Description: Being lead to the conclusion that the kids in that Pacific Resistance group consists only of rowdy, belligerent bullies, Vince isn't too anxious to meet any of them. Unfortunately for him, those he's spoken to say it's inevitable, and most likely to be a very unpleasant experience. And that's why meeting a charming, intriguing Marisol O'Connell throws a monkey wrench right into his expectations - especially considering the notoriety he's heard about her. Can they be wrong? Could the gossip be overblown?
With another day slowly crawling to its inevitable end, lunch hour serves as a brief but much-needed escape from the tedium of school work and lectures. Noon has barely been broken and already the lunch room is full of the student body, lines as far as the eye can see winding out of the serving area, fortunately moving at a steady pace. The dining hall is rapidly becoming a crowded place, the clamor and cacophony of various voices and dialects making it a less-than pleasant aural experience.
But that is of little concern to Marisol.
Seated with a small gaggle of female students, the redheaded half-Spaniard is the quiet one in this particular crowd. The girls chat with themselves, idly rambling about varying subjects, from boys to clothes to all things painfully feminine - all of which seem of no interest to the young woman resting her cheek in her palm, absently poking a salad in front of her.
"Say," a ponytailed blonde asks, glancing toward the redhead."I haven't heard of you running off on Saturdays to trot the globe lately, O'Connell. What's the deal?"
The redhead responds simply by lifting her thin red brows before exhaling through her nostrils.
"I dunno. Don't feel like it lately," she replies, practically mumbling. Gray eyes drift from the blonde toward a mousey brunette, who looks up from her notebook and grins.
"Really? That's a shame. It's fun to watch. ...hey, where's your Brit friend. You know..?"
Glancing away, Marisol just eats her salad, drawing an uncomfortable but short-lived hush across the table. A moment after, the girls start talking to themselves, mindfully and politely leaving the girl to her meal.
The clamor and commotion, one might suspect, a student of any school body gets used to. Vince LaRose, however, is not such a student. He detests the noises of the cafeteria, and he finds the food offensively lacking as well. So his preference is to get food outside of campus, or to make it himself, given the chance.
Unfortunately, Vince is a tad low on cash at the moment.
So at this time, he's condescended to dine with the general student population. Oh, not that he's rude, particularly stuck up, or exclusive. Far from it, he's one of the more amiable people to encounter on campus. Provided one minds their manners. And in a forum such as this, 'manners' are few and usually slacking even in those of prestige.
The line is a completely different animal. Whereas the rest of the cafeteria would seem like a canopy in some long lost jungle, full of overly chatty, cacophonous birds of paradise, the line appears more like an inch worm. It usually moves at speeds comparable to molasses, and when it -isn't-, the sheer size of the line is enough to demoralize the greatest of zealots.
In short, Vince doesn't like the cafeteria. At least not during normal hours.
But when one must eat, one must eat when they can. So here Vince is. In the line. Being served some tray of salad and goopy meat, which when inquired about it's origin, was described only with, "I'unno. -They're- eating it." It didn't inspire much confidence, but what else is he to do?
At last, Vince is free of the line's doldrumic, yet iron-clad grip. Here, the heroic swordsman faces a new challenge: seating. He exhales a forlorn sigh and his shoulder slouch, the action causing his light bangs to shift gently. And then? He proceeds to peruse the 'aisles' of legs, elbows, and sometimes people, searching for a proper seat.
It's an acquired clamor, really. A semester of it and it's easy to adapt to the busy buzz in the proverbial Tower of Babel that is Pacific High's cafeteria. Or the high school itself, between classes in the halls or pretty much anywhere on campus. Marisol has learned to more or less drown it out, much like the girls absently chattering with one another.
Her thoughts are currently anywhere but there. Or even here.
Still gingerly poking at leafy greens on her plate, the half-Spaniard girl absently purses her full lips, a thoughtful but idle gesture as she more or less passes time. Gray eyes seem affixed on the salad and its various vegetable delights, sauced with a light coat of ranch. Normally it would whet her appetite. Today, though..?
Exhaling softly, the girl sulks further against her palm, drawing the attention of a black-haired girl reading over a nondescript novel. Lifting long fingers, she adjusts her glasses before she leans to the side, offering her elbow into the redhead's ribs, a light but encouraging gesture. It stirs the girl, causing Marisol to let her gaze stray elsewhere, toward the girl. The straight-laced looking girl gives her a serious look.
Then she offers a tiny grin. Marisol offers a half-hearted one in response.
