L’ange Noir [Serefina]

And the sad thing? She had no logical reason to be there, either. But, just like the other night when she’d found herself wandering over to Hill House to inspect the place, the piece of her subconscious that was always on the lookout…the guard… was feeling a bit anxious. It needed to be let out to pace the darkened streets, almost looking for trouble, though she would not have admitted to such.

She didn’t exactly look the part, either. Serafine looked like she couldn’t take a pre-teen in a fight. Looks could be deceiving.

She takes a seat, folding one knee over the other, the toe of her boot swinging slightly as she stirs the iced concoction with the straw and takes a long sip. She is dressed very much as she always is – newish jeans, and a cotton blouse, under the light leather jacket to combat the ever present Chicago winds.

She seems content to sit in the silence, in the early morning hours, without a single thought betrayed upon her face. Some call her stoic. Some call her strong. One called her interesting. Many, many have called her things far worse. But for now, she is simply AnneMarie, sitting on a bench at 2am, under a flickering barely there light, enjoying an iced mocha with a shot of caramel.

The sound of footsteps pulls her eyes from the tumultuous river, only to find the familiar form of the Black Fury headed her way. True to form, she says nothing. Merely watches.

“AnneMarie. I hadn’t expected to see you here.” She was making her way over to the bench, giving a nod of greeting to the other garou as she drew up beside her. “I’m not infringing on your pack’s territory, am I? I really must learn who hangs about where in this city.”

Her own outfit was not all that dissimilar to the Fenrir’s: Jeans that were cut to hug the slim length of her long dancer’s legs, and a black t-shirt beneath the open jacket. As usual, her hair was down. It brushed about her face for a moment, wild in the breeze. With a look of mild annoyance, she attempted to tame it. “Alright if I sit down?”

She answers the last first, that with a gesture of her hand toward the bench at her side, to invite the other woman to join her. She then sets her cup down on the bench to the side, so that she can answer the others, writing quickly and neatly and passing the board to Seraphine to read.

~No, our territory begins about a couple of blocks down the way. The markers are clear on the other side, for when you wish to find the edges.~

Most know that the Eagle Territory is fiercely protected. The boundaries are clearly marked for that reason. But here, and now, they are safely beyond those lines.

She extracted a cigarette from the pack, then, as an afterthought, held it out to her present companion to see if she might like one as well. It was only courteous, after all.

“I have too much time on my hands, and it’s driving me crazy, so I thought I might wander about for awhile. Yesterday I ended up at Hill House. I think I may have met a kin there. Elle était une idiote.” Whenever Serafine wanted to give something emphasis, or, for that matter, speak down to someone (or in this case, about someone) she slipped back into her native tongue. The fact that she clarified was indication that she had some respect for AnneMarie. “She was an idiot.”

She watches Seraphine as she speaks, a brow arching slightly as she hears of this kin who is an idiot. The french rolls easily from her lips, and it was something that was easily deciphered as the key word is closely tied to the similar word in English. She does appreciate the confirmation via translation, though, and nods slightly.

~Do you remember her name?~

Simply curious.

“Tanith, I think.”

It was clear that the woman had left a less-than-satisfactory impression upon the young Fury, but ultimately it wasn’t of that much importance. She may have felt differently had she known that Tanith was of her own tribe. Someone more experienced than Serafine likely would have figured it out, but… she still had a bit of learning to do. In any event, AnneMarie was getting a glimpse of a more natural and human side to the French galliard. As she was putting her lighter away, she glanced at the Modi and smirked a little.

“I have been accused of being overly opinionated. My apologies.”

At the last, a brow quirks upwards, tugging the corner of her lips into a brief smirk along with it.

~ An opinionated Fury. What are the odds?~

She shakes her head though, a moment alter. ~ I do not recognize the name. But I have been away for some time. I am sure that your opinion is valid.~

She took another drag off the cigarette, then glanced at the board. “The Modi…is a comedian.” She stated this dryly, but with a glitter of amusement showing in her eyes. Not offended. More like the teasing banter of friends.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she seemed to come to a decision. “I like you, AnneMarie. You aren’t full of shit, and you don’t talk too much.”

That last was probably an attempt at humor on her own part.

She does not deny being something of a comedian. She has her moments. They are few and far between, but one would expect such from a Modi – especially under this moon. Serephine retaliates, and the smirk is born again, lingering longer, almost finding a home across her lips.

