Wassail [Malakai]

[Camille]

Nights out on the town weren’t exactly one of his most common affairs.

The holidays were finally over and the reality of life was just starting to set into the majority of the population. The cheer, rambunctiousness and depression that dragged along were beginning to settle and after maybe a week of being shut in the house, Camille finally left his perfectly clean lair and came out into the dirty world. Oh the joy.

It was slightly early to be leaving the nearly sweet walls of the rotting apartment. He may have been no alcoholic but he could almost taste booze running against his tongue and he craved the warmth and spice of a winter drink. The wind howled and his small little Boston apartment wasn’t exactly know for keeping warm and Camille had never been the sort of child to go play in the cold snow.

The streets were lonely even though it was full of people who have nothing to do like him, maybe a family to return home to but not like many do. His eyes trained downwards as he worked his way to the bar since he could probably get a shot before his wallet was empty and that hankering for a winter warm drink was starting to get somewhat annoying. He bundled further into himself missing obstacles of street lights and poles as a cold ocean breeze blew over them. His eyes traded to watch the sidewalk.

Boston was not his favorite place in the world.

There were too many people, too many faces, colors and distractions. There were too many people, too many long faces, too many men sleeping on the curb or at mass houses for the unwanted for his liking. It was too cold even though this was no Manitoba winter it was enough, it was enough to get deep into the skin to stir him enough. There was too many things, too many things that shouldn’t exist but did, and maybe he fell into the category but in the cold yet somehow soft night he did what would be close to a surveillance with is failing sight, expecting all the monsters promised not to be in his closet to jump out.

He had yet to meet one of the wolves of Boston.

When he finally made it into the bar he was greeted by what he expected. Drunken spirits, happy men, depressed people and all the sort of chaos of the local watering hole that as he had expected was filled with the same steers, or rowdy men whatever he wished to call them. One of his nostrils lifted somewhat as if to smell the air and he was somewhat greeted with the smell of liquor. He peeled off the mittens though he hesitated, tongue running around his lips absently craving a cigarette he could not light before suddenly his head throbbed and his body tensed.

This was no wolf. This was something much, much different and he was surely not going to enjoy it.

His head seemed to pound like a beating drum in his skull and he felt his stomach twist into knots. He felt the measly little meal he had before threaten to burst and he fell back against the door. It took quite a bit to make him nausea but presence he found himself one that could do just that. He didn’t know what it was but it was in the embodiment of one word and one word alone.

Death.

He knew better than to call it a reaper but that was the first thing that popped into his mind.

Quickly his eyes flitted to the offender, the cataracts of his green eyes focused on her. Long black hair that flowed down her shoulders, tanned skin and somewhat exotic yet not foreign was near the only way he could describe her and he looked away towards some sort of friendly man that moved to help him asking something about it being his “ex”.

The kindness was rewarded with angry swat and curses before he left rather quickly and headed straight home.

Which wasn’t very fast.

[Malakai]

Malakai does not take to bars often. Not unless she'd had a soul to collect or bargain to make. But being the unofficial but official ''Queen'' of Boston meant she had to mingle with the wolves. She had to establish dominance. But more importantly she had observe. She had to set a impression. There was only one first one, after-all. And be it good enough she could remain in her position for a long time yet.

Lyra, in retrospection would be better at this. She put off a much friendlier air than the shuck did. Most wolves could smell the death on her and shied away instinctively if they were smart. More courageous one's tended to bear their teeth at her, or growl. Her cruel smirk didnt exactly welcome them with open arms. Animal instincts sometimes proved stronger than human reason.

That's what she's telling herself when everyone avoids her like the plague, or when she sit's down and it takes the bartender a long while to overcome his initial fear. But by the time it's a quarter past ten she's got some men eating out of her hand. They're telling her about winning fights and she's laughing eagerly. Smiling at all the appropriate moments. She's just short of flat out flirting with them - had she crossed her legs and batted her eyelashes.

