Paper Trail [Closed] - Printable Version

Paper Trail [Closed] - Printable Version

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Paper Trail [Closed] - Blade - 09-04-2016

A 1x1 between Saronym and Blade.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - Blade - 09-04-2016

December of 1965

He was not fond of winter. It snowed in Japan, in most of Europe, and in the northern United States during their respective winter months. Thus, when Isabella-sama had made the request that he send an inquiry to Eskra about documents in their possession—a small island country between The United Kingdom and Ireland—he’d in turn requested they locate themselves somewhere utterly lacking in snow while awaiting a response. After all, the back and forth correspondence could take weeks, or months—forcing them to settle somewhere right through winter and into spring.

His initial preferences had leaned towards the Bahamas or Florida—the lower area of North America—but they’d compromised on New Orleans, primarily because the lady in question was not overly fond of places lacking in expensive creature comforts. It was still too cold for his liking, but it wasn’t snowing; and that, really, that the most important insofar as he was concerned.

And he hadn’t been wrong; months of letters sent and received, negotiations back and forth, had forced them to stay for nigh on half a year in the city that was considered neutral territory for those belonging to The Other: vampires, were-creatures, mages, fae, etc. All because he and Isabella-sama had gotten wind that a certain cluster of documents that had once belonged to the Ebon Courts of the European branch had been discovered. Old documents. Ones that had fallen into the hands of the Eskran government. Not that this was the first time such a thing had happened. They’d sought other sources before, all leading to dead ends. Though... he silently hoped this time was fortuitous.

It had to be if Eoghan O'Rourke, their contact, was meeting with them at their current place of residence. He’d be stupid to have wasted their time otherwise. At his own insistence he’d taken a flight to them. Not that Marcus had any need to complain; he’d much rather meet the man, obtain the documents, where he was comfortable—his own territory, however temporary it was. Once he saw them, enough to know they were authentic, he would make arrangement for their half of the bargain.

They’d rented a good sized townhome just off Bourbon Street with a balcony, two floors, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an open floorplan that Isabella-sama had filled with European and Asian antiques. Well... he’d filled it—at her request. In her present form she was incapable of doing so. But it wasn’t like she could wander the streets on her own, not in this modern age. People tended to scream at the sight of a large white wolf. And one of the few spells she could use—invisibility—was good for only so long with her capped power.

At present, his silvery orbs—ones faintly laced with cool blue—were scanning the streets below the iron and stone balcony. He kept to the shadows, arms crossed over his chest as he watched shoppers and party-goers meander about. Bourbon Street was always busy; which was likely why Isabella-sama preferred it here: all the easier to blend in and hide from those she’d rather not be known to just yet. It was a rich benefit of neutral territory that also happened to be crowded. No one really gave a damn, dare they risk you finding out too much about them in turn.

The chill in the night air forced him to don a heavy gray and black silk kimono with geometric patterns. He wore it like a robe, unbound by an obi. Under it was a pair black gauze pants and shirt, both black and well made. His hair, a long wavy mess, was loosely tied in a ribbon and hung over his shoulder in unkempt braid. He wasn’t always so lazy about his dress, but when he was ‘home’ he simply didn’t care. Better to be comfortable, especially when he didn’t have the advantage of soaking up the heat somewhere further south.

Well... if he didn’t see someone heading towards the front door soon he was going to put some hot water on the stove and make some tea. Five more minutes.

That was that.

Time passed, and with a sigh towards the full moon, he turned and went inside through the open French doors.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - saronym - 09-07-2016

Having never before left the island of her birth, Ishara had very little appreciation for what an undertaking it would be for her to travel to the United States. A ferry to Liverpool. A train to London. A flight to New Orleans. And finally a cab ride to the French Quarter.

She’d gotten very little sleep during the entire trek mostly due to first-time traveler’s anxiety.

Ishara was downright panicked on the flight. Suffocated by the smell of jet fuel and bodies in a plane that felt impossibly small for the length of the trip. She internalized every bump and jitter of turbulence until her stomach was churning. During a particularly bad episode, she’d grabbed her neighbor’s arm and gasped through fingers splayed over her mouth. Though she apologized profusely to her seatmate, the middle-aged business man frowned at her and grumbled under his breath every time she begged his pardon to get by and rush to the bathroom to relieve her nausea.

