09.23.3013: Catwalk Reunions
Summary: With Cyrielle visiting Volkan, Nitrim takes her to the Warehouse so that he can seek out the company of his sister, Anabethe
Date: 13 September 2013
Related: The events of Robust Intrigue are mentioned.
Anabethe Cyrielle Nitrim 

The Warehouse — Volkan, The Crescent
The two and a half-story interior of this factory is open from slab floor to metal-sheathed roof cathedral ceiling. A stage stands opposite the entrance, ready to host either live music or a DJ, and the space between door and stage is empty of any impediment to creating a writhing sea of humanity from the stage to halfway down the length of the warehouse. At that point, chest-high tables with stools around them begin, gathered in little clusters. On busy nights, a knot of people collect in front of the bar along one side of the giant room.

The music is loud, aggressive, and distinctly Khourni, matching the aesthetic. Machinery has been mounted on the walls, some parts still working, pulsing to the beat of the music. Light flash and play across the machinery and ceiling, occasionally spotlighting or silhouetting the catwalks that still encircle the open area three meters off the ground. Those catwalks are reserved for people of importance or particularly comely men or women that the bouncers at the stairs believe might attract appropriate gazes with their dancing.

September 23, 3013

The Warehouse is one of the few places where even someone like Nitrim can usually hide in plain sight. Between the noise, the low light, and the generally completely drunken state of most of the people there, it's hard to recognize anyone, let alone actually take good pictures. To add to it, Anabethe has her own spot here. Up in the catwalks, there's a spot up behind where the speakers are, thereby sheltered from the worst of the deafening noise, with a small grouping of chairs and couches. And as far as VIPs go in Khournas…Well, Bethe has that pretty well tied down. At the moment, she's lounging on one of the couches, dangling a glass of something dark between her fingers as she looks down at the dancers below.

Membership has its privileges, and as far as privileges go, Nitrim is not unknown for taking advantage of his noble status. With his hood lowered and a cigarette trailing from his hand, he leads his guest at Volkan through the crowd slowly to the grated double-stairs that winds up to the catwalks. Once they travel up and over the roar of the lurching and girating crowd below, he pulls his cowl back and looks to Cyrielle as he nears Anabethe. "This is the Warehouse, which is smaller than that rave and makes the Ring look like a polished hunk of over-fine shit. It's far more real at this place." Nitrim comments to her, nodding upwards to Anabethe as he approaches. His eyes have that dark, shaded look to the bottoms of them and enough exhaustion in his eyes that she'd recognize, but none of the hunger. "Bethe. I'd like to introduce you to someone." He pauses, letting Cyrielle move forward. "Cyrielle Hollolas, meet Anabethe Khournas. Best. Sister. Ever."

By and far, Volkan has been a strange place for the sea-bred and forest-trained noblewoman. She has been taking quite a many picture — often stalling movement to capture something — during her thus-far brief time there. This evening, Cyrielle Hollolas is attired in a short gray dress, with blue piping at hems that glows faintly. The shoes she wears are sturdy black boots- out of place, perhaps, for finer attire, but she wears them with a semblence of comfort. The atmosphere within the Warehouse is something familiar to her- a place where one can get lost and relax. However, as they approach the woman in her own section of the club, the Hollolas seems to become a bit more edge. Best sister or not, it's rather a large deal. On multiple levels. She steps up and dips her head politely, "Young Lady Anabethe, it is a pleasure." When in doubt, rely on propriety.

"Wow, really? Best ever?" Anabethe sits up a bit as Nitrim comes over, grinning. "Totally telling Reena that." Despite her grin, there's something other than her usual recklessness behind it tonight, as if she's forcing it just a little bit. "Lady Cyrielle, nice to meet you," she says with a more somber nod to the other woman. "Something to drink?" she offers, leaning over toward an ice bucket to lift the bottle inside. "I'm not sure what this is, but they said it was good, and they didn't lie about it."

"No, no, no, you're not telling Reena that," Nitrim laughs as he shrugs his coat off of his shoulders, revealing the ink that lines the lack of sleeves in his black, cabled tank top. Tossing the coat onto a nearby chair, he rubs his ringed hands together and watches the two women make their aquaint. "Sure I'll take something to drink." He replies to Anabethe as he moves to sit on a nearby sofa, reaching out to take the bottle from her. "I think, Anabethe, that I'm going to be just camping it here at home for a while, stop roaming so much. Since I'm back, and since I'm here to stay for now, I wanted to make sure I got out to see you tonight to tell you that."

