KS: Aralie, Aiden, Margot, Nohr

Aralie
:: The day was overcast with heavy, low clouds. They carried winter in their bellies, mothers of snow and ice ready to bring forth a new season. For now, Portree was cold while autumn burned bright and shivered on toward its approaching end; but heavy snow hadn’t stuck to the cobbles yet. A thin dusting of flurries flickered down over the town that afternoon, catching – and quickly melting – in long hair, or on flushed noses. Winter attire was already visible about passersby – scarves, long coats, stylish boots, and puffballs atop hats. Shop windows offered cold-weather style or function to tempt potential buyers, and where Halloween had diminished, put away until the next season of trickery and catharsis, *some* signs of Christmas began to bloom here and there, though not extensively yet. It sold to tourists well, though. Aralie was at work that day at Antiques in Time, glancing now and then out the blue-painted panes. She always felt a buzz of excitement when winter  arrived. Some preferred the bright bloom of spring, or the carefree heat of summer. Autumn was her second favorite, though the macabre fancy for bright decay went hand-in-hand with the shimmering death that winter portrayed to many. She favored these things, though, but not for some jaded or depressed dislike of life – she simply appreciated the loveliness that came with the deathlier seasons. The swirl of light flurries certainly caught her cobalt eye while she went about dusting in that grand antique shop. Figurines once precious to now-past custodians stood watch near the window – a potpourri of knights and kittens; ballerinas and nutcrackers. They weren’t situated in a haphazard way, but stood organized by time period, style, aesthetic, and whatever other detail best suited each section. So nothing would appear as chaos – at worst, very organized and inviting chaos, haunted with countless tales of bygone times.  Aralie herself, colorless as winter with her fair skin (which only ever burned and shed any hope of sun staying), cool-toned eyes, and grey hair wafted about with her feather duster like Jack Frost herself – spilling ‘snow’ about as dust sifted down from product she attended to. She might have fit in with librarians for her white blouse with the matching, ruffled scarf that airily descended from her neck across her sternum; and long, black pencil skirt that hovered over beige stockings. She lacked the stereotypical glasses, but her hair was pinned up, wavering about her crown culminating in a large, loose bun at the back of her head. The one spark of color about her existed in the shock of crimson that dangled from each ear – simply fabric tassels attached to a single pearl each. She’d picked them up from a shop up the street that week. Overall, the day was heavy with winter, and Aralie was content for it and the work she’d had to fortune to find there in the antique shop. She swore sometimes a cassette or old radio’s batteries turned an ounce of power to play out quiet old recordings now and then, though whenever she got to the section with old audio tech, the batteries probably had decayed out and silenced the murmurs. It was a personal game for her – one day she’d catch which radio or tape player was the culprit, and try to discern what message from beyond (their eras) they were trying to ambiently relay. Static buzzed then, even as she thought about it with her mind adrift – and she turned sudden and determined, dropping her feather duster in her haste to the radio section. Someone was singing, it was distant, like the recording was aged and poorly powered by whatever battery kicked in that was accidentally left inside whatever device was at it now. It was something from the 40s she guessed, though she wasn’t a huge expert on period music of any kind to properly tell. “Keep singing – I want to hear it, don’t turn off this time—” she fancifully spoke to the ‘haunted’ radio, wherever it was. Maybe it was a record player? She didn’t know if they ever used batteries, so she couldn’t say. She only spoke aloud on the assumption she was alone – the shop had been quiet during the afternoon; that is, until whatever device began to croon its distant song of love lost. The words spun slow and faint, so most were difficult to make out. “Drat.” She spoke over the radios and stamped a foot. For when she’d gotten there, it’d gone silent again, and none of the tech betrayed which device was the culprit. None had batteries in them still, and none were plugged in - though Aralie hadn't gone so far as to open *each* one to figure that out yet. [d] ::

Aiden
Heavy, and thick cloud cover was a godsend to any vampire who desired to traverse the daylight hours. Of course it still burned, there was little in this world that could alleviate the curse of night from the kindred. But aided by black tinted windows, thick wool clothing, that suited so well to these cold months of winter, and an umbrella adding further protection and aesthetic to one's ensemble. It was possible for a vampire to appear somewhat more active during the daylight hours. Aiden had used this Method to make business meetings many a time, though usually it was offered as a rouse to ensure he appeared as mortal as anyone else. Granted in this day and age, the worry of his time schedule could be excused as him merely being a night owl. Mortals and their addictions to their flashing screens and cellular phones had made his life that much easier. Aiden had no