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Red Right Hand [Sabra]
Topic Started: Jul 4 2013, 08:14 PM (98 Views)
Nate
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Blackwater has never been his home, but Nathaniel Hart has made a practice of emulating such. He does not blend in with her silent streets and down-home faces, and he stands out against her dust-painted backdrop of quaint storefronts and old taverns, but the man somehow appears to belong. It may be the confidence in his smooth stride or the authority in his step, those little features that innately shrug off the passing stares and glances. City-slicker, they’d called him once, walking around as if he owned the place – but his visits have been too frequent, his manner too genial for that to last long.

It doesn’t make him any less conspicuous, with his Oxfords gleaming against the dusty sidewalk and his black slacks still clean despite the grit, but Nate has never settled for simply blending in. The sleeves of his thin white shirt are rolled up to his elbows against the southern town’s heat, and his eyes are hidden behind the reflective lenses of a pair of aviators; Blackwater is mirrored there in curving panorama, alienating and intentional. Nate’s gaze remains guarded as he selects a streetside café and is lead to his table, the road in view and his back to the wall.

Old habits die hard, particularly in unfamiliar territory, friendly though he may be with Blackwater’s first and second.

That beta, though. She is a hard woman, a wild thing that Nate has a fond appreciation for, though their meetings have always strictly adhered to professionalism. He expects this to be no different, important as it is; his reunion with Billy had been a required formality, her just reward as head of the sprawling territory and as Nate’s friend, but Sabra is almost equally deserving. If there is anyone capable of responding to the whispered rumors and on-the-wind threats he has come to deliver, it is she. Behind Billy’s hard-won strength rests the long shadow of a brindle bitch, and Nate has always managed a certain peace with her, a mutual understanding that does not delve too deep.

He will be waiting when she arrives, his posture casual – one ankle set across the opposite knee and a drink in his hand. A bottle of whiskey is set on the table, already opened. It is only for Sabra that Nathan finally removes his sunglasses, placing his drink down to fold them delicately and hang them from the breast pocket of his shirt; blue eyes flicker up to meet hers, graced by the company of that patented charming smile. Something about the expression falters here, a subtlety that acknowledges this is all only an obligatory play at ritual and ceremony, and Sabra is wise enough to know it.

”I suppose Billy’s been in touch,” Nate begins, deliberately vague and damnably friendly; he doubts he had made it out of Blue Ridge without the blonde relaying rumor to her second. The finger of his right hand traces the rim of his glass as the woman makes to sit, and his eyes drop to follow the trail. ”The world’s going all to hell around your little town.” Wolves dropping dead like flies, and Blackwater safe at the center of the chaos – what is an outsider to believe? Vegas is tugging at his leash like a noose, and it makes him all the more desperate to cling to the life he has carved out for himself here, far from their bit and bridle.

Billy’s offer is a good one, but not something he can take without understanding the ground beneath his feet – the ground that Sabra herself has hallowed.
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Sabra
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Alliances are a necessary evil. They provide support, money lending, and improved reputations, but Sabra tends to simply think of them as large groups of people who, at the very least, weren't expected to take over you territory or kill you and your's without some type of warning beforehand. Friendly wolves were still wolves. Their teeth didn't suddenly become rubber because a few people shook hands and signed meaningless contracts. It was a good farce, but that was it.

Unfortunately, farces require meetings to keep up. This is almost exclusively Billy's job. Her sister has a way with people, one that she lacks. While she talks and smiles, or threatens in her voice that is warm but still promises retribution of the highest order, Sabra finds a wall to lean against and watch the crowd for any signs of ensuing stupidity. This is how it's always been, but today's meeting is one that demands her presence, and not only that, but speaking as well. Speaking in excess and asking questions, having to sit across from a foreigner.

The idea of Nathan joining Blackwater's ranks makes her uneasy. Things are going to change, and both her and the animal resent the knowledge. Sabra parks a few blocks away and locks the Plymouth out of habit. Most people wouldn't dare to steal Officer Wren's sister's car, but she's also made a habit of not basing her decisions on things that people would normally do.