There does rise a brief smile at the banter between siblings. It's so familiar that it leads to an edge of relaxation within the young woman. She moves to perch on the edge of the same couch Nitrim now occupies, a few handspans away from the young Khourni lord. "A drink would be lovely, thank you." There's a glance to Nitrim at his revelation, her eyebrow quirking. Those dark eyes shift then to Anabethe, waiting to see her reaction.

"Good," Anabethe nods firmly to Nitrim, pouring him a drink and passing the glass his way. "I didn't much care for the idea of losing you to Landing in the first place. Though I'm sorry for how it's all worked out," she admits, grimacing briefly. "I missed having you around." There's a glass for Cyrielle next, and a flash of a smile as she offers it over. "Of course, with you off the chopping block, I've got a feeling I'm about to be on it." Now that everyone has drinks, she leans back against the arm of the couch again, tucking one arm behind her head.

There's a slight frown to Nitrim's lip at the mention of how things turned out, which in Nitrim-speak is a much deeper frown than normal. Taking the drink in hand with a mouthed thanks, he looks to his sister's eyes and salutes her with the glass. "I'm not happy about it either. I got my family back, but at a cost, and having gone from most eligible to least and there being no way in hell you're leaving Landing, this just means more time for us." Nitrim replies, resting back against the cushions of the sofa to take a sip from his drink. "And for the record, I hope it's Flint." He adds, winking to his sister before glancing over to Cyrielle, saluting her with his glass as well. "Sister, Cyrielle is a photographer and she's our kind of people. She wanted to see the ash and the boneyards, so I invited her out here to get some shots."

There's a nod and murmur of thanks as the glass is passed her way. Cyrielle listens to talk of failed betrothals and potential future banns. Her jaw tenses somewhat as she lifts the glass to take a long drink. She looks to Nitrim as he explains her presence, relaxing somewhat. "It's beautiful," she says, eyes looking to Anabethe, "so different from my own home. I love it."

Something flickers across Anabethe's features when Nitrim mentions Flint, quickly hidden behind the rim of her glass as she takes a long drink. When she's finished, she laughs to Cyrielle. "Well, I think that officially makes you the first Arboren to think so, so thank you," she says with a wry half-bow from her seat. "Usually we get the politeness over this shell-shocked look of horror at the terrible things we've done to the earth. I'm not sure they realize the sorts of terrible things it would do to us if we let it."

"Right, Bethe, and I've always said that surviving a place like this makes us drakes strong, it makes us who we are. Without it we'd be something less." Nitrim throws in for good measure. There's a tap of glass on the coffee table as he sets his drink down and slips a cigarette case from his pocket. The cigarette slides into his lip easily enough and there's a flash of his aura as his palm holds out a flame, lighting his own as he offers a cigarette to the others. "I love the woods at the Spine, beautiful place, but the Crescent is an example as to how we'd all survive if the world caught on fire."

"In honesty, it does make me uncomfortable at times," Cyrielle explains. She takes another sip before setting her glass down, accepting a cigarette from the nobleman next to her. "But if we remain only within our realm of comfort and never seek to understand what we fear…" Eyes shift, seeking to meet those of the heir: "We can never truly grow and learn, as individuals or a people."

"So I've been told," Bethe smiles faintly to Cyrielle, taking another drink and shaking her head to Nitrim at the offer of a cigarette. "Usually by people who want me to grow in their particular direction, though," she chuckles, turning to look down toward the dance floor again. "So what's your plan, Nitrim? You need a place? A purpose? Or are you forging your own path right now?"

"Me…" Nitrim puffs a cloud of smoke away from him as his claw-ringed fingers wrap around his glass. He returns back to his place on the sofa and glances between the two of them, his brows lowering as he slips his game face on. "I'm going to do what I do best, keep my eyes open and get back into training. When something comes up that needs to be lit on fire, I'll light it on fire, and in the meantime I'll ride this wave of bullshit out of the press until they start to forget about me." He reaches out to nudge Anabethe's knee with his boot. "I've got all of the friends and family I need." He glances to Cyrielle, then Anabethe, judging their reactions. "And…hope to the Six I don't make things worse while laying low. That's all I can do right now. Lay low and keep in the fight."

"I could not imagine all the strings pulling you this way and that," Cyrielle says to Anabethe; utter sincerity in her words. Youngest child of a vassal to a Paramount… she will never comprehend the level of stress an heir must be under. "It shows a wisdom, I think, that you recognize it." The brunette leans back against the couch, shifting slightly. The studies the end of the cigarette as it burns before taking a drag. The smoke rolls from her lips slowly as Nitrim speaks and she watches him with a sidelong glance. "You need to stop giving the press fuel," she says, lips curving in a brief smile. One that might even be termed as fond. "I honestly wonder if you know how to lay low."

