Botanical

Verna Gardner
The Denver Botanical Gardens is where we place our scene tonight. The gardens closed early to host a summer concert, which is just winding down. People mill about, like they do after such things, talking about everything and nothing. About the weather. About the music they just enjoyed. About the flowers in the indoor exhibits that are now opened not to the public, but to nicely-dressed concertgoers.

One of the sides of the building hosts a hallway greenhouse, walled and roofed with curving windows, called the Orangery. Lined with benches, planters, and hanging vines, it contains orchids, bromeliads, neatly-trimmed bushes, and a quiet young woman sitting on a bench, dressed in a green sweater dress, with black hair, dark eyes, and her hands in her lap just so. It seems like she wants to be one with the garden.

She watches people as they walk, using the Orangery as a passage from one part of the building to another. Occasionally, she'll pick someone out to smile nervously at, but so far she hasn't drummed up the courage to actually strike up a conversation.

That's about to change. Internal battles have been waged. Verna's decided. The next person to come along, no matter who it is, they're bound to be decent to taste, and she's just going to do it. She's going to say hello.

Trace
If this were a story bent towards romantic interludes this would be the part where Verna finds not only courage but a tall dark handsome stranger here in the Orangery. It would be the latter strolled along and woke the former.

This is not that sort of story. She may well find courage enough to speak to the next person and the next person may be tall and a stranger but that's about where that fairy tale ends.

The stranger: tall, sure. Pale though and with skin inclined to freckles if not burn. Ruddy underneath the pallor. Blood in milk. That's not enough of a tell for her. She's new at this. He has unremarkable features and a gangly frame. Hair loud orange and short.

He wears dark jeans and a black button-down shirt. It is August but August nights in the mountains can get cold and he is wearing a light jacket overtop. Hands in his pockets.

The fucker is whistling as he walks along.

Verna Gardner
This guy -- he may not be tall dark and handsome, but he's decent enough, yes? No weird piercings, that's good. She smiles at him, tries not to wind the hem of her dress around her fingers, and... and...

"That's a nice song you're uh... whistling. What is it called?"

He'll probably say something like: 'It's called Mind Your Own Freaking Business' only with more cursing. Oh, she hates this part...

She slides over, as if to make room for him on her bench. Hope springs eternal, doesn't it?

The woman currently trying to lure Trace into a conversation is wearing too much makeup, trying to cover for something. Pretending to be alive is a new thing for her. Not everything has clicked yet. She probably needs some pointers from somebody who isn't a guy and knows what color foundation goes best with 'bloodless'. But still, there has been a great amount of effort put into this presentation.

There's been a great amount of effort put into figuring out what to say, too, but that much isn't nearly as obvious. Verna tries. She gives it her best, you know.

Trace
At least the question catches his attention and he doesn't respond with hostility.

That's a nice song. He stops whistling so soon as she compliments him and hesitates on whatever path he had been walking. Unlike the young vampire Trace has a knack for picking out others of his kind. Her makeup job is lacking but that is not what gives her away. One of the first things she learned from her sire was that the Venture are not a clan gifted with Sight.

So what's it called.

"Oh," he says and there's a lilting quality to his accent that hints at distant shores though he's long since left them, "I wish I could tell you, but if it's got one, I don't know it." Before she can respond he takes a closer look at her. Not sure what to make of the empty spot new-made beside her other than an invitation. She seems nervous. Trace looks as if he's smiling to try and reassure her but then he changes his mind after the action potential has already triggered the muscles. "Are you waiting for someone?"

Verna Gardner
"Not anyone in particular," she says, with a tilt of the head, her eyes grazing the floor. Could be she was waiting for you all this time, you lucky dog you.

She looks up from the floor finally, keeps on smiling at him, even though his expression twitches and doesn't quite reach a smile in return. Not promising, that. But as it was a fake smile anyway, there's nothing to dim on her face.

Trace is a pale redhead. Redheads are always pale though, right? There's nothing that she can point to, no tell that sticks out. Nerves, oh, she has those in spades. But it's not because she's sussed out what he is and is keeping herself taut and alert. She's just like this.

"Are you? Looking for someone?"

Trace
That line only works on people who have pulses. Pulses tend to bring blood flowing to places that are hardwired to respond to stimuli the reptile brain picks out of otherwise innocuous conversation. The man standing before her appears a normal sort of pale. Shifts his weight back and forth between his feet as he decides whether he's going to continue on the path or keep this strange young woman company for a few minutes.

Which means after that initial facial tic the man has time to watch her. Intent. Insightful even. Verna has been in the presence of highly intelligent people in her time on this earth but that's a different breed of beast than being in the presence of a highly perceptive person.

He's not strictly sane but neither is she strictly alive. Both of them can fake it for a while.

