Rhiannon
CITIZEN
You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
Posts: 27
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:34:08 GMT -5
"So...any word on where the thieves guild has gone?" Rhiannon asked, looking at the bartender from beneath dark lashes as she leaned on the counter. Her legs crossed at the knee and she rested her cheek against the palm of her hand, watching him intently. With that single-minded focus that she'd recently learned was unnerving to men. Ever a fast study, Rhia had learned that you didn't need charisma to find out what you wanted - which was good for her because she didn't have that yet. At least not in the immortal sense. So instead she had turned to her feminine wiles and a short skirt - her father and Quinn would have a heart attack - to learn what she needed. The library at the Academy was filled with all kinds of useful information. Unfortunately, however, that didn't include where the guilds moved to every few days. Another thing that Rhiannon had discovered is that the bartenders knew more than they usually let on.
It just took some prying to get it out.
The bartender's eyes betrayed his thoughts as they dropped from her face to her legs, just barely in sight, before rising back to look her in the eyes. Almost self consciously, Rhiannon's free hand moved to smooth out her dress. Just because the technique worked didn't mean she liked using it. She didn't look away from the human though, instead giving him a coy smile and leaning a little closer over the counter. Her hand moved away from her skirt to the purse over her shoulder, taking out a few coins. She set them down on the counter with purpose.
"Have you heard anything?"
It had been barely a month and she was not the same girl she had come to RavenBlack City as. She'd arrived here as Rhia Parker, a girl with an uncertain future living in an unstable world with her caring but desperate parents. Now she was Rhiannon Kingsley. A member of a strong, loving bloodline that could take care of her. A vampiress; a woman. The remnants of girlish shyness were fading fast - and that was never more obvious than now as she seduced a man with her eyes and words to get what she needed from him. Quinn and her parents would be red in the face if they saw her now.
"Anything at all?" Her voice dropped a note and her lips pouted slightly. The bartender nearly dropped the glass he was holding, but he steadied himself in time, then set it down onto the bar top where it would be safe from gravity and his sweaty palms. He glanced one way, then another.
"T-Thieves two moved to Beryl and t-twenty nine," he stammered. Rhiannon smiled and slid the coins over to him. He reached out, picking them up and sliding them into his pocket.
"Thanks."
"Anytime, m-miss."
She turned away from him then, holding in her shuddering sight of relief. She could use her attributes but it was hard to do. She'd never had much interest in men and relationships - it was something she felt naive in. Batting her eyes and biting her lip didn't come naturally and the energy she had to muster to achieve what she wanted left her feeling almost drained. Revitalization came in two forms: blood and trouble. Rhiannon had found herself in more trouble in the past month than the rest of her life combined. Getting toted up and down the sides of buildings, crashing to her near death in an elevator and being trampled by a horse were just the tip of the iceberg. But, rather than scaring her into locking herself inside her room at the Estate and never stepping foot out again, she found herself looking for more. Rhiannon reached up to tug her gray fedora down to shadow her countenance while dark honey eyes watching from beneath the brim as a trio of hard, built men, faces decorated with dark bruises and cuts, make their way along the edge of the bar room and out a side door. Curiosity stirred within her, and the lust for catastrophe awoke. Temptation reared its head as the door closed behind them inaudibly over the sounds of "Sympathy For The Devil" playing on the jukebox. Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name.
If trouble wouldn't find her, then damn it all to Hell she would find it.
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Moore
CITIZEN
Oh, Sweet Ambrosia!
Posts: 63
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Post by Moore on Nov 19, 2009 22:38:27 GMT -5
It's the smell of offal that would be considered reminiscent to the sanguine sustenance that so many of Raven Black lean toward. It's this that keeps those of the dark pushing forward with utmost strength. As for him? Perhaps somewhat the same. He dealt with this nigh every night. He understood the hunger more than most would but he likewise had a hunger for something else entirely because he wasn't like the rest; he wasn't a vampire.
He had that volatile part of him that longed for the violence standing there before his very eyes; men pounding away with their fists and panting heavily. It's here - within the dark alleyways of Raven Black - that men crack their fists upon one another within the sport of bare-knuckled boxing much like the Irish Traveller counterpart. It's here that Moore makes his "bread," the money that kept him going and kept a roof over his own head as opposed over his sister's now.
It's here where he belongs.
Mayhap one could argue that Jack belonged within the midst of bloodshed; belonged to the time where men fought for their lives. He could have been an magnificent competitor as a gladiator with his agility and striking prowress. He could have been unstoppable back then before the commission had changed the rules of boxing: dropping fifty rounds for twelve standard for title shots. He could have gone the distance where other men wouldn't and he could have made complete and utter history; never forgotten for his sportsmanship.
Mayhap all of this and much more could have happened if Moore hadn't mussed things up? It was a possibility. He was upon the verge of being the undefeatable and perfect man alive within a career of fighting; the world's most feared man. He represented his country with his heart upon his sleeve and did what he could; rising above the wallowing sewage known as England's boonies only to come to London and soar above all else. They knew when they saw him what Moore was capable of.
Even now people could not deny him.
It had been so long since he had last fought within some square ring. It had been even longer since he had fought with some dark alleyway with raucous cheers all around and blood filling his mouth. He had been young then and had yet to hone his assets; had yet to hone those striking skills and that game of evasion he played so well. As for now? He may be older and perhaps it had been too long ago, but Moore still had such around him; you couldn't teach speed. You couldn't teach a lad to be natural at nigh killing everyone who stepped to him.
There's things that simply could never be taught.
Now Moore went for murder and nothing shy of that. He went with his fists flying and throwing bombs; his body swaying close and stepping tight within the guard of his opponent where he unleashed flurry after flurry. His defense had changed from a time where the dying art was about working your opponent. Now? It was about survival.
It was about who could nearly kill the other man before that one punch would knock you out cold. It was about dropping each fist with that utterly perfect angle and precision; striking and never letting up whilst you keep trucking forward. Oh, some people may be afraid of what bumps within the night, but this was another part of Raven Black hardly spoken of.
Pitchmen bark for their fighters and accept bets from tight-fisted fellows watching on. People perch upon casks and barrels; some even upon dumpsters to get a good look at the men fighting upon that stone-paved floor. It's that lovely smell of motoroil and blood mingling together that assaults one's nostrils. It's that intoxicating scent of sweat and piss that leaves people heady when someone falls cold to the floor with their head thudding with a dull sound against the pavement.
It's hard to consider that such organized events could be held without fear; much less anyone even calling upon such for the local authorities. It seemed that this was a thing that must have been happening for years. It's too reminiscent to old glory days when boxing first originated as some toe-to-toe sport upon some street-corner. Now men were filtering out from some back door from within some bar and the men were undressing; baring their scarred bodies for all to see and their glistening muscles beneath the street lamps and various headlights from standing vehicles.
...and then a voice.
