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June 8, 2004 |
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The Tuscan is quiet, though not unusually so for a Tuesday night at such a late hour. Candle-lit tables cast soft light about this Italian restaurant. Behind the bar a middle-aged man polishes a wine glass with a bleached white bar rag. He has several customers this evening. Two men in black suits sit at one end of the bar, conversing quietly about work as evidenced by the tennor of their conversation. A young couple is huddled together, eaching sipping at manhattans. At the far end of the bar is a young woman, auburned haired. She traces a finger around the rim of her wine glass.
There's a momentary exclamation of surprise from the direction of the men's room, followed, several moments later by the emergence of a good-sized fellow from it, somewhat peculiarly dressed, and somewhat more peculiar by virtue of his not having been seen going /in/.
Heads turn now to the racket and the man that seems to have been the causes of it. Some shrug shoulders, others simply turn away and redirect their attentions to matters at hand: food, drink, conversation. The auburn haired woman cracks a knowing smile, crooked, her attention lingering on the man.
This young woman, seemingly in her late twenties, has almond shaped green eyes and auburn hair that is clasped at the back of her head and hangs well below her shoulders. Dressed for business, she dons a black, fitted skirt suit that hangs at her ankles and is slit up the front just below her knees. A low cut burgundy top can be seen under the buttoned jacket.
A silver ring adorns her left ring finger and her nails are freshly painted in a shade of burgundy that matches her attire. Clasped around her right wrist is a delicate, braided band that twines about an opaque stone of white. She wears a small pendant bearing two red gems each no larger in diameter then a dew drop. A scar can be seen running down the right side of her neck.
This is a tall man, strongly built without being overmuscled, seeming between thirty and forty years of age. His face is lined and weathered, with faint crow's feet at the corners of his emerald-green eyes; a faded scar is visible along the left side of his jaw. Black hair is cut fairly short, just long enough to accomodate a bit of unruliness. When he speaks, his voice carries a hint of New England with it. He's garbed in a black doublet over a silver-white shirt, with black trousers that taper into the tops of a pair of riding boots. A wide belt of black leather supports a long straight blade in a white leather scabbard; a tiny silver brooch worked into the shape of a rose decorates his doublet.
Corwin, looking mildly irritated, stalks up to the bar. "Yeah, you got bourbon in this place, right? Good. Double. Thanks." He digs into a pocket to find the appropriate coinage.
Yosannah reaches into her purse and fishes out a twenty dollar bill. She slides it toward the inner edge of the bar, "Here... I've got it."
Corwin says "Oh, uh." He gives the woman a second look, pauses. No, don't think so. "Uh, thanks. Never can remember which jacket I left my wallet in."
Yosannah crosses her arms atop the bar now and lowers her gaze to her wine glass. Her subtle smile is crooked and her alto voice is coy, "Of course, there is a price."
"... there is?" Corwin takes a moment to drink down a good portion of the bourbon the bartender's been good enough to set before him. "Well, I can't say I'm completely shocked. What price'd that be?"
Yosannah tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Your company, of course. At least until I finish another glass of wine." With that she lifts her now empty glass so that the bartender might see that she needs a fresh drink.
Corwin says "That doesn't seem like too bad a price, all things considered." He takes a seat, saying, "Name's Carl. You?"
At the other end of the bar, the younger of the two busniess men casts a glance in Yosannah's direction. He shakes his head, seemingly disappointed about something.
There is a pause, just long enough to be noticeable, that indicates she reflected for a moment before replying, "Allison." She extends a hand, casual.
Corwin says "You sure?" He says it in a way at least halfway joking. But he clasps her hand anyway for a moment, adding, "Good to meet you."
Yosannah lifts her brows and suggests, "Well, a girl has to be careful in this city. You never know what sort of strange men you'll come across." She reaches for her purse and zips it closed. Clipped to thereon is a small pin. It reads, "Office of the District Attorney." And under a circular seal, "New York County."
"If you're not looking for them, this probably isn't the city to come to," he agrees. "But if you are you've more or less got your choice. You live here, then?"
She sips from her glass and then wets her lips as she nods, "Mmm hmmm. You could say that."
Corwin says, with some humor, "I /did/ say that. But would /you/ say that."
Yosannah leans forward, arms returning to their crossed position atop the bar. The crooked smirk returns as well, "Yeah, I guess so."
Corwin says "Well, then. I don't, at the moment, but you figured that out on your own, probably."