"No," he says after a pause that almost stretches out for too long and then blinks as if he's just jolted back into the present moment. "No, I'm just out for a stroll. I was at the concert, this evening, it was..." His eyes tick to the empty space beside her. Back to her face. Runs a short circuit like that until he returns to her face a third time and indicates the bench with an open palm. Harmless. Pale as he is she can't read the blue of the veins beneath his skin. Most people don't notice that. "Mind if I join you?"

doo de doo @ 10:35AM
[perc + empathy: aura perception. aka childe, what is wrong with you.]
Roll: 6 d10 TN8 (1, 3, 5, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

doo de doo @ 10:36AM
[Forgot to double 10s for Insightful. The little piss-shit got 6 successes.]

Verna Gardner
What the Hell is wrong with her? Look into her soul and find out. It's what got her into this mess in the first place.

And what a mess... Pale, she is so pale. Grey and silver hang off of her like chains, not shifting with her thoughts but steady -- a presence sunk deep into her, heavy as lead. The fear she couldn't hide even without Trace's supernatural sight fuzzes over everything with orange static jolts. Here and there, a wisp of something dark red and hungry, blood veins running in a body of dead flesh. He can see it all.

The why of it remains hidden.

She wants. She's deeply sad. She's afraid, but not, apparently, of him in particular. She's oblivious.

That smile is a practiced lie. Sometimes, she can pretend for long enough to walk out of a place like this with a meal. She works hard at pretending that the ruin of her psyche doesn't really exist. It's not there. It never happened. What's going to happen in the future -- won't.

So, she keeps it up, uncrosses and re-crosses her legs in his direction, leans his way, says: "I'd love for you to join me. My lucky night. Cute guys... hah... hardly ever just fall into my lap."

Ugh. Oh, that was terrible. Verna, this is why you fail.

Trace, perceptive as he is, can probably almost see the internal beating going on behind that flimsy, fake, happy smiling mask.

Trace
"Ah. Yes, well..."

No eagerness as he takes the invited seat beside her. Nothing predatory or perfunctory about it either. This is not his lucky night. When he sits he sits as if it is his duty to do so. Trouble stains the air around her. It coats his breath. It's a wonder she can hold her spine straight.

"It takes a bit of searching, doesn't it? Everything you need's been provided already. Bit of searching, bit of hope..."

He has kind eyes. No cruelty in his face or posture. Same as all of them he is capable of such mindless destruction but he doesn't seethe menace as some of the older creatures of their kind tend to. Doesn't have an impenetrable gaze or an air of superiority.

There are those among them who would do away with their nature altogether. Reclaim their humanity. Very few stories and very few of them. Little kindness or compassion either.

"... well... the world's full of cute guys. Plenty else, too, once you find what it is you actually need, and I--" A beat. "--am talking quite a lot." Another of those flinching smiles. "Haven't even asked your name. So sorry." He extends his right hand with its freckled skin and thin fingers. "Tracy."

Verna Gardner
He doesn't reply how she'd like. Okay, well, that's just a minor setback right? Maybe he's not into girls. Or maybe just not into girls who go straight for the flirting within five seconds of meeting him (and, let's be honest, there's a man after her own heart). There's always the 'please sir, walk me to my car?' gambit.

His replies, however, are strange. Everything you need's been provided already? At that, her brows slide together. He talks about finding what it is she actually needs, and right now, a willing warm body (to lighten by a pint or so) is exactly that. Blood's the only thing that she needs right now -- it makes this whole existence worthwhile. It's the only thing that makes her feel good.

Well, okay, that and impossible changes in her situation. She needs the world and nearly everyone in it to stop treating Verna Gardner like the greatest punching bag ever. That would be nice.

Her eyes aren't nearly so kind as his, as she deflates at the realization that this mark isn't going to be so easy. Her eyes are far too wrapped up in what's going on behind them, and Trace has seen that lovely tableau. From whence would she pull reserves of kindness to give to others? Why would they deserve what little she has?

He extends her hand, and she slides her own hand into it, gives a little squeeze, and then (quickly!) retreats, because she's not actually all that into touching people with her room-temperature skin lest they wonder about that. She still doesn't know that 'Tracy' doesn't have to wonder at all.

"I'm Rachael," she says, giving him the name she gives to Kine (and still, that is very weird, having to think of them as cattle). "I don't mind you talking, hmm... What is it that you do, Tracy?"

Trace
Here's the thing about Trace's hand: he doesn't need to burn blood to appear human but that doesn't mean he can pass for one without exerting a bit of effort.

The neonate does not wear her emotional turmoil like a second layer of clothing. Neither does that mean she could lure a vessel over to her and take from him what she needs to survive. Her aura is a pained picture and a hypnotic one and Verna can't tell a Malkavian when one has sat down right next to her.

As long as she's thinking of him as a man and not a monster Verna can tell herself he seems sane enough. Nice but a little weird. Their handshake does not last long not because he shies from it or pulls back once it's begun but because she thinks her cool skin will shock him.

Both their hands are cool. Verna however is not a tall bony ginger who is probably used to people recoiling. She had a boss once with poor circulation. A physicist who she only ever saw ingest coffee and brandy. Trace does not have to wonder about the reason why this young woman's hands feel lifeless and cold and though he registers that she like he has not devoted vitae to appearing human no shock stings his face.

