Um. Hi. I babble lots!  *obviously doesn't intend for you to match this unless you want to!*
[html] Given the first moment to slip away and keep to himself, Laurel took it. He returned to the city with his banjo firmly at hand (or in this case, drug along by its strap and hanging loosely off of his shoulder), acting slightly like a man with a mission. His mission wasn't to scope out the city for potential threats or make it through a landmine field, but he was in search of a music store. For expansive as the city was, he thought surely there would be such a place. And sure enough, down a street with a rusty, worn sign that he couldn't read despite attempting to, there was one. Nestled in a block long row of buildings, it was just as dusty and dirty and every other quaint little store front in the entire city. Upon reaching the door, he was even surprised to find that there wasn't a single crack in the windows.
Apparently werewolves and the like didn't care much for music.
Regardless of that factoid manifesting in his brain, the lack of cracks in the door window was about to change when he discovered it was locked. Breaking into things was hardly a skill of his, but it was easily done when one pointed their elbow at the right angle. Paying no mind to how quiet or loud he was about it (or the cursing that ensued when he didn't get it right the first time), Laurel let himself in and much to his relief, didn't sneeze at the stirred up dust. This time, he blamed the humidity that was plaguing the air because it had rained all morning on his venture there. Beneath his feet, the floorboards protested being walked on for the first time in ages, just as the stale air made his throat itchy.
“At least you're a dry little store, for now,” he murmured, eyeing the guitars that were mounted to its faded off-white walls. He passed a display of sheet music, playing mind to the way things were in disarray around the store, from the haphazard music cases of instruments stacked just behind the counter, to boxes full of lord knew what. The object that he had in mind were replacement strings for his instrument of choice, even though it didn't need them. It had never hurt to have them on hand and as he approached the payment counter, he spied such a thing in its glass case. That of which he wasn't about to try and recreate his elbow-smashing technique, but instead leaned over the counter far too precariously to try and reach inside and grab them. [/html]
[html] http://i144.photobucket.com/albums/r173 ... header.jpg) no-repeat #ffffff top center; width: 377px; border: 1px solid #000000;"> Ku-babbling is a-okay with me. -whee babbles back-
Poe simply was not one to commit herself to anything. To a place, to a person, even to a moral or point of view. Call it weak minded, or freespirited, it didn't matter in its conclusion--Poe didn't click with routine. Which made it a wonder that she had created one in her rebellion against it.
Living alone in the city meant freedom, that was for sure, but providing for herself (while so thoroughly refusing to shift into a tooth-hunting form) was a task that didn't give much room for change. The sea fed her, the city sheltered her, the dead clothed her, and she obeyed their rules and borders just as naturally as she had once obeyed an alpha. It brought to question the authenticity of this spectacular freedom that she had been claiming for so long now, and shone a light on the nature that grew between the cracks of her city-girl skin. As wolves, they all haboured an instinct for community, to be led and to lead, and woven into something bigger than themselves. She had only really turned her surrounding threads from flesh to stone, and their rough edges grinded at her calluses on some days like this. They led her further out, towards sounds and scents, towards threads that belonged to other blankets.
This one was different, though. The ambiguous smell of a traveller carried a swirl of budding ownership that were not recognizable as one those that had tracked through the city since early spring. This newly discovered scent path guided her down a street with slow, rhythmic steps, nice and easy and--crash! Broken glass sang out from beyond the next cross street, mildly startling the small lady. And like any wise woman, she was quick to brush it off and B-line it for the source of perceived destruction.
After rounding the corner, the store was easily identifiable for the small puddle of broken glass. Not that broken store fronts was anything near unusual--but the gasps of sun the pieces reflected as she approached were brighter than the dirt-caked neighbors. She looked very near dainty in her yellow, ribbon-waisted sundress, stepping carefully between glass shards into the doorway. But it was short-lived as she slouched into her typical hip-jutted posture and smiled her sharp-toothed fairy grin, and folded her arms toughly across her chest. "Breaking and entering," she tisked with a shake of her head, "My, my. This city just ain't what it used to be," she sighed in overplayed disapproval while her eyes took in the stranger's form. Immediately, his taste for clothing (the tweed hat was, in short, swoon-worthy to her eyes) caught her attention and affection, and his face tugged at some long-ago memory in the back of her head. A fond memory, but a far off one no less.
