An unexpected way to spend an evening
Jan. 31st, 2012 10:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently 17:34 Pacific Time on Tue Jan 31 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (55% full).
Truck Stop
The grey-black asphalt of the parking area spreads out from the ribbon of the interstate like a cracked blanket, while the only other sign of civilization for miles on this stretch of road are the diner and the motel. An decrepit wooden fence, fallen down in places, encompasses the perimeter of the truck stop, behind its barriers rises a thick, dense forest.
"White's Diner" blares the gaudy neon sign, highlighting the large stainless-steel construction, looking like something straight out of a 1950's sci-fi comic. Through the large windows, glimpses of waitresses pouring coffee, and truckers making messes of their famous spectacularly greasy burgers can be seen.
Further back out still, tucked away from the noise of incoming and departing trucks, is the motel reception area, and its many rooms available for rent.
Obvious exits:
Motel Interstate 90
Outside, Eli paces the parking lot between the motel and the diner. Far enough away from the motel, really, but he's keeping it within sight. A dark-papered cigarette, lit, hangs between his fingers, brought up to his lips occasionally. He's wrapped himself in a thick woolen sweater against the chill, and although the 20-year-old is both tall and broad-shouldered, it doesn't really account for the way that most everyone skirts around him. Not that he seems to either notice or care.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, it's this one a pale BMW chooses to drive into. It pulls into a spot away from any of the streetlamps and a white-haired grandma gets out. No, not a grandma, she moves too easily to have that many years. Shelby settles her purse over one arm and studies the diner before heading toward the motel, casting an uncaring eye toward cigarette's gleam. There's a certain bearing to her as she passes beneath a light - familiar, yet different, as if she trod upon rose petals or bore the weight of an ermine cloak.
Long drag from the cigarette. Loooong, as the Ahroun studies her, his free hand coming to push up against his brows and through short, nearly military-cut black hair. Head bows in what might be concentration, or preparation for the fact that there seems to be someone about to walk right past him and too close even if it is by several feet away, and the cigarette is neatly pinched out between thumb and forefinger, placed back into the pocket of his jeans.
Eli stands nearly six feet tall, braod-shouldered and athletic, and striking. The man looks to be in his early twenties, with strong features, dark hair that is cut in a short, nearly military, haircut, and light, piercingly blue eyes. Both ears are pierced, once each, with tiny hoops. He holds himself with great confidence, as well. He dresses plainly, in functional but nice jeans that have seen wear, and similarly nice teeshirt and sweater. Most of his clothing choices are dark greys and blacks, accentuating his complexion and heritage.
Though it seemed she might sweep right on past the Ahroun, uncaring, at the last moment Shelby turns and studies Eli. It's something more than 'what's this on my shoe' but nowhere near 'do I want to give him my number'. Assessing, perhaps. It's his face her eyes rest on, and an eyebrow arches. "Eli Tkachyov?" She gets the name right, or nearly right - certainly better than most Americans manage.
"Da?" The answer that Eli gives is downright terse, accented Russian, although not impolite. More like he simply forgot to speak English for a moment. Drag on the relit cigarette, fragrant smoke blown out in a thin wispy line.
Shelby rattles off something in a language that isn't Russian, though it sounds similar. In there (if he's listening close enough) are the words 'Tim' and 'Shelby Zaleski-Leveque' but that's about all that's recognizable. The hand she offers transcends language.
Brows raise, concentration and then confusion at whatever she's saying, but Eli returns the offered handshake, firmly, brief but not overly so. "Angliskij," he decides, tapping the cigarette out into empty air. "I am sorry," he adds, with an incline of his head, "I did not catch most of that."
"Oh," Shelby pauses, blinks, and offers a bright smile. "I'm sorry. I thought... well, let me try this again. Tim told me about you, and that you were having some sort of problem. My name is Shelby Zaleski-Leveque." Now she pauses to glance about, though she must trust the Ahroun to keep off any but the devoted eavesdropper. Even so her voice drops. "Fostern Ragabash of Falcon's children, daughter of Dragonfly, called Bright Eyes Sees to the Heart of the Ambush. I'm the great-great granddaughter of the Adren Philodox Silver Sword with Two Blades."