Yosannah nods, slowly, again, "Mmm hmm."
Corwin drains off a good part of the drink in his glass. "Like to stop by every so often," he explains. "Make sure I'm not missing too much."
She lets her gaze go across the bar to the men that sit there. She makes eye contact with the younger and offers him a soft, smile. "You're a lot like Merle. Always popping in when I least expect it."
Corwin says "Mmh? Not quite sure how you mean that."
Yosannah looks at Corwin now, square, "You're a lot alike I think. Wonderlust finds you. But you always make sure to pop in every now and again and make sure you aren't missing anything."
Corwin says "Mmh. Well. That runs in the family, probably. Nobody out of my relatives likes to feel like they're missing something."
"Apparently." She bites at her lip and nods, "You don't remember me, do you, Corwin. We me sometime last year. At that ridiculous bar."
Corwin takes a moment or three to think it over. "Huh. Uh ... hm. Might've. I meet a lot of people. You do look familiar, though." A slight shrug. "Most of the time in places like this I don't introduce myself as myself, and all."
"So I have noticed." She drinks. "It was a long while ago. And I might have let it slip but..." She exhales and considers quietly.
Corwin says "But what?" He drains off the rest of his drink. "What's on your mind?"
Yosannah scratches at the scar on her neck, absent-mindedly, "We have acquaintences in similar circles it seems. Your name has come up in conversation fairly recently." She regards him sidelong, soft smile playing on her lips, "And here you are. It must be fate."
Corwin says, bluntly, "I don't believe in fate. Well -- not exactly." He frowns. "At least now I know why my ears kept burning."
"Don't believe in fate? Hmm, I suppose that makes sense. You wouldn't." She begins to toy with her glass again, finger tracing about the stem.
Corwin says "Except when I /am/ fate. Which happens sometimes."
"Mmm, good point. In any event, let's talk of a man. Magnus, in particular.""
Corwin scratches his chin, thinking. "Who's that?" he asks.
Yosannah offers, "You're not particularly good at playing coy. And it doesn't suit you."
Corwin says "We all got our faults. Okay, so he's the Pope of Chaos or whatever, right?"
Yosannah rests her elbow atop the bar and her chin in the palm of her hand, with her free hand she lifts a finger, "You're far more clever then you let on. See."
Corwin says "I try. It's better than the reverse, anyway."
Yosannah smiles, coy, "So... So, I know you have been approached by him... or even regarding him, Corwin."
Corwin spreads his hands. "Now what would the Pope of Chaos possibly want from me, aside from my blood, a whole lot of it, ideally spilled someplace inconvenient?"
Yosannah nods, and drums her fingers along her jawline, "That's the question, isn't it."
Corwin says "Maybe he's just a crazy sonofabitch who wants to spoil my vacation."
Yosannah suggests, "Maybe. Or maybe he asked for your help. And maybe you turned him down. And maybe that makes me very happy."
Corwin shows teeth. "You know I do hate to see a woman cry. Unless it's Dara."
Yosannah looks him over, casual glint in her almond green eyes. She smiles and tugs at her lower lip with her teeth, habitually. There is no comment forthcoming. She seems to be patiently waiting for something from him.
Corwin says "I've gotta say, if somebody from Chaos /were/ to ask me for help, I mean, all things considered, my first response /would/ tend to be a hearty fuck you unless I had a real good reason to say otherwise." He shrugs. "And some Pope guy I don't know from a hole in the ground, I don't have a real good reason to say otherwise."
Yosannah nods, pensive and reaches for her glass. She lifts the wine to her lips and drinks, finishing what little there remains. "Coming from the father of a man I am rather fond it, that is comforting to know." The glass is set atop the bar and pushed away, "Thank you, Corwin."
Corwin shrugs, easy. "Don't mention it," he says. "Doesn't cost me a thing to speculate. Long as that can alleviate your concerns, well, hell, might as well."
"Yes, speculate." She collects her suit jacket from the back of her stool and slides her arms into it. "Well, I'm finished with my drink, and so is your obligation it seems."
Corwin says "Taking off? Been a pleasure talking with you." He raises his glass slightly. "Stop by again some time, huh?""
Yosannah collects up her purse and slides from the bar. She gives Corwin an obligatory nod in answer of his question and suggestion though it should be obviously clear she's being polite. As she passes behind the man, she opens her mouth to comment but he probably wouldn't notice the gesture. Shaking her head, she makes for the exit. Left behind, a twenty dollar bill and an empty wineglass.