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I'm glad someone does! XD
[html] His tongue was pinched beneath his front teeth as his arm stretched out, a pure look of determination lay settled on his face. However easy it would have been to venture down the long counter and go around it and then reach in, he simply opted to be stupid and do things the hard way. Laurel had almost hooked a claw on the paper punch hole when he heard gentle footsteps on the floor behind him and instinctively froze. For a moment he was hyperaware of everything going on around him, ears twitching faintly at the close proximity of the moving figure and then jumping ever so slightly when the voice that rang out wasn't what he expected. No big angry black-as-night tough-as-nails equal scavenger had a voice that high and light.
So he gave up his venture for the moment and leaned back upright, turning around with a light expression to go with his shady actions. The girl (who in reality was a woman, but her size spoke differently to him) was every bit as dressed as he was, which to any other stranger who wasn't used to it, was overdressed. And with not really anywhere to go, for that matter. Needless to say, he liked her taste in clothing. “This city hasn't been what it used to be a long time ago,” he replied with a coy smile, eyes tracing her figure from bottom to top. “But if the door hadn't been locked, I wouldn't have broken in, then you could only charge me with entering,” and in which case, they probably wouldn't have met.
“You're the second face I've seen around here who runs around with clothes on. And from that look in your pretty eyes, you don't see people like me very often either.” Outside of that place, the only ones that seemed to run around half-dressed were the ones who did all of the travelling anyway. He had always thought there were many uses for wearing clothes; pants at least. Pockets were a clever intention! Hats were good for keeping the sun out of his eyes (not that his really did that, it was more or less there for show) and shirts… well, they had a purpose somewhere, whatever it was. Fashion statements. It made them pretty! Simple logic overrules everything! That brainless tangent aside, he leaned against the glass case without a second thought. [/html]
[html] http://i144.photobucket.com/albums/r173 ... header.jpg) no-repeat #ffffff top center; width: 377px; border: 1px solid #000000;"> So, just to let you know, I am totally infatuated with Laurel. Yeah, I like my men canine and mutated, and totally imaginary! -ninjaswaps to shiny new suiting table!-
All cheek and charm, and dressed to kill, this fellow certainly had a way about him that pulled Poe right in with a little swoon to boot. She grinned her unburdened pixie grin and shook her head slowly as he excused himself from her charges, putting her hands on her hips and sticking one foot out with a tapping toe in an overexaggerated play of disapproval while he spoke on.
"To my great dismay, I have to say that these pretty little eyes certainly do not," she admitted, shifting her weight back and then forward to take a bold step towards him, openly browsing his body and wear. It was very unusual to see anyone without a European accent dressing as frivolously as these two did. Truly, it shed all of the feral practicality that remained the primary stream in the North American populations, for the sake of flaunting the mark of a cultural shift from brute strength and unequivocal loyalties towards tools and broadened philosophies. Petty as these clothes may seem, they spoke of values and lifestyles, those that Poe was so naturally inclined towards. "And perhaps with a small bribe, I'll even let you off with a warning for all of this," she purred, abruptly reaching a hand out towards him, palm up and waiting for a split second before her grin erupted with a throaty laugh, and her palm flipped inwards for a handshake, instead.
"Poe D'Angelo," she introduced herself with a tilt of her head to move her bangs away from clouding half of her view. She might have continued with the classic "Pleased to meet you," but she wasn't entirely sure she hadn't met him before. In passing through Europe or Africa, she considered. He definitely looked like the travelling type.
