Ornature

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] By the time Will comes back, Sarah has cleaned her hands and face with ocean water and had made her way over to the boardwalk to take a seat on the bench that hosted his shoes. Hers are no where to be seen, somewhere on the estate where she left them earlier before gallivanting around the tomato fields. She's sitting down and was in the process of fixing her hair again - it won't be perfect, but she's not concerned with that, having gathered the loose tendrils she curls it with the rest and rolls it into a clip.

When he comes back with the drink, she takes it from him with a gracious; "Thank you," and takes a sip from it, and several more as she rests back and crosses over her legs, smoothing out her dress across her thigh and knee.

"Are we missing much?" she asks him, turning her gaze from the ocean to the man that had been kind enough to go and fetch her some water after the self induced choking on the tomato and scotch combination, a very foul combination at that. There's sand between her toes, which she's wiggling faintly to grind some of it off.

[Will] "It depends," he replies when he returns. There is a mild thread of irony layered into the deep tones of his voice, which surfaces now, finds purchase in the twist of his mouth inside the 5 o'clock shadow tht bristles on his jaw. " - on what your definition of missing and much might be. I wouldn't presume to make a judgment on so short an acquaintance."

The water is Pellegrino, one of thos fat-bottomed green-glass bottles, with gas, as they say in Europe. It looks oddly small in his hand, particularly compared against the standard 20-oz servings of water or soda served in the States. He holds it by the neck. The night is humid enough that the bottle is sweating in his hand, the glass starkly cold in contrast to the warm damp air around them. He carries it in is left hand, and offers it to her carelessy. It should be noted - he dusts the sand off his feet and eases them back into his shoes - fine Italian leather, custom-made - before returning to the house party, and leaves them on, standing at the edge of the beach, where the boadwalk spills into the sandy path leading down the dunes to the waterline.

"What would you regret missing?" He's standing a handul of feet from her, the glass of Scotch in his right hand full again, refilled while he engagd in his mission of mercy. The question is sardonic - but only just - and his pale blue eyes trace the reflection of the moon over the waves rolling in to shore.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] She holds the bottle in her hand even after she's done drinking from it and watches him watch the water, her mouth twisted at his remark about the definitions and the presumptions of such. That she hadn't answered but only sipped from her water again, which really isn't water since it's filled with bubbles, but this isn't an argument she was going to have.

When he asks her what she would regret missing she let her head tilt back and her eyes close, fanning darker lashes across her cheek as she contemplates or envisions what it really was she might regret. With her sight concealed her nose and ears heighten, picking up the slack, and she can make out the vague smell of him over the sea on the wind. "Do you know in the movies," she tells him in a quiet, vaguely amused tone, "where there's always a mishap by the pool side and several ladies in evening gowns and gents in full finery are tossed inside the chlorinated water?"

Eyes peek open and slant his way. "I might miss that."

"Or," she continues, righting her head again and glancing towards him fully, her body twists so that her elbow rests on the back of the bench, all too casual for a lady in a dress, but she manages to make it somewhat dignified, "for someone to become absolutely paralytic drunk and start spewing about their partners affair, illegitimate children, with the full flare of sordid details that would outrage the host."

"That I might also miss." There's a beat before she adds, pleasantly: "And yourself, Mr. Talbot, what might you regret missing?"

[Will] "I have been to more of these events than I could count in an evening," he replies to her with perfect seriousness, his features composed, except for the the way his flat mouth twists, somewhere between bemused and sardonic. " - and, my dear young woman, I must regretfully inform you that I have never seen anything of the like outside the movies. So,"

The little speech is interrupted as he takes a small. lingering sip from the Scotch in his right hand. "I feel rather secure now in telling you that you aren't missing much." That, last, is dry as a martini. The peat of the Scotch is the dominent scent around him; that and some recently-smoked cigar, the fine sort, Cuban, imported illegally into the United States from abroad. Underneath it: his blood, which is rich as a child of the mad kings should be.

The look he gves her then is sidelong. He stands with his left hand in his left pocket, flaring out the custom-fitted suit jacket with casual aplomb. His hair is cropped close, short, and the moonlight that gilds the water in wavering lines of platinum light makes it seem silver, too. A trick of the moon, that - only a few threads at the temples show the signs of his age. There is the subtle suggestion of laughter in is shoulders, in the crinkles around his eyes in response to her returned question. Then, he rejoinder, with a bark of low laughter, "I make it a policy to regret nothing."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] "Your dear woman? Tonight is taking a rapid turn for the unexpected." The bottle is lifted again and she takes from it a sip, chuckling quietly as he tacks on that she isn't missing much now that she's explained what it is she just might. "I thought a much."

