She's still not sure why she let herself be talked out of leaving Ireland. Oh, she knows how he did it...Nicu knows her weaknesses, unfortunately for her. Damn him and his pillow-talk! So now, Una stands on a street in Paris with her hands shoved deeply into her pockets, peering around.
     "What's taking him so long?" she mutters under her breath, her accented voice seeming strangely alien in France. She tried tying her hair back, stuffing it under a hat, and so on, in hopes of not looking so conspicuous -- but it's tough hiding someone such as herself. She's hardly petite and has muscles that are almost manly. The huge mane of red hair only tops off the look, so why bother hiding it?
     Sighing, she continues to scan the street, watching for Nicu. He had told her to meet him here, but he seems to be running a bit late. She desperately hopes it doesn't mean trouble. Seeing the most recent headlines from the Louvre made her quite nervous and that state of mind hasn't changed for her.
     "Dammit," she swears and pulls back further into the shadow of a building, trying to keep out of the rain.

     You cling to the shadows now, even as he was in the broad light of day earlier. Messages were delivered in plain sight. Condolences among tourist venues. Vows over lunch. His position confirmed for those on a Need To Know Basis, who needed to know. His instructions received.
     He spoke of complications...
     He did not speak of them in detail...
     He went to Notre Dame and found not just a few of his Fellows around. And Sacre Coeur. Every sacred sanctuary well populated these nights. Or at least well-watched.
     No one in the mood for art today, this much is certain...
     "You were worried," Nicu says suddenly. Where did he come from? From the alley. His hands are in his grey overcoat, his layers of grey and white and green. His light green eyes lift from her and move out ahead, scanning a part of the street. "You should know I am still on Prague time." And Nicu smiles a little. "Look," a whisper, "this is not safe. There's a flat... near the opera house. It will be okay for a night. We need to keep moving..."

     She turns toward you, murmuring, "You're lucky I could feel you coming just now..." Or she might have screamed in surprise. What unwanted attention might that have brought upon the two of you?
     Her eyes flicker about the area before she moves in a little closer and whispers, "And yes, I was worried. But... you're fine, as I can see, so..." Her voice trails off and a small, brief grin shows for the comment about Prague time. Shaking her head, she asks softly, "A flat. Are you sure it's safe? Should we not head for sacred ground?" That would make more sense to her, obviously. Oh, to be back in Ireland to hide among Newgrange, Dowth, Knowth... even the Monasterboice Abbey ruins would have worked. Here, she feels so open and vulnerable...and it's making her edgy.
     Can you hear it in her voice? She wants to be away from this place. The one who hunts Immortals is here... and neither of you know who it is yet. That's what makes it so much more dangerous. It could be anyone. She glances around again, letting her paranoia take charge, watching the surroundings constantly.

     "Not unless you want to sleep five to a bed," Nicu whispers, Slavic edging the English you force him to speak. The smile is smooth, eyes krinkling in the corners, half lit by the incidental light reflecting off of surrounding buildings. "No place in Paris is safe..."
     A hand goes to your elbow and Nicu leans in. His green eyes are earnest. "But since when has safety ever been the point? Hmm?" And for him? Never. Not in Waterloo and not now. He doesn't say anything else, but guides you by your elbow out of the alley and side street's shadows and to the still bustling City of Lights.
     The Eiffel Tower is visible, a needle threading the darkness with red and gold lights. The obelisk is hued amber. You are in the Louvre's own district. Notre Dame not so far, the geographical and spiritual center of the city...

     The Louvre. Where Dr. Antoinette Castellion's headless body was found. Once named Antoinette Buchard. Una had actually met her years ago in her travels. They were never close friends, but acquaintances more like.
     Regardless, the news struck her a little more close to home than she cared. She's been jumpy, paranoid and moody all day, in fact. But, as you mention how many would be in a bed if the two of you ran to a safehaven, she shakes her head and murmurs, "Alright...alright..." But you've already started steering her through the streets of Paris, obviously not waiting for her consent.
     Unfamiliar with Paris, she'd rather let you take the lead for now anyway. Her gaze flickers up toward the Tower for a moment before dripping down and across the street, then back ahead again.