After deplaning Ishara took her time in the refresher at the airport. She unwound her hair which had been braided so it wouldn't tangle. She brushed it out and let it fall in waves over her shoulders. She changed from heavier winter clothes to a lighter outfit. She chose an eggplant colored turtle-necked sweater dress paired with a cream cloche hat and modest t-strap kitten heels. The outfit would seem somewhat unseasonable to locals who insulated themselves with full coats and gloves against the “cold” of New Orleans winter. Though to Ishara the weather in the southeastern United States was considerably warmer than where she’d come from.

She paid the cabbie to drop her off in the French Quarter and she meandered the streets letting herself get carried along by the flow of foot traffic. The cool air felt refreshing on her exposed legs in comparison to the stuffy plane.

Ishara delayed in heading to her final destination. She hadn’t really planned out her course of action for after she arrived to the U.S. And instead of working that out, she ruminated about her parents, who she knew would be furious with her when they found out where she was and more importantly, what she had done and was going to do.

She’d been secretly reading her father’s diplomatic correspondences. Then she’d called the airline he’d booked passage with and pretended to be her father’s secretary to change the ticket from his name to hers. Then she’d taken off to America with some choice documents in her possession that her father had been using for political leverage.

Oh yes, her parents would be down right pissed when they found out she had snuck away in the middle of the night and crossed the Atlantic Ocean without permission. Not that a twenty-odd year old woman should have needed permission. But under the circumstances such behavior would only fuel her parents’ ire.

She really had no excuse for her behavior. Except that she was just really curious about certain things. Certain things that should they turn out in her favor might gain her some notoriety as a healer. So really curious. And very ambitious. Never mind that she’d be the saboteur to her own father’s political machinations. Such things would be par for the course for the troublesome young woman.

Ishara had written the address out on her hand before leaving home. She had also committed the general content and intent of her father’s letters to her memory and took a few notes on details in a leather bound journal. The papers containing the information at stake - the whereabouts of a certain body of interest - were hidden in a removable compartment in her suitcase for safe keeping. The suitcase was an impossibly unfashionable old thing. The unsightly cracked grey leather clashed terribly with her bright outfit. It was a right embarrassment for her, but it was the only one her father owned - stealing her father’s only suitcase, yet another line item for her growing list of transgressions - and wouldn’t be replaced until it was falling apart.

The ink detailing the address on her palm was a little worse for wear after her long trip, so Ishara couldn’t be sure whether she were approaching the correct residence. She breathed in through her nose, exhaled sharply, straightened her back, brushed out her dress, and knocked authoritatively on the door.

She knocked longer than what would be considered polite, distractedly squinting at the smeared ink on her palm trying to make out what was nearly hieroglyphics at this point.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - Blade - 09-13-2016

The doors were closed behind him, shutting the open living space complete with a small fire—one fit for a townhome of this size—from the world without. Isabella-sama generally scoffed at his hate for the chill. It didn’t bother her like it did him; it hadn’t for ages since she’d grown accustomed to more European weather patterns—ice, snow, and at once point stone palaces with corners freckled in frost. But it would always agitate him.

Always.

His bare feet padded across a large rug covering wood floors that were likely installed when the home was built in the late 1800s, stopping only to gaze upward towards a stairway that led up to a loft-room. Silver eyes laced with cool blue focused on a set of emerald ones cutting through the dark. At the very same time something pricked at his senses before a knock at the door sounded.

“It’s a woman.”

Marcus took pause at that, his eyes narrowing as Isabella-sama’s voice whispered within his skull. “Odd,” he mused aloud. And perhaps dangerous. They were not expecting a woman. Any woman, for that matter. The last long distance phone call he’d placed had indicated that O'Rourke was coming in person. Unless he’d mistaken the voice, or had been misled, there was no reason for a woman by herself to show up for the transaction. Well... unless they had some other sort of visitor; which was highly unlikely.

“Are you going to answer it?”

“You certainly can’t,” he told her.

“I could, but it might be unwise.”

Marcus refrained from snorting at her jest. Instead, he took the hint and checked the ring on his finger, assuring it was still there should he need it, and went towards the stairs leading down. He passed by the another open space that was a kitchen, living room, and dining area all rolled into one: In the kitchen a large counter operated as both a work station for cooking and table with stool seating; another fireplace was on the far right wall, two couches across from one another, there were also a few bookcases, and then a single antique cushioned chair adjacent to the two couches and between them on the end farthest from the fireplace. A wooden and round coffee table sat between.