She looks over the bottle, turning it in her hand as she scans the label and make of it before setting it down on the bench seat next to herself. Her hands are brushed off before smoothing through her hair, and she gives an easy smile to the way his laughter barks out. "No regrets? You haven't lived then."

But that smile fades into something quieter, more serious, as she studies him. "Can you truly say that you regret nothing and strive to live your life that way? Tell me why? I'm curious. I could never live that way. I already regret not getting myself two tomatoes." She's relaxed in the way she's sitting, still crossed leg and spine straight, but body twisted and arm lounging on the back brace of the beach bench.

[Will] "Someone's dear young woman then," he corrects easily and thoughtlessly, with an inaudible huff of breath visible in the subtle flare of his nostrils.

They are cast in darkness, the lights of the estate brilliant behind them. Now and again an errant wind, some trick of the gardens or the wetlands or the dark mounds of the sand dunes brings back to them the sounds of the party inside. The clink of glasses, music from the string quarter in the ballroom, the jazz trio on the patio, one of those ribbons of laughter that begins life as a quiet thing, but soon enough ripples through the crowd the way a breeze ripples across the surface of a pennant.

She has him in profile, a near complete profile cheated when he cuts a direct look back at her, as he does now, half-way through her all-too-serious series of questions. His attention lingers, his expression still now - not closed, precisely, but far from open. When remarks that she regrets not stealing two tomatoes, he laughs again, easy, charming even, then returns, rather gently for all that, "A figure of speech, nothing more," Will's pale blue eys are narrowed faintly, his expression little more than a faint, private sort of smile - of which likely unaware.

Then he continues, still rather quietly, his deep voice a low rumble of counterpoint to the crashing wave. "I'm not in the habit of sharing my regrets, great or small, with a stranger on a beach, no matter how lovely the stranger or how idyllic the setting."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] His correction of himself has her laughing under her breath as she glances away from him and towards the water. This time, though, when he glances back towards her she looks at him. No more of these little fleeting glances of profiles that they are doing, her eyes are bold and light but not too pale; lighter then her brows and hair, darker then her complexion. There is an underlying thoughtfulness, a calculating mind beneath this easy laughter and careless facade. As boisterous as she may be, especially for a lady, she's solemn beneath it, as serious as any other Garou may be.

"A stranger is the better person to confide in," she tells him over the crash of waves and distant sound of music, "who better than one that doesn't have any expectations of you, that you may never see again, and who cares, frankly, for nothing of you? It's the most sound ear. Not one that would spread the word to your closest friends, who may react and change the dynamic of relationship thereafter."

"But-" she halts it there, "- it's all a little philosophical for tonight and I'm starting to sound like an old crone." The bottle is picked up from the bench as she drops her arm from the one behind her and uncrosses her legs to place bare toes back on the ground. "What do you say to a walk or a dance, because you're right, this setting is idyllic," this said as if she's just noticed it now that he's brought her attention to it. Her gaze casts up to find the moon and stars in the sky.

[Will] As she discusses the virtues of confiding in strangers, his gaze slips back to the dark strand, the sand glistening in the moonlight near the waterline, glittering above it, reflective surface of mica chips or glass or - he is considering this only passingly while she speaks, and the thought twists its way across his mouth. When she's finished, he cuts her another look. This one is minute, direct and unreadable. There is no comment in response to her suggestion, nor does he murmur some sort of reassurance after, underneath her comment about old crones.

Instead, he's quiet, which is to say: silent but for the whisper of his suit against his body as he considers the drink he has in hand. He lifts the old fashioned glass to his mouth again, swirling the amber-colored Scotch around to release the aroma and takes a passing moment to savor it, then holds out the glass, studying the drink speculatiely, before drinking it down, all at a go.

Then, he bends down, setting he glass beside her on the wooden bench. When he straightens, he responds, " - of course," casually and naturally settling his suit jacket around his body, smoothing out the subtle wrinkles that developed from his posture, arm abducted across his body, before offering her his arm. This is familiar, all of it. It has the patina of routine, when he crooks his arm out for her, giving her a direct, expectant look.

