The home of all things Lost bar and Tavern (O/H/WALK IN)

[Faoladh Morgan]

Dimitri Romanoff - Trickster

A young tall, slender man came into the building for the first time. He appeared to be human, but his aura said otherwise. He wasn't a werewolf or a vampire, but he wasn't a normal human.

The young man made his way to the bar and sat down, wondering if there was a bartender currently working until he saw someone summon a drink by drumming their fingers on the bar top. So, he decided to give it a try himself and conjured up a long island iced tea. People often said they were girly drinks, but he didn't care. They tasted good, and they had lots of alcohol in them so he liked them.





Wearing

[Milkseik]

A lone figure walks the beaten path today.

Leather boots suppress the earth beneath his step, his strides sharp with purpose. Black jeans slung low on the V of his hips and a simple off-white button-up are all that separates him from the brisk autumn air slicing through his tawny crown. Still, he's sweating, tan hands burrowed deep in his pockets as his shoulders hunch up against the wind. Can't even light a damn cigarette out here! He picks up the pace, jogging up to the structure ahead as he mentally prepares himself for the bizarre confrontation awaiting him. This has to be the place. It's far enough away from the rest of the world, and a castle besides. Pretty hard to miss this mark.

Finally out of the wind, he shakes his head to rid himself of the lingering chill. His golden hair arcs out to either side, then settles in a feathered and windswept arrangement that sets off the ocher gaze now sweeping the surrounding tavern. The bar lies straight ahead, and so does she. He can see the back of her, the soft shape and mass of hair that falls in a dark curtain of silk around him when...

He swallows, blinking those thoughts away as his Adam's apple falls with finality. She's not mine, they aren't the same. And yet...

He wonders. They were thrown together so abruptly -- like a marriage before the meeting. It was all at once, a role they'd sought to fill and come to resent at times, each in their own ways. There's a part of him that wants to have a bit of fun with this, and he knows better... and he doesn't. What man wouldn't want to make his woman fall for him all over again? There's something so fresh about the thought, so alluring that he's walking towards her before he's made the conscious effort to do so.

His dart case flips open, a black cross flashing briefly in a canvas of gold, and snaps shut to vanish back from whence it came. A filter comes to rest between his teeth as he slides in beside her.

"Do you mind?" He asks around the white cylinder as he lets it dip in her direction, tempting her with an expectant smile. The pheromones will kick in any second now, and she'll be his.

3, 2, 1...

[Rose Scented]

The once mirror shined zippo between her fingers was continuously rotated around and around, baring first the cross and then the words in a rotating cycle of familiarity. As far as Skye was aware her father had never gotten the chance to even see the small lighter, and now it’s once polished surface was riddled with dings and scratches from Skye’s use of it.

A towering column of ash was dusted from the glowing end of her cigarette into a crystal starburst and the tip rolled into a point along the etched and beveled edge. She paid no mind to the sound of the door opening behind her back, nor to the subtle and rhythmic pounding of footsteps on hardwood as the autumn wind was locked outside. Not a single glance was cast over to the individual as he found himself a seat, though her ears perked with the muted sound of his fingertips on the polished wood. From there her attention was lost into the turning of the zippo once more, shifting it and watching as light was cast off its surface.

Once more Skye tucked herself away into her thoughts, contemplating just what she would do for the day and settling on the same thing she did every other day; hang around the castle and compromise their stock of alcohol. As a being with a much higher metabolism than most other creatures, her body filtered through alcohol at an expediential rate that made staying in her warm, alcoholic cloud a very hard thing to accomplish.

But Skye was a very perseverant individual.

Yet again the door pushed open, and this time a most tantalizing scent came rolling in with it; pheromones. Skye’s nose wrinkled against the intrusion. Keep it to yourself buddy, and we won’t have any iss-

Do you mind?

“Do you?” she muttered grumpily, swinging her eyes to the side and catching the immediately familiar ocher of Avery. Her eyebrows pushed up in a pleased expression of surprise, and she leaned back, and turned on the rotating pad of her stool, one long, shapely leg crossed over the other. “Well, well. If it isn’t… Adam isn’t? Everett?” she teased.

