Description: Conviction cannot but recognize itself. Alma Towazu, reveling in his newfound capacity to wander free of purpose without a sense of self-betrayal, is stirred from his admiration of Paris by a yet more refined beauty: Elisabeth Blanctorche, a woman clearly on a mission, but with the grace and discernment to tarry a little along the way. The encounter is a fortunate one; they both have something that interests the other. Alma possesses information on Elisabeth's quarry, as of the previous day. And Elisabeth, well-- she possesses a spirit that the psychic, as ever, yearns to see in action. Another time, perhaps...
Paris, a city of great history, great culture and great wine. Elisabeth never feels so humbled as she does when visiting the city on the Seine. If only the buildings could speak, could fill her with their wisdom of the ages. If only it were a true pleasure jaunt and not a mere stop on what promises to be another disappointing manhunt. She has a lead on a certain platinum blonde, flamboyant Frenchman. She recognizes this... hunt... as the obsession it's become, but pride won't allow her to give up the chase.
Fair features set in a somber sort of calm, the Blanctorche heiress walks the cobbled sidewalk of an unnamed street in an older section of the city, the heels of boots echoing against the stone fascades. There are fewer tourists here, the shops smaller and less prosperous for being so out of the way, but they're no less quaint for it. A tiny wine shop down the lane is her current destination. No, it's not part of her mission, but a little detour to restock her home's shelves surely wouldn't be amiss. Places such as this always find a way to stock the lesser known vineyards' choicest bottles, and Elisabeth prefers vintages untainted by mass production.
To think he had never before traveled for its own sake.
Alma Towazu, the Scarred Beauty of Southtown, is humbled as well, if under subtly different circumstances. Ever since the passing of his parents and the subsequent acquisition of the psychic abilities he has come to know as Soul Power, his passion has been ever channeled through one endeavor another, his heart bound willingly by the ties of responsibility to his friends, his chosen profession, the community organization that he helped found and has since run. Once it had seemed as though his potential were limitless, the young man already a respected paragon and a hero of Taizhou and the Southtown Invasion. Yet when he took his personal priorities to the political level, though a seemingly natural path for one with his charisma and convictions--
"How beautiful."
The tall, slender blond stands facing a wall opposite him, having stopped in the middle of the street without thinking, lips faintly parted to speak without intending. Some detail in the architecture of one of these small shops has caught his eye, some painstaking artifice that no doubt has gone unnoticed by all too many. Alma is caught by this, by what it represents.
An artist, willing to realize a vision even if it goes unseen...
For his hubris in seeking to remake Southtown by his own utopian views, the Risen Phoenix was punished with a burden he will bear forever, a curse visible to all: his once-perfect features marred by grotesque burn scarring, the burnished-bronze of his skin contorted with lighter, newer hues. The open collar of the tailored white top he wears reveals the scarring leads further down, the mark of the one who cursed him so. Yet by cutting his destiny short, by taking the life of his dearest friend, Alma has found himself strangely freed -- born again, as he was when he first received his powers, and chose a path that demanded too much. Even if he cannot shape the will of history himself, he remains a man of interesting talents.
Perhaps he should have known better all along. Never forgotten the beauty of moments like this, moments he cast aside when he shouldered responsibilities heavier even than to live as a man, or to live well -- when he swore to live as a savior to others, as though he could even save himself.
Still--
"Just... magnificent..."
Having not known better may have been for the best.
WIth renewed fascination, the poised and striking -- perhaps the best word for it, at this point -- young man smiles mildly to himself, ignoring the contents of the store he is examining for that strange detail he perceives. His light blond hair ruffles in the breeze, obscuring its tell-tale ruby-red tips.
There are far too few who pause to take in the architecture and artistry that went into such buildings. Centuries of history, of people's pain and passions, their blood and tears, have steeped into the very streets and structures alike. Elisabeth's attention can't help but be usurped from her selfish desires as her path brings her near to the figure who'd paused to stare at a bit of stone and mortar. A faint smile touches to her lips, pride in her country for inspiring such awe and appreciation warming her. She, too, pauses once she's crossed closer to the younger man. Turning on her heel so that she faces in the same direction only an arms length from Alma, she lifts a hand to push her bangs from her eyes, the short, blue-black mass having drifted out of place by the breezes. "Just think," she murmurs as she swings her gaze to catch his profile. "Whatever family owns this has likely been here for generations." It's then that she registers the network of scars marring his skin. One would have to give her props for being able to keep that mild expression on her pretty face. There's something about the young man's profile, however. The blonde hair... Familiar... She can't place it just now, but maybe it'll come to her.
