doesn't make the decision any easier, but it gives him something, at least. He leans into it heavily, exhaling a sigh through his nostrils and closing his eyes. This is just one of a thousand touches that he's missed very deeply the past few months. Another touch he's missed that he seeks now is that of noses; the puma drops his head just a centimeter more to brush the tip of his nose against Ilse's.

If wolves could purr, Ilse certainly would be. But spending so many months around felines, Ilse has picked up a sort of mimicry of one, easier to do while she has human vocal chords. Still, it's nothing compared to the rumbles the puma has produced.

But the effort is noted, and it brings a smirk to Desmond's face and a quiet human-purr to his own throat. Ilse's mock-purr sounds close enough to warrant a reciprocation, after all. Maybe she /has/ been around him for too long. Maybe he really is starting to rub off on her. But that doesn't matter. Such sounds seem to be enough to quell any further hesitancy on the puma's part, for he lowers his face further still, seeking to touch a feather-light kiss to Ilse's lips.

Ilse's eyes flutter closed at the kiss, no matter how soft and distant it is compared to others the wolf and puma have shared. Ilse doesn't do anything to further it, however. Small steps.

Small steps. Desmond is trying very hard to keep this in mind. After the first kiss breaks, he sighs again, but he neither withdraws nor attempts another kiss for a moment. However, small steps are difficult to remember when one has been starved of this sort of thing for months after having it frequently. The puma manages to remain within the realm of 'appropriate' with the second kiss attempt: it's hungrier, a little more forceful than the first, but it is certainly nowhere near as passionate as ones he's shared with Ilse before.

Ilse, however, has tasted something that she hasn't had in quite some time. In addition to it being Desmond, intimate contact is something she's been lacking. When Desmond presses his lips to hers again, Ilse's own response is hungry and eager while still remaining subdued.

And subdued it remains, for the most part. The pair stay on the grass for a few minutes, reveling in the company and the kisses before the need for painkillers overrules all else. Then, they adjourn to the house for drugs, then to the bedroom for more company and more kisses. Injury prevents things from progressing much further--but there are really no attempts to press the envelope anyway. Desmond and Ilse finally drift to sleep, each wrapped around the other as much as their respective wounds will allow.

Ilse drops by the house again for drugs. Or snuggles. Or drugs and snuggles. And she gets both.

"If you really wanted me to kick your ass, I bet I could do it inebriated."

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 03:20:31 GMT

The new owner of Hell is not altogether a bad sort, and though he is slow to the kill, he has a great deal of stamina. And that wolf--I wonder if Ilse knows her? She was far outclassed, as I had said. I almost felt bad taking her money.

Almost.

It was an enjoyable evening. It will be even better after I deliver this gift.

OOC Note: Below is a copy of the note later placed in the hatbox Desmond left on Rajini's doorstep. It was nestled in next to the severed head of a victim from Club Hell.

My dear Miss Singh,

It was kind of you to think of myself and my kin as you ventured into your new profession. Unfortunately, I will not be available to accommodate you, despite your generous invitation. Instead, please accept this as a token of my gratitude. I hope it is a sufficient replacement.

Regards,
Desmond Cusick.

"What do you mean, 'our' kind? I've...I've nothing in common with you, sir."

Sun, 16 Sep 2007 02:09:29 GMT

Rajini Singh has a cousin.

She happens to be a margay.

Who knew that life could have such amusing little ironies?

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Housing District
================================================================================
This residential quarter of the Upper Level is paved with a combination of cobbles, flagstones, and bricks, but the surface is no more uneven than if the street were made up of only one of these materials. Tall, cast iron lamps line the street at regular intervals and are equipped with a sensor so that they turn on when the sky darkens. The houses that line the street vary in style from a restored Victorian, to gothic, to sleek modern exteriors. A sidewalk has been portioned out by both the street lamps and flowerbeds, fenced off with black iron balustrades, ornately crafted. A few trees are dispersed along the row, their trucks also caged by iron. Many of the homes have front lawns, some fenced, others open. It's obvious that this is an area where money is plentiful, despite the uncaged plant life that clings to bits of metal that curls and twists in the odd corner here and there.
===============================================================================

Early evening settles over Bleaker, and the visible sun hangs over the western horizon, preparing itself for another strangely glorious sunset. Having finished all he could at the Bazaar, Desmond Cusick heads home, a cane in one hand and a paper bag smelling strongly of some kind of Chinese food in the other. The former supports his weight; the latter will /give/ him weight. Ah, irony. The puma moves at a leisurely pace. The unseasonal warm air makes it impossible to wear an overcoat without roasting, and so he dresses only in a white dress shirt opened over a white tanktop, black slacks, a black Fedora, and sandals. Today is very casual.

The day has indeed been a relaxed one - too relaxed, almost- especially in the case of one Anjali Noor. The margay shifter is prowling around the vicinity for almost the opposite reason; she's here to get away from "home," and she doesn't intend to return for at least some time. A scrawled note had been left on the kitchen counter for Rajini around mid-afternoon, and after that she had been free. /Free./ The trailing ends of a flamboyant sari - it's a mellow pink one, today - flutter and flap behind her, which is sort of a feat considering there's little wind. Desmond will be coming past fairly soon, but she pays no attention: he's just another passerby, after all. Another few steps, and he'll be gone again.

But Anjali's strange mode of dress--something he's only ever really seen on Rajini Singh--and, as he draws nearer, her scent are enough to catch Desmond's attention and interest. What? A miniature Rajini Singh who smells of tiger and . . . margay, is it? The irony is just too much. The puma smirks in a vaguely antagonistic fashion and inclines his head slightly, lifting a hand to touch the brim of his hat in a greeting gesture. "Good evening."

"And a good evening it is!" returns a surprised Anjali, dipping instinctively into a very brief curtsy. Unlike Desmond, she only knows enough about scents to know that he smells /something/ like a certain maddening tiger cub- but not really. In any case, an appropriate response to such dashing strangers is all but ingrained into her system. "Is there something I can assist you with, my good sir?"

Someone at least has better manners than Rajini Singh. Desmond steps forward a little more, keeping at a polite distance. The tiger smell is familiar--and in fact, Anjali /smells/ of Rajini Singh. How /delightful/. The puma grins. "Astounding," he grunts, half-chuckling. "How do you manage?"

"I'm actually quite well, thank you." Anjali stays right where she is, staring unabashedly at the puma with some mixture of well-mannered surprise and outright curiosity. At last, she can contain herself no more and blurts, "Excuse me, but /what's/ astounding?"

"That you reek of a certain aristocrat, and yet your pelt is somehow still intact," Desmond remarks. "Haven't you heard of Rajini Singh's personal war on our kind?" It's fortunate that he's close enough to keep his voice low, out of the range of other ears. "And you've not only managed to survive in her presence, you seem to be mimicking her fashion." But, fortunately, not the distasteful fashion--furs.

If Anjali had been surprised before, it's certainly nothing compared to now. She blinks, some of the boisterousness literally deflating out of her posture. "Rajini Singh is my cousin," she says defensively, looking at Desmond with more reservation and a certain amount of fright. 'What do you mean, 'our' kind? I've...I've nothing in common with you, sir."

Her /cousin/? This seems to be infinitely amusing to Desmond, whose grin widens devilishly. This is /too/ good. "I beg to differ," he rumbles. "You and I have much more in common than some would think." And just to prove it, the shifter's brown eyes flash golden, and he winks knowingly. It's a brief revelation, but easily noticeable.

The brief exposure serves only to further Anjali's disbelief, not lessen it. She takes a doubtful step back, flicking her sash aside at the same time so she won't tread on it. How had he /known/...? "What do you want?" Her own large, black-lined eyes remain a suspicious, hard brown.

But suspicion and doubt only serve to amuse Desmond further, and his grin doesn't waver. "I want nothing, save to issue you a warning: get away from your cousin. Not everyone is fortunate enough to get away with only a gunshot wound." He lifts his cane a little for emphasis. "It would be most unfortunate if your skin was used to line a cape or adorn a hat."

How ominous. Indeed- Anjali had been placing her trust in the shaky notion that, if Rajini ever did find out, she wouldn't have had the heart to do away with a relative. Her next question is, to be fair, an obvious one: "Who are you?" And how had it suddenly gone from amiable 'good evenings' to - this?

"A friend," is Desmond's simple response, spoken through the lingering grin. "Someone who hopes to see a day when our kind doesn't have to fear guns and furriers." This seems to be the end of conversation for the puma, for he tips the brim of his hat again and begins to set off once more, aiming to walk past Anjali.

Anjali stares after the puma in stunned silence, fighting a powerful urge to call out to him to wait. After some moments, another part of her seems to decide for her: turning sharply on her heels, she stalks primly away in the opposite direction - throwing an odd suspicious glance back, just for good measure. She's feeling frightened, certainly, but no less confused and angry. What had given him the right...?

Desmond runs into Anjali on the street and makes an excellent impression on her. And by "excellent impression", I mean "scares her".

"I don't have an overabundance of friends right now, Des."

Sun, 16 Sep 2007 01:57:22 GMT

OOC Note: Backdated a few days. I fail at journaling, so I'll add to this later. Meanwhile, have a log.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Cusick Residence
================================================================================
The first thing one sees in this house upon entering is a small narrow hallway that angles off sharply to the left at the end--this branch leads to the bathroom and the kitchen. The walls are white, and immediately to the left of the door is a set of hooks for the hanging of hats and coats. The floor is hardwood paneling and plain, rugless.

At the end of the hall is a door leading into the den, which is furnished with a glass-topped coffee table topped with a small resin statuette depicting a panther lounging upon a rock. Next to the table is an overstuffed black leather armchair that looks rather comfortable. A viewscreen is within easy sight of this seat, and a few bookshelves line the walls. These are empty, for the most part, and accented here and there by a figurine of some sort. There are a few paintings strategically hung about the place as well, and the floor is carpeted in dark soothing green. There are two doors on opposite sides of the den: one leads to the master bedroom, and the other is locked.

The hardwood flooring in the hall continues into the kitchen, which is small, but functional. The counters are chestnut in color, and the bright yellow bulbs in the light on the ceiling fan are diffused by frosted glass protectors. There is a stove against the left wall, and a refrigerator against the wall at the far end of the room. A microwave has been set up between, next to the coffee maker and the toaster. In the center of the room is a rectangular wooden table with a single chair to keep it company.
================================================================================

Whiskey was on the menu. Whiskey dulled pain. But as she got closer to her old home, ducking from alley to alley to avoid being seen by Zero Tolerance patrols and sneaking into the backyard through a hole in the fence, Ilse remembered Desmond's own injury. He's sure to have some sort of medication in the house. And Ilse is determined to find it. Callisto's scent is strong, but Ilse's pain is stronger. She'll investigate that later. Once the pills have been found and taken, Ilse collapses into the bed's wonderful mattress, lying on her back with the bottle still clasped possessively in one hand, her cloak spread on either side almost like wings or maybe pools of blood.

Medicine is kept in the bathroom cabinet, and after wandering the streets of Bleaker with a bum leg and a cane, Desmond could use a little chemical help to sleep as well. However, upon entering the house and catching a whiff of Ilse, he knows he could use a bit of that whiskey as well. Maybe--just /maybe/--she's here to visit Callisto, and the puma can slink away to his room. He leaves hat, coat, and shoes at the door and hobbles down the hallway and through the den with just such an intention. Unfortunately, such plans are foiled the moment he spots the wolf sprawled on his bed. Damn. Desmond stands in the doorway a moment, frowning over at her. She not only has his bed, she has his /pills/. And he wants both. "I guess I should have changed the locks," he remarks blandly.

Desmond is lucky. Damned lucky. Ilse is high on pain meds when he enters in addition to very close to sleep. The bed was comfy. *Is* comfy. She lifts her head slowly after a moment, her nose telling her who is in the door before her eyes focus. But that's not all they tell her. "I..." but then Ilse narrows her eyes just as Desmond becomes clear in the doorway. "...'m not as big and fuzzy as your last bedmate."

And there it is. Desmond figured something like this would come up. But he's not ashamed. There was nothing between him and Callisto that shouldn't be talked about. The puma grunts softly and limps around the bed toward the closet, where he leans his cane up against the wall and begins to strip off his shirt. "She was big, yes, but /I/ was the fuzzy one in bed that night." In other words: no, Ilse, I'm not screwing your best friend.

It's apparently an adequate explanation, as Ilse doesn't dwell on it. "You've got drugs," she states simply, laying her head back down with a soft *fwump* of the pillow. "And they stole mine from the supply closet. And Cal's boy toy is incapacitated. And," but Ilse isn't so going to freely admit she's low on funds. The sort of drugs she wants are spendy on the street. "...I'm taking yours." This is a fact. Get used to it.

Think again, wolfy dear. "I think not," Desmond utters shortly. The shirt is hung in the closet with its fellows, and indeed, the puma still wears the ring around his neck. The slacks are the next to go, after he's emptied the pockets. It takes some kind of skill to get the things off in his current state, but he manages. "I think you've forgotten that you don't live here anymore, and I have no obligation to give you anything. Technically, you are trespassing." He glances over his shoulder at her as he takes up his cane again. "You gave up the right to my things in the catacombs."

"Corrrection," Ilse says with a smirk she can't suppress, rolling the 'r'. "I never had a right to your things. Like you never had a right to my whiskey. I could take that instead. You didn't pack it. Buuut whiskey won't work as well. And you know what they say about Brauns and that sort of booze. I'd *hate* to live up to my reputation."

"No, Ilse," Desmond sighs, hobbling around to her side of the bed again, "you /did/ have the right to my things, otherwise you would have been living elsewhere these past few months and eating from the garbage." Once he's near the side of the bed he pauses to regard her with a stony expression. "What makes you think I care about the Brauns and their whiskey?" The puma bends down, propping himself up with one hand pressed into the mattress next to Ilse's shoulder and lowering himself to perhaps an uncomfortable level--but it seems only a mechanism to peer into the wolf's eyes. "My pills, please."

"Who gave them to you?" Ilse asks in a dryer tone as she twists the cap off and drops a single dose onto the mattress, one pill bouncing off Desmond's hand. There. Pills. Two is plural.

That wasn't what he asked for, but Desmond's face remains nearly stoic--patiently so. "Mandy Starks," he replies levelly. "And she did not give them to me; I paid for them." Nevermind that he got a wonderful discount. It pays to have connections in the black market. "If you ask nicely, I might be inclined to get you some."

"You asked nicely. I gave you some." Ilse's smirk returns, and her grip on the bottle tightens. "Nice cane." It matched his hat.

That still isn't what Desmond asked for, but he's simply too tired to continue the struggle. He rises again and plucks the two pills from the bedspread before dry-swallowing them. "Yes. Callisto suggested that I get one made from bull's penis. I thought it better to go with something sensible. People might think I was attempting to compensate for something." This is all spoken flatly, without the hint of a smirk on his features. Once he's medicated, the cat begins to hobble toward the bathroom. Time to change his bandage.

Ilse already did that. She showered! And washed her clothes. All within the same timeframe. But, of course, this means changing the bandage, and luckily gauze doesn't have a high street value. "Maybe she thinks you do," Ilse offers as she stares at the ceiling. "She's a big girl, after all. You know what that must mean."

"You can't please them all, I suppose," is Desmond's wry remark from the bathroom. The cabinet is opened again, and the sounds of things clattering and rustling can be heard as he removes gauze, cotton, and medical tape and drops his boxers to begin the process of changing the bandage on his left buttock. He gives a cursory glance to other bits--nope, no reason to compensate. "I don't suppose you said 'hello' to her? She will be disappointed if you leave without so much as a word." Is that a faintly bitter twinge?

"And you'll be disappointed if I don't spoon with you." Yes, Ilse is well aware of that twinge and the subtext it carries. "But I think I should start believing what people tell me. Things like, I didn't fight honorably, and how I didn't turn myself when I should have, and God only knows what else. Oh yeah, that I can't please them all." Bitter? You betcha.

Response is delayed, because teeth are being used to rip off strips of tape for the bandage. When it finally /does/ come, it's no less bitter than before: "Are you looking for sympathy? Because the last time I attempted to give that, you threw it back in my face." The entire ensemble is applied to the wound, and then Desmond pulls up his boxers and limps out into the bedroom and makes for the closet. The top shelf contains extra blankets, and it's for one of these that he reaches.

"Corrrrrection," Ilse repeats in the same sort of manner, but she drags the trill out a bit longer this time and lifts her head to look at Desmond. "The *last* time you offered me sympathy, I was lying on a moldy mattress." Ilse knows how she woke up that morning. "And then there was the time before that in Rainway...and I didn't throw anything at you then." She knows what he's referring to though, and the memory brings a frown to her face. Ilse isn't proud of that day, but she can't really regret her actions. Had she stayed with Desmond, things could be worse right now. The quiet rumblings of a war among the wolves, no matter how distant, could only be exacerbated and made more dangerous if the Blood Meridian were involved in any way, shape, or form. Particularly that of a puma.

But Desmond doesn't see it that way. That day in the catacombs was a betrayal, and perhaps the deepest he's ever experienced. Perhaps that's what he gets for having never had a real relationship before. It is, technically, his first /real/ break-up. The puma pulls down an extra blanket, then tucks it beneath his cane arm and moves toward the bed to grab up his pillow. She can have the bed; he'll take the couch. "I offered you body heat so you wouldn't freeze to death," he grunts. "You bit my ear." And twisted it. Obviously, he's speaking of the morning in Rainyway.

"I remember when you used to like that," is Ilse' dry remark, sharp blue eyes following Desmond as they look out from a nonchalant face. "Will you stop being an ass if I give you your precious pills?"

That gives Desmond pause, and he stares down at Ilse with slightly narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Is he annoyed? Perhaps a little. Bitter? Yes. Frustrated? Definitely. But most of all, he's tired--very, very tired about so many things. The puma sighs after a moment. "What is it you want from me, Ilse?" he asks finally in a quiet voice. "I have offered everything that I know, and it hasn't been enough. So what is it that you want?"

"To know what it is you're trying to get." Ilse's answer comes without delay, and her face softens to a sort of blank slate. Simple.

Desmond shakes his head and sighs again, closing his eyes for a moment. "It isn't obvious?" he rumbles. Then, he swallows and opens his eyes again, face slipping into a tired frown. "I'm trying to regain the happiness I once felt upon entering the house and picking up your scent. I'm trying to get back the joy of waking up in the morning and being greeted by your face; your voice whispering to me before I fell asleep each night. But I'm tired of trying to piece things back together, Ilse. I can't do it alone--and right now, it seems that I am the only one making an effort."

"You can't piece something back together if you don't have all the pieces, Des." With a small wince, Ilse does her best to sit up in bed. "Do you want me to apologie for pushing you away? I'm sorry for all the miscommunication that resulted, but do you really want to be close to me right now? People, people with *guns* know what I am now. Do you want one of those bullets engraved with my name to find you instead?" The thought is terrifying, and not just because it's Desmond. Ilse is frowning now, her free hand gripping the sheet in addition to her cloak. "Because I don't. You have too many holes in your ass as it is." She sighs, shaking her head. "I...I don't have an overabundance of friends right now, Des," she admits in a softer tone. "I'd...I don't wand *you* to be on the other list." Not anymore.

"Ilse." Desmond drops the pillow back on the bed, followed by the extra blanket. "I don't care about them. I would /gladly/ take a bullet meant for you, if it meant that you were safe. I want to protect you--but you have to /let/ me, hmm?" He's been trying to stay on the Good List and finding resistance; understandably, he's not sure what to think. But ambiguousness seems to be gone now. The puma leans his cane up against the nightstand, then turns to slowly ease himself to sit on the mattress--lopsidedly, but at least he's sitting.

"You shouldn't," Ilse mutters as she looks away. "People trying to protect me half got me into this mess." And herself is included in that. The wolf sighs, lifting her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. "...you know what's funny?"

"Mm, what's that?" Desmond takes up the extra blanket and gives it a few flaps to spread it out before he eases himself onto his right side and scoots himself onto the bed. It's fortunate that lying on his right side allows him to face Ilse; his left side is, obviously, out of commission.

"I..." But Ilse closes her eyes for a moment before she continues. It's a hard thing to say, even if it is somewhat funny. "I thought you'd hate me for being a horrible leader." And having convinced herself of that, Ilse had given back the ring. "But I... I guess you didn't. And now I'm not anymore."

The idea that he could ever hate Ilse is fairly ridiculous to Desmond. Be disappointed with, perhaps; but hatred is reserved for hunters and slavers. The puma remains stone-faced a moment, saying nothing. "Do you know what I think?" he utters finally. "I think your hair is growing back, but your perception of 'funny' things is a lost cause." Smirk.

"Shut the fuck up about my hair," Ilse snaps, her voice quiet but bordering a growl. Touchy subject. "I should keep it this way," she mutters, looking down at her bandaged belly. "Just to spite you."

"Thank you for proving my point." Desmond continues to smirk. "I suppose I'll get used to it." He reaches out a hand to pat the spot next to him invitingly. That thing she said about being disappointed if she didn't spoon with him? Yes, it's true.

Moving hurts, so Ilse stays right where she is. ...okay, that's a lie. She scoots to lie back down, but she doesn't bring herself closer to Desmond. "I've never had short hair in my damned *life*," she says with a disgruntled sort of moan. "...and I've never been gutted like a fish either." Fucking Adil.

"Mm. I've never had long hair in my life." It hasn't always been as short as it is now, but it's never been overly long either. Desmond doesn't move to close the distance either, but the hand used to invite Ilse to lie down now reaches over to run a finger over the short fuzz on her head. "Perhaps I'll grow it out; we can be opposites." As if they weren't already.

But that finger doesn't come close to touching Ilse's head before the former greyback turns to snap at Desmond's hand, teeth sharp in her mouth. "Don't do that," she growls in a low voice. No touchie the ... very-little-hair.

Feline reflexes save Desmond from a snap to the hand, but such an action still does not do good things for his disposition. He jerks his fingers out of reach, then scowls over at Ilse, eyes narrowing and lips pursing. "For someone who is looking for a friend, you certainly have a funny way of showing it," he grumbles before he eases himself over onto his back--the closest he can come to turning onto his opposite side and presenting his back to the wolf. Lighten up, Ilse.

"You can touch it when it's as long as," but Ilse pauses. Desmond's chin was cleanshaven, and when he turns away, she notices. How could she have not seen that before? Time to improvise, but the substitution is said in a more subdued tone. "...as yours."

Desmond grunts ambiguously, frowning deeper--but judging by the way he shifts a little over onto his right side, it's likely a reaction to the pressure on his left buttock. Being shot in the ass makes it very difficult to sulk effectively. "And I suppose you will be breaking in to steal hair products as well," he mutters.

"Hell no," Ilse says with a short-lived chuckle. "Did I *ever* put product in my hair?" Har har. Desmond is a metrosexual. Product. Ilse can't help but snigger again. "Besides, I don't want to look like," but then she stops, remembering Callisto's 'news.' Hrm.

There was not a puma in the recliner when she peeked in a few seconds ago after coming home, so Callisto is now braving the cross of the living room in her socks, having deposited her shoes at the door. It was a muddy road back, and so are her sneakers. "Oy! Pussyca--" Her booming voice doesn't get to finish this call, because the second the bear looks into the bedroom, it catches in her mouth with an undignified gurgle and a wide-eyed look. She still has her dark pink scrubs shirt on, jeans substituting for the pants again. "Ilse--" Callisto plans on saying something after, but it just burbles off with a grunt.

"Like what?" Like /me/? Desmond is /very good-looking/, thankyouverymuch. The puma turns his head to regard Ilse with a lifted eyebrow, but his attention is soon diverted to Callisto when she makes her entrance. He soon returns his gaze to the ceiling with a soft grunt. "Hello, Callisto," he greets in a near monotone. Yes, look, it's Ilse. She broke in. Isn't it joyous? The cat doesn't seem to care that he's lying in bed next to the wolf in his boxers and a ring-bearing necklace. This? This is perfectly normal.

But Ilse wasn't going to name Desmond, or anyone in particular really. When Callisto enters with a boom, Ilse gulps and looks sheepish, lifting a hand to rub at her head where she lies before she slips it down to cover her eyes. Embarrassed much? Oh yes. Her scalp is red.

Callisto's eyebrows rocket up on her forehead. "Iiuh. Hu. Is this a bad time?" She motions back over her shoulder. I can leave. Callisto isn't paying attention to Desmond, unfortunately. It's the hiding and reddening Ilse that gets her attention. Okay, sure. Hide from me. Her mouth is in a pouting frown, even if her eyes are as bright as ever.

"No, by all means, join us," Desmond utters, waving vaguely toward the foot of the bed. "We're all friends here." He can see Ilse blushing and hiding her face out of the corner of his eye. She's ashamed to be seen with him?

No, Ilse is ashamed at what she almost said. "Mm," is all she voices before she lets her hand drop to her belly, heaving a heavy but careful sigh. "Yeeup."

Callisto pauses, getting clearly mixed messages from both sides. Awkward. "...So which one is it? An--" The bear pauses again. She'll ask either way. "...Are you okay, Ilse?" In general, again, but mostly as per stabbings.

"Yeeup," Ilse repeats. "Des here was kind enough to give me a bottle of his pain pills, seeing as I'm unemployed and, well, pretty much fucked six-ways to Sunday. Isn't he sweet?"

Yeah, sweet. Desmond doesn't look very sweet right now. He looks a bit sour, actually, fingers interwoven over his stomach and a frown on his face. He doesn't say anything; just stares at the ceiling.

It's not like Callisto locks her own doors back home--but the same friendly point has been made. Desmond's growing silence makes her a little bit wary, though. What have they been talking about? "I'm...glad you're doing okay, Ilse." She seems to just say her name for the purpose of letting it pass over her tongue as many times is reasonably possible. "I--I think I should just...go away now." The woman takes a half sliding step away from the doorway, eyes unsure and shoulders loose.

"I think I will to." But as Ilse struggles to sit up and then stand, she leaves the bottle of pills on the bed. She'd ask about Lachlan, but she knows that he must be doing alright. Unless... "Your beau still breathing, Cal?" Or did you come to take the one that used to be mine?

The apparent abandonment doesn't do good things for Desmond's disposition either. "Have a good night," he grumbles at Ilse, obviously quite bitter. His gaze remains on the ceiling, though his eyes narrow a bit.

The bear-woman sputters just a bit in her effort to find a sentence. "Oh, uh. Yes. He's doing good, actually. Brought his dog up this last week too..." Callisto lets out a smile. "I have you to thank for my being able to help." Yes. Totally.

"I've patched more people in the last week than I can spi-" Desmond's response registers with Ilse as she nears the door, and she turns to glare back at the puma on the bed. "Stop lying to yourself, li... Des." Dammit. "Any more lies and I think I might choke. Air's *thick* with 'em."

"/I/ am lying to /myself/?" Desmond snorts, tone sardonic and full of disbelief. This seems to be the last straw. The cat sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed before grabbing up his cane and rising. "If you are choking on lies, Ilse, it's because /you/ are the one pushing them out. If there's been any honesty between us, it /hasn't/ been from you." He makes his way toward the closet and begins grabbing up his clothes to redress. Forget this. He's going to sleep at Headquarters.

Callisto has no idea what she has walked in on, honestly. The bear even begins to shrink back, inching away from the door with each word being belted out in front of her. Lies, lies, lies. It's enough to make Callisto second guess herself, and start second guessing everyone else too.

Ilse goes red again, and it's clear she's holding back a growl. Being accused of lying touches a nerve that she knows Desmond didn't mean to set off, but it's set off just the same. Even if a child doesn't know, putting a hand on a hot stove will still result in a burn. Looking as if she might boil over with rage, Ilse starts to stagger through the den toward the kitchen. She came in the back, she'll go *out* the back. Woe to any who try to stop her.

Desmond isn't going to stop her. He's too busy buttoning his shirt. Best to handle the easier clothing items before attempting to deal with things like pants and socks.

The woe has to end up somewhere, right? That might be what presses Callisto to only spare Desmond a glance before stepping after Ilse. "Ilse! Wait..." She doesn't know what she's doing--why is she stopping Ilse, again?

"Listen tonight," Ilse growls, her words hissing through her teeth as she does her best to storm (but fails at the effect) out. "And translate what you hear for that *ass*. Fucking no *right* to bitch at me about *lies*..." and her voice trails off into an incomprehensible grumble.

With no one else in the bedroom, Desmond is able to save himself some dignity when he puts on his pants and socks. It is, thanks to his injury, a very clumsy process, punctuated by a low growl now and then.

Callisto slows down in her pace, almost tripping over the edge of the sofa in the process. "Who does, then? Do I? Bleaker ain't exactly the cesspool of truth--are you even sure you know what a lie is, Ilse?" She's not being quiet, so chances are the puma can hear at least Callisto whether he wants to or not. A flustered bear is not someone that can choose words carefully, so this is probably going to get her in trouble.

Ilse shivers when she reaches the kitchen's back door, her grip on the knob producing white-knuckles. "Yes, I know what a *fucking* lie is, Callisto. I'm not an idiot." Despite what people may say. A moment later, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, her shoulders sinking. Calm down, Ilse. You're being...that way again. Easy to anger. Slow to think. "Look, just...just tell him I can't deal with this shit right now. And I tried. I fucking *tried*."

