Interdit.

Tesla Orloz

[Room for another, even if your just starting?]

Luce

(Sure! Is an open scene. I'm letting Sid start!)

Sid Chavez

Lucky for those denizens who don't tend to stir from their lairs until after the sun has plunged beyond the bay, there is plenty to do in this city when cloud-filtered rays have been replaced by street lamps and the unnatural pink hum of billions of watts bouncing back to the surface of the earth.

Unfortunately, most of those things involve the presence of other people, and Christ knows what breed of person one is likely to encounter once darkness has come swooping down.

It doesn't matter why he's here, really, and asking him what on earth he's doing at an after-hours gallery showing would have him telling you something to that effect, but Sid has come stomping out the front door of such an after-hours showing within the last several seconds. Most of the storefronts are dimmed, either because they've closed for the day or because the activities going on within are not for public consumption. This particular drag is choked with secondhand stores, record shops, realtors, chiropractors... there isn't much sense to some of the neighborhoods, but downtown is where everything crashes headlong into each other.

Suits Sid just fine.

"God damn," he says, to himself--because there isn't anyone else escaping outside to smoke--as he sticks a cigarette between his teeth and lights it.

Tesla Orloz

Sid had thought himself alone out here just beyond the dim lighting of the late night gallery showing, where the rich, the in the know, and those that wanted to be congregated to feel special, to feel hip, and to spend outlandish amounts of money on their chosen pet artist. They would call it an investment to their friends, while secretly they hoped the artist would die nice and soon, so they could get a good solid return on their 'investment'.

This sort of outting also attracted another sort of person though far rarer and less obvious, the sort that just loved to show up dressed nicely to such places and help themselves to the avails of the evening...and those attending. Tesla was one such individual, and after a little while of working the crowd she had taken a breather, and had seated herself a little ways down the street on the next doorstep.

She wore a nice little green cocktail dress that hugged her thin but athletic form, her glossy black hair fell in its straight lines to frame her expressive green eyes and adorable mouth. The heels she wore were practical, two inches if you were lucky, which kept the five foot three inches of woman still on the decidedly short end of the height spectrum.

She sat in the half light inspecting the contents of her clutch, rummaging through its insides as Sid steps out and she clicks it shut quickly, looking over to see just who was interrupting her...a surprised smile spreading across her lips when she realizes...she had seen this one before.

Luce

There is someone else escaping outside for a smoke, though. The door swings open, a rush of crowd noise buoyed by the electronica playing in the background. The lights inside are bright and white, so her shadow cuts over the broken sidewalk first, long and narrow as one of those stick-based insects, always masquerading as a broken branch. Though particolored and gray instead, from the clash of lighting sources on dimly lit street.




And: Luce. The stranger is tall and blond and leggy, dressed in dark skinny jeans, and a closely fitted tee, the logo hidden beneath the lines of a tailored blazer. Burnt orange, a short-napped velvet, of all fucking things. An impression of her eyes - the ring of dark shadow - purple - gives her a smeared, decadent look. Her lips are nude, a sheen of gloss, nothing more, and as she steps out of the door in Sid's wake she snaps a dark, narrow little cheroot between sharp white teeth.



Smiles around the smoke as she joins him outside. "Got a light?"



And there's this moment where she's taller; standing on the stoop of the gallery. And [i]then[/i] she steps down and she's... [i]still[/i] able to look him in the eye without lifting her chin. Practically as tall as he is.



Those are fucking six inch heels. And they are [i]killer[/i].

Her gaze sharpens into focus beyond his shoulder, though - a spare alertness impresses itself about her thin shoulders, her long lean frame - clear gaze flickering over Tesla, then beyond her, over the shadowed street before returning to Sid. Expectant. Which is to say: waiting. Light her cigar already, asshole.

Sid Chavez

Were not for the fact that she'd seen this son of a bitch out during the day a few weeks ago, it would be easy for Tesla to mistake him for one of the undead. Plenty of other people have joked, in the past, that he sure as shit acts like one. He skulks around, has the social skills of someone who doesn't interact with other people unless it's to eat them, has sallow skin and lank hair and bruises under his eyes. Everything he does seems to take a monumental amount of effort.

And then there's the black clothes. There's the bored look he wears constantly. There's the fact that sometimes he wears sunglasses inside so he doesn't have to meet other people's eyes.