Eli nods, though the smile that he offers her in return is small, tired. Still, at the proper mention of Tim's name, the Ahroun eases slightly. "Mikael Elliot Tkachyov," he says, "Strikes-With-Thunder's-Might, Cliath Ahroun of Grandfather Thunder's blood. Eli, or Thunderstrike, if you would. Rited at and from Sept of the Broken Prairie, now--" The Ahroun's voice breaks at that, and he turns away from Shelby, taking another long drag from the cigarette before he faces her and begins speaking again. "My father was Viktor Silences-the-Weak, Adren Ahroun; my grandfather Sergei Speaker-of-Grandfather's-Word, Athro Philodox; my grandfather from my mother's side Matvei Voice-Like-Thunder's-Echo Dobrowski, Adren Galliard."
Shelby listens sympathetically, inclining her head at his introduction. "I'm sure we could take turns naming our valorous ancestors until the sun rises," she says with a small smile that invites a return, "but is there somewhere more comfortable to do it? Tim mentioned you were here, but," a shrug, "didn't go into details. You know Tim."
Eli relaxes a little bit further, head inclined towards the motel for a moment. "The boy is sleeping," he explains. "So I'm out here. That, and..." a faint tilt of his head to the cigarette in his hand. "I need the fresh air. Please." The request is almost a grunt, although it's not an afterthought.
Shelby considers him, considers the motel, considers his cigarette. "Sleeping? Now? He must be exhausted." At least she didn't say 'you'? Another moment and she nods. "What do you need? Do you have contact information, beyond Tim? Who knows you're in town?"
After a moment, Eli nods. The Ahroun looks tired, if nothing else. "Better than the boy being awake, for the moment," he says. When he is speaking English, it's relatively clear, with only the faintest hints of the Russian influence. "I..." A pause, and he considers. "Tim, whoever else Tim has told. I met Wildfire," another pause, "Owen? Earlier today."
Shelby half-frowns as if trying to place the name, or his accent, or something. "I'll make sure to spread the word." Whereupon she fetches out an iPhone from her purse and taps out a quick text. "--Sorry," as she puts it away. "Didn't want to forget. All right. I think he told Xander, but I don't know of anyone else. And if anyone asks, you can tell them I say you're clean."
Eli nods. "The boy isn't," he responds, voice quiet, before pulling out his lighter to relight the cigarette. "That I know. Tim checked." A long, heavy sigh follows. "But I knew that before Tim checked. The--" words turn choked again, and what's recognisable as cursing in Russian follows, before Eli looks back to Shelby. "Sorry," the Ahroun says, falling silent.
She blinks, but it only takes her a moment to regroup. Says, "All right," with a nod that speaks of mental notes being taken. "That needs to be dealt with sooner, rather than later. What else do you need? Money? You have a place to stay, obviously. What are your plans for when the moon gets bigger? Do you have a babysitter?"
Head shakes, another long drag of the cigarette, head bowed in concentration and thought. "The boy's fifteen, now," Eli adds, wryly. "And no. Someone who ... can deal with him, and watching him, so I might get some rest. Would be good." A nod. "Before the moon gets bigger. Tim is looking into dealing with the problem, but until then, it is what it is -- a problem."
The Ragabash tchs at the mention of his age and takes a moment to search the skies for strength. "Well. If you'll take my word and Dragonfly's that /I'm/ clean, I can take over for you for a few hours, at least. It may not be a full night's sleep, but it's better than cigarettes and coffee."
Eli studies her for a long moment, blue eyes intense and almost, if not for the faint smile that has crept onto the Ahroun's face and posture, harsh. Not quite a staring contest, no, and there is still respect in the gaze, but it is close. Finally, though, Eli nods, the stub of a cigarette once more pinched out, cigarette put into his pocket. "Rite," he corrects in good humour, with a faint grin, before he motions across the parking lot towards the motel, taking a step. "The calming one."
Her blue eyes meet his evenly, an eyebrow just beginning to edge up when he stubs out his cancer stick. "Oh, so you're on uppers and downers." There's her own smile as she follows in front. "Leave him a note, won't you? Something in your handwriting so he doesn't flip out if - when - he wakes up."
Eli grins, shaking his head. "I haven't killed anything recently, except Dancers, so," he responds, still in good humour as they get over towards the hotel room, and Eli draws out a key when they reach the room, which has the heavy curtains on the inside drawn shut. Inside on one of the two twin beds, asleep, is a teenager who bears immediate familial resemblance to the Shadow Lord.
"So here's what you need to know, if he does wake up," his voice drops to a whisper as he locks the door behind them, outlining that Broken Prairie fell, that the boy had been held captive, the recent trouble, and what the boy is supposed to be spending his time on. Then he looks over at the Ragabash one more time. "Thanks, Shelby-rhya," he says, sitting down on the edge of the previously empty bed.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (55% full).