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*cackles* XD
[html] The only times Laurel had ever touched on his feral roots was as a child. The memories then were as faded and yellowed as the long untouched books in libraries and stores, because from the first moment he was able to shift, he had never gone back. One could almost theorise that perhaps he had even forgotten how to do something so primal, so instinctual. Still, he couldn't help but give her a wiry grin as she swooned and drew in closer, taking him in just as he had her and mentioning a bribe. His grin almost turned smug at that notion, mind no doubt trailing to just what kind of ‘bribe’ he was thinking of. But like many things, that would be out of reach for now. Grasping her hand with a strong shake, it was her laugh that rang the strongest memory bells.
Laughter was one of his fondest memories. “Laurel Booth,” he returned with a thinner smile, “and I must ask, have we met before?” He had seen too many walks of life to forget someone who was just as particular as this little pixie, from the way she carried herself and spoke to the things that she wore, it was all out of pages in his book. Carefree and light, far too uncommon in the likes of natives that lived with strict hierarchies with dreams of building empires. Yet they were true to the old adage of “birds of a feather flock together,” weren't they? For that reason, he couldn't take his eyes off of her, clearly trying to make sure he hadn't misplaced her in his memory somewhere along the way. [/html]
[html] http://i144.photobucket.com/albums/r173 ... header.jpg) no-repeat #ffffff top center; width: 377px; border: 1px solid #000000;"> "I was going to ask you the same thing," the dark little lady mused, head tilting a little further to her right before making a quick flick with her nose to push that hair from her face and give him a thorough head-to-toe look-down. For practical purposes, of course. Her mind followed the faulty treasure map of her journey from Canada to Africa, Africa to Europe, Europe to the burnt beaches to the north-east, but his face didn't fit into any of the puzzle pieces that made up the bigger picture. "A past life, maybe," she proposed, unaware of how close she was in a figurative sense. The summer that she had known him was the tail end of a self she knew best in neglected memories now, but it had enough of a whip to it to fling her quickly into the next stage of her life. Music wore away at tradition like water over rock, while intoxicants lifted their egos like seabirds, far above the need obey any one figure, but instead collect in a free-moving flock. Yeah, definitely birds of a feather.
"Let me guess," she broke off her own consideration, leaning a hip against the clear cabinet that he had been trying to fish something out of. "You're a nomad from far-off lands? A travelling vagabond with no love bigger than the open road?" she inquired airily, that grin of hers always lifting and twisting with her thoughts and speech, flaunting the course she took without any evident restraint. She was humoured and curious, digging for a story, a piece of his history that she might connect the dots between the two.
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This post are bad. D:
[html] A past life sounded about right to him, though every day could have almost been considered a past life when it came to Laurel. He never felt the same way twice, there was always something that nagged him and pulled distinctly in his memories one way or another. They had their tendencies to wake him at night and prevent him from sleeping; but that was just signs that he couldn't slow down even when he was physically tired. He half-turned and half-rolled on the arm closest to Poe as she leaned beside him, not breaking his gaze on her for too long at a time. His brow quirked and a smile crawled across his face at her guess.
“You've hit the nail on the head,” he remarked, considering for a moment if it was really that obvious. Yet one traveler could pick out another traveler from a group of people after a while, so he took a shot at his own ideas. “You look like someone who's done a bit of the same. You move too easy for someone who's stuck around in this place for too long.” Unless of course they were all secret movers and shakers and kept him out of the loop. Maybe in a few days the world would rotate in a different direction and he'd be met with a bunch of faces that spoke Dutch instead of English or French. Given the things that had been in his system a time or two from the past, it wasn't too far fetched. [/html]
[html] http://i144.photobucket.com/albums/r173 ... header.jpg) no-repeat #ffffff top center; width: 377px; border: 1px solid #000000;"> Truly, her analysis took little insight beyond familiarity with his sort. Their sort, maybe--Poe had travelled with a rhyme and reason, across Canada and over the Atlantic, but her wanderlust kept her lingering, led her farther, and made her happy. And, in its own way, kept her in the city, away from the razor-nailed grip a pack would entail, or so she preceived.