She spots the Vegas wolf under the shade of a café umbrella, the picture of composure. "I heard." Sabra pulls out a chair, her eyes flickering over Nathan and his appearance of cultivated ease. It was posturing, just the same as an armed man, from the way he sits to his hang dog smile and the sunglasses slipped in his front pocket. See? Nothing to prove here and consequently nothing to fear from you either. The difference between him and someone carrying a gun in their back pocket being the latter is predictable to a certain extent. Nathan is not.

He doesn't hesitate to get to the punchline. Billy's pet witch was going to drag them into an all out war if they couldn't get him reigned in. Years ago, the thought wouldn't have bothered her so much, but that was before her son, before the deaths at the hands of Blueridge convinced her otherwise. Sabra was no less confident, she was simply more aware of the consequences. "Strange." She reaches for the whiskey bottle and pours herself a glass. It's a good make and it goes back smooth, warms her throat and tongue and makes the whole business of talking a little easier.

Quiet follows and she lets it linger like a lover's hands over her skin.

"So, ya ever knocked boots with our esteemed Alpha?" Sabra glances up at the sleek man over the rim of her glass, catching his gaze and holding it. She wasn't one to give away trade secrets, but it wouldn't be the first time Billy fell into bed with the powerful men around her. The blond's taste in men had never been what Sabra would call good, but in the recent years, following the acquisition of more land and as more responsibility fell upon Billy's shoulders, her choice in partners had become down right appalling. Giles, her latest lay, had tried to kill them all on more than one occasion and now he was attracting dangerous amounts of attention to Blackwater.

If it wasn't for his magic and the jump start he'd given her ticker a few years back, he'd be nothing but a skeleton by now. "If ya haven't, I'd recommend keepin' it that way." Her lips quirk in a half smile and she looks over Nate in blatant appraisal. Impersonal meetings left little opportunity to enjoy the better facets of human company. A handsome face, eyes that aren't narrowed with anger or the desire to wring her neck. "Not to go validatin' rumors. I have no claims on the woman." The enforcer holds one hand out palm first. She liked her sanity in what small pieces it still remained. "I mention this, not outta curiosity, but out of concern. Chiefly, the fact that whatever Billy's got between her legs seems to scramble folks' brains."

Witches, why did it have to be witches? Fucking magic. Love and sex were an awful combination, throwing magic into the mix was just asking for it.

"I don't give rank to folk with mush for brains." She sets her glass down with a definitive thunk on the tabletop and reaches to refill it.
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Nate
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There is never any beating around the bush with Sabra Kross – Nate knows better, had learned that lesson the first time he showed his face in her backwater town. If Billy is the law then Sabra is her red right hand, doling out verdicts and punishment in equal measure. In a world where threats and posturing are veiled and contained within every word, every subtle motion, she is a refreshing breath of fresh air; she takes the delicate powergames of wolves and dashes them to splinters, disarming the best laid traps with all the bluntness of a bullet between the eyes.

It is not that she is coarse or unintelligent, and heaven help the man who thinks as much of her. There is a certain authority to the woman that has nothing at all to do with the animal inside her, and perhaps that is why Nate finds her so fascinating – and why they get along so well.

”I think you’d know.” There’s that rogue’s smile, the one that manages to light even his tired eyes. Whether he is implying that he is a braggart or Billy is a gossip is intentionally unclear – more than likely Sabra would have sniffed the two of them out long before now, had he ever crawled between the alpha’s sheets. ”But I’ll take your advice. Not that I haven’t thought of it – but I do like my brain as it is.” The change in topic is welcome, as Blackwater’s security is not yet his concern; the risk is Billy’s to take and manage, and Nate leaps upon the chance to mix business with pleasure. The purpose of this meeting is close to home and serious, but if the drained drink in the werewolf’s hand is anything to judge by, Nathan would rather enjoy it.