intention to remain, He never did. However that didn't mean he would not build connections and business relationships while he stayed abroad from his New York office and apartment. Sells, were sells big or small. He'd left, early in the morning, while the sun was still hidden behind the horizon, and drifted into town where he saw old friends, and familiars. They in their obligated kindness, provided shelter when the sun was unavoidable, and conversation granting him tidbits of good and bad news that shifted his mapped out movements through the city, to bring him front and center to a familiar antique shop where in he had once sold a number of masterpieces from ancient times. In some hubris he was assured that nothing he had supplied remained. But curiosity was always the slayer of felines. With his Umbrella overhead, Aiden entered quietly into a most unique sensation, like static upon his skin he could feel the hairs on his arms rise up for a brief moment, and then nothing. Which left him momentarily chilled colder than usual before it was merely shaken off. All the while he hadn't entered into the shop just yet. Eventually he did, pulling his Umbrella closed deftly behind him as the door shut and stepping just to the side of radiant rays of sunshine peeking through the windows and given shape by the objects they passed beyond. Met first with the sounds of familiar music that for the moment brought him back to the good old days of bombs and machine guns and angry German officers. Those were good days for anyone who knew how to navigate wartime economy. In fact, he still had a painting of Adolf's sitting in a safe in New York. " Good Afternoon " he called after his moments of reminiscing over days long past. Aiden could not be sure who or what he would meet within these walls, which dictated him to just lightly touch the atmosphere with some of his unnatural presence. Wanting to ensure that any dark allure he might have exuded would be masked by a touch of awe. Granting him just a bit more mortal camouflage. Then, a well practiced polite, and and slightly charming smile.

Margot
••• “No cream, thanks.” the withering femme murmured as she handed a few crumpled bills over the counter. With a free hand, she rubbed her temple gently, eyes closed behind dark shades. Stepping out of the way so that the next addict could place their order, Margot leaned on a high wooden railing beside the counter. Her stomach roiled slowly, issuing complaint audibly from beneath a heavy wool, camel-colored coat. The price tag was still attached, dangling off of the sleeve of the hand which nursed her temple and eyes. It boasted of Christian Dior origins, but it could be easily surmised by the mess of hair boiling around a haphazardly wrapped scarf and smudged sunglasses that it was not intentionally flashy. Margot was, admittedly, a bit of a mess. Still a bit drunk from the night before, it seemed. “Shhh, please.” she hissed as her drink order was called out by the small bird chirping out drinks from behind the counter. The light and sound sensitive seer ushered herself quickly out of the baking company, away from the cry of steam wands, the din of metal baking sheets clanging, and the immature twang of a teen voice hollering out mochas and sugary confectionery. Overhead, clouds rolled slowly in the cold, gray November sky. Met with a blast of wintery air, other citizens lowered their heads and tucked their noses into scarves around her. Margot lifted her face clear of the scarf and sighed. The cool air was refreshing to her senses, which remained a vague and directionless cacophony of images. The clearest of which being birds, flocking in a wavering ribbon on a backdrop not to dissimilar from the present day’s. Gulping eagerly from the plastic lid of the coffee cup, the prophet didn’t spare a glance either way before stepping off the curb to cross the street. She’d die someday, but not today. Flurries drifted down around the quiet town, rolling along the cobblestones while trying to find some tooth by which to stick. Finding none in the streets, they’d swirl and snake along the paved and unpaved ground while their cousins dotted the dark backdrop of Margot’s hair before melting. She was warm. Always warm. Pausing at a bench to pop the plastic lid off of the cup, she set it down and withdrew a leather-wrapped flask. Spinning the lid off as she watched flurries melt at the inky liquid’s surface, Margot dumped a healthy dose of bourbon into the cup before tucking the flask away again. Popping the lid back on, she resumed sipping and wandered down the street. Warm, glowing store fronts promised the approaching holiday season subtly. (And not so subtly in others’ cases: sickly bright twinkling lights and the occasional horrific rendition of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I want for Christmas’ shouted out briefly open doors to abuse passersby.) Unsure about the path she took, but absolutely positive of the destination, Margot wandered aimlessly until her cup was near empty. She watched people walking dogs, and once redirected a small girl out of harm’s way by grabbing the hood of her coat and tugging her aside. Naturally, her mother’s protest fell on deaf ears as Margot continued walking. Wanting neither accolade or abuse, the now happily tipsy clairvoyant listened as the sound of an air conditioning unit crashed to the pavement behind her, where the child had been standing before Margot passed. Ah, the lovely transition from