05-18-2021, 02:45 PM
New Tomi never slept, though it changed from day to night. In the daytime, the streets and skyscrapers wore the sunshine like a well-pressed suit, ready to buy and trade as the law allows, a pleasantly groomed and upstanding citizen. At night the shadows came out, though Straia always thought the city wore its’ suit well, even in the darkness. But the edges changed, sleeves rolled up, hats pulled low (literally and figuratively) because this is when the real money was made. Night was when life truly started, and all the rest of it was just a play, a requirement to whittle away the hours until the real work began.
“Derek, darling,” she says, purring into the phone, her voice honey laced with arsenic, “your excuses are clever, but I do not pay you for excuses”. Straia is standing in front of a large window-pane wall overlooking the city streets below, long fingers with manicured red nails hold her phone to her ear. The acidic rain seems to have started again, and she watches the people below her pull up their hoods and open umbrellas as they dart between the raindrops. Her silver eyes follow them calmly, a cat watching its’ prey.
She’s silent for a moment, listening to the man on the other end of the phone while checking her watch. Eleven fifty-seven. Wolfbane would be here any moment, and she did not want to be late for their first meeting. Not that she needed to impress him, but still, she had a reputation to uphold. “I really don’t care,” she says into the phone, turning away from the window. “Get it done or get out of New Tomi.”
With a quick motion, she ends the call and returns her phone to her pocket, heels clicking against the tile floor as she crosses the room to the lift. It was time to meet her guest.
When the lift door opens into the hallway, she finds him waiting for her as expected. Her smile is real enough, though more of a smirk (reputation, remember?), as she gestures for him to join her in the elevator. She already knows there’s a weapon on him, and she stifles a sigh before asking him to hand it over. They all try, which is foolish, though she’d be disappointed if they didn’t try. After all, her ability to know just how many weapons they have seems to set them on edge, and that is how she likes it.
He hands over a weapon after playing at the flirting game (they all try that too). She pretends to consider, though she won’t, because that’s not the angle for tonight. Anything Straia does is calculated and precise, and she needs no more power over Wolfbane than she already has. The flirting ploy was far more useful when she’d been working up the ranks of New Tomi, but now she was the head. The weapon he hands over is small but beautiful, and she contemplates keeping it because she rather likes the delicate but deadly knife. Not that she needs knives to kill, but still, she often kept the things she liked.
For the moment she pockets it, undecided as to whether or not he’d actually get it back. That would depend on their meeting, and on him. The elevator comes to a stop and the door slides back open, revealing the room she’d just left. The room truly is opulent, purposely so, for everything begins and ends with appearances. The ceilings are high, the lights clear though dim. The room is covered mostly in a large fur carpet, though white and gray marble tile can be seen around the edges of the room. The desk is a beautiful, rich cherry wood with a crystal decanter sitting on one side. The brown liquid inside cost more than most people make in a month.
The focal point of the room is the large window-pane wall. Tonight it is dark, but through the glass they can see the lights of the city glistening in the acid rain. Her heels click against the white tile until they find the large fur rug, their sound disappearing as she slides into one of her chairs, upholstered in cream color leathered. Straia, with her raven hair and her black suit, is stark against the armchair, though she looks comfortable and more than confident as she sits. She crosses one leg over another, flashing the red undersides of her black pumps.
Bane continues to stand, and she motions to the chair across from her with a nod and a wave of her hand. It’s not really a request, though she’s not about to threaten him just to sit down. If he really wants to stand like an out of place puppy dog, then he can. After all, he doesn’t belong. Not yet, anyway.
“You worked hard to get yourself here,” she purrs, regardless of whether or not he’s actually bothered to sit down. Again, that honey and arsenic voice, tantalizing and terrifying all at once. Anyone who gets here carries the signs of it, and her eyes search his briefly, looking to see if she would find that familiar, haunted look in them. She sees it so frequently in the men and women that fight their way to this very room, though she herself has never carried her past sins so obviously. In fact, she hardly carries them at all. These things were a means to an end, and there is always a new end to achieve and new means with which to achieve it. If she carried those things, would she be able to stand the weight of it? It was no small feat to become something so much greater than herself.