He has never spent life chaining himself to worry, and he is not about to start now. Let Vegas breathe down his throat, let those claws creep upon him should he follow this thread to its potential conclusion. Blackwater has never been his first choice for throwing down roots – hell, settling down at all is far from the top of his to-do list – but he has cultivated some promise here, and hopefully out of reach of the tightening noose of Vegas’ grip. If his abrupt change in plans should risk their wrath, so be it.

”I’m hardly here for your rank, Sabra.” Nathan leans back, yielding the space between them to the dark-haired arbiter, and turns his head reassuringly to one side. ”But I think you know better than to assume I got mush for brains. I got where I am by my own doing, and got this little pack of yours earning its keep for once. Sleeping my way to the top is,” and he shrugs pausing, ”…too easy.” Not that he hadn’t thought of it, or would have refused the opportunity, but the man has long prided himself on his own prowess. Success is one thing, but it tastes all the sweeter when earned.

No one said it had to be earned honestly. He has always been so fond of manipulating the rules.

”If Billy wants me to stay, I need to know you have my back.” If the woman disapproved of his quick ascension, there would be hell to pay. Vegas’ pack was disorganized, subject to the whims of other supernatural authorities, and he refused to lose the clout he had with the fearmongering these recent deaths had caused. Blackwater might serve as the safer option – if Billy remains immune. If he did. ”If she wants me as third, I won’t have it confused for a challenge.”

Nathan meets her eyes in a hawk-point stare, his elbows on the table and his weight leaned forward, and it is a deliberate violation of dominance. The animal beneath his skin brushes against its flimsy confines, seeking reply.

Human acceptance is easy, but the realm of wolves demands more.
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Sabra
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She approaches him in the same way one does a copperhead, keeping a reasonable distance between herself and the charismatic figure, distrusting him on principle alone. It is simple matter of self preservation. Nathan hails from a city she has never visited and pack she knows little about. The enforcer has at best a patch work idea of him, cobbled together from brief encounters and Billy's word, but for all that Sabra thinks she knows him. Wolves only come in so many different coats, and after ten years she has dealt with nearly all of them.

That fact doesn't make Nate any less of a threat. She would be the last one to go easy on him because of petty assumptions.

It might be the smile and it might be the placating bottle of whiskey, but he strikes her as a tad different from the usual hulking monsters who threw their weight around and barked out orders like it was going out of style. He was a different beast, a thinking one with glinting eyes and glinting teeth.

They make easy conversation, or at least Nathan does. She lets him talk, partially out of the suspicion that he liked the sound of his voice. It wasn't a bad voice to listen to if you had to. The leading ladies of Blackwater all had their secrets, usually in the form of men, but something as sensational as taking another wolf to bed would hardly go unheard. Billy deserved her privacy, as long as didn't affect directly affect the pack. As it was now. A headache that she'd soon be forced to attend to, probably (hopefully) with a gun.

A smile tugs at the corner of Sabra's mouth, bemused by the snake coiled in her path. He was an entertaining one, and the bit of honesty doesn't go unappreciated. "You're bright, I'll give you that." Tipping her glass towards him in acknowledgement, Sabra begins to get an idea of why her sister had offered him rank in the first place. A werewolf's survival depended on their ability to adapt. It was hard enough in the country, the temptation of livestock and the locals, but living in the city had to bring with it a whole new set of challenges. There were only so many dark alleys a large preternatural creature of the night could hide in. Too many eyes, too many chances to fuck up and get yourself killed. Of course, Las Vegas offered several thousand miles of Mojave Desert as hunting grounds, but Sabra didn't relish the thought of getting sand between her toes.

"But is it enough? For a little town we have an awful bad habit of stirrin' up trouble and I need to know that ya won't turn tail when things get sticky." More problems were on the horizon for her home and it couldn't be handled alone. Trustworthy people are few and far between, and they couldn't afford to have cowards with their ranks. "The world is goin' to hell and Blackwater won't stay safe for long."

She meets his eyes over the rim of her glass and takes a page from Nathan's book, leaning back without breaking the gaze, playing at tranquility while the wolf writhes beneath her skin, incensed by his defiance. Never much of an actor, Sabra's gaze shifts from green to a murky turquoise, slowly turning blue. "I'll have your back." A sincere promise for the pageantry that accompanies it. She doesn't have time for anything less than truth.

