She knows what's goin' on
Seems we got a cheaper feel now
All the sweetcaze are gone
Gone to the other side
- Tori Amos

Summer opened wide and spat out a seer, buzzing through the backdoor, a patchwork roar in slipper shoes. There were some modifications to the garb today, little pins holding some little scraps together, all the better to keep her little bits within. Off-blue eyes ate up the scenery, and nothing appeared doubled. Good. That was good. She was all charm then, happy trails for the bar and keep. She shook her head. A ring of bells in wake. Someone had tied them into those curls of two-tone, as if to track her movements.

Quick, cat feet, balance upon a barstool. With a stretch that carved across the countertop, the seer peeled a bottle from behind. It sang red songs, fuel for a warrior. Yes, this would do. She hovered there a while, then twisted, making a seat of the counter and a friend of the bottle. Cork pulled free and set aside in a careful, secret place, unlikely weapon.

The smell of food mingled with the scent of the warrior red. Enthralled, the girl gripped tight to the bottleneck as eyes skipped in search. Beyond, through a door with crying hinges, lay the kitchen things, where the fires were put to work. She half wondered whether it was time to eat, then murmured to the bottle. There was no such thing. Surely, it agreed.

There was a ginger tom cat circling his ankles, ragged earned and bony of spine, pressing in so tight with his yowling demands that if Mesteno'd taken a step, the damned animal would've tumbled over. So he scooped it up of course, tucked it between his sharp-jutting ribs and the shear lining of his battered old aviator jacket. Inside, through the alley door and out of the damp. The feline seemed unphased by being scooped up - probably dumped or abandoned, accustomed enough to two-leggers. It took a moment for Mesteno's eyes (more comfortable in semi-gloom) to adjust to the light, and he squinted, looked all the more storm-cloud surly for it, while the cat batted at a snaking tendril of hair with a needle-clawed paw.

"You're a mess," he informed the tom cat, droll of tone. It didn't have a great deal to say back. Just peered up with wide, round eyes of palest green, his hair in its mouth. Perhaps it had been in the inn before, for it seemed content when he cut through the crowd and finally dumped it atop the bar. It trailed him to the break, weaving nimbly between glasses, and then back the other way as he made for the kitchen door. Hopefully it didn't have fleas.

And suddenly, she had company. They stared a while at one another, two feral things picking their insides apart. The seer could tell where the cat had been by the secrets it kept at the ragged bit of his tail. And the cat knew the seer well, for it recognized a sister, one who lay between. It was a great contest, two pairs of frozen eyes! Hers did water, though. The feline was sure to win.

"Salve," the man with the whiskey golden eyes greeted Piper. He remembered her, but perhaps more fondly than she knew. Sprog in her belly aside, she'd entrenched herself in his head for her efforts with his native tongue, and he even spared her a smile. The tom cat was sniffing at the milk Helena had left for it, tentatively lapping when Viki caught it's eyes and the stare out began. Mesteno glanced between the two, and left them to it while he went in the kitchen to find some chicken scraps.

"Do not eat the cat," he announced to the inn at large, before the door swung shut behind him.

"Salve, Mesteno," Piper replied pleasantly, her smile pleased that he had deigned to acknowledge her, and her laugh was heard again at the Sadist's warning to the room.

Sure, everyone moved to feed the cat, but no one asked after the girl who sat so still, stolen bottle still in red, red hand. Tears pooled at the corners of those off-blue eyes. His were green, or yellow. The seer could not tell. With a whine, she sucked in a breath, then grinned. Wicked, wicked winner. The seer called it. He could not shift so for the milk and still be called champion. Her laugh was all bells. She found her bottle. Strange, it never left.

Mesteno rummaged through the contents of the inns fridge, found a half chicken and rudely tore some strips of meat from breast and leg, poking through it with an index finger to make sure he'd got no bones in the ragged mess. Nothing for himself. Food was for people with appetites, and he was whipcord slender, all tight with muscle and skin pulled taut, no fat to soften his angular lines. He shouldered back out behind the bar, and unceremoniously dumped the plate of chicken down beside the tomcat, who sniffed at it (there might be poison!) before snarfing it down voraciously. Purring to the point the sound was very nearly a nyom-nyom-nyom... Mesteno snorted at it.

