Description: A chance encounter in a snow-strewn Southtown Park leads a reunited Ash Crimson and Elisabeth Blanctorche, their childhood friendship seemingly strained if not lost, to reunite in turn with one Alma Towazu, in repose after his labors organizing the Asahishoubu charity event. The Scarred Beauty's interest in the Mademoiselle is reciprocated, it seems, even if his unease toward Crimson is not, at least not visibly. But who knows what lurks in the mind of the capricious, free-spirited Frenchman? Though this encounter may prove fateful, it is not for Alma to know. But the King of Fighters tournament looms in the distance -- and whatever occurs, they shall be inexorably drawn together again.
Evening has fallen over Southtown turning a section of the park into a twinkling wonderland of lighted trees and melting snow. The display celebrating the winter holidays is set to remain for a few days yet, though the interest has begun to wane as winter begins to settle itself more firmly into the land. There are still a few wandering about beneath the fairy lights and decorations, many being groups of laughing students armed with cameras to capture those precious memories of their youth, while others tend to be couples of all ages enjoying what seems to be a very romantic setting. Many walk arm in arm, while others walk with heads together, chatting and laughing easily. Many, but not all.
Picking her way carefully through what little remains of the slushy snow, Elisabeth puts much of her attention on presenting her lanky companion with an air of calm nonchalance. After the stunt he pulled following her birthday dinner, she's determined not to let her guard down around Monsieur Crimson again, not let him know just how rattled it made her. There's some tenseness to her posture that anyone familiar with body language could puzzle out, but she's stubbornly making herself admire the landscape. Such displays are common place in her homeland, and this does lend more of a sense of 'home' to it that soothes her temperament. Her visit home over the Christmas holidays was too short, and the desire to stay in familiar surroundings was strong. But, back to Southtown she came, bent on seeing out her current mission: that of Ash's mysterious actions. Using the pretense of adjusting how her soft white knit cap sits atop her short-cropped hair, she casts a glance towards the platinum blond gentleman at her side. Their meeting tonight was coincidence - even if Elisabeth has a strong feeling he's fully aware of her movements - and he does seem to be behaving so far. She's still not entirely sure how a walk in the park to look at tree lights came about, but Ash's eccentricities tend to find her agreeing to things she later finds herself wanting to kick him for.
While Elisabeth spent her holidays back in France, with no family left to speak of or return to himself, Ash remained behind in Southtown. His Christmas here was quiet, New Years meant engaging in various frivolities, and any free time otherwise? Well, the flamewielder just harassed Shenwoo, as is his wont. God only knows how the brawler manages to tolerate his annoying, mooching companion; perhaps their friendship is truly stuff legends are made out of.
But who cares about his holidays?
Earlier this evening, upon encountering the noblewoman, if her assumptions happened to be correct, at least Ash looked surprised. His shock soon transformed into a smooth, pleasant smile, and the lean fighter invited his oldest 'friend' for a walk. He also said that there was something important to discuss, but just what that might be, Crimson hasn't yet dropped the slightest hint. He has also kept out of her personal bubble, thus 'behaving himself'. Huh. They really don't look like a couple at all, no.
Two steps ahead, the platinum-blonde haired man is practically skipping. He's all wrapped up in that jacket bought at THAT TIME, red scarf and green mittens. Stopping as he comes to something particularly interesting, Ash crouches down, cups his chilled cheeks and stares into the empty, blackened eyes of a... "What is this supposed to be, ahahaha! It looks like dog with antlers and lights." Whatever the thing is, whoever designed it should be thankful that they are not here, subjected to Ash's mockery.
As a note: If Elisabeth agrees to tag along, then she should not hold a grudge against the Frenchman for what amounts to being her very own willing participation. Wanting to kick him is uncalled for!
At last, this rest feels well-deserved.
Alma Towazu, the Scarred Beauty of Southtown, reclines upon a slightly snow-strewn bench, relaxing in the central park of the city for which he has been subtitled. Even in repose, the tall and elegantly-dressed young man offers a picturesque vision, his eyes mild and heavy-lidded and the corners of his full lips upturned, as if dreaming of a winter wonderland all his own. In fact, his mind drifts idly through the contours of the political and social strategems he has recently employed so as to organize his most recent charity endeavor, the Asahishoubu. His presence and features -- now marred, of course -- he was born with; his administrative abilities are a developed art, and imperfect.
This time, however, he is confident he has done well.
~ A small-scale savior... saving himself in a smaller world. ~
His ambitions to, as his nemesis Seishirou Ryouhara might put it, 'command the will of history' were in vain, as his facial discolorations -- burnished bronze turned dark in places, pale in others, even as the structure of his features remain -- and the seal upon his chest can attest. That seal is now sheathed in a grey turtleneck sweater and a blazer, the scars that creep up his neck swathed in a silken scarf, but he can never hide from the consequences of his own hubris, however well-intentioned it was. (Unless he wore a mask, but then he would be Balrog, and that would just be silly.) But to be of service to Sunshine City, Southtown's forgotten suburb -- that is a task he is capable of achieving, and thereby put the YFCC back on the map in a whole new way.