Her thumb flipped the zippo open with a practiced flick, and brought a flame to life with a second, offering the flickering tongue long enough for him to light the dart that waited expectantly at the corner of his mouth. “Just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

It had been well over a year - or longer? - since she had met Avery in the small, hole in the wall bar nowhere near the castle she was now inhabiting. A memorable night had passed, and not even the haze of alcohol could make her forget the devilish gleam of his eyes and the haughty, confident manner in which he moved.

She tapped the counter once more, and slid the responding glass of bourbon towards him with an inviting little smile in the corner of her lips.

[Milkseik]

There is a fleeting moment of concern, and then all is well as those dark and shapely brows lift with pleasure at the sight of him. He's pleased in turn, his smile broadening until -

"Adam isn’t? Everett?"

His jaw slackens slightly, and the dart tumbles into his lap. You've got to be ******** kidding me.

"....Avery." He mutters, tossing the filter back up between his lips. He leans reluctantly into the flame she offers him, a long pull leading to ignition, and the dart comes to rest between two fingers. "My name is Avery." He reiterates, in case she hadn't heard him the first time. His playful mood is thoroughly spoiled, and his grin has all but fallen from his face to slap the floor between them. He takes another draw, staring at this woman speculatively as an opaque cloud plumes from his lips to glide fluidly into his nostrils. How bizarre. She knows me? Impossible. I would remember...

"Just couldn't stay away, huh?"

"Guess not." Pursed lips expel a rippling jet of smoke to the side, and the skin around his eyes seems to pinch.

How could I forget her!?!?

Utterly perplexed, he fails to notice the glass of bourbon until it's sliding neatly towards him. His brow furrows, his eyes flitting to the vessel of golden liquid, then to the smirk that arcs her full, pink lips, and finally back to her eyes.

He cuts her a sharp glare, wrapping the proffered drink in his grasp. Either she has a very selective memory inclined to inconsequential details, or... he's been tricked. She definitely knows him, he can't deny it now. Though she may not remember his name, she remembers his beverage of preference, and that is all the proof he needs. He's tempted to play a game, to pretend he's never met her which would be rather accurate given that he doesn't recall the encounter he now knows they must have had, but he's no longer inclined to play. He has business to attend to, after all.

"This may come as a bit of a shock, but I'm not here to see you." He tilts the amber liquid past his lips, gliding the pad of his thumb along the lower to catch the last drop. The glass hits the bar with a muted thud.

"Where's your mother?"

[Rose Scented]

Avery… My name is Avery.

The dejected quality of his statement, displeased with the jest she had off handedly granted him with, went completely unnoticed. This Skye, overwhelmed by her own sense of loss and grief, was not in love with Avery. Though he was familiar to her, though she knew the lines of his abdomen and the quirk of his lips, the mussed curls of his hair and the scent of his body, she didn’t know him, and was unaware of his fragile ego and how quickly his temper could turn. In the stead of apologizing for a joke taken without good humour, she ignored the fall of his grin and lit his cigarette without deeper acknowledgement.

She had far too much of her own concerns to be bothered with his when all she knew of him was how well he could maneuver his tongue despite being one bottle of bourbon shy of a full liquor store.

“Of course it is,” she amended with a dismissive wave of her hand through the accumulating cloud of smoke between them. His glare was met with a second smirk, far more amused than the first and a raise of the glass she had acquired for herself, this one vodka and lime, the favoured drink of her father and one that she had grown accustomed to when screwdrivers just didn’t cut it. Alongside it was a bowl of cubed pineapple. A single square was lifted to her lips, the membrane-like surface easily cut through by sharpened teeth and she hummed a quiet approval at the burst of equally tart and sweet juices that minimally escaped.

This may come as a bit of a shock, but I'm not here to see you.

Skye made a sarcastic sound in the back of her throat, and turned her dark, lush framed eyes towards him over the pucker of her lips against the pad of her thumb. “Shocking, really. We’re just so close, how on earth could you not be here to see me?” Sarcasm dripped from every word, and with a light wrinkle of her nose she looked back into the porcelain bowl in front of her and selected another perfect cube, admiring it’s glistening yellow surface with a more interested eye than she had granted to Avery.