Bare legs picked up a swing, crowding the air with sounds of swishing fabric, the slapping of skin against polished wood. Hot mouth peeled from a bottle to be licked at, in sight of a plate full of chicken. Not hers. She could covet. It was not fair. She had won, after all. But there had to be a means of travel, for the plate had no feet of its own. Aqua rushed to collide with the face of a stranger, one whom seemed familiar, but still strange. Her eyes, daggers. They slid across his angles. Slow. Borderline sexual.

Mesteno had come to the inn for a reason, hadn't he? All those colourful bottles lining the shelves. He'd forgotten, thanks to Bob - Bob his failsafe name for any animal that made a pest of itself to liking point - but now he remembered, and poured himself a glass of strongly citrus brandy which the feline seemed to take offense to. He muttered apology, grin crooked and a set of lean, tawny fingers smoothing over the stripy fur. It was then he looked up, the usually grim lines of a mouth generously formed softer than usual, until he made eye contact, at which point his expression shifted from fond, to impassive, to sharply scrutinizing.

The seer took her time with this one. Her eyes unsettled. They deepened, snapped electric, as if she might somehow worm her way inside his head, tear his secrets from his skin. Oh yes, the seer might do that. But she had made a promise not to speak of these things, not to wear them so, on her small, young face. So she smiled ever-wide, lips bright with natural paint. Flat teeth. For him, they would show.

?You belong to the cat??

It wasn't an uncommon concept, this notion of humans belonging to cats instead of vice versa. His scrutiny did not soften, but there might have been some transient movement about his lips to give the suggestion of a ghost of a smile. "Just a temporary slave actually." He'd a soft voice for a man as young, and bold in appearance as he was. Thick accent. It didn't take more than a glance to see the artless untidiness of him. He might've been handsome if he'd tried, but he didn't. He was scarred and wind-rugged and looked as if he'd a tendency to cruelty whether or not he smiled or snarled. "If you're looking to be owned, I figure he'd take you on. Right Bob?" Cruel. But he talks to cats.

Bob, being a cat, just licked his whiskers and lapped at the grease on the now empty plate.

? I See.? Her voice carted a small tune, strung between syllables, then faded. She was not calm enough for music, after having spent so much energy on the silent battle between eyes.

?Nau, naut owned, I think. I am too much for the Sky to keep, nev'rmind kitten.?

With gentle caution, the seer approached the feline, Bob, with a smooth caress. Just there, atop his small head, shy of his left ear. Her fingers, fever-hot, could soothe muscle. She wondered if the cat would like it. Hoped that he would. Her sharper parts sheathed. She was suddenly girl again, skinny, gypsy urchin with brush and bramble set into her two-toned hair. Bells too. Someone had added bells at the very curly ends, although the seer would not say his name.

Mesteno was too innately expressive to pull off impassivity for any great length of time, and this gypsy girl (woman? he hadn't decided) was a curious creature. A darkly auburn brow angled up as he watched her fuss the feline. Judging by the decorations in her hair, she'd been dragged backward through a bush, and his fingers itched to pluck some of the greenery out of the curls. He didn't though, because he'd a healthy respect for personal space. "Sky, huh? Since when'd the sky own anything but a buncha clouds anyway?" Bob didn't seem to mind the fuss. In fact he butted his scarred head against her palm, demanding.

Interest peaked... for the feline. And behold: two hands. Viki gave them up eagerly, fingers splayed to touch and smooth tussled fur. There was a kinship there, between girl and cat. They understood one another. Her skin seemed to shimmer beneath the dim lamplight. Optical illusion? When she looked up, her face was brimming with some small excitement. Obviously, she had made a friend.

?The Sky holds Stars to them. Clouds are nothing-things. Empty water bearers, for the most part. They are jealous of my cousins.?