"Lady's choice," he tells her, that faint smile twistin across his features once more.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] "Since I'm the only Silver Fang that can't dance," she tells him, taking his arm with her hand in the crook of it, "I'll take the walk, otherwise it's going to ruin the picture." Barefoot and a little disheveled compared to his custom loafers, his crisp suit and his cigar scent, the shorter woman takes by his side and lets him lead the way. She doesn't seem to mind whether they were hitting the sand dunes or walking the boardwalk or even heading back into the party. Her drink, along with his glass, is left behind on the chair.

For the first time since coming across him, the woman then falls momentarily silent as she listens to his suit whisper and the roll of waves coming to clutch at the sand. Her hold on him is light and undemanding, like the Rage that is quiet under her skin; both of which have the potential to be much more. For all her vine wandering, beach walking ways, she still smells like some faint irritation of modern perfume. Irritating to her, anyway. Its in her clothes and hair more then in her skin.

[Will] "There are others," he assures her easily, then continues with a certain passing humor. "I've had the personal privilege of having each one of the Misses Delacroix tread on my feet on several occasions. Trust me," he continues, smiling dow at her with an easy intimacy, "it as deep honor, though not one I have any intention of repeating within the next decade."

He is broad-shouldered and long-legged: an athlete once, and natural one years ago. Now he stays fit, though some of his former speed and agility have disappeared, he still walks easily beside her. Conscious of both her smaller stature and her bare feet, he walks slowly, steering them onto the beach rather than the boardwalk and the manicured grounds of the Estate. There are, at odd intervals, torches set out in the sand, casting an oily vapor meant to drive away the mosquitos that flock to the shore. Their light is a harsh contrast to the soft waves of light shed by the moon over the velvet sea.

Except for the quip, Will seems content to escort her quietly, matching her silence with his own. There is just the sound of their feet on the sand, the crashing waves, the low, mournful call of a foghorn somewhere close, and the whisper of her dress over her skin, her bare feet in the sand.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] It makes her chuckle quietly, the smile she gives closer to a grin as she considers his plight. "I don't envy you, really." There's a moment between that though, and anything other, as she pauses to listen to the horn blare in the distance and glance that way. It's a small distraction that passes her easily before she's focused on what she was going to say. "I'm sure some craftsmen has devised a party shoe with steel in the tip for those occasions. I can't say that I'd have the patience to be in them, though."

A few steps later, and she's looking up at him. "Do you ever get tired of it? The social expectation of your role." Which includes dancing and escorting Silver Fangs across the beaches, and all the other things that aren't immediate or spoken about. While she may be a Garou she considers his life, a Kins, she expects, though can't be certain. Even so, there's the role of his gender that she could be discussing, encompassing all of it.

For shorter legs she keeps up, but has noted that he's matched her pace - as well as he should. He's good at playing his part, whether it's natural or practiced she's not sure, or cares of. Most of the Tribe was this way, even herself for all her distaste of it. Some nights it got to her worse than others.

[Will] "The polite answer," he replies, in a tone of utmost seriousness, unmatched by the light in his eyes when he cuts her a cross-glance as they walk, gaze lingering as she asks him whether he tires of his role. " - is no."

This is a counter-factual statement; both of them know it, but he allows it to linger in the warm air around them unshaded by irony. Then, he continues, "Never. The true answer is: everyone does, even the Misses Delacroix and their rather extraordinary battle-axe of a mother."

He does not offer her his answer, though, allowing the polite and/or true answers to serve as perfectly reasonable stand-in for a more personal response. Will is conscious of where they walk; he steers Sarah around driftwood and other flotsam and jetsam on the beach with a careless ease that suggest it has become second nature, keeping their pace slow and their path - such as it is - meandering as it is - close to the waterline.

There's a certain shrewd cast to his features as he looks back at her, then, "Why," he returns, quiet, " - do you tire of yours?"

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] She's quiet as she listens to him, offering nothing yet, not for a long time in that. He avoids questions easily, which she's came to expect - not just by him but by most around. It's all that politeness, etiquette they say, an expectation of standard and never dipping below it in public, when everyone very well knows its not what happens behind closed doors. It's adults play acting that has become reality. Sarah finds it both sad and amusing, depending on her mood and the occasion.