     A whistle. The air hums. How much of that is Paris. How much of that is the feeling of Exodus. Our kind. Fleeing. How much of it may be him or her. The one who is doing this. Killing friends and foes alike.
     A taxi pulls in and Nicu opens the door for you. A hand to your back as he guides you in. "Rue de Provence," Nicu says, leaning in toward the driver as he folds his height into the car, gathering his coat around him. Gun within reach if need be. Two guns to be exact. "...at Chaussee d'Antin..."
     Right behind the opera house, to be exact. And near a holy place, St. Trinite...
     Nicu looks to you as he settles back and as the cab takes off, rounding the great intersection near one of the most ornate bridges of the Western world.
     Do not worry, the looks says. I am here. There is a smile and his large hand pats your own. Green eyes smile at you. And in the shadows of the cab's backseat, there follows a kiss.

     Una lets herself be lead into the cab, taking solace in the dim lighting of the enclosed space, the closeness of you and the sound of the rain tapping on the glass of the car.
     She lets out a deep breath that she wasn't even aware that she was holding in and finally relaxes, even temporarily, leaning into you a bit. The kiss helps to relax her a bit more. For a brief moment in time, she forgets about Antoinette and the others. She forgets about the Game and that in the end, there can be only one. If it came down to just the two of you, could she take your head? She's not sure anymore.
     This Irishwoman, daughter of a strong sea-faring man, a warrior in her own right, has been half scared out of her wits recently. Who would attack other Immortals in the public's eye as this one has been doing? But for now, even that question and her own fear are forgotten.

     Actually, you should be more frightened about the cab driver...
     He moves through Paris traffic -- still heavy in the coming and going of late dinners and avoiding the street closures caused by the rollerbladers -- like the car is on fire. He wants his fare and yet these nights maybe even the mortals are paranoid. Worrying about being in one place too long.
     The kiss was brief, for comforting sake. Nicu keeps his eyes thereafter on the view past the windows. "Entering the opera quarter," he tells her. A point of fact. A roadmap, in case they are separated perhaps. "The corner of Chaussee and Provence will be fine," he tells the driver also.
     "Not long now. It's the flat of a friend." Of a sort.

     Turning from you, she looks out the window, taking note of certain landmarks and street signs, just in case. It's good practice and something she learned long ago.
     "Well, a friend is good.." Could really use all the friends possible right now. "How long will we stay?" she asks, still watching the buildings and other vehicles pass by. Good thing she doesn't get car-sick.

     "Tonight..."
     And then we will be on our way again...
     The cab slows down, turning and pulling over as it enters the Rue de Provence. There is still traffic. There are still people around. There is an opera performance going on tonight. But it is not as crowded as the area you just left.
     "Ten Euro," the driver says, in English even. Brightly colored money changes hands. And out goes Nicu, one hand on the door, the other in his pocket, with his gun. Just in case. There is a building dating from the 1800s, relatively recent in Paris terms, which contain spacious apartments. Suites. Multi-suites. Hand poised to close the door behind you, Nicu looks left, looks right.
     Nothing...

     Following suit, Una steps out of the car and trusts you to glance around. She hasn't felt anything anyway, so she feels a little more at ease.
     "Well, where to?" she asks, looking up to you now, finally relaxing enough to stop watching the surroundings. She doesn't want to ask too many questions or say too much out here. You never know which wall or lamppost has ears.
     Her hands are shoved back into her front pockets of her jeans as she waits for the next set of instructions, so to speak.

     "Right over here, mademoiselle," Nicu says, slavic ruining the natural cadence of the word. Perhaps intentionally. An arm reaching out, he motions you to come with him, arm in arm. A glance over his shoulder as the cab speeds away.
     "Chateau du Chaussee," he says of the high rent apartment complex. A nod in its direction.
     There is nothing more that is said. Truth be told, there's nothing more to say. The spy and the barmaid head inside and up a side set of stairs. Upon the second floor, he leads you down a hall to a tiny elevator. It can barely hold the both of you at once. Manual at that. He operates it as if he has operated one all his life.
     To the fifth floor...
     The elevator buzzes...
     A gloved hand pushes the doors apart, then the gates. He does not play the gentleman and let you go first. He steps out then fingers motion to you. Come with me...

     She follows you now wordlessly, all wide-eyed at the mysteriousness of it all. Una isn't a subtle woman. Sure, she has her moments, but she really wouldn't make a good spy. No, not all Immortals become international spies. But really, Una's not used to all of this sneaking around and secrets and skulking in the shadows.
     Unfortunately, self-preservation kind of takes precedence and forces this behaviour on her now. She waits in the elevator until you motion for her... then steps out cautiously. She follows where you lead and glances around nearly like a frightened rabbit.
     The thing is, she's no coward. If the time of the Gathering was truly now, she'd be out facing her opponents head-on. But it's not the Gathering. Someone has started a Hunt on her Kind -- one that doesn't seem to have any rules.