Smoky depths stray immediately after, as the dark-haired girl's eyes turn back onto her novel. In passing, those depths catch a brief glimpse of the clearly tormented soul that is Vince. Distantly she recognizes the face, enough for the girl to loft a brow lightly before she absently takes a small bite of her salad. Chewing thoughtfully, she ponders as she observes, watching him search for a seat in the sea of foreigners.
A push of her chair out, Marisol rises from her seat as she leaves her salad behind, puzzling her tablemates - all of whom look among one another with inquisitive looks. The half-Spaniard doesn't care though; instead, she abandons them and makes a pointed effort to push through the crowds a bit, otherwise unconcerned for those she passes.
"Hey," the girl calls, looking directly at the blonde Frenchman. "You probably don't know me, and this is probably a really weird question to hear from someone you've never met, but,"
Folding her arms across her chest, the girl offers a tiny grin as she asks,
"Aren't you that guy who stabbed some girl on the roof a while ago? That's what I heard, anyway. But rumors only go so far..."
A sea of endless faces, awash with waves of multi-colored hair. Such is Vince's personal Hell. Each one distracted, each one making its own bout of noise, contributing to the ever-increasing roar of the cafeteria...
But a lone voice stands out. It might not normally, were it not for the fact that he's caught the adjoined pair of eyes on him. His icy blues regard her curiously, and her words are met with the quirk of a brow. "Possibly," he replies, tray balanced in his left hand while his right hand sets casually to his hip. "But at a school like this...," he trails. Rather than his pleasantly soft, smooth voice, he's having to elevate it in the hopes of being heard above others. But the faintest of French lilts can still be heard.
Personal Hell or no, it would appear that Vince has the misfortune of being stuck in the cafeteria today, forced to stray from his usual routine. Today, he's forced to lunch with the majority of his fellow classmates. And already it would appear that he's garnered the attention of one such student. Whether or not he knows her face matters little. She is curious, and clearly has questions. But does he have answers?
The response he offers her draws a wry grin across her full lips, gray eyes hooding immediately in response. Though she's regarded with a certain bit of curiosity, those smoky depths do not hesitate to meet his gaze. "Possibly?" the half-Spaniard replies, arms breaking free from her chest to move, resting comfortably akimbo on her hips.
"I'm not accusing you, nor am I going to suddenly swear vengeance upon you and your brethren for stabbing some girl. Pff, hardly." Tossing her head lightly, wavy, coppery red locks spill past her shoulders as her smirk broadens.
"I just figured it was from a fight or something. Like you said, at a school like this... I presume you mean to say something along the lines of 'you can't throw a rock without hitting at least one fighter.' Or am I mistaken?" Giving him a looking-over, the girl's arms fold once again over her chest. "I mean, if you're not a fighter, well..."
"Along the same lines," Vince concurs over the roar of the student congregation. "But yes, 'possibly'. In a school like this, it's impossible to tell how many girls have been stabbed on the roof. I've fought a girl somewhat recently, yes, and my weapon is the use of a sword... but-" Pause. Vince frowns. He's already getting tired of yelling over the conglomerate voices of the cafeteria.
"Was there something I could help you with, Miss?," asks the noble, cutting straight to the chase as it were. No need to go on about buttoned foils or rosette daggers.
"Along the same lines, mn..?" the girl parrots, musing aloud as she lifts a finger to her chin. Idly tapping there, gray eyes drift upwards. She listens, despite her wandering gaze, lips slowly but surely drawing into a line across her face. Only when he cuts himself off does she lower them, peering at the young Frenchman before her.
Smiling again, gray eyes hood softly in response before she shakes her head softly. "Well, that was precisely what I was curious about," she explains, hands on her hips once more. "To be frank, you're the only person I've heard of here at Pacific using a sword in that capacity - at least so far. So I was genuinely curious as to whether or not it was the actions of a fighter, or just some sadist." Pausing, the half-Spaniard shrugs her shoulders and lets gray eyes snap shut.
"Help me? Hm," Slowly but surely, smoky gray eyes open, a Cheshire's smile slowly drawing its way across her sun-kissed features. "Perhaps." Lightly chewing her bottom lip, she sports a distantly amused light in her gray eyes as she asks, "What's your name?"
They've been speaking for less than a minute, and Vince can already tell something about the girl. Body language, choice of words... she thinks she's in charge. How delightfully amusing. He keeps his plainly curious look on his face for the time being, favoring her with his attention. "Do I -look- like a sadist?," he remarks with a dry smirk.
