06.26.3013: Say What You Mean
Summary: Nitrim and Rook meet so he can invite her into his group. She invites herself into a lot of things.
Date: 06 June 2012
Related: None
Ithaca Nitrim 

Orkan Arms - The Ring
See log
26 June 3013

Orkan Arms

That's all the message said. Assuming that Rook was insightful enough to do the rest of the tracking, should she feel the need to meet, Nitrim made his way through the Ways from Volkan to the Ring. On his way to Detrius for a meeting with the Daltons, Nitrim needed a place to settle in before appearing in the early hours for a day of sightseeing. Eventually, he would approach the Daltons themselves, and the day would be long…

And so, allowing the chance of a meeting, he stands on the outdoor balcony of a high-rise, expensive hotel room. Overlooking a wing of the nightclub district, he leans against the outside railing with a cigarette in one hand and a small tumbler of brown liquor on ice in the other. People-watching, as it is called, his head lulls down between his shoulders as his eyes trace the movements of all different kinds of people. The young and old, the drunk and sober, the attractive and the bizarre, each and every one of them takes interest to the man as he's settled into a relaxing evening.

It's unlikely that security at the expensive hotel would allow Ithaca in, looking as she does and having all the social charm of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. But the woman otherwise known as Rook makes her way to the nightclub district and finds a spot beneath a sign bright enough to see by. A few growls and glares and people give her a wide berth, making it easier for her contact to pick her out of the crowd.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Nitrim does spot Rook among the crowd. With a pat to the railing, he downs the last of his glass of bourbon and turns his back on the railing. Disappearing into his hotel room, he reappears minutes later on the street level in his black coat. Adjusting the collar as he moves through the crowd, he weaves past a pair of mobile vending machines to come within view of Rook. He crosses her path, briefly making eye contact, and then comes to a stop in front of a bank of communications terminals. Pretending to read, he reaches out to her with his mind. Know a place we can go talk? Hotel staff are discreet if you're escorted.

Rook's eyes meet Nitrim's, black, soul-less, like a shark's eyes. She doesn't give him away though, opening herself up for any mental communications. She tugs her hood up snug and slides on dark glasses. You think they'd let me in? If you say it's discreet then it's fine.

Even her thoughts sound skeptical. But surely the wealthy bring in seedy types now and then — hookers, drug dealers, lawyers. She dip her head low and weaves her way towards the hotel entrance so he can escort her in.

By the time Rook nears the door, Nitrim slips in front of her and motions to the doorman with a grim, steely nod of his head. Understanding, the doorman assumes the worst and steps aside, eyes to the wall. The door before them opens, and Nitrim leads Rook through the lobby of the hotel to a small lift in the rear. Once inside, he taps the button for the fourth floor, and lets the doors close them inside.

Did you get the drop okay? He asks, mind-to-mind while waiting for the doors to open. When they do, like a pair of ghosts, he leads her to his door and opens it with his keycard. Shoving the door open with his boot, he waves his arm towards it, giving her the room to enter at her own leisure.

Rook follows, like a little black cloud in Nitrim's wake. Yes, is her response in regards to the drop. When the door to his room opens, she finally raises her head, eyes wary and posture tense. She steps inside, fingering something in her jacket pocket, in case it's a trap. Once she's satisfied no one is going to jump her, she makes herself at home, tossing her pack in a chair and slumping onto the sofa, booted feet up on the table. She keeps the sunglasses and hood on though, in case there are cameras hidden somewhere in the room, so whether or not she's currently on the Red Eye isn't discernible.

The door clacks shut behind Nitrim, who turns and lofts his keycard onto a small table near the door. His shoulders pull back and his heavy black coat is slipped off, leaving him in a simple, long-sleeved black tunic. With simple motions, he hangs his coat onto a hook and pulls a case of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one.

"The room's clean. I did a sweep over it before I settled in. You're welcome to do the same if you're concerned." Nitrim switches to Anglic as he spreads his fingers out, dissipating the flame he uses to light the cigarette. Choosing a low-sitting chair not far from the couch, he dumps himself into it and stretches out his legs. "So you got the dream, too? I've confirmed from three others I know that they got the same dream." He frowns, lips forming into a tight, thin line. "I'm pulling together a group of people that I trust. Do you want to be kept out of that?"