She spoke in riddles, and he'd no mind to follow them to any sense. A dreamer maybe, or just a little nuts. Either way she seemed harmless, and that probably meant she was more dangerous than half the men in the room. Sipping at his Marnier, he tucked the sharp angle of a hip against the counter's edge in a candid show of insouciance, the damned cat's tail thumping against his chest in a lazy sway rather than an irritable flick. It swished the blood and gold of his hair against the rough leather of his jacket, tickled under his jaw until he pressed it away gently with the flat of his palm

"So if the stars are y'cousins, what's that make you?"

Human,? she says, with eyes that laugh and lie. He is not the first to be on the receiving end of this joke, but the seer hoards her laughter for later. She has learned that they never, ever laugh. She shifts somewhat as the cat presses closer, coaxing touch and attention. She grants it freely. There is some resettling of the color riot she wears that indicates the shape and slope of woman, not girl. But youth, it is chiseled everywhere. Lashes kiss the tip-tops of her cheeks. Blinking was a prize after such a contest.

Youth meant nothing in Rhy'Din, where immortality or early death under violent circumstances kept the population deceptively ever young. It was rare to see a grey head of hair that didn't belong to a drow. So he took her girlishness with a generous pinch of salt. The way she'd looked at him earlier hadn't given any great impression of innocence. Knocking back the contents of his glass, he shoved it away down the counter and folded his arms atop the newly vacated space. The cat tore away from his fussing to leap atop a slithering lock of flame-bright hair, skidding in an ungainly mess on the bar and knocking glasses over, startling itself. Not that it ran far. Only back to Viki.

"Human? So how come you got cousins in such high places?" Stars. Up there. Bad pun, Sadist.
She held his question between her teeth a while, tasting, biting, tapping it off with a suck upon her lower lip. Eyes charted the map of his face, lifting lines and stories. Fluid, graceful. She did not mean to pry, but she meant to.

?Are you hunter? 'Cat thinks so.? Fingers ate him up, the cat. Touch was a sacred thing indeed, and something passed between the two, a shared hurt, their unfortunate state of dress. But she needed to be polite, spoke the nothing that swirled around them, all scented and heated, heavy, on the cusp of summer. It may have been her doing. ?It is naut so secret to see a Star wear skin, is it??

"A hunter?" he asked his strange companion, with some strange lambent quality to his golden eyes which made them seem somehow backlit. Too bright in skin as sun-dark as his. "I work at an animal shelter, I don't have much time for hunting." It was not entirely a lie. He did volunteer at such a place, but he was omitting things selectively. I do not slaughter men. I do not carve them up in my basement. I do not rot them down to pulp and feed them to my dogs. Could she lift that from the hawkish lines of his face?

"I never saw a star wear skin before. Figured it'd all melt off. What's your name, lady?"

? It is just something my eyes tumbled into. You looked a Hunter. I know naut why.? Riddle ramble as she cooed into a cat ear, all softness for it, shade and sanctuary. Some of that may have leaked out into her words, into her face as she regarded him, wearing innocence well.

?Skin does naut melt. 'Tis special.? She held out a thin forearm, sun-colored. It held the outside, bore it in. It was a small invitation.

?Viki.? Simple, shy prelude. It was not the thing in its entirety, but it suited. Names were power. One did not go about giving it to the very wind, nevermind a stranger, however friendly to cats.

?What do I call your face??

"Well Viki, I'm trying to decide whether you're all there in the head," he told her, tone amiable enough and some slight deepening at the outskirts of his eyes that might one day, if he ever hit any grand old age, become crow?s feet. For now they were only mere suggestions of good humour. Fickle creature, the cat, it came his way to arch up under his jaw, jostling him just as he was about to sip, but he only rumbled a sound at it playfully.

"I'm Mesteno." Mus-tan-yo. Time to hear how badly it got butchered from a new set of lips. Ironically enough, the name was Spanish for stray, for unowned...much like their current feline company.

?It is a thing to be decided.? Slow words, touched by song. It would grow into a hum, give it time. ?You are the Hunter, I know, bow in hand. But you do naut shoot it. Not yet, this thing I see. You wonder why you do naut shoot. I might ask you why, but I am afraid.? Lips fell into a pretty pout in the wake of the retreating puss. But there, he had given up his name. And it was time to taste it. She rearranged her face, her disappointment fading. Slipslide of curious youth.

