Logs:Taking Wing

Taking Wing
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Isra, Mystique
In Absentia Ion, Regan	summer, 2018 "Welcome home."
Location <BOM> Front Porch - Bom Lodge
The front porch of the lodge unfurls its way across the entire front length of the building. Stained in a dark reddish finish, it seems to have been refurbished somewhat recently, the sturdy wood rather less weather-beaten than many of the buildings on the island. A half-height railing edges most of the porch, with a wide gated staircase centrally leading to the heavy front door, and ungated ramps at either side end. Protected from all but the most driving of rains by a sloped roof, the porch has been furnished with an assortment of furniture. Wicker rocking chairs, a pair of small square aluminum tables, a hammock at the far right end, a bench swing at the left. Despite the solid locks on the doors and windows, the front door holds a cheerfully flower-edged mat reading WELCOME. It's a beautiful evening, warm and mild; the sun is sinking low behind the trees and the most eager of the first fireflies starting to glow in the bushes. The shadows have grown pretty long when one particularly large shadow falls dark over the lawn and the porch eaves. Dusk's immense wings stir up a brief gust as he backwings to drops to a landing on the grass. His wings fold behind him, strikingly compact now given the immense shadow they'd just been casting. He's in the middle of a conversation as he's landing -- unvoiced, casually signing rather than speaking aloud even if words are more easily heard now, without the draft of flight. '-- promised Ion next time we can add fireworks in. Bring a little more festivity to the BOOM.' Isra's mid-air braking starts higher and takes a couple more flaps, but she drops down about the same time that Dusk does, her tail waving to keep her balanced when she straightens up. 'Good distraction, too,' she signs back, her only voiced addition a low rumble somewhere between a growl and a purr--approving, in any event. She shakes her wings out once before folding them back more loosely, to counterbalance her digitigrade gait. 'I will need sunglasses. I think Ion would also approve of that. Maybe sunglasses for everyone.' There's a figure on the porch already -- not familiar to them by sight, but with her scaled blue skin and bold red hair both striking against her flowing white dress, it's immediately apparent who she is all the same. Mystique sets aside the book she's been reading -- Lady Windermere's Fan -- and moves to lean with a hand braced against the porch rail as she watches the others land. Her other is still holding the wine she's been drinking. Her head tilts thoughtfully, bold yellow eyes just faintly luminous in the dim light. She might not understand much of the exchange, but BOOM comes clear enough across languages. Her rich voice pitches easily the short distance across the lawn. "Should I be toasting your success, then?" "Wo-o-oah." Dusk's eyes shift from Isra swift to the front porch, and a moment later there's a flash of sharp-fanged teeth in a grin. He's ambling closer, scruffy chin lifting in an amiable nod. "Hell yeah. Just thinking on some better visual effects for next time. Shit's just as blown up either way but go big or -- well, we are home, I guess." He's wandered up to the porch, not actually climbing up it but leaning against one of the thicker balusters. "Mystique, right? Feel like I just found a Brotherhood cryptid." Isra's head inclines in graceful counterpoint to Dusk's, though her expression does not change at all. "We did go big and did come home," she confirms evenly, as she follows Dusk over, her gait smooth and distantly predatory, "but we can always go bigger." She looks Mystique over, pointed ears slowly pricking up in a way that makes her look curious despite the unmoving calm of her face. "From what I have heard, we might well have all met before," she points out to Dusk, "for all that you or I would know." "Welcome home." Mystique lifts her glass in silent salute to the returning victors. There's not quite a smile on her lips as she sips the wine, but her voice is amused all the same. Her form is flowing, scales rippling, and a moment later it's Regan standing there in red blouse and black pants. "We might well." "Fff." This comes at a very short delay -- Dusk is studying this transformation, impressed, but a moment later is laughing, one wing unfurling to bap Isra's lightly. "-- okay that's a mindfuck you could be --" He stops, frowns, peering closer like maybe he can discern this by his Very Keen Eyesight alone. "-- you're not Regan, are you?" Isra's hairless brow ridges hike up when Mystique(?) shifts. She isn't trying to look closer, but she is sniffing the air, her ears pressing back. "I do not think this is Regan's brand of humor." There's only the barest uncertain emphasis on "think", but it's there all the same. "Mmm," !Regan seems to give the question of identity some serious consideration before deciding, "-- Not today." She's rippling again, morphing fluidly into (presumably) her own natural form. "I have heard much of you, though. Isra, yes? And Dusk. Among our newer but fiercer brethren, if I hear it right." Mystique sets her glass aside, stepping down off the porch; large wings (very much a mirror to Isra's) have unfurled languidly behind her back. "As I imagine you've had to be. Often when the world only wants to see a monster, those who don't learn when to be one don't survive long." There's a low rumble in Dusk's chest, quiet and pleased in a deep purr. "Shit you don't even know fierce until you see Isra fight," he's saying with some pride. But then a sheepish duck of his head and a sharp reconsidering of who they are talking to: "Sorry, I mean, I think, you might." His own wings are flexing, an idle stretch as Mystique's new ones grow. "-- okay," he's saying this to Isra and not Mystique, "that's pretty hot -- wait." Now he's giving the new-minted wings a more deeply curious look. "Can you use them?" Isra subtly inclines her head again at the praise, though the swish of her tail is a much more effusive signal--to Dusk, anyway--that she's flattered. "The world taught me how to be a monster, but I didn't really know what to do with that until Dusk taught me how to fight. And how to fly." Her eyes widen slightly when Mystique, too, sprouts wings. Her own mantle out--perhaps unconsciously drawn along--her tail swishes again, and she blushes a faint rosy purple with, "Oh. That--is." There's a small twitch at the corner of Mystique's mouth, a small upward shift of scales over one eye that might be a lift of brow, if she had brows. "I'm sure I would love to see it, all the same." She watches the flex of Isra's wings, her own stretching testingly. "In any form, fighting feels as natural as breathing. Flying does not come so instinctual." "I'm sure you'll get plenty of chance to fight with her, we are unfortunately not running short on people who hate us." Dusk is still smiling, for all that, sharp and growing brighter at Mystique's reply. "Oh yeah there was no instinct involved at all for us, just a whole lot of bruises and broken bones until you get the hang of -- throwing yourself at the ground and missing." His posture has straightened, and his wing is nudging Isra's again. "Nice night for a flying lesson." Isra's wing presses back into Dusk's, just briefly. "It is. And if you already know how to move them, then..." Her eyes track up to the roof of the lodge. She does not smile, but there is something joyful in how she shakes out her wings and offers her hand to Mystique. "...the only way to go is up."