City of Shadows Mux City of Shadows Mux

Making Plans for Pure
Players Marigold, Fiametta, Sebastian, Andréia, Roman	Auburn Gresham 22 August, 2022 War! What is it good for? Making some coin.
Basking beneath the twin glows of the sun and the moon is a feat for anyone, but here Marigold is doing just that and looking radiant herself for it. Her smile catches a fire that wends its way to ignite her dark eyes with glittering brilliance as she looks between Bash and Fiametta. "I can see body paints and cages both being a good time. Experimentation, I think, will be key if you are unsure," she says more toward Sebastian there with a thoughtful nod as she regards the bartender as her expression tilts toward wistful and dreamy. As for a creative director? Marigold shakes her head with a soft chuckle, "Mostly been leaving that up to everyone. Fiametta is brimming with ideas, so it seems natural if anyone takes up that spot, it'd be her." A teasing wink follows that up for the flame-haired beauty as Mari's gaze slips toward her once more, drinking in everything about the dancer; no measured sips here as Marigold basks in Fi's light. "Though, I love the idea of these group brainstorming sessions too. Maybe we can keep that a tradition." She taps the bar top with the tip of her index finger, just a quick beat as she gets comfortable on her stool, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs the opposite way this time. "There's going to be plenty of themed events, too, from what Roman's told me. Lots of plans for both clubs, and we're just getting started." "There's an opportunity for people to truly make their performance their own. Whether it's something low key or not," Fi agrees softly with Marigold. "Maybe if they're unsure they can be supported with ideas at first, but..." The firey-haired young woman studies her hands, gently resting on her knee. "Sometimes people come into this thinking that it's the best choice out of a lot of bad ones. It doesn't have to be that way. And when the dancers don't feel that way, they'll be able to draw in others to watch that need some of that too. Like moths to a flame." But then she scrunches the bridge of her nose playfully. "And those moths will pay good money to be drawn in too." She turns that radiant smile on Bash. "I like the idea of brainstorming together, don't you? That way we can take all ideas and polish them. Rile them up until they can't help but want to be set free. I've just been in the business for awhile now, off and on. Here we'll all boost each other. So I'm happy to lend stuff if someone wants to try, or try to spot them when they're trying out new techniques. I've never done a joint routine because there's not always trust that the other person won't let you fall, but maybe it's time to experiment with that too. Possibilities are endless." There's a... commotion, from the front of the building. Something slams against the double doors, buckling them inward and offering a flash of two silhouetted forms, one clearly dominant over the other. The doors are yanked shut almost immediately, and a moment later come a trio of sounds; two sharp, meaty smacks and a stomach-churning snapping crunch. There's minor scuffling thereafter, before silence falls for several seconds, and then the doors swing open again, this time at the insistent shove of a motorcyle boot. Andreia dusts her hands as she saunters into Satin, a natural and nonchalant gesture that does nothing at all to deal with the blood smeared on her reddened fingers. Oh well. In the end, she's about this bothered: [ ] A fact evidenced by the carefree swagger that carries her toward the bar, her mien radiating near-nuclear humid heat, the dark eyes of her mask simply pulsing with the subtle dilation of adrenaline. An upflick of her chin goes to Bash. "Oy. Bit of trouble downstairs. You got a couple of extra rags, and a spare bottle of No. 7?" All business, she is, coming to rest on her heels, bloody hand sliding to her hip as she fires off the requisite greetings. To Marigold, a casual salute and the verbal acknowledgement of, "Boss bitch." To Fiametta, a smoldering smirk and a second upflick, her gaze lingering at the apex with a highly eloquent, "'sup." As she playfully gives a roll of her eyes at Sebastian, laughter spills from Marigold. That once drumming hand lifts to point at him, though not accusingly, as she states dryly, "I just literally said moments ago you could go /naked/, Bash. I'm plenty sure you can't get too adventurous beyond /that/." Well. Maybe? Either way, Marigold's delight spills from her as she looks fondly at Satin's bartender, unable to hide her affection for all of her family here. "You guide your star in whatever direction you want. We're here to support you and help you along the way." That pointing hand lifts to brush fingers through silky dark locks then as she leans and rolls her shoulders as if working some tension out of them. "I may even give a try at dancing once of these days. I say a 'try' but--" she pauses there to give a shrug, lips twisted into an impish smile. "We'll see." There's more there, but the commotion toward the front of the building drags Marigold's attention right there. No worry flicks to life on her features -- the clubs are as safe as they can be for any of the family, the patrons, and the other workers -- unless lines are crossed. She doesn't even crane her neck or lean this way or that. Andreia's approaching form is enough for the Crone as