Arms fold over her chest, leaving Rook in a defensive body posture. Her expression is tight, as if there is always something inside her wound to capacity and never released. "Room is clean, doesn't mean the room in the building across the quad is." She specializes in security systems and avoiding them. "You're in the news a lot." Rumors that is. Meaning she doesn't entirely trust his precautionary methods. His invitation has her tilting her head very slightly. "Depends on who you trust," she admits.

"The news is a fucking nightmare, besides all they're concerned about right now is who they think I happen to be fucking. It's a complete waste of their time and energy." Nitrim scowls, blowing out a cloud of smoke with a shake of his head. "There aren't enough marriages to go around the noble sector right now and they're circling like vultures. I'm going to be laying low for a while, which should get them off of my back, especially when I get off to go fighting." It's not a perfect explanation, but it's an honest one. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, watching her. "I can't reveal that just yet. I'm still putting together my roster, but I'm asking the hard questions while putting this team together. Some are going to be nobles, others citizens. All of this is going to be done in secrecy, so before we give too much of ourselves away we'll make very clear what lines won't get crossed."

"Who are you fucking?" Rook asks, bluntly. Whatever most people have to filter their words between brain and mouth, she simply doesn't. Tact is not a part of her makeup. She has no time for such pretentions. It seems like she wants the answer to that question before she moves forward with his proposal.

"At the moment? No one." Nitrim replies simple enough as he reaches out to tap his ashes away into the ashtray on the coffee table. "I'm too far down my line to be prime target for marriage and the tabloids have been taking pictures of people bumping into me and making it look like I'm fucking everything in sight." He leans back to his chair, slouching back into it freely. "Does it matter?"

"It does if pussy is more important than your group," Rook points out with a complete lack of emotion or inflection. "Also need to know who might shank me if I decide to shag you." Uh. Ok. "What is this group going to do?" she asks, as if she didn't just say that last string of words.

Nitrim blinks. It's the wasn't expecting that blink. To what he doesn't expect could be anything. The blink is the prime result of being sandblasted by honesty. "No, pussy doesn't mean more to me than the group. No one's out to shank anyone and I've had enough meaningless shit that I assure you there's no line of heartbroken women waiting around with hatchets." His hand rubs across the front of his face, almost in disbelief that he feels compelled to answer her questions. "The group is designed to be a shadow company, working beneath society to investigate the dreams, why we get them, and if necessary use information to save lives that politics might deem expendable."

Rook frowns slightly as she listens to his explanation of the group, as if somewhere in her mind, she is running complex calculations of the value versus the risk. It stretches over several long moments, uncomfortably silent moments, as she mulls it over. She pulls out a cigarette and lights it with her palm, taking a deep drag from it before she speaks again. "Not a scientist. Can't help with the why," she notes. "But I can destroy the fuckers you point me at. Finances. Reputation. Burn them." Burn those things? Or the people themselves? Hard to tell.

"Then don't be the one concerned with why. I have a scientist, well a doctor, lined up and ready to go. All of us are Awakened. Some will be better with dreams, other with investigation." The end of the cigarette flares as he takes another drag. "I wouldn't be the leader. I'm only good for some things, too. You would be our eyes, and if it came to it our hands in ways that we can't reach. Just…understand the idea at first is to be passive. We'd move quietly, listen, and be anonymous to the public."

"Anonymous is good," Rook says flatly. Clearly she's all about staying personally anonymous. "All Awakened. Bet a group of focused Awakened would scare the shit out of the Hostiles." She lets her fingertips crackle with electricity leaping from nail to nail idly, like a living thing she plays with.

An almost satisfied smile crosses the man's face, eyes darkening just a shade. She understands. "It's believed that they can't see what we dream, but we have seen through their eyes. They don't know what we know, and right now they don't know that we can do this. Our information can play their hand for them, we could feed them misinformation. Yea…" He leans his head back, staring at the ceiling while he smokes. "…we could be the thing that takes away their power."