Alma, otherwise attuned to the presence of others, testifies to his distraction when he blinks in surprise, his mild expression mitigating his startled appearance, even if it remains obvious: his eyes widen slightly, his ruby-tinged eyebrows -- newly regrown -- lifting as he tilts his face toward the self-possessed young woman. As soon as he notices her, the undeniable force of her aura floods over him like a beacon, pulling him inexorably from his observations. This woman's fighting spirit is instantly recognizable to the psychic, as is her conviction, though of course its nature is impossible to discern. Nevertheless, a gentle smile immediately returns to grace his marred features.
"What an honor it would be," he says in response, "to have something so precious to protect, even from the day that one is born." His eyes drift briefly back to the filigree. "Not only was this created -- it was preserved, for generations. I can't help but be moved." His tone is subdued, but the sincerity of his words is evident.
Still, the appearance of an attractive woman distracts even the best of us. Pardon me, an attractive /aura/; he would never be so shallow as to concern himself with appearance, no, never. Never mind how much time he spends on his hair. (Having it burned off was a crime against humanity.)
"Pardon me," he continues, looking back to the dark-haired woman, his smile widening into a small grin as the younger man takes a step back, slipping one hand into the pocket of his tailored slacks as he extends the other hand in greeting. "Alma Towazu, professional martial artist." Like all those who have endeavored as much as he, he has many titles -- but these days, that one seems the most fitting. "A pleasure to meet you, miss."
By now he's more than aware how odd it can strike others when he acts or speaks purely on his intuitions, without explanation or elaboration, but, after all, a psychic must be confident in them. Even if it seems a little eccentric, Alma, otherwise restrained, doesn't stop himself. His eyes narrow slightly, gaze thoughtful.
"You seem like a woman on a mission," he murmurs. The force of her will is inspiring; he's trying not to let on, as usual when he's unduly impressed by someone's aura. "I'm flattered you stopped to speak with me." Smooth, Alma. Oh, no, wait, he meant that.
Dark blue eyes widen in reaction to Alma's initial words, though the heiress is quick to slam down her walls of cool nobility. She inclines her head in agreement. "A honor it would be, indeed," she finds herself saying. Elisabeth's proud of her ability to keep her tone smooth. What he says easily cut to the core of her and her raison d'etre, her reason for being. Should she be suspicious of his motives? Or was it a simple coincidence that he'd spoken so?
Giving herself a mental shake, Elisabeth smoothes at the expensive ivory wool jacket she wears. She trains her gaze on Alma's face, forcing herself to take in his full features. Still a handsome, albeit young, man despite the scars, she finds the full effect not unpleasant. A perfectly arched eyebrow lifts as he introduces himself with his profession. It would certainly explain the quiet confidence he appears to display. "Elisabeth Blanctorche. A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Towazu." Extending her own hand, the delicately manicured nails dully catching the light. While she has her own set of titles, most of them relating to the French artistocracy, she feels it's better left unsaid for now. As she clasps his hand, she tips her head to one side, her expression growing a touch curious. That sense of familiarity tickles at the back of her mind again. She should know that name, shouldn't she?
At last, he has an excuse to tarry a while.
"Miss Blanctorche."
Not that Alma needed one.
"My first visit to Paris," he continues unprovoked, as he releases her hand, "and already I am overwhelmed with what I've experienced. I've never given myself the time to wander for so long in a city with such history." He smiles to himself, the otherwise expressive young man's features taking on a more enigmatic tint, his eyes softening. 'History' can signify something quite different for one sensitive to layered meanings, to the colorful residue of past lives and passions, cloaking people and possessions like shimmering fairy dust. It is hardly an abstract concept for one who cannot but perceive those around him, living or not, as bound together in manners that shift and fluctuate, a second eye always open to the sometimes crushing weight of all that remains in the back of others' minds. Overwhelming, indeed. Oppressive, to the untrained -- to those who do not already care.
"To say nothing of the famous names I've already encountered here," he continues, his eyes brightening as the Scarred Angel's elegant posture relaxes somewhat, his stance more casual. He seems fully comfortable talking on to this woman he has just met, though, perhaps oddly, he hardly seems to be rambling, his tone even and considered despite his cheerier countenance. "I met Terry Bogard and his protege Rock by the Seine. Alas, no opportunity to challenge either of them to a bout," he adds, tilting his head slightly and grinning, "not that I could stand against the Legendary Wolf." He clearly assumes she's heard of these names, as most would have. "But I was at last a match for Ash Crimson, whom I hadn't seen in some time. My training has taken me that far."