blistering summer into blustery winter. Margot didn’t go out of her way to prevent every catastrophe. She’d struggled with the visions of death and impending doom in her teens, and the resulting feelings of helplessness and jaded discontent. It took years, but eventually she realized that preventing one death today meant a continual prevention every day after, for every person she crossed. So she drank. And coped by helping when she could, but only within the confines of the path she was already traveling. Her phone buzzed, muffled by the thick confines of deep pockets. (Bless you, Christian Dior, for understanding womens’ need for deep pockets.) She ignored it, not caring to stare at a bright screen declaring her attention ought be elsewhere. When she spied the bricked face of ‘Antiques in Time’ and its navy blue accented threshold, she paused. From behind circular shades, pale green hues watched the people that wandered past and to the door. When Aiden appeared, walking with his head down and a black umbrella overhead, she grinned briefly against the lip of her cup, emptied it in one last sip, and tossed the empty vessel into the trash beside her. (She was going to hell anyway, why recycle?) A moment later, as expected, a boisterous group of teens on their cell phones, hanging off of one another to keep warm (because why wear the coats mum insisted on wearing when you had a real cute, not-warm-at-all, sweater fresh off the Free People rack?) passed and concealed her spying eye as the door closed behind Aiden. Waiting ten minutes, Margot lit the cigarette that she knew would inflame his senses when she entered the claustrophobic space. He would later recount how it mingled with the smell of her intoxicated (or was it ‘intoxicating’?) blood and her perfume: sweet, sanguine bourbon, douglas fir, vanilla leaf, pine resin, hemlock, coffee, and tobacco. All paired with the heady scent of old growth, decaying paper, and brisk autumnal wind. Extinguishing the cigarette as it burned into the filter, she breathed in and closed her eyes. Even in knowing what came next, she was still anxious. With a few lithe, wavering steps, she crossed the street and walked into the Antique store. It held the fair silver fox that would become a close friend, and the brooding vampire that would be her end. And soon, the honest toxicologist that would round out their motley crew. •••

Nohr
They were just friends. Right? RIGHT?! Don’t ask a question to yourself that you can’t fucking answer, Nohr. Groaning, the toxicologist hit his head against his apartment’s frosted window; aegean eyes set on the occasional person passing below. It was now or never. Finishing off his coffee – Nohr set to bundling himself up and grabbed his phone. Before completely heading out, he thumbed a text to Aralie, <’Be there soon.’> Purposely, he didn’t reply to her little jab about lunch, and grinned while pocketing his phone. Since meeting, the occasional heckle or two {or ten} happened daily between them. Yet, it was always done with a tinge of affection. They had an odd relationship and it wasn’t so easily defined in dictionary terms. Whatever they were – they were content to just be. The walk to the antique shop wasn’t a long one and carrying himself in larger strides, Nohr arrived about fifteen minutes later. It was upon arrival he noticed that there were two people already in the shop. He’d never seen either of these people before. But he kept back his prickly defense and wandered on in – his eyes looking over the various items set meticulously about the shop. Old places like this always had a unique smell. That particular scent that was often associated with dusty libraries or longstanding garages. And to Nohr? It was a childhood memory of his. As he’d often read books in his grandfather’s library; huddled up by the warmth of the nearby fireplace while that old man brooded away in his chair, puffing at his pipe -- -- those recollections dissolved upon the doctor realizing that he was standing in the threshold of the shop letting cold air in. Oops. Awkwardly, he fumbled to close the shop door behind him … … but then his scarf got caught in the door briefly choking him! FUCK! GAG! HACK! With a forceful tug, he stumbled forward – the floor groaning underneath his weight --- AH, WAIT! NO! Not good! Don’t make such sudden movements in an antique shop---- too late. He had already bumped his hip into a nearby porcelain cat and caused it to shatter instantly. “ – shit.” Nohr said, crouching down quickly to pick up the pieces upon the floor. Nice first impressions. “I don’t know how much this ugly—err… nice… cat was, but – I’ll pay for what I can today and then pay off the rest next week??” He searched about for Aralie, as if she’d be his saving grace from this social blunder. But, so far. There seemed to be only two people present. A pale, dark-haired male and a wispy looking female with brown locks … the scent of smoke about her. Speaking of smokes. Nohr felt the instant urge to reach for a smoke; hand twitching. To calm his nerves? Certainly. To use an excuse to book it? Definitely. Though, this was Aralie’s job. He couldn’t just ditch it. If he did ditch it he’d be known as the fuck-up doctor who trashed stores and then ran away from them. Small towns liked to. That wasn’t good. He was being exactly what his --- …. … calm… yourself. Fuck. “… it really was an ugly cat though, in my defense.” Nohr said, picking up what he could of the broken pieces with his gloved hands.