It's even easier to hear Callisto when Desmond is in the den, hobbling along as fast as he can in such a state. He steps out into the hall just in time to catch the last of Ilse's statement, and he bares his teeth at the kitchen doorway--no doubt blocked by the bear. "You /tried/? Oh, /that's/ rich." With a snort, he continues on his way to the front door, where he left his hat, coat, and shoes.

Callisto is now in the middle quite literally. Ah, well, crap. Desmond heard what he was supposed to hear, and there's nothing to go tell him now. Callisto knows Ilse's not an idiot--that's one reason the bear likes her. But right now, it's almost like -both- of them are being real big ones. Though the question still stands of whether the bear needs to point it out. For now, however, she keeps silent after Desmond pipes up with his quipping.

Ilse stares past Callisto, or really *around* her, at Desmond, another shiver running through her. Ripping her hand from the door, she moves to push past the bearwoman to get to the puma, blue eyes blazing with fury. "You want us to stop living a damned lie, Desmond? You want to wake the fuck up to reality and stop trying to put together a puzzle with missing pieces?" Ilse may be moving slowly, but she's not as hampered as Desmond is, even without a healing factor. She has pain pills in her system...and she wants more. But that's irrelevant now.

Over by the front door, Desmond has acquired his hat and is now putting on his overcoat, once again leaving the harder items for later. He jerks firmly on the lapels of the coat to settle it over his frame and glares at the corner leading toward the kitchen. "No, Ilse, I would like for you to stop snapping at me /every/ /single/ /time/ I attempt to do something for you," he shouts in response. "You say you want to fix things, but you /don't try/. You stave off /every one/ of my efforts. So don't accuse /me/ of living lies."

Callisto wasn't paying as much attention to Ilse as she could have been, to be honest. That is probably the only reason that the wolf gets past her at first; but after she does, hardly a few seconds go by before Callisto turns to hold Ilse back. Whoa, nelly. So far, Callisto is beginning to lean toward the Desmond-side. Even though she doesn't know him as well, she does know the other woman well enough.

"So you want me to help fix things?" Ilse barely escapes her best friend's grip, making it around the corner to the front door. "*FINE*," she snaps one more time, reaching out to tear at Desmond's shirt buttons and what she knows lies beneath them. GIMME.

But such action is perceived as an attack, and Desmond isn't going to take it lying down. Not this time. One hand moves to intercept Ilse's own, snatching for her wrist, and the other snaps up to grab at her throat. If he succeeds, the puma will push forward to pin Ilse to the wall.

The same knife that sank into Ilse's gut when she last went for someone's throat makes an appearance, quickly grabbed by Ilse's free hand and thrust toward Desmond's abdomen. But the wolf is careful not to pierce his skin, though his shirt might not come away unscathed. "Let go of me," she chokes out of her tightened throat the growl evident but held mostly silent by Desmond's hand, "This knife is not for you." No, Ilse has plans for the blade still bathed in her blood.

Callisto is displeased with herself for not getting the wolf under her palms the first time, and even moreso when the two at the end of the hall come to blows and the shimmer of a knife shows up. HEY. HEY. "For fucking Chrissakes--!" Callisto vs. Cripples. Ready, set, GO--there is an attempt to literally pry the two shifters away from each other. Some feet might end up afloat from the mere fact that the bear is not paying attention to anything other than getting Ilse and Desmond /away/ from each other.

Once Desmond feels the knife at his gut, he doesn't shrink away. In fact, he presses into it slightly, doing what Ilse would not: puncturing the skin. His face contorts into a snarl. "Do it," he hisses. "Go on, Ilse, /do i--/" But he doesn't get to finish the challenge, because just then, there is a bear hand at the back of his coat and shirt collar, and it's hauling him back. Seeing as he doesn't have his cane, his balance is a little off, as he is supporting his weight entirely on one leg. It's not hard to pull him away from the wolf, but he is not a happy kitty either. The puma releases a cry that borders on the feral and begins to twist wildly, attempting to sink sharpened teeth and lengthened nails into Callisto's offending arm.

Desmond's reaction to the blade at his gut is surprising to Ilse. Moreso than Callisto's attempt to pull him away from her, and her away from him once she's stepped away from the wall. She fixes the snarling puma with a confused, frustrated, and angry face...but some of that anger may be a result of being scruffed. Ilse certainly doesn't like it, but instincts tell her that Callisto is bigger and isn't trying to be exactly parental, so she lets herself be lifted and moved.

The biting and clawing is to be expected, but that does not mean Callisto likes it. Her hand at the back of his clothes switches targets and moves for the back of his real neck instead, the noise she makes a deep growling rumble. The experience alert might be going off soon--last time Callisto grabbed him in displeasure, he ended up squashed against a ceiling. "Don't make Juggie have to choke a bitch--" Duh.

And well does Desmond remember what happened the last time Callisto nabbed him. Funnily enough, it was also in a hallway. Being grabbed by the back of the neck also sparks an instinctual urge to go motionless in the cat, whose attempts to rip open the arm at his back cease immediately. Like Ilse, however, the puma doesn't like being scruffed one tiny bit, and a low, ugly growl bubbles in his throat, even as he goes still. He directs a lethal glare at the baseboard across from him.

Assessing the situation quickly, Ilse shoots her now Desmond-free hand out once more to grab at his shirt. Or rather, what lies beneath said shirt. STILL WANT.

Considering the length between a normal man's arms is about the length of his body, Callisto simply pulls them both even farther apart than before. Okay, now she's feeling like mom. "You're both being -stupid-." Thanks for sharing. Her growl has died away, mostly because she isn't here to fight anyone. "Ilse--I don't see any missing pieces anywhere in this dumbfuck puzzle. I'm just seeing pieces being smacked in where they don't fit. By -both of you-. And you--stop being so self-assured of yourself." She peers back at Desmond, eyebrows creased. "You're both trying t'stuff the little plastic square blocks in the little circle holes, and unless you both -calm the fuck down- and -see what I fucking see-, you're both gonna end up breaking the whole fucking toy. Then /nobody/ will be happy." What a crazy parallel. It...sort of fits. Almost. Maybe not.

When Ilse reaches out /again/ to grab for Desmond, the puma reacts accordingly by swatting at her hand, growl increasing in volume. Don't /touch me/, woman. But the swat falls short, as the distance between himself and the wolf is increased. He's only got half an ear for what Callisto says; he's too busy glaring daggers over at Ilse. Once the bear finishes speaking, he attempts to twist out of her grasp. "No," he snarls. "I am tired of putting in effort, only to have it blocked at every turn. I am tired of atoning for sins I didn't commit." As far as he's concerned, that ship has sailed. The toy is broken.

The fight-or-flight response is hardwired into every living creature. Ilse did the fighting thing. It's now time for the flying one. She squirms in Callisto's grasp, working her shoulders in an attempt to get free. But the bear has not only her cloak by the fabric of her t-shirt beneath that. "What sins did *you* atone for?" Ilse is the one with a shaved head, mister. "Fuck it. I don't care anymore." And that, ladies and gentleman, might be the biggest lie of the night. All Ilse wants to do is lie down in Imre's bathtub and cry.

Callisto frowns to herself, reluctantly letting go of both shifters and keeping between them afterwards--just in case. "Then I must be the only one left who /does/." She responds and looks to Ilse, but she speaks to both of them. "You remember what I told you a week ago, Ilse--I saw you happy with him and even though I /hated/--" The word is seething. "--that it wasn't me, I wanted you to be /happy/ anyway." Okay, now she's looking to side with the puma a little more each second, but that is untrue--she is siding with herself, and that is plenty clear. She only sounds distantly similar just for the fact that she cares for the same person that he does. "Fuck it? You care more than you say or force yourself to think, Ilse, or you would not even fucking /be here/ in his /home/ in the first place and /I/ would not be getting the feeling that this can make you happy again, regardless of myself." The bear gesticulates equally as much as she speaks, jabbing a finger at the floor in her last effect. If Ilse is not happy, Callisto is not happy; this fact is ultimately something that has come with living the past three decades.

"Obviously, I have atoned for /nothing/," Desmond snaps, rolling his shoulders once he's released, "but I must have done /something/ to deserve /this/ from you. I wish I knew what it was. I have been /nothing/ but kind to you, Ilse, and you have reacted with snarls and bared teeth, and I am /tired/ of trying to please you. Clearly, it is an impossible task." Callisto's words cause him to look to her, then back to Ilse again. "I pity you, Callisto, if you have loved her as well. It's a painful thing to endure." The ring that Ilse was so eager to get at is soon in the puma's hand, and with a jerk and a soft grunt, he snaps the chain from around his neck. The jewelry clatters to the floor, and Desmond limps back toward the door to pick up his cane and resume the interrupted task of slipping into his shoes. Wherever he plans to go, it isn't here.

Flight is definitely looking good. But people are talking - talking to *her*. *Lecturing* her. *Yelling* at her. Ilse can't help but feel childish and small, and though her eyes watch the ring as Desmond pulls it from his neck and let's it fall to the floor, she doesn't move to pick it up. Instead, Ilse settles back against the wall, averting her eyes. Look at no one. "You could have tried *less*," she mumbles.

Callisto's initial reaction is to slap the other woman silly and explain the fact she did not fall in love with emo!Ilse. That thought keeps down and only manages to manifest on her expression, fortunately. "Screw you guys. You're both fucking stupid--I cannot FUCKING BELIEVE YOU--" The bear gives a snarl and turns herself towards the den. "I've never even BEEN loved back, and even /I/ know what the FUCK IT LOOKS LIKE." SLAM. Bear + Cave(Guest Room) = Solitude.

Which is exactly what Desmond is looking for: solitude. He pauses at the door to glance over at Callisto and her outburst, but his face remains stony. When it's only himself and Ilse in the hallway, he looks to the wolf. "Well then," he growls, "I am sorry that my only sin was to try." And with that, the door comes open, and the puma slips out into the night. The door does not slam behind him; it is simply closed.

Flight means outside. But taking a heated conversation into the open air is a bad idea on the Upper Level...but Ilse is also not really 100% rational right now. She snaps her head to watch Callisto leave, and so she's a bit late in following Desmond out the door, having to open it when it closes in her face. "You don't like neckties," she shouts at him, having an epiphany of sorts, "so why should I like leashes?" It's vague, and Ilse knows it's not enough to ensure Desmond stay to at least come to some sort of understanding. "I... I'm sorry. I'm a nut sometimes. A *lot* of the time. And I wasn't cut out for the spotlight like you. It's too... constricting. But I'm out of it now, and you... you wanting things to go back the way they were? It's...well, it's scary. I know you tried. You meant well and all that...but... fuck, Des, I don't know." Leaning against the open door frame, Ilse slides the knife back into her belt and then pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "Things *can't* be like they were. But that doesn't mean they have to be like *this*." Square block, meet square hole?

Such a question /is/ vague, but it's enough to give Desmond pause, though his back remains to the house and, thus, Ilse. His eyes remain locked on the gate down the way, but his ears are opened to the wolf and her words. As he listens, he shakes his head slowly and emits a quiet sigh. It's more of the same--more words he's not even sure are true. He's tired. When she finishes, the puma turns his head to glance over his shoulder, face almost stoic. "Do you think I was trying to make things the way they once were? That I was attempting to relive the past?" he intones. "Do you think I'm an idiot who can't see when things have changed? I said that things have changed, Ilse, but I also said that /everything/ has not changed." He half-turns to make it easier to stare at her, but his expression does not change. "I still love you, Ilse. /That/ has not changed. Whatever else has changed doesn't matter, so long as that one thing remains constant--and that you still love me, as you once said you did. But /that/ is something that has apparently changed." Or so he perceives.

Ilse places a hand on her wound and closes her eyes, visibly steadying herself. It's been a few hours since she raided Desmond's drug stash. "Everything changes, Des," she says in a softer voice, eyes closing even tighter shut. "I... I don't know if I can say I love you. But...but I miss you. But the you that... the you I lied on the floor of Headquarters with." Things changed during their time together, and certainly not all for the better.

That makes very little sense to Desmond, but his expression remains flat. He is, as mentioned, tired--the painkillers mixed with current events have done quite a number on him. "I am still me," he states. "I haven't changed; /you/ have changed." He doesn't /think/ he's changed. He hasn't perceived a change in himself.

"Yes, you have. We both have. If we didn't, then we wouldn't have fought so much before this...this all happened." But Ilse is tired too. "Come back in, Des," Ilse says with a sigh. "I need a drink, and I don't know where you put the whiskey." The nostalgia of the statement brings a small smile to her lips and pulls a breathy chuckle from an exhalation of breath.

There's hesitation on Desmond's part. So far, ever since Ilse disappeared, he's been on one hell of a rollercoaster ride--and he's not sure he wants to climb another hill, only to plummet again. He stands out on the walk for the space of several seconds, staring at Ilse with that same exhausted expression. Finally, however, he gives in with a soft sigh and begins to hobble back to the house. "You shouldn't drink," he grunts. "It would mix badly with the pills." Even /he/ knows that, and he's not the doctor here.

"Then I guess I need another dose." The wolf smirks, standing aside when Desmond enters the house again. The rest of the evening is passed in the kitchen, where Ilse explains to Desmond what has happened concerning Adil, hinting that a war might break out. She doesn't intend on being in the thick of it. Charon was upset with Adil, and she knows her people are smart enough to get the hell out of dodge. Some further attempts at explaining the freedom Ilse now feels are made, but the wolf isn't as successful in this. Exhaustion plus medicine soon lead to sleepiness, and Ilse and Desmond retire to the master bedroom where sleep is had. It starts off innocently enough, each respectively on their own side of the bed. But the puma can't sleep on his back like Ilse can, and so at some point in the night, he wraps himself around the wolf. Unlike the last few times they shared a sleeping surface however, Ilse doesn't simply ignore the affection. She wakes up, sure, and a slow smile finds her lips before she gives Desmond's forehead a soft, Platonic kiss. Sigh. It *is* freeing not to have to worry so much about who will be sniffing her to see what scents she carries and what they will say/do regarding it. Even if she did have to explain Desmond's scent to Estelle, Milo, or Thalin, she could just say she decided that a bed (which smelled of puma - not a lie) was comfier than Imre's floor.

Ilse breaks into the house to steal pills, and Desmond happens to find her on the bed when he gets home. The usual joyous emo happens, and Callisto becomes a relationship counselor. A breakthrough is had.

"You wander away from a tea party somewhere, sweetheart...?"

Thu, 13 Sep 2007 08:18:28 GMT

Jase--an unusual name, but an interesting girl. She wasn't human, obviously, or at least she wasn't a trueblood. She has gifts. I wonder what sort of gifts?

It will be interesting, should I ever run into her again.

"Hey--I've got enough issues. The last thing I need is to be smitten over."

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 19:51:51 GMT

There is nothing more horrific than being rendered useless, unable to do the things one needs and wants to do. I dread growing old. I plan to die in my prime, doing the things I love, putting my mark on the world.

Though perhaps death surrounded by loved ones is equally pleasant.

Callisto is strange. I think that if ever I had a sister, she would have been like Callisto. Perhaps that is what she is: a sister. ~~Isn't that what she is to Ilse?~~ Isn't that what she is to Ilse?

I think I shall visit Mother tomorrow.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Cusick Residence
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The first thing one sees in this house upon entering is a small narrow hallway that angles off sharply to the left at the end--this branch leads to the bathroom and the kitchen. The walls are white, and immediately to the left of the door is a set of hooks for the hanging of hats and coats. The floor is hardwood paneling and plain, rugless.

At the end of the hall is a door leading into the den, which is furnished with a glass-topped coffee table topped with a small resin statuette depicting a panther lounging upon a rock. Next to the table is an overstuffed black leather armchair that looks rather comfortable. A viewscreen is within easy sight of this seat, and a few bookshelves line the walls. These are empty, for the most part, and accented here and there by a figurine of some sort. There are a few paintings strategically hung about the place as well, and the floor is carpeted in dark soothing green. There are two doors on opposite sides of the den: one leads to the master bedroom, and the other is locked.

The hardwood flooring in the hall continues into the kitchen, which is small, but functional. The counters are chestnut in color, and the bright yellow bulbs in the light on the ceiling fan are diffused by frosted glass protectors. There is a stove against the left wall, and a refrigerator against the wall at the far end of the room. A microwave has been set up between, next to the coffee maker and the toaster. In the center of the room is a rectangular wooden table with a single chair to keep it company.
================================================================================

Fish, then tigers, then Hell--Callisto has been busy today, apart from being at the clinic. Desmond's kitchen has been hijacked, and the smells of the aforementioned fish waft out of it. Even if it is a small kitchen, and even more so for her, the bear has found a way to do as she pleases and make herself entirely at home. The two big fish on the stovetop are joined by a pair of pots--one is some kind of garlic and spinach-smelling sauce, and the other is simply a pot of what vegetables she found on the way home and going through Desmond's stocks. Callisto is a good guest. She makes dinner! As for his missing the night before, she has since regarded it as the life of a businessman. If he doesn't show up today either, more food for her. There is also something possibly endearing about Callisto in jeans, a dark pink scrub shirt, and a distressed apron around her waist and over her lap; at least she has her hair up too--bear in your food isn't that awesome.

It's hardly the life of a businessman, but that of a shifter that has kept Desmond from home. Still, it would take more than a shot in the ass to keep him away for long. The puma slips through the door, walking with a cane purchased at the Bazaar, and wearing clothes that he picked up from Headquarters. When he picks up the scent of fish and cooking, he arches an eyebrow. Callisto cooks? Obviously she does; he doesn't smell Ilse or his mother anywhere in the vicinity, and they're really the only other people who would show up at his house to cook for him. Desmond drops his hat, coat, and shoes off at the door before limping down the hall toward the kitchen. /This/ he has to see. The puma pauses in the doorway to take in the scene, smirking slightly. "You cook, you share a bed willingly," he remarks jokingly. "Keep it up, Callisto, and I may just fall in love with you."

Callisto blinks up from watching the fish like a hawk. Oh look! It's a Desmond. And of course she cooks. Bachelorettes rawk. Her voice sounds offended, but not in a serious way. "Hey--I've got enough issues. The last thing I need is to be smitten over." She chortles and waves the spatula in her hand at Desmond, giving him a once over with her eyes. "Wassat for?" The bear leans to the side to afford a better look at his new third leg.

Since he hasn't showered yet, Desmond still smells of Ilse and blood, gunpowder and dogs. His life has been very eventful of late, it would seem. He hobbles into the kitchen and eases himself into a chair at the table--a second chair has since been added to the ensemble since Callisto's been staying at the house. He sits very tenderly with his left buttock hanging mostly off the chair. "Haven't you heard? Canes are fashionable these days. I thought I would get one." Ah, gentle sarcasm. Desmond smirks and shakes his head. "Rajini Singh has put out a demand for puma tails. Naturally, mine became a target."

Callisto only gets the noseful after he passes by to sit at the table. The smells of the food have mixed with it now, but she can mostly ferret them out. "Ow. So they shot you in the ass?" Yeah. She sees him not sitting on it.

"Mm, yes," Desmond intones. "It could have been worse; from what I heard the hunters discussing beforehand, there are other cats out there who have fared much, much worse." He frowns at the memory, tapping his fingers idly on the tabletop.

Callisto frowns a little, brows knitting. "Gonna do somethin' about it? The warrant-thing? There aren't a whole lot out there, are there? Warrants, not pumas." She's fumbling just a bit, brain half-thinking about why he smells like Ilse. Stop dwelling. "And not to be an ass, but this is one reason I'm glad bears don't have tails." She can like them, but then other people like them too! It's nonsense.

"Yes. I plan to leave Rajini Singh a present, as soon as I can acquire it." And by the sound of things, it's not a happy birthday present. "I have already spread word to the rest of the Meridian. Hopefully, they will make it known to others." Desmond smirks again at the mention of no tails. "Yes, it seems more trouble than it's worth, sometimes."

Callisto smirks back. "She's one Cruella, that's for sure." The bear shakes her head and tends to the food on the stove. "How's the Meridian doin', by the way? The last time I saw anyone was back when you lot had the hunter holed up. What's ironic, is that I gave him a cigarette while I was there." Callisto fails to mention the fact that she sort of liked the guy.

"I suppose you contributed more to his death than I did, then," Desmond chuckles quietly, amused by this. "The Meridian is doing well. If all goes well, we'll have made a dent in the Kent Ranch before the month is out." He idly traces the grain of the wooden table with an index finger, shifting his weight to find a more comfortable position on the chair. Sitting on one cheek is not wholly enjoyable.

"Augh. Kent." Callisto visibly growls, face curling in distaste. "Man, I hate that dwarf. He's probably had it in for me too, though. I only picked him up, and then a week or so later punched his horse out." At least this part amuses her. The bear looks at Desmond's shifting on the seat. "How'd you fare after getting a bullet in your bollocks?"

The thought of Callisto punching a horse out from under Barty Kent amuses Desmond a great deal more than it should. He grins broadly, chuckling quietly at the notion. Ah, to have been a fly on the horse's ass /that/ day. The puma finally finds a position a little more comfortable: forearms resting on the table, elbows supporting most of his weight. At the question of how he got along, he smirks. "As well as could be expected, I suppose," he grunts. "I was near the clinic--" he can only mean one "--when it happened, so I broke in to see if I could find some supplies to patch myself with. I--" He grimaces, though whether it's at a pain in his backside or a pain elsewhere is a mystery "--ran into Ilse there. She had been attacked by a Claw." Callisto's familiar with the wolves, so he assumes she knows what he's talking about.

Callisto stops what she's doing, stove-wise. Yeah, she knows. "She was /what/? Is she okay?" The bear looks over at Desmond with a clear-cut concern.

A frown appears on Desmond's face, and he shakes his head a little. "I think--" hope "--she /will/ be, but it was bad. A gut wound. She patched herself up and then went to her brother's this morning." Obviously, the puma stayed with her overnight, just to be sure nothing chased her down.

Callisto frowns profusely, shutting her eyes momentarily--during which her mantra is 'Imre will take care of her'. "Imre'll take care of her." She murmurs this, face screwed up in worry. She can't spirit off at every thing, but this is right after some soul-spillage. Callisto has a right to be paranoid about safety and days-old conversation.

Desmond is just concerned, and still a little perturbed by the needle fiasco. The puma nods a little in acknowledgement of Callisto's statement, knowing perhaps that there is some truth in it, but he says nothing. He simply frowns at the tabletop.

Callisto feels more than a little inadequate, so in an effort to counter this feeling--"Hell changed hands again." Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn't. "The new guy...is sorta strange."
"Yes, I had heard it was under new management." Desmond's grateful for the subject change, and he resumes the tracing of the grain pattern on the table. "I have not yet met the new manager. How strange is he?"

"Well, when I spoke a little to him, he had a fox corpse in his lap. He waggled its toes at me. But before that he was playing with its tendons. Wiggling its leg. A bit odd. Cat-fella. I assume he was a tiger, because he started on about Lions, Tigers and Bears. One of your lionesses was there." Callisto finishes up most of her business with the stove, now hunting around for dishes.

Playing with one's prey is a natural feline response. Desmond does it; almost every cat he knows does it. It doesn't surprise him much. He nods slowly, taking this in. "Perhaps I will stop by sometime," he remarks with a light shrug, before he settles down on his right buttock again. His arms are getting tired from supporting his weight.

Callisto will eat garbage if it suits her. Not used to playing with her food, really. Ahah! Dishes. With a clatter, they get put onto the table along with a pot-holder. This gets to hold the veggie-amalgamation. "Want a pillow or something? Could always eat in the living room, too. Hard wood can't be good for your butt like that." Poor Desbutt! Yeah.

Normally, Desmond would insist that he's just fine and he doesn't need any help or treatment, thankyouverymuch. But . . . well, it hurts. And the couch sounds very, very comfortable. After a moment, he smirks and pushes himself to his feet, taking up his cane. "I think I will, actually." He begins to hobble out of the kitchen, aimed toward the den.

Callisto smiles to herself, watching Desmond as he leaves, then gathering up two plates--the fish has been sided with that garlic-spinach sauce, and the vegetables are piled alongside. With both plates and silverware tucked under food, Callisto is soon toting herself out to the den with them. "You should have totally gotten a bull-penis cane, though." It's more badass, clearly!

"I believe bull penises were Murdoch's area of expertise," Desmond remarks blandly, "and he is dead. I would have no one to consult on the matter." The puma eases himself onto the couch, still favoring his left buttock, but at least the cushions make sitting a little easier. Three days of this? It's going to be hell. Once settled, he emits a quiet sigh and rests his cane nearby. "My God, I feel like Gerard Waldgrave."

Callisto has no idea what that means, honestly. She gives a shrug and sets his plate in front of him. "Hey--from what I hear, the old bird has class. Canes are /classy/." Duh, Desmond. "I hope when you get old you need one. Then all the other little old ladies will be all over you too."

Desmond laughs heartily at that, taking up his plate. The laughter causes him to grimace a bit. Owowow, ass. "I hope I never live to be so old," he grunts as he picks at the food, examining it closely, as is his custom. "If I continue to live this way, I won't last more than a few more years." What with bounties on his tail and what-not.

"There are worse things to be than old. Like dead, for instance." Dead Des is a worse Des, to Callisto. He's becoming very brotherly for her. She has a seat on the other end of the couch from him. "Consider yourself lucky to be able to grow old with all the people you know. How long do you honestly think /I/ will live?" Poor bear will get lonely after so long.

"I think I would rather be nearly immortal," Desmond remarks before he tucks into dinner at his usual fast, efficient pace. "Watching one's loved ones grow old and die around you would be painful, perhaps, but you can accomplish so much more when you age but don't become feeble. Being elderly and useless--/that/ is hell." The puma likes to /do/ things. Not being able to do them would be some kind of torture.

Callisto chuckles. "In that, we are very different. I suppose that is just because of how we were raised. And well--how we live now, I guess." She watches him eat at first to make sure her more heavy way of cooking isn't too strange. The bear always ends up with very distinct foods, no matter what really is being made; almost like the definition of home-cooking via rural background.

It doesn't seem to bother nor slow down Desmond in the least. His earlier inspection of the food was enough to reveal it as palatable and worthy of being eaten, and he is therefore doing just that. "I can't imagine anyone enjoying a life of doing nothing," he states. "Being idle is . . . disgusting, really. It wastes potential."

"Aw. That makes me feel useless." Callisto only really does things if she needs to--especially so when it comes to money and the like. "Thanks for letting me know I'm disgusting." But, she's laughing, so it's being taken in stride. Meanwhile--food. Nom. "Sure I have potential. But sometimes I don't see the point in using it, because I have no idea what to use it -for-." Something like that.

"Then you find out," Desmond retorts with a chuckle and a grin. "Everyone has a purpose in life." Maybe Callisto's purpose is to cook really, really good fish and poke the puma in the stomach. She seems good at it. The rest of dinner is passed in quiet conversation about nothing much at all, really, and then both shifters retire to their respective rooms to sleep. Tomorrow is another day full of potential.

Callisto cooks fish, and she and Desmond discuss his wound, Ilse, and growing old. Ah, roomies.

"Your ass is bleeding."

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 19:42:10 GMT

OOC Note: Backlogged a couple of days.

I hate needles. I don't understand how Ilse could do such things day after day.

Even without hair, she is so beautiful when she sleeps.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[KT] Jenell Braun Memorial Clinic
================================================================================
You see nothing special.
===============================================================================

It's a long walk back to the old clinic from downtown, but Ilse makes it. She has a tail the whole way which doesn't help her mood at all, but the wolf who put the knife in her belly backs off once she slips through the battered door that's been opened quite a few times since it was officially closed. The inside of the clinic has been ransacked. Most everything of any value that could be sold has been ripped out or stolen away, but Ilse is banking on the supply closet having *something* left. Even if the nurses had locked it, it wouldn't have stood up to a bullet or anyone determined enough to get inside. Ilse can at least be a little thankful that the patient files are boxed away somewhere safe.

Someone /was/ determined to get inside, and that someone is Desmond Cusick, who has taken an old IV stand and bashed the supply closet into submission. He /would/ go to HQ, but it's too far to make the trip in crinos, and being in crinos is likely to get him shot again, thanks for the demand for his tail. Besides, the blood trail would be too obvious. No longer in crinos--and still lacking clothes, though the things are tossed in a bundle into one corner--the puma now has a variety of things scattered before him on an old counter: cotton, gauze, antiseptic, local anesthesia, and syringes, among other things. The anesthetic and syringes are unused, though the fact that he, the hater of needles, even considered getting them out should attest to something. He's instead decided to brave the agony of digging out a bullet from his ass without painkillers, and so he stands twisted at an odd angle with a pair of tweezers, worrying at a bloodied mess of a hole in his left buttock. The bullet entered from the side, leaving him fortunate that it only damaged muscle. When he hears /something/ moving about in the otherwise abandoned clinic, the cat goes rigid and snaps his gaze up, only to spot the most likely and yet unlikely person he ever thought to find here. He can only stare in stunned silence, like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

Lucky for Desmond, Ilse's eyes are almost completely shut as she makes her way by memory to the closet. It's clear from the way in which she walks that something isn't right, but her body is hidden underneath her tattered and dirty cloak. Only when Ilse gets close enough to scent Desmond and his blood through the thick cloud her own has made around her does she open her eyes to stare in disbelief. It passes after a moment, helped by the fact that her top half collapses against the counter as her legs grow weak. "Adrenaline," she snarls out. "Big fucking needle. NOW."

