archbishops and griffins.

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

Speaking of driving...the door opens and a woman steps in, having just stepped outside of a VW Bus. Dusky skin and dark hair down to her midback indicate a non-Caucasian origin, though the T-Shirt underneath a duster that says (in style of the usual Keep Calm meme) "Freak Out and Break Shit" suggests a distinctly American pop-culture sensibility. She's just pocketing the remnants of her cigarette (floral ingrediants uncertain) as she lets the door shut behind her, looking around with a half-grin.

"Well," she says with a chuckle. "This is different."

She takes in the place for a moment, looks around the bar, up at the ceiling, into the light and dark parts where the shadows do and don't hold sway. It's all done with a curious glint to her expression--curiosity killed the cat, but it hasn't gotten this one yet. And then, with a little shrug, she moves to take a spot at the bar. There's a glance over at the two nearby and she gives them a little nod as she settles in.

"Not to intrude, but you guys have any idea where we are? 'cause I took a left turn at Albuquerque and I haven't seen a road sign yet. I'm expecting to get run into a wascally wabbit at this point."

Coll MacCulloch

"Bit o' a sad thought," he says softly, "walkin' out o' here an' not even r'memberin' tae look fer ya."

His hand doesn't twitch. It closes, slow and steady, loose and gentle, wrapping fingers around the base of her palm; the span of her wrist.

"Wha' do ye think, Iris. Shall we cut our losses, shake hands an' -- "

Sarita. Sarita settles in and Sarita speaks to them and Coll just -- closes his eyes for a second. Opens then, whips his head around, snaps at the woman:

"Stag's balls, woman, are ye blind, deaf, daft, or all o' the above? Can ye nae see I am havin' a private moment here?"

Iris Dahlstrom

His hand begins to close. But like a bird, a butterfly, a number of things, hers lifts. Gently, as though the air just picked it up. She uses it to switch hands, lifting her glass with the hand she gave to Coll for that moment.

"There are sadder things," she says, with some coyness, which

is a cover, as her mouth is covered, as she drinks.

--

Coll begins to ask her a question. Sarita rolls up. Iris, eyes above the rim of her glass, flicks her gaze at the woman in the duster and the t-shirt referencing Looney Tunes. Asks where they are. And gets a blistering earful for her trouble.

Iris would choke if she weren't capable of swallowing that disgusting liquor. She meets Sarita's eyes, her own wide, as she lowers the glass. Gives the tiniest of shrugs.

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

The look that hits her face when Coll snaps at her is one of suppressed hilarity. It's a little surprised, a little impressed and entirely amused, though after a moment she tries to tone down the grin. She has a bad habit of making situations worse when she laughs at people and she tries not to do it too much. So she tries to sober up the smile, nods a little it at the last sentence Coll gives.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir." The hands go up and she smiles. (Please don't turn into a grin I just got here and I want to get a drink before someone tries to punch me.) (Trying to make it longer than usual then, I see?) (...shut up. Yes.) "Like I said, not trying to intrude. Go, you do that private moment thing of yours. Lemme know if I can help. I'm just getting a drink."

She nods to the bartender. "Two tequilas, por favor." The favor is pronounced like the act of kindness would be, not the French word. "And I'll buy them whatever they're faving for the trouble."

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

[[having, not faving. Jesus, what's with my traitor fingers lately?]]

Coll MacCulloch

"Well, the moment's thoroughly ruined now, thank ye very much." Coll is still glaring. "Wha' a help ye've been. I'll ha' another o' these horrid scotches."

Because he would never turn down free booze, see.

Iris Dahlstrom

Sarita's mockery might not turn into a grin, but it's still there. In the you do that private moment and the offer to help and then saying she'll buy the drinks they're having now.

Iris looks across the table to Coll, waiting to catch his eyes. And then raising her eyebrows, as though she's surprised by something. Or amused. Or both. Beneath the table, her tango-shoe'd foot nudges against the outside of his ankle. It's more like a little kick.