Rachael. He'll buy it for now. Once he's got his hand back in his possession Trace returns it to his jacket pocket.

"What do I do?" Perhaps he doesn't understand the question. He seems charmed by it if nothing else. Pitying perhaps. She's the one sat on the bench unsure of what it is she's doing and trying hard to flirt when it doesn't come natural to her. His feet are planted on the ground and he's leaned back against the bench and he gives her his attention easy like they're both just waiting for a bus. "I was called, sister, and I answered. Have you been at this long?"

Verna Gardner
Oh. Crap. She's either snagged a priest, or a cult member, or a children's praise-and-worship leader who likes to pretend he's super important. He was 'called' and he 'answered'? 'Sister'? Her eyebrows raise, and her smile finally falters a bit. But then -- oh just roll with it.

"At, uh, this? Oh, no. Just been sitting here since the concert ended. It smells nice in here. All the flowers. It's relaxing," she says, nervously adding additional unnecessary sentences. She leans her body away from him, cursing herself for having tried to hit on a... Whatever he is. Man of the cloth? Man of the complete and utter lack of rational thought?

"If you don't mind me asking... Are you a member of the clergy?"

Trace
If he notices that she's leaning away from him it has no bearing on how he continues to respond to her. He's focused on her face and her hands and not on what she's doing with the rest of her body. How was she to know that her inner turmoil is a quick-struck match for those who can see the colours of a person's soul? No way to know and no way to know what she's just invited to sit down beside her unless she asks.

So she asks.

"Mind? No more than rain would mind you asking if it were water, I suppose." Does he stop and think about his answer? He pauses but he doesn't look away from her. "I'm not. I was. God's abandoned us and that business with the Messiah was all a bit of storytelling. You'd do best to steer away from clergy, not all water's meant to be rain."

Verna Gardner
God's abandoned us, the former priest says.

"Oh," Verna says, trying to come up with a response "Um..."

Yeah, that isn't going very well. For as much as 'Rachael' once seemed like she wanted to have a nice chat, now she looks like she'd best be going now. Left the oven on. So sorry.

"I don't really know what to say to that, really. I'll keep your advice, though I never really had the desire to steer toward priests, to be honest. My family's not very religious, is all."

Trace
Rachael has terrible taste in marks and even if he had been a somewhat normal individual she hasn't yet figured out what he is. He isn't in a rush to tell her. Calling and clergy and so on and so forth but he isn't a saviour and he isn't the answer to a question Verna hasn't asked yet.

She needs to feed. She is an appealing and diligent young woman. He isn't worried about her and even if he felt a thread of worry that grayness in her soul could just as much be the fault of newness as it could be her own brand of insanity.

But she doesn't recognize him for what he is. If she does she's kept that to herself.

He considers what she has to say about her family but he doesn't offer up his own. Sits unblinking beside her for a few minutes weighing out whatever he's about to say next and if she gets the idea that he's staring past her now and not looking directly at her Verna would not be imagining things.

"In the beginning, there's darkness. There always is. Accept the sun'll never rise on you again and it's possible to see just fine without it. Maybe the next fellow to walk by'll have what you're looking for."

Advice. He's just an advice dispensary tonight. With that he rises from the bench and straightens his spine from the slouch he'd adopted. He means to leave her on that note.

Verna Gardner
Oh. Oh. Verna's eyes open wide, because Trace has finally said something that brings the truth. Truth is a funny, amorphous thing. But when it fits into place, you know. Suddenly, all sorts of Trace's utterances make, if not sense, then a better semblance of it.

And also, she hit on that.

Well, that's just really very unfortunate, isn't it? If she could blush, she would be right about now. But she can't feel any heat rising in her face, and that's a strange comfort.

"I... oh. I didn't know... Who you were." What you were. "Good evening, Tracy. Perhaps I will see you again. One of these d... nights."

When she speaks, she tries to impart respect for the man -- holds herself even tighter together. David has told her to treat her elders with respect, and her elders are every single one of them.

Trace
That sense of disconnect and disorientation she had speaking with the Malkavian was not abnormal. That she did not recognize she was speaking with another vampire was not abnormal. The road to success is fraught with failure and children do not learn by lessons taught in classrooms alone.

Her depression could be from anything. Maybe another night they will sit and talk and try to understand each other. Like as not he's too far gone to understand another person or to make himself understood. Not sincerely. It's difficult to understand a shattered mind without having pieces gone out of one's own and his entire clan is known for speaking in riddles if they speak at all.

This is neither here nor there. Trace stands from the bench and returns himself to rights and he does her the kindness of turning to face her a last time as she wrangles with what it is she's just learned. Maybe she wouldn't know madness if it looked her right in the eye. He doesn't have a glazed or vacant cast to his eyes. All Verna can claim to take away is the fact he seemed not to blink a single time while they were speaking or the fact that there's something human in there somewhere.

He stands in silence watching her a moment and then he says, "The gate is narrow, and the way led to it hard, and those who find it few. We'll meet again, sister."

He gives a stunted nod like to put a period at the end of their sentence and then he ambles off into the Orangery again. Whistling as he goes.