Desmond, however, is not a trained medic. He is therefore not wired to immediately respond to such requests, and so the command conflicts with his initial response: to limp over to Ilse and assess what is wrong. And something /is/ wrong; he can smell the blood, and there's far too much of it to be comfortable. The cat remains frozen to his spot before he finally half-limps, half-hops over to the supply closet to seek out the requested items. He may not be able to move very fast right now thanks to his injuries, but his movements are urgent enough. Being untrained, it takes a moment to even locate the adrenaline, but he finally returns to Ilse's side and holds out the bottle and syringe: longest needle he could find. He still says nothing.

"Fill it," Ilse growls, the side of her face on the table. "Just.. not all the way." She can't relate the dosage to Desmond; the pain clouding her senses is too great. "Read the.... read... fucking bottle." She winces, her grip on the knife in her gut tightening for a moment before she loses more of her strength in her hands.

Even if he's not a medical professional, Desmond has seen them in action enough to know how to fill a syringe. He glimpses the label on the bottle before coaxing the long needle into the rubber top and then filling it to the required dosage. All the while, he casts uneasy glances Ilse's way, and his eyes widen when her hand grip a /something/ protruding from her belly. He doesn't care what it is, exactly; it's /stuck in her stomach/, and that is really, really, really bad. "I-Ilse?" The syringe is filled, and he ensures the air is out of it before he holds it out to her, staring in horror.

"Shud'up," Ilse slurrs, wincing again as she turns and leans her back against the counter. "Yer naked... 'n naked people...little'r no fluence...ciety." She reaches one hand up to tug her cloak away from her chest, ripping the thin fabric of her t-shirt at the neckline to expose the skin. "Stab," she exhales, tightening her jaw with determination. "Heart." Look! She's even pointing.

If there was horror on Desmond's face before, it's become all-out panic now. She wants him to /what/ with the /what/ and /where/? His eyes go from the knife to her face, then to the syringe in his hand. Oh God, that is a /big fucking needle/. The puma grows a shade paler just thinking about the task at hand. "I . . . you. . . ." He stares, dumbfounded. She can't be serious.

"Fucking do it, Desmond," Ilse snarls in a moment of clarity, but he words are laced with a hissing layer of saliva. She leans her head back, partly due to the agony she's in and partly to brace herself for the jab.

She /is/ serious--and it's terrifying. But then, so is that layer of saliva, and that layer of saliva is arguably more terrifying than the prospect of stabbing Ilse in the heart with a very large needle. The puma swallows hard, then hobbles forward a half-step to place his hand palm-flat over Ilse's sternum. It makes it easier to orient where he will be plunging the needle, and it also helps to steady himself and the wolf. His other hand is surprisingly still as it draws back in preparation for the strike. If he doesn't do this, Ilse will die. Using this mental mantra and a couple of deep breaths, the feline sends the syringe hurtling toward the place just off her left breast. The moment he feels and sees the base of the needle make contact with Ilse's skin, he depresses the plunger, instantly shooting the dosage of adrenaline into her system.

Ilse gasps as the drug pumps directly into her bloodstream by the quickest route - the engine that keeps it flowing. A few deep breaths later, and she's regained some, but not all, of her previous strength. Her free hand lifts to pull the needle from her chest with a small wince, and then the wolf goes about dealing with her stomach wound. It requires flushing, removing the k-bar, stitches, and bandages. It's not a pretty, or painless, procedure.

It's not pretty to watch either, and though Desmond is bleeding all down his thigh, he's not much caring about himself right now. He's still recovering from the fact that he just . . . /did/ that. With the needle and Ilse's chest and the stabbing. It was quite traumatic. The puma only watches the proceedings stone-faced and silent, wanting to help, but having no expertise to offer.

But wrapping a bandage isn't hard, and there is gauze and tape. Thank God for that. But even if she could, Ilse doesn't ask for Desmond's help any more. Wishing she had some painkillers, she looks at the naked puma somewhat bleary-eyed. She's tired, and she has a right to be. "Your ass is bleeding," she states with a small nod rather matter-of-factly.

When attention is called to this fact, Desmond glances down to find--why, yes, his ass /is/ bleeding. And there's still a bullet stuck in it. He grunts softly and reaches over to pick up the already bloodied tweezers to resume his work. "Mm, yes," he remarks absently. "It seems my tail is in high demand." He's focused on gouging out the bullet and doesn't even make note of the unintended pun.

Ilse finishes wrapping her bandage, securing it with tape so that it's sure to hold for quite some time, while she eyes Desmond's wound. She either doesn't hear or flat out ignores his accidental pun. "You should watch it more carefully," she mumbles through a slight wince as she leans back against the counter. "And you should flush it out. See what you're doing better."

Even if he /is/ doing it wrong, the fact that someone is /telling/ him that he's doing it wrong is enough to make Desmond not want to do it right. He grunts, frowns, and continues doggedly digging about in the wound with the tweezers. He'll find that damned bullet, even if it hurts like hell trying. Forget the anesthetic on the counter; he had enough problems sticking a needle in Ilse, let alone himself.

Honestly, the last thing that Ilse wants to do is patch someone up. And the last person she wants to patch up, for various, conflicting reasons, is Desmond. She *wants* to curl up on one of the few mattresses that remain and try to sleep, with or without the aide of whatever meds she might find in the closet. But that would be difficult with a bleeding puma standing in the thick of things. With a grunt and a sigh, Ilse picks up a ready-made syringe of morphine and steps foward, pushing the plunger enough to make sure there's no air before she tries to sink it swiftly into Desmond's uninjured buttock. If anything, maybe it will knock him on his as-, er... his front so she can get him fixed up and out of there.

It's very fortunate that Desmond is so focused on his work that he doesn't see or even suspect Ilse is coming at him wielding a syringe. Otherwise, things would likely not end very well. When he feels the sting of the needle in his butt, the puma startles a little with a quiet hiss, then does his level best to twist all the way around to see just what the hell is going on back there. "What are you--?" he demands in a low voice laced with annoyance. That /hurt/, damn you. And it's a /needle/.

"I'm fixing you, so shut up and hold still." Ilse's words are ragged, as it's apparent she's still in no small amount of pain in addition to being physically exhausted. It took most of that adrenaline for Ilse to get herself back in one piece, and she's sure to have a nice scar for the record. She pulls the needle out, letting it drop unceremoniously to the floor before she reaches with a groan for the squeeze-bottle of distilled water on the counter.

"You don't need to fix me," Desmond mutters, frowning. "You should be lying down; you're hurt." So is he, but at least being shot in the ass isn't a life-threatening injury. The morphine is already spreading through his muscles, causing his right buttock to feel a bit numb. It's a very strange sensation, though not unknown. He's been through this sort of thing before.

It's hard for Ilse to bend at the waist anyway, so laying down is perfectly alright with her. On one condition: "You've got'tuh listen, then," she slurrs, pushing the bottle toward Desmond.
With another frown, Desmond sighs quietly and then takes the bottle. Fine. If it'll get her to go lie down. He applies a generous squirt to the wound, sending a mixture of water and blood down his leg before he proceeds to dig again. It's easier to see the gleaming metal from the rifle round when it isn't camouflaged by crimson, and it's easier to plunge the tweezers in and pull out the offending bullet once the morphine dulls the pain. Before long, he has the thing out and drops it onto the floor near his feet, muttering something foul under his breath. Without the bullet to stop it, his healing factor begins to slowly seal up the wound, though even with it, he'll need stitching. He begins to prepare a needle and thread for such.

"Sticher'up," Ilse murmurs once she's settled on a mattress that's partially curled up the length of the wall. She lies on her back, one hand held protectively over her stomach. But she isn't watching the puma anymore.

Even if Desmond isn't a medical professional, he at least knows the basics of stitching. He's seen it done enough times to have gathered the proper way of going about things. He's not as efficient or quick as a doctor and the stitching is crude, but it's enough to hold. This accomplished, he tapes a wad of gauze and cotton to the spot. Much better. A few squirts of water are applied to the trails of blood down his leg, and he rubs at them half-heartedly with a bare hand before wiping off as much as he can with gauze. Then, this finished, he glances over at Ilse.

The knife that Ilse removed from her gut is lying in a tray on the counter, separated from the various supplies and still covered in her blood. Some still conscious part of Ilse would like to keep it that way, if only to use it as a message later, perhaps. Ilse isn't asleep, and her breathing is still ragged, each coming with a wince before she learns to take shallow breaths, not using her diaphragm. That whole region just aches.

Morphine has the fun effect of making one feel like one's limbs have been made of lead, and the full effect is really starting to hit Desmond by the time he moves to put on his clothes. Trying to stick his legs into his pants is an adventure, simply because one leg won't support his weight, and attempting to stand on the other results in a lack of balance thanks to the drug. After some struggle, he finally manages to get the slacks on, and then he leaves it at that. The adventure of clothing is just too much to handle right now. The puma takes up the overcoat and ambles rather drunkenly over to Ilse. He eases himself down to sit rather lopsidedly at her side, and the coat is draped over her legs; he's not sure if putting it up any higher would be good, considering her injuries. No, he's not leaving. No way would he leave her alone in such a state. "What happened?" he inquires, sounding like his tongue is a bit too large for his mouth.

There are many ways to answer that question, but Ilse opts for a single word. But even then, there are several to chose from. The question becomes, what would Desmond understand? Trying to sort out a response takes time, as Ilse is tired and in pain. But when she does speak, it's in a quiet growl and with a wince. "Claw."

The word causes Desmond to lift a lip reflexively. He should've known. He casts a hateful glare toward the knife in the tray, painfully aware of how prominent the smell of blood is in this room--his and Ilse's. Sleeping in here is risky; it will attract all sorts of things. Still, the wolf is going nowhere fast, and she needs rest. The puma slowly slides himself around to Ilse's other side, then eases himself down onto his right side and moves to drape an arm over her. It's as much a comforting gesture as it is an attempt to share body heat.

So long as that arm doesn't venture too far south and threaten to bump Ilse's bandaged abdomen, she allows it to remain. Sleep finally comes, but it's in fits and starts for Ilse. At least she doesn't toss and turn. Admittedly, the presence of Desmond does comfort and reassure her. If the slathering of their blood does attract anything, he's in a much better state to ward them off than she is.

Desmond breaks into the abandoned Jenell Braun Memorial Clinic for medical supplies and winds up being surprised by a wounded Ilse. The two treat their wounds and fall asleep on a mattress.

"I mean, how exactly is one supposed to sell a pelt missing a tail?"

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 19:33:09 GMT

OOC Note: Backlogged a day or two.

Damned hunters.

Damned dogs.

Damned guns.

I can't go to Headquarters; the blood trail will be too obvious. I need to patch myself up first.

I wonder if Ilse's clinic still has supplies?

OOC Note: Log follows.

[BL] Malfunction Junction
================================================================================
The Malfunction Junction is very much a dank and unfriendly neighborhood, but so is the rest of Bleaker. Sleazy bars are few and far between, and the alleys between buildings here are unusually narrow, making it difficult to navigate this residential labyrinth that rises into the smog.

Several of the apartment complexes are unfinished, skeletal cement structures with pieces of metal that stick out at odd angles. For some, this is the only kind of accommodation there is - crumbling and decrepit, but habitable if they can manage to carve out a home and hook it up to the city's electrical grid. Shallow pools of still water on the first floors of these buildings suggest that running water is readily available, even to the poorest of the poor.
================================================================================

"It's an offer that's hard to refuse, Rose." A slick sort of man seated at the bar of a tavern with mixed company is talking with a woman with strawberry blonde hair who looks like she's seen her fair share of hard times. They're both dressed in long coats, with various firearms hidden beneath, and boots. Five hounds are gathered in a semi-heap at their feet, lazily looking around the moderately sized establishment. Good dogs are allowed, it would seem, if one has the money to spare to grease the doorman's palm. And what is a hunter without his (or her) dogs. "Sure, Gil," the woman named Rose answers, keeping her voice low. "But it's a hard...well, it's not really a kill, is it? But then, I mean, how exactly is one supposed to sell a pelt missing a tail?"

Tucked away into a private corner is one Desmond Cusick, who happens to like his tail and pelt just where it is, thank you. The puma chanced into this tavern after calling it an early day at work, and now he rather wishes he'd just gone home. Five dogs and two hunters are an uneasy sort of prospect. He is dressed in a black overcoat, the Fedora drawn down to shield his eyes from view slightly, and ears attuned to the loathsome conversation. On the table in front of him is a drink--bourbon--but it's virtually untouched. Desmond knows better than to partake of alcohol in the presence of those who would kill him.

"You're thinking too hard again, Rose," Gil says with a small laugh even as he reaches over to tap the woman's temple lightly. It's clear the two are a team. "Alright, Einstein. Spill. How'd'you do it then?" Rose is obviously not pleased, but she wears a smug sort of smile. "You just have to spook them into a shift, same as always," he answers, leaning back a bit and swirling his whiskey in it's low glass. "Then you aim for the spine, right near the base of the thing. If you're lucky, you'll damage the nerves going to the back legs, and you can walk up and cut the thing free." Sure, it will leave the shifter to die, but this is none of Gil's concerns. Let some other poor bloke deal with trying to sell a tailless pelt.

Twitch. /Twitch/. It takes a great degree of control not to speak up. Desmond's jaw tightens, clamping his teeth together so hard that it's nearly painful. The way he glowers at the table, he might break the thing into tiny pieces, and his fingers clench into a tight fist atop the table. Five dogs. Two hunters. Perhaps if he plays his cards right, there will be corpses outside the bar tonight.

"You've always got a plan, Gil." And it's Rose's turn to chuckle. She finishes her drink (something mixed by the look of it) and slides a few coins across the bar before she gets up from the stool. Her coat billows out as she turns, making twin large caliber pistols visible. They must kick like a mule. She may be hardened, but she can't be older than twenty-five. Gil is about the same age, but his confidence and thin goatee do a bit to help him appear older. "The thing is," Rose continues as Gil pays, snapping her fingers to call the hounds to attention. "It's specific. Cougars, or whatever else they're called. There can't be *that* many." "Of course not, Rose," Gil says as he claps a hand on the girls' shoulder, pulling himself off the stool though he really doesn't need the help. "That's why the price is so *good*."

That's a cue for Desmond. The shifter rises from his seat and tosses a credstick onto the table before turning and exiting the tavern. The guns are noted. So are the dogs. The dogs are noted most of all, since he loathes them so. Once he's outside, the puma ducks into a nearby alley, stripping off his coat and hat as he goes. Once he's concealed in the darkened alley, the rest of the clothes follow at astonishing speed--all but the boxers--and these are wrapped up in the overcoat and stuffed down amidst plastic refuse bags. Clothes will wash. Then, the cat proceeds to shift to crinos, keeping his ears open for the exiting hunters.

Those dogs start to growl at Desmond even as he leaves the bar, catching that scent of feline where they know it should not be. Rose and Gil exit the bar a few minutes after Desmond, and their respective gaits are casual at first. Their hounds know something is up, and even though they stay close to their masters, their ears and tails are indicative of a hunting mood. It doesn't take too long at all for the pair to pick up on this, and they soon quiet their conversation. Rose pulls out her pistols while Gil swings a rifle from his back underneath his arm.

But Desmond is no longer visible in the alley's mouth. After dropping to all fours and quickly rubbing his face all over the trash bags concealing his clothes, marking the spot heavily with scent from the glands in his cheeks, the puma has retreated deeper into the alley, pressing himself into the shadows of a doorway to wait. He's within rushing range and on the opposite side of the alley from where he left his mark. Now he waits quietly, the tail that so many prize these days slowly ticking back and forth behind him.

Noses to the ground, the hounds start to track the cat. Within moments, all five are baying and take off down the alley, stopping at the trash bags and nearly falling over one another. Cat in a bad! Cat in a bag! Gil and Rose round the corner with their guns drawn, and the former gives one of the younger looking dogs a nudge. "Cur," he snorts. "Try again."

Ears flattened, tail twitching faster, Desmond tenses as he glowers out at the hunters. All he needs is one back turned toward him, and he'll be set. Of course, it has to happen before the dogs get on his trail. The puma reaches back with a paw-hand to very quietly test the doorknob of the door at his back, just in case.

With a yelp, the relative pup turns away from the bag. But that's what it needs to get another bead on the puma's scent. It starts slowly, and then the others join it in it's careful steps down the alley, Rose and Gil bringing up the rear and aiming their guns at various piles of refuse as they pass.

Damn. Desmond is most unfortunate to find the doorknob locked. Now he is faced with two hunters and five dogs--odds that would kill any shifter. He would much rather his tail not be used to feed Rajini Singh's disgusting fashion sense. Still, the puma is fast; he's outrun dogs before. If he can make it around the bend down the alley, he should be safe from the guns, at least. Taking a deep breath, Desmond doesn't wait for the dogs to get too close. He releases a blood-curdling scream of rage, then jets out from the doorway and streaks down the alley, moving on all fours and in a zig-zag pattern in the hopes of baffling the guns.

The scream is answered by howls, bays, and barks, and shortly thereafter, gunfire. Rose whoops with glee while Gil just smiles smugly as they take off after their hounds as they chase the crinos puma. Rose is aiming to make noise and throw the beast off, while Gil and his rifle take aim on Desmond's zig-zagging hind end.

Though still human to some degree, Desmond is in a form that runs mainly on instinct. Thus, with the confusion of sound behind him, bullets flying, and dogs hot on his tail, the puma is spooked. Just as he rounds the bend, Gil's aim pays off, and the shifter releases another scream--this one of pain--as his left flank is punctured by a rifle round. The impact throws off Desmond's gait, sending his back end skittering sideways. /Damn it/. At least it missed his spinal chord. He's still able to run, if only a little slower. Around the corner of the alley is a tall wooden gate, worn and rickety. In two bounds, the puma launches himself over it and drops onto the other side.

The dogs pile up on the other side, scratching and baying as if they've treed a coon. Gil curses, knowing he has hit but miss his mark. Rose reaches the dogs before him and quiets them with a sharp command. But they do not pursue. "See, Gil?" the woman might her heard chastising her partner. "I *told* you it was hard."

It would be safe to say that the two hunters have made one of Desmond's lists--but he can do nothing about it now. Injured, limping, bleeding, and terrified and enraged all at once, the puma stalks on down the alley. He weaves in and out of the back streets of Bridgelight until the baying of the dogs has faded to nothing. Then, exhausted, the cat slumps down on his belly, cushioned by a pile of plastic bags, and stays a while to recuperate. The gunshot wound hasn't begun to heal, as the bullet is still lodged in his flesh. The last hunter to scar his hide in that area died a painful, horrible death. He'll ensure that Gil will follow in his footsteps.

In a tavern in Bridgelight, Desmond happens to overhear two hunters discussing Rajini's bounty on puma tails. He's decidedly less than happy about it and opts to teach them a lesson. Sadly, he winds up with the lesson--and a gunshot to the ass.

"I know men like their beds."

Mon, 10 Sep 2007 04:52:13 GMT

I haven't shared a bed with anyone since ~~Ils~~

I have mi

It's comfortable.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Cusick Residence
================================================================================
The first thing one sees in this house upon entering is a small narrow hallway that angles off sharply to the left at the end--this branch leads to the bathroom and the kitchen. The walls are white, and immediately to the left of the door is a set of hooks for the hanging of hats and coats. The floor is hardwood paneling and plain, rugless.

At the end of the hall is a door leading into the den, which is furnished with a glass-topped coffee table topped with a small resin statuette depicting a panther lounging upon a rock. Next to the table is an overstuffed black leather armchair that looks rather comfortable. A viewscreen is within easy sight of this seat, and a few bookshelves line the walls. These are empty, for the most part, and accented here and there by a figurine of some sort. There are a few paintings strategically hung about the place as well, and the floor is carpeted in dark soothing green. There are two doors on opposite sides of the den: one leads to the master bedroom, and the other is locked.

The hardwood flooring in the hall continues into the kitchen, which is small, but functional. The counters are chestnut in color, and the bright yellow bulbs in the light on the ceiling fan are diffused by frosted glass protectors. There is a stove against the left wall, and a refrigerator against the wall at the far end of the room. A microwave has been set up between, next to the coffee maker and the toaster. In the center of the room is a rectangular wooden table with a single chair to keep it company.
================================================================================

Having successfully infiltrated the Clinic with her very self, Callisto is back on Desmond's doorstep. Luckily, he knows she has been about, and when she gets there, the door is opened without a knock. But then again, it's hard to notice if she's not coming. Callisto still has on the flak vest over her gray tank top, and her jeans are only a little bit dusty from running about between visiting the clinic and now.

It's not unusual to find Desmond asleep on the furniture these days, as the blanket and pillow on the couch would attest. Currently, he's dozing in the black armchair with his head propped up on one hand, elbow on the armrest. There's a book in his lap, but it's not being read. The puma is more interested in the insides of his eyelids than a book right now. Desmond dresses in a white tanktop and black lounge pants, barefoot as he often is in the house. At the sound of the door opening, he stirs slightly, but soon returns to the task of catnapping.

Callisto creeps further as long as she possibly can. Hopefully she can make it to the den without being noticed. If she's not spotted in her silent journey, the bear sidles up behind the back of the armchair to peer down at Desmond. If he wakes up before then, well, she'll probably still do the same. It's a Des! I'll stare down spookily at it.

Indeed, Desmond doesn't wake for several moments after Callisto has begun looming over the back of his chair. By the time his mind becomes conscious enough to realize he's being watched, and that there's a large and possibly threatening presence nearby, the puma startles sleepily and peers up at Callisto, only to sigh and squeeze his eyes shut again. "Callisto," he mumbles, voice glossed with sleep.

Callisto isn't very threatening--especially when she smiles down as Desmond wakes up to sigh. "Hey Des~. Can I stick around again?"

"Mmmh." Desmond sounds like he's making an effort to regain consciousness. It's working--slowly. "Kicked you out again, did they?" He rubs the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, wrinkling his brow as though warding off a headache--or rubbing sleep from his face.

Callisto smirks. "Nope. I talked with Na'ostiria today. I'm gonna help out up there--but I don't feel very safe staying in the nurse's quarters." Her hands grip the back of his chair, and she crouches a little to peer over the edge of the back at him. Callisto not feeling safe? What next? Flying pigs? Still, she would rather stay with him than the Shoggoth. "And I like staying with you. I can even move out here and sleep on the floor! I know men like their beds." So does she, but eh--.

See, Desmond isn't such a bad guy to live with. If only he could convince others of this same thing, he'd like his bed /much/ more. But ah well. The puma cracks both eyelids and tilts his head back slightly to squint up at Callisto. He's never known the bear to feel unsafe anywhere. Hell, she lives in the catacombs. Then again, nobody in the catacombs have the ability to sedate and experiment on her. Desmond shakes his head a little and waves his free hand vaguely. "You can keep the bed tonight," he grunts. "I'll see about getting another one moved into the spare room tomorrow."

Callisto leans her head onto the back of the chair, hands shifting down to ruffle at the puma's hair. Awr. "Y'look so creaky, pussycat. We could always share it." I'm cuddly enough, fo'sho. Depends on where he draws his lines on sleepovers, though. "This is all why my bed at home is basically just a giant pile of mattresses, blankets, and pillows. Some fur too, but--I fit on it. And I don't need to give it up if company comes." :D Well. Her couch is also the size of a large sedan, but that isn't the point.

When his hair is ruffled, Desmond's head dips just slightly under the weight and pressure. His hair is short enough that it's really impossible to muss it. It just springs back. He doesn't mind it so much, but what follows it causes him to grin slightly and peer up at Callisto again. "I never took you for the sort to jump right into bed with someone," he remarks half-jokingly. "I haven't even bought you dinner." He knows she's meaning the offer in a purely platonic sense--or he hopes so, anyway. Even if he isn't with Ilse anymore, he hasn't recovered enough to start sleeping around again, and most certainly not with her best friend.

Callisto snorts back. "Heyhey--not like that. But I'll take your food." Of course it's Platonic. She can't help but smile, but it's still a little disconcerting. More piffles. "-One- questionable thing and it seems like everyone I meet wants to make jokes." Mock-offense. "Besides--there's a reason there aren't such thing as Teddy Pumas, Des. Bears are unmatched in their immense cuddle-factor."

Questionable thing? Desmond isn't sure what that means--perhaps his little remark?--but he doesn't press it. Besides, there is the honor of pumas to uphold, since it's being insulted with accusations of non-cuddly-ness. "I beg to differ," the cat snorts. "We pumas are quite cuddly, when we want to be. Just ask Il--" He bites his tongue instantly and grimaces before continuing: "--anyone."

Callisto isn't that oblivious. Desmond gets another pet over the head. Settle down, kitty. "I'm sure you are. But your kin aren't in the arms of little children at night. That's /our/ job. You guys have tails instead. I hardly have a tail at all. I love tails." Pout. She sounds a little tired, actually. Usually she might make more sense.

"They are /cuddly/ tails," Desmond insists with a faint smirk, directing his gaze at the bedroom door. Callisto isn't the only tired one here, and the couch is /terribly/ uncomfortable. Even after all these months, it contains scents that bring back far too many memories. The bed isn't as unbearable, since the sheets have been extensively washed and Desmond's scent is more prominent overall. After a moment, the cat rises from the chair, closing and dropping the book onto the coffee table. "All right," he yawns, raising his arms over his head and bending backward to stretch himself. "We can share the bed, so long as you don't mind my furrier self." It's more comfortable, doesn't take up much room, and he can trust himself not to wake up wrapped around Callisto in the morning.

Callisto is a bear. She is meant to be clung to. Pish. "No problem, pussycat. But I can't return the fuzzy favor." The woman chuckles. Being a gigantic bear also comes with that horrendous weight issue. Smoosh? As she passes him by for the doorway, Callisto puts a hand out to poke him in the stomach as he stretches. Pillsbury Puma.

Being so poked in the middle of a good stretch is bound to ruin said stretch. It doesn't help that Desmond is just slightly ticklish, especially when he isn't expecting to be prodded. The cat releases a 'whoosh' of air and snaps back to a more upright position, grinning. If he weren't so tired, he might leap at Callisto's back and engage her in a wrestling match. Alas, sleep calls. The puma strips off his tanktop, then closes his eyes as the groan of musculature and bone announces a shift to full-feline. Once on all fours, he wriggles and shakes himself out of his boxers and pants before padding after Callisto into the bedroom. Ah, to sleep in his own bed again!

After spending the night at Desmond's house, Callisto returns to ask for the same favor again. The two wind up sharing a bed--BUT NOT IN THE WAY YOU'RE THINKING.

"Don'worry. I'll clean you out for a fresh start anyway."

Sun, 09 Sep 2007 20:27:39 GMT

Now I have a bear living in my house. There have been stranger things, I suppose--~~like a wolf, a raven, and a rabbit.~~

I think I'll get a new couch tomorrow. This one ~~has too many memories~~ is old and uncomfortable. I should convert the ~~childr~~ spare bedroom into a guest room, so that I'm not inconvenienced when there are surprise visitors.

The Kargas have moved to Fairhaven. It's better than their cramped place in Bridgelight, I'm sure. It also gives me the opportunity to pick up some free white wine.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] High Street
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You see nothing special.
================================================================================

Having been haunting the Upper Level for perhaps a couple days already, Callisto has been simply wandering the nearby streets off of the Clinic, a half-empty bottle of who-knows-what stuffed in her coat. Thing is, she hasn't touched it in hours; it started out as an attempt to pass the time, but she has since figured out that pacing around like an eight-foot vulture is more productive. Most of the residents may even be put off by it, but Callisto couldn't care less. Right now, the bear has planted herself on a wrought iron bench along the walk of High Street, her long duster on(still covered in blood and bullet holes, as she has yet to fix it), hair pulled back into a tie, and a worn brown rancher's hat pulled over most of her eyes. Is it afternoon? Early evening? Callisto has lost track. A half-open newspaper from a nearby garbage can is even strewn out over a knee, but both arms are folded over her chest while she doses with that same leg over the other. The picture of *grump*.

It is, in fact, early evening, and Desmond has just disembarked from the monorail station and is on his way home after work. As is usual these days, he's got a bag of takeout from some food stall in the Bazaar: back to bachelor living, it would seem. He's dressed a little similarly to Callisto in a black Fedora and a long black overcoat, which is worn over black slacks and a dark red dress shirt. He moves purposefully for the housing district, but slows to a halt once he spots the other shifter on the bench. He only knows a few people as big as that, and her scent is unmistakable anyway, if not a little troubling thanks to the blood. "Callisto?" he calls once he's within range.

At least one person on the street isn't dressed for a high noon shootout. The father of Radovan Karga, Erol, is making his way back towards the monorail after a discussion with his avian son over their new living arrangements. The lumbering near giant, probably the only person on the street that can look Callisto in the eye, adjusts his loose vest he wears over a similarly loose cotton shirt underneath. Around his waist are a few sloshing miniature kegs, "samples" of some of his wine that he was selling and giving out earlier to clear up his old stock before the big family move. Unlike the others, he lacks special senses, and doesn't notice Desmond as he lumbers towards the man. He does notice Callisto, and an amused smile reaches under his broad walrus moustache.