Truck Stop
The grey-black asphalt of the parking area spreads out from the ribbon of the interstate like a cracked blanket, while the only other sign of civilization for miles on this stretch of road are the diner and the motel. An decrepit wooden fence, fallen down in places, encompasses the perimeter of the truck stop, behind its barriers rises a thick, dense forest.
"White's Diner" blares the gaudy neon sign, highlighting the large stainless-steel construction, looking like something straight out of a 1950's sci-fi comic. Through the large windows, glimpses of waitresses pouring coffee, and truckers making messes of their famous spectacularly greasy burgers can be seen.
Further back out still, tucked away from the noise of incoming and departing trucks, is the motel reception area, and its many rooms available for rent.
Obvious exits:
Motel Interstate 90
Outside, Eli paces the parking lot between the motel and the diner. Far enough away from the motel, really, but he's keeping it within sight. A dark-papered cigarette, lit, hangs between his fingers, brought up to his lips occasionally. He's wrapped himself in a thick woolen sweater against the chill, and although the 20-year-old is both tall and broad-shouldered, it doesn't really account for the way that most everyone skirts around him. Not that he seems to either notice or care.
Of all the gin joints in all the world, it's this one a pale BMW chooses to drive into. It pulls into a spot away from any of the streetlamps and a white-haired grandma gets out. No, not a grandma, she moves too easily to have that many years. Shelby settles her purse over one arm and studies the diner before heading toward the motel, casting an uncaring eye toward cigarette's gleam. There's a certain bearing to her as she passes beneath a light - familiar, yet different, as if she trod upon rose petals or bore the weight of an ermine cloak.
Long drag from the cigarette. Loooong, as the Ahroun studies her, his free hand coming to push up against his brows and through short, nearly military-cut black hair. Head bows in what might be concentration, or preparation for the fact that there seems to be someone about to walk right past him and too close even if it is by several feet away, and the cigarette is neatly pinched out between thumb and forefinger, placed back into the pocket of his jeans.
Eli stands nearly six feet tall, braod-shouldered and athletic, and striking. The man looks to be in his early twenties, with strong features, dark hair that is cut in a short, nearly military, haircut, and light, piercingly blue eyes. Both ears are pierced, once each, with tiny hoops. He holds himself with great confidence, as well. He dresses plainly, in functional but nice jeans that have seen wear, and similarly nice teeshirt and sweater. Most of his clothing choices are dark greys and blacks, accentuating his complexion and heritage.
Though it seemed she might sweep right on past the Ahroun, uncaring, at the last moment Shelby turns and studies Eli. It's something more than 'what's this on my shoe' but nowhere near 'do I want to give him my number'. Assessing, perhaps. It's his face her eyes rest on, and an eyebrow arches. "Eli Tkachyov?" She gets the name right, or nearly right - certainly better than most Americans manage.
"Da?" The answer that Eli gives is downright terse, accented Russian, although not impolite. More like he simply forgot to speak English for a moment. Drag on the relit cigarette, fragrant smoke blown out in a thin wispy line.
Shelby rattles off something in a language that isn't Russian, though it sounds similar. In there (if he's listening close enough) are the words 'Tim' and 'Shelby Zaleski-Leveque' but that's about all that's recognizable. The hand she offers transcends language.
Brows raise, concentration and then confusion at whatever she's saying, but Eli returns the offered handshake, firmly, brief but not overly so. "Angliskij," he decides, tapping the cigarette out into empty air. "I am sorry," he adds, with an incline of his head, "I did not catch most of that."
"Oh," Shelby pauses, blinks, and offers a bright smile. "I'm sorry. I thought... well, let me try this again. Tim told me about you, and that you were having some sort of problem. My name is Shelby Zaleski-Leveque." Now she pauses to glance about, though she must trust the Ahroun to keep off any but the devoted eavesdropper. Even so her voice drops. "Fostern Ragabash of Falcon's children, daughter of Dragonfly, called Bright Eyes Sees to the Heart of the Ambush. I'm the great-great granddaughter of the Adren Philodox Silver Sword with Two Blades."