There's the fact that when the tall leggy blonde wanders up to him, smiles, asks for a light, he looks at her without much in the way of interest in his eyes. Someone had referred to him aloud as "an aging rocker" the other night, and that's as good a descriptor as any. He's wearing Doc Martens and dark-washed jeans and a button-down shirt beneath a leather jacket that doesn't have metal punched into it, so he's at least trying to make himself presentable, but he has a patch of hair on the right side of his head that he's either bleached or has gone white from shock that he dyes primary colors instead of trying to get it to match the rest of his hair. Tonight it's red.

He doesn't seem overly impressed that she can look him in the eye. This is San Francisco. Chances are he thinks she's a transvestite. Tesla, for whatever reason, isn't acknowledged. Maybe he doesn't see her; she does have a great view of his backside.

The battered Zippo is back in his pocket by the time she asks, and he's smoking his cigarette with the silent acceptance of one who knocks back medication because he has to, not because he enjoys it.

"I fuckin' hope so," he says, to her question, and has pulled out a battered Zippo in the amount of time it takes her to look away and back. This is not a gentleman she's found; he lobs it underhand at her instead of handing it over like a civilized person.

Luce

I CAN CATCH STUFF. Dex + Athletics.

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 4, 9, 9) ( success x 1 )

Tesla Orloz

Was his ass worth scrutinizing...well yes it was. Sid was a decent looking guy as far as the city of angels went, especially if you weren't always into that whole movie star sort of man, preferring the sort of man who has lived a few days in his life. She was ignored however, in exchange for a tall, leggy blonde woman who strode from the gallery like she owned the place, asking for a light. Typical. She thinks to herself but a shake of her head clears such negative thoughts, and the woman is up on her feet with a surprisingly energetic bound.

She stepping then, stepping towards the duo with light exaggerated steps, an adorable and approachable smile spreading across her lips as she clasped the clutch in the small of her back.

"Hi there." She says as she steps up between the pair, having to look up into the street lights to see each of them. The great green orbs of her eyes settles onto Sid and her smile took on a mischevious bent, just for him.

"Feelin better big guy? Staying clear of weddings?"

Hazel

Hazel's got something on a wall in there. She got it in because someone, somewhere, said that she had talent while she was scrawling something on their arm and the piece was commissioned. Hazel doesn't like to paint. Hazel likes chalk and skin and ink, but she couldn't flay a man and stick him on the wall. Though, it would be offsettling. Though, someone would call it art.

The little asshole told Hazel that she'd need to shower before she showed up, she had a place she could do that... right? Hazel wanted to shove his skinny jeans down his throat and tell him he could go fall off something tall. But, here she is. In a blazer and a pair of nice pants and freshly laundered. You take money where you can get it, and while people don't really notice that she is there, they do notice her art on the wall. Don't ask what it is. Just know that it has amazing texture.

Hazel has come outside, though, because she needs to go chek on her van to make sure no one has towed it. She announces her presence with the smell of FreBreeze and a call to her vehicle. "Babydoooo-" she stops in time to notice that there are people smoking.

Luce

That body of hers must have made for an awkward adolescence. Bean pole tall and willow-thin, made not for red-blooded American men, but for their brethern: fashion designers. Whatever terrors adolescence held for her are over, now, and her frame is defined by a certain - composure.

Sid lobs the Zippo; the blonde reaches out to grab it from the air. She fumbles the snap but recovers it at the last minute, long fingers twisting around the battered metal.

Her mouth is rather small, until she laughs, but finely made. And it twists into quick, self-deprecating smirk as she flips open the cover and - carefully - lights her cheroot. A cheap one, tonight, the sort you could pick up in the bodegas in the Tenderloin. The scent is sharp in the cool, damp air where it trails from the tip of her cigar, heavier when she exhales her first breath of smoke, all in a great gray cloud that mutes the yellow light from the street lamps.

Thank you - she mouths over Tesla's head so as not to interrupt their conversation. Then, tosses back the lighter before settling back against brick.

Now see: Luce doesn't smoke like it's a drug. She smokes like it is a pasttime. Like it is her motherfucking hobby. She inhales that cheap tobacco as if she were teasing out the intricacies of this year's Nouveaux Beaujolais, as if she could taste summer in a glance. The ironic stamp on her features lingers as Tesla inquires about the [i]big boy's[/i] [i]wedding plans[/i] and as she tosses that lighter back, she lifts a pair of perfectly arched blond brows above her dark ringed eyes at Sid. Question, or challenge. [i]Big boy.[/i]

Then swings her head abruptly, her sleek ponytail flying as she whips her head around to see Hazel emerge, calling out - that hint of tension surfacing in her form, like the brief glimpse of something from the depths gliding through dark waters - eases as quickly as it appears.

"You had a piece in the show?" A hint of something foreign in her voice, worn smooth.