His name is not presented immediately. The swordsman begins to make his way through the crowd yet again, closing the distance on her. And only when he's standing much, much closer does he speak - voice lowered considerably, now that it can be heard more easily, but not at its easy tone. "It saddens me that you have to ask such a thing," Vince says, a wry smile touching to his lips. "My name is Vince LaRose. Captain of the esteemed fencing team?," he offers. His icy blue gaze affixes to her smoky grays, studying them intently
There's a fine, definite line between thinking one is 'in charge,' and a person who is confident and comfortable with themselves. Does he really think he knows this girl in front of him after only a minute of conversation about a situation that happened weeks ago? Then it would seem he may very well be sorely mistaken.
Fortunately, Marisol isn't a mind-reader.
Does he look like a sadist? "You'd be surprised. Some of the most unassuming people can be really messed up," she replies, before lightly shaking her head in response. "But no. You don't SEEM like one." Lifting a hand up from her hip, she pulls from her face a few errant locks of red, tucking them neatly behind her ear.
However, when he approaches a bit closely, the young woman's response shifts slightly, a mix of bemusement and uncertainty before she just rolls her shoulders and regards the young man. But when he speaks up once more, features shift once more; furrowing her brows, the girl purses her full lips before exhaling.
"To be honest? I didn't even know we had a fencing team." Shifting her gaze aside, the half-Spaniard offers a light 'hmm,' tapping her lips lightly before she offers a half-hearted smile, adding with less enthusiasm, "The only teams I am aware of are the football team, and the rowing team - and the latter only 'cause a friend is on it." Her half-hearted smile grows only a touch.
"That would explain the reason I heard you stabbed a girl, though," she adds, offering another wry smirk as she hoods her gaze. "I figure you know what you're doing, so I'll assume she's okay."
Vince turns his head slightly aside, as if to feign insult on her stress of the word 'seem'. "I assure you, I'm a gentleman." He would hope that his reputation socially would precede him, but... he does tend to get ahead of himself. As the conversation shifts, his head turns towards her fully again. "I also assure you we have one - and we're quite good," he adds conversationally. "I don't imagine this should come as a surprise to anyone, though. Pacific High - loud and noisy as the cafeteria may be - harbors some of the finest, most talented people I've had the pleasure of meeting."
Still balancing the tray in his offhand, Vince lifts his right hand to whisk his fingers through sandy blond bangs, unconscious of the action. Really, her fiddling with her hair likely caused him to think of his own on a subconscious level. "The girl's fine," he notes. "I was wielding only a buttoned foil against her. I admit that the rosettes were real, and she -was- pierced with one of those, but hardly lethal or crippling. You're right to assume I'm competent with my blades." His head then inclines, those previously tousled bangs drifting ever so slightly outwards. "Are you a friend of hers?"
His response earns him a soft chuckle from the redhead, an arm folding underneath her bosom, the elbow of her opposite hand nestled in its hand as a finger absently cups her chin. She won't comment or press the subject; instead, she offers another grin, eyes half-lidded as she regards the Frenchman before her. "Really? Well, my bad." She shrugs then, a playful smirk still on her lips. "I don't really pay attention to a lot of extra-curricular activities here. But it's good to know." And if they're better than Gedo, wonderful!
Nodding faintly, the redhead's grin blossoms a bit. "Yeah, it's a nice place, really. I like it here. I wouldn't want to go anywhere else." Idle conversation at best, the girl shrugs softly before she tilts her head. But before she can offer anything more, his additional note draws a mildly puzzled look across tanned features.
"What are rosettes?" she asks, bluntly. "Are they knives or swords or something?" The latter remark, regarding whether she is friends with the girl earns him a soft laugh and a shake of her head. "Me? No. Like I said, I heard the rumor from a few people a while back and got descriptions. I was mostly curious. Particularly about other fighters." Whatever that means, well...
Marisol just offers a wolfish grin.
"You've a curious interest in those who fight. But I suppose if that should be normal anywhere, it would have to be -here-," Vince muses. "I agree, though. This is the finest institution to attend and, in fact, be a part of." Though he then pauses. "So you wouldn't know much of the drama curriculum, either..." This is said with a hint of disappointment, but it seems to wash away quickly enough.
Vince has something else on his mind. Something to take care of before answering that question about the rosettes. Those icy blues begin scanning the immediate surroundings. "Do you see a couple available seats -anywhere-?," he asks. "It would be so much easier to show you a rosette if I had two free hands..."