Eli nods, though the smile that he offers her in return is small, tired. Still, at the proper mention of Tim's name, the Ahroun eases slightly. "Mikael Elliot Tkachyov," he says, "Strikes-With-Thunder's-Might, Cliath Ahroun of Grandfather Thunder's blood. Eli, or Thunderstrike, if you would. Rited at and from Sept of the Broken Prairie, now--" The Ahroun's voice breaks at that, and he turns away from Shelby, taking another long drag from the cigarette before he faces her and begins speaking again. "My father was Viktor Silences-the-Weak, Adren Ahroun; my grandfather Sergei Speaker-of-Grandfather's-Word, Athro Philodox; my grandfather from my mother's side Matvei Voice-Like-Thunder's-Echo Dobrowski, Adren Galliard."
Shelby listens sympathetically, inclining her head at his introduction. "I'm sure we could take turns naming our valorous ancestors until the sun rises," she says with a small smile that invites a return, "but is there somewhere more comfortable to do it? Tim mentioned you were here, but," a shrug, "didn't go into details. You know Tim."
Eli relaxes a little bit further, head inclined towards the motel for a moment. "The boy is sleeping," he explains. "So I'm out here. That, and..." a faint tilt of his head to the cigarette in his hand. "I need the fresh air. Please." The request is almost a grunt, although it's not an afterthought.
Shelby considers him, considers the motel, considers his cigarette. "Sleeping? Now? He must be exhausted." At least she didn't say 'you'? Another moment and she nods. "What do you need? Do you have contact information, beyond Tim? Who knows you're in town?"
After a moment, Eli nods. The Ahroun looks tired, if nothing else. "Better than the boy being awake, for the moment," he says. When he is speaking English, it's relatively clear, with only the faintest hints of the Russian influence. "I..." A pause, and he considers. "Tim, whoever else Tim has told. I met Wildfire," another pause, "Owen? Earlier today."
Shelby half-frowns as if trying to place the name, or his accent, or something. "I'll make sure to spread the word." Whereupon she fetches out an iPhone from her purse and taps out a quick text. "--Sorry," as she puts it away. "Didn't want to forget. All right. I think he told Xander, but I don't know of anyone else. And if anyone asks, you can tell them I say you're clean."
Eli nods. "The boy isn't," he responds, voice quiet, before pulling out his lighter to relight the cigarette. "That I know. Tim checked." A long, heavy sigh follows. "But I knew that before Tim checked. The--" words turn choked again, and what's recognisable as cursing in Russian follows, before Eli looks back to Shelby. "Sorry," the Ahroun says, falling silent.
She blinks, but it only takes her a moment to regroup. Says, "All right," with a nod that speaks of mental notes being taken. "That needs to be dealt with sooner, rather than later. What else do you need? Money? You have a place to stay, obviously. What are your plans for when the moon gets bigger? Do you have a babysitter?"
Head shakes, another long drag of the cigarette, head bowed in concentration and thought. "The boy's fifteen, now," Eli adds, wryly. "And no. Someone who ... can deal with him, and watching him, so I might get some rest. Would be good." A nod. "Before the moon gets bigger. Tim is looking into dealing with the problem, but until then, it is what it is -- a problem."
The Ragabash tchs at the mention of his age and takes a moment to search the skies for strength. "Well. If you'll take my word and Dragonfly's that /I'm/ clean, I can take over for you for a few hours, at least. It may not be a full night's sleep, but it's better than cigarettes and coffee."
Eli studies her for a long moment, blue eyes intense and almost, if not for the faint smile that has crept onto the Ahroun's face and posture, harsh. Not quite a staring contest, no, and there is still respect in the gaze, but it is close. Finally, though, Eli nods, the stub of a cigarette once more pinched out, cigarette put into his pocket. "Rite," he corrects in good humour, with a faint grin, before he motions across the parking lot towards the motel, taking a step. "The calming one."
Her blue eyes meet his evenly, an eyebrow just beginning to edge up when he stubs out his cancer stick. "Oh, so you're on uppers and downers." There's her own smile as she follows in front. "Leave him a note, won't you? Something in your handwriting so he doesn't flip out if - when - he wakes up."
Eli grins, shaking his head. "I haven't killed anything recently, except Dancers, so," he responds, still in good humour as they get over towards the hotel room, and Eli draws out a key when they reach the room, which has the heavy curtains on the inside drawn shut. Inside on one of the two twin beds, asleep, is a teenager who bears immediate familial resemblance to the Shadow Lord.
"So here's what you need to know, if he does wake up," his voice drops to a whisper as he locks the door behind them, outlining that Broken Prairie fell, that the boy had been held captive, the recent trouble, and what the boy is supposed to be spending his time on. Then he looks over at the Ragabash one more time. "Thanks, Shelby-rhya," he says, sitting down on the edge of the previously empty bed.