"Bets? BETS?! ANYONE BETTING PLEASE STEP FORWARD! PLACE YOUR BETS! BETS, BETS, BETS!" There's a roaring sound as men with their caps off filter through the crowd to accept bets from the onlookers and bring them to the fore as some large ape of a man was stepping forth; heavy bodied and nigh standing six-foot-nine-inches and seemingly over two-hundred-and-seventy-pounds. He seemed like a mammoth beast with his large paws and pudgy fingers; he has a deep set scowl and his face battered with old bruises that were still healing. He must no doubt be competing next and his opponent...?
He was shorter to say the least and smaller overall; lean and sinewy. His body could have never looked more perfectly honed than then and there; muscles rippling beneath his velvet flesh and looking like Adonis within the flesh. He was bare within moments when he peeled off his peacoat and handed such off and stretched his arms above and behind himself whilst voices were filling the air begging for blood.
"MAKE YOUR BETS!" Another voice roars; giving their final chance. "Ape Man or the Scot, make your bets!" Roar after roar; feet stamping out a heavy beat as grubby hands reach for money and David steps forth to toe-to-toe with Goliath.
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Rhiannon
CITIZEN
You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
Posts: 27
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:39:05 GMT -5
She abandoned her stool to go in pursuit of the men. If she had been a mortal woman she probably wouldn't have; even as a black belt there was only so much she could do and the numbers didn't favor her. But she wasn't a mortal anymore. Danger was thrumming through her veins with the heated blood of her earlier prey; heels clicked across the floor methodically and with purpose. The bodies of the bar moved around her, rising and crashing in sync with the football plays on the televisions but she moved through the seat without hesitation. The smell of beer, cigarettes and body odor was strong. Rhiannon reached the door, her hand turning the knob and opening it a crack. She was hit with a burst of air - but it wasn't fresh. There was the scent of garbage on the wind. Garbage. Motor oil. Sweat. Blood. Her curiosity wouldn't let her turn back now even if she wanted to.
Her hands pushed the door open farther; just enough for her petite body to slip through before letting it close. The alley was alive. Men lined it, some with their friends and others with a girlfriend or whore standing beside them. Rhiannon's dark honey eyes scanned the crowd, her interest high. There was blood smeared across the pavement of the alley and more than one man looked like they had been hit by a train. Scoundrels and scalawags. One man stepped forward to stand in the center of that stained asphalt and Rhia swallowed hard; he was massive. A veritable mountain. Edigido had told her once that he was mistaken for a mountain sometimes when at his largest - this man in standing ready would probably give him a run for his money. She slinked along the edge of the crowd as discreetly as she could in her nice hat, nice dress, nice legs and nice shoes.
"Bets? BETS?! ANYONE BETTING PLEASE STEP FORWARD! PLACE YOUR BETS! BETS, BETS, BETS!"
One of the men she was passing behind was the next fighter. As she tried to slip behind without notice he was taking off his jacket with deft fingers. Next to her, he was huge - broad shoulders, taunt with hard lines of muscle. He turned, handing it off to a man beside him - beneath the low brim of her hat, Rhiannon's eyes moved to his face. Even with the awkward shadows being cast down by the streetlamp and the parked cars she saw he was too pretty to fight; she swallowed hard and stopped that unnecessary breathing. His pretty face was one that had been burned into her memory and had graced her dreams more than once. Suddenly Rhia was pressed against a wrought iron fence behind her and an equally hard man in front, lips descending on hers. Fingers and toes alike curled. Julian Moore.
But as he approached his opponent he seemed to become smaller with every step. The crowd was getting louder, pumping themselves and fighters up and pumping them hard. It was a wonder that the police didn't come at complaints of the din; then again she shouldn't be surprised if some of the physiques here were cops. The man who'd taken his jacket turned to her and his eyes went shamelessly from her head to her feet, then up again; "What's a pretty young thing like you doin' here?" he asked, puffing out his chest. "You shouldn't be here alone, some of these men are dangerous. Don't worry though, I'll take care of ya." Rhiannon reached out a hand and snatched Julian's peacoat from his grasp, glaring at him.
"I'm with him," nodding her head in Moore's direction, barely able to hear herself over the sounds of everyone else clamoring for the fight.
"Sweetie, you're going to be taking him home in a body bag."
"He's not going to lose."
"Oh yeah? You want to bet on that?"
Rhiannon didn't hesitate to nod. She'd seen the boxer fight before. What he was doing here she didn't know, but there wasn't a seed of doubt in her mind. Even that behemoth didn't stand a chance against the Scot.
"MAKE YOUR BETS! Ape Man or the Scot, make your bets!"
The man beside her raised a hand and the man taking the money came over. Rhiannon fished in her purse, pulling out a wad of bills - coin was vampire currency, it would only get her in trouble here. She counted it fast. Three thousand. She held it out, jaw set. Beside her the man held out his cash.
"All on the Scot," she said firmly. Her enemy for the night put his on the giant. The man taking the money scribbled in a small notepad before ambling down the line, repeating the final call. Rhia fell back against the wall behind her, reaching up to tug the rim of her hat farther down, shadowing her face. If her heart could beat it'd be racing. She jumped, though, when the man snaked up her leg to grab her ass. Her hand shot out and closed around his wrist, twisting hard - somehow above the sounds of the street she heard a small snap. He let out a small cry and she released him with a glare.
"I was going to offer to take care of you after that idiot kills himself against that ogre," he snarled, holding his injured limb. "You better pray to God that he lives now, sweetie, because you're gonna get it."
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Moore
CITIZEN
Oh, Sweet Ambrosia!
Posts: 63
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Post by Moore on Nov 19, 2009 22:39:56 GMT -5
"Maybe you want to put your coat back on and get up out of here?" Questions that much larger man; his voice deep and strong. It would be intimidating to the next man, but to Julian Moore? No. He fought bigger men before. He had been younger at one point; brash and wild. He didn't care who he squared off with and this night was no different. In fact...
He's smiling.
"You're going to get yourself hurt, Scot. You won't even be able to recognize yourself tomorrow morning," he breathes out before uttering his final threat: "If you even wake up." Now, mayhap that should have scared him off; after all, this Ape Man did have the hands that would belong to some silver back gorilla. His size alone - and the weight flying out behind those fists, mind you - could truly do some damage. It's not even that alone though. Moore was quite out by a distinct disadvantage.
Not only did Ape Man have larger fists, a heavier weight and height, but he had a longer reach. He'd be able to hold off Moore and keep him on the outside, and truth be told, he somewhat expected that. Also, most boxers had the instinct of tucking in their chin whilst fighting; Julian now had to lift his own so he could he even look the fellow in the eyes. Still, there were some things Julian had an advantage over him as well.
This silver back had more to lug around and he'd be gassed out within a moment's time if he truly thought of keeping Julian out of his guard. That meant he'd be throwing unnecessary punches; attempting to double up those jabs and go for Julian's face. Yet, he wasn't known for that from what he had been told - what he had seen. This beast of man went for pure savage knock outs; he went straight to kill a man and nothing else. He'd be a head hunter tonight and he'd be looking to damage - not only his pride - but Julian's face; to break his nose and knock out his teeth.
