ArchivedLogs:Droplets

Droplets
Dramatis Personae Isra, Shane	2015-11-10 (Part of Flu Season TP.)
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. It's not a nice night. Cold, and dreary, drizzly wet but not /properly/ making up its mind to thoroughly rain. The sidewalks are slick, the air clammy. The brightly painted door of Evolve with its cheerful mural looks incongruous amid the black umbrellas and silvery raindrops. It's a door that's opening right now, and slamming shut again hard. Daiki is fleeing the shop, his long grey and white tunic fluttering behind him; there's a rather /powerful/ draw that comes with him though thankfully in passing it is fleeting. A surge of magnetism, raw and possessive and clawing; it taints the air in his wake, brief, and then fades as he disappears off down the street. Inside the cafe there is yelling. Briefly audible when the door opens again. Then shut out when it slams once more. Shane is holding Daiki's jacket, a small growl dying in his throat when he stops on the front step. His red mandarin-collared dress shirt is a little bit rumpled, though his slacks are neatly pressed. His claws dig into the peacoat he holds, gripping it tight as his brows rumple together. Isra follows Shane only a moment later and does /not/ slam the door behind her. She has pale blue skin, frosty white horns, and similarly white wings patterned like ice dusted with snow. She wears a cobalt blue wrap dress cinched at the waist by a long white sash that flutters in the chilly wind. Scanning the street in the direction whence Daiki had vanished, she breathes a very small sigh that might mean any of a number of things. Her tail sways slow and steady beneath the flouncy hem of her skirt, and she drapes a wing around the sharkpup to gather him close. Shane's growl returns when Isra's wing drapes around him, his shoulders tightening up under its curl. The peacoat falls from his hand to the damp sidewalk, teeth baring in an abruptly sharp snarl as he turns his head to snap, quick-sharp, at the long bone of the wing that drapes around him. Startled--though perhaps not as startled as one might expect--Isra's wing snaps back away from Shane. An answering growl, eerily layered as both sets of vocal folds engage, rises in her throat as her ears press back and her weight settles lower. She goes quite still then, vivid green eyes holding Shane's gaze. Waiting. Shane doesn't follow the retreat of Isra's wing. His body twists, instead, hand snapping up and towards her body, claws lengthening as they rake outward toward her side. His own posture is lowering, following his strike rapidly in and up with a snarl and a snapping of teeth at her waist. Isra hops back, bird-like, the movement made vastly more efficient by a single forward stroke of powerful wings. Shane's claw slices easily through her dress and leaves lines of dark blood along her ribs, but her motion puts her at least temporarily out of snapping range. The growl in her throat hitches with pain, but does not abate; neither, however, does she strike back. Shane takes another step forward, rapidquick, his short lunge accompanied with a deeper throaty bark of anger. One toe catches on the damp heap of peacoat still lumpy on the ground between them. For a moment his eyes drop to it, then lift back to Isra. The growl in his throat dies down into a whine, then a soft hitch of whimper. His teeth clack on empty air, his hand dropping as his posture crumples, smaller, inward. He stoops to snatch the coat back up, hugging it in against his chest. There's another whine as he lifts his hand to his mouth, sucking a few droplets of blood off of one claw. His eyes are very wide, his gills fluttering very rapidly, and the tiny whine in his throat has not died, as he turns his face up towards Isra. Isra's wings mantle, wobbling faintly in the wind, ready to beat down whether in fight or flight. But, watching Shane, her growling ceases and she slowly furls her wings, settling them with a faint rustle against her back. She stretches out a clawed hand to stroke the shark boy's head--not gingerly in the least--and then down to press against the fluttering gills on his neck before gently steering him back inside.