she chuckles. The greeting gets an upnod from her, "Andi. Business must be doing well downstairs. I'll need to come down in a bit and take a look at my plants." There's a long, thoughtful pause before she adds, "Someone came in today asking about lacrima. I'm not sure how I feel about /that/ yet." Her gaze, once warm and affectionate, turns harder now, calculating. Two commotions, actually. Shortly after the first near the entrance to the club, there's a second at the /top/ of the club. With a couple of grumbling complaints and some backwards glances of annoyance, the previous occupants of the VIP room -- two Lost and an Uratha of little consequence -- find new seats at the highest seating tier as Roman glares down their mumbled assessments of his hospitality. He seems utterly unperturbed, but once they're seated he swings his attention towards the bar and calls down in a booming voice the employees gathered there: "Hey! You lot! VIP Room. Five minutes." Then the glaring alleviates and he flashes them all a broad grin and a quick thumbs-up before disappearing through the doors. Fiametta's lazy and relaxed posture snaps into something more feral almost instantly as something appears to slam into the doors, trying to get /in/. The redhead is on her feet almost instantly, dark blue eyes narrowed and sparking. One hand remains on the bar, fingers pressed tight against its surface, the other curled up at her side. Outwardly it seems almost ridiculous, while she isn't so fragile that the fighters that hang out downstairs might think they could snap her in half the first try, she definitely doesn't look like she should be someone raring to dash out in front. And yet from the tension in her form that suggests that is most definitely her instinct. The coronoa around her mien flares too, snap crackle pops audible to Andreia and Bash, and maybe easily imagined for Marigold too from the look on her face. By happenstance, the dark blue eyes flick quickly to Mari, and it's then that she reluctantly straightens, though she doesn't take her seat yet, not Andi comes into the room. And then it's a restless shift onto her perch. She's still frowning a little, but when the Big Black Wolf meets her eyes, she can't help but melt just a little. Not into giggles or anything, though she does recross her legs very slowly, placing her silver heels just so. "Hey," she answers in matching eloquence, though then it's accompanied by a smile. Mari's speaking of lacrima is attended to curiously--it's clear she doesn't know what it is, exactly. She looks hesitant for a long moment, before asking, "Is it usual for...for people to be so bold, in speaking so freely? Amongst us, I can understand. But people just coming in, and not knowing most of the other people. Or do people feel comfortable speaking so because it's under your and Roman's protection?" The commotion from within doesn't provoke such a startle response, but she does listen attentively, focusing more on the Gangrel that the group he's just kicked off. She looks from Bash to Mari to Andi to see if any of them know what that could be about, but she's already easing off her seat. Roman comes right back out of the VIP Room a second later, silently and gracefully moving down the steps at a determined, but not terribly rapid pace. The three previous occupants of the VIP Room look confused, but eventually rise to return to the private area they had been /just/ evicted from. The Big Boss Gangrel meanwhile, offers all the employees at the bar a passing glance and a much less booming alteration to his previous instructions: "Actually, the Dressing Room. I forgot about the dressing room. We'll just do it there." And then he carries on walking that way. Sharing Marigold's lack of alarm, Sebastian grabs a few towels from underneath the bar and then the asked for bottle. On his way to hand them off, there is his usual radiant smile directed at the new arrival but then a quick once over, noting any blood, "that all someone else's or you need me to do some patching?" Glancing away from Andi and towards Marigold at the mention of the drink he had never heard of until tonight, his nose wrinkles up in what looks like distaste. It's probably the first display of dislike that anyone present has seen on his face, "if that's who it brings in, not sure I'm wild about serving it..." Shaking his head and shrugging at Fia's inquiring glance, he likewise begins to move, "it wasn't just bold, it was purposefully aggressive. There was...disdain for this place, if not existing, then at least running the way it will." Rounding the bar, he catches up to the recently diminished living flare and nudges her playfully with his elbow, "by the way, I am officially the least scary person here now..." "Not here," Marigold says to Fiametta as she uncrosses her legs and slides off her stool onto her bare feet. "I don't give two wet fucks what others do at their establishments, but to stride in and assume just after one visit? Fuck that." There's an uncharacteristic caustic bite to Marigold's Bostonian accent that may be muddied. Still, it is clear whatever happened earlier has rubbed her wrong in more than one way. Her dark eyes slant toward Sebastian then as she nods at his words. "I barely have reason to trust /that/ one, and she keeps giving me further ones to add to the list. If -- and it may be a big 'if' now -- she visits again? Let me know. Keep an eye on her, but don't make it apparent. I doubt she'll haul her ass back here soon, but if she does?" All Mari does is smile, eerie and full of white teeth. And then bare feet start heading her toward the back of the club, trailing after Roman's long gone form. "Let's see what our Boss Man requires, shall we?" She keeps pace with Fiametta especially, confident the others will come right along too. "Good enough," the Black Wolf fires back to Marigold with a loose shrug, running the other ichor-spattered hand through her own hair and taking her sweet time in relocating the dark embers of her stare from Fiametta. Her tone remains conversational, unfeigned, "Reckon it won't be much of a working day where I don't have to break an arm or two. Nothin' small-minded men hate more than losing a fight /and/ their rent money. 