Just as she was about to sink her teeth into it, Avery spoke again and the piece of fruit dropped from slackened fingers back into the bowl as a surprised and mildly hostile glare was cast his way. An animalistic sheen of gold reflected across her eyes, mirroring the gleam of a wolf in the night, and her short, pearly fangs unsheathed. In response she said one simple word, its single syllable crawling with unspoken grief and rage; never a good combination for children of the moon.

“Dead.”

[Milkseik]

The glib remark is easily ignored given that it doesn't make much sense in lieu of her earlier statement. She had obviously assumed he was here to see her, that much was made clear by the cockily uttered 'just couldn't stay away'. She isn't fooling him.

All of this is made irrelevant as he becomes the subject of a dark, and decidedly dangerous, glare. He remembers now, the warnings his Skye had given him in regard to herself, warnings he had scoffed at. This woman isn't nearly as helpless as his own, but neither is he. He's unsettled, yes, but not afraid. Never afraid.

He feels a little sick, actually. There's something in those eyes that twists him up inside. His palms begin to sweat. ...What?

"I'm sorry to hear that." Avery seldom apologizes, but when he does, he means it. His knuckles roll against the smooth surface of the bar, and he flashes two fingers with a tilt of his head in the woman's direction. They each receive a fresh glass of their preferred vice, and he taps his glass gently to hers before knocking back the contents of his own. He can't stop looking at her.

I can't stop looking at her.

He opens his mouth, but no words are spoken, and he's shutting it again as her scent finally hits him. Something stirs in the back of his mind, has him pinching the bridge of his nose as golden eyes fall shut in favor of inner vision.

Smears of light burst along his eyelids, blurred memories that come and go in rapid succession. There is a tavern, some random dive he'd laid up in for the night, but not alone. He can see the bar, the empty glasses and amber eyes, the flush and smile and stairs as the rest fades to black and a new scene blossoms up through the darkness. Bottles and discarded clothing, a river of ebony fanned out across blood red sheets, and that smell...

There's a lingering scent, and solitude as he wakes up to an empty room. The vision fades to black, and hazy eyes open slowly to meet her own as he takes a deep breath. He regrets it immediately, eau de Skye setting him reeling all over again. Talk about a taste of his own medicine!

"When...? He says quietly, and he's not sure what he's asking. When did her mother pass? When did they meet? It's all right there as he's looking everywhere but her, overwhelmed with confusion. The only memories he's had of Skye before their union aren't his own. This one...

This one is all his. He can't help but wonder if she is, too. It makes sense, and it's wrong, and it's cruel. For everyone involved.

More than anything, he wants to strangle the guy who dropped the woman that is not quite this woman into his arms. He can't. That man is a part of him now, a parasite using his body to live the life he should have had in his own time, while taking his life, this life, away in the process.

[Rose Scented]

I'm sorry to hear that.

The comment had a genuine ring to it, and it prevented the snide remark from snapping passed her lips. Skye flicked her eyes closed, ushered a cool breath from her nose and looked away, forcing the wolf back into submission. She rolled her shoulders to ease the tension from her back, and flexed her jaw to retract the rather adorably dangerous fangs.

“Thank you,” she muttered after bringing her gaze back to him, and returning the nod with a clink of glass to glass, the contents drained with a grimace. The remnants of the filter between her fingers was crushed into the nearly overflowing ashtray, before both hands lifted and moved back. Long fingers burrowed into the mass of her hair, the thick ebony mane lifted and shook out, left a moment later to settle down her back.

Despite the biting autumn wind, Skye wore a rather scant outfit of cutoff shorts that resided long enough to just barely be appropriate, paired with a plain black tank top wore thin and soft with age, the violet lace of her bra nearly visible beneath it. Her feet were left bare, gold painted toes peeking out beneath her knees as she balanced cross legged on the stool with ease. The stark, black outline of a star was visible on the top of her right foot, and briefly a cross behind her left ear. This Skye had very little reservations. She could take care of herself.

When…?