Aralie
:: Aralie absently raised her left hand to dust the radios to show she was a good enough friend to them to receive their secrets *some* day – but her hand came up empty. Oh right, the feather duster was abandoned in her haste to spy on whichever culprit had spun up the slow, quiet haunt of pleasant, antiquated music. Truth was, none of the radios or record players or other bygone tech had produced the sounds at all. An antique shop carried memory and history with it among its plethora of relics – it’d been something else entirely crooning quiet notes unseen. She turned back toward the abandoned feather duster, only to shift her gaze toward the door where a potential customer came in from the chilly, flurried weather. “Welcome to Antiques in Time,” she chimed up loud enough to be heard from where she was.  Jolene initially was going to leave the new arrival to explore on his own – she was the type who didn’t like to be harried while she browsed, and antique shops invited guests to explore their own paths at their own paces. Though an intangible made her double-take slightly when she had begun to turn away. Rationally, she assumed she had a reason for the double-take – hardly aware of what eldritch pull he, not of the living mortals (equally unknown), possessed. So her mind filled in that it must have been a friendly charisma, or a déjà vu moment – had they met? Maybe at the Halloween party hosted at the manor? She didn’t dwell on it; her brain had been satisfied enough so she began to approach. “Are you looking for anything in particular? I can help direct you to a section that suits your interests – or – “ she smiled, aware of her own preferences when shopping, “—leave you be to explore. I’m Jolene, happy to help!” Her name tag pinned to her blouse of course already introduced. A multitasker, she stooped to pick up the feather duster that now lay at her feet – another customer came in while she was out of line-of-sight, and quite soon after, she heard the telltale shatter of porcelain. She rose up slowly, consciously so as not to add more alarm to the situation. Though when her cobalt gaze sought out the culprit – this time she found one, unlike among the radios – “Nohr!” She exclaimed, but not in shock or chiding. She was happily surprised to see him (and she hadn’t seen his message to her, as she was a good clerk who wasn’t on her phone all day while at work!). “Er… oh.” It was as if it was only after the world was shoved away around him in her eyes, that it all snapped back with the reality that he’d just broken something. It had been a hideous take on a fat luck cat, whose paw still curved upward – disembodied – from the floor, with one, jaggedly broken eye staring up at Nohr beside it. “How many years of bad luck is that?” She asked jokingly to the first customer (Aiden), trying to lighten the mood for all, while still taking the opportunity to tease Nohr (as was a lively staple of their interactions now). “It’s fine – I know you’ll take care of it. Everything breaks eventually,” she soothed casually. She had the feather duster, walked by the register counter and set it there, where she intended to go collect a broom and dustpan for the broken pieces of Nohr’s luck (cat). As her hand settled on the broom handle, the door chimed another arrival, and while she didn’t know it as Margot might, the eyes of great friends met for the first time. It was a mundane moment, as many significant occurrences may seem. Aralie admired the stranger’s convivially blasé demeanor – and her willowy build stood out as notable; she seemed fragile as the broken luck cat, though on the opposite end of the weight spectrum from the obese (now shattered) feline. Could Nohr have ever known or realized his hand in all of their meeting that day? The ambiguous, esoteric symbolism of the luck cat breaking at all of their feet? Who could? Perhaps the inebriated stray who subtly brought the aroma of tantalizing, alluring life experiences in the door with her. “Welcome to Antiques in Time,” She extended to Margot, with a glance toward Nohr now, too, to tease him with an air of unfamiliar customer service. Spur of the moment, Aralie opened with an unsure stammer (while the idea formulated even as she spoke), but resumed her typical assuredness. “I’m going to be ordering sandwiches delivered here – you’re all welcome to some if you stick around.” Was this a normal sort of offer? Not really, but she’d felt an inexact compulsion. She collected the broomstick and dustpan, and approached Nohr, squeezing a subtle wink over a teasing grin once she stood before him. “Please enjoy the shop, I’ll be a minute with our poor luck cat here, maybe we can put him back together.” did she mean the cat or Nohr? She’d been looking at him when she mentioned the cat itself. Nohr already was picking up some pieces now, and his ‘defense’ had her laugh. “Maybe so. Sandwiches on you, it’s the only way to be rid of the curse, you know. Breaking stuff in antique shops, especially a luck cat, everyone knows you get a curse from that stuff! Don’t worry, though, I’ll help you through it.”