But it's all boring and she finds no one worthwhile. She's ready to turn in when there's something itching at the back of her nape. That odd feeling of imaginary audience; although in this case it's not quite a figment of her over productive mind (slightly less reasonable due to a steady intake of alcohol). Malakai turns around just in time to catch the starting glance of Camille. And discreetly she's watching him as he watches her.

It's a enjoyable charade. A nice add to the mix from her game with the wolves. But Camille doesnt play long and moves to leave.

Malakai makes some commanding notion with her hands and her and four of the werewolves she'd been cozying up with follow along and out of the bar.

The psychic doesnt get to far before they've circled and got him cornered.

Malakai thinks it's a bit nice to have cronies.

"Want to tell me why you were oogling me earlier? Should I be concerned?" -- about getting rid of a body.

[Camille]

Camille, the ever so graceful butterfly, does not even take a complete step before he hits the ground. His feet catch on the bar door, and his exit turns into a near lethal experience as instinctively his hands flash out in front of him to catch him, hurting not only them with his slight amount of weight but with the shattered beer glass that burrows deep beneath his skin and into his soft, unused hands.

Colorful words leave his mouth, introducing the world to his wicked vocabulary as the adrenaline surges through his body and that feeling of flight begins to pump into him. Camille might have been making it too easy, as he left a slight blood trail in his wake as he attempted to hurriedly bandage (but failed to) his bleeding hands while continuing a walk that threatened to break into an all-around sprint. Camille could already tell the werewolves and the “woman of death” was leaving the bar before they did, and this time he doesn’t even need his powers to guess that.

His hands were buried in his trench coat as a quick fix as they failed to be a top priority. Yet when the wolves and their female leader come from the darkness he doesn’t even attempt to flee, simply stopping his body as he is circled like a pray, like a weak, wounded fawn. His eyes close for a moment, attempting to still the shakes in his body and contain the raging hormone that wished him to flee. Camille’s eyes flash open and his frown deepens, and he may have reached for a cigarette if his hands were not a mess and he had more confidence in this situation.

"Want to tell me why you were oogling me earlier? Should I be concerned?"

With his nerves at least somewhat stabilized, the glance he gives Malakai and the crew is less than impressed.

“Why do you reek of death like a corpse?” He answers her in a matter-of-fact sort of tone with an added scoff that he regrets when it leaves his mouth. The powerful woman seemed not the sort to take much shit and Camille is somewhat the same way but to a point, because he knows when to shut his mouth once in a while when it comes to a life or death situation.

Death, death was becoming a popular topic.

The stunning eyes or somewhat peculiar eyes of the man take another swing of looking around, as if trying to lighten the situation. His mouth somewhat tightens as he once again confirms he had four, every so lovely werewolves on his case. Camille didn’t have to check twice, but there was maybe a slight hope that they would be rowdy men instead, because he would much more prefer men than beasts.

”Your gang of wolves was an unnecessary accessory,” he shakes his head somewhat, his hands beginning to shake in his trench coat visibly. His hands were buried in the depth of his pockets but not to hide his wounds, because he knew the wolves knew and he was sure it or she, was sure of his rather embarrassing wound also. His eyes flit to her black ones casually, or as much as he could muster with his adrenaline pumping throughout his veins and his bleeding hands quaking in his pockets. The cataracts in his eyes stared forward at her in a somewhat intense look, but it’s an intensity he means not to put out there, simply his usual look. ”I am sure, whatever the hell you are; you could handle a lowly psychic like me without a group of tasteless werewolves. I don’t exactly look like a body builder, do I?”

Normal habits of brushing back hair his hair or playing with his cigarette are deemed useless at the moment, so in an awkward need to fiddle around he shifts on his feet eyes glancing from the ground in a somewhat submissive manner before back at the army around him. He considers the fact he may need to bargain for his life, but he isn’t quick to fire just yet as he looks over at Malakai once again.