Callisto takes a few seconds to stir, weary brown eyes soon peering out at Desmond from the seat. She gives him a sigh of greeting, having gotten quite over any previous grudges for now. As she starts to give a smile, there is another thing that catches her eye, and that is Erol Karga. Being awake, she fully turns her attention. Well, well. The woman blinks softly, almost as if she were noticing someone like him from a smaller point of view. It's a strange feeling, but Callisto has managed strange feelings the whole week thusfar. The bear also finds the moustache somewhat endearing. Awrlook. An anthropomorphic walrus! Where's the carpenter?

It doesn't take long for Desmond to notice Erol either, and he offers the mutant a faint smile and nod. "Erol," he greets, moving a few steps closer to both of the others, since conversation seems imminent. "What brings you two out here?" This seems directed toward Callisto, for the most part, as it's laced with a concerned undercurrent.

Erol looks down and smiles to the cat that called his name. "Desmond," he says with a deep chuckle, his direction changing towards the friend of his family. "And friend," he says, addressing Callisto with a short bow. Desmond's question gets another jovial chortle. "I was visiting Raddie at his show. We talked of many things. Something he will most likely tell you of in the future. Now, who is this friend of yours. A healthy young lady I see." He gives Callisto an approving nod, smiling to the rather large shifter.

Callisto smiles in general to the two, becoming quite aware that she is bloody, dirty, and looks to be full of holes. She removes her hat out of courtesy now, answering Desmond and waiting for him to introduce her too. He can manage, and she's still groggy. "They won'lemme in the Clinic, 's all. Brought someone up the other day..." Callisto smiles back to Erol, expression an example of said grogginess. At least he's fun to look at.

"Ah, good," Desmond states to Erol, nodding slightly and smiling still. "I hope he and the rest of your family are doing well." The cat indicates Callisto with his free hand. "This is Callisto Greenwood. Callisto, this is Erol Karga, a friend." Introductions taken care of, the puma's brow knits slightly in concern, and he glances between Callisto and the clinic across the way. "That's unfortunate. I happen to know Lady Na'Ostiria, if you would like me to speak with her for you?"

Erol smiles at the mention of the doctor, though he is concerned with the thought of Callisto not being allowed in. "That is unfortunate," he says with a slow nod in agreement. "I can always put in a word with Isabelle myself," he says with a return of his smile. "If the word of Desmond isn't enough to sway her." The large man sets his hand on one of his mini casks, not liking the look about Callisto. "Yes, Desmond, the rest of the clan is quite fine. We're moving shortly, to a house in Fairhaven."

Callisto coughs a little, putting her hands up in dismissal. "No, no, it's fine. I think it's just cause he's done in real bad, is all. They need time to fit up machines, y'know?" She rubs a hand to the back of her neck. "I'll have a chat with the doc once I can. I'm stubborn, so I can handle it. Thanks for the concern, both of you."

Desmond continues to frown a little, but he nods at Callisto. "If you're sure," he utters. He's sure Callisto will be quite a match for the lady doctor, and the very thought brings a smirk to his face. Ah, to be a fly on the wall /that/ day. To Erol, he smiles a little wider and nods. "Ah, I'm glad to hear it. Your last living space seemed a little small for all of you."

Erol chuckles, with a relenting nod. "Perhaps it was, with our family being what it is," he says with a knowing grin. The vintner looks around the street before back to Callisto. "You do have a place to stay, do you not?" he asks. "You look like you could appreciate a good rest."

Callisto gives Desmond another small smile, lifting her brow up at Erol as he speaks. "Ah, yeah. I could use one. But I can manage a place--I'm a big girl, after all." Her smile gets a bit wider, and she puts down her foot to lean on her knees. The hat gets bunched up in both palms in mild nervousness. Actually, she has no idea where to go--she slept in an alley last night, after not sleeping the night before.

"My house is always open to you, if you want," Desmond offers. Just because he's not on the best of terms with Ilse right now doesn't mean he can't be nice to her friends--and besides, Callisto is more of a mutual friend. "I . . . don't think you would fit on the couch, but the bed is big enough for you, I believe." This said with a wry sort of smirk.

Radovan laughs lively. "I can offer you a place in my home as well. My couch, or if Tatiana is willing, my sleeping quarters is probably well suited for a woman like yourself," he says with a kindly smile. "Or Desmond, if you would be more comfortable with a more known friend." Like his son, Erol Karga has a similar bleeding heart for those that seem in troubled times.

Callisto feels slightly humbled by both of the men--but Erol made one point that seemed to stick. "Thanks a helluva lot, but if Desmond'll put these boots up willingly, I don'think I can put you through something similar." The woman chuckles and bows her head a little to Erol, lifting a brow to Desmond. Reallyreallyreally?

That brings a grin to Desmond's face, and he lifts the hand holding the bag, extending it toward the housing district. "I think you know where it is," he states, since Callisto has visited before. "I haven't restocked the refrigerator yet, but you're welcome to anything in it." So long as it's edible. "I was just heading there, now."

Erol nods simply. "Then at least accept some of these," he says, taking off one of the small casks from his belt. "I have blackberry, apple, and white grape wines left," he says with a smile. "I'm clearing out my stock for the move, after all." If he can't help them with sleeping, he can try with drinking at least.

Callisto is on her feet while Desmond motions. "Don'worry. I'll clean you out for a fresh start anyway." She is putting her hat back on when Erol offers the wine to her. "Ohghh. Blackberry?" She mentally melts out her ears, trying to keep composure long enough to accept it. "Man, you're my newest effing hero." I love you, walrus-man.

"I'll take some white wine, myself," Desmond chuckles softly. He doesn't sound as enthusiastic as Callisto, but he does sound interested. He's not much of a wine drinker, but getting some good white wine is something he'd rather not pass up.

Erol smiles and takes off two hand held casks, offering one to each of the others. "Take them, take them, as gifts from the Karga winery," he says with a chuckle, amused with Callisto's interest. "Here' I have two of each, if you're so keen on it, take the other. You save me the trouble of carrying it all the way home." As if the cask would be any trouble for him to carry at all. The first cask is set down as another it pulled off of the belt loop for the bear.

Callisto will so very happily take as many as she can fit on her person. Her clearly appeased state is written over a growing smile on her face. "Oho. The more I can save you trouble, the more I can cause for myself." The brunette chortles a little. She is a strict fruit-wine hor, sorry. "The kindess of strangers is something everyone needs more of, hm? I'll return the favor someday, I hope."

Desmond accepts the cask with a grateful nod and a quiet, "Thank you." He would insist on paying for it, but he knows how futile it can be to argue such things. He'll make it up to Erol somehow, too. "At any rate, Callisto, I will meet you at the house; I need to clean up a few things before you get there." As mentioned: bachelor living. With that, the puma inclines his head and heads off to do just that.

Desmond runs into Erol and Callisto outside the Na'Ostiria clinic and acquires a small cask of white wine and a very large bear-woman.

"My kind'll eventually go out of fashion."

Sun, 09 Sep 2007 20:14:40 GMT

OOC Note: Backdated a couple of days.

It would seem Rajini Singh is out to get me. I suppose Murdoch and Calen told her about their business with me before they died. Interesting. Had I known Murdoch was connected to her so closely, I might have had her pay a visit to him during his stay at Headquarters. He might have liked watching her bones break.

Ah, well. Hindsight.

I will have to be more careful about where and in what company I shift, though with so many knowing what I am, I wonder if such precautions will be effective. If things become too much to handle, I might take Creed up on his offer of staying at the compound for a few days.

I look forward to an excuse to spill more hunter blood.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[RW] Clovertree Way
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Clovertree Way is best counted as Rainyway's residential zone, although it's far from the idea place for it. The lighting is better than other areas of the district, but it's still dark and the shadows rule the eternally rain-swept cobblestone streets. The decrepit, elevated aqueduct, so common a sight in Rainyway, suddenly takes a turn upwards, vanishing into the gloom overhead. Whether the ivy-choked waterway connects with something, it's doubtful that anyone will ever know.
Clovertree Apartments is found on the eastern side of the street here, appropriately, but it's far from the friendlier complexes that can be found even in Bridgelight. Built from dark colored stone and guarded at each of its four corners by gargoyles on the roof, any attempts to keep the ever-growing ivy at bay has long been given up, and it's up to the residents inside to keep their windows clear. Directly west of the apartments, the broken cobblestone road gives way to cracked and uncared for asphalt, gradually glowing more and more brightly from neon lights of the nightclubs and bars of Bleaker's Red Light district. The monorail station is only a short walk from here, but in Rainyway, even that short walk is enough time for the nightmares of old Bleaker to leap out at the unsuspecting. If you fall in Rainyway, you won't get up again.
================================================================================

Boots scrape along the ground around Clovertree as a decidedly unaristocratic aristocrat is out hunting. Though regardless of the slug gun strapped to his back, and the machete that dangles from his hip, he isn't hunting for blood. No, today he's looking for a certain puma to have a chat with. A rather important one in Creed's opinion. Now if he could just track down said shifter.

Rainyway isn't one of Desmond's favorite places to be, especially not Clovertree Way, since it is the street where the predominantly wolf-related Flagon is situated. However, business demanded that he pay a visit to one of the merchants, who has been ill, and the puma steps out of Clovertree Apartments. How coincidental. He's dressed appropriately for the damp weather in an overcoat and Fedora, and he stands on the stoop of the building to peer out at the street beyond. For the moment, he doesn't notice Creed.

Creed doesn't miss Desmond, however, and takes a swift look around before making his way over towards the puma quickly. "Desmond, could I have a word with you?" he asks directly as he heads over. "I want to discuss a little business order I noticed had to do with you." The hunter reaches into one of the pockets on his vest to pull out a folded piece of paper as he walks over.

Being addressed so suddenly and about a business order Desmond does not ever recall making causes the shifter to lift an eyebrow curiously, but he takes the paper and unfolds it without much hesitation. "Really? What might that be?" he asks, though he's rather sure that such a question will be answered upon scanning the contents of the missive.

The missive is a written notice about Rajini Singh offering a hundred and fifty credits per puma/cougar/mountain lion tail. Creed spied it on his checks of Hunter hangouts and snatched it down. "I think it's a business proposal you should be rather interested in," the hunter says simply, keeping the message cryptic for any prying ears.

Such news is surprising to Desmond. Being a cat with a rather unimpressive coat, being hunted for his pelt hasn't been a real issue, and he can't even imagine why Rajini would be after /tails/. It smacks of a personal vendetta to him. How much did that idiot Glen Murdoch leak out before he died? The puma frowns severely and pauses a moment before nodding slightly and folding the paper again. "I will see to this immediately," he states, putting on a faint smile as he tucks the notice away in an inner jacket pocket. "Thank you." He isn't the only puma in Bleaker; others need to be warned, and the Meridian will spread the word.

Creed nods to Desmond. "Not certain if it means anything /particular/ to you, but seeing as you are a part of the situation," he explains, looking around the street. "Remember, if you need a place to stay low," he says in barely a whisper to the feline. "The desert has some fine places to stay." The hunter smiles a little and chuckles. "I have something else I should show you. Since both Lorelei and Ilse know of it, I figure it's high time you picked up on it yourself," he says, reaching into the same pocket to pull out a small square. An old photograph.

The photograph is taken and glanced over with the same curious expression: a tilt of Desmond's head and the lift of an eyebrow.

The photo is fairly old, of a tall woman seated in a chair with a baby on her knee. A long gun is in her hand as a large wolf lay at her feet. Creed looks to Desmond's expression and waits for the reaction to come before saying anything to give anything away.

Desmond wears a puzzled expression as he examines the photo, brow furrowing slightly as he scrutinizes it. To him, it looks like a woman and a child with a pet wolf. After a moment, he points to the baby. "This is . . . you?" he inquires, glancing up at Creed with a raised eyebrow.

Creed laughs quietly. "Yep, that's the Creed family about thirty eight or so years ago," he says with a distant smile on his face as he looks at the photograph. "But I don't reckon you'd be interested so much in the baby if you think about it a moment."

The Creed /family/? That causes Desmond's eyebrow to climb higher, and he points to the wolf. "That is your father, then?" He sounds a little surprised--but then again, it's not unheard of. The puma is also the result of a shifter/non-shifter pairing.

Creed nods once. "Yep. You didn't think I was the first in my family to have my tastes, did you?" he asks with a grin. "They come from somewhere." The hunter looks at the photograph and chuckles. "No uncommon with the Creeds. Though here's the clincher. Seems that every time one of these happens," he points to the photo, "The kid's always a trueblood. Can't explain it, don't try. Probably just how the dice fall in the end."

"Strange," Desmond mutters, giving the photo one last glance before handing it back. He smirks then. "I suppose your suggestion of breeding shifters to truebloods wouldn't work in the case of your family."

Creed takes the photo and looks at it with nostalgia in his eyes as he slips it away. "Probably just numbers. Most of my kin only had one kid a piece. But, you never know," he says with a smile. "You'll see, what I see happening over time is gong to come true. My kind'll eventually go out of fashion."

"Yes," Desmond chuckles, smirk growing. "Hopefully, so will mine." This said with a pat over the pocket holding the notice for puma tails. "Thank you, by the way, for the offer, but I don't like to run from a fight. I suppose if hunters come after me in droves, it will give me more excuse to kill them." And he does so love killing hunters.

Creed nods slowly. "Just make sure it's hunters," he says, "You start just going after folks for no reason against them and I'll have to come down. It's my job after all." the hunter laughs to himself. "Which reminds me, never did get the chance to grill Murdoch over what happened to him."

A wry sort of smile appears on Desmond's face at that. "I suppose no one will have the chance to grill Glen Murdoch again," he utters blandly. He isn't sorry the man's dead. He isn't sorry at all.

Creed looks over to Desmond curiously. "You have something to do with this?" he asks, eyebrows arching slightly. He suspects it's just anti hunter apathy that the shifter has, but the grin was a grin.

The smile only grows, and Desmond chuckles softly. "I understand he died from lung cancer," he responds, shaking his head slightly, "and since I never bought the man any cigarettes, I don't see how any blame could rest with me."

"I'm sure of it," Creed says, sounding heartily unconvinced thanks to the smile and chuckle. He'll talk to Wayne and Isabelle later about things. "On another note, how are you and Ilse doing?"

If there's one thing that can wipe the smile from Desmond's face, it's the mention of Ilse. The puma shakes his head again, growing rather dour. "It doesn't matter." It's a very difficult spot in his life right now that he'd prefer not discussing.

Well, there was a subject Creed wasn't planning on touching. Not at least after one more little mention. "If you still would like that hunt you planned, I can arrange it," he says off hand. "Kind of like a shifter dinner for two?"

"No." Once again, Desmond shakes his head, pushing his hands into the pocket of his overcoat and glancing down the street with a quiet sigh. "I have tried dinner. I have tried breakfast. If we did that hunt, I will hunt alone." Quite frankly, the puma is growing very tired of trying and failing where Ilse is concerned.

Creed shakes his head slowly. "Not even apologizing?" he asks. "Huh, and here I thought that always worked. Did for Tanya. Led to some pretty fun," Creed shakes his head clearing his throat, "You probably don't care about that now."

"Not even apologizing," Desmond confirms, tone level, but obviously disappointed. His eyes narrow slightly as he adds, "I wish I knew what it is I am atoning for." He, after all, wasn't the one to fling the ring back in Ilse's face and disappear into the catacombs. As far as the puma is concerned, he's done everything to make up for any transgressions on his part. And no, he would rather not think about what fun he is missing out on.

Creed hums to himself, taking out some nicotine gum and tossing a few pieces in his mouth before offering it over to Desmond. "Gum?" The hunter doesn't follow up, pocketing the gum as the question was more formality than he was actually offering the nicotine containing snack. "Could be a wolf thing?" he asks, "Probably should have talked to pa about that part of him more, huh?"

Desmond shakes his head to both the offer of gum and the questions. He's not had to chew nicotine gum for months now. "I won't lose any sleep over it." Ah, lying. How the puma loathes it. He clears his throat and glances to Creed with a faint smile. "At any rate, I should probably be getting on. Thank you for the . . . business offer."

Desmond meets Creed on the street, and Creed gives Desmond a copy of Rajini's notice. The two discuss Creed's family history a bit and also Ilse.

Wed, 05 Sep 2007 21:49:20 GMT

Glen Murdoch is finally dead. How delightful. So many hunters are gone, and it is all thanks to the efforts of the Meridian and one Ian Calen.

I believe I will hang the obituary in the common room at Headquarters.

"Stop it."

Wed, 05 Sep 2007 08:10:41 GMT

Aside from Callisto, I don't think any shifter in the city or even beyond has ever displayed such power. Come to think of it, a battle between Callisto and Fitzy could prove very interesting.

Things are still a little hazy. ~~If Ilse were h~~

With Fitzy on our side, the Kent Ranch's outlook seems bleak.

A bad impression was left upon Amy when she was released. It's fortunate she was taken in by the man, but if this is the case, an apology is in order, and I am willing to give it.

Ah, whiskey.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[WL] City Outskirts
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The city ends immediately after "going over the wall" and out into the desert, where sand stretches out over the dunes in any visible direction. Although made from stone blocks reinforced with steel rods, the wall is only twenty feet high, suitable for keeping out the sand and most of the desert nasties, but it wouldn't do much good in a siege. Neither would it protects the ranches and estates that lie outside in the wasteland. They're completely on their own in the event of sandstorms and raiding parties, the last of which was seen around Bleaker close to a hundred years ago. Nothing to worry about.
Unlike the lower level of Bleaker, where the sun is blocked by a combination of the upper level sprawl and the city wall, the sun has little concept of mercy out here, beating down from sunrise to sunset. It's power is only limited by the northern location of city, shaving a few degrees off the heat. The monorail has a stop here, properly the end of the line, depositing passengers on top of the wall with a stone staircase leading down to the sand. There are no roads here, although the sand is gritty and packed enough that a caravan with the properly designed wagons and pack animals could get through it without much extra effort. Further away from the city, it seems like ever more like a blister on the earth, a bump made from dark steel and concrete that rises high into the sky. Rising above even the city itself is Ground Zero, standing proud and tall like a black spire, reaching up towards heaven. Any sensible person knows it'll never make it that high.
================================================================================

There's something strangely surreal about meeting someone on the outskirts at high noon for a scuffle. Desmond can't really remember the last time he /scheduled/ a fight. He looks forward to it, but one wouldn't know it, looking at him. The puma stands in what little shade is offered by the city wall, leaning up against the old stone with arms crossed over his chest. He is dressed as he usually is when he visits the outskirts: white dress shirt, black slacks, and sunglasses. His hat and suit jacket have been deposited nearby in the sand.

The drama of the situation is mostly gone ignored by Fitzy, the stocky man singing to himself, an old drinking tune as he ambles to the outskirts. He's still clad in the same thick trousers, hobnail boots, wool sweater and knit flat cap. His club is bouncing in hand as he walks along the wall. "Aye, looks like you came out here after all," the mercenary calls out with a laugh. "Glad you got some sand in you. I like that."

The voice above him causes Desmond to straighten and half-twist to better peer up at the mercenary. He can't help but smirk a little as he takes a few steps away from the wall, pushing his hands into his pockets as he waits for Fitzy to make it to the bottom of the stairs. "What merchant doesn't?" he remarks with a soft chuckle. "I am a man of my word."

"Aye, and I like that in a man," Fitzy replies, stepping down towards the sand, taking off his sweater as he makes his way. "Now then, I think we had a little bit of settling to do about whether or not you're a poof. Though the question ain't that big of one if you ask me," he teases with a grin on his face, stepping to the sand.

Desmond grins as he begins to roll up his sleeves, glancing around as though to ensure that no one is watching. It would be nice to have an audience to witness his thrashing of Fitzy--but it would be most unfortunate if the fight didn't go that way. Since the outskirts are not frequented much, except by the occasional aristocrat heading to the Kent Ranch and caravans, it would appear there will be no witnesses. "I think it was /you/ who was under evaluation, not I," he remarks. Once his sleeves are up, the puma removes his glasses and tosses them onto the suit jacket, next to the Fedora. Then, he rolls his head on his neck and raises his fists. He is by no means a professional fighter, but he keeps himself well-guarded. "Shall we?"

Fitzy takes off his cap and sweater, folding them neatly and setting them just off of the sand before walking back to the puma, cracking his knuckles. "Aye, you think that, don't you?" the mercenary laughs as he squares his stance. "I'll be a grand old cuss and let you get the first crack at me," he offers with a smile, holding his chin out a bit and tapping it.

It's not usually a good idea to trust such offers, but Desmond is confident that this is not a fight to the death, and the puma knows he can heal rather well from most injuries. Besides, he is here to evaluate Fitzy; that includes how well the guy can take a punch. Thus, the shifter jerks his eyebrows up in a mental, acquiescent shrug, then jabs quick and fast with his right fist, aiming to put enough force behind it to leave a considerable bruise.

As usual, hitting Fitzy is like hitting a nerf ball, you really don't even feel it. The mercenary raises his eyebrows and rolls his wrist in a continue gesture to the puma. "You hit like my grandma," he remarks, "Come on, you got to have more in you than that. I mean, Christ, I thought you was a big man."

Puzzling, to say the least. Desmond hesitates to throw a second punch, brows knitting in slight confusion. Fitzy's face feels /odd/. The puma squints, then decides to have another go of it, this time aiming for the mercenary's stomach. Maybe it's just his face that is the squishy, unyielding blob. As before, the punch is fast and hard.

No, most of Fitzy feels rather like a squishy, unyielding blob, though looks wise, he's more solid than that. "Boyo," Fitzy says as he looks down at the fist. "You want me to show you what a real punch is? Or are you going to sit there and feather dust me for a while?" he asks with a very, very concerned look on his face. As if Desmond might have some terminal illness his punches do so little. Though it is all an act in the end.

It would seem Desmond is going to feather-dust Fitzy for a while, for the puma continues to search for a weak point. He aims punches at the kidney, throat, ribs--any normally vulnerable spot he can think of. Each strike is fast and sure, using as much force as he can possibly put behind it.

"Listen, boyo, you really don't want to," Fitzy starts, just letting the puma pummel him pointlessly. "I'm telling you, you ain't going to like," he stops again, sighing heavily. "Stop it," he tries once more before just snapping a jab at the shifter's jaw, sending back the collective energy from the beating put into him.

Though Desmond has never been hit by anything faster than a runner, he imagines that being so struck is akin to leaping in front of the monorail. The punch doesn't send him staggering; it hurls him back and to the side by at least a foot or two, causing him to hit the sand hard on his shoulder. He is fortunate not to lose any of his teeth, but a few are loosened slightly, and his lip and the inside of his cheek split. He can only lay where he fell, stunned and fighting to remain conscious.

"Aw shit, I killed him," Fitzy says as soon as he feels the punch land, "There goes my money." The mercenary jogs over towards the downed shifter and stands over him, waving his hand just about his face. "You aren't dead are you? Cause I gave you fair warning there. And I really don't feel like carrying you back to get you all gussied up for burying." The mercenary has some concern about him, if it's mostly about the money he may lose out on with a corpse on his hands instead of a client.

But Desmond is still alive and kicking, if only just barely awake. He seems to be winning his struggle for consciousness, however, as when Fitzy appears over him, the puma is able to squint and focus on him--somewhat. Things are still a bit fuzzy. He's able to register the question asked of him, blinks a few times, then squeezes his eyes shut and lifts an arm to wave vaguely, dismissively, and even a little drunkenly. "Mmfn," he mumbles around a mouthful of blood. It's the closest he can come to "I'm fine."

"Muffin?" Fitzy questions, offering a hand to the puma. "Come on, let's get you up off the ground there. You might have a concussion, and that isn't good for my wallet." The mercenary is still unsure over the state of this man, he's still awake, and that's good at least.

It takes a moment for Desmond to feel comfortable enough to rise. The world has to stop shaking and being fuzzy before he can even consider using his limbs. Finally, however, he manages to sit up, and once upright, the first order of business is to rid his mouth of the mixture of saliva and blood that has built up in it. This is deposited into the sand between his feet, and the puma lifts a hand to tenderly touch the fast-bruising spot on his jaw. "Mmn," he grumbles. "'M fine." He's coming out of it pretty fast. Things aren't as blurry.

Fitzy shrugs as it's apparent the man, and his possible paycheck, are still in one piece. The mercenary takes the time to get his sweater back on and his cap on his head as the puma makes do clearing out his mouth. "Fine? I just tossed you for a good loop there. Good thing you're a shifter, probably would've taken your head clean off if you were anything else."

Thank God for shifterdom. Desmond takes a few moments more to orient himself. Up is up, down is down, and all limbs are working properly. The headache starts to set in, but at least his cheek and lip have mostly healed. He gives his head a shake, then rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Mm." The puma looks over at Fitzy, and there is certainly respect there now. "I think y'got the job," he snorts in a lighthearted fashion. He'd be an idiot not to hire a mercenary capable of taking hits and doling them out.

"You know, I warned you about hitting me. It isn't good for your health," Fitzy points out, leaning against the wall to avoid what sun he can. The mercenary looks over towards the puma a little longer. "So why'd you just kick her out on the street like that?" he asks, resting his hand on the head of his club as he asks Desmond about Amy.

But there is more than one person that people would accuse Desmond of kicking to the curb these days, and in his still somewhat hazy state, he's not quite able to pinpoint which Fitzy is referring to. He wipes the remainder of the blood from his lips before looking to the mercenary, elbows resting on bent knees. "Who?"

"Amy," Fitzy says simply. His tired looking eyes staying on the puma, unwavering. He's also curious as to why she as afraid of the felines and wanted nothing to do with them last time he had asked his adoptive daughter.

Ah, yes, that clarifies things. With the cuts on his inner cheek and lip no longer bleeding, Desmond spits out one final bit of crimson saliva before testing his teeth with his tongue. Loose, but cementing themselves back in. Healing factors are such blessings. "We had to move fast," he states, touching the bruise on his jaw again. "Our headquarters had been compromised, and I had nowhere else to send her. There was someone to tail her when she was first released, but he lost track of her after a few weeks."

Fitzy nods slowly. "Aye." It was a reasonable explanation as any. "So, you're anti slave, I hear. So what's the business you be needing of me? If you got anything on your mind yet." The mercenary is onto business now, though he has one more thing to add on a personal note. "Whatever you pay me, I want an apology to Amy. Just tell her she's a good girl or something. Cause whatever happened, bent her up something bad."

This is news to Desmond. The last time he met with Amy, she didn't seem in need of an apology--but then, the last time he met with Amy, he'd been a bit distracted. He lifts an eyebrow curiously, but doesn't inquire about it. If she needs an apology, she needs an apology, and he's perfectly willing to offer it. The puma nods agreeably before attempting to rise to his feet. He's a bit shaky, but solid enough. "We are anti-slave," he responds, "but we are primarily anti-hunter. Have you heard of the Kent Ranch?"

"One of them big places, rich folks tend to hang out there. Shooting off their guns," Fitzy says with a roll of his hand. "You need someone to soak up the bullets I take it?" he asks directly, looking off in the direction he's guessed the ranch to be.

"Among other things, yes," Desmond chuckles. "If you are able to absorb bullets, that is." Considering that he was unfazed by the punches, the puma doesn't doubt that Fitzy is capable of just that. "We plan to liberate a few of the shifters kept there."

Fitzy nods, turning and heading towards the way back into the city. "Come sniff around for me. You spend enough time in the bars around here and you'll find me," he lets Desmond know as he climbs the stairs to the city proper.

"I will." But first, Desmond will go home for some ice and possibly a bit of whiskey. Being knocked for a loop requires recuperation. It's a good thing he decided to take the day off.

Desmond meets with Fitzy to evaluate the mercenary's abilities. Via fistfight. Needless to say, Desmond gets pwned, and Fitzy gets hired.

"I hate you so fucking much, Desmond Cusick."

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 08:48:49 GMT

OOC Note: These are just Desmond's thoughts, since he's in no form/position to be doing any writing.

She still loves me. I can tell. She can deny it all she wants, but I know.

I still love her. That is obvious.

I have missed this.

There were rats in the alley. I will bring her one.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Cusick Residence
================================================================================
The first thing one sees in this house upon entering is a small narrow hallway that angles off sharply to the left at the end--this branch leads to the bathroom and the kitchen. The walls are white, and immediately to the left of the door is a set of hooks for the hanging of hats and coats. The floor is hardwood paneling and plain, rugless.

At the end of the hall is a door leading into the den, which is furnished with a glass-topped coffee table topped with a small resin statuette depicting a panther lounging upon a rock. Next to the table is an overstuffed black leather armchair that looks rather comfortable. A viewscreen is within easy sight of this seat, and a few bookshelves line the walls. These are empty, for the most part, and accented here and there by a figurine of some sort. There are a few paintings strategically hung about the place as well, and the floor is carpeted in dark soothing green. There are two doors on opposite sides of the den: one leads to the master bedroom, and the other is locked.