"NO MORE BETS! FINAL BETS HAVE BEEN TAKEN!" There's the voice and all the while Moore's still staring down the other with a smile upon his lips and his bare-knuckles lifting to thump against the Ape's hairy paws. There wasn't even another word shared between to the two - not that Moore was even talking within the first place. It's then the two were stepping away and there's a cheer rippling through the crowd as the fight was nigh ready to kick off. Someone was quickling coming to the middle then - the makeshift referee, of course.
"Ready?" Mister Chimpanzee gives a nod of his massive head before lifting his large paws near his chin. It's then the man looks to Moore. "Ready?" Moore nods but doesn't bother lifting his fists but bounces upon the tips of his feet to and fro for the moment before settling. There were no rules at that moment. It was simply a matter of consent before...
"FIGHT!"
This wasn't a boxing fight. Oh, sure, label such as a bare-knuckled boxing but this was anything but; even Moore's stance seemed different considering he kept his hands down whilst stepping forward and staying on the outside. He was watching the much larger man for the moment before finally and truly lifting his fists; tightening them and holding out his lift a tad bit further like some rapier - using his fists as an extension for defense. This truly wasn't the same Moore though.
He wasn't looking to the crowd and bowing to them; he wasn't humble at that moment. His mind was solely elsewhere and his eyes focused upon that large man staking out upon the middle of their open "ring." It's then that the fight truly started when that ape of a man lumbered forward and threw those bombs of his; fists flying and looking for Moore's head.
Moore still had it though.
He's so fast on his feet and diving right through the man's guard; evading his haymakers and throwing down a flurry of fists - tight and compact - against the larger man's body. It's with that that he's pulling away quickly and nearly being struck; dodging the flying fist by nearly an inch and nothing more. As for his strikes? Successful, but barely having effected the lumbering man who keeps coming at him and keeps up the pressure and so Moore moves and dances; that old Cinderella man working his opponent's body. All around them the crowd roared.
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Rhiannon
CITIZEN
You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
Posts: 27
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:40:18 GMT -5
Words were being made in a one way exchange and Rhiannon was holding her breath while the man next to her held his wrist. He was whispering harsh words in her ear but he wasn't touching her. Your wonderboy is no match. He's going to knocked the Hell out and when he comes to he's going watch what I plan on doing to do you. You're going to look as pretty as he will when I'm done. Rhiannon should have felt fear. She should have gone running back into the bar, or - better yet - scrolled herself right back to Rome. Moore would be fine without her. He didn't even know she was here as he took a step away from the giant. She waited to hear them list the rules that she remembered. No lace punching. No eye thumbing or gouging. No blows with the elbow. No head butting. No blows below the waistline. No rabbit punching. Fight clean. Instead there was only "Ready?"
"FIGHT!"
This wasn't the Julian Moore she remembered. But then this wasn't a square ring with a proper referee. The lights here weren't spotlights, they were streetlights - and that wasn't a mat under their feet. It was hard, unforgiving pavement. She remembered how he had pumped the crowd, how he had gotten the blood flowing. How Quinn and her team had been screaming their lungs out for him and he had given the energy right back. He didn't tip his head in her direction; he didn't even know she was there. Then the primate threw a fist. Rhiannon cringed, holding her breath.
Moore moved.
Rhia didn't know boxing the way she knew tae kwon do, but she knew that as much as Julian was hitting him and as hard as he was that that massive girth of the ape's was absorbing the blows like a built in hogu. Moore danced away once he put his blows in, only for the giant to keep advancing. More hard swings. Too wide, too slow. This wasn't the same Moore as a year ago, she could see that. But he was still fighting. He still had it.
The people were yelling at the top of their lungs. Feet were stomping, voices were coming together like some kind of demonic choir. They wanted blood. They wanted wanted violence. They wanted a fight. They wanted...
"Moore!" Rhiannon shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. "We want Moore!" The man next to her shot her a hard but confused glance. "We want Moore! We want Moore!"
The crowd picked up the chant. Maybe they thought that it was merely a cry for more. But no. This was a cry for Moore. For the boxer she'd met back in Boston, for the man she'd kissed on a terrace. She kept her hat pulled low over her face though. She didn't know if she wanted him to see her yet. It might be too much for him - and too much for her. She was less than a month into her vampirism. The scent of dried blood on the ground would have stirred her violent hunger if she hadn't already fed. What would she do if his blood was spilled?
"We want Moore!"
Would she be able to be able to resist?
"We want Moore!"
She didn't want to find out. She didn't want him to lose. Rhiannon's voice became lost in the crowd as the people shouted for more, for Moore. A hand suddenly slipped between the cleft of her legs. Rhia whipped around, elbowing the man in the face as hard as she could. He stumbled back, falling against the wall. His hands, even the broken one, flew to his face as blood started pouring out of his shattered nose.
"You whore!" He lunged forward, blood streaming down his face and chest while a hand reached for her. Rhiannon gasped, stepping away through a gap in the people that closed behind her. A small wall between her and her pursuer. She glanced back at the Ape and Moore fighting. Even in flight she cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling once more as loud as she could "We want Moore!"
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Moore
CITIZEN
Oh, Sweet Ambrosia!
Posts: 63
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Post by Moore on Nov 19, 2009 22:40:38 GMT -5
Nothing seemed to work but Moore wasn't through exercising his entire arsenal. He still had much more up his sleeve and Moore knew that eventually this man would begin to wear out; run out of steam, even. There was no way a man could keep up and go the distance as Moore could, but who knew what might happen? Still, Moore bobbed and weaved; he sways and dances upon his feet before rocking those hard punches across that ape's abdomen. He was fast; oh, so much faster than this man could ever wish to be. Yet, the crowd still roared and the fight still seemed somewhat even. It's then that Moore caught the sound of something.
It sounded familiar. It sounded too familiar. It sounded...
...like his glory days all over again. It sounded like the chant that filled many stadiums time and again. It sounded like his past coming back to haunt him and the truth? It had distracted him for that mere second. It had taken his attention away from the fight and Moore had nearly forgotten that he was fighting for survival; that he needed to fight with the heart of a lion. Instead, he had looked away and...
There was a gasp that ripples through the crowd as the Ape connects with one wild haymaker that sends Moore stumbling back for a moment before lunging forward to initiate a clinch lest he find himself beaten upon and falling to the floor. It had been second nature to cling onto the man within an instant then and there as his vision falters and darkens at the edges. What had happened?
There had only truly been one time Julian had been struck so hard and that had been his last fight; Robert Mercer had gone the distance with Julian because of his youth. He had punished Julian's mid-section the entire fight and had even cut him open mid-way but Julian had won by decision after the twelve rounds were over and done with. He would have lost that night though and truth be told...
