Kitsunegari

(Closed starter for @melancholicdane)

“You there, why don’t you come here so I can read your fortune?“ Her voice is low and breathy, and her hands are spread before the paisley patterned table that is laid out with tarot cards.

There is a crystal ball that also sits off the the side, unused. Her lips are curled into a smile that speaks to the sort of seduction that was characteristic of her.

   “My fortune? Fair lady, I pray to tell thee I already know my fortune – ‘tis filled with good tidings!”

Yet the high is strong within coursing veins, vision crossing with intense focus before she draws him in further. The ambiance intrigues him as hooking with fine nails and a painted deck.

@columbiakiller || closed starter

She only had a few minutes to get home, freshen up, get changed, do her make up, and then catch a cab to the restaurant where she was supposed to meet the client. She knew very little—just that his name was Ralph. Idly, she wondered what kind of man he would be—she was used to seeing older men with money to spend and looking for a good time. Sometimes, they asked her to stay the night and sometimes, they didn’t. She didn’t care—whatever money she got for staying over went straight to her pocket.

And so, kissing the children she had been looking after goodbye and bidding their mother farewell, Lory took off for her apartment, hopping into the shower, hopping out, picking a black sequin dress, a pair of heels, her best bangles, and drying off her hair. It was amazing that she managed to move so quick and lightly—but then again, in a former life, she’d been a dancer. Of course she still danced, but it was in the privacy of people’s bedrooms now.

When she was ready, make-up applied, hair done, coat worn and bag in hand, she headed to their designated meeting area—it was a restaurant on the outskirts of town, and while Lory didn’t mind it much, she was still a little nervous about what was supposed to happen. It was very rare that the guy was a complete asshole but it still happened.

   His idea of a date had been far different than the intentions of the evening. Well dressed and composed, Ralph’s fingers tap with idled nervousness. The only feminine company he’s received over dinner was that of mutual dark eyes, and he finds himself more nervous than he could have anticipated. Stomach churning, Ralph is careful when he takes large gulps of water.

He’s been to the bathroom four times now and counting before she arrives.

When the exchange had been made through mutual means, he stressed over how to create proper conversation and common interest – after all, he knows nothing of this woman other than her name and basic description.

Her name is Lory and she is supposed to be very beautiful.

The women surrounding him of various age are all beautiful, but none of them are Lory and his gut wrenches before she’s at his table. Standing, he’s quick to bow his head and take her hand with a gentleman’s squeeze. Pulling her chair out for her, he’s well-trained in the art of fine dining and doing the man’s share.

“There’s nothing to it,” She says, putting her hand purse on the table, and leaning in, so that her features are gently lit by the flickering candlelight. Her manner is alluring, but not purposely; she is classy and has an old charm about her that shows in the way she carries herself.

When the waiter comes, she requests a glass of wine. Her bangles click together as she moves her hand to brush her hair from her face, and then, she draws her attention to Ralph suddenly, and intensely.

He’d heard from a guy, who knew a guy, who was a guy, that there was a manor, and in it, a lovely garden, which, for anyone who was even slightly inclined toward the culinary arts, would have to take a look see. Of course, it was private property, the man had warned, but that didn’t stop Cal from wanting to go look anyways.

By the time he had reached the estate, he was already impressed, knowing that not even in his dreams, he could afford to have a place like that. He didn’t have high aspirations—not really. Being Irish meant he was incredibly disliked and unwanted. He never quite understood why, but he did not fight it, instead using it to work to his advantage.

Like how he had fixed his hat a little and his clothes some, puffed out his chest and walked through the gates as though he worked there. No one questioned it—the only way someone like him could even hope to see the inside was to be employed. And even that was impossible, with all the INNA signs he’d seen back in the city. It was terrible, and as a result, he had to steal to just make ends meet. He didn’t feel bad about it anymore—it was just a fact of life.

Today was no different, her eyes picking out the man in the back, quiet and hunched in his hasty extraction. His face looked different, unlike the other staff members they had, though she wasn’t quick to worry; it wasn’t her job to hire the workers, and thus it wasn’t her job to know when new members were hired on.

She stopped just short of him, looking down on him with curious eagerness, kneeling down to bring him (and his actions) better into view.

     “Hello. Are you new here?”

Her nosiness was not exclusive to the outside world - ways of butting in always managing to find themselves even within the confines of her walls.

“Uh, I uh... yeah, I’m new. I’m the new gardener,” He lied, picking up his cap and putting it back on. He used his forefinger to slide his glasses back on his face, and slowly stood up.

