| Owner | Pose |
|---|---|
| James Barnes | It's cold out, but clear. The moon just past full and bright as a silver coin in the winter sky. Night time....and on one of the sere lawns in the big park, a boy and his dog are playing. Well, boy of a kind - Buck's in an old military surplus parka, jeans, boots, hair tucked up under a black watch cap. Lili's out of her service dog vest; it's bound to a backpack set off to the side. Buck has one of those plastic dog ball throwers....and both it and the balls he's using glow softly in the dark. At the moment, the big Shepherd is dancing around in anticipation on front of him, ears and tail up. Throw the ball! Throw it! THROW IT METAL HUMAN. |
| Illyana Rasputina | Cold as the weather is, it's still laughably autumn to someone raised in the edges of Lake Baikal. Cracked skies offer no tangible threats of spitting snow, but crumbled handfuls of slush pile up with the fallen maple leaves in distant corners. The upright branches scored out in grey and black serve as an impressive distinction. Some of the bushes rustle here and there, evidence to startled squirrels collecting the crop of nuts from one another, a parade of thieves all with the cumulative attention span of... well... a squirrel. Larger wildlife and fauna are practically non-existent in the heart of New York, extirpated entirely except for feral cats, pampered dogs, and runaway, misbehaving kindergartens ignoring their nannies. Other predators, but they wear suits or army coats or ... leather pants. There is no reason that someone off a runway can possibly wear leather pants for purposes of walking. Yet there she is, a blonde scowling off down one of the invisible paths known only to lesser troubles of a certain squirrelly kind, and possibly a mildly larger one. It takes Illyana a moment of surveying the heavier undergrowth to decide whether sound comes from ahead of her or aside. A look round gives a rapid assessment. Back stiff, shoulders straight; that's a bit telling. Blonde hair floats around her shoulders in that cutting lack of warmth. Eyes narrow at the glowing orb thing. She stiffens a little more. <<Xraxre, get /back/ here.>> |
| James Barnes | The glowing ball goes winging down the lawn. Buck's being lazy - he's using his human hand, and only a little fraction of his strength. This is time for play and gentle exercise for his companion, no attempt to exhaust her. She goes bolting after it, ears pinned, running for the sheer exuberant joy of it, to leap and catch it before it can hit the ground. Lili turns to Bucky, but doesn't fetch it back. No, she's turned to prance hopefully sideways towards Illyana, flirting canine-style. I have a ball and yooooouuu don't. "Lili," comes the rasping voice. "That lady's not here to play with you." He doesn't quite lumber, does Buck. Not that heavy, yet. But his tread's a little weary, no hint of that feral grace "Don't go botherin' her." The dog looks back at him, pins her ears, then looks to Illyana hopefully. Wagging her tail. He's wrong. You're totally here for me. |
| Illyana Rasputina | A chunk of glowing plastic treated to show up in the dark can't be much of a threat. It wobbles and wiggles like a bloated dragonfly to an eager hound, just out of her reach. A toss and its sailing trajectory brings out a rustle from the dying greenery, an explosion of shed foliage and rotting, wet plant material, the odd chip bag, and a few things really beyond naming. The shape barely seems to connect with the ground at that galloping pace, as eagerly pursuing the ball as Lili is. Except her jaws clamp around the toy and bring down the quarry, whereas its don't. Which might be a good thing. There may not be much of a ball left. The quadrupedal shape at least looks like a dog, awfully broad in the shoulders, barrel chest and sloped back ending in a long, sleek tail. Illyana makes a cutting motion before it can rock back onto its haunches and leap, putting something squatter than the Shepherd behind her with a sidestep smooth as butter and pivotal with ease. It slouches from Bethlehem a little closer, eyes black pits in a black face, ink-void of night. "Illy?" she asks the dog in something of a rasp, then up to the man. Her head cocks, a stiff angle. "Dangerous to play after dark." Her tone is hoarse, and there's no mistaking the Siberian tempest seared into her low whisper. It inflects every sound even though she speaks English perfectly. With a slightly refined English overtone to the vowels and precise enunciation, further proof it isn't native. But Lili is a good girl and so she holds out her palm just in case. The barghest behind her, dog-that's-not-a-dog, makes a soundless whine. <<Xraxre, shhh.>> Russian. See? |