He was supposed to lose.
Now reality's flooding back to the forefront of his mind and his mouth falls open to take a deep breath. He could smell the other man as he attempts to shake Moore off but Julian clings like some savage before throwing his head up and catches the man below the chin hard. There's another collective gasp as the two fight tight from within the clinch; dirty-boxing, or so they'd call that. Julian's brow ached furiously though; slick with sweat, but...Oh, no, that wasn't sweat whatsoever. It's blood not free from an old and pale scar above his brow. It's not trailing down the side of his face and luckily away from his eye lest he find himself blinded and at another disadvantage.
...and still the chant continued.
"I'm going to bury you," utters the ape through clenched teeth; blood trailing down the thicket of his beard and falling to Julian's bare shoulder. He must have freed some tooth with that headbutt of his. Good. Now Julian had something to work on.
"Bugger off," Julian growls back; pressing his bloodied brow tight against the man's jaw line before tipping his face away and slamming hard forth once more. It's enough to make his opponent loosen his clinch, and therein was lied his one true mistake. Still, the strike - used with the bad side of Moore's forehead - left his vision diminishing and body quaking faintly for the moment. Yet, with the power of will alone, Moore pushes himself forward to act upon the man's opening.
They wanted more. Moore would give them every bit.
Moore looked violent then; bestial, even. He threw one wild haymaker after another and landed them with precision from upclose as the ape stumbles back. Moore simply advances, dancing forward and taking any glancing blows thrown his way only for him to counter them with harsher strikes; landing clean upper cuts and even tripling up on them. If there was any credit to give it would be for the fact that the other man was still standing and moving albeit stumbling backward and rocking on his feet. One would think their makeshift referee would call the fight, but no.
There was blood to be had.
There truly was no doubt that Moore was dominating then and there. Oh, sure, the silver back was soon gathering his senses, but even that seemed to do naught even as he attempts to clinch not once but four times and fails miserably as Moore punishes the man for coming too close; he could smell blood then and it didn't belong to him but the man attempting to circle away with that spurting nose and his stained teeth. All the while the crowd's screaming and stamping their feet and David was slaughtering Goliath until that final wild haymaker followed with Julian Moore's roar.
...and the giant falls to the floor.
There's a collective scream of excitement rippling throughout the crowd as the referee leaps forward and the count begins; Moore pushed away as his chest heaves and hands fall to his waist. His chin tucks toward his chest and his head throbs; his body wallowing within the throes of pain. He's bleeding terrible and he knew that his cut was split bad. Still, he couldn't help but open those eyes of his and eye the crowd. They had wanted more.
He could have sworn he saw someone there.
...someone he knew.
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Rhiannon
CITIZEN
You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
Posts: 27
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:40:55 GMT -5
"Julian!"
A voice scream his name in horror as he hesitated at the sound of the crowd chanting his name. Her voice. She saw the fist coming but it was too late and there was nothing she could do but watch it slam into Moore. Her hands flew to cover her mouth and Rhiannon's eyes closed as she cringed at the blow. But just as quickly she was watching again, her gaze riveted as the two tangled together.
She didn't have time to watch though - it didn't seem like the man was going to wait to see if Moore won or lost to take his spoils. He charged through the crowd, shoving people in one direction or the other as he pursued her. Rhiannon didn't want to take care of him, not here in the open, in public where everyone could see. It was only now that she felt a note of panic. She glanced back over her shoulder at him just in time to see him before he reached her, then dodged this way and that, slipping through what openings she could while her eyes glanced continuously over at Moore. Blood, he was covered in blood. But was it his or the giants? They were both covered, bleeding like pigs. Oh God. But the people only cheered louder at the animalistic display. "We want Moore! We want Moore!"
A hand suddenly closed around her throat and Rhiannon twisted, gasping as the man caught her. There was pressure on her windpipe, gripping her tightly. She was eye to eye with her attacker, dangling with her feet well off the ground. She didn't need to breathe so she stopped. She needed to conserve her energy for something more important than a formality to make her feel human. Rhiannon dropped Moore's coat and grabbed his wrist with both her hands, squeezing tightly. She felt the bones giving away between them as she crushed the vulnerable joint. He let out a howl of agony but she didn't let up. Rhiannon's strong leg kicked out, kneeing him in the groin. The crowd was roaring, utterly ignorant of her plight. She didn't need their help though and she didn't need their attention. Her eyes strayed back over to Moore - he was enraged, throwing fist after hard fist. The giant didn't have a chance.
Rhiannon fell to the ground, catching herself on her hands while the man fell back against the wall and the giant went down. She took a moment to inhale a wheezed breath. The world was vibrating and reverberating while the referee counted aloud, the numbers cutting through the din. Rhia looked back at her pursuer as she stood. Without hesitation her leg swung out, whip kicking him across the face. Blood smeared up her leg and the man fell against the wall, dazed - it was a miracle that the kick hadn't snapped his neck. She scooped Moore's jacket up from the ground and draped it over her shoulders to free both hands, then pushed her way through the spectators, her throat throbbing still as the boxer came back into sight. His chest was heaving with exertion and blood streaked his face, dripping down onto his chest.
Rhiannon shoved between two people, the clicking of her heels barely audible above the din of the crowd as she left her attacker where he laid. She approached him from behind, tugging down the brim of her hat down over her face before laying her palms on his shoulders, giving a gentle tug, pulling him away into the crowd with a quiet "Over here. This way, Julian." His skin felt on fire, but she knew it was only because she was dead and he was alive - the embers of life still flared inside of the boxer. Vibrantly. And he smelled the same. She took one of his big, muscled arms and draped it over her shoulder so he could lean on her if he needed to; she was strong enough to hold him up. People were slapping him on the shoulders as they entered the sea, giving their kudos. Rhia was breathing again now, but it was ragged. Would he even remember her?
Trouble was afoot and she wanted Moore.
The man who'd been taking bets approached from the side then, lips in a hard scowl. His beady eyes gave Moore the once over - the people were still chanting his name - before holding out his hand. Gripping in his dirty fingers was not one, not two, but three white envelopes stuffed with bills. His voice was gravelly when he spoke, the words he said making Rhiannon's face burn red beneath her hat.
"Your woman is an idiot to bet against the house. Hope that wasn't your money she used, next time you might not do so good," he grumbled, looking at the boxer instead of her before slinking away.
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Moore
CITIZEN
Oh, Sweet Ambrosia!
Posts: 63
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Post by Moore on Nov 19, 2009 22:41:31 GMT -5
Moore wasn't about himself then. His mind was swimming and vision awash with darkness and flitting at the edges; tears ready to stand within his eyes. His body was quaking as well and gave the sense that he was near ready to give out; collapse, even, which belied his stable stance then and there. It didn't matter whether or not he was something else entirely from being a human; a punch taken when unaware will still do damage, and that wasn't even making mention of the fact that Moore had traded hard blows at the end with that Ape.