?Must-han-oh?? There. She tried.

He might have wilted, but only a little bit.

"Mest-tan-yo." Yeardley stressed the 'yo', as in yo'mama, trying it out from behind him down the bar somewhere. Not for him, for her own amusement.

?I like it,? says the seer, over an unbridled shoulder, to the woman behind. ?Tastes like cherries.?

She might be a nut-job, but she was perceptive enough to see beneath his smoke-screen. Mesteno had never been the greatest of actors. His amusement faded, and for now he took her more seriously. There it was indelibly carved into all the lean lines of his face; something inexorable that was intrinsically part of him. If he'd any vulnerability to him it had long ago been carved out and cauterized cruelly.

"Huh, I guess you got me. You're not running away though." Just an absent observation. Yeardley's attempt at his name wasn't perfect either, but combine both women's attempts and it was almost there. Still..

"You both suck." He swallowed some Tequila, made a face.

"You make that sound like a bad thing." The woman named Yeardley made some sucking sounds while she thought that over.

"You forgot to.." Mesteno poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek at Yeardley. Hey, if she was gonna make sucking sounds..!

Laughter, a freefall of it, all carefree girl for the time being. She peered up at him from her perch atop the counter, fingercurl for the abandoned bottle that sat beside her. Half full. Such was the day.

?I will naut run, Mesteno. I am for the Shadow now. He bade me wait, and I wait.? Longing eats at the whites in her eyes. He is not the only one with an expressive face. Attention tumbled toward the hearth. No. He did not come.

He knew only one living Shadow at the inn, and his name happened to be Fafnir, though he did not speak the name. Summoning him might bring his pompous leech out too, and Mesteno didn't want to participate in anymore wars of words. Fists and knives and teeth were far more preferable.

"You could be waiting a while," he remarked languidly, Yeardley's laughter earning her the rarity of a quicksilver grin. "Here, to keep you company," he offered to Viki. What'd he mean? Hard to tell at first, but seconds later, and some vague concentration required to boot, a little shadow spun mouse came crawling up onto the counter. A ball of smoke with the vague likeness of the rodent's outlines. Bob the cat yowled, and tried to pounce on it. It dissipated in a soft puff before reforming behind the feline's back paw and running figure eights beneath the baffled animal.

Shadow mouse, if only they'd had one of those for snake dude. Like the cat Yeardley tracked the creature, but without the howling and scrambling. Beer bottle was firmly in hand, lifted for a swig every so often while she watched and listened.

? Do you think so?? Disappointment, budding despair. Viki wore it everywhere, the creep of winter across her face. The idea threatened to topple her from that bar. Hands fell, to grip her knees. Knuckles took up the white. And then, the present. Charming little smoke of mouse. Easy amusement stirred her features. She was as fickle as the cat, and charmed entirely. Mesteno could keep his secrets, she decided almost immediately. Small squeak of pleasure broke the barrier of lips that slipped in and out of smile. The absence of the Shadow near forgotten. It was all love for the little mouse-thing.

His shoulders hitched in something like a shrug, and he straightened from his lean to avoid the cat colliding with his face as it tried determinedly to splatter the inky little mouse beneath its paw. Once or twice it succeeded, only to have it disperse bewilderingly and reform again. Mesteno didn't mind giving the animal, and the ladies some lazy entertainment.

"I don't know, barely know 'im," he remarked, scooping the empty plate out of harm?s way to drop it in the sink for cleaning.

Yeardley had no clue what, or who, was making the shadow mouse, probably suspected it was the cat owners trick though. Another few swigs of beer, draping over the bar a bit to keep track of the cat and mouse game.

oh darling, can't you see my sanity-
is falling apart. fall apart.
it's all coming down tonight.
see futures passed so clearly.
which pair of eyes will do me in?
which dagger dipped in poison?
I think about her..
my mistress is despair, I need her.
I think about it...
you see she's always there
and I'm haunted by moonlite dreams...
- Tiger Army

The seer sucked a kiss from the bottleneck, tasting white, fermented grape, and slipped from her perch. Her stare bore holes in the heads of the two who spoke of frivolities, but the seer new better. A smile, too many flat teeth, she slipped between them and rounded the countertop. Overside, like a tender, albeit somewhat underdressed. Her head dipped south, and she found sanctuary in the underthing, at home with the parade of glassware.

