Snippet #1524150

It was quite the endeavor trying to avenge something so minor as the Mother played mentalist to his senses. Watching the ocean farer draw herself upright in response was a surreal experience, like seeing a ravaged ship mend itself with gauze; she had stirred moments before, as disoriented as he, and recovered just as quickly, but he could not deny how Yani wavered. He knew that she, too, could not deny it, even if she would rather whistle idly through the spaces in her teeth than shun her pride for him. Her strut--no, it was not a strut, neither was it a waddle, but something akin to a panther's stride if said panther was unafraid to dampen its coat. Sleep was no longer an option—and neither were verbal replies, apparently. He stood tensed and braced, fingers gripped round a knife that wasn't on hand. And still Her call reverberated through him, top priority. Quite the endeavor indeed.

"I'll..." Eloquence at its finest. Weary eyes observed her, searched her, lacking the light of malicious intent. It was the Eleanor Rigby all over again, this, with her lonely people no longer in the brood of carnival horses, and dire lyrics coaxed out into the open, swirling about to consume them like shadows to light. Nike sang, her song an elegy. Could he sing alongside her--like a bird? No, but he could spout profanities like a geyser with bad timing. He could also lose this bout of wallet polo to a shark (though playing with such an animal was no small feat). To her repeated inquiry, he said, "I'll hang ya from yer bandana," and immediately regretted it, finding it daft beyond all measure. Still, he persisted: "I'll waltz you round the cashew bush. What d'ya expect? Just give me my goddamn--"

Cut short, hung to dry, he snatched the leather, seething, as it came within reach, and the resolve did little to lessen the burn. Two to nothing in the span of hours. Was he some kind of ponce? He seethed, brows furrowed, and was quite ready to do a bit of shanking as she slipped past him, but he decided against it at her invitation. So the feeling, all sharp calls and pangs, was mutual. How disconcerting and reassuring at once. To believe? No use in doubting it now.

Under normal circumstances, a man would not be averse to standing in the company of two young, charismatic women. Noah, however, was such a man, and his instincts as bird were quick to direct him away from the snake and the sea dog. Such predators always cramped his style, or lack thereof. He had prepared to take the Shark's heed when Lalita arrived, heels announcing her arrival, and he took meek steps away from them, acknowledging the latter with his politest grunt. As she spoke, it nearly came as a welcomed surprise that the matter at hand was not of cawfee, but of the Mother, her distress, her frantic, textured strokes across unsanded canvases. It was enough to both tether him, to ground him, and to bring about the urge to propel himself forward, never hesitating as he went. Surely they must have felt the ebb and flow as Nike grew despondent, the presences that drew her to heights equally great and small, invigorated her, tainted her. He basked in this for a while, this... consideration of other selves. Some folks called this empathy; whether this would become a burden in the end, he wasn't quite sure.

Before he knew it, the Snake Descendant answered the call. And he followed. He was not as begrudging this time, sans vehement glares at Yani, nor was he as suspect.

Noah stood beside his fellow clan heir in the ancient chambers, and where the otherworldly woman had once been raised up, she was fallen once again. The horror of deep concern did not reveal itself on his countenance but thundered within him, a near-fatal blow that threatened to drag him from his impassive perch. How sobering was such a display that turned strength into weakness. From this point onward, it was a sight he would never forget--an impulse telling him to reach out, yet keeping him steady in the fear of what a mere touch would do to her fragile bones.

"What's happened to her?" His voice was level. He had the faintest hope in them all; if she could once beam so brightly in their gathering, then she had another chance at achieving her celestial state. Machai's absence struck him as unusual, but, knowing the passion of the man, he was certain to have an excuse.

An inkling redirected his attention. It was uncertainty come about to feed on her sorrow, to feed on them, and in the midst of things, the colors of the world faded to gray.

---
She had a nice smile, a warm smile. Her cheeks flushed red, but he knew better than to blame this on wintry affairs. His music moved her, she said, sent troubles and woes amiss, made her high as a kite with no evidence of acidic side effects. Fancy her youthful, redheaded self finding him here on the curb, turning wilted solitude into a flower in bloom. That was swell.

Nights like these made him feel very, very old.

The reflection in the car window had seen better days. It had seen days when that curve of the mouth wasn't so forced, them eyes so dull, and that single strand of hair so out of place. Nights like these made him cringe at the whispering commands and the scarred throat from whence they came, at the very hand that guided souls down cursed paths. Truly, he was not so old--a little worn, bent, and bruised for certain--but one was hard pressed to say otherwise on nights like these. If the patriarch would rather present a child to the adversary, well, damn, at least he had this here cigarette.

On second thought, Delaney was more than capable of fueling nightmares than he could ever hope to do. All hail the Father, bastard of bastards, king of kings.

And Wesley was not as envious or bitter as he was content. Without the apprehensive air from their passage, he stood languidly against the sedan, smoke unfurling from his lips. Her laughter was hi-hat, his heartbeat bass. When breezes furled about them, he took careful steps toward her, quiet steps that guided him round the sleek metal between them, closed the negative space and invited her to share his peacoat. But he drew back then, as if her fingers were the fangs of a cobra's maw. Sentiment caused him to tremble. It was a sense he never failed to answer, one there was little use in guessing who emanated the source. They broke apart, he glanced back, and he accepted truth.

"You should get along now," he said, and he couldn't hide the maudlin tone.

By now, she understood. She had no business in not understanding. She resumed the role of a passerby, vanishing into the moonlit crowd as if she were never there at all. Wes would not see her again.

He idled there momentarily, and it took inward breaths to convince himself to face the gang of ravaged souls. All formed up so neat, so perfect and yellow-haired. He took a harsh drag on his cigarette, and he swore he saw poison in the smoke trails. Pure evil, that was, and yet he still bowed deeply before it.

"Made a kind statement, did you, Boss?"