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

She nods at that, letting Coll's annoyance slide right off her back. Fight prevented, democracy restored. For the moment. "Horrid scotch it is. And whatever the lady wants."

A pause. "And the tequilas. Don't want them to be forgotten. Hopefully non-horrid, but tequila is tequila so there may not be such a thing. The horridness is the best part...it's like the sign on the top of Hell that says 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.' But you know you just gotta go in and see what it's like at least once, right?"

It's ostensibly said to the poor bartender, who she'll probably get no response from, but the words do carry, after all.

Coll MacCulloch

It doesn't take long for Iris to catch Coll's eyes. They do, after all, keep turning her way. She raises her eyebrows, though. He furrows his. She kicks him. He tips his head, quizzical, and then

he gets it.

"I cannae punch her while she wears the form o' a woman," he says, scandalized -- and yes. Words do carry. "Tha' wouldnae be right."

Iris Dahlstrom

Iris doesn't bat an eyelash at this. As far as she knows, he's made it up in his head that to preserve her dubious honor, he needs to go beat Sarita up for interrupting their moment. "You must be joking."

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

She gets her shots, nods to the barkeep with a smile and is just picking one up when she hears Coll's scandalized words. She almost sighs, because it means she might be getting hit and the alcohol is right there in her hand! But she doesn't, because...

Well, because the alcohol is right there in her hand. So she knocks back the shot and sets it down. There, now she's at least had her drink. (It is horrible, for the record.) Well, yeah. But it's tequila.

"Won't is the appropriate word, m'friend." She looks over with that little half-smile quirking up. "You physically can. It's possible. You just won't. Which, don't get me wrong. It's appreciated. Though I'd hope being a woman didn't have that much to do with it, and more the 'It was not that big a deal and certainly not worth a fight' aspect."

Coll MacCulloch

"I'll be the judge o' what is an' isnae worth a fight for myself," Coll shoots back. "But lucky for you, the pleasure o' blackenin' your eye isnae worth the ding tae my honor an' chivalry righ' now."

He gives Iris an apologetic shrug. "Ye'll ha' tae forgive me for bein' sexist an' pacifist. A mortal sin amongst your tribe, I am sure."

Iris Dahlstrom

Iris just shrugs, taking a drink. "The latter is," she comments.

Griffin

[continuing from last night!]

A contest he wins by default, Constanta says. He is her only childe.

And

he

smirks. Slow and slow-spreading and oh so fucking smug. "Why yes," Griffin says, light and soft, feathers on water. "I am now. Aren't I."

The flask handed over. Griffin takes it without looking: not at the flask, not at the Thing. His cool palm shapes around the cool glass. They have such fine-honed senses, the dead, at least for blood. Like sharks, cold-blooded and cold-eyed, scenting it from miles away. Griffin's golden eyes flicker; the lids are heavy.

"What a fine vintage. My gratitude, Sire. I hope it wasn't too costly."

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

Iris' shrug is echoed on Sarita's shoulders. She can be easy-going here; it's easy enough to do so. Some bad tequila, some fun banter with someone who kinda wants to massage her cheekbone with his knuckles but won't...yep. This here is the life.

"I'll count my lucky stars then. I think they're numbering around three still, so I've got a couple to waste before I get in real trouble." She smiles over at the two, raises the shot.

"To forgiveness all around."

Coll MacCulloch

"Well, then I suppose we are both sinners o' th' finest sort," Coll says to Iris, wry,

and then turns his head as Sarita offers a toast. Give him this much: he's not so poor a sport as to snub a toast, especially when the toaster bought his drink. "Bah," he says, and swipes his scotch off the table, raising it in Sarita's direction. "Tae forgiveness, then. An' tae you findin' wherever it is ye're goin'."

Iris Dahlstrom

Iris goes ahead and raises her glass, too: what the hell. She drinks, when it's time, with the faintest smirk on her face.