Hazel

[fuck, room mate, brb]

Hazel

[back]

Sid Chavez

And here comes his pint-sized savior, slinking along like she's either hiding something or looking to pick someone's pockets when they aren't paying attention. To accuse him of purposefully ignoring her would be implying that he'd seen and was aware of her, but Sid doesn't exactly hint otherwise when she moseys up to them. His expression is as neutral as it had been when Luce joined them, but she can hear a spark in his voice, a vulgarity that has an edge to it that was missing the day Tesla had to pick him up off the street so he wasn't nailed by a car.

He seems only peripherally aware of the blonde's difficulty in catching the tossed lighter. If he's afraid of what will happen if the thing hits the ground, either he has the means to replace it or can just fix the damned thing. Though he is still and not overly inclined to speak if he doesn't have to, he just has that look about him; things breaking has no impact on his state of being.

Which reminds me: anyone paying close attention to his face will notice that his nose is broken. The swelling is going down but it still presents extensive bruising to the world. Oops! It's dark.

Anyway, Tesla comes up, and keeps up with the 'big guy' routine, but he doesn't correct her. He is big. And a guy.

Her question has him huffing out a nasal snort before blowing a thick stream of smoke over the blonde's head.

"Marriage is a killer, man," he says. "What, you think I got a headache because I got sensitive ears? That was a piece of my goddamn soul dying."

Hazel

"Yeah," she replies, and there is a flash of bright white teeth and her shoulders slump inward, "yeah, I have a piece out there. Last week. I mean, you should be able to touch it? But they said at the opening that you really shouldn't encourage people to touch the stuff on the walls, which really is just a load of bullshit."

She shrugs. The blazer seems to fit a little too well, and thank god for a lack of lighting. Where Luce is lovely, Hazel is uninspiring in terms of her appearance, sure, the top of something peeks out from the V in her blazer. She turns just right and there's little white knicks and scars against some fairly tan skin. Her dreads are back in a ponytail. She's clean enough for the residual dirt to seem artisitc.

"Are you showing a piece out here?"

Ceilidh -Kayley- Casey

((Anyone mind another?))

Tesla Orloz

"I don't know...I really enjoy them. Lots of fun to be had, people to be met, things and moments to be shared. Drinks...oh yes and the drinks." She says in a high, clear voice. She might have had a similar experience to Luce in high school, not because of being lanky and tall, but simply because...she might not have fit in general. She certainly didn't look like the sort that still clung to any left overs of high school, even with her age not topping anymore then twenty at most.

She briefly nudges the man with her shoulder, hitting his elbow as she did so. "Course that would imply you like to have fun, which obviously you don't." She says as she takes a few meaningful steps over to the blonde and looked up into her face instead.

"Now YOU." She says looking her up and down with an energetic bob of her head. "Look like the sorta lady that just has a rocking good time and doesn't give a damn what the next woman thinks." She says nodding her head like it was the final judgement on that topic, a serious look on her face but a moment before that adorable grin stretches across her lips once more.

"I'm Tessa, nice to meet you." She says, offering her hand to the blonde...if there was any enmity from Tesla towards Luce....due to height or startling good looks, it certainly didn't show. "Killer shoes by the way, I love crazy spike heels...they just aren't really practical."

Sid Chavez

[Y U NO ON AIM]

Ceilidh -Kayley- Casey

The dancer had been practicing Ballet. There wasn't much she could do for Sid at this point and if she hovered he'd accuse her of all sorts of things and really she'd much rather be dancing than deal with the abuse for trying to help. But then a text stopped her and so she was walking home looking less than pleased. Thankfully she sees Sid. Sid is big and burly and ....got taken out flat by the guy. Shit. "Shit." Nothing for it. She wasn't going to go alone. "Sid, we gotta go. I think your new friend with the mean right hook is pounding on our door."

Sid Chavez

First she nudges him. She'd have better luck nudging a lamp post, for as pliable as he is; he doesn't so much as budge, and he doesn't seem to even acknowledge that she's touched him. The leather of his jacket is thick, and the elbow beneath it isn't bony. Despite his general worse-for-wear appearance the fucker is solid.

That would be why he was a bitch to pick up off the sidewalk, but that's beside the point.

After she nudges him, she accuses him of not being very much fun. This, to a guy who looks like the only reason he isn't having fun is because he's like a fish out of water at this thing and has a broken nose. He's probably been asked 'what happened to your face?!' somewhere in the neighborhood of five times in the last hour. All he wants to do is smoke his stupid cigarette and get back to ignoring everyone.