His words draw that wolfish grin all the further across her face, shoulders moving in a helpless shrug. "What can I say," the girl replies. "I have a certain vested interest in learning about other fighters." Why? Well, her reputation around campus, or even the occasional Saturday Night Fight. Absently tilting her head to one side, the girl's gray eyes narrow in amusement. "It's a hobby.
"As for the drama club or curriculum? Can't say I have, unfortunately." Offering another helpless shrug, the girl offers a coy smile. But before she can continue the young man inquires about seating, to which the redhead offers an audible 'hmmn,' eyes drifting about. Catching sight of a small group of young men leaving, the girl points a finger.
"There?" she ultimately responds, "And if it's trouble, no worry. If I'm keeping you from your lunch, there's always another time?" Eyes shift back, peering at the blonde with a smirk. "Or a demonstration."
Vince spies the two boys leaving as she poitns, and he's immediately striding in that direction. Still having to weave a bit around the people gathered, but he finally comes to a halt at the table and sets the tray down. He then turns to look at her curiously. "A demonstration? It's a bit crowded...," he notes. "But I can show you what one is." Though he must admit to himself that he's rather surprised she didn't notice them when she gave him a look-over. Either that, or didn't put 'rosette' together with the blades.
Now with two hands free, Vince easily slides one of the numerous stilettos lining his belt free and lengthwise along his palms. The rich crimson of the pommel contrasts with the deep viridian green of the handle, crossguard, and blade. "I make these. They're... something of a hallmark for me. I call them rosettes." Beat. "For obvious reason, I should hope."
What? He's already on the move?
Blinking once, slowly, the redhead just watches him move and weave before shoulders roll, an idle gesture before she follows along behind with arms laced behind her back. When he sets the tray down and makes himself a touch more comfortable the half-Spaniard simply lifts her arms up and rests them casually behind her head.
Perhaps she did overlook them, or chances are the glimpse was brief. Regardless, when a stiletto is produced and displayed, gray eyes peer down at the slender object. "Obvious reasons indeed," she muses. "Though I have to ask - how do you get away carrying blades on campus?" Then again, Preston gets away with a massive-as-hell oar...
"I guess it's expected?" she mulls, shrugging. Or maybe fencers get special liberties on campus..?
Vince shifts the stiletto over a little, letting the overhead lights glint off the polished steel. "A few reasons," Vince begins, keeping the blade out on display. "One, and the lesser of three, is that I craft them myself. They're like small trinkets I make in shop. Second, I'm on the fencing team. And as I mentioned earlier, we're quite skilled. So the school board acknowledges that we can handle a rapier - foil or blade - with discretion on school grounds. Most importantly, though, is that I'm a -LaRose-, Madame. We're renowned for our mastery of the blade. If anyone can be trusted to hold swords and daggers responsibly, it's one from my family."
It shouldn't take much scrutiny to see that Vince is incredibly proud of his family name, and the apparent prestige that comes with it. The fair sparkle in those expressive icy blue eyes and the distant smile that takes to his lips just enhances the way he says it.
"We have a metalworking shop, too?" the girl wonders aloud, peering at the glinting steel with interest. "I never knew they allowed students to make knives here. I suppose that too comes with the territory." Pausing, Marisol drops her arms from behind her head, hands resting comfortably on her hips once more as she shifts her weight. Rather than make motion to take one, she opts instead to let the young man hang onto his stiletto.
"I suppose that makes sense, though, that the school board sees it acceptable for you guys to carry blades around." The latter mention of his heritage causes a brow to faintly lift, the girl's full pink lips pursing softly before she absently chews her bottom lip and offers a soft 'mmn' in response. "Swordmakers?" she asks, noting the pride there as she eyes the stilettos once more.
Then, smoky gray eyes shift, peering at the blonde with a tiny but playful grin. "That reminds me. I never did give you my name, did I?" Straightening her back, the half-Spaniard stiffens her posture a bit before she adds, rather casually, "Marisol O'Connell. Using either is fine by me. Most call me Marisol, though." Pausing, her shoulders roll gently, lips twitching into the faintest of grins before she asks,
"So do you fight regularly outside of fencing with those, or..?"
"Oui," Vince replies offhandedly. There is, indeed, a metalworking class. "I'm permitted to craft these as a sort of.. extra-curricular. I do many things in that way," he explains. "They impressed the teacher enough to permit me to continue producing them. I think so long as I demonstrate exemplary craftsmanship, he doesn't care -what- I make."
Though at the question that sounds as though it concerns his heritage, Vince perks notably. Those sparkly eyes affix to her face, and he smiles brightly. "Oh, oui! The LaRose lineage can be traced to a blacksmith that was, indeed, a swordmaker. I fancy myself as inheriting a bit of his skill." He is, in fact, now making the happy squinty-eyed expression at her.
