NYC 2009 ]- TBC

Étaín
I've got the magic in me
Every time I hit that track it turns into gold . . .

Welcome to finals week in a college area - near the end thereof, a Friday night when almost everyone is done and looking to blow off steam.  Everywhere are kids in their late teens and early twenties looking like the weight of the world has been lifted from their shoulders.  Everyone is triumphant or devestated, and there's very little in between.  As may well be expected, Étaín is on the upper end of this scale; she's fairly certain that she's finished her time at Columbia with a 4.0 or better, knows that Davis is waiting for her at the end of the summer and that between now and then, the amazingness of a season at home waits for her.

Everyone knows I've got the magic in me
When I hit the flow the guys come snappin' at me . . .

This is, perhaps, why she's been coaxed (without much effort, it should be said; it's one of the kin-girl's favorite ways to spend an evening and into the morning, after all) out to a college bar that boasts a karaoke night.  It's crowded as such places are wont to be at such times, but not painfully so.  It's not exactly a trendy hot spot, this place; were it not for the students and their money, chances are good it would be nothing more than a hole-in-the-wall dive.

As it is, though, there she is when Black walks in; the hair is cut similarly but a bit shorter (it's only been months, after all), the clothes are casual-cute, and she snaps with that same fire [magic] he'd witnessed before.  In all truth, there isn't a better song she could sing (she does have a partner doing the rap parts, naturally).  And that she's singing it now, when he walks in for the second time?  Fancy that.  If it happens twice, it'll be a theme.

Having finished the song, Étaín replaces the mic in its stand and heads for the bar; it's warm for early-mid-June in New York, and she's wearing a couple layers of contrasting tank tops, more jewelery than usual (more funky-fun than expensive), jeans, and cowboy boots.  It's far more of her than Black saw before, though she's certainly towards the modest end.

"Beer, shot of whiskey," she calls to the bar tender.  "I'm done with finals!"

Soon enough she has drinks in hand, and her attention turns to the crowd, watching and listening.  In short, it's a fun night out.


Black
Come to the bar with us, the kin said. It'll be fun, she said. When the group he's with - and it is a group, 2 more wolves other than Black and 3 female kin - push through the front door of the bar the space between those four walls becomes a vacuum  the combined Rage and other-worldliness makes it hard to breathe or think or do much of anything but maneuver your way to a part of the bar where they aren't. It's warmer, Spring, and so everyone has shed layers of clothing for comfort and he's no different: white tshirt, faded jeans and scuffed up boots that look like Doc Marten's but are probably something far less popular and expensive. His hair is longer, the sides shorter though the top and middle are longer, braided down the back of his neck.

He doesn't see her at first, his attention is on the company he's currently keeping as they head for the bar. One palm drags down his face and he nods to the bartender and orders a pint - or whatever it is that passes for such in America - and begins to scan the crowd, then the length of the bar.

Pause.

His mouth splits into a wide grin but he doesn't move at first, he's waiting on his beer after all.

Étaín
To the kins' defense, it is fun.  Everything about this particular bar tonight (and many others in the vicinity of NYU and Columbia this time of year) screams of people who really just want to let go.  When Ciarán catches sight of Étaín is about the time she's tossing back her shot of light honey colored liquid, a full beer (yes, real pints - and a pretty decent beer list too, as far as dive bars go) in her free hand.  She's at the other end of the bar, and though she'd felt something when he and his friends came in - a change in pressure, in mood, not necessarily the force of Rage itself yet - she's hardly expecting it when she turns to find a spot in the crowd and her eyes meet his.

It's just like that, yes, across a crowded room and everything - complete with answering grin.  It could be a scene in a movie.  There's an amused puff of air that pushes an ill-advised shag of bangs out of her eyes, and then she's weaving towards him, giving polite nods (and curious looks) to his companions before her attention snaps back to Ciarán.

It's just like that, yes.

"Hey," she says, with a little wave of fingers - an invitation and not.  It's different here, in her world, than it had been on the moors of Scotland that couple of hours months ago, and the same, too.  "It's really you, right?  I'm not just talking to someone who looks like you."

Drunker than that night, then, but still functioning.  She's Fianna, after all, and Ciarán and his packmates know it without her telling.