| James Barnes | The Shepherd is all cheerful friendliness. Not a fierce bone in that furry body. She's advancing in all confidence, big, brown eyes bright. Yes, you understand. Then there's that *thing* and Buck's summoning her back to him with a sharp whistle. Still unconscious of any danger, but she's a good dog, indeed. Her human, on the other hand, well.... Buck's expression has gone to that studied neutrality, lips pressed into a grim line. "Yeah, it is," he agrees, voice just as flat. A gesture has the Shepherd at his side again, her grin fading as she reads his distress. She looks up with the canine equivalent of a frown. |
| Illyana Rasputina | The barghest is, by all appearances, a dog. A black dog, simply that. He tilts his head and makes another soft keening sound that might rattle the hair on the back of the neck instead of the ears, but a dog is a dog. No collar. No signs of ownership other than slinking around Illyana like every other hound trying to impress a lady. It stares with those great dark eyes at Lili departing with the treasured ball. No salivating after that. The thump of its long tail makes more noise than it does, peering around the woman's calf. Bucky earns that intrinsically long stare. The distance is there, and her eyes are the blue of the arctic heights that feed Siberia's great rivers. The Lena, the Yenisei, the Ob: they all stare out through the gemstone fairness. A brief look, then she taps her fingers against her hip, earning the black dog sinking down with its snoot on its forepaws. "He's no trouble. Wanted to play with the chipmunks, but they know better. I found needles back there off the path." Her lip curls slightly, mild distaste present. "Gone now. Not good for her paws." |
| James Barnes | "It didn't used to be like this," There's a weirdly plaintive note in his voice. Not generally one to reminisce about the good ol' days - he remembers when there were Hoovervilles in the Park, after all. But addiction as a scourge out in public, no. Lili's peeking hopefully around him, still gripping her ball. A toss of her head, a prompting look. I could play with him, if you're tired, human. I could. He meets her gaze with that stitch of weariness between his brows, the one that makes his real age much closer to apparent. "Sorry," he says, with no real contrition. "I'm kinna protective of her." |
| Illyana Rasputina | "Better in summer?" Illyana sounds dubious, the note flat on her tongue. Her delivery is a touch more tuneless than some, still pleasant. Addiction and poverty walk arm-in-arm, suffering for the seedy underbelly of the city beneath glittering towers devoted to Mammon. Of course she might know. Xraxre truly would like to play in some pointed, dissolving way. Where the light doesn't strike him, he has a glossless quality, all fuzzy black. And he lies in her shadow, the not particularly tall girl casting a dark, long one. Sufficient for two, anyway. An ear swivels and flicks to regular nighttime sounds. Those squirrels are out doing minor procurement and stock evaluation, screeching about something. Possibly dogs and more. Illyana shakes her head to the apology. "Your friend. It's good to watch over such things. Too many people take their best companions for granted." A nod to Lili follows. "She has excellent comportment." |
| James Barnes | <<Better in summer,>> he confirms. His Russian is almost accentless, but not quite. It still bears the imprint of that first instructor from Vladivostok, all those years ago. A man dust and ash for two generations, a memory erased. <<But I meant....longer ago than that.>> Flat, in turn - as if Winter's affect were carried on the language. His head tilts, as he examines that black hound. <<What is he?>> Not 'what kind is he?' - it's clearly almost a dog, but not quite. Lili puts the ball in his hand, sighs, leans on him. <<She's a prize, and a gift from a friend.>> Affection there, warming that grim voice. |