She glanced back over to him, a fresh f** pulled from the cardboard pack on the counter, this one black and fragrant. The only of its kind. The clove was tucked between her lips, the pert heart shaped pucker held as spicy smoke poured from her nostrils with the drag off the filter. “A year ago,” she muttered, sliding him a sideways glance.

Avery had been her distraction, and one she would have gotten all too used to had she not left him sleeping in a bed that was less stable than when they’d occupied the room in the first place.

The thick ring on the pointer finger of her left hand was tapped against the counter. It was all too easy for her to remember standing in the doorway, looking back over the curve of her shoulder to watch as he slept. She could still see the drape of the sheet across his long legs, hear the faint sound of his sated breathing, and smell them as it perforated every molecule of the room. It made her mouth water. She hadn’t wanted to leave, had wanted to crawl back into the bed and cling to his warmth and strength, but the desire was unwarranted. There had been no reason for it and that had frightened her, and she had fled. Over the remaining months it had been easy to dismiss the feelings as grief induced, though she never entirely forgot him.

Skye, her sideways look still tracing the marble carved, perfect features of his face, frowned as she caught the downward tilt of his lips. Listened to the increase of his heart rate. Squirmed at the subtle hint of the beginnings of arousal. He looked distant. Confused.

So was she.

“What’s wrong?”

[Milkseik]

"Nothing." He lies smoothly, the cherry of his cigarette devouring a solid quarter of the f** in a massive pull meant to clear his mind. His lips part, the carcinogen cloud rolling up to obscure his tense features. He's never wanted to settle down with anyone before, a classic rolling stone. The situation with alter-verse Skye had been thrust on him in his prime, and it had been... crippling, to say the least. He hadn't been ready for it, still isn't in some ways, but what choice was there? Not much of one. He can be a real jerk, but a heartless b*****d he is not.

There is no choice, now. He has a daughter. They'd had their chance, and from what he can recall, she threw it away.

"It's complicated." He isn't sure what else to say, doesn't want to get into the complexities of it, but knows he'll probably have to in the very near future. He's frustrated. Star being dead isn't part of his plan, and not something easily amended.

He's enamored by her ring, feeling naked without his own. It was back home, dangling on a chain around her neck. He felt traitorous, thinking how much better it would look on the Skye beside him. It's not that he doesn't love his own. He's grown to, over time, trial and circumstance. But the knowledge that she's not his own, not really, has been an impenetrable barrier between them. He's always felt cheated, left to live half a life while puppeteer-ed through someone else's against his will.

As the cross catches the light, his thoughts go deeper to the realms of life and death, of resurrection -

"I made a promise to someone, and I need your help." He takes a final drag and presses the cherry into the overflowing ashtray, crushing the light from it with the tip of his index finger. "I need a way to bring Star back to life."

[Rose Scented]

Nothing.

Right, and I’m a monkey’s uncle.

Rationally speaking, Skye shouldn’t care, so when he responded she merely nodded her head and pulled up another glass of alcohol, wondering if it was possible to die of liver failure when she was supposed to be immortal. Her gaze was pulled away from him and she studied the burning clove between her fingers, admiring the dark grey smoke as it snaked towards the ceiling before dragging off its filter and savoring its tangy thrall.

It’s complicated.

Skye nodded, “I figured as much.”

Her curiosity was piqued, and for a moment she was tempted to pull on the gifts of her mind, to take a little peak into the forefront of his thoughts and discover just what he was being so cryptic about, but she ignored the instinct. Pushed it away. She shifted on the stool to uncross her legs, lowering them and dropping the balls of her feet to the ground. She was about to stand and dismiss herself, to go back to her room and drink by herself without his frustrating presence, but she got as far as standing, her lips parted, when he spoke again and left her feeling faint.

I made a promise to someone, and I need your help -- I need a way to bring Star back to life.

Skye’s knees went weak and she lowered herself back to the stool, offering another dangerous look, this one much more deeply seated than the last. She felt the small hairs at the back of her neck rise and clenched her fists against the bare tops of her thighs.

