Hyding the Storm (Ichabod)

[winterraine]

Outside wasn’t necessarily the best place to do anything. And at night, being outside was dangerous. Especially if you happened to be human. Even more so, if, regrettably you were female. They certainly made up the largest category of bodies in the morgue. Winter Raine didn’t intend for hers to be one of them. She had succeeded thus far in avoiding a rack, and had no intention of failing in it now. To be fair, Winter rarely ever had an intention of failing. At the moment however, she was in a bit of a bind.

Work had kept her busy, and she had neglected her training for the day. Her schedule left no room to do it on the morrow, so tonight it had to be. Even though it was three am. Luckily, the albino female was already fairly nocturnal. Being awake and aware at this hour was not much special, to be honest. Not for her. However, being out in the open, in the middle of Hyde Park, no less, was.

Firstly, Winter preferred to do her workouts in a gym. Since this was fencing, she also preferred to do them with a partner. One problem with being a freezing witch, however, was that when you were, friends were few and far between. Ones who were willing to let you attack them, fully armed, even more so. Normally, at the gym there were enough people around she could pull a partner in for a few minutes before trading off to the next. Even her brother would have done splendid. But he was busy. And her gym was closed, exclusive for Werewolves and Vampires after the bewitching hour.

Normally, of course, this wasn’t a problem. She sidled out half an hour before that time. Now however... Her apartment was right out, and most of the other places in the city were too dangerous to be out in the open. However, in the midst of this dreary and abandoned park, she could be left mostly alone.

She had walked, of course. Cars were nasty contraptions, and she had seen far too many go up in smoke, taking their drivers with them. In some cases, she had been the one planting the explosives. As a result, cars made her nervous, and public transportation, what was left of it, even more so. For now, she pulled her jacket tighter around her, white hair seeming all the whiter in the moonlight. At her feet was a bag with some disturbingly pointed ends sticking out of it. In her hand, that which moments ago had been causing one such point was now unsheathed and tasting the crisp summer’s night air. this particular bladea a favorite with it's ornate silver edgin along the guard. what had reall called to her was the scorpion motif all alonge the guard, grip and grip. It really was a lovely piece. She'd gone all the way to Australia for it.

Now if only she could avoid notice the rest of the night, and sidle back home. She wouldn’t have to kill anything, or worry about being killed. That, would be ideal, of course. And ideal rarely occurred in this nightmare. She wasn't loud, only the guick breathing of a fencer running through her paces.

[ichabod]

Ichabod staggered out of the bushes, tugging the second leg of his jeans on and hauling them up over the muscular globes of his buttocks and hips, buttoning and zipping them. While still shirtless, he was unbothered by that amount of nudity; it was just the lower half he was uncomfortable with. It was Hyde Park, who in their right mind - aside from someone either suicidal or supernatural - would be out and about anyway? Coughing slightly, he slicked his hands through his wet, normally rather jew-fro-y hair.. love that Navajo heritage, he was a fat suit away from looking like Seth Rogan. Wait, Seth Rogan was at least fifty years dead by now, wasn't he? Oi, comedians of the past.. Ichabod stepped out into the dewy grass of the foggy, deserted park, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. Cupping his hands around the end of the cancer stick, he flicked his old, worn, by now antique Zippo to life, puffing heavily.

His quick, intense blue gaze flashed around in a sudden scrutiny of his quiet surroundings, the sound of a low, gasping pant drifting his way. Subconsciously, his ears perked up. He knew that sound. It was the sound of an athlete. The sound of someone in shape and trying to remain discreet. His hands dropped, his right replacing the Zippo in his pocket, his left pulling the cigarette from between his lips, holding the filter between thumb and forefinger like one would a marijuana roach. Shuffling barefoot through the grass, his footfalls near silent, he circled the open field in a wide berth; eyes still hunting for the origination of that familiar, intense sound. The flash of moonlight on a blade caught his gaze and he did a quick about face, stepping into shadows abruptly. Not that it did much good. He was a giant among normal men and werewolves alike. He took another drag off his cigarette, shuffling around for a better vantage point.