”I just wanted a little warm, seasonal drink for the night but I am not one who enjoys dabbling with the supernatural or being in their presence, so I left,” and the headaches and nausea she caused were always there but roared wildly in her presence. He almost tacks in something about how it was probably better that he didn’t, because he couldn’t afford the clothes on his back, much less a drink, but he leaves out his life story for they aren’t here for that.

”I am of no problem, or any cause of concern. I am just a little psychic.” He says this gagging slightly, mouth covering by his own hand as his stomach threatens to explode, but he doesn’t exactly want to tell her she makes him sick now does he? Camille can tell he is dancing on thin ice.

[Malakai]

“Why do you reek of death like a corpse?”

The man is complacent. Instead of giving chase to the werewolves at his heel (which would have been the worse idea), he halts and lets them circle him like their animal counterparts. Malakai moves to the center of their roundabouts. The eye of the center of the storm. She radiates confidence and power. Arms crossed beneath her breast and leaning to one heel.

But she does not dignify him a answer. Instead choosing to narrow her eyes as the wolves around them taunt him with angry sounds from their throat.

Had he been human, she knows he might have sprinted by now.

”Your gang of wolves was an unnecessary accessory,””I am sure, whatever the hell you are; you could handle a lowly psychic like me without a group of tasteless werewolves. I don’t exactly look like a body builder, do I?”

"I could, but, I'm not in the habit of underestimation." She says, a vicious between of downplaying her power and coming across as sharper than normal. But most of all, Malakai has been good at these games for a century. She'd watched her demon use up supernatural's power and influence like toilet paper. It'd been only natural she pick up something along the way.

In the end she does not have to speak, the silence (besides the dangerous closing in of the wolves) is enough to weigh heavily on Camille's chest. He attempts to fill the gaps of the nothing with desperate words -- Malakai realizes that he's aware of his standing in her territory.

”I just wanted a little warm, seasonal drink for the night but I am not one who enjoys dabbling with the supernatural or being in their presence, so I left,””I am of no problem, or any cause of concern. I am just a little psychic.”

Normally, she may have been more interested in the conversation at hand. However, Malakai catches the signs and lurch of stomach. Just like her wolves had earlier she notices the trembling hands and tone. Had it been played down as fear before (anxiety? nervousness?) there is something that smells acrid and wrong in the air now.

"What's wrong with you?" She accuses, reeling backwards disgusted. Much more threatened by the fact he could puke on her than the fact he was some sort of supernatural.

[Camille]

There is something completely calculated about everything the woman does.

She reeks of power and the werewolves are no better than slaves underneath her. This woman of power was no werewolf and his eyes flicker across her exotic face. It is a sickening sight, but there is something familiar to that sight. She controls the men like Poseidon the sea which reminds him of of something, something flashing across newspapers, lobby television. There is something familiar to this evil, as if she was a household brand. It bothers him, stays on the tip of his tongue but never comes out. There is something familiar about the woman that is somewhat comforting, even if barely so. Comfort is something he desires, needs with his hand bleeding into his pocket and his stomach threatening to burst.

"I could, but, I'm not in the habit of underestimation."

Something about those words, the way she flashes them out bothers him. It is a sort of hidden entrance into her mind and it is something he does not want. He gets the feeling that gateway leads to a picture she wants him to see. She wants him to see she’s a little smarter than the average fellow, or fool. Unsettling, it is to him though, that this woman, whatever she was, would dare hide (in her words) her power. Maybe she is attempting to make him see her as less of a threat. Had he been in that position, he would smeared it all over, flaunted his abilities like a rich kid flaunting a new car. She doesn’t, or not upfront anyway. Like a trickster she belittles her power yet shows it with the closing circle of hungry monsters.

This woman is strange and he isn’t quite sure how to feel about it. It is most unsettling, unnerving; but there is a point when nerves begin to wear off and annoyance begins to take shape. With every moment that slides by, his attitude grows along with his anger. There is a bit of scowl on his face as he sways side to side (after settling his stomach enough). He looks at his attacker, his oppressor straight in the eye. Camille does not challenge her, he is not brazen enough or simply stupid enough to do so.