The hardwood flooring in the hall continues into the kitchen, which is small, but functional. The counters are chestnut in color, and the bright yellow bulbs in the light on the ceiling fan are diffused by frosted glass protectors. There is a stove against the left wall, and a refrigerator against the wall at the far end of the room. A microwave has been set up between, next to the coffee maker and the toaster. In the center of the room is a rectangular wooden table with a single chair to keep it company.
================================================================================

When he heard that Ilse would be released this evening, Desmond was sure to be at Ground Zero with a change of clothes and a hatbox containing a wig that /nearly/ matched her hair before it was shaved. This particular model is longer than Ilse's hair was, and it the shade is a little lighter, but it is the closest he could find on such short notice. Besides, he had other surprises that he was busy working on--namely dinner. They have arrived back at the house, now, and dressed in his black overcoat and Fedora over a dark red dress shirt and black slacks, the puma unlocks and then opens the door for Ilse. The first thing noticeable in the hall is the rug that was removed in his haste to clean out the place of all memories pertaining to her. Through the doorway of the den, the couch is also visible, as are a few boxes--he has obviously not finished unpacking everything. Perhaps most significant of all, however, is the chain and ring hidden beneath his shirt. Desmond smiles faintly, and opens his mouth to utter, "Welcome home", but he stops himself and settles instead for, "Come in." It may be too early to use the term 'home' where the wolf is concerned.

Where Ilse may be on cordial speaking terms with her former mate, she's not so quick to move back in with him. She wants the safety net of her pack, to be able to curl up in a chair while they make music around her, as if she never left them. But Desmond was there when she stepped out of the obelisk that is Ground Zero, and waiting with something to help her hide her shame. How could she deny him dinner? The wolf is not dressed so well, wearing the same clothes she wore when she turned herself in: jeans, sneakers, and a thin, cotton t-shirt. She murmurs something as she steps into the house, but she doesn't go too far in. As much unpacking as Desmond has done, it still feels foreign, or perhaps she's just been away too long.

That is a sentiment with which Desmond could wholeheartedly agree, but he won't voice it. Once Ilse is inside, he follows and closes the door behind, securing the lock and bolt, as per usual. Then, he sheds his hat and coat and toes off his shoes. She may not feel at home, but he does. Then again, it /is/ his house. The smell of food is evident in the place, but faint; it is recognizable as some sort of Italian cuisine. The puma proceeds to remove his socks, glancing to Ilse as he does so. "Take off your shoes and socks," he instructs gently, smirking. "You won't need them."

It's a ritual that Ilse is frankly out of practice of. She didn't do it in the catacombs, and never in the den. She didn't even have shoes when she was in Creed's compound. She slowly turns back toward the door and toes off her sneakers, bending only to pull of her socks in turn.

Once shoes and socks are cast aside, Desmond offers his hand to Ilse as a means of leading her to the next destination point. This will be down the hall and beyond the kitchen to the other door. However, he will not go through it just yet; instead, there is another bit of direction: "Would it be too much to ask you to close your eyes?" The smell of food grows stronger the nearer to the kitchen one travels, but it is still faint in the room itself. The place is bare of any semblance of sustenance.

"Imre told me cats were tricky," Ilse muses with a smirk before she lets her eyelids slide shut, her fingers giving Desmond's hand an almost imperceptible squeeze. It's not hard to figure out the trick though - the removal of shoes and where the smell of food is coming from.

"He would be the one to know, wouldn't he?" the puma remarks jokingly, drawing open the door with his free hand, then reaching to take Ilse's other hand. "After our illicit and torrid affair, he ought to be the expert on cat behavior." Holding both of the wolf's hands loosely in his own, Desmond begins to walk backwards, slowly leading her out. It wouldn't be hard to tell the direction they are heading, if she pays attention: he turns toward the back yard. The food smell is stronger out here, and there's the faint aroma of flame and melting wax.

But it's the grass that captures Ilse's senses as it does everytime she's around the lush natural carpet. She leans a little against Desmond's hands when they reach it, her toes curling into the blades and making it a challenge to walk without the smallest bit of support. "I dunno," she says with a growing smirk as they walk, "I don't think you would have made it past the first pigeon dinner."

"If you don't like pigeon, I'm afraid I have wasted my time with dinner." It's another joke; the main course is clearly chicken. Once Desmond has led his former mate to the appropriate spot, he releases her hands and circles around behind her, settling his palms on either side of her waist, but making no moves to push the envelope of nearness. "You can open your eyes now." The sight to greet Ilse would be the entire backyard lit in the glow of many strategically placed candles, protected from the light breeze by glass holders. Near to the small apple tree is a red blanket topped with a few covered dishes; a pair of plates, forks, knives, and wineglasses; a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket of ice; and a single red rose in a small vase. Clearly, the puma has been hard at work.

Ilse opens her eyes slowly, and the sight nearly takes her breath away. Her heart tightens in her chest, conflicting emotions battling with the ferocity of trained, tortured animals within her. "...you're going to ruin the grass," is all she manages to choke out.

That elicits a low chuckle from Desmond, who tilts forward just enough to press his forehead to the back of Ilse's head. It's nice to feel hair there again, though it does not quite smell the same as her real hair. "It will grow back," he murmurs. Just like hair will. He's content to remain standing this way for a moment before he withdraws and moves to the side of the wolf. He once again offers his hand, tilting his head to one side and lifting an eyebrow, smiling. "Would you rather stare, or would you rather eat, hmm?"

Ilse hadn't imagined a dinner like this. Her eyes close again when Desmond makes contact with her hair, opening only when he speaks to her once again. Smiling a bit sheepishly, she nods. "Did you cook?" It wouldn't surprise her if it was deceitfully served take-out.

As if the answer to that weren't obvious. Desmond laughs aloud as he leads the wolf over to the blanket. "No," he chortles, grinning. "I thought we should have something /edible/ tonight." Ilse should know well enough by now that he can't cook to save his life. He indicates that she should sit before he sets about pouring the wine. It isn't quite Sharpe-quality, but it's the next-best thing.

Desmond's choice of wine has never disappointed Ilse. She sits carefully, resting her hands on the blanket as she tucks her legs behind her and off to one side. She waits for her wine to be poured, then takes a small sip before she inhales the scents of the dinner more directly. "Why are you doing this, Desmond?" Ilse asks in a quiet voice.

After Ilse's wine is poured, Desmond fills his own glass before returning the bottle to its place within the ice. He then sits cross-legged nearby and begins to remove the covers from the dishes. The main course is pollo al gorgonzola: boneless chicken breast, sautéed in white wine with fresh mushrooms and finished in a gorgonzola brandy cream sauce. It is accompanied by a salad and breadsticks, all of which come from Rovigatti's. As he begins dishing out portions, he looks to Ilse with a somewhat pained, disappointed smile. "Does it matter?" he inquires softly. "Can't I ask you to a quiet dinner without having an ulterior motive?" Why must there be such questions?

"There are candles, Desmond," Ilse points out, looking down her nose somewhat at the puma. "And a rose." All the makings of a romantic dinner, tailored to a specific cast. She takes a deep breath and starts to reach for her wig.

Once Ilse's plate is full, the puma sets it down before her, then begins to do the same for his own. His smile widens just slightly. "What of them?" Desmond sees no problem with embellishing things a bit. "I thought you deserved a little something nice after what you have been through." What they've both been through; it's as much for his relaxation and enjoyment as it is hers. He finishes filling his plate and sets it down before him, lifting an eyebrow.

Well, Ilse can't argue with that. This is certainly something nice. Ilse lowers her hand again, picking up her glass of wine, but she waits to drink in case Desmond wanted to make a toast. "No catch, hrm?"

"Of course there is a catch," Desmond responds, the smirk on his face the only indication that he isn't serious. "You have to promise not to bite me." The last couple of times they've met, he's wound up bleeding; it's not something he's particularly fond of. He obviously has no toast to make, for he takes up fork and knife and begins to unceremoniously tuck into dinner. Though he makes a conscious effort not to eat at his usual accelerated rate, he doesn't quite succeed.

But the effort is noted. Ilse sips her drink, watching Desmond over the rim of her glass. It's good wine. Setting it back down, the wolf starts to pick at her meal. It's not that it isn't excellent, but it's the way she always eats. "Things..." she starts after a couple of bites, studying her chicken and mushrooms as if it were a rubix cube, "....things won't be the same."

Desmond is in the process of lifting his own wine when Ilse makes her observation. He hesitates, staring down into the liquid, and his smile fades. "I know." But he doesn't particularly want to discuss such things. The glass completes its journey to his lips and he takes a sip, rolling it over his tongue. It's not as good as he would've hoped.

It's then that Ilse's hand returns to her wig to pull the wavy curls from her head. She's careful with the gift, but she wastes no time in setting it aside. Her eyes find Desmond's for a split second, but soom the wolf is looking back to her meal. "Then let's stop pretending things," she mutters.

Where there had once been a smile, there is now a slight frown, and Desmond seems to have lost his appetite. He sets down fork and knife and leans back on his hands, looking to Ilse with raised eyebrows. "What is it do you think I am pretending?" he inquires. His tone carries a note of defensiveness, though his voice remains level, for the most part.

There are many answers to that question. But Ilse is in mid-chew when Desmond asks it, and so it takes her a moment to speak. She milks that moment, trying to decide which of the responses that are swimming in her head would be the best to give. "That things have not changed," she says at last, carefully setting her utensils on her plate. The statement carries many things, after all; Ilse's flight to catacombs and recent inprisonment aren't the only among them.

"Things /have/ changed," Desmond retorts, tilting his head to one side and arching an eyebrow. "That doesn't mean /everything/ has changed." And, in his mind, it doesn't mean that everything /has/ to change. The puma shakes his head slowly and sits up again, resting his elbows on his knees. "I am not trying to make things as they were, Ilse. I'm--" But he trails off. He doesn't know what he's trying to do.

"You're giving me a delightful evening in an effort to make up for the grueling, tortuous week I spent doing pretty much whatever I wanted in Josuha Creed's desert compound?" Ilse lifts her eyebrows after she's finished her offer, sipping from her glass again. "You know I'd always wanted to get out of the city for a vacation." Is she joking?

If she is, Desmond doesn't notice. His lips tighten and he takes up his glass again. "It is to make up for more than that," he grunts before downing a little more than a simple sip. "But if you don't want it, you are free to leave whenever you wish." He bites his tongue before he can add something harsh to the end of that sentence.

The lash has apparently traded hands. Ilse takes another sip of her wine to lubricate it before she sets the glass down again. "A for effort, then. But if you're not trying to get me back into this house, why are my things strewn about instead of nice and neat in the boxes they first arrived in?"

"I packed away more than just your things," Desmond responds truthfully. "I was simply separating what was mine from what was yours. Your things are, for the most part, still packed." It would be a lie to say that a part of him wasn't hoping that Ilse would be coming home to stay, but a larger part of him knew it was an impossible dream. It doesn't make the smaller part any less disappointed, but it's much easier to cope this way. He waves a hand vaguely toward the house. "I will send them to Navarre's in the morning, before I leave for work."

"Don't bother," Ilse grumbles, stabbing a bit of chicken with her fork. "I'll send someone for them." She doesn't intend on seeing her cousin until she is forced to, given the way she was so coldly treated. Part of her wants Navarre to see her as she is now, but another would rather not have to deal with any sympathy, or lack thereof, from the Wolf Lord.

Desmond raises an eyebrow at that. The tone and forcefulness of Ilse's movements are a little disconcerting--but also rather amusing. Is she mad at Navarre? What a treat /that/ would be! After a pause, he breathes out a sigh and eases himself onto his back, ignoring his plate. He's not hungry anymore. The wineglass comes with him, however, and he places it on his chest, balancing it there with his fingertips. "How are the children?"

"Aaron's dead." The reply is quick and short, and holds no less subtle anger than Ilse's previous words. Her grip on the fork and knife tighten, as does her face, but the wolf doesn't look at Desmond at all.

That is one of the last responses Desmond expected, and when he hears it, his brow creases in shock, worry, and disbelief. It's so sudden and so . . . /unspecific/. "What?" he grunts, turning his head to regard Ilse in a rather confused and even upset fashion. Raven and Aaron were never /his/ children, but that doesn't mean he didn't like them.

On the contrary, it's very specific when the question is concering the well-being of the children. "He's dead," Ilse repeats, lifting annoyed yet grief-stricken eyes to Desmond. "Something he caught right after the coup, I guess." Losing Aaron was the real price of Ilse's mishandling and subsequent loss of the clinic and the means to save him. Her words are thick, laced with either anger or tears.

It's a strange mixture of emotion that rises in Desmond. He is sad to hear such news, sympathetic toward Ilse for having to bear it, and angry that he wasn't told earlier. This leads to an awkward moment of silence, and he shifts his gaze to the glass on his chest. He would like to wrap his arms around his former mate and offer comfort--but he somehow doubts it would be very well received. "I'm sorry," is what he finally manages to utter.

Aaron had been Ilse's favorite of the Spartans. She loved Raven, sure, but the crow's imprint wasn't as subtly made as the jackrabbit's was, and the difference in their nature made her appreciate them both equally. But before they were both hers, Ilse favored Aaron. Up until now, she hasn't had time to properly grieve for the boy who she never got to bury. Dietrich had simply told her what had happened after the meeting, not out of spite or to hurt her, but to simply answer the question he knew must have been nagging at her. Raven didn't know, and the rest of the pack hadn't spoken a word about it to her. Casting her eyes downward, Ilse sits in silence, fighting a losing battle in trying to hold back tears.

This is certainly not the way Desmond intended things to go. Now, he feels extremely conflicted and awkward. Before, his reaction would have been automatic and required no thought whatsoever; now, there are so many things that tell him not to touch the wolf. In the end, however, old instinct and habit wins out. The puma sits up, sets aside his glass, and extends an arm toward Ilse, aiming to rest a hand on her far shoulder. It's apparent that there is an embrace for her if she wants it, but he doesn't attempt to initiate it himself.

But the touch means enough. Ilse shudders under the light weight that Desmond's hand brings, taking it as an invitation to cry. The wall that served as decorum's last defense crumbles, and silent sobs flow forth.

There are no tears from Desmond. Perhaps the impact of the news hasn't hit him yet. Perhaps it's just his inherent inability to cry that keeps his eyes dry. Whatever the case, he has no tears, and he has no words to give either. He simply offers a gentle squeeze to Ilse's shoulder and dips his head to touch his forehead to her temple. Let her mourn.

That's exactly what Ilse does. But after several minutes, she lifts a hand to rest on top of Desmond's, her head turning toward his where it rests against her own.

"I am so sorry, Ilse." He's said it once already, but it bears repeating. "If I had known, I wouldn't. . . ." But he didn't know. Desmond squeezes his eyes shut, pursing his lips for a moment. His fingers tighten around Ilse's shoulder when her hand rests on his. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" he asks. He feels so stupid for having not even known that the boy was dead. Stupid and angry that he was left out of the loop.

"You," but Ilse can't speak for very long before her voice is choked with her outpour of emotion. "How could you have? And....and you always said how they weren't yours."

"Yes, but that doesn't . . . I still had a. . . ." Desmond closes his mouth again and exhales sharply through his nostrils. He hates it when words fail him; it makes him sound like an idiot. He knows that he never truly claimed the children as his own--they were always Ilse's--but somewhere deep down, he feels that he had a right to know that Aaron was dead. "I wish I had known," he mutters finally. But it doesn't matter now.

"They *were* yours," Ilse insists, shaking her head as she draws it away from Desmond, wiping her tears with the back of her free hand, determined to regain some dignity here. "All fifty of them were yours. Just like they were all mine." They still are, but there aren't fifty of them any more. "Maybe more mine..." but Ilse's reasonings would only serve to depress her further.

Desmond doesn't argue. They /were/ his, in some strange fashion, and he isn't going to deny it now. He's too tired, too drained. Instead, he lifts his head again when Ilse draws away, but he doesn't remove his hand from her shoulder. "How is Raven?" he inquires softly, almost dreading to even bring up the subject for fear of beating another wound.

Ilse leaves her hand on her face for a moment longer than she really needs to do, letting out a gentle sigh. "She doesn't know," she says, obviously referring to Aaron's death again. "I don't want to tell her. But...well, I haven't talked to her much. Wendy's looking after her. And the others."

Desmond nods a little, understanding her reasoning. It's not exactly news he would like to break to the corvid either. Then again, it would likely result in crying, and crying children are terrifying creatures. After a moment's pause, he speaks in a quieter tone: "Where is he?" He doesn't need to clarify just who 'he' is.

"I don't know," Ilse answers after another calming moment. She's getting it together, if slowly. "He was gone when I..." came out of the catacombs. "I'm sure... he was given the appropriate respects."

Even so, Desmond would like to see the grave to give his /own/ respects. He never actually got to say farewell to the boy. Even thinking about the things he didn't get to do or say causes his throat to begin constricting, and so the puma attempts to lose himself, as always, in work. He begins to slowly gather up the dishes, since it would seem dinner is more than over.

Ilse is far from content, but she stays silent as Desmond collects her own dish where half of her entree still sits. She does rescue her wine glass so that he doesn't take it away and so that she can drain it.

The wineglasses are the only things--aside from the chilled wine itself, and the rose--that Desmond doesn't pick up. With the dishes expertly stacked and balanced on one forearm, he rises to his feet and begins to make his way toward the house without a word, pausing only now and then to blow out candles in his path.

But Desmond might as well have taken Ilse's glass, as quickly as she finishes the wine in it. When he's turned away, the wolf sets the glass down and lets her eyes wander. It's hard to say what compells her, but while Desmond is dealing with extinquishing his efforts, Ilse rises and moves toward the apple tree in order to climb up into the welcoming boughs to sit among the slowly ripening friut.

It takes quite some time for Desmond to return to the yard, since he is sure to wash the dishes and set them aside to dry once he's taken them to the kitchen. When he finally makes it back outside, he doesn't notice where Ilse has gone at first and, believing her to have slipped away, he frowns and releases a quiet sigh before he goes about extinguishing the last of the candles, leaving only starlight and moonlight to illuminate the area. As he draws near the blanket and apple tree, however, he picks up her scent and glances up into the branches. The sight that greets him brings a smirk to the cat's face, and he moves to the base of the tree to lean with crossed arms against the trunk, resting his chin on his forearms to stare up at Ilse. "I think you have been around me too long," he remarks quietly.

The wolf hasn't gone high enough to be hidden completely from sight, so she isn't really surprised when Desmond finds her. She wasn't trying to escape detection. Still, Ilse doesn't turn to look at the puma when he addresses her, but she lets out a quiet sigh of her own. "No," she says softly. "...but maybe, if I manage to get down without miserable failure."

Though he has little experience climbing trees, Desmond has had much more practice since he moved into this house, and this is /his/ tree anyway. Besides, the instinct is ingrained in his blood. It takes only a few deft movements to haul himself up onto a branch nearby, since he isn't sure the young tree's slender boughs would hold both his weight and Ilse's. His fluid climbing is helped by the fact that he's barefoot. "I don't think wolves often climb trees, dear--" he cuts himself off from the term of endearment and glances at something within the vicinity of the ground before he quietly finishes: "--est."

"I'm not really a typical wolf," is Ilse's soft, distracted sort of answer. If she heard the old term, she doesn't outwardly acknowledge it. Something inside her does pang, or squeeze, or twitch at it's use. Desmond's hesitation must mean he slipped, and either didn't intend to use the word at all or used it accidentally. It's hard to tell, but what's worse is that Ilse isn't sure if she should be upset or not.

Such hesitation is brought on by Desmond's own confusion. He's not sure if he still has the privilege of using such a term-but the fact that the wolf does not bristle at its use is slightly relieving. The puma simply grunts softly in response to Ilse's answer, then goes silent as he lifts his gaze to the branches above his head. Finding a small budding apple, he reaches up to pluck it and holds the thing in his palm, engulfing it fully in his fingers. After another few moments of silence, he smirks mischievously, glances toward Ilse, then lobs the unripened fruit at her in a playful sort of fashion. Should he hit his mark, the puma will glance away and look as innocent as he possibly can--which is to say, not at all.

The apple finds Ilse's shoulder, but it takes a moment for her to turn her head to look at the puma, her expression a deep scowl. Sorry, kitty, but wolfie isn't buying it. A low growl rises in Ilse's throat, and the only thing keeping her from lunging at Desmond (because throwing a hard apple at someone who is stressed and depressed isn't a good idea) is the fact that her feet aren't firmly planted on the ground.

But it's all in play to Desmond, even if Ilse does not take it as such. Perhaps getting a rise out of her was his intention all along--or perhaps it was just one of two acceptable scenarios. Either way, he'll take her ire or her return playfulness over the depressing and gloomy mood of earlier. Anger and mischief are two things he handles well. The puma's smirk widens, growing more devilish by the second, and he adjusts his posture to rise up on the balls of his feet, balancing with one hand gripping the branch beneath him, and the other holding to the branch above him. He is perfectly at home in the tree.

Whereas Ilse is not. Desmond has that avantage over her in the current situation. "Try that again, and I'll put another scar in your tail." Or near it. Desmond should get the hint and know better not to argue the specifics.

That only seems to spark the antagonistic nature in Desmond, and his smirk breaks into a broad grin. It's not a threat to him; it's a challenge. Accordingly, the hand clutching the branch above him seeks out another small apple and snaps it from its housing. He tosses it a few inches into the air, catches it again, and grins even wider. "Assuming you can catch me," he retorts. And with that, the second fruit goes flying toward Ilse, aiming once again for her torso. This time, however, the puma is not there to see whether or not it hits. He's already swinging down from his perch, dropping a few feet to the grass below.

The apple hits Ilse square in the sternum, knocking the breath out of her for a moment - long enough for Desmond to make his escape. Once she's able, Ilse makes as if to throw herself from the tree in pursuit, but she hestiates and remains, her face twisted in an angry pout.

But pursuit is precisely what Desmond was expecting, and so he did not immediately dash away upon reaching the ground. Instead, he remains crouched beneath his branch, grinning tauntingly up at the wolf. When she doesn't immediately follow, he arches an eyebrow and tilts his head to one side. He recalls, once upon a time, that she would not have hesitated to attack him. "Awww," he purrs in a most teasing fashion, pouting mockingly, "did the poor defenseless puppy get herself stuck in a tree?"

"I'm not *stuck*," Ilse half-snarls in defiance. "I just refuse to play your stupid game and *chase* you." She snorts, then looks away and mutters, "but I might tie cans to your tail later," under her breath.

With agility and ease in a tree comes the ability to hear exceptionally well, however, and though his ears have taken quite a bit of abuse of late, Desmond's are still as keen as any. He rises to a standing position and takes a few steps to put himself more beneath Ilse's branch, and the grin returns. "'Later' meaning after you have gotten down, hmm?" he remarks. He fakes a yawn, then, and makes quite a show of stretching himself. "I don't have much to worry about, then. By the time you manage /that/, I'll probably be old and dead, and the cans won't bother me in the slightest." Smirksmirk.

With a snap of her hand and arm, Ilse reaches up into the tree to grab an apple and HEAVE it at Desmond, aiming for his head. She doesn't even wait to find out if the first hit him before she grabs a second and sends it flying right after the first.

The first apple strikes true, bouncing off the top of Desmond's head. It gives him enough warning to raise his arm to deflect the second apple, and he remains with his arm lifted a moment, just to be sure there are no further projectiles. When no more are forthcoming, the puma lowers his arm and smirks up at Ilse. Then, nonchalantly, he bends to pick up all four of the apples--the two she threw, and the two he threw--and begins to juggle them. It's not a skill he's used often of late, but his movements are smooth enough to suggest that he was once quite proficient. "I guess Zero Tolerance shaved off your sense of humor, too," he grunts half-jokingly.
But the fact of the matter is that Ilse is not in a joking mood. She snorts at Desmond's joke, glaring at him past the apples. "We can't all be clowns. I may have faced the music, but I didn't exactly dance to the tune the expected me to." No, Ilse got off lucky, but she didn't get off entirely.
"So?" Desmond continues to juggle, and his eyes remain on the apples as they jump and fall in the air. "You aren't still locked up, now are you?" The puma interrupts the steady rhythm of toss-catch-toss to lob one of the apples upward at Ilse, aiming to hit her in the leg or side. It's a light toss, meant to make contact, but not cause pain. All the while, the other three apples continue their motions. "You act as though having fun would be the worst thing you could possibly do--but it's probably the one thing you /need/ right now."
"It's irresponsible," Ilse retorts with narrowing eyes which snap downward when her leg is brushed with the softly tossed apple. She's well aware of the irony of her statement, and Ilse does her best not to turn red in the face.
Desmond snorts at that--a very derisive and disbelieving sound. It's not irresponsible; it's /necessary/. But he doesn't say anything to dispute it immediately; instead, after a short pause, he begins to sing-song under his breath: "Ilse Braun is stuck in a tree, P-O-U-T-I-N-G." No, he isn't done taunting.
"I am *NOT* stuck." If Ilse was glaring before, she's now giving Desmond an all out Stare of Death. With another snort from the wolf, she swings her legs so that they are both on the same side of the branch and looks at the ground as if she were about to rush it with her teeth and claws bared and ready to sink into the earth as if it were flesh.
"Ha!" Desmond doesn't believe her. He has certainly hit an incorrigible streak this evening, for when Ilse swings her legs around, he takes the opportunity of her turned back to lightly toss yet another apple, this one aimed for a shoulderblade or even the back of her head, if he's lucky enough. He'll get her to play if it kills him.
And it just might. The apple to the back of Ilse's head is enough to throw her off balance, and the wolf flails a little before she slips off the branch, her quickly sharpening nails scraping the young tree's bark. The wolf is able to stay in the tree, however, her feet finding a branch just below her. It's sheer luck, and Ilse clings to the branch she was previously sitting on, eyes shut tight. Is it fear? ...of falling, or of humilation?
But it's really not that funny now. Desmond ceases juggling--not that juggling two apples is very impressive anyway--and ambles over toward Ilse, cocking his head to one side and lifting an eyebrow. He's grinning, but he's in a position to catch her or break her fall, should it come to that. "Would you like a little help, dear wolf?" he inquires, rolling the two apples in one hand.
[OOC] Ilse says, "Teehee. Contact juggling."
[OOC] You say, "Yissss."
[OOC] Ilse says, "It makes me happy. :)"
[OOC] You say, "I've tried it twice, but I fail so miserably. My first cousin, JC, can do it a little, though."
"No," Ilse half growls, half hisses out in a single exhalation of breath. "I can *do* it my*self*." Slowly, she lets one sneaker slide off the branch, bending her other leg so that she gradually extends the former toward the ground, all the while maintaining her grip on the higher branch for as long as possible.
"Suit yourself." Desmond shrugs a little, still smirking, and begins to whistle tunelessly. He doesn't move away, just in case Ilse has another slip, but he makes no attempts to help her either. He just watches, continuing to roll the apples in his hand. It is probably a safe bet that he's rather enjoying himself, and the view.
Ilse makes it out of the tree without incident, though it does take her a moment to release her death grip on that branch and allow her feet to fall the short distance to the ground. Along with the sound of her weight hitting the soft earth, the wolf lets out a little "oof." But once she is sure she's safe on land again, Ilse straightens and fixes Desmond with a somewhat haughty look. "Take *that*, kitty cat."
Desmond's eyebrows go up, and he half-turns his head, lifting one hand to cup his ear. "Hmm? You'll have to speak up; all these years that have passed since you got into that tree have taken my hearing." Smirksmirksmirk.
It's not hard to tell what Desmond wants because he's working so hard to get it. Ilse's buttons are easily pushed, but she restrains herself from tackling her former mate. With a final snort, she rolls her shoulders and sets her jaw. "Good night, Desmond," she says firmly as she steps out from under the tree and toward the house. Her shoes are inside, after all.
But Desmond isn't going to back down easily. He follows a few steps behind, tossing the apples over his shoulder as he goes. "What? Ilse Braun running off with her tail between her legs?" He overexaggerates the shock in his voice, making it startlingly sarcastic. "My God, here comes another apocalypse."
[OOC] Ilse says, "Can she punch him in the face?"
[OOC] You say, "She can tryyy. He might dodge away."
[OOC] Ilse says, "I will pose, then we have to pause so I can sleep. x.x"
[OOC] You say, "Mmkay."
Jokes about Ilse running away from anything strike a very soft, tender, perhaps even inflamed spot within the wolf. Without so much of a growl to warn the feline, the greyback whips around with her right hand balled in a fist, aiming to strike Desmond in the face with as much force as she can muster.

OOC Note: There's a block of log missing because I copy/pasted wrong in my e-mail to myself. Full log will be posted on Thursday or Friday.</i>

Being feline and quick to react saves Desmond from getting a broken nose this time. He halts in his tracks and jerks his head back, narrowly avoiding a full-on punch in the face--so narrowly that Ilse's knuckles graze the fleshy part of his chin. The breeze caused by the forceful blow tells him that this is not a friendly, playful hit, but it does nothing to wipe the Cheshire grin from his face. He'll take what he can get. There's no attempt at retaliation on his part; just a low chuckle.

"I hate you so *fucking* much, Desmond Cusick," Ilse growls. Does she really mean what she says? Maybe. She certainly hates him right this second. If she had hair, it would whip behind her when she turns again, stalking back toward the house.

"Ha!" Desmond continues to follow, keeping a few more steps between himself an Ilse than previously--just in case. "You don't mean that." He sounds quite confident in this assumption. He is either in serious denial, clinging desperately to the hope that she does not, indeed, hate him; or he has quite readily decided that she's lying through her teeth. "/You/, my dear Ilse Braun, still love me." So there.