He knew that blade. Head cocked slightly, he eyed the build, the familiarity. He had had a weapon just like it come through his hands while Antique dealing in New South Wales. Ah, Australia. The one continent he was really comfortable on. Come to think of it, that particular weapon had fetched quite a handsome price after only some time on the market.. a dame had bought it. Quaint little thing, she'd been. With head still cocked, Ichabod stepped out of the shadows, the cherry of his smoke glowing dimly in the hazy moonlight. The adrenaline of his hunt had yet to wear off; he was feeling gutsy, and though he was clean now - thanks to a quick dip in the ocean - his keen sense of smell was still catching whiffs of the young buck he'd taken down. Mmmh. Dinner had been wonderful. Clearing his throat slightly - no doubt loud enough for the fencer to hear - he took another long drag, legs splayed slightly and arms crossed over his lengthy, athletic torso. "Lovely weapon you've got there."

[winterraine]

It was suicidal to be out here. But, then again, she was armed wasn’t she? And at the very least, most of the supernatural avoided the place too. Winter maintained as long as she kept focused the whispers of the long dead wouldn’t bother her. So far it had worked, and she’d heard no such moans and groans, nor screams of slaughtered civilians. The tragedy was past, and she had not relived it. Happily, she would relate that. Well, as happily as ole Whitey did anything. Thrust, empty parry.

Watch your footwork, girl. Wouldn’t want to get sloppy and trip, now would we? Her mask was partially on, slid up so she could see clearer. Would hate for something to sneak up on her. As archaic and entertaining as it was, the odds of it proving much of a defense against a werewolf were slim, and she couldn’t just throw her authority around to anyone. Beside.s She was caught up in her art. Any fool who called fencing anything but an art deserved to be stabbed straight through, hung from Big Ben itself with the word ‘PHILISTINE’ engraved on his chest, forehead, back and rump. And wherever else seemed to strike her fancy at the time. It was so beautiful out here, moonlight glancing off the blade and into the moving shadows.

Moving shadows?

She was losing it, that had to be it. Twenty odd years of living up to a family reputation. She’d recover though ,and without her sister’s shrink, that’s for sure. She can’t have caught anyone’s attention. Nothing stirred in the park this late. Nothing alive, anyway. Ah but she was here…and she was alive, wasn’t she? Whatever it had been, it had disappeared. Probably just an owl on it’s silent deadly flight. She returned ot her paces, relishing in how she began to lose her breath as she picked up the pace, adrenaline pulsing in her head like the beat of a wild drum. She was just starting to get up to pace when a clear sound rang through the night, and right into her ears. Startled, she pulled the mask off her head the rest of the way, letting her hair, the precise shade of the moon above at its palest fall down just past her shoulders, essentially revealing herself to be female, if the male opposite her hadn’t gathered that already.

Winter turned to face him blade held out in a warning, futile, most likely. Her mind was already whirring. So casual, only half dressed. He didn’t speak like a drunk. Definitely a creature of the night, she logicked. Logic was about all she ever had on her side, and she’d gotten adept at using it. Besides, even if she were wrong, there was never a harm in being cautious. He seemed fairly familiar, and her violet eyes dashed to glowing end of his cigarette.

“It is more than decoration…” Her voice spoke clearly, her British accent showing as she tried to analyze his. He seemed…fairly familiar. And the fact that his first comment went to blade. Watching him intently, Winter continued. “… have you seen it before, then? Or just an admirer of fine work?”

Particularly if its about to go through your gullet should you come too many steps closer.

[ichabod]

A low, grating chuckle tore through his throat as she wielded the weapon toward him, grasping his cigarette between thumb and fore again and holding it as his side, thumb flicking the end of the filter lightly to knock the growing ash loose. The cherry fell away, landing on the dewy grass; instinctively, Ichabod stepped on it. Wouldn't want to cause a fire here, would we? That would never do, London up in Flames. Keeping his gaze fixated on the pale creature before him, he ceased his chuckling, replacing the 'grette between his lips. It dangled out the side of his mouth, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"I suppose a bit of both." His response came just as quickly as her question was through; he had anticipated her thoughts. "My understanding is that your particular blade has no replicas and only three original castings worldwide. One is retained by a Museum in Singapore. One is used by a -" he paused, snickering at his next comment "- quote-unquote Spiritual Leader in Rothburg, Germany.. and the third I sold to a petite little dimepiece back in Woy Woy." He made no move to shift position or move forward, knowing full well she probably held the courage to defend herself if she felt threatened.. although she'd probably laugh her ass off if she knew how harmless he truly was. Ichabod was a straight laced wolf, if nothing else; and he so enjoyed humans and their little idiosyncrasies.. why would he murder them? They were to be conversed with, not carnage. He shrugged, continuing. "And the way I see it, you either stole the blade, or you're.. " He trailed off, thinking hard. Hmm.. what was her name? That had been some time ago.

