NIGHTCRAWLER

Maia didn't care about things like property lines, the land was older than she was and older than anyone on this planet. So she went where she wanted to just to explore the area. Maia loved being in new places because she loved exploring every inch of it. Thinking that only once she knew each place like the back of her hand could she feel like home. And frankly she never fully stayed in one place long enough to ever catch the feeling fully and it felt like a big part of her was missing.

She was deep in the woods when she ran across someone, knife in his mouth while he's bent down. Maia stopped a bit away, tilting her head in curiosity why someone else would be this far out this late at night. Her curiosity only piqued more when he spoke up to her. "Oh I'm sorry! I must have gotten turned around. I was following the path and then it got dark and I started freaking out." She said innocently even though none of that was the truth.

"So, do you need any help being guarded back out there? Or do you have a car parked somewhere? A place nearby?" There's one question that he's burning to ask, "What are you doing out here this late and alone, anyway? The forest gets dangerous at night." Something is off, and Rowan wonders if he got himself into a situation he really shouldn't have gotten himself in after what went down at the masked ball. "Guess you were pretty fine on your own, huh?"

Having been out later in the evening, which he enjoyed, seeing as not a whole lot of people were around. However, he had not been having the most delightful of eventing walks, tripping over something earlier and scuffing his elbow on a sidewalk as he was making his way home. He had never even seen what it was to begin with. Though he imagined he had kicked the thing out of view when it tripped him. Chalking down as simply being a rock or a stick. It really didn't matter. Lifting his arm up, he observed the scuffed piece of skin on his right elbow, “That's going to leave a bruise.” Tutting lightly, he dropped his arm and shook it out, ignoring the pain as he sharply turned and then slammed into someone, tumbling back from them and landing on the ground, gasping lightly as he did. Wincing a little bit he looked up, scrunching his face a bit, “My bad-” He paused, blinking, staring up at Rowan, “Hopefully I didn't hurt you with my body, I really need to watch where I'm going-” He then said, a smile forming over his lips, before suddenly pushing himself back up, popping back up, standing like it was nothing at all, he brushed himself off quickly. Then, reaching his right hand up, he absently, lightly, scratched at the side of his face. Harlow then pointed past the other, before starting to walk around Rowan. He glanced back a moment, saying, “Have a good night.”

As Rowan hates to think sometimes, he's the Hawthorne known to spend the most money on randoms on the street, may it be pretty people or true friends. Truly, he barely notices any influx in his bank accounts. His family makes the money right back. "One drink won't hurt you any more than that fall did."

The bump in has barely startled him, but his jaw twitches slightly, "Get drunk. Then you've got an excuse for not watching where you're going, man."

her hand freezes in an attempt to wipe her eyes when he whips around at the suggestion of the hospital. the rant about the averys, she understood, though she really didn't understand how a two family feud was still alive and well outside of a shakespearean play. in the next instant his hand is on hers. ❝you can't tell me no hospitals and then say all of that blood is yours. christ, rowan! what if you need stitches? ❞ despite her defiant words, she falls in step with him. he's sure to assuage her doubts anyway. he's pissed, but stoic in all of this and she's not sure she's happy about all of the strings she's currently unraveling.

when he mentions looking out for werewolves her heart skips a beat. the way he looks, the lights flashing off in the party and bright lightning strikes revealing multiple bodies and several others covered in blood? it wasn't a serial killer's wet dream or somebody that took the idea of a murder mystery party too far. rowan's saying monsters are real and her head is already spinning too much for the gravity of that to really settle in as she tries to keep up with his much longer strides in her heels, blue eyes now flashing into the alleyways they pass through. ❝ you think a werewolf killed her?? i - i didn't see anything. it was so dark... and there was so much blood when i could see i -- ❞ well, now she feels like an idiot for how she reacted. guess she's not a final girl in a horror movie.

the roar behind them echoing through the streets from the museum has her heart racing. as she whips her head to look behind them, her heel nearly catches in an uneven part of the sidewalk and she launches forward and nearly trips. after steading herself with her best attempt to not grab onto rowan because of his injury she still hasn't really lay her eyes on, she curses under her breath and mutters that she's fine. when he apologizes, they're already nearing her apartment and she's feeling both relieved and worried about it's proximity to the museum. ❝ you don't need to apologize. let's just -- get inside and we can see how underwhelming my first aid kit really is. ❞ she's compartmentalizing and repressing at the moment because this is already too overwhelming without letting herself sit and think about monsters being real for too long.