| Illyana Rasputina | Easier, there. The Far Eastern touch might bring a slight elevation to those golden brows. Sunlight from the high summer in St. Petersburg, never without its tinges of frost. Mother Russia never forgets her season of birth and age. Russian leaps to her lips with better ease, a nuanced facility matching her English. <<A hundred years ago, still a swamp in places? Or maybe when it was wild where the river ran through and it was only sedge grasses blowing in the wind.>> She draws a brief, flowing ripple with her gloved palm. The barghest looks hopefully at the gesture. His nose lifts and she stares down at him, pale blue eyes watching the black matte stare. <<He is one of Morana's hounds. Better behaved after his run, but he belongs back by his churchyard.>> |
| James Barnes | <<Not that old,>> Buck's grin is reluctant, but it brings some of the light back to his face. <<But old. No. I wish I coulda seen it way back when.>> Lili's leaning against his thigh, sighing. His gaze follows hers. <<He's like....a ghost? A guardian?>> Dimly familiar with the myths of the church grims. <<What's he doing out here with you?>> |
| Illyana Rasputina | <<It was pristine, beautiful probably. Not like anywhere so close to the city now.>> Murals are somewhere down in the city's museums, a pretty diorama revealing glimpses of a lost landscape where New Amsterdam clung in a half-submerged world ruled by the tidal basin and Henry Hudson barely put his name to a river, let alone a gigantic bay and much beyond. Church grims are an accurate testament, the name of a Slavic winter goddess invoked with ease. <<He ran away, bored most likely. I found him wandering about and he will stay with me until it's time to go back.>> Illyana isn't ever relaxed. An iron rod for a spine will do that. But she hardly looks too troubled when turning her head, examining the black-eyed monster. <<There were not any bodies back there. Just the needles. A bad spot for them to cut off their pains.>> |
| Illyana Rasputina | The barghest listens the way Lili does, and gives one good thump of that unnervingly sleek tail. It doesn't whip too much. The edges are a bit soundless, but he is clearly corporeal. <<A shade, like that. He punishes the wicked,>> she explains without preamble. |
| James Barnes | Something about that makes his lips twist. <<Bored, huh? Like an ordinary dog.>> Is that amusement, in the pale eyes? Quite possibly. The comment about there being no bodies makes that somberness return, though. <<Anyone who's wicked?>> He's not lunging after Bucky, after all, and him with all that blood on his hands. Or rather, the hands of his possessing demon, currently locked in slumber. Frozen within him, rather than without. |
| Illyana Rasputina | <<Would you care to sit in the yard night after night, with none to play with you?>> A trite comment from anyone else, but not with that delivery, come restless or come sharp. Illyana's full lips turn to a thinner smile most glacial in shape and make. The expression is not meant to be an insult to conversation or together, the privations of silence lasting a moment or a beat too long. <<Many. I won't tolerate a badly behaved, unholy riot on my hands. This is not appropriate. He can be mannered and civil.>> A nod indicates the German shepherd patiently outlined, almost acknowledged by a certain rare patience. The sentiment of respect is clearly there. <<Not with a proper lady. What brings you? Work in a later shift?>> |
| James Barnes | That makes him laugh his soundless laugh, eyes gone to pale crescents of mirth. <<You gotta point there,>> he admits. <<Man, you're gonna have me going by the old churches in New York, trying to call them out to come play. Poor guys.>> He can have pity for immortal dog monsters, too. Her question makes him offer a little shrug, more a roll of hands than anything else. <<Sometimes. I don't sleep much, and after 9 pm and before 9 am, dogs can be off leash in most places in the Park. It's nice to be out with her, give her a chance to play.>> |
| Illyana Rasputina | <<The wellspring of faith is weak here. Have a care. The chains holding them are corroded and weak,>> Illyana warns. <<The park is clear but the churchyards are not. They forget their past, and some are poisoned.>> No smile from the young woman, who can't be fully legal to drink at most bars. Not that it likely stops her. She rests her palm on the inset of her waist, and gestures. At once, Xraxre leaps up to his paws in a sinuous motion without so much as a sound, other than to shake himself off from the ulterior luminescence of her bleak shadow. He paces around her in a circle, staring at Bucky. No whites to those eyes, no whites to that teeth. Black can have shades of hue, onyx and basalt to the blind void. <<Come, Xraxre. Be well, comrades.>> Her movements slip into focus, a prowl of unearthly precision. <<We have hunting to do.>> |