"Then I'm in," Rook states. Simple enough. She doesn't care much about the helping people out thing, but it sounds like a group that will let her do the things she does best, and that is good. She gets to her feet and grabs her bag, heading towards the bedroom instead. "Shower. Nap. Thanks." Did she just invite herself to use his hotel room to crash?

Just like that. Nitrim blinks and lowers his eyes from the ceiling in time to watch Rook's back get smaller and smaller as she trots off towards the rather luxurious bedroom. He blinks again, wondering if he just got his bedroom stolen from him for the evening. "And thank you, Rook." He calls out, a chuckle trotting over the end of his thanks. He rises from his chair and moves back to the kitchen table, stretching his arms over his head. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he consults himself. "What…the…fuck."

Water runs for a while in the bathroom, then it's quiet. It's about three hours later that Rook emerges from the bedroom, wearing a tank top and underwear as if she's fully dressed, hair mussed all over the place. She was clearly sleeping. She heads right for the kitchen fridge to rummage, utterly nonplussed.

For the first time ever Nitrim has been sequestered to…a sofa. With all of his things back in the bedroom, stacked in his luggage where the strange girl's rather hazy personal lines may be drawn, he's taken to a nap in his clothes. Now, the sound of rummaging through his expensive left-overs and alcohol rouses the lordling, who lifts up to look over the back of the couch. Tank top. Underwear. Blink. He rubs at his eyes and turns on the sofa, planting his bare feet into the carpet. "Hey…could you grab me a beer while you're in there, Rook? Take…whatever."

Rook grabs some leftovers and two beers, handing one of the latter to Nitrim before she sits at the table and begins eating the food cold. There are tattoos here and there visible when she's not hidden under the bulk of all those layers of clothing. Also she's very thin, as if she doesn't eat often or well, and pale, as befitting someone who spends a lot of time in the bowels of the Ring. Some of the residents call that area the Oubliette, a place of forgetting. It's a good place to get lost until people stop looking for you.

Not…unaccustomed to women in their underwear, Nitrim takes her lack of clothing in stride, aside from a few rather masculine glances. When in Rome. He turns the beer bottle label about to read it for a second before cracking the top and tossing the bottlecap onto the coffee table. One foot up to lounge, he lulls his head over to Rook as he takes his first sip. He watches her eat, understanding just a little more than he did before. "So where did you get your ink done? I went into Landing for mine, got it from Zakk Pryde. Fucker had a waiting list a month long, even for me."

There's not much to gawk at. She's a scrawny little thing. "Trade for work. Different places. Mostly on the Ring." And by work she means hacking usually. She looks over at Nitrim. "People without money pay in trade sometimes." Indicating people with money get to go spend it on expensive tatt artists with month long waiting lists.

"Makes sense. It's no different anywhere else." Nitrim replies, lips pursed as he tilts the bottle back once more. His throat bobs as he swallows the beer. Thirsty from sleeping on a less-than-cool sofa cushion, he leaves the bottle half-full. "Do you want the same drops, or do you want me to hook you up with Pryde for more work?"

That makes Rook stop for a few moments and ponder. She calculates her supplies of drugs and such, then she nods once. "Ink would be nice." She shovels the food in her mouth as if it might be taken away at any moment. "This is good. Where's it from?" she might have to steal some money and eat there. Ok maybe order takeout, they won't let her in.

"You know, this is funny." Nitrim starts, turning his eyes to the flat-black of the video wall before him. His eyes trace the screen, finding the signs of little imperfections and smudges left behind by the cleaning crews. "Maybe I'm long winded as hell, but I'm used to people not answering me in short, clipped responses. We." Nobles. "We're talkers. We twist words to what we want them to be. I don't know if I'm capable of answering shit in twenty words or less." He pauses once more for more beer. "It's from Terragono's. By the Bazaar."