"No, I think it was a vampire." There's no reason to not be blatantly honest, but Rowan does hold her hand when he says it. "I hate to give it to them, but Werewolves are usually more in control of themselves, and if they are not, they bark like maniacs. Growl, and shit. This person didn't. They were quiet, sleek. Calm. Which I also hate to admit, but they were experienced. Likely some old motherfucker that went through a rage fit." Rowan realizes that it's likely all too much. That he's likely revealing some things that she's never heard about. Her words bring a smile to his lips, and when they scramble up the stairs in the dark and finally make it into the apartment, Rowan has calmed down. "I'm sorry for how fast this went down. I wish I would have taken more time saying the things I had to say."

Now, in the light, the damage is clear. A light stab in the shoulder, nothing dangerous, and a cut along his stomach, that he's lucky is not deeper. His shoulder is not oozing blood anymore, but the stomach wound is, and Rowan figures it needs some pressure and cleaning before being bandaged up. "I've got an emergency stitching packet and health kit in my blazer.", he admits. "Precautions I have to take. Marlowe, there's something I need to tell you." Rowan rubs the back of his neck, takes a deep breath, "But you can't tell anyone else. You can talk to Val about it, but no family members, no friends, no colleagues, no strangers. Okay?"

her new friend barely has gotten her off the floor and calmed her down before rowan's hand is gripped around her arm. her eyes land on the glint of the knife in his other hand, but the offer to get her the hell out of this place is music to his ears. so, she silently goes along at first, keeping pace with him as they are rushing down the stairs. ❝ i-it's not my blood. i'm fine. i promise. it's abby's... and she's fucking dead rowan. she's dead. ❞

when they're outside, the moonlight's better at providing light to illuminate him. rowan hawthorne his suit now stained in blood and a feral look in his eyes she doesn't recognize... she's hardly ever seen him angry. but she trusts him, a hell of a lot more than she would trust anyone else in the carnage they have just left behind.

a shaky hand wipes at the tears staining her cheeks, likely spreading some of her former regular customer's blood across her cheek. there's no time for her emotions and thousand questions until they're out of the streets of westray at such a late hour. ❝ could have used a warning that i would need to bring a knife to your fancy party. ❞ the half-hearted rush of air that has to constitute as a chuckle in this moment sounds pathetic even to her own ears and does little to lighten her own mood as she had hoped.

❝ we aren't far from the cafe. we can go there. -- how much of that blood is yours? shit. maybe we can catch a cab to lakeview? ❞

His hand wraps around hers and he intertwines their fingers. "All of it.", Rowan admits, "All of it is mine. I could barely see a fucking thing." Rowan draws her in the direction, "We need to watch out for Werewolves, yeah? You see a wolf, you bolt. I will fight them. No discussions, yeah? Just fucking run." He pauses, then. "You do know about... fuck it, yeah. You see an animal of all sorts, you just run. I'll take care of it." His fingers tighten around hers and he draws her with him, his heart beating faster than it should. "Did you see who did it? Your friend, who killed her. Did you see their face?"

Rowan knows he's a mess. He consumed too much champagne for his own good, the loss of blood is dizzying him and so is the adrenaline rush that has barely started subsiding. A roar echoes back from the museum and Rowan speeds up, draws Marlowe with him faster, pushing through his pain and his anxiety. "I'm sorry.", he says at some point, "This is a fucking mess. You shouldn't have found out like this. You shouldn't even know who I am."

The chandeliers drip crystal tears across marble floors, their shimmer catching in the delicate threads of Valentine’s dress, a baroque dream in golden toile, sculpted to her body like the whisper of an ancient curse. Her gloved hands, embellished and expressive, flutter once at her sides as she sweeps through the museum’s grand atrium, her mask glinting with jeweled menace beneath the curve of her auburn curls. The gala is decadent: murmured secrets, violins trembling through oil-slick air, and gowns that rustle like costly sins. Her entrance is a performance, of course. Every step curated, every glance barbed. Until-

Her gaze lands on them.

Rowan, polished in tailored perfection and a mask that conceals nothing from her. And beside him: Marlowe. In moonlit silver and too much proximity. Her best friend. Her brother. Together. The flute in her hand doesn’t waver, but her jaw sets. Of course, he didn’t tell her. Naturally, he presumed he could just… waltz in like that.

That deceitful son of a witch!

Valentine slices through the crowd like a blade ripping satin. Her pumps echo too sharply in her ears as she intercepts Rowan mid-conversation, lips parted in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “May I borrow my darling dear brother for a moment?” She mewls, not waiting for a response before curling her digits into his sleeve and dragging him toward an empty corridor lined with Roman busts and poor decisions.