“So what is it you want?” She doesn’t say ‘from me’ for this meeting was a two way street. He attracted her attention, and she’s not foolish enough to believe he did so without reason. No, he’s too smart for that. Besides, if he was just unlucky enough to catch her attention, then he’d already be dead. No, those that come here want something, and the question always becomes whether or not they are willing to pay the price. First though, she needs to know what it is he wants.
@[Wolfbane]
“Derek, darling,” she says, purring into the phone, her voice honey laced with arsenic, “your excuses are clever, but I do not pay you for excuses”. Straia is standing in front of a large window-pane wall overlooking the city streets below, long fingers with manicured red nails hold her phone to her ear. The acidic rain seems to have started again, and she watches the people below her pull up their hoods and open umbrellas as they dart between the raindrops. Her silver eyes follow them calmly, a cat watching its’ prey.
She’s silent for a moment, listening to the man on the other end of the phone while checking her watch. Eleven fifty-seven. Wolfbane would be here any moment, and she did not want to be late for their first meeting. Not that she needed to impress him, but still, she had a reputation to uphold. “I really don’t care,” she says into the phone, turning away from the window. “Get it done or get out of New Tomi.”
With a quick motion, she ends the call and returns her phone to her pocket, heels clicking against the tile floor as she crosses the room to the lift. It was time to meet her guest.
When the lift door opens into the hallway, she finds him waiting for her as expected. Her smile is real enough, though more of a smirk (reputation, remember?), as she gestures for him to join her in the elevator. She already knows there’s a weapon on him, and she stifles a sigh before asking him to hand it over. They all try, which is foolish, though she’d be disappointed if they didn’t try. After all, her ability to know just how many weapons they have seems to set them on edge, and that is how she likes it.
He hands over a weapon after playing at the flirting game (they all try that too). She pretends to consider, though she won’t, because that’s not the angle for tonight. Anything Straia does is calculated and precise, and she needs no more power over Wolfbane than she already has. The flirting ploy was far more useful when she’d been working up the ranks of New Tomi, but now she was the head. The weapon he hands over is small but beautiful, and she contemplates keeping it because she rather likes the delicate but deadly knife. Not that she needs knives to kill, but still, she often kept the things she liked.
For the moment she pockets it, undecided as to whether or not he’d actually get it back. That would depend on their meeting, and on him. The elevator comes to a stop and the door slides back open, revealing the room she’d just left. The room truly is opulent, purposely so, for everything begins and ends with appearances. The ceilings are high, the lights clear though dim. The room is covered mostly in a large fur carpet, though white and gray marble tile can be seen around the edges of the room. The desk is a beautiful, rich cherry wood with a crystal decanter sitting on one side. The brown liquid inside cost more than most people make in a month.
The focal point of the room is the large window-pane wall. Tonight it is dark, but through the glass they can see the lights of the city glistening in the acid rain. Her heels click against the white tile until they find the large fur rug, their sound disappearing as she slides into one of her chairs, upholstered in cream color leathered. Straia, with her raven hair and her black suit, is stark against the armchair, though she looks comfortable and more than confident as she sits. She crosses one leg over another, flashing the red undersides of her black pumps.
Bane continues to stand, and she motions to the chair across from her with a nod and a wave of her hand. It’s not really a request, though she’s not about to threaten him just to sit down. If he really wants to stand like an out of place puppy dog, then he can. After all, he doesn’t belong. Not yet, anyway.
“You worked hard to get yourself here,” she purrs, regardless of whether or not he’s actually bothered to sit down. Again, that honey and arsenic voice, tantalizing and terrifying all at once. Anyone who gets here carries the signs of it, and her eyes search his briefly, looking to see if she would find that familiar, haunted look in them. She sees it so frequently in the men and women that fight their way to this very room, though she herself has never carried her past sins so obviously. In fact, she hardly carries them at all. These things were a means to an end, and there is always a new end to achieve and new means with which to achieve it. If she carried those things, would she be able to stand the weight of it? It was no small feat to become something so much greater than herself.
“So what is it you want?” She doesn’t say ‘from me’ for this meeting was a two way street. He attracted her attention, and she’s not foolish enough to believe he did so without reason. No, he’s too smart for that. Besides, if he was just unlucky enough to catch her attention, then he’d already be dead. No, those that come here want something, and the question always becomes whether or not they are willing to pay the price. First though, she needs to know what it is he wants.
@[Wolfbane]
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission