cleofesalcedo

[cleofesalcedo]

"Ahah, it's a rental," she says. It's not, but it sounded funny in her head, and that's what matters.

"Yeah the uh, free bar was a wild choice, given you know, the population." She waves around, meaning to indicate the gala in general but her eyes settle on a couple absolutely not observing the 'feeding areas only' thing; her eyes bug, like she's seeing something untoward, but, well, they seem like they're having a good time.

"Yeah, I just... I wasn't gonna come at all but I don't know, I'm on edge for some reason."

Because I'm lying to everyone on every side at this point. "But no, I'll just grab a burger or something. Or two." She shrugs out a laugh. "I'm still around for a bit longer though... you uh, you getting up to anything here? It's all a bunch of really self important vampires and drunk werewolves so far."

"Cleofe!" Surprise was the first emotion that pulsed through Waverly's veins. The Conclave had been pitched to Waverly as a gathering of the supernatural, and something about Cleofe always had her just a step out of reach. "That's cause I look like every other sexy lesbian in the joint. But fuck this color is really working for you." Waverly said as she easily dropped her old glass on the nearest flat surface, accepting the new one Cleofe offered. Rum and Coke was her go too, something so small but it blossomed in Waverly chest after a turbulent evening.

"Funs a strong word. Running into a lot of old ghosts but I plan to drink the fancy shit that we can never get at the Artic and thats gotta count for something." Waverly shrugged trying to play off the emotions that were howling locked in the cage of her mind. "Shit I arrive late, you're bailing early. Ships in the night. You have fun at least?" Waverly asked, a coiling sense of responsibility sneaking around her tongue. She was part of the reason Cleofe was in this world, she needed to keep looking out for her.

"Want me to sneak anything out for you for after your shift? I know I'm gonna be craving these tiny pickles after the next full moon I can feel it in my bones."

[cleofesalcedo]

Cleo nods, tries to figure out what variety of weird this guys is. It's hard to do the tricks in a room the smells and sounds like everything all at once, but she is a hunter, so she tries to figure out.

"Yeah, well, I hope you make headway," she says. "Because I'm sure not, I'm just... along for the ride, it feels like."

God, she's really losing it, the knack. These aren't monsters - these aren't giant wolves tearing people apart in the woods, or vampires taking blood without any care. Some of them seem creepy, like the Pembroke vampires, or the Zhongshan werewolves. But others are just here to celebrate being weird. It makes her think of her first time going to pride in a weird way. This whole thing is supposed to be about responsibilities. Monsters don't worry about that kind of thing, or they aren't supposed to.

"I've uh, I've gotta bail soon," she says. "But really, I do hope you find what you're looking for here, though" she says, nodding as she steps back. She's almost telling the truth, there.

She’s amusing to talk with, for sure, even if he can’t pin down what she is (hints of wolf are coming through, even if she’s skittish in a way that doesn’t seem to fit). Orville wouldn’t consider himself particularly skilled at reading people, but he’s somehow stumbling onto just the right thing to rattle her a little more each time. He's not deliberate, but his own nerves feel somewhat quelled seeing he doesn't have it nearly as bad as others here.

“It was only a question,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to judge how much you care. Just because every faction has its intentions doesn’t mean we all came here with our own machinations. It’s all in the interest of polite conversation.”

“Tonight is meaningful to me,” he says, answering her with a slight nod. “I’m still warming up, but it’s worth a lot to have so many people worth meeting in the same space. Not the loftiest aspirations,” he admits, “but it’s important to me.”

[cleofesalcedo]

"Oh, trust me, I'm in the know." She says, pinching her fingers into an 'okay' sign and trying to seem like she's pretty certain of it. But he calls her hand again and she can't help but shrug. "I guess not really,"

"I mean it is,"

"But only kinda,"

She stumbles over the specifics of it. Is she going to take anything away from tonight? Probably not, save a mental list of people who are in this camp or that camp of monsterdom. She got into the Hunt to protect people, and so far, she's finding that her preconceptions might have been hilariously misguided.

"What... uh, what about you? Tonight important to you?"

"Well, with everyone here, it's turned out quite the time to get to know some people. Does that mean you're in the know, or just know there's something others do?" He asks, lightly. It sounds playful in way he really isn't, but lighthearted works best in this situation. She has a curious aura to her, to where he can't quite pin down where her loyalties lay from just a glance and a scent. "Is it important to you?"

[cleofesalcedo]

Cleo feels dumb, because she doesn't know signs, but finds its a little intuitive sometimes, and a little not, and she's picked up a few things here and there just from osmosis. It helps to follow her lips a bit, but she thinks she gets the gist.

"Yeah, uh, yeah." A pleasant nod. She tries her own kind of sign language, which is, admittedly, kind of made up, but the woman's kind enough and she doesn't want to feel rude. "That's real cool," she says. She eats another wing, real fast though - a drum so its less work. "My folks wanted me to go into law," she says after. "I opted for disappointing them, but like, on purpose, so -" she mimicks the sign for drumming again. "But this is a hobby really, I work at the steelworks usually, what about you?"

Charlotte’s eyes widen slightly as the other admits that not only does she play but had actually performed, “That’s amazing, you did so well!” Charlotte signed, forcing herself to slow and attempting to form the words so that the other didn’t have to do as much work interpreting.

“I don’t play but my father did.” Charlotte smiled, fond memories of late nights on her Pa’s lap circling in her mind. “But I love coming here and just… feeling,” Charlotte put both hands on the cranky worn wood, “it’s a good little place. Don’t let me take you from your wings though, I appreciate you sharing.” Charlotte nods in gratitude Hoping she didn’t talk the others ear off too much.

[cleofesalcedo]

Whether Orville means to or not, or sensed it or not, he calls her on her lie of vaguery - she's here because she's expected to be; Althea specifically had mentioned it, and with how scarce the old guard of the Fellowship have been recently, it feels important for the guild to make its face known here, even if it feels like mice going to the cat's dinner table.

Of course, she's a cat in mouse's clothes, however the shit that works.

"Same thing really." Another half-life. "I've got like three people I've hovered around since showing up. This seems kind of important, if you're in the know, you know?"

Her response gets a laugh from him, short but real. “Perhaps it’s not to everyone's taste,” he says. “But beauty is beauty, is it not?” She seems more flustered than anything, and though he’s done his best not to show it, it’s a small relief to see he’s not the only one feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the evening.

“Just about a year as well,” Orville responds. “I came to see the people. It’s an awful big city, and a year’s not long to meet many of them. What, exactly, are you curious about here?”

(He’s curious about the people, of course. But he’d be a liar to say he wasn’t also intrigued by the talks of daylight jewelry.)

[cleofesalcedo]

@heartstrung-waverly

"Waves, yo." She says, stumbling by her bandmate. "Your drink hand is empty." She pushes a glass of rum and coke Waverly's way. "You're hard to spot in a crowd."

She eyes past her, looks for anybody else familiar, in the bad way, before she commits to conversation. She's supposed to be hunting Waverly, after all. Her friend. Well, they weren't supposed to be friends. She's still not sure they are. She kind of hopes they are, kind of hopes they aren't, too.

"You uh, you having fun? I'ma need to uh, to bail early. I've got an overnight at the steel mill." Lie. Lie lie lie lie lie. She used to not lie.

[cleofesalcedo]

"Oh, yeah it's fantastic if you like hoity toity stuff yeah." She looks around. "Not that hoity toity is like, bad, just. You know." She gestures, vaguely, as if he should, well, know. Cleofe's a rookie. She's a newbie on both ends of the candle she's burning. Waverly knows her on the werewolf side, and and... Althea knows her on the hunter side, and then just barely.

Why the hell's she here, she wonders. It's flirting with disaster and, yes, she does love flirting, but generally its with things that are a slightly less lethal sort of entertainment. Hard to pick up the subtleties that are present in quieter environments. The old heartbeat-sniff-check is tough in a crowd this big and this full of monsters.

"Uh, I been here about a year," she says. "Heard about this from a friend of a friend. Kind of curious, I guess. And you?"

Who: Open Where: The Conclave When: Towards the end of cocktail hour

He times his late arrival well, and gracefully slips past the red carpet set-up. Despite the care he presents himself with, he’s not one for preening before an audience. He loves art and aesthetic, not the stress-headache of attention that tends to accompany it.

This is a world he isn’t used to. He wasn’t raised with the wealth on display here tonight, not by far. The politics underlining it all, he’s somewhat familiar with — very much against his will, at the time, despite his father’s best attempts to interest him. Socializing is what’s important here, at least in his eyes. He still feels too unfamiliar with the residents of this town, even those of his (relatively) new clan.

His left hand is occupied with a glass (blood-infused wine) that he plans to nurse over the course of the night. Really, so far, he’s bided his time along the edges of the crowd to take in the interior of this center for the arts. It would be easier to pass the night like this… but that would be a waste of this opportunity here.

So he steels himself, takes a sip of wine, and turns to the first unoccupied person he sees. “They’ve picked a lovely venue,” he says, not clear himself who the they he’s referring to are, exactly. But with the range of guests here tonight, it’s better to start off on a neutral topic. “Are you visiting, or from the area?”

[cleofesalcedo]

@fina1kill

She feels so fucking on edge, tugging on her neck-scarf and looking around like everyone's about to draw silver on her. Cleo doesn't look like it, but this fucking sucks.

She had no reason not to go, either. She's already seen other notorious fellowship hunters here, too, both from around Port Leiry and back east, and it. just. fucking. sucks. At least her parents aren't here- that way she doesn't have to hide being a disappointment from a third side of her life.

The fucking... nordic werewolves clocked her so fast, too. How long until this becomes a thing? She wants to bolt, and fast too, but she doesn't want to draw eyes from someone like Althea, either.

"Oh shit, wassup." She says when she almost literally runs into Vira, only just stopping short enough before rudely slurping the spilled rum and coke off of her fingers.

[cleofesalcedo]

She's kind of proud of the rings, because the polish makes them look like silver, so if she runs into any fellow Hunters, that's covered, and if she runs into any fellow wolfs, well, she can show off her ingenuity. She clicks her tongue on the way in, drawing eyes that don't exactly inspire comfort, but hey, they let her in, so, hell yeah.

CLEOFE SALCEDO has tunneled her way into the Gala, a known hunter with THE FELLOWSHIP. It's not the costume ball of last year, but every day's a masquerade when you're a wolf hiding out among wolf-hunters, so she's really only planning on making a few rounds before she finds a way to bail.

[cleofesalcedo]

"Aw shucks," she says, playing at bashfulness, even if the praise has an imaginary tail wagging somewhere. She can't help it, it's nice to hear when somebody likes what you do. The next question snaps her out of that a little bit though, and she gives a little bit of an unsure shrug.

"Uh, it's usually pretty wild like this on weekends? Definitely a lot of love in the room for the night for the fundraiser, too, though, I think."

"Uh, you too! ...?" She ventures, not sure what she's being thanked for. "For coming out I mean. To the concert. And for the compliment." And for the talk the other day, it was nice to have a comedown while my brain was busy picking the fleas off. She doesn't say that last part, because that's too much truth, but well.

"So!" She says, getting back to her food. "Settlin' in, otherwise?"

“I get that. Return to normalcy and all that. Though I would personally say you play like it’s more than a hobby, you very clearly enjoy yourself up there. Is it usually like this or did the fund raiser bring in a bigger crowd?” She asked smiling wide, turning around on her stool to watch the crowd. One leg crossed over the other, her foot bouncing to the music.  

Did Juniper know this was a bar filled with mostly werewolves? No. But she wouldn’t be surprised. Supernaturals often stuck together in groups. Watering holes and places of gathering while almost never staunchly one sided definitely had preferences in who inhabited them. This place was rowdy, physical, it smelled like ale and wood and body heat. It felt like the kind of place werewolves would gather. It was probably why she liked it so much. 

“Thank you by the way.” She spoke up after a few moments of noise filled silence. Gesturing with her bottle to the surroundings. Implying her thanks was for steering her in the direction of this place. If asked she would say that was the crux of it, though it went a little deeper. Juniper didn’t know Cleo really, Cleo didn’t know her. But the woman had been Juniper’s first normal conversation in months. There was no real way to express that though. So she just said thanks for what she could. 

[cleofesalcedo]

"Only the ones that don't seem boring," she says cocksure confidence in her voice while their biceps and forearms spar against one-another. To win or throw? Cleo wonders at the benefits of either, but before she can decide whether or not to let off, Vira lets her hand drop, ending the contest for the both of them.

"All kinds of sizes, they get shipped all over. Lifting all day. You should see my welder's kit. Makes me look real good."

She shakes her head with a lie. "Nope, all me." Well, not technically a lie, she supposes, but this girl gives off a specific vibe, and so she decides to push the question; "You ever go to the Sweetwater?"

The bar's not the friendliest place to go for The Fellowship, but it is a shorthand way to ask if somebody's in the know without asking if they're in the know; almost like a codephrase. "We could grab a drink there sometime."

   focusing on keeping her arm steady and her grip firm, she shot the other a look before letting out a grunt in response. she didn't know what they meant about top hats, but this was definitely something more then the gym. "arm day at the gym? you say this to all the girls?" she teases, hoping to catch the other off guard as she held an iron grip onto the other's hand.

the more she struggled the more she thought about her previous hunts; the strength they had & the advantages they had over someone like her. human. trying to look for any noticeable markings, vira could feel the advantage she had shift as the other began pushing their hand down against hers. letting out a strained groan, she let her hand fall against the table as she let out a gasp and sat back once more.

"steel panels huh? how big are we talking?" she asked, breathlessly as she knew there was an innuendo there somewhere; whether it was intentional or un, she'd leave that up for cleo to decide. "okay! I give! that was.....impressive. but seriously, you sure you're not popping steroids? because I wouldn't judge you! they're clearly working~!" she continued, while making vague hand gestures towards cleo's physique.

"so? what's the plan now? you won relatively fair and all that~"

[cleofesalcedo]

Salcedo goes back to her wings for a moment after Charlotte takes on, eying the plate the way she imagines that other side of her might eyeball a freshly dead critter. Okay, gross, she then thinks before drawing her attention back to the person beside her, who's signing to her.

She turns in her chair, to face a little more head on, going back in for another winglet as she does. It's true she's met all kinds at The Arctic, but its the unmistakable tinge of magic coming off the other in this close proximity that's drawing her attention tonight, that intrinsic instinct her Fellowship mentor had drummed into her throwing a flag onto the mental field in the moment; but her expression doesn't falter, but instead redoubles.

Cleofe nods, enthusiastically and her grin deepens, watching Charlotte's hands. "Yeah," she says. "That was me up there last set actually. Then, her own eyebrows up, she gestures back to the new face, "What about you?"

Charlotte pushed through the thrumming crowd that had formed at the Arctic. God she had missed this place. Some of the best nights of her high school career had been spent under this roof, watching the walls flex with the force of the beat that must be blasting through the room.

She enjoyed how she could feel the blast of the beat in her feet. As she finally reached the bar and pushed her way into a seat next to a girl with a rocking haircut, she pointed to one of the beer taps and singled to the bartender to poor her a beer. She had to admit she was normally a cocktail girl, but beer was the only fitting thing to drink at the Arctic, the dive deserved the respect of hops and a good head.

She took in the crowd around her, her eyes lingering on the girl on the corner. Charlotte would never refuse food, is surprised by the offer given how the girl has hunched protectively.

Charlotte reach for a wing and gave a grateful nod just as her beer arrived. As she took the first sip of the crisp liquid she noticed the girl’s hands that were covered in familiar callouses. Charlotte indicated her hands with her finger and then made a drumming motion with her hands as she raised an eyebrow in question.

‘Do you play?’

[cleofesalcedo]

"Charmed," She says, the word as full of cheek as her smile is, which follows in short order. "I'm charmed." She shrugs, "or Cleo, if you want a name, Daniella."

Her face scrunches into more of a genial smile then and she goes back to her plate of chicken, which, like, let's be real; there is zero chance of eating gracefully. There's a strangeness about the woman here, but the cursory sniff test that is just standing in proximity to somebody as a werewolf is a little fuddled by the crowded smell of sweat and smoke-machine fog and liquor and buffalo sauce and the general overwhelming humanity of it all, so if she's something other than a person, Cleo can't tell off the bat - but the obvious is just that to anybody with a set of eyes; she's definitely a singular beauty.

"And thanks, we try." Most of the praise usually goes to Waverly, which she finds she doesn't resent as much as she probably should, given everything, but it's nice to be recognized when you spend a whole set sitting in the back of the band making magic happen on the mylar. "Glad you liked it. We have a soundcloud." She houses a drumette in short order, somehow dainty despite how obnoxious she is in wolfing it down. "You come here often?

Wolf territory, an odd place to find a vampire, especially at night. But Daniella has never counted herself as ordinary, or to play it safe. In her views, a supernatural was a supernatural, no matter what flavor they came in. And though the drinks aren't laced with anything to give them flavor, the smell and atmosphere are enough for her enjoyment. She's leaning back against the bar, sipping her beer and making small talk with a person who definitely shouldn't be in a wolf bar, club, whatever you wanted to label The Arctic as.

She's tempted to maybe get just a splash of something red for her drink. But her presence here is already questionable and she doesn't want upset the hosts. The man keeps prattling on as she drowns him out in favor of the music, maybe he's flirting, she isn't really sure. Just answering him with idle answers on occasion. She's a polite guest after all.

The sudden second wave of werewolf hits her as a warmth meets near her side, a new band making their way onto stage. She's about done with her beer and perhaps her night when she hears a feminine voice. She glances over at the offer. A flapper, if it weren't for the wings in front of the woman she would have asked something to make her sound ancient, instead she shifts, thoroughly turning away from the man who cuts off mid-sentence, muttering under his breath something about 'bitches' it doesn't faze her much, this one seems much more interesting.

The scent of wolf, pouring from her. "Mmm…you just got off stage, I'm sure you can use the extra fuel…" A pause as red stained lips wrap around the bottle in her hand and pull back a swallow. And then she's smiling, all pearly whites. "You really did a nice set up there, baby. I'm Daniella. And you are?"

[cleofesalcedo]

Oh, you've no clue, she thinks to herself at the notion of big city, small world. The conversation continues is pleasant tones - that sort of unfamiliar familiarity of a second meeting with a stranger, where you're not technically strangers but you don't know shit about each other still, but there's an understanding there. Like, hey, I'm not crawling out of a cave pretending I'm not a werewolf and you're not sitting on a log pretending you haven't read the fact I'm a werewolf like a book open to the plot twist.

"That's good," she says, nodding. "I work out at Olympic Steel, so really all I got was a few days off of work, so you know."

Good time not to own property, she supposes. "But yeah, I rent so... everything's fine. Mostly just holed up at the stadium." More like patrolled a storm shelter looking for trouble, but that's not barside conversation. "Good to get back to the hobbies though," she tilts her head toward the stage.

“Believe it or not I’m a flats girl. But if they are that good I’ll plan to eat out next time.” She had thought ahead while getting ready. Deciding it was not the night to put the effort into getting wasted and drink on an empty stomach. Content with her choices she decided to sit on the stool available. Her leg didn’t hurt, but she also didn’t want to risk that changing. She hooked her cane on the edge of the bar, letting it hang there. Juniper laughs nodding along in agreement with the observations being made. It was nice to see the other with a bit more energy and a lot less pain. “Yeah no- not my finest evening; not my worst either. Still. Imagine my surprise when I finally manage to start checking the city out; and I end up seeing a face I actually know on stage. Port Leiry is a lot smaller than it seems.” She thanks the bartender as they give her a fresh bottle, sliding over cash to keep her tab clear. 

She allows herself a sip as Cleo mentions the storm. Juniper is sure it will be a common topic of discussion for a while. She still feels anxious thinking about it. She had avoided total disaster, but she still didn’t like the chaos of  a magical phenomenon of that size and scale. “I made out okay, settling in well. Just been busy, that’s mostly it. I am dealing with some property damage but it’s coming along.” She spares a glance over her shoulder to the crowd behind them. This was a much more enjoyable chaos.

“How about yourself? Clearly you made it out with all 10 fingers and toes. But you’re doing alright? Got power, water and all that settled?” It wasn’t a fun question, but she wanted to clear her head of the idea someone might be suffering before she let herself get taken by another- more lighthearted conversation. It was part of why she had picked The Arctic. Didn't feel as bad going out if the money went to something nice.

[cleofesalcedo]

"In your dreams," she taunts right back. She even lets her hand slowly sink towards the bartop. It's the real game, knowing when to push, when to give. You have to watch the eyes and the shoulders. To know when they're going to push and when they're going to give.

"Snares and high-hats." She grins wide through the not-quite-truth of the matter. Her tattoo, wrapped and laced in its intricate defunct design, sits dull and unused under her jacket, whatever magic it held now forbidden to her by whatever governed the thing. Her strength comes from something deeper now, something that, here, is only stirring in her chest, not yet ready to wake up and take the toll for the gifts it gives, happy just to provide competition. "Better than arm day at the gym."

She stops letting Vira push her hand down, and her bicep and flexors tense as she pushes their hands back, slowly to a neutral space, suspended in their grip over the bar. Vira's hands are... soft, but the strength in them isn't nothing. "I lift steel panels all day, too." She pushes then, trying to sink Vira's hand lower this time.

Hunt monsters too, but that's for pillowtalk.

   although vira's never been skydiving, she did hear that it as entirely thrilling to say the least. 'we all gotta try things once right?' she remembered thinking to herself, as she locked her hand around the others. immediately she could tell they were strong, but vira also meant what she said. eyeing the other down, her focus was on her tattoo as she didn't break a sweat (at least for now). part of her tried to study her; see what made her tick and if she was the same.

"heh, you getting tired yet hot shot? or am I too much for you?" she fired back, while teasing the other as she too struggled to bring the other's hand down.

slowly managing to twist the other's hand a bit, her face was nothing but focused as they seemed to almost match each other's strength. "fuck...what are you on? steroids?" she quipped, although she was secretly impressed. what else could she do? and would she be open to showing her?

[cleofesalcedo]

"I yam." Cleofe says, affecting something a bit more playful in her tone as she answers the drummer question. Of course, that's not her only trick; "Among other things, but you know." Cleo nods as she goes back to dinner, but it's the Until Tonight that catches her off guard for a second. "An empath," Cleo says, clicking her tongue. "An empath people-watching in The Arctic." She nods with a net of sarcasm weaved over the whole motion. Sounds stressy.

"The Tigs, we were the last set up there before this one," she says, nodding and pointing with one saucy finger to the stage. "Just a group of like minded idiots." Nevermind why Cleofe's there - an empty seat behind the drum kit had been her in with a local set of werewolves. A little bit of undercover recon that had— and this is so literal— come back to bite her. "You're welcome for keeping the rhythm." It's not said with any intended bitchery, just the sort of matter-of-fact blunt confidence that may or may not be correctly placed.

"So," she decides to shift the conversation a bit, "Until tonight. Why speed up?" That's a little pointed, maybe. The Arctic tends to draw a specific crowd for it's enthusiasts, with the occasional standard human circle of enthusiasts wandering in, but she doesn't smell wolf on Blondie here, and she does smell that spice-cabinet petrichor on her to a degree that isn't quite indicative of a fellow hunter.

Mission accomplished. Like she’s the one reading future petals like tea leaves - who is reading who here? “You seem too kind for that,” Selene says, though her gaze lingers on the wing-bone between Cleo’s fingers as if it might sprout claws. Behind Cleo’s smile she feels the tug of a darker chord—something low and predatory, vibrating just outside audible range. On the edge of each petal, a strobing future flickers: Cleo baring her teeth in laughter, Cleo baring them for for something more wolfish. ‘Selene’ as in moon, fitting isn’t it? The wolf and the moon. Selene chooses the softer bloom of time, holds the shadow at arm’s length with dry wit and steady breath.

“Are you a drummer?” She pantomimes tapping a hi-hat on her thigh, letting the heel of her hand snap a phantom snare. A confession follows on the backbeat. “It’s the one instrument I know the least about—beyond counting eight and pretending it’s easy. I'm here... never. Not really my speed. Until tonight."