"As long as you have mine."

The table rattles, jostling their drinks as Sabra lunges forward, clawed hands grazing the air near the bookkeeper's throat, then withdrawing to curl around the neck of the bottle instead of Nate's shirt collar. The wolf grins crookedly, a mock growl at her lips.

If he insisted on being several steps ahead of the rest of them, she'd just have to keep him on his toes.
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Nate
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Easy victories are never satisfying. Though Nate’s arrogant front is as central to him as the wolf beneath his skin – had predated the beast, had lived in him since his violent youth – he is not an easily placated man, not one to sate his ambition on the weak and the powerless. His lust in life is much the same as his lust in the bedroom: unless his challenger has spirit, has bite, it is not worth his time. A climb to the top would not be half so rewarding if it weren’t for those left behind whom he had outmaneuvered, the skillful opponents whose defeats exemplified his competence.

Prestige without power is meaningless, and Nate prefers to wield both in spades.

This mentality is part of the reason the werewolf has long found Blackwater’s second captivating. She has enough fire in her to deter the unworthy and burn even the bravest touch, and she is as much human as she is wolf – perhaps a shade more of the latter – that their conversations are rarely mundane. Sabra has a cleverness to her that he finds fascinating, and is dangerously comfortable in her own skin. Either skin. To label her a challenge is to simplify her; she is so much more, as evidenced by her cool-headed wariness and her deceptively easy way of talking. The small woman is Blackwater’s muscle, and that alone tells all.

”I can’t offer you much more than my word, though I think you know that.” There are no grand presentations for him to make, no stories he will tell that she doesn’t already know. Nathan has offered valuable information and secrets to her fledgling pack in the time he has been lurking at the fringes; he has helped grow Blackwater up at Billy’s behest, and asked for no payment beyond this. ”Though I am bailing on Vegas. I’m not sure that helps my track record.” It is easy to slip into casual conversation with Sabra, difficult to maintain a hold on his cultivated and cosmopolitan nature. So much is innate, but Nate had been hammered out of a rough-hewn youth, and she calls to that side of him.

He is only as loyal as is earned, but Blackwater has offered him a handshake where there had previously been only chains. It is a good start, one based in a certain equality that encourages his fidelity, but the man knows better than to soothe a feral creature on empty promises and uncertainties; he has been bitten more than enough to have learned. Actions speak louder than words.

Unwilling to break the contest he has started, even as Sabra lunges for him does Nathan hold her vibrant blue gaze, and he lurches forward in his seat to avoid a blow that never comes. His free hand remains in the air, delicate fingers poised to snatch a wrist that has withdrawn, and its opposite balances his tumbler between thumb and forefinger without spilling a drop. Nate’s tongue runs over his teeth in a brazenly animalistic gesture, his smile matching hers in humor and bold flirtation, but the tension is eased as he settles back to his seat. The glass is placed on the table; the other patrons seem not to have noticed their exchange.

”Outside of town, sometime,” he begins after a moment, having dropped his eyes to his drink’s remains and allowed the silence to work as a balm between them, ”We’ll do this again.” Nate speaks musingly, but the phrasing is a command, his audacious ploy softened only by his averted gaze. ”I’ll bring the whiskey, you’ll call the moon. We’ll go running.” Only now does he look up, blue eyes seeking hers from beneath heavy lashes, coaxing in a glance. The man has never run with the pack, not formally; they have seen that inky black beast, as he has seen them, but not as he is now asking.

Not in the way that matters, the vetting of new blood beneath the moonlight. Nevermind that the invitation is extended only to Sabra; it is a convenient excuse, a dovetailing of mutual needs, and he acknowledges that in the slow pull of an almost sheepish smile.

The mood breaks as Nate lifts his head, waving one knuckled hand in the air dismissively, his humor returned. ”We gonna keep playing twenty questions, or can we call me a good bet and finish this drink?”
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