Aiden
The Antique store offered far more than ugly luck cats, and the likes. There was a collection of scents, and sounds, even feelings that surrounded him. He was upon entering assaulted with the scent of lacquered woods, dust, preserved cloths and other scents that one could attribute to ancient and beloved this and that from the lives of others. Aiden always felt a fascination history, having had witnessed many of the time frames that many of the objects within the store had come from. He almost felt as if he was merely adding his presence to the collection. But that aside, he was greeted by a most friendly face and Aiden, still reliant upon his inborn blood gifts to ensure he felt more human than not smiled and lifted his shoulders somewhat, as he began to speak his response to her question " Honestly, I'm just.. " He was going to say browsing, but found himself interrupted by the abrupt assault of cigarette smoke, alcohol and a hint of bile. He halted the shutter that was threatening to crawl up his spine. Aiden, had seen, and done quite a great deal of things, which had introduced blood and fluids to his life. But there was a particular something about that particular scent that just made him feel somewhat queasty himself. Likely it had something to do with his youth as a human. One could be conditioned out of a great deal. But somethings stuck stronger when others left. Thankfully and disgruntled comments that he might have had toward the drunkard waltzing into the shop was halted by someone else walking in and murdering a poorly put together creature that no doubt was at the end of its luck. As each shard and piece hitting the ground, analytically watched before his eyes raised upward to Nohr, and a polite chuckle passing over his lips " Don't feel bad, That thing has been for at least six of its nine lives. " Then his eyes came toward the other addition. Who was not anything like Aiden had expected by scent alone. Truth be told He was imagining either some disgruntled biker, or a elderly woman, after all the scent of ancient perfume would be a welcome explanation. However her disheveled appearance was not a unwelcome sight, if anything it certainly reminded him of himself so many hundreds of years ago. Nohr's immediate response pulled his focus away from the chaotic allure he'd been entranced too, to watch as Jolene moved to begin collecting pieces of the shattered feline. Sweeping in a graceful motion to collect the waving paw to briefly ~And to his own amusement~ wave bye bye to the world. " I feel slightly responsible for our feline friends death. " He offered " So allow me to split the costs with you. " Now the offer of sandwiches. ~He hated bread~ He could eat, it was pointless, and it would sit in his stomach until he could vomit it up later. " Now that you mention it it does seem to be about that time. " His eyes shifted between Nohr and Aralie, garnering familiarity, adding into the offer of breaking bread he felt inclined to place the paw down and extend his hand out first to Nohr " Aiden Aberdene " His lips upturned into a charismatic smile. " Of Aberdene Exports " offering the name of his company in place of a form of noble title had become habit, a habit that helped him overcome the way english had shifted from refined to relaxed. " A pleasure to meet you "

Margot
 •••The Sybil watched the three with a distinct lack of surprise, given the situation. Margot had already lived out certain events (this being one ) she was simply revisiting this time and place. With more color, vibrancy, smells and sounds. The iteration of their voices in real time was pleasant. Hearing vacant echoes, stretched over time and passed through the veil of alcohol wasn’t nearly as satisfying. A chill prickled the skin at the nape of he neck and chased the length of her spine, drawing prickles up on her arms and legs…just as she began to feel a bit queasy. The broken porcelain cat laid in a smattering of sharp edges at Nohr’s feet, examined by both Aralie and Aiden. The posh sycophant didn’t miss a beat between being the caricature of customer service and an opportunity to pluck at Nohr’s waxing