Ornature

[Will] Late summer and the sky is a brilliant, dying bloom, and the air is rich with the scent of jasmine and salt water and gardenia. Late summer in the Hamptons, Long Island at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean - the bucolic towns are choked with celebrities and would-be celebrites, with reality stars and muscle heads, with nannies and tutors and dualas and governesses, with au pairs and drivers and security guards and paparazzi. With, here and there, farmers whose families have farmed the same plots of the same land on this sandy island for centuries. Which means: more than one.

There are sailboats in the harbor and a private dock curving into the sound. Beyond the house, the slowly eroding beach sinks into the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean, picturesque as any Maine seaport. Here is an estate set well into the piny woods of the island. Next door, behind a row of trees that serve as a windbreak, a farmer's meandering field, tomatoes ripening in the sun. There's a small winery further down, the grapes trained to trellises in tortured, vining pattern.

The Hamptons have grown and grown and grown; most of fashionable New York City relocates here for the summer now. Out here in Montauk, though, the estates are larger, the houses older, the drives all private. The paparazzi don't venture this far north. Their quarry stays to the south, and the wealthy who live here are all too private in any event. Tonight, one of the Estates glitters, brilliant, thronged with - not celebrities and pseudo-celebrities and gossip writers and so on - but the wolves and their kin.

Will breaks away from a knot of men - glad-handing them as he goes, all careless charm - an Old Fashioned glass of scotch in hand, and walks down the pool deck, heading aimlessly through the grounds, in the vague direction of the ocean. Far enough away, out in the gloaming, he pulls a blackberry from his left front pocket and begins skimming through messages as he walks.

The night smells crisp and clean, the low hum of mosquitos and cicadas fills the air. Close enough, the crash of the ocean onto the sure. He is dressed formally - a crisp, bespoke suit and a silk tie, the knot of the latter loosened, just, so that it hangs faintly askew. The air is a hint too warm for the suit, though the ocean breeze will be cool and crisp by midnight, driving away the lingering humidity of the hot afternoon.

[Sarah Kerensky] She had ditched the party long ago, had meandered through the estates property next door, far enough away from the prying eyes that dark blond hair would be easily missed through the vines. Her bare feet have left little footprints in the wake of her path, and the summer dress that she wore had minimal dirt upon its pale peach colour.

Tomato in hand, she had found herself on the sand of the beach heading back towards the throng of people at the estate. Her hair was only partially kept in the french twist, the wind coming across the ocean had gently coaxed out long tendrils of hair by her ears, more at one side then the other. Bare toes, painted a naked pink were lost in the soft white sands, continuously dipping under the grains as she walked across the dunes. Unsteady as most people can be on unstable, moving grounds, Sarah has a little better footing, walking slow and unhurried as she is.

Another bite into the ripe tomato has her other hand catching juice and preventing it from spraying any further then on the immediate part of her chin, protecting her clothing below the lower collar line that dips below slender shoulders. She uses her thumb to wipe moisture from below and on her lip, chewing slowly as she spies the figure coming out from the estate. There's still enough distance that some features are lost, but she can make out his suit, his tie and his general appearance of height and structure.

Her own is slight, at best 5.5, not as tall and imposing as many Silver Fangs can be. She is slim too, but the design of her dress gives her a waist and accentuates her bust. It makes her look as feminine as her features are. Not quite delicate, though, because those features are also sharp, from the high arch of her brows to the light upturn of her nose.

[Will] Will is tall and broad-shouldered. In the darkness, with dusk spreading deep shadows across the dunes, heights and distances are distorted. Still: that much is clear. He has an athlete's frame, tall and strong, maintained by regular visits to the gym. His hair is clipped short and blond, the failing light catches it and sets it on fire, making him look - from her angle - as if he were wearing a halo.

Beyond him, the squat shadow of the estate, the dark shadows of the whispering trees, and the great vault of the sky gone to smoke and cream and fire as the sunset plays itself out in the west. To the east, the ocean is a dark, smokey blue. The horizon line in the distance is lost in shadow, the darkness broken here and there by the shifting light of floating buoys marking out the channels, warning sailboats away from the treacherous rocks.

