[Auction 2014] Getting to know you

[Thistle]

Prologue

Once upon a time, a long time ago…

There in The Necropolis met two. Both young, cold skinned fiends of the night. Both proved to be resourceful despite the situation. Both having luck (a bit of power on his side and rescue to her self-induced predicament). Both born to discover a world beyond their wildest dreams. A lad and lass who now dwell among strange corridors of the city, often the same dark corners. Yet not much can be shared in passing. Normal-minded Jannie never embraced small talk of others, rather quick or single-night adventures suited her well. But often a loner can get lonely. As she moved from place to place between gray matter and shadows left a few holes to fill. So from gutsy Jannie, came a newly bred Thistle. O’re time who learned to slow down (sometimes), listen, and take some conversations to a deeper level, only if she saw and built care enough to have such.

Continued... http://www.mooncalfstudios.com/pathofth ... 64&t=23272

Later…

She impatiently shoved a bunch of blonde waves behind her shoulder as the bank teller pushed over two bits of dollar shaped paper receipts through a hole carved between two blades of bullet proof glass. Large grey orbs didn’t leave their focus on the tan skinned, business man as ivory fingers swiped and pocketed the papers without reading the results of the transfer.

“Anything else I can help you with, Miss. Do you know about…”

“Stop.” Her tone was stern but not raised. Her hand immediately came to the glass to interrupt the sales pitch ‘to open a new account or link a card for some bonus bucks for the coming holidays’. She did an about-face and hurried out of the establishment without another word.

Next up, home to which she would spend an hour soaking in the hot tub of her room. Fumble around in her closet for something … anything to wear. The shade blinked at the selection of grunge greased outfits, slim to over-sized jackets, jeans, lace to cotton to leather trimmed shirts. Blood red painted fingertips scratched and scored nervously through her locks. Never or at least, not in a while, had she stood for longer than twenty seconds to find some suitable attire to wear.

Thistle ignored the closet and sat in a large chaise lounge. Wrapped a throw blanket around her pale legs. With the most important piece, left undone still. Her phone not far from reach. Thistle plucked it from the end table, scanned her thumb across a shallow list of contacts. She grinned as it settled upon Taranto’s number.

Text: Hey T, which 3 days do I get to steal you away, wrap you in work, and warp your mind.

Thistle tossed the device to the table where it rested before. She took the liberty to relax before the rest of her night started. Thistle plucked a book out of the bookcase behind the lounge, glanced over the cover to the phone, than slipped her fingers to the page in which she left off.

[Taranto]

The lithe mystic smiled as he reholstered his custom pistol. Third. That was the third shamaan he had taken out before it could weave its majicks over him. It wasn't that long ago that he had been unsure of even entering the catacombs, without backup. He had never really taken to the 'warrior's way', instead contenting himself to be a supporter, supplier, healer. Taranto had no ego, didn't even know the word. He just kept an ear out to see what is companions needed, then acted on it. He had bought Station Net cafe, for that sole reason. A single place, that people could stop in and get everything done, all at one stop. Computers, software, rituals, crafting, even reading. Then he had remodeled and added arcade games and and a stage/bar. There was even a small spa in the back specialize in waxing and laser hair removal. A small chuckle escaped his lips as he thought about that portion of his business empire, it truly was becoming an empire now. The salon, 'Hair today, Gone tomorrow', had become an unexpected cash cow, exceeding all his dreams. It was now one of the top 10 businesses in the city, for net worth. Another chuckle came as he thought about Canada's national animal. If his profits were any nationwide indicator... they might have to change it from the american beaver, to the bald beaver. Slipping from the entrance to the caverns, his mind locked on his businesses, Taranto almost missed the silent vibration of his phone alerting him to an incoming text.

It was Janie, tho he usually called her Thistle. They had met when he was but a fledgling. He recalled the night vividly, although his part had been but a small support part. Back then he could barely steady a gun, let alone hit what he was aiming for. He had exited the sewers behind the Necropolis, and decided to go in and do a little people watching. He had only been there a few moments, when a flash of motion had caught his attention, and he had moved to see what was happening in the shadows near the back. It was a time of upheaval in vampyric society, a new breed of human had appeared, one that actually drank the blood of vampires. Talk about your role reversals.... Anyways as he got closer, he had noticed that the shadows weren't normal. His sire could change and manipulate shadows, and he had stepped closer to see if it was his maker. It wasn't. Instead he had found a beautiful blonde female, beset by three of those awful blood thieves. He had drawn his knife, an elite hunting knife, and gone to try and help her.

That had been laughable, the whirling blonde with a sword and taken down all three before he had gotten close enough to even stab one. Unfortunately she had been wounded, badly. She had been bleeding badly, and was in no shape to hide evidence, or get rid of the bodies, so he had stepped forward to her, and using his powers, removed all sign of them from the bar. One after another, he had teleported them out to the wilderness to become food for the next cycle of life. Then he had snuck her out the back, and ran and got blood bags for her. She had been an amazing fighter, but then their ways had parted and they had gone separate ways. He would always remember her, but assumed he had passed on into ancient memory for her. Then came the fateful day when he had taken on another charity, and offered himself for sale.

Only his little Z had bid on him, when suddenly a strong female voice had rung out with a bid, on him. It had been her, Janie, Thistle, w/e she went by, she had bid on him, and eventually won him. Now it was time to do his duty. Lifting his phone, he rapidly sent off a reply. "You are the owner, I believe that entitles you to making a decision on those parameters"

[Thistle]

The roman Gothic horror story gripped her spine, tingled her senses. Fingers flipped from one page to the next. The shadow’s frame sunk into the depths of her lounge chair. Back bent in an awkward shape, knees pulled up and tucked beneath the afghan blanket. Hunger or worthy distraction might have a chance prying fixated grey empty orbs. Benefit of being dead. Her library grew at an enormous rate since she had all the time in the world to read. Yellow-orange streaks of fire danced, left to right, tall to short, attempting to penetrate through a patch of dense dark fog that surrounded both the chair, end table, the girl, and the candlestick. Flicker of the flame changing shape as she turned another page. Suddenly. Her phone screamed to life-Jannie jumped what she thought was a mile high, dispersing the grim surrounding her peaceful corner.

“Drat!” She blinked to focus in the newly lit room.

Her own personal night and dim atmosphere had been ten levels dim than the dwelling in which she sat. The book fell to the floor as ivory digits swung out to collect the singing phone. She tapped the screen and read the message. She was pleased in the response. Interested in the fact he did not have a sly comeback, but rather rightfully passed the talking stick to the girl.

Jannie did not own anyone or much of anything aside from the secluded hole in the sewer in which she surrounded herself with lavish furnishings of deep dark woods, goldenrod tones, and sassy touches. She had sought out one of the best local decorators and she was well worth it. The lack of ownership was not because she was poor. The girl worked for pay to keep herself contained to limited trouble-making moods. She just never felt the need to possess things in which could be gone the next moment. Even the books on the shelf-while worn, items to simply purchase again. Owning something meant responsibilities. Responsibility meant growing up, and growing up-well, was simply not fun. Taranto, however, could be fun. This thought tickled her to the core. She was in command over her mystical friend for three short nights. What a better way to make one's acquaintance than some random adventure rather than explicit tasks he would probably be expecting.

Text: Alright, this weekend, meet me at Underground Records in The Swamp. Bring an overnight bag and four items you’d bring to a deserted island. Kapish?