Ilse reaches the kitchen door, but pauses as she opens it. Without looking at Desmond, she slips through. "Do I? Really?" But then she slams the door, and a tell-tale click can be heard before Ilse moves away from the door and down the hall to where her shoes rest.

Now /that/ is just low. As seems to be the case with all people who are locked out of their homes, Desmond first tests the handle to make sure that it's locked. Finding that it is, he smirks and quickly dashes around to the front of the house. She has to come out /sometime/, and her shoes were left in the hall. Once he reaches the front door, he knocks on it, leaning with his forehead against the wood. He, unfortunately, does not have his house key on his person. "Very funny, Ilse," he rumbles. "Open the door."

In the time that it takes Desmond to go around the house to the front door, Ilse has put her shoes on. She pauses in opening the door when Desmond demands it of her. "I thought you said that I *needed* to laugh, Desmond," Ilse says with a snide sort of sneer.

It would seem he's not the only one who finds enjoyment in throwing words back into the faces that have spoken them. Desmond can't help but grin a little. Being locked out isn't a major crisis, and he's more relieved to see that Ilse is toying with him than anything. Surely it counts for something. "Don't make me do something embarrassing," he retorts, tilting his head a little to one side and arching an eyebrow, forehead still planted against the wood.

"I think the window in the attic is unlocked," Ilse remarks somewhat coldly, thinking that scaling the house would be the embarrassing thing. "Or maybe you can go spend the night in the arms of one of your kittens." No, Ilse hasn't forgotten Gretchen Greene's words in front of Bruce Benedict.

Indeed, Desmond was pondering just that very entrance, but the remark about the kittens stops him. He lifts his head away from the door and blinks once, twice. He hasn't been with a cat since . . . well, since he started being with Ilse. But surely she knows that. The puma smirks again. "Maybe I will," he remarks, crossing his arms over his chest. "I wonder who would be awake this time of night?" His tone remains playful, joking, and obviously so.

"You're nocturnal, aren't you?" Ilse's tone hasn't changed much, but any change in it is only colder and infused with more hatred. "So go."

That dampens the smirk on Desmond's face, and his brows knit. It almost sounds like she means that--not that he would be against giving up the house to her. He has the couch in his office at Headquarters to sleep on, as well as some extra clothes, but she can't possibly believe that he has been unfaithful. He uncrosses his arms to lean against the doorframe, a hand on either side of the jamb. "Ilse, please," he murmurs, his tone no longer light. "Open the door."

But Ilse doesn't respond. Inside, the faint noise of sneakers on the hardwood floor can be heard as the wolf walks back toward the kitchen and the back door.

There's no telling where those sneakers are heading, except that they are no longer near the front door. As such, Desmond can only assume that he's being ignored, and he purses his lips a moment. Finally, he shakes his head and turns away from the house to start heading for the gate. She can have the house tonight; he doesn't care. He doesn't care that he's barefoot either--that's what pawpads are for. The puma pauses at the fence to strip off his shirt before he begins to make the change to a furrier, more four-legged form. The ring on its chain is exposed to the moonlight; it's the only bit of human clothing he'll take with him.

Those sneakers were heading for the back door that Ilse has previously locked. Once in the backdoor, Ilse makes short work of the fence, vaulting over it with ease in order to walk up between her old home and her old neighbor, heading toward the street. She remains completely unaware that Desmond is inside the front gate.

Being a feline--and one of the best jumpers in the feline world at that--a tall wooden fence is nothing to Desmond, especially in full-puma form. It takes only a powerful kick of his hind legs to send him hurtling smoothly over and onto the sidewalk beyond. Once there, he crouches a little, ears swiveling, eyes wide, and nostrils flaring to pick up any signs of others in the area. Since it's late, most are already asleep anyway. After ensuring the coast is clear, he sets off along the side of the street, unaware that he's moving closer to Ilse. He still thinks she's in the house.

But Ilse is fully aware of Desmond on the street as soon as she comes out of the 'alley' of sorts. This is partly due to the fact that she herself has shifted in order to avoid the shame of walking and riding the monorail back to the den and being seen in the ever-awake bottom level without any hair. Her clothes tossed over the fence and into Desmond's front lawn, the blackish grey wolf's sharp blue eyes snap to look at the puma while sticking to the shadows of the main street.

The wolf can hide herself, but her scent is another story. As Desmond draws closer, the light breeze brings a familiar smell to his nostrils, and he stops dead in his tracks. It's a very confusing smell, mainly because it is not one he expected to find out here. His ears go back instinctively, and his head drops as his eyes peer into the darkness, trying to pick out the canine shape that he knows is hiding somewhere in the shadows. Why isn't she still in the house? The puma is now quite painfully aware of the visible trinket around his neck, and he wishes he had something with which to cover it. He does his best by keeping his head low and half-crouching, tail lashing behind him.

Ilse was lucky enough that the fur around her neck was thick and covered the ring when she wore it. The lashing tail brings a twinkle to her icy eyes and she can't help but let out a very low and soft howl from the shadows. It's not as if the sky wasn't already full of wolfsong any given night in Bleaker, and she knows how it disturbs the puma so.

Another violent lash from his tail, and Desmond's ears pin back. The rest of his body visibly tenses, and a low feline growl issues from his throat. He doesn't like howling. Howling is scary stuff. It helps to pinpoint Ilse's position, however, and his eyes lock on her dim outline. So long as he can see her, he's safe. She can't spring a surprise attack on him if he knows where she is.

Desmond was right. Ilse *did* need a laugh, and her muzzle parts in a wolfish grin, her tongue lolling out in a pant. She crosses the street, her black form streaking through the light of the lamps before she disappears back into the shadows and releases another soft but chilling howl.

But Desmond saw that movement, even if he's lost the wolf again in the shadows, and he crouches still lower. He doesn't want to move for fear that he might wind up with his back to Ilse--and that is not something he could allow--but he loathes remaining still like a frightened kitten. So he compromises: the puma begins to slink on up the street, remaining low to the ground, ears flattened, and all senses alert to the wolf that seems to find such joy in scaring him.

It's puppyish, but there is a more mature sense of satisfaction as Ilse runs forward out of the shadows toward Desmond's tail in order to snap at it silently, her tail a blur behind her. Yes, she's bubbling with joy.

Being so very much on-edge, Desmond is not thrilled at this new development. When he feels teeth at his tail, he whips around with startling speed, releasing a squall as he goes. He pivots on his hind legs, freeing up both forepaws for swatting--which he does wildly, one paw after the other. In his fear and anger, he doesn't seem to care that his claws are out.

What began as play turns to a real fight when one of Desmond's batting and clawed paws strikes Ilse across the cheek. She yelps, the sound loud and high pitched, but it's soon followed by a snarl as she lunges with teeth bared at the second of those paws, lips pulled back with fury.

The canine snarl is followed closely by a feline scream of pain as Desmond's paw is bitten, leaving a gash on the thick pad in the center. He once again swings for Ilse's head--but he has the presence of mind to sheathe his claws this time, aiming more to bludgeon than cause damage. At the same time, he scrambles backward a few paces, but he doesn't get far. The sharp report of a pistol is heard, and the cobblestones nearby spark as a bullet glances off them. Alerted by the howls--something he has been cautioned to keep his ears open for lately--one of the Zero Tolerance security guards has rushed onto the scene. The darkness and movements of the two shifters has prevented him from getting a good shot, but by the look of things, he'll not be making the same mistake twice.

It's the gunshot that causes Ilse to let go of Desmond's paw, her fur bristling and ears slicking back in fear. And yes, she does run away with her tail tucked between her legs. It's a dangerous route on foot between the Upper Level and the Bottom, and would be safer if one had opposable thumbs and/or the ability to climb. So when Ilse retraces her steps from when she fled from Bruce's house, she more falls than climbs down the steep and narrow passage littered with stone and steel.

Fleeing from a fight is not something Desmond enjoys, but in this case, he's willing to make an exception. It would be stupid to attack the guard--the man is armed, and the puma does not have the element of surprised, not to mention the fact that this is the Upper Level. There are other guards around who would make quick work of Desmond. Thus, the cat is not far behind Ilse when she runs. The passage is unfamiliar to him, but he charges into it without hesitation. It's either through the rabbit hole or death. As he is disappearing within, however, another gunshot is heard behind, and he feels a burning pain as the bullet grazes his right haunch. It doesn't slow him down as he follows Ilse down, using sound, scent, and his whiskers to get him through the passage.

It's almost straight down, and Desmond is sure to make easier work of it than Ilse does. Gravity helps her a bit too much, so when the wolf finally lands in an alley near the city's wall, she's banged and bruised. The wolf lies there, her paws braced against the slightly damp pavement (and for all accounts, it's likely the alley belongs to Rainway) as she winces silently.

Thanks to claws and an instinctual ability to keep himself from falling too much, Desmond's descent is slower and less abrasive. When he lands, he has the ability and sense to hit the pavement on all fours, and he turns himself to land not on top of Ilse, but to the side. His wounds have already begun to heal, the one on his haunch worse than the one on his paw, and his high pain tolerance allows him to ignore them in favor of lowering his head to sniff at the wolf's face, attempting to ascertain her state.

Angry is the answer. Ilse lifts her head when Desmond nears it with his own, her mouth open and teeth bared. But she doesn't make any noise. The pain caused by the fall of sorts and the claw marks on her cheek may be dull, but it still hurts.

In his paranoid state of mind, Desmond doesn't immediately realize that he's the one being silently snarled at. He lifts his head to glance all around, making sure that there isn't anything threatening in the area. Finding nothing, he lowers his muzzle again. So Ilse is mad at /him/, then. He knows why; he can see the marks on her face. The puma emits a soft, reassuring purr and slowly begins to move his face forward, seeing just how close he can get to the wounds before he's reproached with teeth.

Desmond might not have been allowed to get far if Ilse didn't open her eyes in time to see the ring on the chain around his thick neck. The volume of her growl increases, but once the metal comes into focus in the dim light, it dies off into a low rumble. It's very possible he didn't mean to hurt her, and that he wasn't trying to bloody her face further. Not if he was wearing *that*.

Normally, getting so close to a growling wolf would be considered suicide. Desmond is in such a position that his throat is vulnerable, and it would be a lie to say that he isn't apprehensive. However, he trusts in the idea that Ilse still loves him; she /wouldn't/ kill him. He is completely unaware that the ring has done anything to save him from harm--in fact, he's rather forgotten that he still wears it. When he isn't attacked, and once he's in range, the puma's tongue flicks out to rasp against the wounds on Ilse's face. He continues to purr quietly, going along with the grooming instinct that, though faint, is present in his psyche.
The wolf's eyes close when the tongue brushes the blood on her face, but her growl remains a constant. It's low, however, and doesn't herald any immediate threat. It would be wrong to say Ilse is content in lying there in the alley, but she isn't moving.

The growl may as well be a purr, for all Desmond cares. He's cleaning wounds now, and quite frankly, he's stopped caring about the alley, the soreness in his muscles, and the fact that Ilse could lash out and kill him within moments. He knows she won't. After a few swipes at the wolf's cheek, he falls into a bit of a trance, and the grooming shifts up toward the top of her head. All the while, his purring continues. Purrpurr, groom, purrpurr.

When the tongue moves, however, so does the wolf. She stands stiffly, her muscles crying out against the idea and only quieting slightly once Ilse stops in a doorway. The stone of the building is covered in vines, and it doesn't look to be occupied at all. But staying in the middle of an alleyway is a bad idea.

Movement snaps Desmond out of his grooming trance, and his ears perk forward as he watches Ilse slip away. At first, he fears that she is running away again, but it soon becomes apparent that she's only looking for a hiding place. The cat follows after, flinching when his right hind leg is put to use. The bullet wound has not quite healed enough, and he becomes quite aware of it now. Still, the only indication of its presence is a slight limp; to all other appearances, the puma is fit and strong. He stares in through the doorway over Ilse's shoulder and, finding no signs of occupancy, he starts to head inside. It's as good a place as any.
Once through the door, Ilse turns to nudge it shut...but there is a puma in the way. Growling slightly louder, she waits for the cat to slip inside before she shuts the door as firmly as she can with the jerky movements of her head, limping a bit herself. But it's no bullet wound that hinders her, just a few bruises and general soreness from the fall. The light cut off, Ilse's blue eyes glint and glimmer before she settles down again and closes them.

Once he's inside, Desmond plops down onto his left haunch and proceeds to clean the wound on the opposite haunch. It isn't deep, but it will cause some soreness. The one on his paw has healed already, and it is given only a swipe or two of the tongue to dislodge the scab. Grooming continues even after the door has closed, cutting off the light. Once he's satisfied that he is sufficiently clean, the puma ambles over toward Ilse, taking advantage of his excellent night vision and sense of smell to locate her in the darkness. Once he gets near, he drops his head to sniff inquisitively at her face. Sleeping? Awake? Still grumpy?

Asleep, but with each breath Ilse exhales a quiet growl. Grumpy. Sore. Pained. Unlike the puma, the wolf lacks any ability to heal herself without the aid of gauze, antiseptics, or painkillers.

But not bitey. Desmond takes this as a good sign and aims to apply several licks to the wolf's face. He is not only in a pleasant grooming mood, he is also subtly asking permission to settle down nearby--feline for "is this spot taken?" Once again, his purr rises up: soft, but audible.

The licks wake the wolf, but Ilse's answer is simply to turn her face away. No, no bitey. Again, the licks are submissive enough that in such a stat, Ilse allows them and allows Desmond to remain near.

This is a perfectly acceptable response to Desmond, who is quite happy to cease licking long enough to pad around the wolf and ease himself down behind her. Once he's settled, however, grooming resumes. Ilse just took a tumble down a dirty passageway; she needs cleaned. Besides, grooming is a soothing thing, both for the puma and--hopefully--the wolf.

It *is* soothing, but disturbingly so - so much that the act hinders Ilse from much needed sleep. Exhaustion wins out in the end, and the wolf's breathing signifies that she's slipped into a state of unconsciousness, lulled only in part by Desmond's purring and ministrations.

Even after Ilse has fallen asleep, Desmond continues to groom. By the time his jaw and tongue grow too tired to maintain the motions, he's lulled himself into a half-conscious state. It doesn't take much effort to lay his chin across Ilse's neck, and his purring tapers off as he drifts into sleep. With the familiar scent, the sound of a heartbeat, and the warmth of a body so nearby--in addition to the comfort this form offers anyway--it is the best night's sleep he's had in months.

Dinner at the Cusick residence now involves throwing apples, Zero Tolerance, and angst. BOY OH BOY.

"Guns...I would have though you would have your own guards."

Tue, 28 Aug 2007 05:26:19 GMT

No matter how long I live, the ignorance of the upper class will never cease to amaze me. I thought Lady Na'Ostiria was at least more logical than others, but I fear she is as much of a bleeding heart as the pacifists in the Belfry.

Bats in the Belfry: hiding away from the terrors that lurk about in the city, coming out only when they can mask their shameful faces.

They are all as bats.

Shifters and mutants on a whole have every right to rise up and use whatever brutal force necessary to take their rightful place in our society. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool. Anyone who begs mercy from them after so many years of torment and oppression is also a fool.

Fools who live above the wise.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[WL] Na'Ostiria Estate - Entrance
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A tall stone wall encloses this estate from the outside world, dark sandstone topped with red tiles and wrought iron spikes. There is only one entrance and that lies behind a pair of tall wooden gates, re-inforced with iron.

The corners of the wall have guard-posts whilst above the threshold of the doors an armed security detail is on duty checking every person who stops and wishes access to the sprawling estate.

Beyond the gate lies a wide courtyard, flagstone floor, there is a stablehouse here, part stable part house where the free horse-shifter staff of the family live. The coaches are stored in the adjacent coach house. On the opposite side of the courtyard a row of small cottages stand, home to the servants of the estate one family to a cottage or up to four unmarried servants living together, each with their own little garden.

There is no visible means of accessing the guardhouse from the courtyard for that added security and the estate house itself can barely be seen from here. Tall spires, domes and iron edged roofs in the true gothic neo-victorian style. They all rise into the air from behind another wall. A large archway gives access to a tunnel that leads underneath the gardens of the estate, terminating at the oval shaped courtyard with its fountain that stands before the manor house itself.

The tunnel is well lit, a single rock lined pathway that can be sealed off at either end should the front gates ever be breached. From the oval courtyard it is possible to look back and see what the wall keeps all and sundry from seeing. Where one would expect to see the vast expanse of manicured lawns one sees only green and red and silver leaves.

There is one path that leads around to the left of the house, leading to the trades-man entrance and the east side courtyard dedicated to store-houses and kitchens. The courtyard is hemmed in on all sides by tall hedges, the estate is one large expanse of maze, some stone, some hedge dotted with little clearings and gardens.

================================================================================

Evening and the sun is setting out over the desert, a blood red sun sinking into a bank of white clouds, golden light shimmering off the sun, reflecting off the white marble roof of the summer house which sits atop a small hill, one of the centre points of the Garden Mazes of the Na'Ostiria. Isabelle and her father are waiting at the top of the terraced hill for their guest to be escorted in.

And he soon is. Desmond Cusick--dressed in a dark blue suit, black Fedora, and sunglasses to block the desert sun--wanders along behind his escort as he's led toward the two aristocrats. He is a little sore from the training he's been going through at Creed's compound, but it doesn't show. Beneath his shirt is a thin silver chain containing a small, simple, white gold ring with a modest diamond. When he's announced and within range of Isabelle and her father, the puma smiles genially and removes his hat, bending slightly at the waist. "Good evening, Lady Na'Ostiria, Baron Na'Ostiria," he greets.

The Baron eyes Desmond, dressed in formal evening wear and nods, leaning on his cane. "So this is the enigma Mr Cusick, I've been hearing tales about you lad, from all sorts of people." Isabelle smiles and moves forwards, dressed in a low cut satin and silk evening gown, a necklace at her throat set with a palm sized emerald. "We are glad you could finally make it Desmond, come up to the veranda." She gestures up the steps towards the top of the hill.

Formal wear has never been Desmond's forte, because formal wear usually requires a tie--and the puma loathes ties. Still, he's dressed well enough. The hat remains off, and as he moves up the steps to the veranda and into the shade, he removes the sunglasses as well. "I hope they were good tales, Baron," the puma chuckles softly. "I would hate to think that you have fallen victim to my detractors."

The Baron laughs as he sits down at the dinning table that has been set up in the shade, set for three people, a circular thing with a tablecloth over it and exquisite table wear. "Yes my daughter, the merchants guild and my friend Joshua. I hear that you are both....acquainted."

"Ah, yes. I am a friend of Joshua's." Desmond's smile widens. He owes a great deal to the hunter--ironically. The puma remains standing beside the third chair, opting not to sit until the lady of the trio has been seated. "It would seem I am fortunate that you have had contact only with those who count me as an ally."

The Baron holds out Isabelle's chair for her and then seats himself with a sigh, glad to be off his feat. "I have only heard of one person who does not like you. Some wolf-lady who was being processed by ZT as a prisoner." He glances at Isabelle who nods and smiles at Desmond, "Please sit down," She watches one of the servants approaching with wine.

Once his hosts are seated, Desmond also settles with a grateful nod, and he glances at the wine-bearing servant with a faint smile before returning his attention to the baron. "Yes, it would seem there was a slight misunderstanding between myself and Ilse Braun," he responds with a wider smile, "but it is being resolved." Coincidentally, this is something he owes to Joshua Creed.

The pair exchange a brief glance then look to Desmond as the wine is poured, "So what exactly have you and Joshua been doing together?" The Baron asks, "I find it intriguing."

"Joshua Creed has offered to teach me a little more about guns and their uses," Desmond responds casually. "In this city, one can never be too careful." He smiles again to the servant and gives a thankful nod when his glass is filled, then takes it up and scrutinizes it in his usual fashion before taking an experimental sip. The liquid is rolled around his tongue for a moment before he swallows and lifts the glass toward the others. "This is very fine wine."

Baron Wayne chuckles and nods, "It should be, finest stock, from a lower level winery but still some of the best I have tasted." Isabelle is not drinking her own wine, just swirling it in the glass and watching the servants wheel a trolley over. Several of them will smell like shifters to Desmond's nose. "Guns...I would have though you would have your own guards."

That brings a somewhat wry tone to Desmond's smile. He's noted the shifter scents of some of the servants, but it makes little difference to him. As he recalls, the Na'Ostiria estate keeps staff, not slaves. "I am not the sort to hide behind bodyguards," he intones. "I'm still young and fit enough to take care of myself, if the need should arise."

Isabelle inclines her head, "Some would say that about me, but even so...I find I feel safer knowing there are properly trained people watching my back. Without my guards I would be very vunerable." The Baron looks at his prawn cocktail with wry determination, it has been exquistetly made with prawns, lettuce and that pink seafood sauce.

Desmond takes another sip from his wineglass and then sets it on the table, mulling over the taste and texture as before. He looks to Isabelle when she speaks, and makes an answer only after he's swallowed: "That is different. Forgive me a little misogyny, but you are a woman, Lady Na'Ostiria. While I'm certain you could hold your own in some instances, there are many more dangers out there for you than there are for me--" and that's saying something, considering what and who he is "--and having a bodyguard or two is beneficial to you."

Wayne nods his head, "Yes...I guess if you truly have to, you can grow fur and claws and slash and bite." The Baron's daughter shifts at the mentioon of Desmond and his feline nature. "I am sure Desmond is well aware that he has...extra abilities to help protect him."

But Desmond isn't made uneasy by the mention of his abilities. He grins briefly and laughs quietly. "Yes, there is also that," he utters. "Being what I am is a gift. Sadly, not many see it that way." Which is what he's fighting to change.

Isabelle nods her head, "Yes...a gift, Lord Darius reminded me that we are all after all human. Some of us...just have gifts that can be used." The baron snorts. "Or abused and the problem is...to many shifters abuse their gifts and harm others."

"Can you blame them?" Desmond snorts, lifting an eyebrow with a faint smirk. The baron has touched on a subject that the puma believes very strongly in: shifter rights. "We have been beaten, whipped, enslaved, slaughtered, and tortured since before even the eldest in our fair city can remember. Some have grown tired of remaining passive." Desmond among them.

The Baron frowns at the man as the prawn cocktails are taken away, replaced by bowls of clam chouder. "Do you know why such oppresion began? Have you read the history of why a slavers guild was allowed to form in this city?" a discussion! Perfect just what Wayne was hoping for.

"Quite frankly," Desmond responds, glancing again to the servant who places the bowl in front of him, "the history of /why/ hardly interests me. The reason the Slaver's Guild remains is to line pockets and supplement an economy that could be very easily maintained by the work of my guild--the Merchant's Guild. The hunters remain for the exact same reason: the demanding cries for pelts are louder than the cries of those who happen to be wearing those pelts when they're ripped from their bodies. Forgive me, Baron, but there is no excuse for such barbaric practice."

The Baron leans forwards, "Really, then why doesn't the Merchants guild undermine the Slaves guild. Make it cheaper to hire free servants then to buy slaves. Make it harder to buy new guns and ammo, drive them out of bussiness."

The smirk on Desmond's face widens. "Because the Merchant's Guild is hardly interested in taking such a course of action," he remarks wryly. "Making it difficult to purchase firearms would cut into guild profits, and it would hardly put a stop to the hunters. They get their licenses through the Slaver's Guild, and as long as hunting is legal--regulated as it may be--it will continue."

Isabelle leans forwards and smiles, "Then the Merchants guild are just as bad as the Slavers or Hunters. If they care too much about profits to force the Slavers and Hunters out of action. Which they could don, then they are guilty by doing nothing."

"Then you can understand why the shifters and vampires and mutants have decided to take matters into their own hands," Desmond retorts, smile never wavering. "No one will help them but themselves." The puma isn't perturbed by the remark about his guild. He has never expected the Merchant's Guild to do anything but build profits and supplement the economy, despite Decarabia's offer of backing the Meridian if it should prove worthy of such.

The Baron shakes his head, "Well some of the aristocracy help where and how they can. Without jeopodising their own families. We all...have secrets these days which make us want to help."

"Yes, some of them wish to help," intones Desmond. "Unfortunately, they do so by buying slaves with the intent to free them--noble, but hardly the way to go about things. It only supplies the Slaver's Guild with more money, more power. Others open their homes to the oppressed masses." Violence is clearly the best answer, and it's one the puma backs wholeheartedly. "If the aristocracy really wished to, they could put a stop to hunting by no longer purchasing pelts and demanding that the practice be stopped. Unfortunately, that hardly seems realistic."

Isabelle drums her fingers on the table, finishing her soap and watching as the main dish of lemon sole is laid before them all. The Baron speaks up as he picks up his knife and fork. "Some of our peers are bigots, fools who think they rule this city, like Kent, but they forget who truly runs this town, look to convincing Zero, but Zero will do nothing whilst there is violence from shifters."

Desmond snorts softly as he, too, tucks into the plate before him. Conversation prevents him from eating in his usual fast, efficient manner, but it's still obvious that he is much quicker than his tablemates. "I hardly think it fair to expect shifters and other mutants to lie quietly in the hopes that someone /might/ end their oppression," he growls. "We have been quiet for too long, and it's only made the slaughter easier. It's time our voices were heard."

Isabelle leans forwards looking towards Desmond, "And how shall you make your voice heard? Through death and murder and carnage? Do you support such actions Mr Cusick?"

The fork and knife in Desmond's hands go still, and he stares across the table at Isabelle with an expression that borders upon "cold". The smirk remains, but it's no longer an amused one. "Imagine for a moment, Lady Na'Ostiria," he rumbles, "that you are one of Bleaker's gifted. You are born into such poverty that your parents--if your parents even remain with you--can barely fill the table once every two days. The clothes on your back have been salvaged from dumpsters full of fleas and parasites of every unpleasant nature. Because your family has the misfortune of being different, they are slaughtered, and their skins are to be seen upon the bodies of the city's aristocracy. To whom do you turn? Zero Tolerance? Perhaps you have not been to the Lower Level to see that the gangs running about beneath Mister Zero's banner would sooner beat you for your credits than offer protection. Everywhere you turn, you are scorned, mocked, spit upon, simply because you were born differently than those in power. Do you remain quiet, sitting in the shadows, praying that the next corner you turn will not be your last; or do you seek to do something about the atrocities laid upon you and your kin?"

Wayne silences his daughter with a raised hand and leans forwards, watchoing Cusick, "You do something, you do it peacefully, in force, you do it well organised and with no violence. Because violence, and death just pisses off those aristocrats, WHO never go below, who do not know what truly happens. Unlike those of us who do know, we help Desmond, but we cannot do miacles."

"It is easy for you to preach peace, Baron," Desmond retorts, turning his gaze on the other man. "You sit up here, above the scum, filth, and poverty, and you have no possible idea how hard it is for those beneath you. You, who have probably never experienced a day of hunger in your life, can't fathom the struggle others experience for a simple bite of stale bread. For them, peaceful tactics have done nothing. When whispers fail, Baron, one must resort to shouts to be heard."

The Baron stares at the cat, "You are right, I have not." He is about to say more when Isabelle speaks up. "I however have Desmond, I have lived down trhere, walked down there alone and see what it is like. Why do you think I strive so hard to make a difference."

Desmond snorts softly. "And for how long did you remain down there? A day? A week? A month?" He's somewhat less than impressed. "Such cannot even hold a /candle/ to the lifetime of horrors my people suffer. So to answer your question, Lady Na'Ostiria: yes, I condone violence. I am only surprised that my people show such restraint in their actions; the same cannot be said for those who have shown violence to them."

Isabelle leans back, "Days, over the last few months Desmond, maybe I cannot understand but I can see enough." She leans back, her main course finished, sipping her wine and waiting for her father to be done.

"Yet you have a sanctuary to return to here," Desmond states. "These people do not." The puma is also done. Then again, he's a fast eater. He has been done for a few minutes now. "It amuses me that hunters are praised and rewarded for the murder of a shifter, yet my people are executed for striking out against said hunters. Tell me, does this seem fair?"

Isabelle shakes her head, "No it does not, it would be fairer...if hunting was opened up to all, if it could not be banned. But it can be banned and will be banned eventually."

As far as Desmond is concerned, hunting /is/ open to all. It's not legal, but it's open, and he enjoys taking part in it. The puma smirks and leans forward, elbows on the edge of the table and fingers tented before him. "There was an attack on the Hunting Lodge recently, I hear. I find it ironic that the first suspects were a pack of wolves who lived nearby--who later turned out to be innocent, correct? Yet they were attacked, imprisoned, and then released with little more than an apology. Then you wonder why we are so bitter." He settles back again, gaze flitting between the two aristocrats. "You have also imprisoned Ilse Braun for an attack she staged on Bruce Benedict. Bruce Benedict murdered an innocent child for the express purpose of causing harm to Ilse Braun. He also infiltrated her clinic and endangered the lives of her patients, effectively ruining her livelihood. Yet when she attempts to defend herself, she is clapped in irons and thrown in jail. Tell me, does /this/ seem fair?"