April? ... No. Summer? No, but we're getting closer. Seasons. Weather. Something like that. Hum. Winter. YES! It seared him like a brand on a leather hide, that bolt of recognition. His gaze, which had dropped to his feet, shot back to her face with a dawning intrigue. Yes, yes, he recognized her now; pale, near albino, but lacking that - sorry - creepy red vibe most of them had.. she had some color to her, particularly her eyes. Those lovely eyes. He smiled slightly; a vaguely malicious sort of curvature of his full cheeks ... he didn't intend to look devious, it was just habitual. A hazard of his species. "Winter. Winter Raine, wasn't it?"

He let that sink in for a moment before pulling his cigarette from between his lips, finishing the last of it, and snuffing it out against his thumb. As it cooled, he flicking it back behind his ear, arms returning to their familiar crossed position across his elongated torso. He remembered her, but now -- did she remember him? Humans usually had much better memories than he did.. but then he had time as an excuse. He was near 90. That was ancient to them. "No need to be so tense, pet. I just ate, and recreational murder isn't a pastime I partake in." Love that after-hunt high of his.. he didn't even feel like shedding during this encounter.

[winterraine]

Why was it they always laughed? The noise half grated on Winter’s nerves, and her grip tightened on the grip of her blade. She watched with what could almost be called eagerness as he casually destroyed the ash he’d dropped. Such nasty things. Didn’t people KNOW they were bad for your health??? Then again, perhaps when you aren’t human you don’t worry about things like lung disease. At least he had the decency to stomp it out… Ah, but he didn’t take her eyes off her, either. Good idea on his part. Though…she didn’t quite understand how he could be so casual about it, placing his hands back in his pockets. Disarming himself. If she’d had murder on the mind.

Well, to say it wasn’t would be a lie. She had a weapon. He was in a casual position, and if she were to move fast enough, she could get a disabling hit in… Ah yes… She did forget though- she couldn’t move faster than him even if he would have to pull his hands out of his pockets. There was still distance to traverse. She was faster than most humans…but she was still regrettably… mortal. And far slower than the supernatural. He didn’t give her much time to think, spitting an answer back at her quickly.

How the bloody ‘ell did he know about her weapon? From this distance? He spouted off the museum piece (Heavily under guard, and Singapore was not her favorite place to dawdle anyway. If she could avoid going back again,she would.) As for the Germanic blade… She almost smiled, if it hadn’t been this serious of a situation. “He wasn’t very good with it.” She was a bit out of tune with recent slang, unless it had to do with Izan, or other mafia like activites. Dime…piece… what the glory did that mean? And why didn’t she know that? There it came to mind. Dime… ten out of ten. She remembered now, and she might have been turning red if she’d had any less self control. At least it was a compliment. Had it been something else, she would have felt obligated to shoot back…

He remembered her name, though it looked like it took him a while to do so. Violet eyes that seemed to stand out in his memory were framed by eyebrows that now arched like a sloping hill. Ah, why they were violet- that creepy red gene had overlaid a natural pale blue. The result, purple, and no strange demonic red. She’d leave that to the demons… As the recognition settled into the pair of them at just about the same time, Winter slowly lowered the blade. At some point in time, she’d trusted him enough to buy something from him. She wouldn’t be releasing her weapon, but at the very least, she could honour him with not threatening him. “Stealing isn’t my style…Yes… I am Winter…”

That smile on his features, however, was a bit disconcerting. It was the look of a master plotter who’d come to a conclusion they liked. Winter was sure someone had to have seen that expression on her features more than once. Maybe she shouldn’t have lowered her weapon. But to bring it up now. Now it was her turn to dive into her mind, sifting through file after file of events until she found the ones related to this sword. One would be when she sought it out as a museum artifact. Lovely, display that…the second was when the hack in Germany had offered to buy hers off of her, and she’d told him he could have it if he could use his better than she could use hers. Idiot lost in thirty seconds flat. Third would be when she bought her own.