'Least this way they get a souvenir of the occasion." She pauses to yawn widely, neither trying to suppress it or bothering to cover her mouth. Her eyes close with the gesture, fluttering open on Marigold. "What's lacrima?" She lazily asks around the departing yawn, "That shit they're into up in Canada? Never worked out why they need the balls and butterfly nets. Just punch each other, yeah? Further north you go, colder the brain gets, I guess." The Brazilian glances upward, heeding Roman with her typical easy alertness, and a wolfish little grin, before swaying closer to the bar to accept Bash's provisions. She leaves the bottle atop the bar for a second, tucks one of the rags into the waistband of her jeans, and palms the other as she tosses the bartender a /look/. "Who'd ya take me for?" She teases, lips twisting sardonically. "Probably all his, though. Don't worry 'bout it." Back to Fiametta, that near-black stare re-levelling, as she very deliberately uses the bar rag to smear at least /most/ of the blood from her free hand, before offering it to the copper-haired dancer, unnecessarily helping her to her feet. "People run their mouths because they're insecure, and they're jealous. You try to build an empire, you gotta deal with the weaklings who wish they'd thought of it first. Cuz they know once it's built, there's no tearing it down. They can see the bricks, right now. Gives 'em notions." She shrugs, then reaches for the bottle on the bar. "I'm gonna run this downstairs, catch you up in a sec." Who's gonna resist a furred and clawed hand that really probably /could/ break quite a few people in half if she willed it? Not Fiametta. She takes the offered hand for assistance to her feet, blooded or not, nostrils flaring as she drinks in the heat radiating from Andi, sidling a little close to do so, but respectfully not touching. Marigold's words seem to soothe her as well, though the frown start to return at realizing that someone has irritated the Crone. But as there's business to attend to, she doesn't ask now, and the display of a toothy smile sends enough of a shiver down her spine that it seems to shake out all the residual ruffles in /her/ feathers. And she takes her cue from Marigold as well, starting to head that way as she does, curiousity lightening her mood considerably. She does watch over her shoulder briefly, though, tracking as Andi leaves for her quick run downstairs and lingering there, before grinning up at Marigold and over at Sebastian as well. By the time the rest of the group follows him in through the staff doors leading to the back section of the club, Roman's already claimed a seat in the break area of the Dressing Room. Despite the wait only taking a minute or two, he's sprawled out on one of the couches like a sunbathing lion, one foot up, the other planted on the floor, and his phone out as he taps away rapidly with his thumbs. "Grab a seat," he mutters to the employees of Satin and Savagery (and Marigold) as they filter in, his attention firmly on the screen. He doesn't even look up as they come through the door, so keen is his focus. Whatever he's doing, it's clearly important -- and potentially even problematic by the serious frown he wears as he examines the screen. Then some chiming, bubbling music plays from the speaker and it becomes clear he's playing some stupid phone game with an intensity reserved mostly for the elderly trying to work out how to login to their email. Memory of tonight's earlier events banished while the group heads in, Sebastian has a pleased little smile on his face as he watches Andi and Fiametta. He hangs back, the last one inside and claiming whatever seat is left over that allows him to stretch out his long limbs. Looking relieved to be off his feet, there's a chance he had been behind the bar most of the day getting things ready. Seeming convinced that Roman is doing vital work before addressing them, the music going off earns a slow turn of the head. Craning his neck to get a potential peek, he asks with a playful tone, "are ya winning, son?" A seat in the form of Roman's lap is grabbed up. Marigold has clearly done this song and dance before as she slips easily into his lap and worms her way up under his arms, so they are draped over her, allowing him to continue fucking around on his phone. A thing that drags amusement to life on her lips as she snugs into the big Gangrel. Her head comes to lay against his chest as she looks idly at the game he's playing but makes no effort to assist or otherwise guide the man to glory or ruin. He's a big boy and can do that all by himself. With her seat found she glances toward the others who have followed her into the dressing room. They can find their