The Baron rockets to his feet, his chair tipping over, he stalks down the table until he is level with their guest. "Those wolves where attacked against all orders. THEY murdered my best friend in that arrest. And I intend to see him and those who died buried under this very hill. YOU will not speak ill of what happened. AS for Miss Braun, if this Benedict did as you claim. WHY did she not come to Ground Zero, hand over a complaint. We'd have investigated it, IF it was true, Zero Tolerance would have found out about it and destroyed his ability to work as a doctor in this city." He leans down, "But no, no she went and got all her wolf chums together, she attacked his house, guns a blazing MEANING that by our laws SHE is the criminal. we can't stage an investigation into Benedict, he is the victim, SHE ruined any chance of finding out what really happened because she had to take the law into her own hands. SO Mister Cusick, remember that next time, remember that Braun's thick headed vigilancy caused her imprisonment and leaves Zero Tolerance no recourse to investigate Benedict."

The outburst seems to amuse Desmond more than intimidate him, and he smirks all the wider, staring up at the other man. In fact, he begins to chuckle, and his lips part slightly in a partial grin. "That's just the thing, isn't it?" he sneers. "By /your laws/, /she/ is the criminal. Can you guarantee, Baron, that had Ilse Braun come forward, Benedict would have been investigated? Do you /really/ expect me to believe that an /aristocrat/ with such ties and esteem as Bruce Benedict would have been investigated, tried, and found guilty? The fact remains that claims made against the likes of Bruce Benedict tend to disappear, and those who file them are intimidated into silence by Zero Tolerance /thugs/. It is /you/ who left her no recourse. Taking the law into her own hands was the only way she could have hoped to have found justice."

Isabelle leans forwards, "My family is Zero Tolerance Medical, if such a claim had appeared against Bruce Benedict. I would not have let is just "vanish" and neither would my father. We would have come down on him like the proveribial ton of bricks.

"It isn't a matter of medicine, Lady Na'Ostiria," Desmond states, rising to his feet and taking up his hat. "It is a matter of murder, deceit, and the shattering of a woman whose only crime has been to help her kind. You are not the highest in the ranks of Zero Tolerance; Bruce Benedict likely has ties to those above you. One word from him, and all accusations against him disappear." He gives a nod to both aristocrats. "Thank you for the lovely dinner. I am only sorry that the conversation was not nearly as pleasant."

The Baron stares at Desmond, "Desmond, when it comes to Medical things, In Zero Tolerance, there is no one higher then me, and when I die, no one higher then my daughter. People don't tell me what to do. Only Zero tells me what to do and Dr Benedict DOES not have any tie to Zero, no matter how inflated he is, remember that." Isabelle subsides into her chair and sighs, "See you soon Desmond."

Somehow, Desmond is not convinced. He snorts softly and lifts an eyebrow. "You obviously know nothing of Bruce Benedict, Baron. Forgive me if I have no faith in Zero Tolerance as anything more than a mob with the protection and maintenance of the aristocracy being its highest priority." And with that, he replaces the Fedora on his head, touches the brim, and utters, "Good evening." He's soon setting off down the steps, on his way home.

Desmond has dinner at the Na'Ostiria estate, and the conversation isn't very pleasant at all.

"Cocky arsehole probably doesn't think anyone would touch his precious little ranch."

Thu, 16 Aug 2007 19:36:34 GMT

It is always particularly satisfying when plans begin to come together. I will have to speak with Zu, Machete, and Darius, and I'm sure Creed will want a few words, once he hears about this from Lorelei.

I look forward to seeing the look on Kent's face.

"Since when have I ever operated on your schedule?"

Tue, 14 Aug 2007 06:49:30 GMT

I could have

I should have killed

She kissed me b

I will send her thi

She had no righ

If she wants her things, she can send someone for them.

OOC Note: Log follows.

====[UL] Cusick Residence=====================================

The first thing one sees in this house upon entering is a small narrow hallway that angles off sharply to the left at the end--this branch leads to the bathroom and the kitchen. The walls are white, and immediately to the left of the door is a set of hooks for the hanging of hats and coats. The floor is hardwood paneling and plain, rugless.

At the end of the hall is a door leading into the den, which is furnished with a glass-topped coffee table topped with a small resin statuette depicting a panther lounging upon a rock. Next to the table is an overstuffed black leather armchair that looks rather comfortable. A viewscreen is within easy sight of this seat, and a few bookshelves line the walls. These are empty, for the most part, and accented here and there by a figurine of some sort. There are a few paintings strategically hung about the place as well, and the floor is carpeted in dark soothing green. There are two doors on opposite sides of the den: one leads to the master bedroom, and the other is locked.

The hardwood flooring in the hall continues into the kitchen, which is small, but functional. The counters are chestnut in color, and the bright yellow bulbs in the light on the ceiling fan are diffused by frosted glass protectors. There is a stove against the left wall, and a refrigerator against the wall at the far end of the room. A microwave has been set up between, next to the coffee maker and the toaster. In the center of the room is a rectangular wooden table with a single chair to keep it company.
==============================================================

Today was one of those days-off-that-are-not-really-days-off for Desmond. He did not have to go in for work, but that doesn't mean he spent the day doing nothing either. He was quite productive, and has now returned home to kick back and relax--with paperwork. Most of it is completed, and the puma is really doing nothing constructive, unless one counts tapping out a random beat on one's cheek with the end of a pen. He lazes in the chair, staring down at the papers in his lap, elbows splayed over the armrests. Desmond dresses in black lounge pants and a white tanktop. He is barefoot, and on the coffee table are the remnants of dinner: some sort of takeout from Rovigatti's.

It may not be Ilse's house anymore, but that doesn't mean her key doesn't work. Uncermoniously, the wolf shifter unlocks the door and barges in, letting the door slam behind her like a gunshot. But Ilse's speed is quickly cut down when the rug that she would normally be stepping on..isn't there. Neither is the couch that she should be able to see in the den. How quickly had Desmond cut her out of his life? Had she done the same? Gripping the nearly empty duffel bag she holds over her shoulder, Ilse steels herself and marches on, heading toward the den, as she assumes her things are in the bedroom beyond.

Once upon a time, the sound of a key in the lock and footsteps in the hall filled Desmond with relief and delight. Now, it just resurrects the unpleasant tightness in his chest and the somewhat numb feeling in his limbs. The puma stops tapping the pen against his cheek, and his lips purse into an almost stoic frown--but there is certainly bitterness there. He doesn't even glance up, though he's lost all interest in the papers. "You are early," he rumbles, his tone level, but unmistakably sardonic. "Come back in a few hours, after I have fallen asleep. Then you can slip away properly."

There's only one answer for that. "Since when have I ever operated on *your* schedule?" Ilse barks back, but at least her voice is softer than it could be. "I'm here now, and I'm not going to leave without my things." She doesn't even grace Desmond with a glance as she throws open the door to the bedroom, only to stand in frozen horror at the changes he's made. But what stings most is the removal of the painting.

And still Desmond does not look up. The pen begins to taptaptap against his cheek in a slow rhythm, though to the keen eye, it would betray his agitation. Ilse is here. A part of him is glad to have her back in the house--but it's a very small part that has been forcefully suppressed by the larger portion of his brain that would just rather forget about her entirely. This is not helped by the snappishness. He grunts and says nothing, absorbed in his work--or attempting to be. He doesn't offer any indication as to where her things have gone.

Anger rises with Ilse. She's the one who put things where they ought to be when they first moved in here, so to see things moved...well, it strikes a deep and painful chord in the wolf. She pulls her bag from her shoulder in order to dig into it, biting back a growl. When she finally extracts an eight inch by ten inch framed photo, she hurls it at Desmond. But no sooner has Ilse released the picture of all fifty Spartans, flanked by Ilse and Desmond and backed by a few of the Blood Meridian's members, she spins on her heel and storms into the bedroom in order to search the closet for her belongings.

The closet is completely devoid of even the remnants of Ilse's things, and as a result, looks somewhat empty. Oddly enough, Desmond is grateful for the anger. Anger is something he feels comfortable dealing with--much moreso than sorrow. The assault by picture frame is not expected, however, and though he sees the movements of the wolf cocking back an arm to hurl the picture, he doesn't have time to get out of the way. He manages to lift an arm to shield his face, and the projectile strikes him hard across the forearm. This really doesn't sit well with him, and he glares across at the bedroom door. Finding Ilse not there anymore, he rises to his feet and strides acros the den to peer in on her. The picture is held up, and he doesn't bother to look at it. His attention now is fully on Ilse--and it's not friendly. "I may not be as barbaric as Charon," he snarls, "but if you pull something like that again, I will put a mark on your face that would make even /him/ flinch."

Anger has a habit of quickly turning into malice. In the closet, Ilse turns. But she's not scowling. She's laughing. Loud and hard - too much so to be friendly. But laughing keeps her from crying. "You and Navarre have the same damned brain, just in two different skulls. Why're you bringing that lowlife up? You think he's in my bed now instead of you?"

Laughter probably hurts a thousand times more than crying would. Desmond would probably prefer the latter over the former. But Ilse isn't the only one who can snap, and the puma bares his teeth in a menacing expression that dances between a snarl and a grin. "Why not? You seemed so fond of the sewers he calls his home. But I suppose you found those unsuitable for your tastes as well. Climbing the ranks to street-performers?" He saw her on Milo's arm--he wasn't very impressed with the wolf's cowardice. "If you continue moving at this pace, perhaps you can whore your way through the whole of Fenrir's Children!" The low, biting retort is punctuated by the hurling of the picture onto the mattress, off of which it bounces and clatters to the floor. Desmond isn't there to see it fall; he's turned around and started for one of the bookshelves, from which he will extract the key that opens the room once known to house the children.

Of all the things that Desmond could have implied, Ilse being a whore is perhaps the worst, and the fact that she's already upset and angry makes it all the worse. Even before the photo has hit the bed and he's turned all the way around, the greyback's nails have lengthened to dark claws and her teeth have elongated and sharpened into much more feral versions. She launches herself with a snarl at Desmond's back, aiming to tear into him with claws and teeth.

It takes some doing to inspire Desmond to strike a woman with any degree of true ferocity, but Ilse has just crossed that line. The moment he feels claws in his back and the sting of teeth latching onto the chunk of muscle just over the top of his shoulderblade, the puma releases a bloodcurdling half-bellow, half-squall of pain that is certainly more feline than human. Instantly, his arms snap up and curl over his shoulders to grab onto anything he can reach of Ilse--shoulders, neck, or even the side of the head--and hers are not the only claw-bearing hands in this fight. Granted, his claws are not as long or sharp as hers yet, as his shift has only just begun. The impact causes him to stagger a step or two, but then he plants his feet firmly and then attempts to hurl his upper half forward, aiming to use the leverage of his hands (if he succeeds in nabbing the wolf) and the momentum of the maneuver to flip Ilse over his head and off his back.

Those feline claws find the back Ilse's thin t-shirt, and when he pulls her up and over his head, a few things of note happen. One: that old t-shirt tears, leaving shallow scratches in the flesh beneath. Two: Ilse's hat falls from her head, causing her hair to tumble down. Three: Ilse lands flat on her back, her snarl stopping as she exhales an "Oof" and her face twists with dull pain.

Instinct is what drives Desmond now more than anything. He's got his foe on her back: a position that makes the throat vulnerable. It is for the throat that he knows he should dive. One bite and it's over. This is what causes the puma to half-hop to one side and drop to his knees, putting himself at a right-angle to Ilse--an easy position from which he can reach the throat without much retaliation. However, instinct is still controlled mostly by logic and by a promise he once made that he would not do harm to the wolf. Even if she's attacked him, hurt him, there's no way he could snuff out her life. When Desmond rushes the throat, human control forces him to aim too high, more toward Ilse's chin than the windpipe and jugular. His teeth are longer and sharper than usual--but not by much. They are capable of inflicting damage if he bites hard enough.

But Ilse is unaware of the battle between instinct and reason that is going on in Desmond's mind. She only sees teeth coming toward her as she lies prone. She pushes both her hands and feet forward, though the latter won't connect with Desmond at all, and twists her head with a snarl to try and avoid the bite and inflict her own on Desmond's cheek at the same time.

It is not the cheek Ilse grabs, but rather the very corner of Desmond's lip. Being snagged by the face is most certainly an unpleasant experience, especially with a hand pressing against his throat and another against his forehead. He retaliates immediately: the bite he had aimed earlier for her chin becomes an attempt to catch the corner of her own lip (what he can reach of it) between his teeth, and one hand snaps upward to catch her jaw in his fingers. A throaty, warning growl is issued, and the message is quite clear: Let go, or else.

The fingers clutching and pushing at Desmond's neck dig their claws in as those on the puma's forehead scrape back in an attempt to grab Desmond by the hair. He's the one who has to let go first. He has to let her up. And Ilse isn't about to make herself prone in order to let him do that. Shutting her eyes tight, Ilse lets out a growl of her own.

With his throat being constricted a little by pressure, Desmond's growl becomes a bit more labored, but no less commanding. He isn't going to yield. This is his turf, and he was not the one to start this fight. He has no reason at all to back down. His fingers tighten around Ilse's jaw, and the puma very slowly begins to turn his head. He is made to make a sure bite on the first try, but when that fails, he also knows how to adjust his grip. The faintest chewing motion can be detected as he begins to seek purchase more toward the center of the wolf's lips. Progress is achingly slow, but he knows this is the most vulnerable spot available to his teeth at the moment--or perhaps there is some other niggling instinct driving him. It's rather hard to tell.

That secondary instict has sparked in Ilse's mind too, but it's helped along by other things. Did Desmond still harbor feelings for her? Even after the mistakes she had made, and how rudely she tried to push him away? Her grip in his throat and hair only tightens, though her claws start to dull a bit as she returns that same motion of her jaw, though it's hindered by Desmond's grip on her jaw. Outwardly, however, it's unclear if her goal is the same as Desmond's or if she is seeking to satisfy a different hunger.

It's hard to tell what Desmond's goal even is anymore, as there are so many different ones on his mind. One involves inflicting gross amounts of pain, /forcing/ Ilse to relinquish her grip; whilst another demands the very opposite; and still another screams at him to draw back. This could be potentially damaging, physically and emotionally, and while he does not mind the former so much, the latter is something he has proven himself almost incapable of handling. The three-way conflict has one goal fairly well ironed-out, however, and that is to continue the motion of his jaw. He can feel the reciprocation on Ilse's end, but it only encourages both the instinct to inflict pain and the one to inflict pleasure. What happens is an odd mixture of both: finding it impossible to get a good grip with teeth pinning both his lips, he forcibly yanks his upper one out of Ilse's grasp. His own teeth turn their focus to her upper lip, seeing as they can no longer reach the lower one, and the small fold of flesh clasped in his jaws is given a tender, almost inquisitive lick. His growl remains at a steady volume and grows no less authoritative; neither does his hand release nor tighten around her jaw.

Any doubt in Ilse's mind is erased by that lick, even if it comes with the price of blood shared between her tongue and Desmond's. She only renews a it on his bottom lip, aiming to draw the same droplets before she licks them away herself, infused with a blinding and befuddling mix of fury and passion. What follows is an angry, hungry, feral kiss.

Blood. Desmond remembers the taste. The last time he had this particular strain on his tongue, he had sworn to never again taste it. Back then, he had liked it, as horrified as he was to discover this; now, he finds it just as delightful, if not moreso. The grapple for dominance remains, but it acts only as a motivation for the puma to keep his teeth and lip locked with Ilse's. He still isn't going to let go, though such desire is fueled now by a different need. /Why/ he is getting a similar response from the wolf is not so important as the fact that he /is/ receiving it. Desmond's hand releases her jaw and instead moves to cup her cheek. The other soon follows on the opposite cheek, and he shuffles over on his knees to kneel more parallel and over her than to the side.

Likewise, Ilse's hands loosen their grip. The one in Desmond's hair pets him, albeit roughly, and the one on his neck moves to his chest to grip the strap of his tanktop. She doesn't let up on that kiss, though, as Desmond's own softening only spurs her instincts further.

Clothes are just in the way by now, and one of Desmond's hands does not linger long on Ilse's cheek. Instead, it trails down her throat and down to the collar of her T-shirt. Claws that were so intent on rending flesh now make the rending of cloth that much easier as the puma begins to tug and rip at the shirt, caring not in the slightest if it will be unwearable as a result. He wants this--he's wanted this for quite some time--and he would rather not wait much longer. Besides, trying to remove the shirt the usual way would mean breaking the kiss, and though his lip may be growing sore, he is not going to release that particular hold.

Something about the ripping of cloth sends up a red flag in Ilse's mind. No. This isn't right. Not right at all....but it feels so *good* to be back in Desmond's arms. Still, she starts to fight against him again, her return of the kiss shifting once more to angry bites as her growl grows to something much more threatening.

The shift in affection--harsh though it was before--is not hard to note, and it sends a surge of desperation and renewed anger through Desmond. No. She's trying to get away again, and it's starting to hurt all over once more. His assault on the shirt ceases--and surprisingly enough, so does his assault on her lip. It is simply a change in tactics, however: should he succeed in taking his lip from her own grasp, he will attempt to slip his head around to bite at the side of her neck, just as he used to do.

There are only two ways that sort of bite can lead, and Ilse isn't a fan of either of them right now. There are too many conflicting emotions and drives. When Desmond angles his head to her neck, Ilse lets out a louder, howl-like snarl as she sends a fist that was previously uncurled and pushing against Desmond's shoulder toward his face.

Such a strike is entirely unexpected, and though it is not nearly as hard as many a punch he's taken before, it's enough to get the point across--and to possibly bruise. Desmond's face is knocked to the side--away from Ilse--and being in such close proximity to the floor, it seems only natural to rest his forehead against the carpet. The puma squeezes his eyes shut, and both hands on Ilse drop palm-down to the ground on either side of her, giving her plenty of wiggle room to get free. It's painful, hurtful, and enraging, and his growl increases in volume, but he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that this is not right. It's probably best for both of them that this does not happen here, now, under these circumstances. The puma remain perfectly still and says nothing.

And wiggle free is exactly what Ilse does. Once she's out from under Desmond and standing again, she lifts a hand to wipe the back of it against her mouth to catch some blood from her seeping lip. "You decietful bastard," she says in a voice just above a whisper. "My shit isn't here. You fucking *lied* to me."

Cats may not bristle quite like dogs do, but were Desmond in a fuzzier form, he would look positively /wicked/ at this moment. To drive him completely wild, pushing him to an edge and then denying him the leap, is one thing. Calling him names and accusing him of deceit is an entirely different matter--especially since he is innocent of the crime. "Your /things/," he snarls, not bothering to lift his head from the carpet, "are in the childr--the /other room/." It is not the children's room anymore. The cat eases himself over onto his side and, like Ilse, lifts a hand to wipe at the trickle of blood that is coursing down his chin. "I was on my way to /show/ you this when you attacked me." He leaves it at that. The key remains on the bookshelf, but he isn't going to help her with it now. He's too tired, too hurt, too confused, and right now, lying on the floor with a bleeding lip seems like the less abrasive of his options.

"*You* attacked *me* first," Ilse barks back, her upper lip curling. Desmond had used fighting words, and Ilse wasn't about to let them go unnoticed and unacted on. "Have it shipped to Navarre's. And don't you try to tell me you've forgotten where he lives." She takes a deep breath even as she says the words, focusing her eyes on the doorway rather than Desmond.

/That/ takes the cake. Desmond surges into a sitting position and fixes his former mate with a most lethal glower. "/I/ was not the one who barged in here winging /picture frames/," he snaps angrily, teeth bared. His expression is made all the more menacing by the crimson staining his lip and chin. It is only a brief glance, however, as he quickly rips his gaze away again to bore holes in the far wall. "Get out."

"You've got a week," the wolf snarls, not wanting Desmond to have the last word. Ilse pulls the key where she'd tucked it into her pocket prior to bursting through the front door and tosses it to the floor, with a quieter, wordless snarl before she stomps out of the room.

The key doesn't remain on the floor long, however, as Desmond quickly snatches it up and hurls it in the general direction of the doorway, not bothering to aim or think of where it might land. His accuracy is a bit off anyway, as his leverage is somewhat lessened by the fact that he is sitting on the floor. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hopes it hits Ilse, though it's very likely that the wolf is already too far down the hall (and his aforementioned aim is too far off). For the most part, he doesn't care where it ends up; he just wants it far, far away. Once he hears the clatter of the metal against hardwood flooring, the puma rests his head on upraised knees, curls his arms over his skull, and begins the long, arduous fight against silent tears.

The key does not hit Ilse, and soon after it clinks on the floor, the slam of the front door can be heard. Ilse has no idea what she'll threaten if her things don't show up at Navarre's in a week's time. She honestly doesn't trust herself around Desmond. How easily she'd been tricked into attacking him...and then... he must have known she would have reacted that way. Why would he play with her like that? The thoughts eventually even out to a dull sort of confusion when Ilse reaches the monorail station, too thick to be plucked out one by one.

Ilse returns to the house to get her things. Fighting(?) occurs, of the bloody and somehow-not-fighty kind. There are gobs of emo. Wheeee.

"Remember my story, Desmond."

Tue, 14 Aug 2007 06:23:57 GMT

An interesting man. ~~Ilse would have liked hi~~ It will be even more interesting to meet the rest of the family. I never pegged Radovan as a family sort.

OOC Note: Log follows.

[UL] Nautical Nellie's Jazz Cafe
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The jazz cafe is fairly quiet this time of day. It's a fairly intimate affair while a small group of musicians, a particular crow among them on the saxophone. Some people are in the audience, sitting at the few of the tables, while a few waitresses bring drinks around.

Today is one of those rare and special days where Desmond is free from work. It is a magical time in which the puma gets to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Sadly, this usually constitutes work, making the day-off fairly inconsequential. One of the first orders of the day is meeting up with Radovan, as promised. Desmond enters the small café with the usual confident air, glancing around at those within the vicinity. He doffs his hat as he heads toward one of the tables, offering the saxophonist a brief nod and smile before he settles himself into a chair. He can wait for the music to end. He's not in any hurry today.

The music finishes shortly, so Desmond isn't kept waiting long. The crow turns to the others and holds up his hand. "Five guys, got a VIP to peep," he says, stepping off of the stage to walk over to Desmond. "Hey, turns out I got a bit of a gig to get done, my man. So do me a solid and listen up to my tunes, and you know, I think if you head back to that table in the corner, you'll hear the acoustics better. Plus the company is quite solid, I hear. After all, he's my father," he lets the puma know before leaving it to him to figure out before he heads up to the stage with the rest of the band. Sitting in the back is a tremendous Turkish man. He's easily a foot larger, and twice as wide as the crow. A pipe is tucked under a walrus moustache as he puffs, watching his son on the stage.

Not what Desmond was expecting, but he'll take it. He casts a glance over at the Turkish man before rising to his feet and ambling over to the table at which the other man is seated. The puma offers him a genial smile and a nod. "Good afternoon," he greets warmly enough. "I was directed to sit here by Radovan." Perhaps the father knows more about this odd turn of events.

The large man smiles, holding out his hand to the puma. "Raddie has told me about you, Mister Cusick," he says with a broad smile. "My name is Erol. Erol Karga. But I'm sure you can tell by my resemblance to me son." The man chuckles heartily at his joke before waving to a seat. "Sit, sit, no need to be so formal. Consider me a friend."

Sit Desmond does, after shaking Erol's hand. The cat settles into the chair with ease, the smile never leaving his face. "Pleasure to meet you, Erol. Please, call me 'Desmond'." This man has no reason to fear him, and thus is not confined to using such formal terms. Desmond glances between the man seated across from him and the one playing onstage, and his smile grows. "Yes, I believe I can see a bit of a family resemblance."

Erol chuckles to himself as he looks over to the crow on the stage, smoke curling from his pipe. "Radovan tells me you are a man of iron," he says, taking out the pipe to speak. "Is that a truth? Or has my boy been weaving tales?" The near giant smiles to the puma, clearly at ease in this situation as he questions.

"I suppose that would depend on your definition of the description," Desmond chuckles softly, folding his hands in his lap and cocking his head to one side. "I pride myself on doing things to better our world, as I see fit. Sitting idle has never been something I enjoy." Though it's been a tempting thought now and then.

Erol sets his pipe in his mouth as he listens for a while. "You're a leader, or so I hear," he says, with a slow nod. "I also hear," he starts, looking off to Radovan for a time, "That you may be suffering in your leadership. Or perhaps it is something else?"

Desmond shrugs slightly, his smile taking a wry turn. "These days, one would be hard-pressed to find anyone who was not suffering in some way or another," he remarks dryly. Still, the man is some sort of a friend, at least, and he's owed more than an evasive response. The puma relaxes his shoulders and pushes them back, as though working out a kink in his back. "I have had trials in my leadership, but they were nothing I could not overcome, and I seem to have it back within my control." The 'something else' is not mentioned. Like his leadership, it's something he's regaining control over.

Radovan laughs to himself. "Do you think you are the only one to have heard talk from a small bird?" he asks with a grin. "My friend, no one allows a woman to strike him in the street and turn the other cheek. Not a man like yourself," he says, having been told Radovan's feelings about Desmond and Ilse ever since he had first started informing them, including the incident in the bazaar months prior. "Usually, I do not pry into the affairs of my son's friends, but from what I understand, your partnership has broken. A partnership that should not have. For the sake of those like Radovan."

To say that Desmond is not put slightly on the defensive, having a stranger speak about his personal life so, would be a lie. He is, however, not wound so tight as to fidget or feel the need to flee. Then again, it's rare that he /does/ flee. His smile fades a little, but remains visible, for the most part, though it has lost some of its mirth. "I was raised to strike a woman only when absolutely necessary," he utters. "A slap on the cheek is hardly an offense worth retaliation." And he would never have struck her then, anyway--nor would he still. "The termination of that partnership was her doing, not mine. I offered what I could and she--" threw it back in his face "--refused it."

Radovan nods deeply. "I see," he says, "And that stops you?" The large man grins widely, leaning a little onto the table, which groans at his weight. "You are a man with many stories, Desmond. Perhaps you could tell me one while we listen to this music?" he asks, the table still trying to avoid buckling before the man picks himself off of it.

"It is difficult to extend a hand when it is continually slapped away," Desmond retorts with no small amount of bitterness. "Why should I go out of my way to offer her help when it is just refused? It has proven more trouble than it is worth." The last statement is hollow; he doesn't quite believe it himself. Still, the rest of his reasoning is sound and firm. The puma shakes his head. "I am hardly a storyteller."

Erol nods slowly, listening intently. "Then perhaps I can tell you a story?" he offers, "If you wish to hear an old man tell his tall tales." There's a gleam in his eye as he smiles under that bushy moustache of his.
Desmond inclines his head in concession. "By all means," he intones. He's not against a story now and then, and it's not like he has anything better to do right now.

Erol smiles, looking pleased with the allowance. "There were once two brothers," he starts, "One of them were given gifts by birth. Great physical power, and his mind was just as sharp. The other had less, physically weaker than his brother, and though he was smarter, it wasn't much." The Turk puffs on his pipe for an extended moment. "But the brother that was weaker, he made up for it with his courage, and creativity. While the strong one, he could solve his problems with his tough hide, and his strong arm, the weaker could not. Now the weaker, he knew his weaknesses, and sought others to help him overcome that. Now, Desmond, at this point, who is the brother that you would call a man of iron?"

The answer is very simple for Desmond, and it comes without hesitation: "The stronger one, of course. A man is nothing if he cannot stand alone. The strongest are needed to hold up society; otherwise, it will crumble." He knows, of course, that strength of the mind is as important as that of the body; he would not be where he is now if he treasured one over the other.

Erol nods slowly. "Perhaps you should listen to rest of my story?" he suggests, though he doesn't actually give the man the option as he continues his story. "Now time, it when on. And the two brothers continued on their way. The stronger, using his strength to solve what came his way. While the weaker did things his own way. Both accomplished much. Until one day, the stronger brother met a man who was his better. He was beaten, badly, and though he survived, he never had the same strength again. The man that was the better than the strong brother, was met upon by the weaker, who had come to avenge his blood. Now you see, the weaker knew he could not fight this man. He was too strong, he was too smart, he was too cunning. Yet, the weaker beat him easily."

Desmond lifts an eyebrow, but remains expressionless otherwise. "How so?"

Radovan chuckles quietly. "The weaker, he knew he could not fight against his better. So instead, he goes to this man and sits with him. He talks with him. 'Why do you hurt my brother?', he asks. 'Because he challenges me. He comes to fight. So I fight him,' the better replies. 'I cannot fight you, you are better than me. You have so much strength.' Now the strong man, he smiles at this, so the weak man continues. 'Tell me, you who have such power, what do you do with it?' he asks. This confounds the strong man. 'I have done nothing but prove my strength. That is all people want of me,' he says. 'I want you to prove the strength of yourself, but not your muscles. Prove to me you have a strong heart.' Now this, this is a new challenge to the strong man. 'Come with me, and let me show you a friend of mine, he is a healer, and can teach you much about strength of the heart.' And so he does, and the two become great friends. Thus, the enemy is not only defeated, but an ally is made."

Desmond shakes his head. "The fact remains that the weaker one's brother remains beaten and broken, never to be the same again. What of him? He is shattered, and his brother makes friends with the very man who shattered him. That hardly seems like justice to me." The puma is not against making strong allies, but he prefers to pick them from outside the pool of his enemies. They are easier to trust.

Radovan chuckles merrily. "You assume far too much, Desmond. I said he never had the same strength again, not that he was shattered. The stronger brother learned that there were others that were his better. He went to his weaker brother after learner of the strong man's defeat. He asked how it was done, and he learned there that it was better to make friends, and create stronger alliances, than to rely simply upon yourself. He did not have the same strength, he had more strength. That is why it was the weaker brother, that was a true man of iron. Because iron by itself is powerful, but it's true strength lies in joining other metals to make even stronger ones."