For a moment, his expression becomes ambiguous again.
"Though piquing that man's interest felt like a mixed blessing, ha ha..."
He's an open person, always attempting to solicit meaningful contributions from others -- whether in conversation or in combat -- and that's just how he's always been. But he's being particularly open with her, guided by his intuition. A woman with an aura like this -- surely she must be a fighter herself? But she's said nothing of it so far. Curiosity is not quite the word for what Alma experiences here.
Every powerful aura is a tether to the world.
Every warrior is another story to be told...
Perhaps it's just the gentleness and genuineness of his words and expressions, or that nagging feeling that she's seen his face or heard his name somewhere before -- was it Southtown, the last time she'd been there? -- but Elisabeth can't help but feel a little intrigued by this scarred young man. However, she keeps a tight a reign on herself, simply returning his handshake with a brief smile. "I hope you continue to enjoy your stay in Paris," she replies, her native accent making the city's name come out as pare-ee rather than the inelegant pare-iss.
With her hand her own again, she brings it in to cup her elbow, her other hand coming up to rest against her chin. "I have heard of Terry Bogard. His would be an interesting style to match," she conceeds with a nod, quite aware that she may be giving away something of herself in just being familiar with the acclaimed fighter. Nothing of Rock, however. Perhaps she just doesn't find the name to be as impressive.
When the manicured Frenchman is mentioned, Elisabeth's entire demeanor changes though her posture stays exactly the same, that finger still laying against her jaw. There's a subtle squaring of her shoulders, a tensing of muscles. Her dark eyes narrow and the softer edge to her expression disapears. She's all ice, this woman, and her focus seems to hone in on that name alone. "Ash... You've fought with him? Here?" A match for Ash Crimson? Alma is seen with new eyes, and Elisabeth seems to be trying to take his measure. How strong is this fellow? "How long ago did you seem him?"
Somehow, he had a feeling.
Psychic abilities are all too ambiguous in the information they proffer the wielder; in the end, it takes courage, and perhaps a certain social recklessness -- or the personality to extract oneself from the consequences of said recklessness -- to use them well. Much as a fortune-teller receives only vague premonitions of the future, shadows of what is to come, so has Alma labored for the years he has possessed this second sight to best deduce what the 'colors' he perceives signify and how best to elicit what he does not know. Strong emotions are distinctive enough, even when traced with the individual selves of the one experiencing them; motivations are subtle unto invisibility, yet consistent in their presence and thus, ironically, also undeniable. The Thrice-Born Hero is hardly a curious man; curiosity is not something he even understands, though perhaps, with this new-found ability to meander, he'll change. But what he calls the 'clash of souls' -- whatever binds two selves together in his vision -- is ever his priority, and he will risk conflict in the same of a more profound cooperation.
"Well..."
That is to say, he will say things that might be stupid.
"Yes, I faced him only yesterday, near the Musee d'Orsay."
Alma's expression has become reserved, thoughtful, careful. He has no particular reason to guard his words around Elisabeth, so this may only further arouse suspicion. But from his perspective, he is treading through unnavigated territory. Who is Ash Crimson, really? Why would a woman such as this know him? He was waiting for the trigger that would cut through to the core of that conviction he sensed, possessing only the intuition that he held some key. He had no knowledge that it would turn her frigid and serious -- but, to be fair, he suspected as much to some degree.
It's Ash, after all.
"He was formidable as ever."
He probably did something capricious.
"You're seeking Mr. Crimson, then, Ms. Blantorche?" Alma, though the younger, has a contemplative look in his softened hazel eyes that resembles genuine concern. Maybe he shouldn't say anything. He really has no idea what he's getting into. But, even if he doesn't know what the consequences will be, well--
"I would take care."
She might be in trouble.
"In all sincerity... he strikes me as a very dangerous man."
And, perhaps even more importantly to him, only if he speaks up--
"One very difficult to read..."
Does he have a chance of better understanding this woman.
"...whose motives are hardly as whimsical as he presents."
Alma Towazu's lips tighten slightly, his eyes further narrowing.
"Are you certain you're prepared?"