?Something comes?? Spoken softly to a corkscrew.

Edward glances over at the girl, the Seer he'd heard her called, recognizing her from the other night. One of the few on the list he doesn?t really know anything about. He gives her a slight nod before he goes back to simply watching the room.

?Shhhhh..? Stretch of a finger over a mouth, creeping into her cupid's peak. Edward's face was matched to some memory of gunfire, but then it was ShadowShadowShadow and Gideon's arms snaking her to some cushioned sanctuary.

The tender, Amber, flashed a look at her, but says nothing.

Look down. For the roar of color has made a makeshift sanctuary of barback and bottles, of fallen tumblers, both clean and used. She pressed her fingers over her mouth, a sure fire signal to Amber that there were matters of importance to be attended to, and the space she occupied, albeit sticky with spilled drink, was prime for the purpose. Location, location, location.

?Shhh...shh-shh..?

Amber tip toes along the row of crates back of the bar placed so she can work and see over the counter, careful not to disturb Viki. Whatever it is, is seems important.

They were starting to take their toll on Aoife, these clouds that demanded the attention of the stars? How was she to keep her secrets safe? Dreams and madness walked hand in hand with her, bringing her closer to the edge of the cliff. Distraction covered decision with a thick blanket. Tonight it's a dress, as white as fresh snow and just as pure...perhaps. Fingers worried at the sleeves of her cotton sweater, fabric bleeding redredred. The song it broken, tripped up on shadows that didn't follow. Just like the mist did in the heat of the sun, the humming faded on an off note. My what a gathering on the porch. See her steps eat up the quiet on the sidewalk across the street. lookdon'tlookdon'tlook.. The steps off is graceful, eyes the color of frost on a window gather up dew slick cobblestones as she crosses the street. Red cotton droops carelessly over her palms, the will of fingers to ease their restlessness a battle. The steps kept her secret, she would thank them later. One, two, three, four. Eyes on the door, such a short distance to cross, and she reached for the door. So much for unnoticed quiet. See the Dreamwalker skitter out of the way, see her move so quick, stealthy for a splash of red in the night chased by white and covered with black. In she sneaks. The perimeter welcomed her, red carpet lay out for an unknown path.

Two-tone peaks above a bartop, mismatched crest of a wave. Eyes spill outward, taking notice of the new, but the rest of her remains, tight and tucked into a wrap-around sanctuary, complete with all sorts of spirits for company. Yes, here there is a seer, magnet for all. Off-blue eyes wear down a nearby dwarf, before tumbling into a dreamgirl. It is the moment she has been waiting for, yet, down, down goes that head. To slink between barshelves, if a body could fit.

Was that two tone and patchwork peeping above the counter? Perhaps Aoife could lure her out. Safety in numbers, no?

The dreamgirl might, said the seer, with a rap of a knuckle on the underface of that counter. Numbers two. And three? She questions a bottle, wondering if they might spawn a third.

Aoife was taking time, and time was precious. Move along, girl. To the edge of the bar where she last saw that head, she leaned over the counter and waited.

Knock-knock. What came next? The seer didn't dare blurt the answer. Just kept the drumbeat of knuckles going, in attempt to catch a dream, or did she dangle a line in turn?

knockknockknock.. Small fingers curled into a tiny fist and rapped back.

The waif rattled the shelves. Rapture. She was a giggling, mad thing, forgetting the purpose of sanctuary.

Distraction outweighed her reality. All sense of something lost when she smile to pretty. Pale fingers, soft like feathers, tickled out of that sleeve just enough to tap a tune for the Seer.

Sweet temptation. The seer skitters out of her hiding spot, wearing shadow to hide the roar of color, to circle Gideon, and the Sister, shy of their dead teeth. In the backdrop, a drama ensued. Or perhaps the drama played in the foreground, and the seer and the dreamgirl were dancing placeholders in the back. Who could say? Then, she tumbled into the dreamgirl, singing small things into her ear.