As he neared the door, he could tell the water for his tea was nearly ready to boil. He would take care of it after, he supposed. For now, he braced himself for the cold as he opened the door.

What he found standing there was not expected or unexpected, but he took in the redhead all the same. She wasn’t dressed for winter, making him think she wasn’t as disinclined towards the cold as he was. He didn’t want to call her a mouse, but at a height that was well under his own six-feet and one inches, she did seem tiny. Size, he’d learned in his long life though, was rarely an adequate measure of power.

Still, he retained his stiff detachment and responded politely to her presence. “Can I help you?” It was easy to tell he had a slight accent, but it was also just as easy to tell that it had faded over the years. Generations, actually, but she wouldn’t know that.

“She’s quite lovely,” Isabella-sama said in his skull.

He didn’t like to imagine she was spying down at the girl from the balcony above... somehow. It really wouldn’t do for people on the street to spot her, but Marcus didn’t reply, even telepathically.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - saronym - 09-13-2016

The door opened mid-knock, Ishara’s fist poised in mid air. She dropped it suddenly realizing how long she had stood there knocking like a fool.

Ishara took a half step back, feeling somewhat threatened by the figure in the doorway. Her foot bumped into the grey suitcase on the ground, nearly toppling it over. She quickly bent to right the luggage. Ishara really hadn’t thought this through. Her cheeks were burning.

She cleared her throat and straightened her spine. “Yes, I’m here about a body. I believe - an - uh - let’s see here-” she squinted at the writing on her hand. “Mr. Marcus has been inquiring about.”

It occurred to her that this might not even be the correct residence. And here she was talking about bodies. Nevermind the body she mentioned, something was off about him. What even was this man? He definitely wasn’t human, that much Ishara could perceive. She hadn’t come across a wide variety of non-human species and so was not familiar with his breed.

She craned her head to see past him inside, not worrying that such a gesture might seem rude. Was there someone else there? Her untrained senses were overwhelmed with whatever entity or entities were inside. She fingered the pendant around her neck. A simple moonstone for protection. That is to say protection from little things, simple curses, maledictions and the like. But not large, unknown breeds of men.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - Blade - 09-13-2016

He could hear Isabella-sama laughing in his head at the poor girl; though he knew she didn’t mean anything malicious by it. While his mistress could be cruel when it was required, she wasn’t alien to finding the fumblings of human beings endearing. And it seemed she was, this slip of a woman on his doorstep. Not a girl, no. And nothing underwordly. Human. They’d been expecting a human, just not a woman—certainly not one that acted like a bluestocking even while she dressed in the current ‘mode’. Not that Marcus actually cared about the latter, given his general preferences for fashion.

His chest seized as she mentioned a body, but he didn’t let it show that he wasn’t comfortable with her airing that out on his doorstep beyond a flash in his eyes—something tensing there. She had mentioned his name as well, so that at least told him she had been who he was expecting.

“Let her in, Marcus. You can glare at her just as easily with the door shut.”

He resisted the urge to grunt and nodded at the redhead before stepping away from the entrance and opening the door wider when she started to try and peer past him. “I believe it would be best if we were to discuss such matters inside.”

Marcus, as a general rule, didn’t like what Americans referred to as a ‘curve ball’, but he adapted well enough when he needed to. Thus, once the woman had entered, he shut the door with a soft click, locked the bolt, and said, “I was expecting O'Rourke.” It wasn’t a question, but there was an air of command to it—Who are you and what has happened kind of a thing. The information she carried, hopefully, was important enough to deal with a few miscalculations. And quite frankly, he didn’t give a damn who he got it from, so long as he and Isabella-sama got it.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - saronym - 09-17-2016

Ishara rocked back on her heels after rudely peering into his home. She remained pleasantly blank faced with a guiltless little grin on her face, though Marcus’ flashed with some surprise at the mention of the body. Not what he was expecting. Perhaps she did have the upper hand.

She let him usher her inside, bringing her luggage along. Kitten heels clicking on the floor, she gazed around and let her suitcase to the floor with a thud. “This is cozy.” She said, with a hint of judgment in her voice. It was the fire. Far too excessive for the weather, in her opinion. You’d think there was a snowstorm outside. She’d heard Americans were prone to excess, but this man was clearly not an American. Perhaps the locals had rubbed off on him. Ishara found a hook by the door on which to hang her hat. Apparently she felt content to make herself at home. So at home as to make passive aggressive judgments. She fluffed auburn locks, shaking out any matted hat hair.

