#making amends is confusing

[ooc-miqojak]

The Bridges We Burn (1)

((This RP between Iloam of @ourcollectivefantasy and I is backdated a bit, but needed to see the light of day! So many feels to follow in this multi-post RP (there’s a lot of writing, so there will be several posts). Obviously, not all of this writing is mine! -The description of Murder Row is all Iloam, and I fucking love it. ))

Part 2|Part 3|Part 4

It was a strange hour for Murder Row. The evening was late, but the night was young and the small strip down the belly of the city never quite knew what to do with itself in that liminal space between. Darkness had settled in to the crevices and filled sidewalk cracks with velvety shadows that slithered and skirted around oily puddles. A fresh, early Spring rain had come down in sheets earlier but was now spent and reduced to a panting mist that filled the city with a warm heaviness in the lungs. Bright, garish mage lights were lit in anticipation of the evening crowds that would soon stream out, looking for Friday night trouble to get into. A familiar neon sign buzzed on and off in hot pink letters at the large street window of Subliminal Glitch; a small vintage punk clothing store wedged between a laundromat and a Pandaran take-out. The shop front was narrow and skinny and Iloam hopped up the blackened stone stairs before pushing the door open. In lieu of a bell, a rubber chicken nailed above the door squawked as a fake ax descended and "chopped off" its head. The noise was lost to the blaring punk rock music on the overhead, and as Iloam shut the door behind him, he didn't bother looking up. He'd seen the prank a dozen times before.

His hand lifted to his short hair and he pushed copper bangs back, raking long fingers through the soggy mess to shake out loose rain water. His eyes scanned the downstairs for the face he was looking for. Spiral racks of leather jackets and ripped skinny jeans, vintage concert tour t-shirts and fetish wear. The walls were lined with studded boots and stiletto heels, belts, collars, and sunglasses. Half the wilted, curling posters were from shows his bands had put on. An elf with liberty spikes nodded a mild hello to him from behind the counter but didn't bother with more than that. She knew Iloam's face and pointed towards the back before flipping another page in her magazine and going back to nodding along with the music. "Cheers," Iloam offered as he breezed by, weaving through the racks and carrying a small, black velvet bag. At the very back of the store, he depressed the handle of what looked by all intents and purposes to be a broom closet. An unassuming door, painted chipping and scuffed black, and covered in faded stickers, posters, and graffiti. His favourite of which was a simple line at his eye level, written in silver ink pen, that simply said 'QUEL'FUCKLAS SUCKS DICK'. He smirked and pulled the door open.

Behind was not the small closet one would expect, or even a single loo, but a dark, narrow staircase lit by a single red light below. He took the stairs, letting the door swing shut behind him, without fear. Descending down and turn the corner, he emerged into the subterranean den. Equally long and facing the other direction, it extended well to the front of where the storefront was above. Between him and the back wall was a decent sea of couches that had seen better days, and low coffee tables; strewn pillows of various textures and sizes. Many of the coffee tables had large hookahs, gleaming in dark glass that reflected the red lights of the opium den. A small, single bar was set up along the right wall with a decent shelf of booze, beer and an espresso machine.

Iloam was well aware that the place wouldn't fill up until about 1 or 2am, when the bars were on last call and the shows were winding down. This was one of the best places to come and smoke up, chill out, and get a good cup of coffee. Plus, they didn't kick anyone out until the sun came up.

So that was exactly why, as he rounded the corner and stepped into the empty den, he was surprised to see anyone besides the shop owner down here. And he was even more surprised to see that it was a face he knew. A face that made him instantly regret every choice he'd made to lead him to exactly this spot, at exactly this place, at exactly this minute.

"Fekk," he muttered out loud.

Stretched long and lean on one of those abused couches was, in fact, a familiar figure. There's time enough, in the seconds the red head has on her, to ascertain the 'who' of the long-haired blonde who hasn’t bothered to to bind that platinum mane back. Clad in all-too familiar leathers and a tight-fitting, faded concert tee of her own...it's obvious where – or who? - the former Blood Knight has taken her inspiration from. Lazy, that recline, a hose clutched in long fingers; though the single word loosed into the air between them sees ears flick, and that horned head snap to the side, fel-laden gaze suddenly wide awake, and aware of just who, exactly, has descended those stairs.

The silence seems an interminable thing, though it likely spans but the breadth of a matter of seconds – both caught off guard by the other's presence. Predators meeting where territory crosses over? And yet, it's not hostility that meets Iloam's gaze. But then, did she ever truly gaze upon this man in anger? There's a crease of delicate features, and that hose is dropped, clattering against the table in response to that curse. Long legs swing down off the couch with painstaking care – slow, every inch calculated, as if expecting him to turn and leave, if she make even the slightest move. “Please,” comes her response, a singularly worded petition, and the pleading look she lays on him - despite the horns – is undeniably Lily. A familiar, and decidedly subdued appeal for him to stay. His animal brain told him to just turn around. Just pivot and march right back up the stairs. But he had enough self awareness to know that was somewhere on the edge of ridiculous. He wasn't afraid of the girl. Plush lips pressed into a grim line beneath his short kept Winter beard and the bridge of his nose between his eyebrows creased with irritation more than any other emotion. Apparently this was going to be anything but a routine stop on the way home. He moved across the small expanse of threadbare carpeting with a bit of a lurch of effort. Long, leather wrapped legs and heavy, black cherry Doc boots with studded toes. His shoulder hunched a bit as he tried, for the moment, to ignore Lily and have a brief conversation with the man behind the bar. "I brought over t'e latest," he offered, attempting to smooth the terse tone that wanted to grate from between grit teeth. "Cool man." The owner responded, smile fading as he noticed Iloam's posture. He glanced over at the blonde on the couch and lifted a pierced eyebrow. "Everything okay?" Iloam nodded mildly and crooked his head towards the stairs. "Aye. We'll chat upstairs on me way out?" His implication was subtle, but his friend picked up the subtext and nodded. He tossed his drying rag on the bar and picked up the bag. "I'll go put these on." As soon as the den was cleared, Iloam turned to the girl on the couch. He didn't approach but leaned against the bar from several feet away. His hands slid into the leather motorcycle jacket he was wearing over a plain white v-neck t shirt. The material was thin and dotted with rain drops from his walk in. He didn't say anything. He just waited.