"Whaaaaat?" he asks, like the accusation is completely unfounded, but with his low voice and deadpan facial expression, there isn't much emotion to be gleaned, there.

A young woman halfway between Tesla and Luce's heights comes prancing down the sidewalk, and she doesn't have to do much more besides address him before he's giving her his undivided attention. The lighter is stuffed back into his pocket, and he pulls away from the small gathering without bidding anyone farewell.

"That schmuck hurts the door I'm gonna put this fucking thing out in his eye," he says, holding up the cigarette as they start off down the sidewalk.

Luce

That seems to amuse her. Smoke curls from her nostrils as if she were a dreaming dragon; then she opens her mouth and allows another lung-full to escape into the cool night air. "Non - no, I'm - " laughter undergirds her voice, then. Bright enough that it seems natural, that it seems native to her existance, with a touch of sharpness that gleams at the edge. " - not an artist."

Her eyes, a pale but saturated blue, gleam through the ring of dark purple shadow, belying the look of bruised indifference the make-up gives her. "Last Week, right? I think you might have a buyer in there, but canvas is too confining for you. You need another medium."

Her shoulders twist in a modest shrug beneath the burnt orange jacket. A double row of bronze buttons gleams down one side, catching and scattering the indifferent light. Two sets of letters, AK and AC are reading on the fitted t-shirt underneath, which clings to her thin torso.

Then Tessa introduces herself; extends a hand. Luce looks down briefly - this flicker of her pale eyes - shifts her cigar from her right hand to her left and reaches out to take the stranger's hand. Her fingers are cool and long and fine. A narrow band of gold circles her right thumb, and her nails are polished red black. Two of them are already chipped.

"Luce," She names herself with a supple movement of her mouth; that gleam of genuine amusement rather more hidden now. And - "these?" she extends a foot. The shoes aren't just killer, they are works of art. "After wearing them up and down the hills of Languedoc-Roussillon, they're like bunny slipper in San Francisco."

Ceilidh -Kayley- Casey

*She nods at the others there but hurries off with Sid. She doesn't really want to have to replace the door if they crazy, scary guy thinks that they just aren't answering.*

Hazel

"Who cares about heels," she tells Tessa, "shoes like that are meant to be admired and then summarily worshipped in some kind of Quentin Tarantino-esque kind of way. The only way they could get better is if they were on a pedestal in there, but I'll bet they cost about the same as some of the crap on the pedestals in there."

She waves a dismissive hand, lets out a pffb and grins anyway. The young-ish woman offers Tessa a hand, smiles like she means it, "I'm Hazel. And I'm normally a tattoo artist. Someone told me I should try drawing on canvas instead of people, though, so I gave it a whirl."

Tesla Orloz

Sid was suddenly and irrevocably dragged off into the night by a dancer like woman who obviously knew the solid and burly looking man who for the record, she still didn't know beyond being the 'big guy' and Tesla can only raise a finely shaped brow as they disappear before turning her gaze back to Luce and that hand shake.

Tesla's hands were an odd match for Luce's, long slender fingers seeming to move fluidly and quickly, perhaps she was a pianist, or some other form of artist who used their hands....it made sense in a way.

"I have no idea where that is, but it sounds fancy, and wonderfully rich also, who did you have to kill, stuff in a ditch, and then frame it on another person to get those things!." She says as that adorable smile simply radiates energy and good feelings, up at the other woman. When her hand is released Tesla shrugs enthusiastically as she looks from Hazel to Luce her one free hand coming to rest on her hip bone, her weight shifting to that leg.

But then Hazel offered her a hand, a hand to shake and the wide smile upon her lips somehow grew wider as Tesla reached out and shook it. "Oh man, now THAT is talent." she says with an encouraging laugh. "I don't wear ink myself..but I am a huge...huge lover of the art." She says as she looks over Hazel's arm...at least what is visible.

"Do you do your own? Or do you trust your personal canvas to others?"

Sid Chavez

[Thanks for the scene, guys!]

Luce

(and these: https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxF7a-DMflmnOyDm285vRhXqmfsUUmIosD1jj0XWyyXgDJrPJsoEp7IldkJua-Kr86yZyvnaVLHEibCTzwcc2acK9GGiwyNKllOxqIvfgZLge02VQvyNV5NrbzyUtJtqX1fEkKw/s1600/PG_501312036__3_ZM1.jpg are her shoes tonight.)