     Somewhere in the middle, down the length of the hall, a door is chosen. Nicu halts. Knocks thrice. No, it's not secret spy code stuff. If it were secret spy code stuff you'd never even see him. "I am hoping he can point us in the right direction," Nicu says quietly. "Something that may provide us with a hint. So far... my sources have been most silent."
     No one wants to talk about it. No one wants to take credit. Everyone's bothered. Immortal and not.

     The redhead nods once, glancing from you to the door as it's knocked upon. She stands back a bit and looks up on down the hallway and then focuses on the door again. What or who will be behind it...?

     Keen ears pick up the sound of feet moving to the door. A well-appointed one at that. Behind this door stands most of the floor's rooms. A suite in the 1st Arondissment is nothing to sneeze at. Wrong bank, however.
     After a moment, locks give up their secrets. The door opens, and in the frame is a distinguished man, perhaps in his mid-forties. Black hair is dark, but peppered with flecks of white at temple and around the edges. His countenance is calm, and dark blue eyes are framed by lines won through age.
     "Nicu?" he asks, staring at you both. A surprise it is. Dressed in black, the gentleman has settled in for the evening. A fire rages somewhere in the large room behind the foyer, and the man's calmness is rather surreal. A Parisian gentleman of leisure and wealth.
     "Come in," he says, stepping aside. Almost six feet tall, he is, in his black, stockinged feet. The gracious foyer holds a large spray of flowers, and as the space is opened to you both, the decor is clearly professional. Books are everywhere, and some three corridors lead off in differingd directions. "A surprise this is," he continues in French, "...but nice none the less."

     "Laurent," first name basis even. As the six foot tall Polish warrior-turned-spy moves in, his eyes and a hand gestures to the tall woman beside him. "I hope we do not come at a bad time. It is an imposition to come unannounced," Nicu says. But he knows no other way. Sudden. Silent. Unannounced. "My companion," is that what they're calling it these days, "... Una O'Grady, Laurent Moselle," introductions quick, with European precision.
     "It has been an interesting week in Paris, yes?" No beating about the bush with the Slav...

     "So I understand," Laurent says grimly, closing the door behind you both. "Welcome, Madamoiselle," he says, with almost clerical calm. One might have expected 'my child' after it. Nothing stirs around Laurent. In fact, the air swirling with chaos of energy and events seems to recede from him, even. "Terrible night," he mentions, more than likely meaning the rain.

     She follows wherever Nicu leads tonight, and so she enters Laurent's abode without hesitation. "Thank you, Mr. Moselle. You are too kind," Una replies softly as she stands next to Nicu within the room. "Yes... the rain just hasn't let up." Much like the killer who continues to stalk somewhere in the streets of Paris.

     "And I do not think it is for mourning that mouths are suddenly shut tight. Fear, maybe." But not mourning. Not exactly. Nicu exhales shortly, hands going into his pockets. His short blonde hair and his green eyes, the high cheekbones -- the Pol, by way of Czech Republic, cuts a military figure in his grey coat.
     He lifts a hand, raking through short blonde strands, dampness turning it golden in streaks. "When it rains it pours, they say..."
     A frown of thought tugs suddenly at his mouth, calculations snapping like flashes of a camera behind his eyes. "The murder. You have been reading the papers, at least. It is no singular event. And I am convinced that it is no serial killer. The patterns are too precise. This seems more a hunt. A systematic set of assassinations, from Moscow to now Paris."

     Laurent moves into the larger room proper -- a glorious seating area, perfect for entertaining. Alcoves and seating arrangements predominate, almost as if it were a reading room. In one central portion, near the central fireplace, he's enjoying his seat. Slippers sit on the floor near a highback chair. "I am surprised that you're here," he observes, encourging you both to seats by the fireplace as well. "Oh, please, let me take your coats." His hands come out to accept them.
     "Kalla!" he calls, projecting his voice down a side hallway. "Here, please sit," he adds. "I understand your worry," Laurent says absently, mostly minding coats. "But you're welcome regardless. No room at Trinite or other places?" he asks. "It may be safer, I will advise..."

     From behind a door, a woman appears. The kitchen, maybe. The door swings as she steps out. Guests! Kalla moves to help with the coats. "I will fetch coffee and tea," she says, plump hands out to assist. Whatever she does for Laurent, she's done it for some time. They look like a matched set.