Obviously, not in that order. Closer to the reverse, actually. There it was… She’d been a a lot younger then, hadn’t she… Much better at using this sublime art work. It certainly was him though. He hadn't aged at all, fro mher memory, though perhaps it was distorted.

He was done with his cancer stick, and Winter watched the last of the smoke drift off. Her mind recalled first the shop, and then his face, and then..Well, his first name certainly came easier. It wasn’tone you heard often anymore. “Ichabod… last name…” She knew this…why was it so elusive. “Birmington.” A good, solid, Britich name in her mind. At least it had surfaced in the roil and toil of the memory dig. When he spoke again, She bristled ever so slightly at being called pet. It was just a dialect thing… but people generally didn’t give Winter Raine nicknames. At the least, not ones they would use to her face.

At least she’d been right, he was of the supernatural persuasion. “You’ll have to forgive me not being able to relax, sir. Despite your assurances, no doubt you can tell I have much to fear.” Being female, and human certainly was NOT a good combination these days. Yet, here she was and he was definitely male. His chest was entirely exposed to the elements, and proved that much. And definitely supernatural… Instinct was betting on him being a werewolf however, which meant… she should be smacking the label of Foe on him and running him through. Yet, once again. Job number one was to stay alive. Attacking someone more powerful than you, goodnatured as they seemed, was asking for trouble.

[ichabod]

Ichabod couldn't help but smile as she recalled his name. See, proof that humans really did have better memories than the undead and the near immortal. The time had changed her a bit his eye, but he knew the odds were he hadn't changed at all. One changed hairstyles, facial attributes, and clothing styles - but never could one of the Werewolf persuasion really change much about their features. Winking at her slightly, he nodded. "Very good, Ms. Raine. Please, call me Ichabod."

Feet shuffling, he moved sideways, remaining the same distance away from her as he stepped further from the shadows and rotated around her. He wasn't circling her like he would someone he was preparing to eat - no, on the contrary, he just wanted a better look at the delicate, impish thing before him. He wasn't human, but that didn't mean he didn't have male instincts that were distinctly humanoid. He appreciated a fine body, a delicate structure, that alluring way their neck met their jawline... He paused, eyes lingering on that area before roaming over her body once more. That same smile, oddly wicked, hovered on his face. "I understand entirely, of course. I'm not of the mind to be offended by such. A lot of people are afraid of me." He stopped his circling, drawing arms out to his sides. "Comes with the territory." He slowly stepped forward, extending a hand. He was moving intentionally, dramatically slow, palms out, his hand extended to shake hers politely. "Mind a handshake, none the less? It's good to see a familiar face in an otherwise unfamiliar area."

Dear Ichabod, dear foolish, witless Ichabod. She could run him through at any moment and yet he stood unafraid, unabashed, and ultimately behaving as the gentleman his mother and father brought him up to be. Hesitantly, his hand hovered in the air between them, body language casual and relaxed. If she wanted to, she could skewer him. Of course his counter would be to obliterate her, which he could do even wounded, but what if she scored a winning hit? Then they'd both die, he supposed, musing over the events as they played out in his head in multiple scenarios. His adrenaline high was beginning to wear off now, and he could feel his back go clammy. The nerves were kicking in. He always did this! Usually around pretty girls, but pretty girls with swords? Oh, he was in antique geek Heaven, he was! It was cliche and stereotypical and he was mildly ashamed of himself for it, but there was something ultimately attractive, lust-inducing, downright button pushing about his current situation here. Ahhh. Redirect. Kittens. Prime Minister of England. Taj Mahal. Ghandi. His brain fired thoughts at him to stop that primal, gutteral reaction from reaching it's apex. Buddha. Edgar Allen Poe. Puppies. Swords. Mmh... those eyes... STOP! ICHABOD!

His brain screamed at him and he promptly shut the thoughts off as they came, staring at her blankly, hand still outstretched to shake.

[winterraine]

Humans in general, she could not promise. Winter, however, prided herself on a good memory. It was required to keep facts, people, faces and alignments from swimming in her mind too much. His features truly hadn’t changed much from how she remembered them. Almost disturbing really, considering she knew she had changed. Darn these immortals and not changing. It was almost depressing. He seemed to take it well, however, and the wink threw her mind into a flurry of analysis. “I’ll consider it.” Meaning, it was unlikely, but she wasn’t being rude enough to say that straight out. With the amoutn of traffic through your shop, remembering one name must have been difficult

What WAS he playing at, her mind wondered. He began moving circling as no doubt he did his meals. By now, she’d been able to catch sight of his smile- no superhuman fangs, meaning he was indeed… the enemy. The coiling spring, however, was missing from the circle…He wasn’t getting ready to pounce on her, but watching his actions… Once he passed out of her sight, she turned ever so slightly to make sure she could continue watching him.