Cleo’s shoulders lift in a half-shrug, but Selene presses on, smoothing the ribbed label on her beer. “I’m not stressy.” She says, prim and proper. The word tastes juvenile, so she grimaces and reshapes it. “I’m an… empath—” her mouth quirks, self-aware of how flimsy that title sounds beneath these rafters—“who likes to people-watch in particular places.” She lets the simple answer stand, though it is a paper screen over cathedral windows.

The drumline of the crowd thunders on. Sweat-fogged lights glaze Cleo’s profile in gold; for an instant Selene sees two silhouettes overlaid—one a musician steadying a ride cymbal, the other a wolf bracing to leap. She drains a swallow of beer to drown the vertigo.

“You play here often, you said.” Selene motions to the stage where speakers loom like altar stones. “What’s the name of your band?” Futures unspool around each possible answer: neon marquees, basement gigs, a crowded van roaring toward dawn. Some versions smear red across the windshield; others glitter with city lights. She centers on the gentlest thread, the one where conversation remains talk of music and wings and nothing sharp.

[cleofesalcedo]

There's a whisp between them, it folds its way up into her perceptions; drowned out in here by the fog of smoke machines and sweat and hooch and the adrenaline and pheromones of it all. It's all so much more raw and real than the subtle itching forewarning that used to dig into her skin at the presence of monsters and magic when the tattoo wrapped around her bicep still worked. She almost prefers it, even if she doesn't prefer what comes with it. She winks at the wing taken.

Cleo wonders at the approach, and the challenge to her empty threat does make her mouth curl into a smile that says 'maybe not but maybe not not, too' "Maybe not but you didn't go for the drumette so... mission accomplished." She says with a wink as she takes a bite from one that's maybe daintier than one might have expected.

She nods as she goes briefly back to her meal, casting a sidelong glance when the conversation resumes. "Often enough, my band plays here a lot." And werewolves hang here, a lot. It's why she walked through the doors to start with. Crazy how that had backfired - or maybe just the most likely outcome. "A couple other places around town, too, but yeah, I'm here a lot."

She gives a shrug. "You? You seem stressy, no offense." She smells stressy too; another weird perception thing she's still trying to fully understand. It makes something wrinkle in the back of her mind. Something that whispers a word like prey into the folds of her brain.

The Arctic is wolf territory, and the music pulsing through the rafters is a snarl, not a song. No one here is pirouetting; they’re battering the air with elbows and adrenaline. Selene planted herself at the fringe precisely for that chaos. Concerts overload the timeline—every cymbal crash sprays new futures like shrapnel—so she uses them the way a runner uses elevation training: push the threshold until five seconds of foresight stretches to six, maybe seven, before the migraine drops the curtain.

Thirty-two minutes in, her temples already throb. She palms the tin of pills in her coat, debating the dosage that will buy her half an hour more without making her hands shake. Her other hand grips her beer line an anchor. That’s when the drummer slides into the next stool with a mountain of wings and a grin built for trouble.

Want one? You may have… one wing. Flapper only, the drums are mine and you will lose a finger.

Selene’s vision splinters. In three futures the threat is a joke; in one the drummer actually brandishes a fork like a dirk; in none does Selene’s finger end up on the floor. Underneath those splinters of possibility she feels the woman’s rhythm—snare-tight pulse, eighth notes tapping in her wrists, a heartbeat that loops in steady 4/4. Selene’s own breath syncs on the off-beats, the world briefly scoring itself to this private metronome. Empty theater. Interesting. Most strangers feel like a hive of maybes. This one is almost restful—only four strong branches instead of the usual tangle. It’s why she takes up the offer. A rare, quiet geometry. She needs a break from unspooling on unspooling. “I don’t think you really mean that.” Selene says. Short. Crisp. In the way she does most things.

She studies the offered flapper as if it might bear runes, and sinks her teeth into the crisp skin. Heat, smoke, vinegar—good. “Oh,” she allows. It’s the most honest sound she can manage without committing to any deeper truths about herself. Why did she take it? Curiosity, perhaps; the gravitational pull of neat probability. She offers up her beer with some hesitation. An offer means a million new paths unfolding. Does she want that right now? And yet - “Do you come here often?”