“Why are you so interested in my mother?” she asked softly, her tone seething and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

[Milkseik]

It's thrilling, the animosity, the power in her eyes as she cuts him a glare that would have lesser men quaking in their boots. His lips press in a tight line, and he's acutely aware of his own pulse pumping life through his system, can feel the persistent throb as it surges through his wrists, his temples, around his eyes and down, deep into his gut. He tries to remind himself that it's only chemical, but the body wants what the body wants, and he knows it goes beyond that by the high pitch ringing in his ears, the song of her siren soul calling for him, singing for him. His hands coil to quell their sudden shaking, tan fists resting against his thighs as he battles himself.

He wonders, briefly, if he suffers alone. Could the taint of the alter-verse Avery within him be blocking the circuit? Is she immune to the call of it now, because he's no longer exactly himself? I can't believe this...

He draws a steadying breath, hailing the tender. Within seconds there's a full bottle of bourbon wrapped tightly in his fist, and he drains an entire fifth before acknowledging her question.

"All you need to know is that she's the mother of my mate, who's been in mourning since she... found me." He's dancing around the details now, unwilling to wrap his own mind around it let alone explain it to someone else. To her, of all people. Ironically, he hasn't a clue that she can read his thoughts. "I promised I would bring Star to her. I'm... incapable of breaking my word."

There is something in his blood, a strange effect of his heritage, that makes his given word binding. He seldom makes a promise, and when he does so, it's for a very good reason. Skye had wanted all of this no more than he had, and he feels he owes it to her, after everything, to give her the one thing she desires above all else: her mother.

In doing so, maybe he can bring peace to this woman as well. The woman he now knows, with certainly, was destined to be his before the universe decided to have a good laugh at itself, and s**t hit the fan.

[Rose Scented]

---------------------------------------------------------

Skye was a highly unusual creature. Born of the strong, yet fatefully lethal love between a wolf, and a lycanthrope/vampire hybrid, and through this union she had gained a set of rather unique gifts. However, it didn’t take the ability to read minds to know that there was something incredibly wrong with the entire situation.

Beyond the high pitched squall that was ringing in her ears – no doubt the by-product of one too many screwdrivers that morning – she heard his statement and her suspicious look turned downright murderous. “She only has one kid,” Skye uttered out, her voice low and dangerous.

It wasn’t difficult to tap into the speed lent to her both by vampire and wolf alike, forcing her from the stool a foot or so away to right in front of him before he could even blink his ocher eyes. Tucked intimately between the points of his knees, Skye’s hands found either side of his head, her palms pressed firmly to his temples while her fingers twined into the windswept tufts just above them. Only because of the surprise of her sudden movement was she able to lock her gaze with his and force her way into his mind.

Her eyes narrowed as she was thrown into chaos, two minds battling for one space, neither entirely happy, and yet both forcibly content. Air hissed through her teeth as she forced herself deeper, digging her nails gently into his scalp and curling her upper lip into a confused snarl as she got to the root of Avery’s oddness.

Her. Sort of.

It looked like her, but that was where the similarities stopped.

The Skye in his mind was weak, human.

It was more subconscious than planned when her head moved forward still, a hairsbreadth away. She could smell the bourbon on his breath, feel the hot moisture against her lips. Hear the rush of his blood like white noise and for a moment… The earth stood still.

"What in the--"

[Milkseik]

One moment, she's sitting next to him, fit to rip his face off. The next, she's poised between his knees with her palms planted firmly to either side of his head, her hellish glare boring hatefully into wide, unsuspecting eyes. It happens in a second, in the space between breaths, and it's all he can do to sit there mutely with high brows and parted lips.

The bottle of bourbon slides from his fingers to smash against the floor, rousing him from the sudden stupor. He recovers pretty fast, but his thoughts are already swirling in a painful vortex, funneling directly into the b***h who has the nerve to breach his mind. He's grown rather sensitive about sharing the space in his head, since he has to do it every God damn day of his life, and for once he isn't down for a threesome.

The deeper she invades, the more his pupils expand, swallowing each iris to spread like a stain across his vision. His upper lip hooks in a sneer, and with inhuman speed of his own he's got her wrists locked in an iron grip, tearing her hands from his face in the process of pinning them to her sides.He's cornered on the stool, but that doesn't keep him from shoving her sharply away from him.