patience, which he would always apply when dealing with Aralie. She briefly wondered when he’d figure out that the tune she was named for would pluck back. The distant voice of Nohr’s rendition of ‘Jolene’ by Dolly Parton during drunken Karaoke was one of Margot’s favorite future memories. Aiden seemed fixed for the moment, and his response was classic Aiden. Graceful dismissal. Unlike the clumsy companionship of Nohr, Aiden’s distraction was glazed over with a proficient change of subject. Margot felt the gentle push of fate’s tide, signaling a brief pause (wherein all participants might feel a sense of retrouvaille for just a moment) before the resulting pull shifted them all apart again, only to be pushed back together, and apart, and together again…leaving them all jagged pieces, unsorted from one another in the end. Both wonderful and terrible luck, they all had. Stifling the urge to vomit, the seer grasped the edges of her coat’s lapels and pulled them around her torso. Being in the meeting point between vision and reality had a way of making her head spin and stomach turn. It was Aralie’s instinctual suggestion that piqued Margot’s attention, “Food would be good.” she interjected with casual cooperation, as if they were already friends discussing brunch plans. Happy for the segue, Margot rubbed her eyes behind the dark lenses. She left them on, despite the cimmerian surroundings. Her phone buzzed in her pocket again, and she continued to ignore it. Unraveling the plaid wool scarf around her throat, Margot released the lapels of her coat and slipped it off of her shoulders. Without looking down, she laid both coat and scarf over the arm of a tufted velvet couch, intimately aware of her surroundings. (The more permanent installations, anyway. Small things were subject to change.) She was clothed in a pair of black, high-waisted distressed jeans, a white camisole, and a vintage wool fair-isle knitted sweater. Save for the jeans, which heavily accented her twiggy legs, everything else hung loosely from her. She folded her arms over her chest as she surveyed the antiques with vague interest, sussing out which of them she’d already seen, and which ones had remained on the periphery of her visions. When in the midst of a scene she’d once seen, Margot liked to inspect the surroundings, feeling that by way of study, she might improve the blind spots. But in reality, she just looked aloof. Introductions passed, and in the brief pause that begged hers, she turned with a vague smile, pushing her sunglasses up off of her face and into her hair. “Margot.” she replied in the space between the three of them, interjection both natural and awkwardly juxtaposed and impersonal. Just as it was supposed to be. There were years of intimacy ahead of the four of them, and she was fending off every opportunity to behave in the opposite. The clairvoyant resisted the urge to play into each of their various weaknesses, taking advantage of knowing their preferences before being told. The result was a somewhat vapid demeanor, but what she lacked in conversational warmth was made up for by the natural pull all four of them had on one another. Many relationships had been destroyed by the intense, unnatural discomfort of her premonitionary behavior. Repeating sentences word-for-word, with the same intonation was mocking, not charming, as she discovered with her mother early on. It was a handy tool as a teen, when she felt the intense (and unexplained) desire to unravel the poor woman that birthed her. Instead, she measured her breaths and waited for the conversation to beg her input.•••


Nohr
It was definitely warmer in here than outside. Of course, the temperature had risen for Nohr exclusively because of his mortification over breaking some porcelain cat on the way in. Really hadn’t been his intention to do so, honest. He verbally stated that at least two times now; all while at the same time placing those broken pieces of the cat lady ornament upon the nearest glass counter showcasing some old plates and fabled teacups. Afterward, Nohr removed his gloves and placed them haphazardly into his coat pocket – his scarf following afterward. He felt as if his cheeks couldn’t get anymore ruddier. Jesus Christ. Ya’know. For a man that dealt with chemicals all day {with protective wear, no less}; he sure as fuck swore his motor skills had waned because of it. Then again. He’d always been an awkward individual since childhood. Thank the fates it didn’t branch out that heavily into his adulthood. Just… ugh. Now was one of those unpleasant examples of his lackluster social skills and he was swift to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket – ready to throw down a few twenty-dollar bills to smooth over the disaster. He didn’t want Aralie to lose her job over his faux pas and if him offering cash upfront could assuage the scenario, he’d do it -- - --- *oh.