Touching Bases [Caleb/Serafine/Adam]

Yes, the man had a wife, and yes he loved her dearly as a husband should, but a theurge can only really be completely understood by another theurge. She had pestered, tormented, asked seemingly inane questions, and yet? He had come to view her as the annoying little sister, the girl that got under your skin when she was around and when she wasn’t any longer and didn’t seem likely to return? He had begun to miss her. Speaking with her spirit had helped, but only a little.

The second floor commons area was quiet, likely the other borders here had gone to sleep early. For Caleb sleep wasn’t something easily come by, and so he was awake. Seated in an armchair, his fingers were steepled as he stared out at nothing. At his side on an end-table were two glasses of cognac, a vintage that spoke of late summer with the promise of a Parisian autumn. One was full, untouched, and the other was half-drained.

Perhaps Caleb expected company, but those that truly knew him knew that it was there for Mrena. The second snifter wasn’t looked at. Caleb appeared to have completely zoned out.

Once the beer hits her hand, she heads toward the kitchen where she awaits her order. It doesn’t take long. No one wants her to remain there, despite the lateness of the hour, the darkened moon. Once she is offered her plate, she nods her thanks, and then moves to the back stairs, and up to the commons.

It is quiet, and empty, but for Caleb. A brow quirks slightly, though she does not directly interrupt his contemplation. Instead, she simply takes a seat on the couch, placing her beer on the coffee table, before settling back, her plate in her lap.

Should he look over, she lifts her chin slightly in greeting. Whether he looks or not, she takes a bite of her sandwich.

Setting it down, he glanced over to the woman. “Ruhiger,” he said quietly. “Good evening.” Perhaps a ghost of a smile crossed his lips – if it did at all, it didn’t touch his eyes.

A soft sigh as he poured more cognac for himself. “Tell me, has anyone you ever cared for been killed?”

He asks his question then, and she arches a brow, slightly. It’s a question with a rather obvious answer, on the surface. She is Modi. She is Fenrir. She is Garou. Of course she has lost those she cared for.

Silent, she waits for him to speak again.

“My packmate was killed,” he said softly. “I hadn’t known her as well as the rest of the Unbroken Circle. Funny to think that inevitably I joined with them, one of the new-come packs here. The time I spent with her…” A soft laugh.

A look over to AnneMarie as he sipped his cognac. “Would you agree that only another Full Moon can understand what it is to be a Full-Moon? Perhaps that is how it was with she and I.”

Not like Chicago. But Chicago was where she was needed. (At least it was only a couple hours away.)

She was back in the city now, her mood and demeanor more relaxed and steady than it had been when she’d left, and it showed in the way she moved and held herself. She was dressed in a newly purchased outfit: a deep blue satin halter-top that tied behind her neck and a long, flowing green gypsy skirt. On her feet were a pair of high-heeled sandals, their ties wrapping up around her ankles and lower calves. The weather was a bit on the chilly side at this time of night, so she had that familiar black leather jacket thrown on over the light shirt, and in one hand she lugged an acoustic guitar, all neatly tucked away in its case. It had been dragged along with her for reasons of impulse.

Like one of the locals now, she went in through the back door…bypassing the regular customers as she wandered through the kitchen and up the steps to the common room.

He follows that up with a question, perhaps yet another in a line of rhetorical questions to come, and a shoulder lifts slightly in a shrug. She has met many a Modi that did not understand her, that had no clue what she believed a Modi to be, and on the other hand, had meet more than one of a different auspice that understood everything. It depends wholy on the person, but it gives him comfort, and she does not dispute it.

Then footsteps sound, and she Serafine makes her way up the stairs. It would be a lie to say she does not look, it would be a lie to suggest that she does not take in the pretty girl in the silk and skirt and strappy fucking heels that tops the stairs. It would be a lie, and she is not prone to telling them.

Fortunately, she is not prone to speech at all, and in that half a second delay while she looks, she finishes it off with a lift of her chin in hello to the Fury.

Running a hand through hair half-shot-through with silver streaks (all natural), he turned to look at the approaching Serafine. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. AnneMarie seemed to know her (dense, wasn’t he?), but he knew no more than what he could tell by first appearances alone.

“Good evening,” he said to the Black Fury. He knew neither her name, nor her auspice, or anything else about her. As far as he knew, she was another pretty face. Ah, how they ever came and went.

Her smile was honest as it greeted the sight of AnneMarie, one of the few whom she had been able to really sit down and talk to since her arrival here. Then her gaze shifted to take in the sight of Caleb. There was a slight cant to her head as she watched him, perhaps taking note of his apparent sadness. Here was a person with which she had not yet been introduced, and she would rectify this now, while she stood politely in the doorway.