"That may be--" and Desmond won't argue it "--but one cannot force those other metals to bond to the iron if they are not willing to do so. There is no other choice but to leave those metals to fend for themselves--and if necessary, to break those metals if they stand in the way." The latter does not refer to currently broken alliances, but to others who are considered more enemy than friend. The puma is smiling, enjoying this little game. "Not everything is solved with friendship."

Erol chuckles, nodding. "That I will give you," he says with a puff on his pipe. "However, that does not mean you needn't try at all." The large man takes his pipe out and looks Desmond over. "Let us try a hypothetical. I am your enemy. I will not accept a friendship the way you present it. Will you challenge me? If so, how would you?"

"I would play to your weaknesses," Desmond retorts with a small shrug. "If you were physically weak, I would beat you physically. If you were strategically weak, I would beat you strategically. The key to bringing down an enemy is to target that which makes him weak."

Erol shakes his head. "You do not always know who your enemies are to plan. Right now, if I were to stand up and have at you, what would you do, Desmond?" he asks, grinning to the puma with that little glint in his eyes. "After all, you know nothing of me."

The grin is met by a smirk from Desmond, who tilts his head to one side. Erol may be jesting, but there is a real challenge in the puma's expression. "I am a fast learner," he responds. "It does not always take time to discover the weaknesses of an opponent." Desmond has never lacked in confidence when it comes to his ability as a fighter. As big as Erol is, he's sure he could find some way to bring the other man down.

Erol laughs heartily. "You are a brave man, Desmond," he says with a smile. "Perhaps a little contest. One of good nature and fun. Of brotherhood." The massive gent seems greatly amused by this as he stands up slowly, the sound of the floorboards squeaking under his feet. "Let me just get my chair," he says, bending over to pick up what he was sitting on, a large cylindrical log, and tucks it under his arm. "After you, my friend."

Never let it be said that Desmond shrinks from a fight. The puma rises as well, though his chair is just an ordinary chair. He's impressed by the other man's show of strength, but he is already formulating strategies on how to defeat Erol in a match. Granted, he's assuming it will be a wrestling match of sorts. Desmond inclines his head respectfully to the other man, then heads for the door.

Radovan watches from the stage and shakes his head. This was exactly why he got his father out here for this. Erol, on the other hand, is quite content with his play fight, floor creaking under his weight as he walks out to the side alley to toss his log chair aside and carefully remove a vest, similar to Radovan's, that he wears. "I am aware of your mutations, would you like me to make it fair and alert you to my own?" the big man offers, this is just for fun to him, after all.

Desmond inclines his head once again as he removes his suit jacket and begins to unbutton the cuffs of his dress shirt, rolling up each sleeve in turn. "By all means," he utters. He may be proud, but he isn't quite stupid. He'll take whatever advantages he can get.

Erol nods, smiling as he strokes his moustache a moment before planting his feet and crouching a little. "Do you know how vampire's musculature is denser than humans, that allows them their strength and speed? My family, except some of us, as you've seen, are what you could call, hyperdense." The man points to the log he was sitting on. "For example, I am roughly one and a quarter tons."

That brings a grin to Desmond's face as he secures his sleeves up past his elbows and rolls his head, popping the vertebrae in his neck. "I will make it a point not to try to lift you, then," he remarks jokingly. Such bulk will make this fight a little harder; the puma will have to rely mainly on wits and speed. Maybe he won't win at all, but he'll go down fighting. He adopts a partial crouching stance across from Erol and waits, watching the other man carefully.
Erol looks around, eyeing a dumpster and turning to it, slamming his hands on either side in a clamp to hoist the trash receptacle into the air as a large, cubic bat to swing at the puma. Erol is not afraid to use his strength, but to anyone used to fighting, they can tell he's not actually trying to clean the cougar's clock here.

Clearly, Erol is not the sort to banter before a match. Thankfully, Desmond is already set and prepared, so when the dumpster is swung in his direction, he bounds backward to avoid being knocked about. The disadvantage here is that he can't use his mutation here; on the Upper Level, shifting in broad daylight--even in an alley--carries risks that the puma would much rather not take. Still, he's agile and quick in human form, and once he's dodged the first blow, he continues to half-crouch and eye the other man. There's a grin on his face; he's enjoying this.

Erol laughs as he stops the dumpster just as easily as he swung it. Clearly, his strength and density reflecting his size. And no, the Turkish man is not one to banter outside of his jolly laugh. On the other hand, he has no problem with jabbing the trash receptacle at the puma, stepping forward with each forward push.

There's not much Desmond can really do when faced with such a thing. He's forced to start stepping backward, but he knows that he can't do so for much longer. There is, after all, a wall there. The puma quickly begins to sidestep, trying to circle around while still staying in front of the dumpster. His plan is to get out from between the wall and the trash canister.

Erol continues his plodding pace. Step, step, stepping towards Desmond. When the Puma starts to circle, Erol doesn't move to set the canister directed at the man again, this time, he just hauls off and hurls the bin through the air at the puma with a loud grunt of effort in throwing the metal object.

With little time to react and little space to move, Desmond resorts to what his species is best known for: jumping. In human form, he can't achieve the same incredible heights as his feline alter-ego, but he can still leap high enough to clear the dumpster's rim with a few inches to spare. He can't quite make it /over/ the thing, however, and winds up dropping in amongst the trash bags and other refuse. The smell is lovely. The uneven surface makes his landing less than graceful, but he quickly struggles to regain his footing and feet. Jumping might not have been a good idea.

Erol doesn't waste anytime after seeing the cat decide to take up dumpster diving. The mutant charges forward, pavement not too pleased with the weight of the man as he turns his shoulder out, full body tackling the end of the dumpster, buckling it inwards as he charges for whatever back wall there is to run into like some sort of Middle Eastern freight train.

Somewhere in the back of Desmond's mind is an inner child that is positively /thrilled/ by this interesting new ride. It's very small and overshadowed by the rush of fear and adrenaline that pump through his system, but it's there. The movement causes the puma's footing to be even less sure, but once he sees where things are headed, he knows that sticking around in the dumpster could prove costly. Thus, he grasps the rim of the end nearest Erol in both hands and half-hops, half-scrambles out of the trash. His new target: the Turk's back.

Erol's back is a handy, and rather large, target. The big man slows his charge as the battered dumpster rattles away. He chuckles merrily and pretty much leaves his back wide open for the puma to land on, he's more than sure he can support Desmond's weight.

Seeing as Desmond weighs considerably less than a dumpster, it's no surprise that Erol can support his weight. The puma hooks an arm around the other man's neck and begins to constrict, hoping to secure a stranglehold. Since this is a friendly match, he isn't going for any permanent damage--and knowing that Erol is of tougher stock than normal, Desmond is somehow not worried that he'll hurt the Turk.

Erol stops as the chokehold is applied. His breathing slows as he stands up full. "Good thinking," he says through the hold, smiling as he begins to slowly tip backwards. Friendly match or not, Erol is hoping that Desmond is wise enough to get out of the way before gravity does the hurting work on the puma for Erol.

Some would argue that wisdom isn't Desmond's forte, but he has enough of it to know that a man weighing tons threatening to land on him would lead to death. The puma releases his hold on the Turk's neck to grip his shoulders, and he tucks his knees upward, pressing the balls of his feet into Erol's back. Using his legs and arms to propel him, Desmond leaps back in time to avoid being crushed, and he lands in the fashion of all cats: on his feet. He's grinning still and laughs quietly.

Erol lands on the ground, hard, rumbling the area around him as he hits the pavement. The bulky gent takes his time getting to his feet. He's still grinning too, enjoying his bouncy little opponent. The big man is practically waiting for Desmond to attack him as he rises, moving slower than usual on purpose in hopes of provocation.

It's an opening Desmond is quick to take. Were he in a fuzzier form, he might have aimed to bite at Erol's throat, but his human teeth are far less effective in this regard. He settles instead for lurching forward to attempt another chokehold. Things usually end with the throat in a fight--or so he was taught.

Erol was waiting for the attack, smiling as he waits Desmond's assault. When the puma bears down on him, the Turk makes his move. He throws his long arm up, hand open and grasping for desmond's head to simply palm the shifter's head before he can get close enough for another stranglehold.

Though he was expecting some form of retaliation, Desmond was /certainly/ not expecting this. He's moving too fast to get out of the way in time, and thus, the puma winds up with his face engulfed by Erol's hand. It effectively stops him in his tracks, and he instinctively lifts both arms to grasp at the offending wrist. With something so close to his mouth, he also acts upon his next instinctive urge: his jaws part and he attempts to bite down on any part of the Turk's palm that he get his teeth into. It's not a hard bite--it remains well within the realm of "friendly scuffle"--but it's enough to inflict a bit of pain on the Average Joe.

Erol's skin is like leather. Sweet tasting leather at least, being a vintner and handling various fruits as he does all day. The bite is felt, and is less painful as it is very annoying to have someone nibbling on you. Erol does what your average joe would do in the event of something biting on you, he shakes his hand and lets go, hoping to dislodge the offending critter, in this case, a full grown man.

Since his teeth aren't sharp enough to grip, Desmond is easily shaken off. He doesn't have much reason to keep his jaws locked anyway, as his goal was merely to free his head. This is accomplished, and the puma is now free to once again leap forward and upward. He's very insistent with his chokehold idea.

Erol sighs as he gets yet another leap at him. He would have to talk to Desmond about predictability after this. This time, the Turk doesn't bother trying to grab, instead, just swinging his arm like a boom to smack puma man out of the air. This was a fun fight after all, no need to squish heads over it.

Now Desmond knows what it's like to be the fly swatted out of the air. He goes down on his side and shoulder, hitting the pavement with a soft 'oof'. It's not painful, really, nor is it debilitating. The puma rolls onto his back and starts to push himself onto his feet again, knowing full well that being down in a fight is not the most ideal of positions.

Erol slaps his shoulders, grinning widely as he waits for Desmond again. "Remember my story, Desmond," he says, winking and causing his walrus moustache to twitch a little. The Turk will take his stalwart advantage over the puma and wait for him to attack again. He can wait if he has to.

Once he's back on his feet, Desmond proceeds to brush himself off, grinning and shaking his head. Though he doesn't adopt a ready stance, his eyes remain on Erol. "I would not say that I have lost the war," he chuckles, "but I am willing to concede this battle, at least."

Erol remains in his stance, still watching Desmond with a broad, almost fatherly smile. "If you concede, I claim something in my victory," he says with a nod. "You will come to my house, and dine with my family. No business, no fussing about as a man of iron, but as a brother to the Kargas."

It seems a fair price to pay, and Desmond readily accepts it with a light chuckle. "I would be honored," he replies genially, already starting to roll his shirt sleeves down. "When?"

Erol stands up fully and strokes his moustache. "Can you make it two days from now? I would like to give Tatiana some time for us to plan the meal. I should warn you, we have a few children beyond little Raddie."

Desmond combs through his schedule as he picks up his suit jacket from where it was discarded before the skirmish. A few things are shuffled around to accommodate, and he nods. "Two days from now is fine--" he grins once more "--and I do not mind children." He dealt with fifty of them roaming around Headquarters for a time; somehow, he thinks he can survive one night with a family.

Erol retrieves his vest and puts it on carefully. "Good," he comments, nodding. "I think you will get along well with Leonid." The Turk looks at Desmond for a long moment. "Yes, you two are very similar."

"I look forward to meeting him, then," Desmond chuckles, slipping into his jacket. In the process, he catches a whiff of himself and grimaces. "If you will excuse me, I ought to go home and wash off the lovely smell of the Upper Level's refuse." A hand is extended toward Erol, and the grin returns. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Erol." And the puma means it.

Erol nods as he lumbers back to the door of the jazz cafe. "It was my honor to meet a man that could so easily be one of iron," he remarks as the door is opened and he manages to duck his way inside through the smaller doorway.

Desmond takes Radovan up on the offer to meet at Nautical Nellie's, and he meets the crow's father, Erol. Erol gives him some advice, and the two wrassle. Desmond is invited to dinner later on.

Log Dump.

Sun, 05 Aug 2007 22:39:49 GMT

[UL] Alistair's Home - Living Room
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The main floor of Alistair Sharpe's home is handsomely decorated. The front entryway features an attractive pair of wrought-iron sculptures, one functioning as an umbrella stand and the other as a coat rack. Immediately in front of the doorway is a carpeted staircase that stretches up to the second level, above which hangs a golden chandelier. A hallway to the right of the stairs leads to the dining room beyond, and that to the left leads to the main floor washrooms. Two doorways can be seen directly to the left and right of the base of the stairs. The left-hand one has no door to speak of, and only a frame: inside is the living room in which can be found two lounge couches, a table, and a well-dusted but well-loved grand piano. The door to the right of the front entryway is the guest entertaining room, usually with the large bay window left open and five comfortable red leather chairs drawn up to a coffee table.
================================================================================

It's been a couple of nights since Desmond left the catacombs. Since then, he's done nothing but work, living mainly on a diet of coffee and other high-energy sorts of sustenance and sleeping rarely. He hasn't been home but twice since he left Ilse behind in the underground, and as he passes by Alistair Sharpe's house, he pauses just outside, staring at the building silently. In the dark of night, it looks almost foreboding, and the sight is certainly painful to the shifter. It is yet another reminder. He's not sure what causes his feet to turn him toward the stoop, nor why his fist rises to rap at the door. Desmond feels rather numb and autonomous as he stands awaiting a response. He's dressed for work in a black pinstriped suit and the usual Fedora, but it's apparent that these clothes have been worn at least two days in a row.

After a moment or two, a young servant lad opens the door. This fellow (probably not more than fifteen years old) was in the process of returning an emptied tray to the kitchen. He blinks owlishly, not quite used to his master's hours of activity, as he peers outside at the stranger. Funny, the Earl wasn't expecting anyone. "Good evening, sir. May I help you?"

For a moment, Desmond simply stares down at the lad, his face blank, almost bewildered, as though surprised to have been addressed. Doubt niggles at the back of his mind. Should he have come here? What is the point? But he's already knocked and been answered, so there's really no point in turning back now. After several silent seconds, the puma comes to life with a soft clearing of his throat, and he stuffs his hands into his pants pocket, fingers clasped around the pack of cigarettes that have been there since yesterday. "I'm sorry," he utters. "Is Earl Sharpe in?"

"Yes," is the somewhat hesitant reply. "Would you... like me to fetch him for you?" The boy isn't terribly good at dealing with people. He hasn't been here long and is better with just doing what he's told. Making decisions on his own is not a strong point of his.

Whereas the boy isn't so terribly good at making decisions, Desmond seems to cling to this one. Making decisions is something he can still do. He's not crippled. He's still functioning. The shifter nods his head quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. "Yes, please," he replies. Perhaps he's being an inconvenience to the vampire. The thought had crossed his mind. It's one of the reasons he wants to turn around and flee into the night.

But the boy holds back for a moment still. "Who shall I tell him has come to call?" He glances over his shoulder at the stairway up which his master is to be found.

"Desmond Cusick," is the quick response. The boy's obviously new, and really, the puma can't expect all the servants to know who he is, considering that he's been to the house twice. Inside his pocket, Desmond's hand absently flips the pack of cigarettes over and over, as though finding comfort through simple contact with the cancer sticks.

With a nod, he shuts and locks the door (a bit rude but, again, he's new and not so sure about this guy) and goes upstairs to inform Lord Sharpe. In a long moment or two, the door opens again. Alistair is dressed semi-casually in black slacks and a royal blue shirt. His expression is one of apprehension. "Mister Cusick," he says in greeting, forgetting, momentarily, the request for first names. "Would you like to come in?" He's waiting to be told that something terrible has happened to Ilse. He's sure that's what Desmond is doing here.

It doesn't bother Desmond that the door is shut in his face, though he does toy with the idea of turning around and walking off. It would be the perfect opportunity: there's nobody watching him to whom he would have to explain his leaving, and there's plenty of time to make a clean getaway. Still, he only considers it. His feet remain rooted to the stoop until Alistair arrives and greets him. The use of his formal name causes him to wince noticeably, though it's subtle. "Yes," he grunts, "please." It's an automatic reaction; even Desmond doesn't know why he's here.

Alistair opens the door wide and steps to the side, indicating the living room rather than the guest entertaining room with a sweep of his hand. "Please, make yourself comfortable." There's something rather grim and defeated about the way Alistair does this, although there's no implication that he isn't happy to have Desmond as a guest in his home. "Frederick, have- oh no wait- it's Gregory, isn't it?" The boy bobs his head. "My sincerest apologies, Gregory. Would you have someone bring up the bottle of Jasper Emery up from the cellars?"

Desmond doesn't seem to hear the request for wine as he obediently steps into the house, giving his usual glance at the architecture. Though perhaps it's not the usual glance--it's more robotic and out of habit than anything. He slips into the indicated living room, a little caution in his steps. This is an unfamiliar room. He's never been here. After a quick examination of the place, he takes a seat on one of the lounge couches and bends at the waist, resting elbows on knees with fingertips touching. He doesn't bother removing his hat.

Taking a seat on the other couch, Alistair weaves his fingers together and leans forward, looking at the floor with a small frown. After half a minute or so of silence, the vampire straightens and turns his attention to the feline shifter. "What brings you here, Desmond?"

Good question. Desmond has to think about it a moment, trying to figure out just /why/ he came here. Alistair was always Ilse's friend, not his. Perhaps that's why: perhaps he wanted the company of someone who would understand just what sort of pain the puma is experiencing now. Without looking up from his hands, Desmond replies in a quiet voice: "Ilse is gone."

Gone. Gone as in dead, or gone as in missing? Missing, in this city, is often the same thing. His fingers grip at each other more tightly, and he sits up taller. Alistair looks at Desmond, the pain visible in his eyes. He bites his lower lip, frowning, and then inhales a long, thoughtful breath. "I... I was afraid... I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised, with how she was talking."

Though Desmond is not watching Alistair to see his reaction, he imagines he can sense the other man's pain. Why shouldn't he? It's probably not unlike his own. The puma taps his fingertips together absently, nervously, and his expression melts into a steely mask that betrays neither sorrow nor loss. Whatever he's feeling, he doesn't need it. Showing pain is a weakness, and he isn't weak. Now that he's delivered the news, he's not sure what else to say, so it takes another awkward pause before he speaks again: "I hope this will not effect our business relationship." His voice is low and suddenly emotionless.

Alistair's frown sharpens suddenly. A muscle in his face twitches. "It will not. I hardly think that is the first thing that ought to be on your mind." The vampire is not a fool. His powers of perception and his ability to understand are not lacking. But it's not Alistair's place to make accusations about what Desmond did or did not do to prevent this tragedy. As young Gregory enters the room with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, Alistair stands and paces the room, his back to Desmond. Perhaps to hide the true meaning of his statement, or perhaps only to confirm it, he says, "What about the children that she's told me she looks after?" With a sharp look at the servant boy, Alistair indicates that the wine is to be poured and offered to Desmond.

At the perceived chastisement, Desmond bristles inwardly, upper lip jerking upward in a silent snarl. His gaze remains on his hands, which clasp suddenly, and his eyes narrow. "Do not tell me what ought to be on my mind," he snarls in a voice hovering just above a whisper. "I am not one of your caged playthings." There's that lash Ilse was always warning him about--but then she's not here, is she? Even if she's not, he can distinctly see her reproachful glare in his mind's eye, and it only hurts more. This is also the reason that the pack of cigarettes in his pocket remains full. The puma squeezes his hands together again and drops his eyes to the floor, the snarl fading into a frown. The mention of the children is also a painful a touchy subject. "I haven't seen them since she first disappeared," he intones in a much gentler voice. "I assume her pack is looking after them." They're not his, and they never were. It's only fitting that they go to her pack.

The retort stings Alistair. His rather irrational anger at Desmond for failing to protect Ilse from the rest of the world swells monumentally. "Do not condemn me for-" his eyes dart to the servant. "Out," the vampire says, more harshly than he'd intended to. Gregory puts the filled glasses down next to the bottle and scrambles from the room. Alistair paces the room, unwilling to look at the shifter. "You can't possibly imagine the remorse I feel, the changes I have undergone- the utter reversal of perspective that this change has required of me. And it was Ilse who forced this change on me, Ilse who taught me in a way no book or lecture could that those- those people deserved my respect- enough respect to treat them as people, not talking animals. And now she is gone. Dead, if the odds are to be believed. I will very much presume to tell you that right now, I certainly care very little for /business/." The word is flung out with great distaste.

But Desmond does. It's really the only thing he feels he /can/ safely care about right now. Business has never failed him. Business has never thrown his heart back in his face and told him, "I can't." Business is cold, calculating, and free of those deeper emotions that are so easily exploited by others. His face remains stony and expressionless all throughout Alistair's speech, and when it's finally over, the puma stays silent. "She is not dead," he states levelly after another pause. "But she may as well be."

Alistair turns, at last, to look at Desmond once more. His expression speaks of his disbelief, his contempt, his confusion. "For a business associate, Mister Cusick-" that one was deliberate- "you are determinedly vague and evasive in your wording. I considered- consider Ilse one of my better friends. If you could explain to me just what the situation is, to whatever degree the code of secrecy of your damnable organization will allow," That's the only reason Alistair can think of that's making Desmond hold back on so many details, "I would be able to understand what has happened to that friend of mine." Without waiting for Desmond's reply, Alistair swoops down upon the end table to fetch his glass of wine. He seats himself on the piano bench, his back to the other man, and proceeds to drain the glass of its contents.

"You assume," Desmond rumbles, lifting his eyes to look at Alistair for the first time since he entered the living room, "that I involve /all/ my business associates in my personal life." That's what Ilse was: his personal life. She was much more than a partner in crime. Still, she /was/ Alistair's friend, and the vampire offered him information when he needed it. It's only fair that he do the same. After releasing a quiet sigh and dropping his gaze again to his hands, the puma adds, "Do you know of Doctor Bruce Benedict?"

This sounds like it's going to be an interesting tale. "I know of him, yes. A good enough doctor, I've been told, if you can afford his fees? Something like that?" Although, really, that's how Alistair would describe most of the upper-level clinics. He doesn't have the heart to turn around just yet. First he needs to finish this glass of wine which, at the rate he's going, won't take long.

There is nothing good about Bruce Benedict, and that the word is used to describe him causes Desmond to lift a lip in disgust. "No," he growls, "he is a good enough doctor for those who are not like myself." He exhales sharply and leans back into the couch finally, glancing at the remaining glass on the table, but making no moves to retrieve it. He doesn't want wine right now. "About a month or two ago, he approached Ilse, belittled her for her work in the Lower Level. He then came to me with a dead shifter child and accused a merchant specializing in medical supplies of killing her. This medical supplier is the same who worked for Ilse's clinic. Benedict attempted to employ me and mine in sabotaging this man, but he did not know that Ilse and I were . . . connected." He can't even call her his mate anymore; the word leaves a horrible taste in his mouth. "I discovered what he was trying to do, and instead of sabotaging Ilse's supplier, we sabotaged his."

"And he found out, and she was kidnapped, or attacked, or...?" Alistair, strangely enough, finds himself wishing he owned a pair of glasses over which he could peer in a scolding manner. Perhaps that's because this is how is father always expressed disapproval. "And it never occurred to you to simply report the man to the merchant's guild? Wouldn't that accomplish the damage of his reputation to the same degree as sabotaging his supplies? And with less risk of people being improperly cured?" Alistair is critical, of course, but only because it seems so obvious to him when laid out so simply. This could have been prevented. Ilse could have been protected. Oh, Ilse. Poor Ilse. She didn't deserve this.

"No," Desmond utters, the word sharp and cold as he glares over at Alistair. He doesn't understand. He wasn't /there/. He wasn't a part of all this. That he would make assumptions is not helping the situation. "/I/ sabotaged the supplies. It was my doing, and it would have been on my head only had Benedict not discovered my connection to Ilse. Once he discovered this, he approached her and convinced her to let him work in her clinic. In doing so, she jeopardized the lives of all shifters who have ever visited there. That was when she first disappeared." The puma takes a moment to sigh softly. "After I left here that night, I found her in an alley. She told me that Benedict had threatened to turn her in for sedition on top of endangering her livelihood. She told me that she and her pack were going to go after him. Apparently, that did not go well. When I found her again, she was wounded. She told me that Zero Tolerance had intervened."

A rather strained sigh escapes the aristocrat, who stands and begins to pace again before going to the bottle of wine and refilling his glass. "And now?" Alistair walks to the bay window and looks out of it absently, his back to Desmond. He's trying to hide how utterly shaken he is.

Now? Now should be obvious. Desmond once again attempts to return to the stoic façade that has helped him deal through such trying times often in the past. Unfortunately, this time, it doesn't work quite as well as it ought. "That was two days ago," he states, his tone suggesting that it's felt like so much longer. "She refused my help and told me in no uncertain terms that she would rather spend the rest of her life in the darkness, away from . . . everything." Away from him. That's what hurts most of all.

Alistair turns and looks at Desmond, perhaps studying him. He allows for a momentary silence to begin building between them. Once he's gathered up his thoughts, this peace is thoughtlessly shattered. "If you intend to honour her wishes and leave her to herself, despite what dangers she may face, then I wish you the best of luck in living your life without that guilt on your shoulders. If, however, you intend to seek her out, I would like to help. She would live her life in darkness when, by facing the momentary blindness and disorientation that comes with leaving that shelter she can- maybe not /repair/ what has been done, but rather make up for it with other good deeds and- fix whatever there is to fix. If she hesitates between that pathway between hiding in shadow and working under the the glare of the sun, I would like to be there to offer not a guiding hand, for I am naive and know so truly little about who she truly is, but rather a stepping-stone. She can hide here in my house for as long as she needs. It's safe, but it is still a hiding place." Alistair must pause and look sternly at Desmond. "You say she is as good as dead. I say I'd like to make damn sure she'll bite the hand that feeds before I leave her to rot." He turns around again to face the window. "In conclusion, sir, if you intend to look for her, I will help in whatever way I can. If you do not, I will find a way to look on my own. If she is dead, there's nothing I can do, but if she isn't and I don't try, then I'm not much of a friend, now am I?"

Desmond bares his teeth once again, glaring at Alistair. He may be willing to push past this, get over it, move on with his life, but he'll be damned if he sits quietly and lets this man accuse him of not doing everything within his power. "I don't think you /heard/ me, Alistair," he snarls low in his throat. "I said that she does not /wish/ for help. I /tried/ to help her and bring her back, but she would have none of it, and I would like to think--despite my worst assumptions--that she would take my hand over yours." Jealousy? Perhaps.

Rather than respond immediately, the aristocrat takes another long, quiet drink of wine. When he finishes, he moves and places the half-emptied glass down on the closed piano. "Very well," Alistair mumbles, raising a hand to rub at his right temple. "If you believe so firmly that she will reject help..." but he knows he's still going to have someone look. "Know that my resources are yours if you are inclined to change your mind on this matter- not that I question the depths of your pockets, mister Desmond Cusick. I'm sure you don't go hungry." It's not an insult or a compliment. It's more recognition for the fact that he doesn't consider Desmond to be helpless or a charity case. Goodness knows considering his ability as a merchant and his work within the Guild, he's far from.

And Desmond takes it as just that: a statement of fact. He knows very well that Alistair has access to resources that are closed off to the puma, and vice versa. Desmond would be nowhere without his allies. He is, however, regretting his earlier statement, and he rests an elbow on the arm of the couch, forehead propped up in his palm. Perhaps he's being foolish. If Alistair can help Ilse--even if it means picking up the slack where the puma has failed--then he would be an idiot not to accept such help. What's important is her safety, not his own selfish pride. The shifter releases a ragged sigh. "I can do nothing if she will not accept my help," he mutters finally, his voice pinched and tired, "but if you wish to . . . to try, she is in the catacombs. I can take you there and help you search, if you like."

Beautiful. By removing some of the pressure, the result is more what he was hoping for. Alistair gives a gentle nod. "Not tonight, though." He pauses, strolling across the room. Catacombs. "I can admit freely that the notion frightens me. I'm not a physical man and I do not spend much time in the lower levels. But I would imagine she would respond infinately better to my presence than that of whoever else I could hire to search for me. I also suspect that you would be far more adept at finding her than most folk." Not only has he got a good nose, he already knows her scent.

Almost better than his own. In his wandering of the catacombs a few nights ago, Desmond discovered another entrance to the underground: an abandoned subway. This way, he won't have to worry about the rest of the Meridian turning on Alistair if he brought the vampire in through the coal chute. It also means he won't have to let the aristocrat know the location of Headquarters. Desmond simply nods slowly, keeping most of his face obscured by his palm. He doesn't look forward to seeing Ilse again. He swore he wasn't going to chase after her--not after the way she rejected him. However, if she will accept help from Alistair, he would like to do whatever he can to see that she gets it.

Desmond pays a visit to Alistair, and they decide to go looking for Ilse. Again. There is angst.

"There is no answer."

Fri, 03 Aug 2007 05:21:05 GMT

~~All of it was a lie. She never lo~~

She has grown weak. ~~I never should have paired myself to~~

Callisto was right: there are things in the catacombs that I should not like to see. Never again.