* Nohr paused. For an out of the blue voice greeted him and those present. It wasn’t chiding in any form, nor did it contain irritation. Instead, the honied tone greeted the toxicologist with excitement over his company. It was Jolene Aralie. And, her chirpy demeanor lifted some of the guilt he felt over the broken porcelain. For a moment; their eyes met. That orphic polarity tugged at Nohr again and like Aralie, he snapped out of his brief reverie upon realizing it wasn’t just the pair of them standing there, “Hey,” he nodded to her with a lopsided smile, albeit awkwardly as he fetched what pieces he could of the broken cat. Though, that casual ambience didn’t last for long though. Because Nohr felt the color drain from his face upon Aralie turning toward the genteel looking male {Aiden}; asking something about years of bad luck in relation to the gutted luck cat scattered amidst their feet. Haaah. She was goading him. Cheeky little thing, heh. Their interactions were turning into daily games {games he didn’t mind playing} and he couldn’t help but laugh when Aiden added another flavor of humor to the ongoing conversation, “ – I’d say that thing was beyond its nine lives already.” Nohr concluded with a light chuckle, aegean gaze looking over his hands to make sure he didn’t have any cuts. With the fourth person entering {Margot}, the three sisters of fate cackled. But, far from the pantheons above the clouds – what was happening presently made the toxicologist’s cheeks puff out childishly at Aralie’s unfamiliar customer service with him. T’ch. “ – maybe you can try fixing something else up first.” He countered with a nip of his own, becoming further huffy as he sunk into the collar of his coat. No doubt she was eating up that reaction of his. A reaction that Nohr hoped wouldn’t leak too much to her satisfaction … but ugh. It did leak and oooh, did he slouch in her latest suggestion for him to pick up the bill for lunch. Seriously? Really. It was the least thing he could do since knocking over that dumb cat thing. Again, how could he EVER say no to Jolene? He couldn’t. But what the hell did he mean prior? He probably meant the social disaster they both faced at the all Hallows Eve party. But. Um. He didn’t make it better either by saying it was a shotgun wedding. He wondered then if the owners of the estate thought they were serious or – obviously not. Considering they didn’t seek them out after they disappeared into the crowds. Although, he was only heckling back in his own fashion at Aralie and she knew that; which was why when their eyes met next again, he gave an impish grin, “Alright, alright. I’ll pay THIS time. Only cause I owe for the cat and I owe yah lunch. Order whatever you all want. It’s on me.” And with a turn, he nodded respectfully toward Aiden & Margot, “Nice to meet you, Aiden, Margot. I’m Nohr Skelton.” His work would eventually come up, but for now he … wanted to get to know these people. There was some odd feeling entwined around the four of them and he didn’t quite know what it was, but something told him to stay around. His father had always told him; ‘friends are a commodity, but family is forever. Our family is forever.’ And since meeting Jolene Aralie … she’d opened up many pathways within him that he never thought existed. Because here he was. Sharing lunch with these unfamiliar, yet familiar strangers on his day off in a small backwater town where his family had no influence over him. … he liked this and he liked his new living situation. Though, he was concerned for the wispy looking woman with dark hair {Margot.} “I could have them pick up some ginger ale in the order, too. Don’t mean to pry. You just don’t exactly look like yourself.”Wait what? Odd words at an odd time. What did he mean by that? He didn’t quite understand it himself, but he felt he knew these people. Quickly, Nohr cleared his throat, “I mean, you – I mean you don’t look well. My bad. I’ll, er, ughhh – go call the local sandwich place now. You all just write down your orders, yah?” Fate liked to work in odd ways and the three sisters of fate had spun a thick tapestry upon these four standing in the dusty antique shop. Neither of them knew of that lurking foreshadowing that draped upon them all like a heavy cloak against the cold, but the shattering of that cat had put good things into motion.