She found herself distinctly flattered when he turned the comment around to her. Her routine in the city, her chasing ghosts, her drawn out solitude in the last number of months had made her doubt her own nature, one that she had previously believed as accomplishing anything except settling into monotony. The confirmation that her travelling spirit had not yet faded from sight was enough to bring a wide, cheeky smile on her face, true enough to give light into her eyes. "That's good to hear. I would hate to be a stiff-legged homebody, you know," she said sagely, only briefly quelling that contented smile, only to soon be distracted by the clear case Laurel had been investigating before she interrupted. Looking down into its contents, she asked, "So what was it that you were so gracefully looting before I arrived?"
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He decided that he quite liked her smile, partly because it did light up her eyes, but also because she was a very pretty girl to begin with. Very pretty, very familiar. But he had been in too many places and see too many faces to place her quickly and for the most part, she seemed to be about the same. Compared to Nikita, she was much more fluid and less stiff, no doubt the very things that he had a tendency to play toy to a cat. Always within their sights but at the last moment, pulled out of the way and sending the cat on a frenzy to catch it all over again.
“Oh, well, I was getting some extra strings for this thing,” he said, forking a thumb at his banjo lying on the case. “It doesn't need new strings yet, but I didn't see the harm in getting them before I needed them. You never know when is going to break on you until it does and I don't like to play without a string.” Though he had met a canine or two who played with three or less strings. Most of them were old and missing some teeth too, a misfortune that luckily still had a few years before it tried to set in on him, at least.
“Do you play any instruments?”
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[html] http://i144.photobucket.com/albums/r173 ... header.jpg) no-repeat #ffffff top center; width: 377px; border: 1px solid #000000;"> The casual mention of musical talent came as no surprise to the D'Angelo girl, as the fact comfortably fit in with the picture she was beginning to paint of this fellow. In some ways, it was a masculine mirror of herself, it seemed--open smiles, broad spirits, endless paths, and a great appreciation for the pleasures life so openly offered to those looking for it. Music often struck Poe as the language of such things, abstract but understandable to those of any culture and dialect. A true nomad's language.
Her expression was a clear window to her thought pattern--her unsurprised delight following a wave of unhurried enthusiasm. With a nod of agreement to his explanation, she answered his question, "I used to play the fiddle," she began, well aware that it was a talent that she had not practiced in quite some time. "Until it took off for exotic lands without me, at least," she loosely explained. The story was far too long and bizarre, not to mention melancholy, to even consider drawing out. Instead, her mind turned to the day earlier, and the pretty coyote girl on the coast, consumed by her own strings. "A cello player may have reinspired me to reconcile with my lost love, though," she said a little dreamily, allowing her gaze to roam the store, parting shadows to gaze at the old, tidy contents. Maybe there would be a fiddle. Or maybe something for feeling the beats she lived by. A hand-drum or, maybe even possibly a destiny-ridden tambourine!
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“Sprouted legs and ran away,” he murmured about her fiddle, imagining all of the different ways she could have possibly lost it. Theft, fire, or maybe it simply fell apart. He was lucky to have been able to salvage his own instrument a couple of times, but it had definitely seen its days before he had gotten it. “I put a strap on mine to stop it from doing that and it's tried to a few times.” Especially when it hadn't been like a third leg to him. Laurel didn't like to leave it behind very often, though he had learned to part with it long enough to find other things unrelated to it.
However, it was her mention of a certain cellist that made Laurel's expression change. The thought that Poe may have meet Nikita amused him, given the dramatic differences in their personality. He always liked to think that Nikita was a lot tougher than she seemed, but he had never seem her any other way. Not even the first moment he had set his eyes on her… even alcohol didn't bring out much of a difference in her personality; she was always so guarded. “A coyote cellist, by any chance? You might have met my partner in crime.” But if it was one thing he could say about the real muscle of Esper Hollow, she was a damn good cellist.
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[html] http://i144.photobucket.com/albums/r173 ... header.jpg) no-repeat #ffffff top center; width: 377px; border: 1px solid #000000;"> Uh, weird post here. xP -forces personal urges onto Poe-
"Sprouted legs? What a silly thought," she replied with a thoughtful frown, returning to her handsome companion-turned instantaneous comrade. "No, it merely caught a boat to France and forgot me at the port," she explained with a devilish little bow from her eyelashes, and one corner of her mouth quirked upwards. Humorous as her explanation sounded, it was, more or less the truth. Except for the catching and forgetting part--that was better explained by her own poor luck and maybe a little demon beneath the dock. But those stories were better kept for a midnight campfire, if anything.