     Shedding her long coat, Una holds it out and murmurs, "Oh, thank you. I think we've both managed to get quite the shower out there." Especially her, standing in an alleyway for too long. Moving toward the fireplace, she adds, "I agree with Nicu. This is a hunt, surely." She is unsure of how much Laurent knows, and so she tries to be vague until Nicu does otherwise.
     Shaking her head gently, she murmurs, "It also seems to be picking up in speed. The Moscow killing was a while ago... and the last, what, four? ...they've been within two weeks."
     She extends the palms of her hands toward the fire, warming them a bit. To the question of what is safer, she looks over her shoulder at Nicu to say something, but her mouth shuts quickly as the woman appears from behind a door. She offers the woman a smile and a nod of her head, but keeps quiet for now.

     "I wanted to come while I had the opportunity." I may not again. "Trinite is not far," Nicu notes, mostly to Una. "We will likely retire there." He removes the outer coat, handing it to Kalla. But there is a coat he wears under this. This he will not remove. He is loaded.
     The rest he holds for Kalla's departure. He smiles a little in greeting to her. Will she remember me? I occasionally drop off packages of interest for Moselle.

     Kalla does smile, but seems intent on making everyone comfortable. She takes the coats and nods, "I'll be back," turning to head off to the shielded light of a kitchen.

     "I do not wish to endanger you," Nicu says seriously. "We will not stay long. However... I did want to ... see what my old friend might have in the way of advice." Or information. "I want to find him or her... and I want to end this."

     "A hunt," Laurent says when she's gone, "...is not a bad conclusion. How do you know that, however, from the simple good reporting of badly covered...exchanges?" Your own hunting. That is what you do, isn't it? He motions to the seats. "There's mixed belief," Laurent adds, nodding to Nicu's comment, "...on what's happening. But I'm not sure if I have any good information today. I can say...it's not us." Not their way. "Now, it could be Them, but that makes little sense as well. They have taken pains to...observe...for ages. Why do something so irrational and dangerous?"

     Us? Who's "Us"? And who's "Them"? Una turns to look at the two of you, perhaps looking a bit confused. "Okay, what am I missing here?" she asks, stepping a little forward. What on earth has she missed while she spent time sequestered away on her 'little island' of Eire?

     "I know it is systematic. Hunt may be... it may confuse the issue," Nicu corrects. "It may well be a personal vendetta, running deep along centuries. I must admit, I have had little time to try to find the connections between the victims." He smiles suddenly. "I am thinking of holing up in the Vatican until then. I do have some matter of business with His Imminence." Is he kidding?
     Nicu takes a seat and frowns, blonde eyebrows knitting together. He includes Una in his looks, and in the conversation. "I tend to believe it is one of Our Own. There is a precision to the targets, a definite path. I do not believe any other group would...well, would put forth the effort. So suddenly. Out of nowhere."
     Not vampires. Not werewolves. Not hunters. Not mages. Not watchers. Not clergy. "Why now... and why them. These are the questions to answer..."

     Una doesn't seem to know. "It is only polite," Laurent smiles beatifically, "...to explain that I have known Nicu for a few years. I know of your kind, but I am not part of the group you expect." He's not into giving that much more. "We record information as well, on many topics, and...that is it." Unlike the others, who we hear are tainted.
      It's not just him. The whole space exudes some calm. Mortals with a comfort and ease seen in a few. Mortals secure in their place and universe. Their humanity. Laurent smiles, "Maybe we should start over for the Madamoiselle's benefit?"

     The spy always picks up in mid-stream, mid-sentence. Bits and pieces of information stored in various places, even in his mind. Compartmentalized. A different answer for as many faces as he knows. When he's on the clock. When is he not on the clock?
     Nicu seems confused for a moment, but then realize. No context. He turns to Una. "A dispassionate observer," he mentions, in humored aside, a glance to Laurent. "I attended a lecture as part of a guise to pass on information and became intrigued," so the story goes as he tells it.

     Una blinks and then nods. It's not the first time someone has known about Immortals. She's confided in a few people in the past, herself...but only those she could trust. But... part of a group?
     "Okay, hold up... a group? Nicu... there's a group out there that knows? Like an organized group? Wha--?" she asks, obviously confused and alarmed. Has she never known about the Watchers or other such organizations? Obviously not. It's not like Immortals have a newsletter for keeping that information known. And she's mostly been sequestered in Ireland away from the rest of the world, only venturing out now and then to stretch her legs.
     Everyone else got the memo except her, it seems.