"It's not like it's a date or something. She's your friend. I don't fuck your friends." Which, to be honest, is a lie. There was this girl called Lena? Or Lina? Or Marlene? a few years ago, and then a Stella, or Star, or whatever other name with S she could have had. But Marlowe is a different friend. She's not as posh, or as fancy as the other girls. She's so beautifully normal. Thing is, his father would rather marry him off to the richest man his age in town, than to a girl not worth a million at least.

"It's just one night, okay? We regularly do stuff together alone. I've known her for as long as you know her, remember?" Rowan rolls his eyes, "Can you chill out? We're adults, kay?"

Where: lunar eclipse masquerade ball

He had been a little skeptical about showing up in town. Going back to the place where he used to live, growing up, and seeing how much things had changed. He had been in town for about six months now, keeping a low profile. The only comments in passing were about how he looked like his uncle. Sebastian watched the crowd. So far, he had managed to get by without much suspicion, and tonight as he was fully masked, no one seemed to really mind.

The only thing holding him back, the dull ache in his head. It felt like something was pressing against his skull. If he didn’t know better, he would have guessed that death was coming for him again. In pursuit of trying to find answers, he took another look around. The mask was blocking out most of the light, but his heightened vision helped that.

He rubbed a gloved hand along his arm as he walked, trying to sense who was a supernatural, who was a human, or a hunter. He wished he knew better. Six months, Sebastian had gotten a pretty good idea of the town. Sitting back, observing, moving through town as a journalist. He nodded to the man next to him at the bar, ordering himself a whiskey, neat. "Evening," he drawled.

His company went astray for a moment, and that allows him to plot something up within seconds -- the new vampire clan in town has been causing havoc, and Rowan would like to return some chaos right back into their lap. "You're 'new' in town?", he asked, "You know, they might believe that, but I won't." Rowan took a sip of his own drink, "Once you've been here, you can't get the town out of you, can you. You grew up here." The liquor burns down his throat, but he enjoys the sensation. He may have promised countless of people to stay sober for the night, but who is he to keep a promise. "Right, Sebastian Avery?"

so the sixty minutes had turned into sixty-two after two dress changes and careful attention to her under eye coverup. the soon to be fading sunlight glistens off the glass door to her apartment building, announcing her arrival. nothing ritzy or glamorous as what can be found in west view, but marlowe thinks she's done well for herself considering the financial ruin her blip in seattle left her in. nevertheless, the car of a hawthorne sticks out on her rather nondescript street. she's met with a bit of a cool breeze which makes her second guess the decision to not at least grab a cardigan on her way out the door for the spaghetti strapped dark jade silk dress she ultimately decided on.

"You look pretty." A brief compliment, which had never been rare for him. He'd say nice things in between insults on the way to school -- sometimes mixed up. You look pretty, nerd. Like the dress, weirdo. Nowadays, he'd settled for compliments. Ones that could actually sound nice, that would not make him feel nervous about the way he'd be perceived as a potential softie. Some teenage boys he had been surrounded by back then had been a lot -- evil, violent, and mean. Unlike them, Rowan had outgrown that phase.

"Rowan, what color is your sui-"

The door creaks open with the slow elegance of someone who’s used to being feared for arriving late. The soft click of heels, sinister little metronomes against the marble, pauses just past the threshold. Valentine, perfectly composed in a silk robe the color of sin, lets her dark gaze sweep across the room as if she’s sizing up a crime scene. "It smells like a pitstop bathroom in here." She leans one shoulder against the doorframe, expression unreadable save for the cruel little arch of one brow. Her nose wrinkles ever so slightly. “You look like a Picasso painting that got into a bar fight.” A pause, then a bright, theatrical smile. “And lost.”

Yet, though her words are acidic, a glimmer of concern flashes in her depths. "What on earth have you gotten yourself into?" Sure, Valentine could party like a 80s pornstar, but she also knew when to collect herself for a presentation. "Hurry up, we need to get you cleaned up. And swiftly, we haven't much time to spare."

A few beats pass as he tries to steady himself, "I think I'm addicted." He does not specify to what, at first. In his eyes, it is quite clear. The mix of alcohol and coke he usually ingests are nothing but drugs tied to wealth, and often old money. Rowan hates all of it, and sometimes even wishes there had been no money at all. "I just don't know how to stop. How to be sober anymore. I simply don't want to be, you get me? Every time I am, I am just confronted with arguments, and my faults, and... whatever else they want to throw at me." They, as in their perfectly pristine parents.

"What... what color should I wear?"

"Taking a stroll in the middle of the night, huh?", Rowan raises his eyebrows, his hand resting in his pocket, fingers wrapped around the knife -- silver. Not quite as strong as metal, but deadly to werewolves. "My family's grounds start in a few hundred meters. If I were you I'd make sure not to walk too far."