The creature's chin rises, pale gaze tracking Ceilidh and Sid briefly, before dropping back to her more immediate companions. She is looking down at both of them, which gives her eyes a look of hooded intimacy - some trick of the shadows and planes of light. Her features are sharply drawn. High cheekbones and a high, clear forehead, a faintly turned up noise and a precisely curved mouth set above a small chin. She breathes out another smoke cloud, holding the cheap cheroot away from her body when it is not clenched between her teeth.

Tesla does not know where that place is. "Provençe," the blond supplies, in the interregnum when the enthusiastic woman in the green cocktail dress pauses to take a breath. She utters the word with the precision of a native speaker.

Then glances back to Hazel, "Trying a new medium's not bad advice. You stay in one place for too long, you get too comfortable. But if you're going to work on canvas, you have to stop wishing it were skin. Or start treating it like skin. Leave it unstretched. Drape it over your subject. Show it the way its meant to be showed."

Hazel

"It's the only art you can take with you, so I do trust other people with the rest of me. The only person that's been allowed to come back and do touch ups is my ex, but that was more a tit-for-tat situation. I fucked up his tattoo, he messed up mine, we went back and forth until we got it right. Lesson learned, joys of being young, stupid, and with tattoo guns. I do actually do my own, Mary's mine."

Which she does show off. Hazel pulls her left sleeve up enough that Our Lady of Guadalupe- with all her blues and shading and vibrant colors is visible, "I'm always afraid I topped out with her, I kind of feel like I should have given her to someone else but you know? I'm kind of attached to my left arm, so!"

She does catch what Luce says. She watches, nods and catches the bits of information. Now Luce, Luce is a work of art all on her own. Hazel's eyes are dark and she takes the art critic for... well... everything she can really offer at that point, "so, essentially, treat the medium in the same way you would when learning a non-romance language. Quit trying to make the language speak like English when it's not."

Tesla Orloz

Tesla takes the time to appreciate the art that had been woven into the other woman's arm, her hand slipping forward unconsciously to touch it, to trace a brief outline of the woman's face before her hand would drop once more, stopping herself from invading the others personal space.

"Nooo it belongs right there girl! With you she will always stay pretty, cause you can do the touch ups and keep her clean and safe...i mean baring any serious industrial accidents that maim you horribly but thats a long shot right?" She giggles, but it is not vocal, it is more like the action happens...but no sound accompanies it.

She then looks back to Luce and raises a brow. "Ok....I have never heard someone talk about art like that, you just made it sound like the dirtiest, and the most heavenly thing on the face of the planet." Her face holding honest appreciation for what the woman had said before she looks over her shoulder at the gallery behind them. "And you made this place seem like a strip club for art lovers. Not that there is anything wrong with strip clubs mind you."

Luce

The creature makes a small sound of appreciation for the analogy, fine mouth twisting wry as she concurs. "Bien sûr. Let the language shape your tongue."

Luce's pale gaze is then captured by Our Lady. A moment's stillness so utter she forgets to breathe. Reaches out - unasked, without even a glance to seek permission, and brushes the cool tips of her long fingers over the vibrant blues, tracing the curve of Mary's head scarf. The cheroot is forgotten and her free hand holds it, drifting, away from her narrow frame as she traces the sinuous line of a falling lock of hair across Hazel's bicep when Tesla has let go. There is something both intimate and utterly impersonal about the study; in that moment, she has no sense of personal space. .

Then she straightens, eyes flicking upward to match Hazel's glance, sure and intense and clear. "I wouldn't give her away. Some things you need close."

And at last she steps back; remembers her damned cigar, nearly smoked out now, wreathing the trio in thin links of oily smoke. Luce turns, following Tesla's line of site toward the gallery, the gleaming interior, the softly shuffling crowd.

"That place?" a glance back at Tesla, then Hazel. "It's a meat market. There are a few good pieces; a few mediocre pieces showing flashes of promise, and a few monstrously bad ones wrapped up in enough highbrow nonsense syllables that most will pretend they're brilliant. No one wants to be left out. But it's what we were meant to do since Lascaux, right? Draw our bodies on the walls. Write ourselves into history. Say one word another can hear. Maybe even tell the truth. Some truth."

Irony lingers in the curl of her mouth; glints in the pale eyes, with the frame of dark smeared shadow as she glances from Hazel to Tesla, back again. " - but if you'll excuse me, I'll climb down from my soapbox," the irony in her mouth sharpens, " - and take my leave. It was a pleasure to meet you both."

Luce

I think we lost mindy! I need to sleep so if you wanna make another post, please do! but then I need to get to bed. :)

Tesla Orloz

[nah lets fade, i dont think i have the brains left for proper coherent posting, thank you for the play!]