The boardwalk from the Estate dips into a hollow before it rises over the dunes that protect the grounds from the highest of high tides. His shadow disappears below, and then reappears as he surmounts the height of the dune, pausing where the boardwalk through the boggy land ends, spilling out onto the packed sand of the beach proper. There, he stops long enough to bend down and pull off his shoes, tossing them carefully aside onto a teak bench lining the path.

If he saw her shadow earlier, he made no sign. Now, though, she can see the way his head turns to track her position on the beach. He still has the scotch in hand, held casually across his body, and he stands there quiet still for several long minutes, taking in the empty beach, the constant movement of the ocean - treacherous, now, as the tide begins to change, churned up by a storm somewhere out in the Atlantic.

Something shifts in the architecture of his frame, and he begins again, down the path worn through the dunes to the beach. The stranger does not alter his trajectory to intercept her; nor does his change paths to avoid her. Call it, if anything - a coincidence - when their paths cross within speaking distance - he with his scotch and she with her tomato. He lifts the former in the suggestion of a toast - or maybe simply a gesture - toward the ocean.

"You must have been hungry," he observes, his features lost in shadow. "I'm not sure I've seen anyone eat a tomato like an apple before."

[Sarah Kerensky] Closer. More features are marked out in the growing dark, and although she can't tell what colour his eyes are or what may or may not be in them, she can make out the shape of his nose and the complexion of his skin, good enough is her sight. Her own aren't blue or gray, nor are they dark, but a honey coloured brown with hints of green - only in the right light, which is not out here where a storm is brewing in the sea.

"Haven't you?" She asks this after the tip of her tongue dabs at the plumper middle of her lower lip. "You're missing out." There's still half a tomato to go and there's a guarantee that there's been plenty of juice, wet and dry, left on those fingertips, in her palm and the webbing between her finger. Sarah has stopped to talk, she doesn't just walk on by, taking his remark as an invitation to linger by and converse, even if she's looking beyond him now and facing the sea. This angle has the wind blowing loose hair away from her face, making it easier for her to eat.

But she doesn't do that yet. Instead she lifts her hand, offering. "Do you want to try?" There's some daring in that mild manner in which she asks, more in the way her brow hitches an inch and her mouth quirks with the slight cant of her head. "I promise that I don't have rabies." Go on.

[Will] He's a stranger, though he has the sort of rugged good-looks that men settle into in their thirties. It has been 12 hours since he shaved, or more, and his chiseled jaw bristles with a new growth of pale hair. His stance is loose and confident; he's facing the ocean directly and cutting a look at her, aslant. There is a certain scent to him now; the close jostle of the crowd of well-bred relations inside, the smoke-scent of the excellent single-malt he's drinking - an Islay, peaty as a red burn cutting through the Highlands - and something richer, deeper that she may or may not recognize.

"Thanks," he says, rather mildly for all that, although she can see the shadow of faint smirk cutting across his cheek. " - but no thanks."

He holds the drink he carries at a right angle across his body, elbow bent, his arm bisecting the well-cut line of his suit. She offers the tomato, the half-a-tomato, and he remains fixed to the sands, still warm from the sun, damp here and compacted from the high tide. " - but I'd never pair an Islay with raw tomato," he tilts the glass vaguely toward her by way of explanation. "maybe a Speyside. Never an Islay."

His regard changes, shifts - sharpens on her profile as she arches he brow, and the smirk slowly fades from his face. From what she can read of it: the cut of a strong jaw, the glimmer of narrowed eyes, some pale color, all further definition lost in the shadows. "Not a fan of the Masterson's caterer, are you?" He says, in a tone and temper that tells her he's marked her as a fellow guest at the estate.

[Sarah Kerensky] The moment he is declining her generous offer she's retracting her hand and bringing it to her own mouth to take a bite, smaller this time, and since she's already eaten half of it there is less juice to spill everywhere and more soft flesh for her to chew upon. She does this slowly, while he's talking to her; telling her he'd never pair it with what he's drinking, as if she cared for mixing wines and ripe fruits.