own seats, though Fiametta gets a long and lingering look from the reclining Crone. Then with a grin, Marigold crooks her finger to beckon the dancer right over to that spot. Roman's big enough for two. Nothing like a good cuddle at a work meeting. In squaring away her business downstairs, resupplying, delegating, and leveraging whatever physical threats are necessary to ensure Savagery behaves itself in her absence, Andreia is muy rapido. She's not quite there to catch the door as it closes behind the others, but only a few moments later she slides in, and grabs a cushioned folding chair from a stack beside the entrance. In an easy staccato she snaps it out, flips it around, sets it down near the group, and straddles it, bared arms draping across the back, her gaze levelled on Roman as she stretches out her neck this way and that, the aggressive mirror of Sebastian. Though she's got aches that aren't due entirely to serving bar. "Wow, boss," she mutters, deadpan, "It would suck if you died and told us what the point of this was." Fiametta stops by her little cubicle once they get back to the dressing room, tossing her bag into the chair. It falls open just a little, revealing that she does indeed have a slouchy old black hoodie to toss over her clubwear when she makes her way over, and comfy looking slipper boots in there too. Even fallen angels need to make concessions to comfort now and then on their day off. She's just about to find a seat when she sees the crook of Marigold's finger, and makes her way over thataway. Though she's no longer crackling on edge, and especially now that everyone that's there at the club is safely tucked away where she can lay eyes on them too, there's still a bit of a predatory spark in her eyes, as if those earlier flames haven't yet dissipated. But there's no hesitation when she slips into Roman's lap as well--and instead of perching like usual she nestles in close, seeking to press against Marigold as well. It's sensual, to be sure, but at least for the still breathing redhead it seems to be a craved comfort as well, smoothing the edges into a softer and warmer glow that's reflected in the embers of her eyes. "Fuckin'..." Roman growls as first one body, then another climbs aboard his lap, making it infinitely more difficult to keep his phone in a comfortable position. Between Marigold and Fiametta tucking in close to his body, and Sebastian and Andreia both trying to sneak a peek at what he's doing, his concentration slips to the point that inevitably, a downbeat yet playful chirrup signals a game over for his adventures in the Vampire Survivor rip-off he'd been playing. He sighs performatively and then drops the phone in his lap -- or tries to, anyway, but Fiametta and Marigold have taken up all the real estate and so it falls into one of /their/ laps. "Alright, here's the deal," he grunts as whatever minor annoyance his loss drummed up in him fades into a casual, rumbling growl, "A colleague of mine brought me some good intel. Apparently there's some big nasty badass wolves in the Undercity called the Pure. Ten killers strong and worshipping some fire demon shit." He pauses and glances to Sebastian, Fiametta, and Andreia in turn as he adds: "For those of you who /don't/ know, for my kind? Fire bad. Fire real bad." It's probably an odd statement for the Changelings considering he's got his arm around a fire elemental nestled against his chest, but the Wyrd does like to be a weird, rule-breaking bitch sometimes, that often cares more about perception than objective reality. "Anyway, one of the head honcho bloodsuckers put out a bounty on them. My colleague -- Faith -- is willing to work with us to clean them up. We get the favorable split on coins since we're providing the muscle." He pauses again, this time to look at each in turn as if waiting for any spur of the moment questions before he asks: "Who's in?" In contrast to the still embering passions of Fia on display for those who can see, Sebastian's glow is muted and soothing. A reflection of just how content he is here in this room with everyone, that sentiment plain for all. None of it alters overly much as Roman explains. Curiosity and clear interest present, of course, but he mostly listens and looks at the others to gauge any potential reaction to the terms unfamiliar to him. Without hesitation, he raises his hand a bit off the arm of the couch, "I'm in. Guessing anyone who calls themselves 'the Pure' are going to be pretty shit overall anyway." That said, some uncertainty enters his eyes, "I'll do what I can to help but not going to be a surprise to anyone that I'm pretty squishy." As he looks around, he seems apologetic over that fact, ambivalence in his expression coming from any inability to help rather than his own safety. It might mean nothing that Andi's wearing a scowl as she stares decidedly /past/ the P.D.A. unfolding in Roman's lap; after all, it's her habitual expression, and the only one most people are ever likely to contend with. She's doing her best with the concept of 'customer service' but she also runs a bar where the patrons hurt each other for glory and coin. Nobody's in it for the pretty smile she doesn't have. But her stare is a bit more resolute than usual, the scowl just a little deeper. This does nothing to detract from the heedful intensity with which she regards Roman, fixating her boss - and let's not beat around the bush, her /master/ insofar as he's the only person with the right