He lurches once more.

What’s wrong with you?” The ebony haired lady falls back as if he is contagious. He is surprised, for a woman giving off the air of intelligence, she should have figured out the only factor that had changed and made him sick was her. Maybe it is arrogance that does not allow her to make that assumption.

”You,” he says right back, in the same sort of accusing tone. SHE was the one who made him sick. SHE was the independent variable in the experiment and his sickness was only the following dependent. He cools himself while his is head throbbing that he clutches in his one good hand as his other finally (somewhat) begins to clot against the fabric of his inside pocket. He is a pitiful mess and he doesn’t like to look like a pitiful mess, especially not in front of attackers.

And then it hits him. She’s that one lady, on the television winning politics in a sweeping storm. He had no idea about most of it, only a vague clue of what exactly she was. He remembers something though, a scandal or not quite a scandal.

Something like that.

’You make me sick, you give me a headache. I have done nothing but walk into the same bar.” He states this, firmly, even though he quakes. He pushes the fear, the adrenaline back into a corner of his mind where he can handle it. Firmness, he hopes, will save him from being killed.

” I ask again, politely, what are you.” He inhales deeply, like a child expecting a thrashing from its father.

He’s going to faint if he isn’t careful.

”If you are going to kill me get it over with,” he says out, almost politely, but there is a vicious undertone he regrets as soon as it gets out.

”But hear me on this, I am a psychic and I can offer you many things.”

[Malakai]

’You make me sick, you give me a headache. I have done nothing but walk into the same bar.”” I ask again, politely, what are you.””If you are going to kill me get it over with,””But hear me on this, I am a psychic and I can offer you many things.”

Wolves are territorial things, hard to control at times but loyal. Atleast the more feral side of them suggest so. Each one of the men hackling and snarling at every undertone and crooked tone pitch. Malakai shoots them a cautious glare, it is both soothing and demanding. Later they may question her power but now they know it is not the time.

Camille has revealed his playing card, and thus, offered it up for the taking. His desperate revelation sparks more interest; possibly more than he'd ever hoped for.

There is a measured silence before the black hound says clearly, "Thank you," playing pleasantries if only to appear grateful as she addresses the werewolves who'd come along. "You can leave us now."

One of them naturally complains, uncomfortable with leaving their new lead alone, much more of a disappointing turn of events then tearing the psychic apart within the rules. But she dismisses him with a wave of her palm and statement that Camille cannot hear. It pacifies her allies and they make a last intimidating show of sharp teeth to Camille before they're gone.

Younger boys, no older than twenty two. Dim as rocks, but a kingdom could be taken over in sheer numbers alone, she knows.

"Let's go somewhere more private." She directs to Camille. Smiling and friendly. Although she does not yet reach for his hand or to guide him to follow. She expects him too. Only turning once to make sure he's close behind.

Be it he does follow her, soon they are branched in the unfamiliar darkness of one of her many offices. This one within city limits -- a couple of blocks from the rambunctious night bar she'd been at earlier. The security is functional, if not outstanding.Guarded at dark by werewolves, a wise choice compared to the diverse supernatural that command it come morning.

As she is, her office is neat and well organized. The lights come on automatically when she enters, urshering Camille to a seat parallel as she sinks into her's across. Crossing her leg's at the knee and reclining comfortably.

"As for what I am," She continues,with the grace of a cat. As if the lengthy walk and rise had not encouraged a awkward pause. "You'll hope to never find out."

Be it he feared her now, she did not want to intimidate him into entire subservience. There was a underlying challenge she could appreciate here.

"Would some tea alienate your ailment?" A pause, and dry smile. "Some pepto bismol?"

She glances shallowly at her phone, giving the impression she's not entirely needed there when she text a brief response to a message.