For all that she can't dance, she follows his body as a shadow by his side, never jostled off balance or redirecting herself elsewhere. She slinks along beside him as if she were made for it, and she was, not necessarily for him though. She picks up cues subconsciously and reacts much the same. So it's an easy meandering walk they take, where bare feet avoid anything but sand, dry or damp.

"I suppose I will, at some point, and have done at others. I wouldn't say I tire of my role in the dutiful sense. But I despise that there's many that speak plenty and say absolutely nothing." Whereas she hasn't had a single problem sprouting about what she really thinks about anything and anyone around her. Not that any of it had been important, and really, it still wasn't. "Nor do I like the dressage that's required, and the expectations that go along with it. Why, for Gaia's sake, is all this necessary? To think on it, really, does any of this matter?"

"I suppose once it did," her lips purse here, light and with thought, and although her eyes are focused from glowing lamps to the darkest waves, her mind is clearly following a different path, "keeping order and a certain level of standard. But it's only we that keep to them now, and what good have they done?"

[Will] "You're young." There is a certain compassion in his voice when he says this that seems more genuine that anything else she has heard from him this evening. Or, rather: it all seems genuine, an engaging mask that well might signify that this stranger's depths are no deeper than others shallows. Still, when she asks him why must we or says speak plenty and say nothing, he says: you're young. As if she didn't know that. As if that were answer and explanation all at a go.

"You see the surface, and find it empty." They have passed the last of the torches a good four hundred feet back. Here is just the surface and moonlight. Will stops and then escorts Sarah in a great turn in the sand, leading her back, passed the field full of tomato plants from the neighboring farm's truck garden. The green leaves are silvered in the moon's cast light.

" - I'm sure I felt rather the same when I was your age. The surface, though, ripples with undercurrents. If Amanda Morgan Edwards can find the - fortitude, shall we say - to stand in the foyer and greet every guest with a smile after burying three sons," his deep voice is even as the rest. He speaks of the deaths as easily as he discusses tomatos. " - who am I to deny her the comfort of ritual?

"I am here," he continues, at some remove, "because I do business with and for these men and women, and it is important that they see me, and know me, and like me, and trust me. If you make a life for yourself outside of the tribe, I suspect you'll find things are much the same without as within."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] "Young, you say, and yet old enough to carry the weight of the world and the expectation that a God has set on me to delve between the dirty sheets that's our society." This comes out, not sharp, but low and holds a darker humour then those before. Her look, brows raised, is almost daring him to tell her she's young again. "Who sees the surface and finds it empty?"

"I wasn't speaking of the ritual of comfort, because that serves a purpose. I'm asking what is the purpose of masking it all. Surely it can't be all for comfort, some soft silk so that they can wrap themselves in something pleasant while blood stains their feet." Her index finger has taken to sliding back and forth across the material of his jacket, to feel the fabric under the tip of it and scrap her nail gently across it.

"It seems... ridiculous. Not the Traditions and rituals, but the way this, here at the estate, that we've slipped out here to find a moment outside of it all, mimics a society that has nothing to do with our own. This is a human culture. I find it absurd that I can come to one of these after pulling entrails out of a living being, and act as though it's perfectly natural."

[Will] "You're young," he repeats, when she returns to him that daring look; he finds and holds her eyes now. Her humor is open, dark and daring. His own is closed; hidden behind the pale discs of his irises. Still, he finds her eyes and holds them, unflinching she discusses the blood that stains his feet and her hands. " - I hadn't realized you were Garou."

Will glances down at their intertwined arms, then, her index finger pale against the dark silk-wool blend of his summerweight suit jacket. His attention lingers there, his mouth caught in a rueful shape that gradually widens, untl he offers another bark of laughter, " - and I'm not entirely sure how I took on the role of defender of the traditions of the tribe. I'm going to bow out of that one here and now. If you really want answers to those questions, you have to ask someone else. I don't have anything else to give you on the matter except this.

"Listen, Sarah," his voice rumbles in his chest; maybe she imagines she can feel the vibrations of the sound waves in the cage of her ribs. "Life is short." Hers, shorter than most. "If you don't like these thing," he nods to the lights of the estate, now visible as a glittering arc against he hummocks of the sand dunes that define the immediate shadow of the horizon. "If you hate these things, don't go to another."

His voice is light enough that she'll never know how serious he is, in that moment.