to yank on her chain - with every ounce of attention she can. It's not hard to commit, given how swiftly he moves onto matters very much in her purview. Fire. Battle. Overwhelming odds. The scowl twitches, betraying a little surge of excitement as the Black Wolf of Summer scents a chase that ends only one way; in the beautiful bounty of blood. The literal bounty of coin doesn't even register, really. "You even have to fucking ask?" Shoots the Brazilian, her jaw tensing as she runs a thumb along it, in anticipatory reflection. The thumb brushes up toward her lip, pulling the upper lip away from a prominent canine, the flesh slapping back into place as she pulls her hand away and allows an aggressive little smirk. "Ten's gonna suck, though. Only way to do this is my way, yeah? Pack tactics. Peel 'em apart and focus down, take one throat at a time. Make 'em run so they die tired." The reticent bartender is shot a fiery glance, dark eyes swimming with a dangerous enthusiasm for this commission. "Takes more than force to win this kind of fight, Bash. You can patch us up, maybe more besides. Pack tactics mean pack /roles/; we all do the same shit, we all die the same way. This ain't about what you /don't/ have." An arm loops comfortably over Fiametta as she attempts to close that gap between their bodies. Marigold is busy playing at livin' again, so she's warm to the touch and radiant with the power that wills her body to perform such a miracle. Vitae is a hell of a thing. There's a murmured apology to Roman when that playful 'game over' chirp sounds, ending his run but allowing the meeting to start. His phone gets plucked up and tucked half beneath her body, so it presses into his chest and is held there by way of her breast--not going to escape, at least! A flick of her dark eyes makes its way toward Andreia, where she's seated, and then over to Sebastian as she listens to Roman kick things off. None of it is new to the Crone's ears as she's heard it plenty of times now, though she does offer a nod here and there that nuzzles her head lightly into Roman as a hand teases along Fi's arm. Her gaze slants back toward Sebastian as he throws his lot in, a thing which doesn't surprise the Crone and gets her smile to warm up. "Like a marshmallow," she teases but then sobers a touch. "I don't doubt you'll be handy. I've offered Roman some assistance ensuring we have good intel. I'll consult the bones." Her expression turns not so much grave but focused down into a thin point; this is where her abilities come into play and can help in the hunt. And she's eager to shed blood -- even her own -- in the name of success. "We'll need to know what exactly is down there with those ten Pure. Make sure you are prepared in any way we can manage." There's a shivery breath drawn in, unnecessary but rote, before she says, "The fire will be the biggest obstacle outside their sheer numbers. We don't know what kind of gifts these wolves may have if they serve that beast of fire as it's been claimed." Fire bad. So very bad. Ooops. Fiametta's eyes widen at that information. Awkward! She doesn't quite have the heart to stir from the extra padded seat she's in. But then the momentary jolt evens out into something intrigued. Her emotions flow pretty freely across her face, not unlike a dancing flame, casting its light as it wills, shifting with the winds. Besides, there might be something even more amazing that dawns on her. "They /worship/ fire...demons?" she repeats. So deceptively calmly and quietly. True to her autumn nature, there is a brief play of light and shadow in her expression, as if she were weighing things as an instinct. This is a really good gig, with dancing and intriguing new people, and delicious smelling ones too, and infinitely pettable ones and many who she'd be happy to nestle in their laps at the slightest encouragement, a shy and fearful one too AND ALSO that Big Black Wolf over there who makes the autumn grrl inside her scream like a fangirl...but like.../worship/. That sounds like a real fucking good gig if you could get it. But that would also mean giving up a lot of things, and she's already lost a lot of things. So it's only a little momentary burst. And then she remembers to take a breath, still glowing from all the very good things that keep her rooted in the present, as she looks around the room. "I'd like to help too," she murmurs. "I can fight a little," she muses. "And I might be able to help find any who get away in their running. Or use some of what they use against them. More of a distraction, perhaps, or a lure, to carve off one or two from the herd. Or if things get overwhelming, to scare one or two off. It might be good for crowd control." "Well," Roman grunts at Fiametta's question, "Fire /spirits/ actually, but..." He shrugs, the movement greatly limited by the presence of the two women. "Apparently one of the spirits looks like a burning minotaur, so you know... Hellish enough." Unwittingly dashing any already dying hopes for a cult of Pure to spring up around the Fire Elemental in his lap, he focuses his attention on Andreia and Sebastian with a pair of nods for each of them. Andreia earns an extra grin, his lips pulling back into a snarling laugh at her enthusiasm for the task, "You're probably going to have to take the lead on this one, Little Wolf. I wouldn't miss a fight for the fucking world -- especially one this fun -- but, the fire is going to be a problem for me. Gonna' need your