Laughing at his expense, she turned and held a slender hand out to the man to shake, “I am O’Rourke.” She said as if it should have been readily apparent. “Ishara, that is. Not the O’Rourke you were expecting, I suppose. You must be Marcus.”

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - Blade - 09-24-2016

He didn’t say anything as he watched her every move, from the way she walked right down to manner in which she fixed her hair after putting her hat up on a hook. The long strands of it gave the impression of a darkening sunset along the edge of a mountain. He memorized all of it, just as he usually did when meeting with someone of relative importance, or of relative risk.

“Must you weigh every situation thusly?” Isabella-sama rang in his head, sounding amused. Again, he didn’t reply.

Attune as he was, the judgmental lilt in the woman’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. Even so, Marcus was of a culture and generation that once prided themselves on saying one thing and rarely meaning the most obvious. They’d made an art of it, if The Tales of Genji were anything to go on. Far before his time, but as good an example as anything in else in his mind.

He overlooked it.

“I am,” he agreed as he gently took her hand; at the same time he inclined his head downward, informally bowing just so as his eyes shut. His grip was firm as he shook once, but not entrapping in the least. His skin was not cool to the touch, if she took note at all. Warm—as if sucking in the heat of the room. He was. In retrospect, she felt cool to him having just come out of the night air; though, it wasn’t jarring or unexpected. “You are not,” he agreed. “Though it matters little to me so long as I acquire what was agreed to be given.” At that moment the tea kettle decided to let out a cry—telling him the water was ready. “Tea?” he offered as he released her hand. “You may sit anywhere you deem to be most comfortable.”

Marcus had an accent, one that only became more obvious depending on the words he was pronouncing—their vowels and consonants. Even so, he did not fumble with the English tongue.

Not awaiting a reply, he stepped towards the kitchen—stride comfortable and almost always with either purpose or ‘lizardly’ laziness. Tonight, it was the former. Quickly, he removed the tea kettle—stopping it’s screaming as he turned off the gas stove.

“Or would you prefer something colder, Miss O’Rourke?”

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - saronym - 09-27-2016

“Pleasure to meet you.” Ishara chimed out of polite habit when he clasped her hand. She nearly wrinkled her nose at him. Why was his hand so awfully warm? If he was hot he could just put out that unnecessary fire. She let it go. Perhaps he liked being overly warm. He sure seemed...stuffy.

A sly smile spread over her face when he mentioned the agreement. She didn’t show her teeth, just a broad close-lipped smile, one that wrinkles the edges of the mouth but didn’t touch the eyes. Yes, about that, she thought, but didn’t respond. She had no intention of honoring her father’s agreement, having one in mind that benefited her more.

Ishara clasped her hands behind her back and casually strolled to follow Marcus into the kitchen. “I suppose tea would be fine.” The judgment again. The fire. The tea. He was going to burn her up. “But I’d much prefer something colder.” She added quickly, making sure her desires were vocalized.

She clapped her hands when it occurred to her what she wanted, eagerly crowding near him. “Oh! Do you have any sorbet? I’m crazy for sorbet these days.”

Ishara momentarily lapsed into a mindset that she was on vacation and able to request exotic desserts. Sorbet wouldn’t necessarily be exotic for an American, but she came from a place where products like that were imported and exorbitant to afford.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - Blade - 09-28-2016

He doubted that—the pleasure part. It was more than the tight smile, the one that seemed so obviously forced as it had spread across her face. She didn’t appear comfortable here. He was accustomed to that. Human beings had a way of sensing when something was off about those around them; when they weren’t entirely human. This was true even of those who were not attuned to the supernatural or going-ons of metas.

“You’re abrasive, that’s why.”

Marcus sighed through his nose as he removed a tea cup and wooden box from the cabinet. He removed a baggie from the box, set it in the cup, and poured. A faint aroma of herbs mixed with green tea wafted. Barely enough for a less sensitive nose, but it was perfection to him. Which was especially good since the slip of a girl had followed him into the kitchen—closely. And she didn’t sound overly-fond of his tea either.

“You like it too warm. I told you that two lit fireplaces on was superfluous.”

Just where was she? On the stairs?

