#striigon

She's standing outside of the bar - long legs exposed by a tiny skirt, cigarette dangling from her lips, digging through her tiny purse for her lighter.

A flame strikes in the corner of her vision, and Billie looks up - relaxing into a smile when she sees the man holding the lighter of his own.

there’s a cyclical keening sound, metallic and shrill, like a wheel spinning off its axis. his eyes open, if only to stare blankly up at the moonless, starless sky. it smells like burnt rubber and gasoline — tastes like dirt and the iron of blood. he closes his eyes. opens them again, and this time there’s voices, a riot of sound, flashing lights distorting his senses as a man bends urgently over him, asking questions he doesn’t answer.

something’s wrong. the understanding hits him at once, like the splash of frigid water. this was all wrong. he’d been riding his bike, headed home, coming around a corner and — he can’t feel his arm, can he? can’t move the fingers. suddenly can’t breathe, and the man above him speaks again, but this time, it isn’t to him. urgency cuts through the air, and his eyes are closing again, but now he’s trying to fight it. an icy fingertip of fear traces down along his spine, and as he slips away again, his mouth moves to say a name, the only person he wants there.

HE’S TAKING BEBA for his nighttime walk when he encounters Rainer this time. They are the kind to be nocturnal, aren’t they? They both blend in with the dark so naturally, aside from the stark whiteness of her hair. She needs a marama or something for her nighttime stalkings, he thinks; he’ll keep an eye out. BEBA IS TOO stupid to be afraid of her, the same way he isn’t afraid of Matija. The fat little thing walks right up to sniff her boots, wagging his tail before rolling over, begging for tummy pats. It’s embarrassing, really, that Matija should own such a creature after having the noble Vuk some long time ago. Still, Beba’s antics have him smiling, dimples and all. EYES CUT TO her when she asks him the question. “No, never,” is his sarcastically deadpan response, “I have never smiled in my life before. You are the first witness.”

Her hair and eyes glow golden under the light of the few sodium street lamps. She's smoking a cigarette and looming in the dark, her two favorite activities, when she spots Matija and-- what is that, some fucked up kind of dog?

Of course she caves immediately when he rolls over, crouching to give him a good double handed belly rub with her cigarette dangling from her lips. She doesn't coo at him, because she believes that baby-talking animals and children makes them stupid, but she does greet him with a very serious: "Nie dla psa kiełbasa. What a brave little guardian you are, eh? Psu na budę."

Rude of her, but the dog clearly doesn't mind.

The air was cool but not too chilly. Morgan dressed warmly but not so much he was sweltering. He took a seat at the outdoor café and ordered a water while he waited for his date.

A friend of his had set him up with this mysterious person, and while he had protested in the beginning, he ended up caving in. Worst that could happen was they'd be a poor match and they'd go on with their lives.

It wouldn't be the first.

The waiter brought his water and he thanked him. Maybe he'd order a tea later to go with dinner. As he perused the menu, he tried to decide on what he wanted. His thoughts however were interrupted when he heard footsteps and the chair across him being moved. Looking up from the menu, he saw his blind date; a dark haired man with a pale complexion and green eyes.

Her mother had called her foolish for this. She had known. Long before Mirela herself could work up the courage to bring up the subject, her mother had known exactly what he was, the sign of the cross warding it off even as she whispered it. Strigon. A woman born with suspicion deep in her bones — she had learned these stories on her own mother’s knee, and there had been no convincing her otherwise. But that had not been the moment she cut her daughter out of her life, neat as the bruise in the flesh of an apple. No — that had been in the damning silence that told her mother she already knew. And that she had chosen him regardless.

Perhaps she was foolish for this. She had invited Death through her door; did she truly expect to remain unscathed? Something is wrong with him this evening. Something has chilled the air in the room, drawing goosebumps over her skin. Dare she ask? Would he tell her, even if she did? He extends a hand between them, and the choice is made infinitely more simple. Either she wants him — or she doesn’t. But wanting him would always come with a risk.

Callisto does not particularly like being towered over (damn being 5'3), but especially by creatures of the night. She's also been called many things by many people, but never that - though it sounds similar enough to what the cryptic Serbian man down the street calls her that she can figure it out.

A curse though - that's interesting.

She'd clocked him as soon as she walked in. Or at least, clocked him as Other, given the pained look on his face whenever the barista called a new name. It was just her luck the last available seat was at his table - and she'd stared down the college kid who was also eyeing the spot until he'd conceded.

"Thank you so much, I appreciate it." Hartley slides into the seat opposite him, the picture of a young professional as she sets her coffee on the table. It's a double shit, and she can smell it from where she sits, so she can't imagine it will take long to tickle his nose. She also pulls her laptop out - Hartley had intended to work on an article, but watching him was much more interesting.