quick claws for this." He grunts, clearly unhappy that he's going to have to play around the backline a bit, but the promise of such an entertaining hunt means it only dents his mood, not kills it. "So long as they're not tossin' fire around like candy, I can keep 'em plenty distracted, but I'm going to have trouble finishing them off. That's where you'll come in." Then his eyes shift to Bash and he ticks his chin to both Marigold and Andreia, their answers already more than satisfactory. "Listen Bash, if you can keep doing that shit you do with those liquid orgasms? That's going to be a big help. It'll keep me in the fight a /lot/ longer." Finally, he tucks his chin so he can look at Fiametta as best he can manage with her pressed to his chest. "Whatever you can do is a help. Andreia's right: pulling them into smaller fights, a little at a time, is how we're going to come out of this with our hides intact. Distraction and lures are going to be very useful." With that, Roman's chin lifts again and he addresses the group, eyes sweeping the room as he speaks to each in turn: "We need to practice workin' together though. I want to run through some stuff in Savagery before we go down there. Faith's lookin' into getting us a supply of silver. We're going to plan with the assumption she doesn't get much, though. If she shows up with a full arsenal, all the better. At least we'll be prepared for the harder fight." Andi's enthusiasm for any prospect of violence strangely makes Sebastian relax once more. But the words from her and the others have an invigorating effect. These utterly frightening people, when they choose to be, think he might actually belong mixed up in all this. Sitting up a little straighter on the couch, his usual enthusiasm returns in full force, even at being referred to as a marshmallow. Smiling at Marigold, he gives a self-aware shrug, "true, but I think I can help you with the intel aspect if there are still any gaps." All in now, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. A smile on his face that turns incredulous for a flicker of a moment, "I've never had to say any of this out loud before but we are all weird here, right?" Directing his now very motivated tone to everyone, "if you get me somewhere that you know these wolves were in action, I can make us see the past in any reflection that is around. We might get a better idea of capabilities that way. In the same vein, anybody that might have dealt with them I can take a peek into their past or future. Just give me some parameters to look for." All of that out, he pauses in reflection with a self-satisfied smile. Roman gets his sole focus next and his newfound confidence is more than apparent, "the drinks are nothing. I can heal way worse than some bruises. Willing to bet fixing you up after a burn isn't beyond my reach." Roman's grin draws an almost palpable extra flare from within the Black Wolf, her mask absorbing with a little tension of the shoulders, a quickening of her breath, what her mien acts out with relish, the crimson trailing from its eyes brewing like magma, matted black fur quivering as it stands up on end. The heat washes from her in one surging rush, the thickly-vegetative stench of the rainforest after a storm, the invasive moisture that burns the lungs and brings prickling tears to the eyes. To Roman and Marigold, Andreia is simply more alert, a few beads of perspiration visible on her forehead, her natural musk just a trace more muskier than usual. Not too different from any other intense fighter, warmed up and raring to go. But there's the experience, too, the base wisdom that sees her in control of her own leash. /Wanting/ to go, but holding herself back, the subtle thrum of the vein in her neck pulsing against an invisible collar of her own devising. That control lapses a little as Fiametta speaks up, all quietly resolved. There's a hard snort from Andi, a toss of her head carrying a blaze in dark eyes, her attention riding like a horse-borne lance toward the autumnal flame. Whatever words she's about to spit are cut off by Roman, and she sucks in a breath instead, tension shivering through her lithe frame. "Right. The two of you wanna come with, we need to know you can /survive/." A side-glance to Bash is somewhat wry, more than a little challenging. A big sister who's looking forward to a beating she's being encouraged to dish out, for once. Her attention shifts to Fiametta, and there's something else, the breath catching in her throat before she gives a susurrous snarl. "Gonna be doing enough, without having to worry about..." It comes out quieter than she intends, a shake of her head dispelling whatever bad moon is rising as she trails off. "Whatever. We work together, we train together." Andi relaxes herself without another toss of head and hair, rummaging irritably at the nape of her neck. "As for silver, I got the means to hurt 'em without it. Maybe not the same way, but enough. Give me a distraction, I can go one at a time." Or she dies, the roll of her shoulder carelessly adds. Wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to her. Dark eyes alight on Roman then, a brow arching and a devious half-smile yanking her lips askance. "Sounds like a challenge, Bash." "It won't be of use until I know a name or what they look like, but if I do, I can hunt someone down and find them. Not exactly the pinpoint location, but perhaps close enough for those with other senses to take over. Though I think