Moore bled then; badly, even. His brow slick with both sweat and that carmine nectar; cheek wet and eye nigh covered with the stuff. His mind was elsewhere then; dancing along with the cheer all around him. He could have wept and thought about the past then. Mayhap he was within some square ring after all. Maybe he was still going blow for blow with that young lion; going the distance deep into the night. Except he wasn't within a square ring.
It took him a moment to grasp reality and the fact that someone was supporting his weight. He wasn't sure who except for the fact there was a touch upon his shoulders and soon his arm was drawn across said person's own. He leans into him, or her; whoever the person was. He utters not even a single word as his eyes flit over the crowd and that ape was being tended to; still snoring upon the ground and choking upon his blood.
"Over here. This way, Julian."
How strange. How peculiar. How different. How utterly frightening. Julian wouldn't have known what to do even if he were given the go ahead and say so. He simply followed the motions of the person pressed against his side; his flesh heated whilst muscles ripple beneath the surface of that perfect flesh. He could smell her then amongst the rest; smell her above the clamoring din of blood upon his chest. It's intoxicating and leaves him heady. It's then his eyes - blue as they have ever been - fall upon the grubby hand of the book-keeper; his hand full of envelopes.
It's his pay. His keep. It's the money his sister wouldn't even take.
...at least not any more. She's past all that; past him, now.
His woman? His money? He'd never bet his own money; he'd simply earn what he fought for. Still, he couldn't help but smile; blood leaving those white teeth somewhat stained. It didn't take much to provoke Moore, and much less to stir him to a fight. He didn't even know who she was; who the person under his arm was. His head still swimming and yet he's barking out at the heels of the other man; nigh howling at him to fight.
"Is that a threat? Do you really want to try, lad? Otherwise bugger off," Moore snarls. He's given a sidelong glance that said everything but was empty of any gall that would lead the man to attacking him. Luckily Moore was able to snatch up the envelopes with ease before the man had slinked off. "Next time you talk that shit and I won't hesitate to break your teeth," Moore states loudly for all to hear; there's laughter and raucous calls for another fight but Moore needed care.
Still..."We know who wants Moore."
He needed rest though; now, rather.
He's leaning heavily against her then before tucking his chin toward his chest and staring down upon the brim of that hat with one eye; pinching the other shut to shield such from blood. There were a number of questions that ran through his mind then. It wasn't uncommon for women to flock toward the winner; thinking they'd get some cut or at least the glory of being bedded by the winner. As for Moore? He had accepted such things before but now was different. He made quick note that she was wearing his coat for one. So, he hands over the envelopes.
"Put these away," he states firmly with a grunt. He waits for her to grab them; leaving her open so he may reach up and snatch off her hat and reveal her hair. Whether or not she'd look at him was a different story altogether. Luckily Moore was stubborn and pressing the brim of that fedora under her chin as he steered her through the crowd and away from the blazing lights and loud sounds. His blue eyes stare down upon her face then an then...realization; recognition, even.
"Rhiannon..." His mouth falls open.
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Rhiannon
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You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:41:46 GMT -5
Rhiannon was surprised that he had let her lead him away so easily and without fighting. He didn't know it was her. Then again he could have thought it was Shamus for how his head seemed to be reeling at that particular moment. She felt a wave of guilt that she'd taken a hit because of her - the people cheering his name had gotten him a hard blow but he'd taken it like a champ. He was a champ. She had no idea what had happened or how his career had crumbled but in her mind he was still the showstopping, undefeated boxer she remembered. He was burning up against her but the warmth was welcome. Suddenly Rhiannon felt cold, so cold. She'd never realized how cold she was until she felt the heat of Moore against her, a radiating inferno of pounding blood. Her hand was reaching out to take the envelopes from him before he could pull them back. Her face flushed at the bookie's words but she hadn't planned on replying, her attention was on the boxer. He was bleeding and injured, he needed to be taken care of. But at the man's words, Moore was suddenly speaking in loud anger.
"Is that a threat? Do you really want to try, lad? Otherwise bugger off!" Rhiannon's face flushed crimson as eyes turned in their direction, ducking her head down slightly in embarrassment. The attention came in droves - she didn't want to be noticed. She hadn't encountered a hunter yet but she didn't want to anytime soon. Extra attention was bad. Moore grabbed the envelopes away from the shady looking man with a fast hand; in the blink of an eye they were gripped in his hand tightly. "Next time you talk that shit and I won't hesitate to break your teeth. We know who wants Moore."
There wasn't a question about that.
He put his weight on her and for a moment her knees balked underneath her. She might be stronger than before but a hundred-ninety pounds of hard, heavy muscle was relying on her to keep it standing. Rhiannon caught herself though, finding her land legs and quick as she could to take a step forward. There was a crate lying against the wall ahead of them. If she could get him over there and sit him down she could clean him up...The envelopes were being offered to her. Rhiannon's dark eye glanced up from beneath the brim, seeing only his lips and nose and the blood streaking his lower face. A fine lower face to say the least. The same strong jaw that she remembered.
"Put these away."
She didn't hesitate to reach out and take them from his hand, but as she twisted to slide them into her pocket As Rhiannon did, though, she felt her hat fly off of her head. Rather, lifted. Before she could quell the impulse her head turned to look up at where her hat hand gone, only to feel the brim under her chin to turn her head upwards. Then their eyes met and for a moment there wasn't a sound. She didn't hear the people around them or the sounds of the next fight beginning. Then she felt panic. He didn't remember her. She'd been just another number on a list, not even a name. But then there was a spark in his eye - visible to even her. If her heart had been beating it would have skipped a beat at that moment.
"Rhiannon..."
For a moment she didn't know what to do, what to say. This was something that she had never imagined happening. This was something from her wildest fantasies. She hadn't thought of encountering him here in a place like this in these conditions. In this situation. Her lower lip quivered ever so slightly as she looked up into those blue eyes that she remembered so well. She swallowed hard.
"Julian."
It came out as barely a whisper. There was a moment before she took his arm, guiding him in the direction of the crate she'd spotted earlier. A hand went into her purse, fishing out a tissue while the other pressed onto his shoulder to make him sit. Rhiannon leaned over him, wiping away the blood on his face with the Kleenex. Suddenly her tongue felt thick. There was so much to say and too little all at once. She swallowed hard. As she looked down at him she could see the small scars littered across his forehead and face. Finally, barely audible:
"What are you doing in a place like this?"
The last she'd seen him he was on top of the world. An undefeated boxer with the world in his palm. He could have anything he wanted. Women, money, fame, respect. Almost had her, although that went unsaid. What was he doing fighting people like this in some dark alleyway?
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Moore
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Oh, Sweet Ambrosia!
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Post by Moore on Nov 19, 2009 22:43:19 GMT -5
Moore saunters toward that crate - the one Rhiannon had seemed to choose then and there - with her help, of course. He was soon sitting down; propping himself up upon such and leaning back toward the wall behind him. It's then the heels of his feet thump against the crate and his hands press together between his knees. It's easier to take in the detail of his hurts then with the lamp lights and without so many casting their shadows upon him.