~I prefer to listen. You learn far more that way.~

A pause, and then…

~Your tattoo is beautiful, by the way. Embodiment of your deed name, or is there more story behind it?~ Yes, she just asked the Galliard for a story.

“You are right on both counts, though the tattoo preceded the name.”

There was a long pause then. Beats that came and went in silence. In the presence of perhaps a different sort of company, Serafine likely would have let it drop at that. But as she has said…she liked the Modi. They had fought together once, and although one could never really be sure of who to trust… Serafine was a lone garou in a strange city, and it was nice simply to have the company.

It was nice to be asked.

“Once there was a girl,” she continued finally. “A girl who did everything that was asked of her by her family. She was young. She was perfect. She was…naive. She was named after an angel.”

“One day that girl woke up and could barely stand the feel of her own skin. Slowly, systematically, she started doing everything wrong. Until one night when she took home a boy. A stranger. She didn’t realize the beast she had inside her.”

Her voice had a far-off, ethereal quality to it, and she took a breath, still gazing off into the black sky.

“Et l’ange est mort avec le sang d’un innocent sur ses ailes.”

“So that is the tattoo. A symbol of what has been lost.” There was another pause, before she continued. “The name came…from a kinfolk woman. During my rite of passage. We assisted another pack in exorcising one of the Wyrm’s spirits from her. It was my defense that saved her from being killed outright. I suppose… I have a weakness for the innocent.”

For the first time, now, she actually smiled. Very softly. “When she awoke, she could not find me. But she remembered by tattoo, and she called out, ‘L’Ange Noire! Où est L’Ange Noire?!’ The name stuck, after that.”

She does not press for Serafine to hurry, to tell the story, to get on with it. She simply waits, knowing the words would either come, or not, but expecting the former would happen eventually. The story she tells, one of first change and the loss of the boy she was with, the memory that the tattoo embodies, it is one told a thousand times, with a thousand little differences around the world, in their world. She lifts her chin, slightly, as she listens, acknowleging the pain immortalized in ink under her skin.

The rest, and the smile, brings another nod. The silence (…heh…) lingers for some time, and then she puts pen to board again and writes.

~ I was to be slaughtered at birth, a birth which killed my mother. The fact that I had no voice lead them to believe me already dead. By the time they discovered otherwise, it was too late for the ritual. They called me Bitter Grace. My grandmother searched for a name that held the same meaning, and translated it into AnneMarie. Even my deed name is one they attempted to use as ridicule. Why else would they name a Modi “calm”?~

Though her story lacks grace and ease of telling, it is a story in return for the one just told.

The very fact that she now viewed herself as something…. fallen… was evidence enough of guilt. Had AnneMarie met her in the months after her first change, she would not have recognized her as the same person. She had been wild with grief. She had nearly killed herself for it. Duty kept her alive. And the obsessive need to make up for what could not be undone.

She wasn’t wild now. She was just…cold.

One story for another. AnneMarie was offering her the board again, and she read what was written there. Her jaw flexed, teeth grinding down on themselves angrily.

“We think we are so powerful. So…pure. Culling that which reminds us of our sins. There is no reason for it but arrogance and fear.” Those words were practically spat out, and her lips curled in distaste.

Perhaps another would bristle at the implied insult. She does not. Instead, she writes again. ~I cannot argue their reasoning. I only seek to prove my worth above all else. Instead of railing against the deed name, I chose to embody it. We all do what we can. Eagle sees me worthy. Rohl finds me an asset. There is little more that I could ask for.~

The words are simple, but there is a lifetime of pain behind them, of bitterness, of struggle, of loss and desires unfulfilled. She simply refuses to allow it to the surface.

She stood up, as she said this, pitching her cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out beneath her toe. “I imagine that I don’t need to tell you this, though.” Here she offered the Modi a small, sad smile. “You’ll forgive me, though… for I would argue with their reasoning. You have as much worth as any others of your kin. More than many, in my book.”

Like she’d said. She was opinionated.

“I think it is getting to be time that I headed home. Thank you for the conversation. It was welcome.”

On the board, she adds, ~As was your company. The number is to my cell phone – I cannot answer it, for obvious reasons, but there is voice mail, and I have become rather adept at texting.~

She doesn’t say ‘call anytime’ though it is likely implied. She doesn’t say ‘hope to hear from you soon’ as that would be just a tough too honest. What she does add simply is this:

~Rest well, Serafina.~