Each subject that they moved between seemed to spur on more grins, more entertainment, and an increasing sense of serendipity. They were supposed to cross paths (again), that was very certain in Poe's whimsical mind set. "Nikita," she repeated the name given to her by that musical coyote girl, not pausing for a confirmation before cutting away into a heavy sigh and a backwards glance. "Well, the chicken's out of the bag," she misquoted, putting a hand back on one round hip. "I may as well come out with it. I'm your stalker, Mr. Booth. And I've come here to finally get what I've always wanted." She looked back at him with a dramatic, hard stare that suddenly lifted over his brow. "That brilliant hat," she said firmly, taking a quick hold of his arm for balance and propulsion when she hopped up and tried bopping the underside of the hat's brim with her other hand.
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I have table ADD... but did enjoy your post!
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Ah, so it seemed that Nikita had met someone outside of the pack. Laurel knew she had wandered off a couple of times, but other than that she had been keeping up the borders when he wandered around without so much as a word. He couldn't help but have a broad smile playing on his face, tanned lips only parting to laugh when Poe confessed that she was his stalker. She also would have gotten his hat if it weren't for the notches where his ears were; the hat only slipped back on his head a little bit and he pulled it from the top of his head. Looking the worn and mostly useless part of his attire over, he couldn't help but have a sense of nostalgia wash over him. It was faded and old, so much older than he was, but he had kept it for a long time.
“Out of anything you could possibly want from me or on me, you pick this ratty old thing?” His gaze looked sharply into her own, holding a glint of mischievousness. Gripping the hat, he placed it squarely on her dark head, half expecting it to be too large for some reason and fall down over her eyes. But it didn't, despite how pixie-like she did look. “Well, now you have it. For a little while, at least,” he went on to say as he scratched the top of his head that suddenly felt a bit more naked. “So were exactly do you live around here? Or are you the kind of pixie that likes to live with the birds in the forest?”
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Poe frowned when the hat only budged, murmuring a quiet "Drat, foiled!" and taking a step back with a definitively defeated look to her body and face; shoulders heaved, lips pursed to one side in a half-frown, and scrunched brows, she was particularly animated in such jests as these. It melted away when he caught her gaze, though, in great part due to the childish enchantment she took from engaging with the lively, relaxed, open sorts that Laurel so epitomized from her point of view here. And just to enforce this, he pulled the hat off and plunked it right down onto hers, stirring up a big fat grin.
She adjusted it on her head, shifting and stretching the muscles at the base of her ears until they popped through their designated holes. Her high ponytail tilted the hat forward a little too far over her forehead, so she tilted her chin up a little to look at him coyly from beneath the worn brim. "Oh no, this pixie is far too fond of dusty old buildings and big, pillowy beds to mingle with the birds in the forest, I'm afraid," she said, a little distracted now by the pleasure of wearing the hat. Her eyes roamed the store for a mirror or shiny surface, and the moment she caught one, she bid him a "one moment" nod and walked to it. Around the counter on the back wall, there was a small, dusty mirror mounted by a doorway that read "Employees Only". "And you, Oberon? Where have you settled?" she asked, then quickly added with returned attention and a second thought, "No matter how temporary it may be." Very, she guessed regrettably.
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His eyes followed her—partly because he liked her and partly because he thought she might run off his hat—as she ventured to the dusty mirror and caught her reflection. “A little place out to the west of here that we've called Esper Hollow,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Aside from Nikita and I, there's a couple of others, one of them is a non-shifter we picked up out of the city. I guess he's from overseas or something, talks funny and all. But then we've got Laurent, who's good at building things, and his mate Jasper, who can cook.” They were a regular motley crew, that was for sure.