We can plot

We can be friends

“Well, sir,” Came the soft, rolling English, that was peppered with that Irish flavor, “It’s called Colcannon, and it’s consistin’ of mashed potatoes, kale and cabbage. It’s real good sir, me mum used to make it, and then some. I’m also preparin’ as the main dish, of course some smoked salmon on white bread, buttered and topped with shrimp… and then I’ll sprinkle some dill over it all and you’ll love it.”

He seemed pretty new, which is why he did not see the harm in admitting all that he had been planning or in the process of preparing. Nervously, he asked, “You like cabbage, don’tcha?”

   His brows roll up, arms retracting to cross as his body stands straight. Heels catching his weight, Hamlet watches the other man carefully. He judges the accent first before tapping a long index finger to his chin. “Aye.

   “What is that there, my good sir?” He gestures something as grandiose and unnecessary as he. Long fingers lace together before undoing each action, as if there’s a hair of doubt; yet in his arrogance, Hamlet throws part of his body over the counter without my care for those around him. Propping his elbows up as if he to get a better look, his rests his jaw against his palms, nose scrunching and brow soon following to slant.

{ a closed starter for @forlions }

To an onlooker who was not acquainted with the city of Rapture would have mistaken the scene for a regular grand reception. Except, upon closer examination, the ballroom, and the dining hall were framed by large glass windows that depicted… fish? Yes, that was right.

It was hard not to get lost in the way the sparking city lights looked, or the way the marine wildlife floated by indifferently. Once or two, the former actress caught her attention wandering to frolic along with the schools of fish that would swim by on the occasion. She did not mind receptions, or parties–she had attended many, and they were more or less the same: draining affairs with an excuse to consume alcohol and free food. That was usually the only reason why she went, in addition to perhaps finding a warm arm to hang off of. That was always nice.

It was with that mind set that Lory Sullivan rose to her feet, her dark blue and grey sequin dress falling past her knee as she moved to the drink table, an empty glass of champagne in her hand. She had decided to wear her long black hair into a sort of pulled back ponytail, and her eyes were done with smoky eyeliner that framed her eyes in a alluring way.

The table was already somewhat occupied with other party-goers, and with a slight pout, she tried her luck at getting close enough to the table to switch glasses. There would be no such thing; not as long as the current company–Was that Andrew Ryan?–were there. This was going to be a long night.

“Um… pardon me, but I’d like a drink… and you’re… kind of in the way.” Cheeky, no doubt. It’s what had made her so lovable as a child star, although now, it just seemed to be the impolite mannerisms of a spoiled individual.

   “Are you asking me to move,” quips the Great Man.

Whatever his intentions, they’re rather unclear. A man without a mask, citizens with grandiose smiles, and drinks that flow as easy as the lapping ocean water. ANDREW RYAN stands with squared shoulders and a padded suit, black with a tie that says royally red tonight. In all his immaculate grace, there is a smoothness about the way he speaks to her. There’s a subtle clarity about him, a way he holds himself among the wealthy and speaks as if he’s one of them.

Though in all reality, it wasn’t quite that long ago that Ryan himself was a just poor boy scrounging pennies and sweating in the face of a cruel, American sun. In all his wealth and all his glory, there’s something warm about him with a careless detachment pinned against his breast. Times have changed him, and yet at this very moment, Ryan is, for all intensive purposes, wholly content.

His leadership has brought them what many call impossible – his resources coupled with his vision, connections made and deals struck, have created a city at the bottom of the sea. Madness might some remark, but no less genius than one who could craft a floating Heaven above all stone. Lest these people cast none upon their Maker now.

There’s a sauciness in the way he places a collected hand in the pocket of his suit, the other folding against the width of his chest as if to feel his beating heart. His eyes rove over her, collecting in what little she leaves to his imagination – where his vision of her ends and the one she portrays begins. No name comes to this face, but he continues with minor ease.

Two drinks, thin glasses with fine champagne, are collected. Ryan holds one out to her, as if in a faux toast.

Even so, she had happened to be right about her initial guess. The man she had happened to try her charm on was none other than the Father of Rapture himself, Andrew Ryan. Nervous was a good word for how she was feeling, but ever the actor, she hid the emotion by pretending to be bored.

"If I had told you to, you wouldn't've had a choice, but seeing as you didn't move, and gave me a drink instead," She said, taking the glass from him, "I suppose I was asking. But it doesn't matter since I've got what I wanted."