By the time he asks about the caterer she's finished her mouthful and offers him a quick sidelong glance that has an accompanying smile. "Add too much dressings and you loose the original intentions, and there is nothing wrong with the simplicity of something already quite perfect in and of itself." This would happen to be the tomato that she nods towards, raising it towards her mouth again for another bite of sharp teeth, nipping the thicker skin from the greater part and swallowing it down again.

This time when she's not eating, properly aside from eating it whole and by hands, she's looking away from the ocean to turn to him fully. "I'd offer you a hand, but I'm sure you'd appreciate that I didn't," given that they're invisibly messy. "I'm Sarah."

[Will] "I've never been a fan of original intentions," he tells her in response, an air of careless irony about him. His chin is held upright, though, an his eyes are on her as she shares her theoryof simplicity and perfection, perfection and simplicity. His eyes are affixed on her profile, rather than the ocean in front them, as it drills the shore. " - to be perfectly frank."

Rocking back on his heels, he offers another gesture with the liquor then lifts it to his mouth for a drink. The scent is strong, unadulterated and undiluted by ice or water. His smile is a flash of white, even teeth against the darkness, a practiced carelessness. "Will," he offers back, when she gives him her name. "Will Talbot."

Were they inside the estate, were she not eating a tomato, barefoot and sticky-handed, he would offer her his card, make some remark about his relations. What was it he said to someone, once - he might forget names and faces, but he never forgets fortunes. He's still a deep-voiced stranger, even if she places the name. Some kinsman. Some family, connected by some loopin branch to the rest of it. They have heralds and geneaologists for a reason.

"And if you offered me your hand," he continues, after a rather deliberate beat. "I'd take it."

[Sarah Kerensky] "Well, then, I'd hate to be rude." Her hand is offered out, the tomato resting in her left and her right extended towards him, casual rather than imposing. There's not a great deal of Rage about her to be sure, something easily overlooked. The glint in the eye is less so, a particular gleam that catches in the right light, differs her from any other human around. Sometimes, not always, she's more of an animal playing at human, as it is, tonight she is simply going through the motions. Admittedly with a bit of interest in the older man wandering away from the gaggle back and beyond.

"It's a pleasure, Will Talbot." Which was honest enough. She rather liked it out here rather then brushing shoulders with the masses, which she had done plenty of over the course of the night and grown quickly tired of. Out here, with the stolen tomato almost finished, with the picturesque views it had filled her with a quiet pleasure, one she could admire along with a handsome stranger named Will.

[Will] Look: shifts the Scotch he carries from his right hand to his left, and he takes her small hand in his own, rather larger, the palm unexpectedly calloused. Otherwise, though, his are not a workman's hands: well-groomed and precise. Stones of some sort glitter in his cufflinks, and he can make out the suggestion of a monogram on the cuff, a neat scrawl of arabic letters embroidered against the white.

She can make that out if she looks down. He'd rather she didn't. He holds her gaze quite directly as they shake hands, his own just damp from the condensation forming around his old fashioned glass, shifting his weight over the hard-packed sand to step closer to make the gesture more intimate than casual. This is instinct, too, this sense of easy rapport, the way he looks her over again and frees her hand at last, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, feeling the tackiness of the spilled tomato juice against the calloused pads of his fingers.

"So," the glass is shifted back from his left hand to his rgt as he steps back, settles into the wide-legged stance, " - since you so generously offered to share your tomato," the edge of his grin is evident in the arch of his brow. Otherwise, his rugged features are still - just this intent, long-seeing look turned on the ocean rather than the girl beside him. "The rules of etiquette dictate that I should offer you some of my Scotch."

His nostrils flare with a laugh that otherwise finds no voice. It could be just a sharp breath. The joke, whatever it is, remains private. He does not share.

[Sarah Kerensky] She does have a much smaller hand and instead of a cuff there is a bracelet that is much too delicate to be around a Garou wrist, which sparkles when under the light, the shine of diamonds lost out here. The grip is light as she shakes his hand in a slow rather then brisk manner, letting go after he does. In that moment where he had stepped closer the woman's chin had been tilted up so that she could look into his features from her shorter height. Her eyes are expressive, currently quiet and smiling, meeting his gaze directly.