As nice as he might seem, and as much as a part of her was wanting to give him a little bit of slack due to this surprise coincidence of a past meeting. His eyes seemed to linger on the side of her neck, almost on her face… not a usual place the eyes rested on her creamed skin. On instinct, she tipped her head to one side as he watched. That smile…she’d worn a similar smile before, and the iniquitous edge on his made easing up the grip on her sword impractical for the moment. When he stopped, Winter turned to face him, blanched locks all the paler in the moonlight. Her features had matured with the few years it’d been since they had last met… She hadn’t recognized him for what he was last time, or… well, no. Faced with the grace and beauty of this blade, she still would have done business with him, whether or not she’d known he was a werewolf or not. “Indeed. Hardly your fault you make all in your vicinity nervous.” It did come with the territory after all. And he was what he was. Especially if you’d grown up in London.

A handshake. Such an innocent thing. But such a hard thing to grant. Her position in the Izan filled her with a duty to refuse, and try to leave… however, duty, and risking her life were incongruous. His point was valid besides. How to appease both instincts? The deliberate nature of his movements and the careful speed. Her hand came out to catch the offered hand. Her other however, the one holding her blade, came up to rest on his shoulder. It wouldn’t have cut the skin. While she had moved quickly, there was no strength. Most of the blade was reaching far past his head, the ornate guard still a good six inches from Ichabod’s body. Her features remained as if she had done no such thing.

She’d taken a risk of course- he could view this as an attack and retaliate. But then again… she had let it down gently. Her own adrenaline was just starting to rush now, and a light was coming to violet eyes rarely ever seen. His blank look at least meant she hadn’t enraged him just yet. She had taken his hand though, and was shaking it with an air of professionalism. Something seemed off with him however. As if he were distracted with something. Perhaps the cold touch of steel would wake him, her eyes watching him intently.

“I take it you aren’t a London Native then.” Her voice was a little tense, and most definitely held quiet. “It’s a dangerous town…”

[ichabod]

Ichabod resisted the urge to laugh again as the blade landed on his shoulder. This wasn't the first time he'd been held at knife point, sword point, oh hell, even arrow point - no, he'd been privy to much worse situations than this. Simultaneously, her hand clasped his and he marveled at the coolness of her touch compared to his permanent fever. It was seldom that he felt human flesh on his werewolf hide, and it never ceased to amaze him just how different the two species were in something so insignificant as body heat. Meanwhile, he glanced to the blade on his shoulder, gazing back at his own reflection.

Eye to eye with death was not something that bothered Ichabod, nor something he really took overly seriously - especially given that he spent his life prepared for just that lethal blow that would end him, graciously ending the succession of years that had snowballed into Hell on Earth. He felt the hair on his scalp quiver, the first of several drying curls drifting from his scalp to his shoulder. Huffing, he stared at her with a slightly exasperated look. "Really? I hadn't noticed." His tone was dry. Of course London was a dangerous town, who was she power-tripping on? "I'm off the Kumeyaay Reservation in Southern California, the States."

He paused, giving her ample opportunity to remove her blade before he went about removing it for her. Keeping that same pleasantly vacant look about him, he dropped his shoulder, tightening his grip on her palm as his opposite arm sailed upward to grip the ornate sword about the fuller and edge. His grip was firm against it's weight, the sharp edge of the sword biting into his callused palm, though it went unnoticed. "I may be a werewolf, doll, but I'm no puppy. Thank you kindly for remembering that." His stare remained open and remotely friendly, though his voice held an edge of displeasure - he so loathed having pointed threats, examples made to and of him, as if he were some kind of common criminal. Shoving the blade off his shoulder as he stepped aside, his grip on her palm tightened and he dragged his elbow in closer to his body, by proxy hauling her arm forward, toward him, as well. He felt a seeping of blood flow on his palm as he released his grip on her sword, and a quick glance proved it wasn't much - just a product of his grasp on the weapon.