"Eh, there's a point where they make their own fuel," Anabethe wrinkles her nose at Cyrielle. "He goes to coffee with a woman, it must be post-coital. They don't really get bored until or unless something more interesting or exciting pops up. And someone else is bound to do something stupid eventually to distract them. Probably a Valen," she teases, winking. "Anyhow, I'm glad to have you back, Nitrim. I need a partner in crime around here who won't give me that look when I just want to blow off a little steam."

"Yeah I heard about that one," Nitrim huffs over the filter of his cigarette, looking to Anabethe with a smirk. "Help a girl through her Awakening one month, the next month clearly we're sleeping together. I don't think the press is aware that I actually have friends, and little did they know I was actually there for the coffee." Nitrim replies, reaching out to tap his ashes away as he trades smoke for drink; another sip taken. "And I'm glad to be back but Cyri's right. I've got to start assuming I'm being watched everywhere. Partner in crime or not I should probably keep the hood down for a while." His head turns to watch Cyrielle smoke her cigarette. "I think they'll forget all about me come Reena's wedding, at the least I hope they'll be locked out so I can see my sister off in peace."

"Perhaps the bachelor and bachelorette parties will spawn enough rumors to distract from you for a time," Cyrielle says, lips twitching in a bit of amusement. She shifts a bit, tucking one foot closer against the couch. As if shielding it from anyone who may — despite it being rather unlikely — pass by the small area they occupy. "Though knowing you, you'll help another young woman locate a missing item and the papers will explode with speculation that she must be carrying your child." She leans to ash her cigarette as well. "If you need to be rid of him," she says to Anabethe now, "I'm sure we could toss him into the woods or onto a boat for a while. The pap tend to stay away from both."

"That does sound less permanent than dropping him in a volcano," Anabethe muses at Cyrielle's offer, winking at the other woman. "But honestly, I'm just glad to have him home." She pauses as her comm chirps, checking a message with an odd expression before standing up. "I think that's my call, though," she sighs. "Things to take care of. Nice to meet you, Cyrielle," she nods to the other woman. "And you, try not to get into too much trouble," she adds, reaching out to ruffle at Nitrim's hair.

As always, like a kid or a well-loved dog, Nitrim tilts his head into the ruffling of his hair and shoulder's Anabethe's leg affectionately as she passes. "Volcano for me means no partner in crime, Bethe. Throw me in a treehouse and if it's a boat, for fuck's sake leave me some movies and make sure the boat's one of those big ones." He muses, waving her off as she leaves. Once she's out of earshot, he smiles to his sister's back and tilts his eyes over to Cyrielle with a cock of his expressive eyebrows. "And that's Anabethe and this is her place, we can keep it for a while though." He sips quietly. "She's saved my ass on the field plenty."

"I would think you may want use of him after his time way," Cyrielle says to the departing noblewoman. She takes a last drag on the cigarette before putting it out. Hand free, she takes up her drink again and downs a sip. There's a soft chuckle, to herself, at the show of affection between siblings. "She's quite nice. I can see why you're so fond of her."

"I fucking love that girl." Nitrim replies, glancing once more to watch Anabethe disappear from sight before he turns on the couch to better face Cyrielle. Cigarette looming in the same hand as his glass, he sips down half of the remaining liquor and then dangles his arm over the back of the beat-up sofa. Staring for only a moment, he grins. "She's one of the people that knows when it's time to grab the back of my shirt and pull me to my feet. All this confidence," He nudges his head towards the stairs in the distance. "She's helped me find it."

"I shall have to thank her for that," Cyrielle says in a low voice, laughing softly. She finishes her own glass, glancing over towards the stairs and the dance floor below. There's a brief look on her features- a mix of sadness and guilt, perhaps. "I wish I could offer a dance…" A deep breath and she tries to balance the gloom with humor: "But if we did, surely someone would tell the papers."

Leaning, Nitrim looks down to the mass of people dancing, clouded over by the blasting fog machines and black-lit strobes that make them look far more like a moving picture in slow motion than the swell of humanity they truly are. He reaches for the neck of his tank top and smoothes one of the shoulders back into place and rises to his feet, motioning for her to stand before him. "The fucking press is killing me right now, Cyri. Did you see about that book getting released? I swear I might have to grow my hair long or dye it or shave the goatee." He laughs, leaning over the coffee table to stub his cigarette out. "We can dance up here, if you'd like."

And stand she does, after finishing her drink. "I saw," Cyrielle says, tilting her head slightly. "Mmm… No long hair, please. I told you I'm not very fond of that." Her lips curve slightly in memory. She steps nearer, "Be patient with me."