When they're done, she's popped the rest of the tomato in her mouth as she glanced off towards the water. She swallows just in time to chuckle at his remark and swings her attention back towards him. "Etiquette would dictate we be by the poolside, too. But, let's see if an Islay, is it? Tastes well with tomato, courtesy of the next estate over." Her hand is out again, ready to relieve him of the scotch he has in hand, fully intending on taking a sip of it even though he had not offered in all but jest.

She licks the middle of her lip, the upper one this time, where it dips in sharply. If she had any lipstick on earlier its far gone by now, leaving them a pale rose against her unblemished skin - which has a hint of a dark, small mole on the side of her chin and another on her cheek, both of which are on the left side of her face. Beauty marks, they were once called, small and easily overlooked.

[Will] "Etiquette be damned," he replies, carelessly looking back to her as he holds out the Scotch. The vague smirk lingers on his mouth, pressed between the bristle of his later-than-five-o'clock shadow. Given the precision of the rest of his grooming, that may be a deliberate choice he has made. Regardless, he holds out the glass of Scotch, the scent sharp and peaty as the liquid is jostled against the side of the glass by the motion.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Scotch drinker," the lance of humor lingers in his voice. He doesn't say what he would have pegged her as, but he does watch her, closely, rather shrewdly, as she takes the glass in hand. " - you'll have to tell me how you like it."

[Sarah Kerensky] Sticky fingers find the glass around the middle and pluck it from his giving hand with a quick, large smile. She raises it to her mouth, not to drink from right away, but to inhale the scent with a slow flare of her nostrils that fills her lungs with the scents found within, rather then the salt of the sea and the tart sweet of the juice on her fingers. When she's satisfied and the scent is still fresh in her nose and on the back of her tongue, she takes a sip from the glass. Not a small one, as if she was afraid of what the glass may behold, but as casual as one might take one of water along with their meal.

The taste hits her, and he can see it, even if he wasn't watching as closely as he was, register on her face. Wrinkles appear at the bridge of her nose as it screws up entirely, her mouth twisting as she refrains from spitting it back out or laughing - perhaps both, and her eyes water in a shimmering gleam. She waves the glass back at him for him to take in a hurry, her other just short of pressing to her peach summer dress, pretty and light for the evening party.

She swallows and immediately makes a sound, "Blerk!" or something like it, her head shaking as she steps away, tongue coming out as if her teeth could scrape the taste of it off. Her shoulders shudder with the one that crawls up her spine and toes curl in the sand with her bodies effort. The tongue wags a little more as her throat makes another of those yucking, unpleasant sounds, before it dissolves into a laughing:

"That was revolting." Teeth flash, and although she gives another little shudder, she's quickly smoothed herself out, expression animated with easy, rich humour, which carries in her continued laugh. "You were right; tomato does not go with Islay."

She tosses him a brilliant smile, part over her shoulder as she begins towards the unsettled water at the edge of the sand. Maybe, he might think, she's going to wash her mouth out with that awful sea water, which may taste better then the mix of tomato and scotch that had to have been unpleasant in her mouth.

[Will] Will reaches out easily, laughing now, the unbuttoned suit jacket swinging with the movement of his body as the accepts the Scotch back from her while she struggles and chokes. He, very much the gentleman, simply - takes back the glass and again abducts his arm across his body, the liquid gleaming dark against the white shirt, the dark coat, the half-undone tie. He seems to be inclined to allow her to cough and sputter her way back into order, until begins down the beach, where the wet sand dissolves into sodden sand, and the waves churn in disequilibrium.

"You can't say I didn't warn you. But wait - if you need to cleanse your palate - " the laughter is still in the swell of his deep voice; it comes from his chet, rumbles through him, " - wait here. I'll find you some water that isn't salted." Indeed, if she looks back, he's already half-turned to go - back to the party, back to some cater-water with a tray full of pellegrinos, their precise dark green bottles familiar, bottom-heavy.