"It's a pleasure seeing you, ma'am." And with that he abruptly dropped his grip on her, taking two large steps back as he contemplated his next actions. Shift? It certainly gave him an advantage, though at that point he'd lack communication skills. Turn his back to her and walk away, trust her that much? She'd already proven she'd raise a weapon against him, but would she be ballsy enough to flat out attack him? He mulled over these thoughts, arms crossing over his chest as he stared her down with that same unnerving pleasantness. It took a lot to irritate Ichabod, and god help the person that achieved that... they wouldn't last long against him.

[winterraine]

Surely the difference in temperatures was all the more obvious, considering Winter’s was regularly lower than a normal human’s anyway. He didn’t seem all that perturbed, however, at the weapon resting on his shoulder. Not that she had much of an intention to actually hurt him outright with it. She’d gone to special means to avoid parting the skin, and act she usually would have done the reverse for.

Apparently his hair was curly, she noted a little herself, off handedly. His hair was wet where the rest of he wasn’t. And, it wasn’t as dark as she had original supposed. It seemed to be lightning up as the water slid from its surface, getting the air like it had for all of time. He was American…why did that make so much sense? She held her blade there, as she would be until the time she was able to resume a safe distance once more. He moved depressingly quickly, reminding her that if she pushed him too far.

She might already have done that. Her heart leapt up to her mouth, and her blood ran all the colder in her veins as he pulled her closer at the same time, grabbing the blade with the other. Grabbing, and tightening his grip around it. The barest of flushes came to her pale cheeks as he spoke, watching his features. How could he remain even half congenial as he was now? At least humanity showed in the way he did show a bit of distaste at the action. His use of affectionate terms, however was simultaneously frustrating, and flattering. She wasn’t sure which more so.

And now he stepped back, and Winter knelt down to let the blade rest on the grass. She promptly settled down as well. His posture, and the way his pleasant demeanor and careless stare had turned into a more methodical glance…he was evaluating her as a threat now. At least that had a little bit more consistency, a little more predictability. It was certainly something more solid to stand on. “But a dangerous canine all the same…” No doubt, she smelled strongly of cats, considering she was constantly surrounded by them at home. “If I was taking your hand, I wanted to assure that I’d have reassurance that I wouldn’t be risking too much by the action.” It was time to stand down. He’d proven at least minutely worthy of her trust in that having her in such a disabled position, he only removed the sanger and the released her. As such, she felt safe enough to release the blade.

Not safe enough to let it go too far. Her hand still rested near it, as she pulled one knee up to rest and arm over half casually, the other in the grass near to the alluring metal. Her glance was on his still bleeding palm, slim tapered finger beating a rhythm on the edge of her white slacked knee. “You ought to wipe that. You could draw the attention of wolves not of your manners.”

[ichabod]

Ichabod watched her expression almost curiously - that sudden recognition of... what? respect? fear? recognition in general? He was unsure. These human emotions, they were so fickle and their expressions all looked the same. He made no assumptions and he mentioned nothing, only moving to mimic her gesture and sunk slowly to the ground, shifting to bring both knees around and sit Indian-style, cross-legged. He crossed both arms across his chest as well, back tall and.. well... proud. He was Indian, ironically. "Well, I assure you I'm not as dangerous as some. Don't take my word for it, just hang around. You'll see." He half-regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Hang around? Sure, and fillet me while you're at it. He should be giving her the impression he was all powerful, not some puppy steamrolled by any pretty dame with a pulse..

Ichabod rolled his eyes at himself, glancing down at his hand briefly at her mention of other wolves. Likely not something to attract much attention, but all the same, he'd handle it. He brought his palm to his mouth and swiped at the small laceration with the broad side of his tongue, the tangy, copper penny flavor flooding his mouth, his tastebuds standing at attention and saliva welling in the bottom of his mouth. He removed his palm and wiped it down the edge of his jeans, his gaze remaining levelly on Winter. "You're just as dangerous as any wolf, Ma'am." He meant that honestly - she probably was a force to be reckoned with when she felt threatened. He could appreciate that.

"Aren't you concerned about grass stains on those illuminatingly white pants of yours?" And wasn't she concerned about attracting undue attention, wearing white at night? Wait.. she was basically albino, she practically glowed anyway. He shrugged the comment off, staring at her for a moment before resuming breathing. It was nice to see a familiar face, and he'd milk the situation for all he could.