"Waste of time," Rook points out in response to his being talkative. "Better things to do." She lifts her forkful of food up as illustration. "Say what you mean. More time for eating, drinking, sleeping, fucking." She shrugs.

"Yeah, then the news would have shit to go on." Nitrim replies, laughing softly. He places the bottle to his eye socket, calming the twitching eyelid down. With a grunt, he rises and moves over to the table. He lights another cigarette and moves past her back into the kitchen. The light from the fridge illuminates him as he digs, finding nothing of consequence. He opts for another beer. "You get space. We don't. There's tradeoffs." Fuck. She's got him talking like her now.

"Don't have space," Rook replies. "Worse things to hound you than the press." Like the Syndicate, gangs, addicts. "Worse debts to pay." She finishes scarfing the leftovers and gets up to dispose of the trash and clean the utensils she used. It's a diligent scrubbing she gives the fork, obsessive tendencies maybe. Or maybe trying to leave no trace of herself behind.

Watching the way she scrapes at her plate, and thinking back to the sight of her eating, the word debts brings a faint frown to Nitrim's face. Leaving his empty beer behind in the trash, he moves out of the kitchen and reaches for his wallet. Glancing back to make sure she isn't following, he pulls out four hundred dollar bills and leaves them on an end table next to his keycard, splayed as if accidentally left behind. Then, trailing cigarette smoke, he slips back into his stolen room to check on his luggage. "I fought the Hostile at the Crescent. I killed one. Of all the things I'd rather not hound me, they take the forefront."

Naturally, Rook's gone through every piece of his luggage. However she's not hidden that fact, nor has anything been taken. It was like she was trying to learn if he was on the up and up, building an impression of him from his things. "Worse things," she reiterates. Meaning other than the hostiles. "You know they want you dead. They're more like me than most people." Honest, blunt, up front in their desire to wipe out the humans. "They don't waste time, or words."

Going to one knee, Nitrim goes about the task of repacking his belongings, setting his beer down on the edge of the nearby dresser while he works. He glances back into the main of the suite while he talks, stuffing his socks and smallclothes back into the suitcase. "Give it time. Sooner or later there's someone that's going to want to slit my throat."

When he looks back, Rook is staring at the money with a scowl. Her mind is mathematical. She knows from how she catalogued the room upon entering, that it wasn't there before. She doesn't touch it though. She doesn't steal from clients. "Why?" she asks him, in regards to getting his throat slit most likely, as she doesn't see herself being watched.

"Law of averages." Nitrim replies, taking a pair of pants into his hand and folds it end-over-end. "Politics. I'm schemey. I'm going to be back off to war soon and you know how people are, they can't leave things the fuck alone." A pause. "But mostly because I'm the only Awakened Khournas. I'm useful, and if things start to get ugly I'm either a commodity or a liability. We'll see."

"You need protection," Rook states, heading back into the bedroom. She starts pulling on her clothes, layer after layer after layer. It's like she wears everything she owns. "Don't have guards?" she asks, looking skeptical at that.

"That I have. I don't have much tie to the underworld. I've got a supply, you're aware of that. My hands are clean. I've got guards, bodyguards, and my brothers and sisters and cousins are some of the best trained knights. They're soldiers, though. I'm good at knowing people." He rises, turning to face her. "And they're good at killing them."

"People aren't hard to kill," Rook notes with a shrug. "They all burn." Is that a little twitch at the corner of her mouth? That might be a smile! Her version at least. She shoulders her pack and runs a hand through her mussed hair. Then she hands him a card with a burner comm number on it. "Keep in touch. Thanks." For the shower, nap, food? She heads for the door.

Turning the card over in his hand, he nods off and reaches for his beer. "Take the money. Buy yourself some shit. It's my Father's money and he thinks I'm an asshole." Nitrim calls out through the doorway, not watching her leave. He tips the bottle back to his lip and moves to the alarm clock beside the bed, setting an early timer.

"Not a loan then?" Rook asks, sliding her fingers over the money. She clearly has issues with being indebted to people. "Ok." It gets stuffed into a pocket. "Bye." She's out the door, strange strange creature that she is.

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