?Found youuuu...?

Every player was a piece in the game. It was never ending. Though did anyone ever have a choice of which piece they were? Not these two. She didn't mean to shy away from the sneak attack, not really. A flare of exotic eyes and a smile for the Seer and her words.

"I didn't know I was lost."

?We never.? Know, the unspoken word. ?I have a present!? For you, such was indicated by the furious foraging into her makeshift pockets. Out came a vessel, clear glass, thin as a finger, small as a tip, full up of some sort of glitter. There was no means to open it.

Aoife looked at the tiny thing, no bigger that the tip of her little thumb. She held out her hand, touch was so weary for her. "Did you find the stars that fell?"

Viki adorns Aoife with a conspiratory smile, one she can wear for always and ever and the like, that speaks volumes of secret girl things, of kindred spirits, in-between creatures.

?Xas.? Morbid, especially coming from her, this vile of stardust, but precious as any stone. ?Do naut tell.?

Her fingers closed around the gift, keeping it safe from wandering eyes. "I promise not to tell." Her whisper fierce and the look in her cool eyes far too serious for the moment.

And on third day of Christmas... The seer extends a hand to Aoife, free from guardianship of a vile and catches her shoulder. Light touch, innocent, laced with only the hope of new beginnings.

?Your feet slink between sleep, yes?? She does whisper.

"Shh..." She pressed a finger against the Seer's lips and leaned in. "It's a secret." So, so quiet was that lilt of her voice.

Tears threatened, she meant no offense. As illustration, a kiss to the finger that bade her lips.. quiet.

Predator eyes now wandered away, seeking other sources of fun and pleasure (never profit). For a moment, they linger on two young girls, one dark, the other... well, everything. There is something strangely familiar about the second one, and it is this thought that keeps her counsel when Gideon's mouth finds her jaw.

"Someone is always listening." Aoife?s nod was solemn as she drew back her finger. Red pockets in her red sweater lay waiting for gifts, trinkets. She had a gathering of the stars in hers. And just to make sure, she tipped her chin to shoulder, sweeping the area for extra eyes.

?Will you come, if I show you a place, soon?? Her voice rings of safety, without the invasion of eyes that follow, like the Spider's set across the bar. The seer hisses, suddenly feral, and strides between Aoife and the adversary. Oh yes. She knows her name.

Kestrel catches the hostility from the waif across the bar, presses a small kiss to the long stretch of space between them, and then forgets the urchin entirely... for now.

A flurry of patchwork skirts and two toned hair strayed seconds behind her look. Dark brows, innocence and sin, drop slightly. "A place..." Murmur repeat. She did that quite often.

The seer picked at the exposed patches of skin, shifting cloth as though it were a hindrance, not a shield for eyes and elements and whirled back to face the dreamgirl, wearing the color of that gift-stone from her collar to her face.

?A place. Naut here. No one knows. Will you come? If I should sleep....? A flutter of furious fingers, vague innuendo. She would not speak secrets, not with the Shadow possibly around.

"I will." Her smile was meant to offer the Seer comfort, a place shared, a promise given , and a secret kept. A nervous glance, around and a familiar Cat spotted. Time had been lost there. "I should go." An afterthought.

Two-toned head fell into a nod as Viki attempted to squash disappointment with the bare sole of a black foot. ?The Night.? She knows something of dreamwalking, but knows enough to know it is not the same. Time does not wear the seer as it chooses to do to others. ?Hurry back.?

"And who is that?"Came a voice from across the bar. One finger detached from glass enough to point to the unkempt girl with the mismatched tresses. Kestrel looks to her brother, Gideon, as he seemed to have all the answers.

Gideon spared a half a glance toward the multicolored urchin Kestrel had question and a horrific, shambolic mess of a night just got worse. The tell of a muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Viki. She's just an urchin. No one."

Aoife stepped around Viki, pausing to rest a hand on her arm for one more whisper. Dark head closer, a shift of black the shadows wept over.

"Look for me." In more ways than one.

?I will..? Quiet promise, chasing the touch. Closer, closing in, but the night was calling.