His brow was cut; that alone was a given. Now, blood sweeping down the side of his face made such look far worse. His neck and chest lingers lathered with sweat and that carmine essence, and his shoulder as well albeit some of that belonged to his opponent. His side looks splotched; thoroughly abused by his opponent's fists when having come for the kill. Overall though, Moore looked far better off than the ape would look now; who, truly, must have been still snoring.
"What are you doing here?"
Moore's quick to counter Rhiannon with a knit to his brows; sweat trailing toward that split cut left his face twitching briefly with a hint of pain. It's then he's reaching up to catch her wrist. It's enough to stop her from mopping up his blood for the moment with that tissue. His eyes all the while are filled with question.
Why here? Why now? Why of all the places to be? Why, why, why...
Moore didn't need any more ghosts of the past resurfacing within his life. He didn't need to deal with these things; much less Rhiannon of all people. She had been there within a brief moment of his life. She had been a young woman he wanted to take to his hotel and have for a romp, and perhaps he'd call her back someday when he came back to the States. Except things never exactly turned out that way. Instead, Moore had been hammered and judged. His mind rolls everything over; baring the glaring and ugly truth of things.
"You could have gotten hurt!" He says with fervor and a grunt thereafter. He lifts his hand to thread his fingers through those damp short-cropped tresses before shaking his head quickly. He could hardly grasp the reality of the situation or even the fact that he had completely steered himself away from answering her own question. What was he doing here?
Look closely because this is the face of a man who lost everything.
"Rhiannon..." He breathes out; her name sounding all too familiar upon his tongue. It's then he looks up at her face. So little had changed from that once upon a time ago. He had been a gallant man then; all charm and dashing ways. What about now? Far from that. He was now more that cool cat sauntering down the boulevard with a witty remark to everything and anything.
"You're the last face I'd ever expect to see."
It's the only thing he could say. Oh, sure, he may be upset with the fact that she might have hurt herself. Oh, and then there's the fact that she didn't belong here; too young, and it's far too filthy here for her. Maybe he should answer her. Maybe he should tell her the truth. Maybe not though. It's then that Moore reluctantly allows her to clean the side of his face. It was already begining to grow sticky and the smell lingers within his nostrils and the back of his throat. His face leans toward her touch then. Where was Shamus when he needed that old bastard?
"Rhiannon...Why are you here anyway?" He demands of her suddenly. Mayhap she needed the same from him though.
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Rhiannon
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You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:43:44 GMT -5
So much blood, so much blood. Rhiannon said a quiet prayer of thanks that she had fed already otherwise this simple task would be so much harder. Already it was difficult, not because she hungered but because it was him. The rich scent of his body from a year ago penetrated right into his blood and it was all that she could do to not lick her lips or let out a quiet moan of gluttonous desire. So much self restraint, she impressed herself. This could have been much harder than it was - although it seemed that the boxer wasn't going to make it easy either.
"What are you doing here?"
His hand closed around her small wrist, bringing her hand to a pause in its cleaning. Her eyes nearly leveled on his blood, but she made them drop down to meet his eyes. Eyes filled with unreadable questions that she had no idea how to answer. What was she doing here? How could she possibly tell him that she was out looking for trouble? Guild hunting was a mere excuse. Venom wouldn't be pleased if he knew what kinds of places she was visiting - especially if he came upon her at this moment, surrounded by street fighters and men who probably wouldn't think twice about throwing her in the back of a car to satisfy their dangerous lusts.
"You could have gotten hurt!"
She could have gotten hurt? Rhiannon was speechless but she nearly laughed. He was the one going toe-to-toe with giants, tackling the world in a fury of fists. She was a vampire and, while not the most powerful vampire by any means, she was still stronger than a human. Strong enough to keep herself safe. Or so she liked to believe. But Julian didn't know that, so instead she found herself biting her tongue. He was the one in danger here. Not her.
"Rhiannon..." It was a whisper that brought back too many fond memories. Her standing shyly to one side in a locker room while his hand scrawled across the boxing gloves that she still had; 'You have Moore'. Him discreetly taking her hand outside of a restaurant. Her back against that iron fence with him in front, lips pressed together and cameras flashing. No, the cameras wasn't a happy thought but until those blinding lights had cut in the moment had been perfect. If he hadn't been followed to the restaurant...If those photographers hadn't been there...If Quinn hadn't found out what Julian's intentions had been...She would be a different woman than the one she was now. "You're the last face I'd ever expect to see."
"That's an understatement," she managed to murmur as he let go of her wrist. Rhiannon hesitated before resuming wiping the blood of his battles away, though if she had her way she would lick it off in a veritable vampiric grovel.
"Rhiannon...Why are you here anyway?"
And what could she possibly say to that? 'I'm a vampire looking for a shady guild to teach me skills that would make you cringe'? That would go over well. He would run for the hills. She couldn't tell him the truth, that was for certain. She didn't want to lie to him. She didn't want to begin this meeting with untruths and dishonesty. Rhiannon felt her stomach tighten at the thought. But she didn't have a choice, not now. Two months ago...If they had crossed paths two months ago she could have told him the truth. There wouldn't have been anything to hide.
Time changed everything.
"I came looking for you," she whispered, possibly the foulest lie she'd ever told although she didn't let it show on her delicate face as she wiped him clean. "I heard rumors that you were around, though I didn't think it'd be this easy to find you." More lies. Already the guilt was weighing heavy but she kept her spine straight and shoulders back. This was the kind of thing that could have only happened when you weren't looking. This was change. Nay, this was Fate. Rhiannon dropped to her knees in front of him, taking his face in her hands and tilting it upwards so that she could clean away the blood that was trickling down his chin onto his neck and dripping onto his chest. The tissue was saturated so she balled it up and dropped it back in her purse, taking out another to finish the job. Her dark eyes glanced up at him quietly while her teeth bit down on her lip.
"God, Julian..." She balled up the tissue in her hand quietly for a moment, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. The past coming up - not to haunt her but to almost tease her. Rhiannon unfurled the bloody paper she grasped and gave a small shake of her head before looking back at Moore with a weak smile and weak knees. "I'm surprised you even remember me."
Something suddenly fell before her eyes and closed around her throat from behind, yanking her sharply backwards. Rhiannon gasped loudly, although it came out as more of a choking sound. Her legs kicked against the pavement as she was dragged back. She grabbed at what was around her neck; the hard leather of a belt that grew tighter with every step her attacker took. A hoarse cry escaped her mouth as she was flung across the ground. Her head hit the pavement hard and as she rolled she caught sight of the man she had been fending off before advancing toward her with a murderous look in his eye. His voice came out as a low growl.
"You messed with the wrong man."
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Moore
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Oh, Sweet Ambrosia!