“Good evening to you both.” Her accent was unmistakably French, but light. A sign of her comfort with the local language. “We have not yet been introduced, I believe. I am Serafine Marceau, Cliath Galliard to the Black Furies. Also called L’Ange Noire.” This was, of course, directed to Caleb, and she gave a polite bow of her head to him before moving inside the room and settling herself upon the sofa. The guitar was set down at her feet as she made herself comfortable.

Serafine move to the couch, and AnneMarie sits up straighter to allow her to pass, inhaling as she does so, just enough to mark her scent across her senses. She listens once more to the introduction, one she could write herself now for the Fury – she tends to be near when Serafine introduces herself. Curious coincidence, that.

She lifts her beer to her lips, and takes a slow deep swallow, before resting the bottle in her lap. She has yet to pull out the whiteboard – though it’s likely it will make it’s appearance soon. For now, she listens.

“I am Caleb Delacourt-Alden, le Comte de Morres of House Gleaming Eye. I am known as Darkensky to the Nation of Garou, Theurge of the Silver Fangs; cliath. Protector of the Tekakwitha Wood, member of the Unbroken Circle. Son of Gregor Alden de Morres, Athro Ahroun of Gleaming Eye.”

It seemed that whenever Silver Fangs introduced themselves, it was as though they included their geneology and history as well. Indeed it was common practice, and as such the introduction rolled off the cajun theurge’s tongue as if by rote.

Eyes landing again on AnneMarie, he nodded to her. His lips also tugged at the corners, indicating that he expected no less of she and her pack. He’d known of Decker beating Sam down, something that he knew would inevitably happen. Love him or hate him, Sam Modine was ever one to try the patience of many. Trying the patience of Decker Rohl was not something Caleb would have advised.

She was sliding her arms out of the sleeves of her jacket, folding the prada creation neatly over the arm of the sectional. “It is a pleasant surprise to hear my language spoken here.” The girl was all charm tonight, it seemed. AnneMarie had seen a slightly more caustic side of her the other night, but Serafine knew how and when to put on certain performances. It was a byproduct of her upbringing.

“It is likewise a pleasant surprise to see you again, AnneMarie.” Lest not the Modi go unacknowledged. On the contrary, the moon dancer’s keen eyes were trained upon the fenrir’s still and quiet form with some regularity as she looked between her and Caleb. If the latter’s introduction had seemed a little unnecessarily wordy and formal…well, he was a silver fang. Such was expected. Oddly enough, that second glass of cognac caught her attention. The way it sat there, untouched. Symbolic.

“Are you waiting for company?” Here she gave a little nod in the direction of the glass, to indicate the source of her question.

Serafine looks her direction, and includes her in the conversation easily enough, and for her part, the Fury was graced with the slightest of smiles, barely there before it fades again out of habit. She finally reaches for her plate once more, and takes another bite of her sandwich, offering Serafine the other half with an arched brow. Looks like a BLT. Extra on the B.

Raising his glass to the sky, his glance was cast up as he toasted an unseen person before sipping the cognac again. A light shrug was given as well. “Suffice to say that Mother was very adamant about my education. After all, I do hold estates in France, although I am from Louisiana.” That should of told all, that Caleb was a cajun. It practically dripped from his voice, that cajun’s accent.

But then, Caleb answered her innocent question. He kept up a stoic performance, but the words rang… like an indelible brush stroke that marked the air. She watched him in silence for a time.

“I am truly sorry to hear that.” And yes, there was empathy in her eyes. Not pity. Not soft-heartedness. But understanding. They lived a harsh life, the soldiers of Gaia. Death was commonplace. Inescapable. But no less painful, for all that they might pretend otherwise.

Leaning down, she pulled the guitar case over and popped it open, lifting the instrument to settle onto her lap. The last time she’d been here, she was sketching. Tonight, it was music that might keep her hands busy, and she quietly tuned the strings on it as she contemplated something to herself.

“I have not visited Louisiana yet. I think I should like to.”

Then Serafine pulls out her guitar, and tunes it while she speaks, while she contemplates something – perhaps Louisiana, perhaps something else. She settles her beer bottle against her thigh, and listens.

And watches. When one is without speech, they learn to do both very well – and AnneMarie notices much that others miss. She is observant where others may ignore the little cues. Though, for the life of her, she cannot figure why anyone would like to visit Louisiana.

Rising, Caleb drained the last of the cognac from his glass and set it aside. One of the serving women would come around later to collect it. The full, untouched glass, was still as yet ignored. Lifting the bottle of the expensive drink, he carried it over to the two of them and set it down before them on the coffee table. “To your health, ladies.”

A small smile and nod for them both, the Silver Fang said, “I must go and see to my duties in the caern. A pleasant evening to you both.”

Then she glanced back at AnneMarie, ever-thoughtful.

“Don’t suppose you have any requests for me?” A wry smile accompanied that. Likely, even if she did… Serafine may not know it. But it never hurt to ask.