     The kitchen door swings and Kalla returns with a tray, complete with sugar, milk, lemon, ceramic teapot and coffee service. On the tray is also a plate with lemon bars, sliced bread and cheese. She is quick to set these down and head back towards the kitchen.

     Laurent leans up in his seat, eager to make a cup of coffee. He watches you both in silence, letting Nicu explain this part.

     "There is very little in this world that is secret," Nicu murmurs. "Yes, there are several groups who are aware of Us. And Others." We're not alone either. "Those who call themselves the Watchers have followed us for centuries. Once, from a casual but curious distance. But over time, they have become enmeshed in our own existence. There are still others who, like Laurent, are aware of our presence but who do not make it their business to involve themselves in it. Academic in nature. There is the Church, of course. They hold the leases on the holy ground, afterall. There has to be some exchange for that. Nothing... is for free."
     And apparently this is the business he deals in. His explanation is general in nature. Philosophic. Non-specific.

     Una looks completely stunned. Flabberghasted, even. How could she have lived so long and never known this? Whomever her Watchers have been must have been quite good at keeping a distance... and probably took advantage of her frequent drinking binges to get a little closer.
     "Okay... nothing like a good bombshell being dropped on you to wake you up in the morning.. heh. Right, ok...Wow. Well, we can talk more about that another time, I'm sure. So..." Una says nearly in disbelief, "what you're saying, Nicu, is that we can be frank with Mr. Moselle, right?" Open. Clear. To the point. Or something.
     She still seems to be trying to get over her own lack of knowledge about these groups. The Watchers, eh? Who'd have thunk it?

     Laurent smiles as he stirs his cup of coffee. His lean form suggests some workout, but it has culminated in a look of fashionable Paris academic. He sits back, contrasted against his grey chair. He'll let Nicu answer the question posed to him.

     "If we could not, we would not be here." He reaches for a cup of coffee. "And so... he has knowledge of the groups who might be obstensibly involved. Or... who might have information." That is why I've come.
     "Even so, we do not divulge more than either of us truly needs to know," Nicu smiles at Laurent.

      Una nods again. Looking back at Laurent, she murmurs, "I'm sorry. This... I'm not used to all this skulking around and airs of mystery. Give me a good fight and I understand it. Everything's clear. This is not. Forgive me if I offended you in any way with my ignorance."
     She then chuckles and shakes her head, saying, "Aye, I should leave all the skullduggery to my companion here. He is more suited to it than myself." Give me a sword and a battlefield and I'm good to go.

     "It is alright, madamoiselle," Laurent smiles. A ray of light, that. "It is hard when change comes or when we find the world is not as we expected it. That is the way of things." He inhales, a clearing breath. "But, yes. Something is happening to your kind. And, like Nicu, I expect it is one of your own, or someone mimicking pretty well as one of your own. It could be a Watcher, but it would have to be a well-placed one, I expect, to know the habits of several Immortals. Or, an Immortal, using information from some source..."
     Laurent cocks his head. "Have you heard any stories from the Americas? Is this limited to Europe?"

     "So far... limited to Europe. It seems to have started in Moscow... that was the first case. I was in Romania... then Prague... when it started following me, I ...went to see an old friend," an old flame, more like. Nicu glances from Laurent to Una, then back. "And it kept happening. At first, I thought... hmm, perhaps a family struggle, an old vendetta being answered. But now..." Nicu shakes his head, sipping at the coffee. "Now it seems more planned. Less... emotional. Less passionate. More systematic..."

     That could be bad if someone that crazed could get their hands on such a wealth of information. "Do you think that if it is an Immortal that he or she could have gained information on individuals of his kind from these Watchers? I mean, what do these Watchers do with the information they gather? Is it actually recorded?" Una asks, still trying to come to terms with this organization...and others?
     Crossing her arms over her chest, she shakes her head again. "No, I've not seen anything come up in those papers. Since the incidents started to pile up, I've been paying attention to international news a lot. Nothing out of the ordinary there, that I can see," she replies.

     "It is possible that an Immortal, if they knew about...their Watcher, could potentially...violate the situation to their benefit. That is why the Watchers take such care and are decreed never to get involved and never interfere." Laurent shrugs on that. "How easy that would be to know where the others of your Kind are, what their histories are, and to take action against them."
     Laurent cocks his head. "A Watcher doing this would have to get information from other Watchers, which, I understand, is also forbidden. Records, well," Laurent looks in his cup, "...I cannot say if such is kept. If so," he frowns. "I would hope they are not so lacking in intelligence. That would be dangerous...from any direction."
     "If...you have not seen this replicated in other areas," Laurent supposed, lip curling, "...then that would suggest ... perhaps it is an individual, not a group. This bodes better for the Immortal angle, getting information to be unusually effective...and unusually sloppy. Which," the logician goes on, "...suggests that he might not be alone..."