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Post by Moore on Nov 19, 2009 22:47:07 GMT -5
She came looking for him, or so she says. He wasn't sure whether or not to believe her. She could be lying right through her teeth and the entirety of the situation actual happenstance; fate taking them and thrusting them together for amusement and naught else. He could only stare at her uncomprehendingly; his mind attempting to piece everything together. Why would he have reason to find her uttered words nothing else but a lie? Why would she lie? Then again, Rhiannon owed him nothing; she didn't need to speak truth to him.
"So, you came for me this way? Risking yourself? You could have hurt yourself. These aren't men you should be around," Julian says quickly; chiding her for all she had done. Yet, what of him? Why was he here? Certainly he didn't need to be fighting for a fistful of money. Certainly his life prior to this moment had been filled with so much success that he didn't need anything else, right? Maybe not though. Maybe his life was as ruined as most of the tragic souls of Raven Black City. It seemed to be the norm at the least.
His hand lifts quietly for the moment to reach out as calloused fingertips brush against the rise of her cheek; his palm cupping her cheek soon after. Her words were not lost upon him. "I never forget a face," he murmurs simply; his voice thick with that Scottish brogue and full of weariness and need both. He offers her a slight smile and warm lingers within those blue eyes. Oh, if only Moore had known! Except things were moving so quickly and soon Rhiannon was being snatched out of his grasp. As for Julian? He moved with a quickness and fieroscity that belied his current muddied condition; moved unfaltering.
There was something that overtook Julian then. Mayhap one could argue he was possessive and perhaps they were right; she was his then and no one else's. He'd fight for the claim as surely as he'd fight for his mate with his heels to the wall and no where to run. It was then that low growl filled the air alongside those uttered words and soon the sound of flesh being pummeled was raising like a crescendo over the din alongside the scuffling of feet as Moore had leaped and stepped over Rhiannon was grace and ease to assail her attacker.
What happened then would be hard to explain. Moore moved with such ease that he truly did not look hampered by his wounds. He swung with precision and the other did not see the attack coming at all. There was blood within Moore's eyes; need to shed such. There was the to kill and even after the man had been knocked down Moore was upon him like an animal; mounting and throwing heavy blows upon the man's face until the man was convulsing beneath the weight of body. He was bestial then; defending his flesh and the flesh of the one behind him - Rhiannon.
Not a word. Not a sound. There was nothing from Moore that gave way to what was happening within his own being. Yet, there were eyes upon them then; eyes upon the man pounding away without care and beyond the limit of what would have been considered acceptable. It took a moment then - blinking eyes all around and realization sinking in - before men were running close to attempt parting the two. It was a feeble attempt but Moore had parted of his own accord; coming to his feet and shuffling back whilst throwing an arm behind him for Rhiannon to no doubt grab. His flesh was heated then and eyes alight with passion; his tongue slipping over his lower lip then and there before Rhiannon was satisfying his need. He was quick to pull her away.
Things had gone through quickly then and still Moore said not a word as he pulled her out of the mouth of the alleyway and his body quakes faintly underneath her touch; his adrenaline slowing. His breath rushes out and his eyes flit over the street for the moment as he lifts one hand to rub at his brow with mild annoyance of the split cut there.
"I need something to drink," he breathes out. More like he needed rest though. Yet, he still steers her away; pulling her along with his hand and arm both. It was only then that something was dawning upon him and Moore was looking quietly over to Rhiannon. Would she shy away? It had been his more bestial of instincts to protect her as he would his own flesh; his mate. Perhaps that was the more wolfish part of him and yet Moore had always been such; quick to defend the weaker and his sister both.
"We should head to my place," he pauses and grunts. "Or somewhere with a bathroom," he quickly says; unsure whether or not she'd even shy away from the thought of heading to his place. Would she? That was always a possibility but Moore wasn't ready to explore that yet. Still, he needed to sit somewhere. The blood loss and the shedding of blood both had made him hunger for something more; hunger for the flesh with passion and blood both.
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Rhiannon
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You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:47:23 GMT -5
A foot swung out and collided with her face, sending Rhiannon skittering across the gravel. She shouted in pain, a hand flying up to grab her jaw. She could feel the bone shift under her fingers - broken. Another kick and she twisted around just in time to take the blow to the back of her head instead of her face. The pain was immense. No head gear, no padding. Her jaw was healing fast so she grabbed onto her head instead; sticky. Blood. She was bleeding. The belt around her neck tightened sharply and yanked her over the ground. Stones and pieces of broken glass bottles dug into her legs, arms and thighs. She was only beginning to get the presence of mind to grab onto the belt and pull back when Moore stepped in. Like some kind of dark angel, his shadow fell over her and blocked out the glow of the streetlamps above as the boxer advanced on fast feet toward her attacked. The belt drew tighter and she flew after the pair on the wings of gravity, gasping in pain before the leather fell from her attacker's hand as Moore took him down. For a moment the only thing that Rhiannon could hear was the sound of her ragged breathing as her hands grabbed the belt around her neck, pulling it loose. Deep, hoarse inhalations before the familiar sound of skin on skin in a violent, one-sided dance. Her head turned, wounds healing but her throat and head throbbing, to watch Moore dominate the other man. Blow after blow. The crowd was flinching but to Rhiannon this was revenge, watching her man coming to her defense - and with such power. Even worn and tired as he was, he was an animal. Blood splattered through the air. It was only then that the masses moved forward to separate them. They'd wanted Moore - they got it.
This wasn't the Moore she remembered but somehow this was the Moore that she felt she knew. There was nothing out of place, there was nothing bizarre or off setting about it. Boxing had rules, it had a form, limitations. He'd been held back. Here it was survival of the fittest, and Moore was more than just on top of his game - he was on top of the whole goddamn food chain. Hands were reaching out to pull him away but the boxer was already stepping back. Rhiannon pushed herself to her feet, standing on shaky legs as she crossed over to him, her hands falling away from her pounding head. She placed one hand on his arm and the other on his back to hold him as he backed away. He was on fire. His bare skin was burning beneath her fingertips. Then, just like that, the tables turned and he was the one leading her away. She let him.
Rhiannon didn't speak a word of protest as the boxer pulled her from the alley. Her one hand left his sweaty arm to again touch the back of her head then looked at her fingers. They were streaked with blood, but the wound had probably already healed away completely. Was there a bruise around her neck from the belt? She didn't know. She could feel his muscles quivering under her other hand. So hot.
"I need something to drink." She didn't say a word as he continued to lead her away from the makeshift fight club, the hand stained with her blood falling back to his arm. A light but firm touch; she was there. She wasn't running away and she had no intentions of doing that. "We should head to my place. Or somewhere with a bathroom."