Aralie
:: The conversation that almost began between Jolene and Aiden was cut across by new arrivals – though by the flow of things, this shift wasn’t remotely a bad thing. It clicked in her head where she’d seen him before. “You were Dr. Frank. N. Furter!” She declared with the excitement of the clicking discovery. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you between costume and your street clothes – we met, Nohr and myself, you, Evangeline, Nadine, and the kids that night!” She….wondered if he recalled their jests about the uh…. Camouflage-stripper-shotgun wedding that (fortunately didn’t?) happen the dawn following the Halloween party. Err…. But the recollection perked a humored smile about Jolene’s mouth and eyes at an otherwise untimely interval for sudden cheer. Regardless, it felt great to piece the lurking, but ambiguous familiarity into something meaningful. It also acted as a means to entirely bypass any awareness of more supernatural influences that might subtly expand or retract in the vampire’s presence. At mention of how many lives the luck cat still did have on Aiden’s part, Jolene grinned both humored and glad for Nohr to be pulled into friendly jesting by someone else, too. For how she did affectionately tease him in their seemingly endless back-and-forth goading, harassment, trickery – and so forth – she felt an uncomfortable awareness that she was inclined to tear people’s eyes out for him. …..that wasn’t healthy or normal. Though the consideration had persistently remained within her despite her conscious determination not to be some psycho. It sat there amid the primal places of her psyche as a forceful guest…who…somehow had always belonged there with her. Strange dualities and contradictory sentiments dwelt eerily hand in hand within her – magnified ever since encountering the toxicologist from the start. “I’ll pitch in, too.” She added among the others offering to contribute to the broken luck cat. “I doubt he’ll look right after, but then he’ll be bought off, and could…” she glanced around, schemes weighing the look about her expression. “…place him there, near the register as a shrine to luck pieced back together and a nice meeting the day he died…again!” Would it seem too forward? Too suddenly familiar? She only felt a pale warmth across her nose at the realization after the fact. Though, she’d go with it, unless they didn’t, in which case she’d still keep the fixed-up luck cat nearby anyway. “Great to meet you all today – Aiden, Margot, Nohr and I were already acquainted,” as though that wasn’t obvious. She figured she’d own it and toss in more humor for the others to work with socially. “Yeah – the Halloween party saw us become engaged to a dawn shotgun stripper camo wedding - *not actually* though, it all was a Halloween prank!” She clarified, but with a side glance toward Nohr, she didn’t resist the pull to heckle him. “Or was it?” Her left cheek  tensed subtly upward with the whisper of another understated wink at him as a reminder she was only joking, and enjoying the games they played. “You’re all invited, of course. Wear your best camo and bring your crispest bills. For the strippers, of course. It’ll be at tomorrow’s dawn.” Tomorrow never *really* existed in the present, so in her mind she figured it meant it’d never happen (as an internal aside, that slightly bothered her, too – and she shoved it away as similar madness to the whole, you know, feeling comfortable with doing violence for this guy if occasion called). Although Margot seemed aloof, it came off sort of feline, like cats who wish to be near people, but also apart – perhaps spying otherworldly things with their slit gazes beyond. Of course, the latter was whimsy. In short, she felt quite comfortable among these other three – and that also made her feel anxiety pinch at her stomach a fleeting moment, in case she somehow endangered what felt like a good,  important encounter. Though that fled like so many melting flurries outside, too. Concern was not always a bad thing. It was good to care. More, Jolene wasn’t the type to carry worry with her beyond its useful shelf life.  With all agreed, and Nohr playing the part of begrudging financier, they’d host lunch in Antiques in Time. Fitting. She fixed narrowing eyes on Nohr when he verbally nipped back, but she rolled her eyes over a developing grin. “Whatever, Doc.” She feigned dismissal. “Get us all some food already!” She laughed the last of her words while a light elbow goaded him on at his side. It’d been their first contact of the day, and although her mind spun vertigo-déjà vu and her expression froze a moment while she tried to remember her feet were on solid ground – she tried to otherwise feign all was well, all was normal. These normal people were about to have normal lunch together on a normal afternoon. Or so she tried to spread that propaganda to herself. ::

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