that's better useful if any escape. Or if we can find names or more descriptions of the individuals. I've done it before, to track people down who needed a closer inspection." Fiametta offers an almost shy smile. "But Bash, I think being able to knit people back together is going to be just as important as taking them down. I'd like everyone to come back mostly in one piece." That's spoken in almost a whisper. She catches Andi's eyes, and her words, her expression moving into something more still. "I won't be dead weight," she says, lifting her chin. "But I'll trust your judgement. If after training you aren't confident in me, then perhaps I should be backup to protect those who can't run to the front." Her tone is respectful, deferring to one whose judgement she apparently trusts. But her gaze lingers, studying her solemnly. Liquid orgasms? What the hell has Marigold been missing out on? That's communicated all too well in her gaze as she looks at Sebastian and then back to Roman, brows perked upward, but she doesn't chase that lead down. Not now. She can always corner their adorable moonbeam and find out later. Right now, it is business, and Marigold intends to keep her focus there. That teasing hand on Fiametta offers a soft squeeze when she notes something is rising within the flame-hearted one, a touch of concern muddied in that softly banked affection Marigold's eyes often reflect at her. "We also don't know how many others will be planning on hunts of their own," she says after a moment, giving one last squeeze to Fi's arm as she looks out to the room. "Might not just be our merry band down in those tunnels trying to earn these coins." Chewing over that thought carefully, Mari eventually flicks a look back toward Bash, something warm in her gaze as she nods, "The Mother isn't always forthcoming with her revelations, so overlap is welcome there. The bones may not offer me shit, and I'd rather we cover the intel base as thoroughly as possible. Give us as much edge as conceivable before going into the maw of likely death." The fire worries her the most, that part something that keeps niggling in the back of her mind, but something distracts from that as her nostrils flare and dark eyes slant toward Andi as she sits there, danker now than before but still not unpleasant. Sweat isn't awful. "Training will be good. Thrown yourselves into each other and see what works, what needs shoring up. Where you complete each other and where there are problems." A slender shoulder lifts as she grins and winks at the Black Wolf, "But you know more about these arts than I do. Not my realm. Never has been." Andi meets those stormy blues without judgement, an almost soft air to the Black Wolf's gaze - at least, compared to the norm. A frown touches her brow, then slips the full length of her face with a series of little twitches as she tries to wipe the concern from her expression and fails several times over. Knowing when she's lost, she slips her eyes shut, and shakes her head. "Ain't about you being dead weight, Sunstone," she murmurs, "Not really about you at all." Her eyelids lift, stopping at half-mast, her lips pursing as she momentarily fumes. "It's about you being /dead/, and how /I'd/ feel about it." It costs her a little to express that, her teeth gritting so hard in the aftermath that there's a faint shriek of enamel. She thrusts her way past the self-imposed awkwardness, shifting in her seat hard enough that the legs creak against the floor. "It's also just about, y'know, getting this shit done. You got a point," she acknowledges of Marigold, glancing the way of the Crone, "About others. That means we got no vanguard, really, and no rear to retreat to. Once we're in there, we might only come out the hard way. Everyone needs to stay sharp; we'll be up to our tits in this. Anything you can get a hold of might help. Armor, weapons, maybe something our boy here," a hand waves toward Sebastian, "Can point and click if he's in trouble." Roman's brow quirks up at that quiet addition from Andreia, his heavy gaze resting on her for an extended beat as he considers the smaller wolf. Then eventually he grunts, his face breaking out in a lopsided grin when Fiametta answers back. "Everyone can go that wants to go," he growls easily and calmly, though with a sharper undercurrent in his tone that suggests the conversation concerning that debate is over. His eyes flick a look around the room before he yawns and tips his head back on the couch to relax, defusing whatever heat was in his words with that veneer of sleepy boredom. "We'll make sure everyone knows what to do down there, and does it well, but I'll cover anyone that needs covering." Bash's claim draws that grin back to Roman's face, though this time it comes fierce and savage as his eyes alight with interest and he almost immediately lifts his head again. "Oh, well now /that/ we'll have to test." That does, of course, mean /burning/ himself, but Roman doesn't seem to mind that prospect one bit. "Anyway," he tacks on after a moment of simply grinning at the idea, "Me and Andi will schedule some training sessions before we go down." Andi wasn't consulted on that, but that doesn't seem to bother /Roman/, "For now though... We should probably get our bartenders back out there." Some of that somberness softens, when Andi speaks, the smile coming back--though it's more adoring than any kind of humor. "I think we all can think of so much we've lost, never to touch or