     This had occurred to Nicu as well. You know this in the nod. In the sip of coffee. In the lifting of his pale green gaze to some spot of space between the floor and the ceiling. "My logic, my background...my hunch is that it is no more than three. It is not a movement... no jihad," to borrow a term.
     Nicu sets his coffee down. "I believe that it may be one offending individual... and one... facilitator of some fashion. Immortal, Watcher," he shrugs. "This I do not know. There is much more to discover. And not a lot of time."

     Una suddenly realizes there's tea, coffee and food set out. She moves forward, selects a lemon bar, then steps back again. She takes a bite as Nicu speaks, listening to what he has to say. Swallowing before speaking, she pipes up, "Either way, whomever's doing this has the rest of our kind at a great disadvantage. They know who we are, but we haven't the foggiest."
     There's a brief pause, then she continues, "So.. perhaps we need to do some investigating? There was a basic description in one of the more recent news articles. It's very basic, but it's a start, at least. And perhaps Mr. Castillion might be able to help us... surely he knew his wife was not just working at the Louvre, but was an Immortal. Or we could check the Louvre for clues. See if the attacker dropped anything or left anything behind.."

     "Regardless of what we do," Nicu murmurs. "...one thing is certain. We will be in Paris for a while..."

     "Good ideas all," Laurent agrees. "I would be happy to make some inquiries on your behalf, of course. Let me know what I can provide. I did not know Dr. Castillion, but I know many at the Louvre."

     "That would be wonderful, if you could," Una replies, offering a little smile. "We could really use all the help we can get." That's an understatement to say the least. "And perhaps we can stop by some of the safe havens and see if anyone else who has gone into hiding knows anything," she suggests as an afterthought.

     "If you wish to remain here tonight, there is plenty of space," Laurent offers, looking between you both. "Or, we can make a few calls and see what is available at the rectories and naves tonight."

     Nicu places his hands on his thighs and then stands. "And with that... we should probably get to a haven. I do not want to ... put you out," he says to Laurent. A smile there. Or endanger you. "I will check in with you in a day or so...hmm? In the meantime...we stay alive." Nicu grins. "That will be challenge enough, I think..." He looks to Una. "Ready? Trinite is not far..."

     He will not disagree. Laurent Moselle is generous, but not stupid. He nods and stands as Nicu does. "Contact me in two days and I will report what I have managed to discover. Do you need anything?" he wonders. Cash, food...

     A quick nod to Nicu indicates she's as ready as she'll ever be. "We should go and make our arrangements before it gets too late." And before the killer has the cover of deepest night to mask his movements. She's eager not to be out in the open right now. "Thank you again, Mr. Moselle, for your generosity. It was good to meet you."

     "A pleasure, madamoiselle," Laurent nods, that smile turning upwards for hope passed through osmosis. "Laurent, please." A hand to Nicu for a shake. "Be well, Nicu."

     Nicu smiles. It is a brilliant smile. "No, we are fine, Laurent. Ah, well... we need our coats." He grins suddenly, taking Laurent's hand. A grasp of it, and he places his other hand upon those joined. "Be sure that I will contact you in two days." A nod. An agreement. And if you do not hear from me, only the worst case scenario will apply.
     Pivoting, Nicu looks to Una and nods. "I'm loaded. If he wants to take my head, he will have to do it without his hands." A wink of green.

     Kalla comes out, on cue, to see standing people. In her hands, dried coats. She offers them to Laurent, who turns and offers them to you both as she heads back out again.

     There's a nod to Laurent. Then she hears Nicu's comment. This causes Una to smile. Good. The bastard will have a fight on his hands... and it would be something suited to her anyway. Better a fight than all this sneaking around...
     "Thank you, Laurent. You've been too kind... and," to Kalla, "thank you." She takes her coat from Laurent and quickly tosses it on.

     "Good night," Nicu says, a smile to Laurent. A look to Una. The best part of fighting is the sneaking around that happens before the charge. When the air is most electric.
     But maybe it's an acquired taste...

Posted by rowan at March 01, 2001 08:38 PM