But then she gives her name.
The happy squinty look disappears, leaving him looking rather stumped. But then he quickly slides the rosette back into his belt, and he offers her his hand, palm upwards as opposed to the typical handshake gesture. "A -marked- pleasure, then, Madame. I've heard a bit about you, and expected someone... somewhat less congenial. You're a very nice surprise, I think."
"Really now?" Lifting a thin red brow, Marisol eyes the pommel of the blade carefully while absently pursing her lips. "No offense or anything meant, but I really wouldn't expect a high school work shop to allow the production of that sort of thing. Er, not knives, but rather the materials. Isn't that stuff expensive?" she wonders.
Pausing briefly thereafter, Marisol's gaze drifts toward the majority of the dining hall, particularly the table she left before she glances back to the Frenchman once more. "But hey, if you get to make that stuff and get a grade for something you like doin', well." Shrug. "Bonus, I suppose." The half-Spaniard grins amicably.
"A blacksmith, huh?" she wonders aloud, absently tapping a finger to her chin before she shrugs and chuckles. "I suppose you're lucky, in that you inherited skill and know your lineage." Not that Marisol bothered to trace past her immediate family, of course. But she seems genuine in her word.
But his response to her name draws a distantly puzzled look from the half-Spaniard, brows knitting softly before she lets her lips ease into another wolfish grin. That should be clue enough; clearly, Marisol's reputation stems further than she presumed. But his response, well...
She blinks.
"Er, really?" the girl replies, lifting a hand to absently rub at her neck. "Not precisely the response I was expecting, but...I suppose it's a good one." Shoulders shrug, a lopsided smirk crossing her tanned features.
"Like I said, rumors only go so far." She accepts the hand and proceeds to give it a sturdy, confident shaking if allowed.
Why yes. The material is expensive. ..And this is partially why Vince is out of cash.
"What response -did- you expect?," Vince asks. His hand stiffens at the attempted shake, halting it, and his gaze lowers to the hands. He then looks back up to her face and shakes his head slowly, complete with the lifting of his other hand, index finger wagging from side to side. "No, no, no," he chides mildly.
And then, unless she resists or somesuch, Vince dips down before her in a slightly stiff - since the area is still crowded, remember - bow, bringing his lips to the back of her hand for a ghost of a kiss. And afterwards, it is released and he raises back to his full height again. "A lady is to be treated more finely. Especially when the man is charmed by making her acquaintance."
But then his eyes drift to a wall-mounted clock, and he frowns. "Mmn.. and as curious as I am to learn what else about you is misconstrued or misleading, I must be off." Without further delay, he goes to lift his uneaten tray (err.. not that he intended to eat the tray itself, but... nevermind.) and starts for the disposal before making his way out of the cafeteria.
"Well," the half-Spaniard begins, smoky depths peering at the young man as she still absently rubs the back of her neck. "I usually expect two responses. 'Who,' or 'oh no, not you.' Something more along those lines." She shrugs, an easy smirk etching across her sun-kissed features. "Apparently I have a reputation." What she doesn't say is how she doesn't necessarily MIND the reputation.
That remains her dark secret!
Mid-shake, however, the redhead is forced to pause, as the young Frenchman wags a finger toward her, chiding the young woman. Blinking once, Marisol tilts her head and offers a faint 'buh?,' eyes peering inquisitively at the blonde - particularly more so as he dips and presses a wispy kiss on the back of her palm. Color her surprised.
It earns him a grin, however. "That's a first," she muses aloud, her smile growing. "And I am almost certain numerous people would argue whether or not I should be classified as a 'lady.'" Pausing, eyes narrow briefly before she simply chuckles and shakes her head. "No matter. Thank you. I'm charmed."
When his gaze shifts, however, the girl gets the picture easily enough. Taking her hand back, Marisol folds them across her chest as she gently tosses red locks off her shoulder. "No problem. Thanks for humoring me, Vin--er, Mister LaRose." It's the polite thing to do to!
Lifting a hand, she offers a gesture of parting with her fingers, grinning. "I'm sure I'll see you 'round sometime. Adios."
And rather than stop the young man, she simply pivots sharply on her heel and about-faces, marching back to the table from whence she came...and the abandoned salad she had woefully neglected. She just distantly hopes it's still tasty.
Log created on 19:30:51 01/21/2008 by Vince, and last modified on 19:04:47 01/23/2008.