Black
"Awrite hen, hoo hae ye bin?" He asks, unwedging himself from between one of the other wolves and a little dark haired female. One arm is tattooed, not quite a full sleeve but enough so that there's more ink than flesh visible. The warmth of his palm rests against her cheek and he grins, reaching back to grab hold of his pint and continue to move forward toward Étaín.

"I've nae mit Gaia yit, Ah hiner ye feel better abit it." He hasn't grown in height but his body has become stronger. Muscles are corded beneath tan flesh, obvious beneath the cotton of his short sleeved shirt.

Étaín
Étaín is, but for the haircut, as she was then - six inches or so shorter than he is and lean but shapely.  Much as she was that night on the moors, she's comfortable in her skin and the company (thankful that Ciarán's making himself a wall between her and the other Garou, perhaps, but she'd call anyone who said anything about it a liar), at home.  She fits well anywhere, does Étaín.  She bends, and doesn't break.

"I didn't really think I'd see you again, whatever happened with . . . your trip.  It's kind of a long shot, isn't it?  But I'm glad you're well."

Her skin, at least what he can see, is unmarred but by freckles - a surprising amout of them splattered across the pale skin of her shoulders and chest, matching those new ones that have appeared on her face with the jucicious application of sun.

"Nice ink.  I was thinking of getting one before going home - just something little, though.  A pretty lighthouse, here."

Her empty hand rises to point at a spot at the top of her back, between her shoulderblades and right below the nape of her neck.  One might not that she hasn't pulled away from his hand on her cheek in this process and though her polite nods were all the kinfolk with Ciarán and his pack had gotten, the Garou are afforded more attention.  It's careful, a bit wary; she doesn't know much about the True as a whole, after all, let alone these people.  She's friendly, certainly, but on her guard.

(The lighthouse is, perhaps, a fitting idea.  Kin are - and people like she, especially, are - lights to lead Garou home, to keep them from drowning amongst the rocks.)

Black
"Aam havin' th' trip, went tae Irelain 'en hud tae come tae new york fur business wi' th' nation." His grin never fades but the touch at her cheek does fall away as she reaches back to point out the spot where she'd like to get her own bit of ink in her skin. "Ah see, it'll hurt ye ken hen. a lot ay nerves an' tender spots thaur." His beer is drawn to his mouth and he lifts a shoulder in the faintest of shrugs. Where she is fair and freckled and delicate, he is sturdy and strong and dark (befitting his name) and tan. He doesn't exactly look like a Scotsman and would probably be labelled Black Irish before a Scots.

"Aam glad yoo're daein' guid. ye swatch weel, nae bairn fur ye yit?" Is said with the slightests of mischevious grins. His eyes track the movement of the crowd within the bar, watching groups move away while others made of stonger stuff move closer to get their spirits.

"Whit is it yoo're skitin'?"

Étaín
There's an amused roll of her eyes and teasing swat at the question about babies; goodness knows how long it's been since a 'regular girl' (which Étaín isn't by any estimation but her own, one imagines) was capable of acting so with him.  "No babies, no pregnancy.  I told you, they aren't in the plan for awhile yet - not until I'm at least twenty-five."

Asking what she's drinking reminds her that she does, indeed, have a drink in her hand and that she's thirsty; it's downed admirably before she answers.  "Brooklyn Dry Irish Stout.  It's local - you want one?  I'm celebrating my rapidly nearing graduation."

Black
He lifts the bottle of beer in his hand and grins, tipping it up for a drink. "Nae, still hae some left." His chin lifts and to one of the other wolves with him he yells something over the dirge of music and voices all around them that sounds something like, I'll be back. Étaín can feel his arm stretch and his palm slide down the curve of her spine to the small of her back, urging her toward the back patio of the bar itself so that they can sit and drink and talk in silent. If he was with one of the girls that accompanied them, it isn't apparent because he leaves her standing there while he walks away.

At the first empty table outside he tugs a chair out for her and then takes his own, legs stretched as he sprawls in the chair. Dark brown eyes focus in on her face and he stares for a long moment then nods. "Odd tae meit ye haur, isnae it? Ah hadnae thooght a lot abit it afair seein' ye standin' at th' bar." Leaning back in the chair his eyes casually watch people come and go, not nodding or smiling politely but staring with cool dark eyes.