"Maybe I'll just get some kind of not-Nitrim mask that I'll wear, put the rings away, dress down." Nitrim smirks coyly, matching the lean of her head as he reaches an arm out for her hip, offering to draw her in close for something easier, a slow dance. "My first instinct is to fuck with them, but that'll only make things worse. You're right. I need to just learn to keep quiet, stop drawing attention." He shakes his head softly, a laugh creeping out from between his teeth. "So you're still going to buy a copy? You know I don't get any royalties, right?"

"Of course I'm going to buy a copy," Cyrielle says with a soft laugh, leaning into his arm where it circles about her midsection. She lifts her arms to place hands at his shoulders, fingers settling at the nape of his neck. "I need to see how the real thing compares to a girl's drunken, drugged romp." Her eyelids flutter slightly, watching him in consideration. "Dressing down isn't a bad idea, you know. Perhaps we could find you something with color. They'd never expect that."

"I'm…going to buy a copy, too." Nitrim admits as he lowers his head near her shoulder for a sick laugh. It's the sort of laugh that ends with a slow, distorted drawing of his breath, like an old joke at a funeral. "I've got to see with my own eyes, make sure there's not too many details to identify me, it's going to be a horrible experience. Maybe." He admits with a growl, willing to admit that he's just vain enough that he might like it. His fingers lace together at the small of his back as he slowly shuffles his feet back and forth, the classic secondary school slow dance of old. "Color burns on me when I put it on." He smiles softly, looking back to her. "Literally, my skin catches on fire, but…I could give it a shot for a disguise."

"Will you sign my copy, Lord Nitrim?" Cyrielle asks, adopting a higher tone of voice. Emulating, perhaps, the throngs of fan-girls the mysterious man in the novels will surely have. "I'll treasure it for-/ever/." There's a soft giggle and she blinks a few times. As if a thought just hit her. Cheeks color slightly and she tilts her head in towards his shoulder. The dance is fine for her- it's not too demanding on her foot and thus she's less worried of pain or embarrassment. "I think we could find colors that could suit you."

"Oh Six, don't…" Nitrim laughs, growling just a little as his cheeks bunch up in a look of mock distaste. "…but I could probably get a copy for you signed by the author. I reached out to her and, as if proving her point, she told me she wished me the best for the blah-blah week, the same as the press release. Fuck, it's me." He murmurs, glancing over the plane of her shoulder as she lowers her head near his. "I'm sure someday this will come back to murder me somehow." He continnues to step around her, letting out a soft sigh. "So you want to be in charge of my disguise, huh?" Yes…change the subject, please.

At the mention of it coming back to murder him, Cyrielle turns even more red. It's a good thing they aren't in their Awakened states right now. The thoughts and images he'd be getting would send him running or as embarassed as she is right now. She draws in a breath, welcoming the distraction. Before speaking, she tilts her head in closer and inhales deeply. Savoring his scent. "Mm, I didn't say that, but I suppose I could be. Dress you like you're from The Spine. No one would expect that."

"If you don't want Anabethe, or me, to strangle you, don't go that far unless it's utilitarian. Forest leathers and something martial." Nitrim defends himself just a little bit. "Because I'll be damned if I'll dress like a Valen. Victor will throw food at me and ask me to polish his boots." Letting out a happy sigh, he brushes his hands up and down her back and slows, coming to a stop to stand before her, looking down to her shorter height. "So tonight I'll set you up with a room at the Spyre and tomorrow…we'll ride out to take some shots of the boneyard. Excited?"

"Oh, my, Nitrim," Cyrielle affects insult, leaning back from him somewhat. "What do you think of me?!" She laughs softly, lips curving in a smile. It's bemused, but also fond. Even without the Awakened connection, it's clear how much she's enjoying being in his presence. "I brought my ranging outfit with me. I'll wear it tomorrow and you can let me know…" There's a pause of thought, eyelids lowering slightly as she delves into her Awakened state for a moment. Will you be able to visit me tonight? Or shall I fall asleep on the video feed with you?

I'll give you the tour and introduce you to Dahlia before bed. You'll know which room is mine. I'm sure we'll figure it out, won't we? He replies, a light suggestion as he leans behind his back to grab his coat from the arm of the sofa. Righting, he looks to her face, his eyes quietly watching hers as he leans in to press a kiss to her temple. "I just needed to make sure I wasn't about to agree to lace and frill. Not all of the Valen wear it, but the ones that do, good gods." He rolls his eyes as the memories come to mind, some of the over-elaborate ensembles. Offering his arm to her, he tucks her hand softly into the crook of his elbow and leads her off to the stairs, to the streets, and back to the tower that overlooks the city below.

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