"Don't." He growls through the tension in his jaw, sliding sideways off the seat now that she's out of the way. Avery lets her go, backing up from her while his chest heaves with his breathing and his fingers twitch sporadically at his sides.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" He remarks acidly, an underlying pitch giving his voice a two-toned quality. He's done an entire one-eighty from less than eight seconds ago, the sudden surge of rage and power washing through him to eradicate whatever spell he'd fallen under. He holds on desperately, grateful for anger, for hatred, for all the things that bar him from what he can never have.

It's easier this way.

[Rose Scented]

---------------------------------------------------------

The loss of connection leaves her startled as the world comes back into focus. His memories taper off and with a glaring, harsh quality that strikes her like a viper, she’s left stricken and anguished. Held by his feelings, and by her own, it takes her a moment to blink and start to focus, barely feeling the steely cage of his fingers around the slender bones of her wrist. Her feet twist together when he pushes her back and as he releases her she hits her knees and slumps forward.

Skye’s shoulders hunch and her eyes remain unfocused, but she does hear him.

Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?

Her own witticisms have left her in the dust as she stares down into the palms of her hands, confused and yet fully understanding at the same time.

String theory had always been her vote when it came down to the mechanics of time travel, and now the proof was standing shy of her, looking as angry and majestic as a very pissed off lion. She didn’t blame him. Not with the new information that was knocking around in her head, buzzing like a s**t storm of angry wasps, stinging over and over again until insanity seemed the only escape.

She took several deep breaths in through her nose and out through her pursed lips, and when a fraction of the white noise had died down she lifted her eyes to look at him. The rage had evaporated, leaving behind a vague sense of unwarranted betrayel. “You want to bring her back, and then take her to that other,” and it wasn’t a question.

"Why in Gaia's name would I help you take her away from me again?"

[Milkseik]

"It's not like that." His voice tapers down in volume, the black luster of his eyes retreating to the dark wells from whence it came. He folds his arms defensively across his chest, glaring down his nose at her slouched and kneeling on the floor. Maybe she's not so unlike her alter-self after all. The thought both disappoints and relieves him, but he's still mad as hell. She's in no position to deny him at this point.

Avery stands his ground.

"I'm not going to steal your mommy." He mocks, quirking a brow in condescension. "Skye just needs closure. You lost her a year ago and you're still miserable, I can feel it." He jabs a thumb at his own chest, over his heart. An empath from birth, he's spent his entire life learning how to tune out the emotions of others, but her grief has a shrill intensity that begs to be sated. "She can feel it, too. Your mom might not be exactly her mother, but she's as close as it comes, so don't be selfish."

He goes to her with a smirk, offering a hand to help her up.

"If I can learn to share, so can you." He believes what he says. This Skye is more like him in some ways. She's got more spice than nice in her, can hear and deliver the hard truth in equal measures. She's not easily broken, but bitter. She stews in herself.

He knows it all, and more. He also knows she's stubborn, and that this battle is yet to be won.

He hates her, and he wants her, and he wonders all at once.

[Rose Scented]

---------------------------------------------------------

A great sense of dislike was slowly mounting in her chest. It felt as though a giant hand had punched through her sternum, large fingers wrapped her heart and with every statement that left his lips the fingers squeezed just a little tighter. Skye’s betrayed look tempered into a storm of fury as he spoke to her like she was a child, a whiney little spat of a thing that still needed her mommy to tuck her in at night.

To be fair, she did have the urge to jump up and down and scream that she was Skye, and this other girl was only an imposter with her face, but instead she solidified her glare and climbed to her feet, ignoring his outstretched palm. “Luckily for me I don’t have to learn to share. It can’t be done,” she stated evenly, the words hissing passed the snarl that lingered in her voice.

The dust was brushed from her knees and her shirt was straightened back over the creamy stripe of flesh that had peeked out above the hem of her shorts.

“But good luck with that whole promise situation. I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” she tossed the words venomously at him and turned away in a decidedly dismissive manner, perching on her stool once more and fishing a fresh cigarette from the red and white pack.