Constanta

A sharper glance then; this banded chill that is palpable and physical. The cool inflection of an old and inveterate disapproval. The precision of it, crisp beneath her skin.

Which does not soften so much as ease a spare moment later.

There is no beating heart in her body to mark the passage of time. When she does not require a breath to speak she does not breathe so in between the animate remarks, the subtle and strange firings of long-dead neurons, she is a near-perfect statute, all marble and gold, and still - somehow - strange puritanical. Microexpressions twitch quietly over the twist of her mouth as he smirks, smug.

"A trifle. Do not concern yourself with it."

A beat,

"I mislike the clientele here. How much longer until my brother arrives?"

Iris Dahlstrom

After she turns her glass over, which is an answer he'd better be able to figure out, Coll rests for a beat, then rises. Iris puts her hands on the table and moves out of her seat as well, hardly waiting to be offered a hand to help her up, not waiting for any further invitation. They rise, and he finishes his drink -- of course -- and she doesn't take his hand.

But together, they walk towards the stairs. He puts his hand on her waist and they go up, Iris a step ahead of him, hand on the rail, skirt moving lightly around her thighs, knowing only that there will be a room up there which is open, a room that locks from the inside.

And so there is. Not the first door they try but the next, which opens into a simple room. It looks more like a bed and breakfast's room than a road motel's. There's a bed and two nightstands. No television. A dresser. A huge mirror over the dresser, facing the bed. Some lamps, all off. The room is dark and the curtains are open and regardless of whatever it was when they entered, it is night now, and the moon is full or nearly so, and it just so happens to be shining through that window, because.

He is behind her. Iris does not reach for a light but turns to him as the door closes behind them, as the latch is turned and the lock secured. Without a word, she reaches up, pulling her hair out of the way, then turns her back on him again, revealing the clasp for that long, wound-twice string of pearls -- they're fake -- around her neck.

Griffin

"Oh, of course. Your darling brother."

There's an undisguised edge of dislike in his words. Families, yes? So complex and complicated and dysfunctional, even in death. Especially in death. Griffin does not like Adrian; never liked him, perhaps. For a while he may have pretended. For a while, they could not even be in the same room without devolving into open conflict.

Now -- they are older. They are a little more stable. They are, for the sake of their Archbishop and their pack, capable of a begrudging tolerance. Capable, at least, of working together when they must.

"Adrian has elected to go on ahead with his own little toy in tow," Griffin adds. "I spoke to him before I stopped here. He's stopping for a snack in -- "

some city,

" -- while we'll drive through the night and catch up. We should rendezvous well before daybreak. Plenty of time for your attendants to secure the location."

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

She can't help but let the grin fully spread when Coll toasts to her finding her destination. She slams down the shot and stands, dropping some cash for the drinks.

"Homey G, I never know where I'm going. There's no fun in that. If you don't have a destination...well." She winks. "You always find where you're headed. And it's always a surprise. I love a good surprise."

She gives them a nod and tips an imaginary hat brim to them. "Pardner. Ma'am. You too have a good night. Best of luck with whatever's next." And then she's moving to go.

Coll MacCulloch

Somewhat belatedly, Coll feels a stab of shame for being so inhospitable. It's not quite enough for him to try to mend fences, build bridges -- all that. He isn't the sort, anyway.

"Drive careful," he says to Sarita. And turning back to Iris: "Suppose I oughtae be goin', too. Was a pleasure, miss."

Iris Dahlstrom

Iris looks up at him. Meets his eyes for a second.

"Why don't I go with you?" she asks. Even if they both know what might -- what could -- happen next. If she does.

Coll MacCulloch

Coll sees the night, sees the moon, and questions neither. The door shuts -- he shuts it -- and then he locks it by touch while she turns to him,

and turns away again, sweeping her hair aside.