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Her head remained turned away from the mirror as he spoke, and the moderate (and pleased) surprise was painted finely across her features. Inevitably, the latter half of his band's name swung her thoughts around to her ghastly midnight companion, faultering her expression ever so briefly, until he continued to speak. She smiled and lifted her gaze a little, formulating a picture of where and what his Esper Hollow might look like. And with a drifting mind came drifting eyes that finally came to settle on her own reflection before her. Her gaze lingered there with a couple of tilts to her head, only to peel away within a couple of considering seconds, leading her to stroll towards him, while remaining behind the counter.
Two palms were placed on the countertop and with one languid move, she lifted herself up to sit in front of him, stretching her nearest hand to plant itself on his side of the counter, allowing her to lean towards him. "All that effort to track it down, and I've found it looks far better on you," she said with low, silky words and a friendly smirk. She plucked the hat off of her head and stretched her arm up and out to thread it over Laurel's ears and back where it was so evidently suited. Even if he did have a lovely head of hair.
"Jasper de le Poer? Shy blonde kid with floppy bangs?" she asked off-handedly, finding herself almost expecting a yes by the way things had been going. "It must be something pretty special to snag two nomads, I'd imagine," she mused. "I just might have to check it out sometime." It was a statement loaded with more than Laurel could have understood, particularly on the strange lure of whim and intrigue she was coasting on, and would ride out to those lands.
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With his hat back on his head and rightfully so came his charming smirk, amused even more at the fact that Poe seemed to playing the part of a stalker quite well, however indirectly it was. “Yeah, that's him… you seem to know your people pretty well, at least for stalking me,” he joked with a chuckle, “but you should come by and pay us a visit sometime. I could at least offer you a drink and a chance to hang around with these people you seem to know.” There was more to that than he was letting one, partially because he thought it would have been nice to have a fiddle player. It would given a little more variation to just him and Nikita and if they found a fourth string player, they'd have a regular string quartet to mess with.
“Maybe if you find a good fiddle lying around, you should bring it along too, maybe entertain us with a song you know by heart,” and for all he knew, maybe it would be something that he was familiar with, something that bonded them back to a certain meeting place in time. “And hey, while you're back there, you mind handing me that thing with the strings in it? Since you're back there and all,” and before he tried it later and flipped over the case or had it break or something unpleasant but amusing!
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Laurel certainly had charmed the pixie street urchin, leaving her inwardly mesmerized and drawn forwards, like with threads tied around her ribcage, linked to his hand now. It was the same peculiar and stirring draw that she had felt only a handful of times in her life, when puzzle pieces began falling into place and revealed a promise for something bigger, better, more to come. Inwardly, she knew that she would take him up on his offers, despite her feet feeling stubbornly rooted to the broken concrete floor of this city. But she only smiled coyly, casually, and gave him a nod before responding to his request.
One dark hand fished out a packet of guitar strings from inside of the counter she sat on, before she kicked her legs up over to the other side and slid off next to Laurel with a flash of the pearly whites. "Here you are, sir," she said with a quick bounce of her chin and the strings offered. "It was a pleasure doing business with you. Do come again." Always a play, a giggle, a game, she curtsied with one hand and took several rhythmic steps away, towards the light of the open door, pausing briefly there. "Then again, I am your stalker," she said thoughtfully, as if suddenly remembering. "So maybe I'll just burst in on you at an inopportune time again. Steal some other piece of your clothing for real." She turned back to him with a devilishly impish grin then, and lazily strolled back into the street.
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Strings in one hand, his smile turned broad once again as Poe stepped lightly towards the door. So very fluid, so very carefree, very much like the dancer she seemed to be. Her words drew a chuckle from the depth of his chest, though it emerged soon thereafter as laughter. “You do that,” he said, watching her exit the building. Though he only hung around for a couple of minutes more, by the time he had ventured back out onto the streets, she was gone entirely from sight. No trace or sign of the dark-haired pixie to be seen. Still, he believed he would run into her again in the future, which stayed with him as he started to head back towards the Hollow with his find and Banjo in hand.
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