He was dressed casually. Jeans, hiking boots, a button up shirt of dark green. over it was a normal every day sort of leather jacket.

As he stood there, if the ladies chose to acknowledge him, he’d nod a greeting*

~ The Theurge, the small woman, White Eyes, has fallen in battle. I know no details, only that he mourns. As for requests, I have none, though I would enjoy hearing you play. ~

Then they are no longer alone, as Adam joins them in the room. She flicks her eyes over to note his arrival, and lift a chin in return then her attention returns to Serafine.

And now, she was gone. Like so many.

Her eyes raised up to Adam, recognizing and acknowledging him with a nod. “Bon Soir.” But her gaze wouldn’t linger. Not out of any impolite intention. She was simply…thinking.

“In that case, I think that it would not be inappropriate to acknowledge the dead. Perhaps her ghost will be near, to listen.”

She was a galliard of the waning moon, after all… and sad songs were her specialty. When she began to play, the notes were simple and pretty. Sweetly sad. It was a French song, of course, but the emotion got across even if the meaning didn’t.

Je vis, je meurs
Je ris, je pleure
Je vide la mer
Je vide la terre
Je le dis aux fleurs
Au lac de vapeur

Au ciel de toutes les couleurs
Ton soleil réchauffe mon coeur

*It seemed to find Adam well. He was in a rather good mood. Slipping further into the room he addressed each in turn* AnneMarie, your penmanship is quite ledgiable today. *A bit off a lopsided grin playing across his lips then the dark eyes turn to Serafine* And Madame Marceau…. a musician as well as an artist? How wonderfully talented.

Only when the last words, the final notes fade away, only after silence falls and hangs for a long moment does she glance up to Adam again. A brow quirks upwards at his comment, but there is no other expression as she reaches for her plate off the table and goes to finishing the rest of her dinner.

A prodigy she wasn’t, but she could put a simple tune together, plucking the chords with long, elegant fingers… and she had a lovely singing voice.

The guitar was settled back into its case for the moment as she flexed her fingers. She was in a nostalgic mood, and likely could have played the thing all evening… but that left little room for conversation.

*Looking around the room for a seat that wouldn’t’ crowd either of the other garou he would move to it and sit. Leaning back and observing them* Anything good going on? I feel a little out of the loop and my packmates arn’t the overly overtly social types.

Sure, it’s like whispering in polite company. Her grandmother is likely turning over in her grave – but AnneMarie is Modi above all else, and doesn’t care.

Otherwise, she is silent. As usual.

The Modi’s got jokes. Who knew?

She could have informed Adam about Mrena’s death, but that didn’t seem like her news to tell. Instead, she looked over to read what AnneMarie had written her, and a knowing little chuckle sprang forth, along with a lop-sided smile.

“Point taken.”

A nod at the topic being about death and transition. His own people had a goodly number of songs about such things* Ahhhh… *A beat* I see.

Have you been back out to speak with Tanith?

Then she simply takes a sip of her beer, and listens. She does not mention Mrena’s passing either, as it is for her pack to spread the news, to howl to those they deem should know. The song itself could be for many, and it is a shame that Caleb had missed it. Perhaps another time.

She does arch a brow slightly though at the name, as it rings familiar, and then after a moment the memory comes through and she turns to Serafine to await her reply.

She was re-settling herself on the sofa, leaning back and crossing one long, ballerina-like leg over the other. Her hands rested themselves on her knee, fingers steepling together. It was a shame that Caleb had missed the song, for it had, in part, been for him. Perhaps he’d heard the echoes of it down the hall, at least.

*looking at his watch* Well I should get on home. Was out by the caern and then heading home and thought I’d stop by and touch base. Nice seeing you ladies again.

*A nod and he’d raise fluidly to his feet.*

She leans forward and sets her almost empty beer bottle on the coffee table next to her plate, before leaning back once more and crossing one knee over the other. She does not have the grace that Serafine does, that of a dancer, but there is something that speaks of the animal so close under her skin in even the smallest movement.

“Have a good night, in that case. Until next time.”

After a beat, she glanced over at AnneMarie. Adam’s departure seemed to have reminded her how late it was, and she gave a dainty little yawn in spite of herself, blinking the exhaustion out of her eyes. “I think I’ll have to take my cue from him, I’m afraid. The sun will be coming up before too long.”

Then he was down and gone.*

Who knows who will turn up next, hm?

She does flip over her board to write again, a simple sentiment. ~Goodnight, Serafine.~

She had stood up from the sofa, gathering up her jacket and guitar, before turning to bid her farewell to the silent Fenrir.

“Until next time.”

Those words hung meaningfully in the air behind her departing form, though they had held a playful edge to them. And soon Serafine was down the steps and making her way back out to her car. It was time she headed home for the night.