Something achingly vulnerable about that. He thinks so, anyway, with his hunter's mind, wolf's heart. The nape of the neck so bare. He sees the clasp and he knows what he is expected to do, but what he does, and the only thing he can do for a moment,

is slip his arms around her waist. Press his mouth to the prominence of her vertebra, kissing her right above where those pearls -- he can't tell they're fake -- roll over her skin.

Sarita Ecos de la Risa

"Always," she calls back as she raises a hand to wave behind her at them. And then with the opening and closing of a door, she's gone.

[[Thanks for the scene! =D ]]

Iris Dahlstrom

[thanks for joining!]

Coll MacCulloch

[thanks too!]

Constanta

"Useless creature." Quiet contempt in her voice. "I told him not to bring her. He insists, as he will."

The conversation is whispered. Constanta lifts her chin and inclines her head to her childe. Her golden hair is pulled back from her delicate features into a rather severe chignon. Not a strand of hair is out of place: everything about her speaks quietly of propriety, of luxury, but never of decadence. Money so no one living or recently dead remembers where it comes from. The dead and watchful eyes of ancestors' portraits on the walls. The ever-branching tree that comes from some deep, foul, rotten, murderous place.

The soul of the south.

And, something just whispers around her. Some passion inherent beneath the mask of propriety.

"Do you hear that?" she asks then, turning sharply to Ysolde. Her attention is radiant. Is piercing. Is pure, and purified. Incorruptible. "They are gathered. They are hungry. They sing songs of blood. This time tomorrow, we will be at war. We will tear our enemies apart, all those foolish puppets of the ancients.

"We will all feast. Even you, little one.

"Now come. Tell your father it is time to go."

Coll MacCulloch

Coll hesitates. Then he smiles; it's a different sort of smile than those quick-flashing flickers. This one slower, thorough.

"I woul' like tha'," he says.

Iris Dahlstrom

When his arms come around her waist, Iris's eyes close. It hardly matters in the dark. She can barely see anything but the white-lined edges of this or that, illuminated by the moon outside. Her lips part, which also does not matter much: he cannot see her, can only hear the soft, slightly wet sound of lips coming apart, the sound of air moving inward. He is closer now, and he is almost unbearably warm through her clothing. This is familiar, this heat that radiates off of him. She exhales that breath she took a moment ago.

Her hands come to cover his own, make him feel the arches of her hips through that thin, thin cotton dress. Her breath has quickened; she had so much scotch, she is quick to respond, to answer, to find herself here. One arm lifts, reaches back, finds his hair in the darkness and pushes into it, fingertips massaging his scalp.

Iris Dahlstrom

Iris gives a small smile. Eventually becomes now. She reaches over, offering her hand. "Let's go, then," she says.

Coll MacCulloch

Without hesitation Coll --

well, first he finishes his drink. Slams it down like all the others, claps the glass bottoms-up on the table. And then, he

-- takes her hand as he rises. His smiles are never small, and this one: it is nearly gallant. "Aye, miss," he says, and so:

they depart.

Griffin

iThat slight, pale, narrow, sallow creature by Griffin's side:

oh, she sharpens. She quickens, thin lips parting, violin-string-taut, rapturous. "Yes, Archbishop," she whispers,

while Griffin, who is ever on the outside of that circle, who never hears those things that whisper in the dry catacombs of the mind, who is raw fury and tempestuous instinct and hot urge and primal predation

wishes

just for a moment

that he was a better Childe to his Sire.

(No he doesn't.)

No, he doesn't. He doesn't wish that. He is a good childe to his sire. The best, and the only. Not the one she wanted, perhaps, but the one she got. And the one she kept. And the one she -- in her own austere, bloodless way -- fucking adores.

--

The moment passes. He holds his hand out to his own childe, that strange, bizarre little creature that sometimes he does not understand at all. What are you? he's asked her in his mind, but then: he knows what she is, and why she is, and all the twisted and dysfunctional ways their little family comes together. Joins full-circle.

"You're driving first," he says, and hands her ahead of him. The attendants fall in behind. And he, naturally, takes his place at his sire's right hand.

Where else would he be.