hold again," she says quietly. "If it helps, I don't intend to cause anyone to grieve that for me. But you'd better watch out for your ass too! Come back with some hot new scars if you wanna, but you /need/ to come back too, summer Wolf," Fiametta's stare at Andi is intense for that moment, even as she seeks out the comfort nestling in closer still to Mari and Roman. But once the gangrel makes his decisions known there's a flicker of a smile that returns to her face. "I think it'll be fun," she murmurs. "At least the training part. And maybe the shredding someone's enemies when they offer payment part too," she acknoweldges, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Watching Andi closely, even through his buzzing excitement, whatever Sebastian sees sends him trying to lighten the mood. Still leaning forward, he shakes his head with mock despair in his expressive eyes, "fuck's sake Andi, why are you so pumped about the idea of hitting me?" Sobering, he nods in agreement with Fia, "wherever you all think I can help and where I'm not a liability, I'm good with it." Confident and pleased, focused on the task at hand, it is all forgotten with Andi's small confession. Fia might have shown her brightest when triggered by passion, whether excitement or a need to keep those here safe. This little glimpse into someone he already considers a friend is what sends Sebastian into resembling the celestial being he once was. Almost literally squirming in his seat he wants to go over and offer comfort so badly, he just keeps sending empathetic glances every so often until he can calm down. Actual thoughts returning, he manages to get out a little distractedly, "no idea how to use a gun but I have at least one trick to get someone out of the fight, make it so they can't have the energy to even fathom raising a hand. And push really comes to shove, if I'm about to get eaten I can remember what I used to be and just go full on ethereal." Listening to Roman, eager commitment turns quickly towards frustrated concern, "feel like I gave you permission to try to fight the sun now..." "Andi hits things to show how much she likes then," Marigold offers as a part-tease and maybe part-truth. She isn't a hundred percent there, but... It all comes with another of those impish grins that Mari can't seem to school into anything not teasing. Roman gets a nip to his shoulder as she says, mock warily, "No fighting the sun. I like you like this. Even if I believe Bash could piece your ass back together, I'd rather not find out." The Crone doesn't seem to want to get up from her comfortable spot, nuzzling closer to Fiametta when she notes how the dancer appears to be seeking further closeness -- something Mari isn't about to deny her. Though it's the dancer's words which drag Marigold's stare toward Andreia, an up nod given in consensus, "No one gets left behind down there. Everyone comes home. I don't care if it is in pieces that we have to stitch back together." That settled in Marigold's mind she stretches and fishes Roman's phone out from under her tit, scooting it to the center of his chest best she can and patting it. "Back to work then?" A look to the others as the meeting seems to be coming to a close. Andreia is back to being all business, nodding her head empathatically in agreement of the plan, and then demonstrating just how onboard she is with /all of this/ by being halfway to her feet before her lord and master has quite finished inferring that she probably ought to be, dragging the chair across the room and kicking it against the awaiting stack such that it folds all at once with a clamorous clatter. One hand is already on the doorway leading back into Satin, when she pauses. "Hey," shoots the Brazilian to her fellow bartender, pulling the rag from her waistband and throwing it right at his face. "I'm pumped about the idea of hitting anyone. That's my /thing/. Well..." She snorts, and pushes the door open. "Hitting, eating, whatever. Good talk, gang." She strides through, the door swinging back on its hinges, bouncing to and fro to let in her final, barked offering of: "YEAH! Fuck up that sun, Roman!" If anyone could hard-counter sunburn, it's the boss. Roman resumes feigning a boredom edging on exhaustion as he lays his head back on the couch and releases another yawn, arms tightening snugly and securely around both Fiametta and Marigold. If he weren't so undead, it would be easy to assume he's gearing up for a very comfortable and indulgent nap, but as it is, it's just a perfect expression of apathy. "Don't worry," he mutters aloud, though his eyes are closed and he's not looking at anyone in particular to direct the statement, "I'm not about to fight the sun." He releases another yawn, smacking his lips once as a self-satisfied grin steals across his face and he adds on: "... Yet." A little quicker than he might give himself credit for, Sebastian catches the thrown rag and rises off of the couch. Dirty or not, he still starts to fold it neatly out of reflex while nodding in agreement with Marigold, "everyone comes back." Eyes starting to gleam with amusement, the more serious mood gradually fades as he reaches the door, "can't take any healing for granted. If anyone's going to get eaten it's me, then you are all shit out of luck." Heading back to his station, "I'll tidy up and hang around a bit just in case any more gawkers stop by." One of his long arms reaches back for a single wave goodnight and then he's gone.