"Just yesterday? So short a time ago as that?" Elisabeth's voice is flat, her gaze growing unfocused for a moment as she sees not Alma standing in front of her, but Ash. That cocky, smarmy smile on that freckled face. Elisabeth's hand slides from her chin, graceful fingers growing white-knuckled as she curls them around her missing riding crop. 'Come and get it, Betty. You know where I live.' But he'd been gone! Slippery as an eel and twice as canny as a fox, he'd gone to ground. But why? What was Ash doing? Nearly an entire year wasted chasing rumours from place to place, but always disappointment when the trail had gone cold.
And this... this... person had found him without even trying. Disgusted with the situation, Elisabeth's lip curls up into a faint snarl of anger before she's able to stop herself. So. Close.
It takes the Blanctorche heir a moment or two of silence to gather her calm around her again, the cool, stern expression back. "Yes, I seek him. We have a history, he and I, and he's stolen something of mine I would very much like back." How much should she be telling this stranger? It sounds as if he's got a bit of history with the green flame weilding fighter. It crosses her mind that finding out what he knows might help her. Lifting an eyebrow, she meets those concerned hazel eyes of Alma's. "I thank you for your warnings, but you can believe me when I tell you that I don't think there is such a thing as being 'prepared' for the likes of Ash Crimson. Not anymore." She could almost laugh, it's so funny.
Alma can't help but brace himself when he detects that flash of anger -- and it doesn't take an empath to see it coming. But it soon becomes clear the woman's frustration is hardly directed at him, and the tall fighter relaxes both his body and mind, his eyes unclouding. Dangerous territory seems to have been navigated. If nothing else, they both have a similar opinion of the man. And she seems far better informed than he.
"Then I wish I could tell you more," he replies, his expression subdued. The beauty of Paris is forgotten for now. "I have only a cursory acquaintance with the man, but combat, however ritualized, is revealing." Then he hesitates briefly. "I take that back," he murmurs, rather thoughtfully, having just realized it himself. "Rather, combat is distinctly unrevealing against Ash Crimson." He does not mention the specifics, namely, that he cannot read Crimson's aura at all, something true normally only of those who have outright trained themselves in that manner. "He left quite an impression on me the first time we met, and not only due to his strength." That was about a year ago, too.
"You sound as though you know him better than I, Miss Blanctorche," he continues, inclining his head in deference to the woman's better judgment. "I'm sure you know what you're doing." Her affairs are not of his business, not that he'd be averse to learning of them. But he has a feeling that would be a story long in the telling. "But please, do take care. Oh--"
Then, smiling again at last, the scarred beauty extracts a surprisingly battered PDA-phone hybrid -- a trophy from his last adventure -- from his pocket. "Why don't I give you my contact information? If I see him again, I can let you know immediately." Go, Alma! Get her number. "I... realize it's none of my business," he then says, lips pursing as his smooth brow -- mostly unscarred -- furrows faintly, "but I confess the man has always troubled me. I believe you when you say he's wronged you. I'd be happy to be of service."
He pauses for a moment, before smiling again, ever so slightly.
"I won't keep you any longer. It's been a pleasure, Miss Blanctorche..."
Still, Towazu doesn't turn away.
"Though, you know..."
His eyes have that contemplative cast again.
"If you truly want to find Ash Crimson, and you have no luck in this city... you will surely find him at the upcoming King of Fighters tournament."
One way or another -- he wants to see her fighting spirit someday.
Elisabeth would agree with that. For everything that pours from Ash's lips, the man never really says anything. He's become a master of distraction and subterfuge. "He is very good at leaving an impression," states the heir to the Blanctorche legacy in a deadpan tone. "I knew him once. This... thing he has become, this way he acts, this isn't at all the Ash I--" A pause as she searches for how to finish her sentence. Cared about? Grew up with? She gives a slight shrug. "He's not who he used to be." Yes, it sounds lame even to her.
It hasn't exactly been a pleasure, considering the way the topic of conversation fell, so Elisabeth tries out that thing called tact - a very foreign concept to her. "I am glad to have met you, Monsieur Towazu." Another pause, then, as she considers the state of the scars on that otherwise beautific face. For a moment, she feels the icy touch of fear as she considers that, just perhaps, Ash was the one that so marred this young man's face. She can't bring herself to ask the question, however. She really doesn't want to know the answer. "Thank you, that would be very helpful." From her own pocket, she pulls a sleek phone. With servants to mark time and events for her, she has no use for anything more complicated. Hey, now Alma can brag to Benimaru at some time in the future that he got Betty's digits! That should burn the model's bottom.
"The King of Fighters tournament..." Yes, that sounds very... promising.
Log created on 22:57:57 10/27/2010 by Alma, and last modified on 04:02:53 10/28/2010.