“Maybe.”

As he stared down at his tea, eyeing the mixture with hands flat on the counter and avoiding an internal response, he said, “I assume your arrival means you are to facilitate the transaction in O’Rourke’s place?” He turned slightly then to look at her, to gauge her reaction to the question. Because there was a chance there was something wrong about this whole thing. And he much preferred a concise understanding in which he knew the interworking’s of—of what one expected of the other. As he did though, he did not quite expect to become overcrowded by one Miss O’Rourke—giddy about sorbet, of all things.

His mind drew a blank rather quickly. Half because she was too close and half because he trying to recall what was housed in freezer—especially if it would aid in keeping her from crowding his space. He refused to step back only because it might give her the wrong impression—that he was a man accustomed to backing down.

“There’s a small tub of mango in the freezer, Marcus. She’s a woman, not a dragon.”

A dragon would be easier. He could dump a dragon on the street, kill it, and then get back to his tea.

“I believe we have mango in the freezer.” Of course they would, he thought with some dry sarcasm. The lady of the house so loved sweet things, even if she had to eat them without the use of her own hands. “Shall I get you a bowl before we get down to business?”

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - saronym - 10-03-2016

Ishara wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell of the tea. For being a healer and dealing with all kinds of unpleasant tasting and smelling herbs, Ishara simply was not mature, or did not care, enough to control her expression. She liked sweet things and this smelled earthy. Not her style.

When he began speaking and saying such words as ‘facilitate’ and ‘transaction’ at her, Ishara stifled a laugh. “My goodness will you lighten up and speak plainly? Call me Ishara. Please. I had enough ‘Miss O’Rouroke-ing’ for a lifetime at the All Girls’ Academy.” She turned and hopped onto one of the stools and leaned her elbows on the counter top. Her legs swung below. “Afraid the deals off, darling. I have something else in mind. Something less...mmm...illegal.”

She didn’t bother hiding the judgment from her tone then. The word was meant to be biting. Ishara didn’t approve of the arrangement this man had with her father. And so she’d come to make a better one.

Ishara rested her chin in her hands and blew idly at hair that had fallen in her face while he described the dessert situation.

Ishara clapped her hands, her countenance brightening considerably, “Oh mango would be lovely! I’ve only ever had a mango once before.” She could give a person whiplash the way she’d go from disapproving to excited in rapid succession. “Make it a large bowl.”

And she wasn’t shy about making demands either.

RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - Blade - 01-06-2017

He watched as her nose wrinkled unabashedly. She definitely didn’t like his tea; though the reaction was curious. His concoctions were not particularly strong enough for the human nose to bother with. His brow knit just slightly as he looked at her, but it was gone in the next moment.

A frown made itself known as she responded; it remained even after she took a seat at the island. She didn’t like the smell of his tea and she also didn’t seem to like the way he spoke. Darling? As if he cared about illegal activities. What was illegal—what wasn’t—was the domain of men and current popular opinion. He was not a man and he hadn’t cared about laws outside of his own long distant pack, if at all. He only ever had his own code to worry over.

It shouldn’t bother him that she didn’t like certain things about him enough to visibly take offense; and yet it did. Ruffled feathers was an apt metaphor.

“Illegal is relative,” he said anyway, because he needed to retaliate in kind. Even if it was not as direct as her own manner.

The frown finally melted away into moderate stoicism as he took a sip from his cup, inhaling with shut eyes once before doing so. But, soon enough, he was setting it back down and moving towards the fridge. He opened the freezer and pulled out the container of mango sorbet, only having to hunt a bit. Then he went through the motions of dumping the vast majority of it into a bowl with a spoon.

“If you would prefer,” he said as he worked, “you may call me Marcus.” Because it didn’t particularly bother him one way or the other. Nevermind the fact that he’d utterly overlooked responding to her title of darling, or the way in which she’d informed him that the deal would need to be restructured. “Frankly,” he said next, “I don’t particularly care how it is I obtain the documents, assuming they’re authentic—barring certain requests—,” because there were things he just wouldn’t do, ever, Isabella-sama or not, “so long as we come to an acceptable compromise and an exchange is made.” As he said the last he turned and set the bowl in front of her. Then he took his tea, set it on the island across from her, and went on speaking.

“If it’s acceptable, I would prefer to review part of the documentation—those sections you feel comfortable allowing me to review—before we come to an accord.”