If she was in any state other than the one that she was in, Rhiannon would have thought twice about that proposition. If it had been anyone except Moore she would have hesitated. Paused more over some clean cut gentleman than the blood and sweat covered across the pond boxer at her side. This wasn't some gentleman; this was Julian Moore. The trust was innate. The fear nonexistent. Instead of doubting or wondering she instead nodded in agreement, biting down on her lip. Her head ached, pounding violently. Even if she'd felt some kind of pause at the idea this wasn't a time to debate. He was right. He needed to be cleaned up. She needed to be cleaned up. They both needed to sit down and catch their breaths. And she sure as Hell needed some kind of drink.
"Where do you live?" Rhiannon asked hoarsely, her hands staying on him while her dark honey eyes watched him. "Is it close or do we need to call a cab?"
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Moore
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Oh, Sweet Ambrosia!
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Post by Moore on Nov 19, 2009 22:48:45 GMT -5
Julian's mind was finally coming about him by the time they were leaving behind the sweat, grime and blood; the alleyway proper. Their business was over and done with and the damage dealt with each fall of his fist. He had money though; his reward for winning and Rhiannon's cut for betting on him albeit that didn't belong to him. It took him a moment though to realize Rhiannon's own damange though; she hadn't come out unscathed as he had hoped.
His blood heated then and churned within him; his mind flaring and beckoning him to return and put an end to the miserable mess that was the downed man within the alley. Julian would have shed blood then and there, and God only knew what might have happened if Rhiannon's touch wasn't upon him and her own needs were that of a priority over anything else.
He found guilt washing over him but quickly realized that this wasn't his fault. She shouldn't have been there but Moore couldn't find himself the courage, or even the strength, to chide her for that. Mayhap after they were both tended to. Maybe then Moore could berate her for stepping out into some back alleyway; a pretty woman like her shouldn't belong there. There were only a few reasons why women were kept out there and those few reasons weren't any good ones to say the least; women used for pleasure and pain by way of paper-money to exact such affections.
Julian catches the scent of her essence then; his hand lifting to touch upon the back of her head. His fingertips are eager to quest through for a sore spot; slick with blood. His mouth twists to a frown and his brows knit. "You're hurt," he says dumbly. It's more than obvious that she was and the fault was entirely his. He should have been quicker upon his feet.
Julian wasn't sure how he had managed to get his hands on the fedora; the one he had pried off of her head earlier. It was within his hands now though. Mayhap he had picked it up on the way after the onslaught? Either way, he's placing the thing upon her head lest someone get a good look at her. He didn't want anyone thinking she was abused by his hand. Especially if they were going to fetch a cab. Oh, that's right: "a cab," he says quickly and then, "get out some cash."
Wolf-whistling came easily with Julian Moore; his fingertips pinching within his mouth as they neared the curb where the whirring of traffic fills the air. His hears still clinging to the distant throes of the fighting within the back alleyways at their heels. He whistles loudly then; sharp and piercing that fills the nigh empty street. He quickly swings out his hand toward the street, and as if on cue, a yellow cab was tucking close to the curb. Julian steers Rhiannon forward whilst reaching for the door simultaneously; his ears are assaulted by the cab driver questioning where they were going and warning them not to muddy his seats all at once.
"Umbrella and 29th," Julian grunts; pressing Rhiannon into the back seat before following. He's quickly settling within and lolling his head back with a heavy sigh.
"I feel like shit."
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Rhiannon
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You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste death?
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Post by Rhiannon on Nov 19, 2009 22:49:11 GMT -5
Rhiannon's fingers deftly left Moore for a moment to adjust the hat that he'd pressed back onto her head - it would, more likely than not, be ruined now but it wasn't as though she couldn't replace it. It wasn't as though she cared either. She had winced only slightly when he'd touched that spot on the back of her head - healed or not, it was still tender. His statement of the obvious would have made her laugh quietly if it was anything lesser. Of course if it was anything lesser then there wouldn't really be any reason to say it. Her hands returned to Moore - God, she couldn't get over how warm he felt to touch. Fire under her fingertips. For the first time since her turning, Rhiannon felt cold and lifeless. Suddenly aware of how her heart wasn't beating to race anymore and of the temperature of her skin. She didn't speak as he hailed a cab and she didn't protest or resist as he ushered her inside. It was only when he climbed in beside her that Rhiannon took out one of the envelopes of money, fingering through the bills for what she assumed would cover the fare before stuffing it away. Her hand closed tightly around the green leafs, listening as Julian gave their destination. The cabbie nodded and pulled back out into traffic.
The streetlamps began to flicker by and Moore leaned back into the ripped up seat - her fingers absently picked at some fluff coming out of the leather. Her dark honey eyes looked up at the boxer as he let out that heavy sigh, unsure of what to say. But, as always, he did.
"I feel like shit."
"I wonder why," she murmured, reaching in her purse for another tissue. She reached out toward his still bleeding head, though the flowing of the blood had ebbed greatly, then hesitated. Gave a moment for him to press her hands away in refusal of her treatment before gingerly touching the flimsy paper to the blood, wiping it away as gentle as she could. Rhiannon's lips pursed together and for a moment forgot about her own wounds, whispering quietly: "You should be more careful, Moore..." She remembered the second the words left her pretty little mouth though, and she hastily added "You're too pretty to be hit."
That's what he'd said about her when they'd first met, speaking in low tones over appetizers and despite whorey waitresses. That he was surprised someone as attractive as her would be involved in such a violent sport - Rhiannon suddenly wished that he had seen her fight. If the photographers hadn't been there they would have gotten away with it, that one innocent kiss. Maybe she would have been able to compete and maybe he would have been at ringside with Quinn to cheer her on. Maybe she would have won. And maybe their second meeting wouldn't have been in a dingy back alleyway. Would they have stayed in touch? Written letters and exchanged pictures? Would she have visited him there in the United Kingdom and would he have stopped to say hello whenever he was in the States? Met her parents, seeing more of her mother than a picture of a picture. There was no way to ever know.
The tissue was saturated was Rhiannon finally stopped cleaning up the blood he was spilling, just a gentle trickle now instead of that earlier river. The paper wad went back into her purse and, after a moment to glance around at her available options, she grasped the hem of her dress and pulled, ripping a length off from around the bottom. Folding it, she pressed the square of cloth against his cut and held it there, her eyes soft as she studied him. Those flickering lights of the streetlamps outside illuminated his face for a split second before casting them back into darkness - she bit down on her lip.
"Thank you," she said in a barely audible whisper, her gaze falling away from Moore's countenance, "for saving me from the wolves. I owe you."
It was then that the car pulled over sharply. Rhiannon's head turned to look out the window at a row of old, brownstone buildings. Short and squat four stories with a backdrop of the towering city in the distance behind them. The cabbie turned in his seat, waiting for the money. A quick glance at the meter and she pressed the money she still clutched into his hand before opening the door and stepping out, keeping a hand on Moore all the while as she slid across the seat and stood on the sidewalk. After the car door closed and there came the sound of the cab driving away, Rhiannon turned to look at the boxer, waiting for him to lead the way to his territory.
"Which is yours, Julian?"
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