He will continue to wander. Of this he is certain. He is still uncertain of his destiny, and he relies on faith only now, and no sense of his own fate, to guide him. But this faith -- and his colorful second sight, which make all around him seem so intertwined -- demands that he cannot ignore the world that came to define him.
Now he defines it, more than anything.
"...Mn?"
He stirs at a familiar aura. Only one, of course -- but it is the unsettling sense of a vacuum as well that causes him to glance over his shoulder, leading then to widened eyes. The lovely Elisabeth, who he had encountered in Paris, seems to have succeeded in her quest, though she seems none to happy about it. He cannot parse the deeper sentiments of one he does not know well, but he can sense at once her tension. Ash, of course -- even if Alma /could/ sense his aura -- displays no stress whatsoever. He'd like to approach them instinctively, as fellow, er, spirited ones, but with unusual caution, for the moment the Radiant Angel elects to watch instead. It may well be none of his business. And he has an odd sense that Ash Crimson doesn't actually like him very much.
Actually, maybe it's just that he doesn't like Ash much.
Either way, if this is their reunion, he shouldn't interrupt it-- right?
Elisabeth still finds Ash's reaction to the cold amusing. While she's not exactly exulting in shorts and a tee, she's quite comfortable in her usual white wool coat and soft black boots. The knit hat perched upon those ebony 'locks is new - one of many gifts received by family and admirers back home - but she's feeling quite comfortable with the ends pulled down over the tops of her ears. Having worn a thick cashmere sweater under her coat, she may even contemplate undoing a few buttons on the jacket if they keep up the physical activity.
"I believe it's supposed to be a reindeer," she comments to Ash. She's come to a stop a step or two from him, though the heiress refrains from crouching down to peer at the unfortunate creature. Elisabeth can only swallow a sigh at his childish antics. It's becoming more and more difficult to reconcile the young man with the child she knew growing up. There's still something of him there, as evidenced by what she can only term as delight in the dog-with-antlers, but other times..? And there's still the whole thing where he had something to talk to her about. Patience is a virtue that's a bit difficult to practice, and Ash seems happy enough to stretch out any frustrations the heiress is trying hard to ignore.
Shoving bare hands into her coat pockets - her gloves inconveniently forgotten this night - Elisabeth rocks back onto her heels and stretches out her back and legs. She's looking about, making herself aware of their surroundings as should come naturally to people of their sort. Lifting an eyebrow, she blinks against the the glow from multi-coloured lights against the black of night. Could that be a familiar person shape over yonder? It's hard to tell, what with how her eyes are trying to compensate for the odd lighting.
But is 'awareness' truly something in which all fighters are naturally blessed, or only those who care?
Ash would find himself on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, though he does possess the knack - due to preoccupation and the mingled presence of many others, he is unable to detect any familiar aura, friendly or not. Such as it is, the Phoenix could probably walk up to them right now, and the Frenchman would simply continue gazing at this strange and unfortunate thing he has found, "A reindeer?" One mittened hand reaches out to poke the creature. It wobbles. "But it doesn't even have hooves." He's also fairly certain they're not so... small.
Finally, his attention wanders, like a child with no ability to focus when bored. There is a gentle straightening of his thin frame, and the flamewielder draws level with Elisabeth, quirking an eyebrow, "Ah, you don't have gloves, do you, Betty?" He observes, and rudely does not offer his own, rubbing the green mitts together. What a selfish jerk! "They built an ice castle here before Christmas, but I think it melted." Ash starts moving again, out of the light of a particularly bright tree and into what is a thin sliver of shadow.
His pupils narrow immediately in shockingly pale azure depths, and what was a casual turn of the head at first becomes an outright stop and stare. Even though he can't make out the features of the Southtown's Scarred Beauty from afar, Ash does know when he is paid particular attention. Even moreso after randomly connecting his gaze with that person!
After a moment of squinting and blinking, much like Elisabeth herself had done, the freckle-faced flamewielder glances to her, "Since we're both curious, should we just go and find out?" He sweeps his hand out, inviting the noblewoman to detour from the beaten path first, while Ash doddles along behind, not even thinking for a moment that he may know this individual as well...
He's been spotted.
Smiling to himself faintly, a little surprised at his own desire to remain unhidden -- he still doesn't truly know, after all, what unsettled him about Ash in the first place -- he takes a second look at the two, and notes that in comparison to the other couples walking about them, they hardly seem as though they would resent disturbance. Besides, he privately admits to himself, the opportunity to interact with Elisabeth again, who so impressed him in Paris, is more than worth Ash's ire. Not that, he suspects, the child-like and capricious Ash would reveal his irritation even if he felt it, or that Alma would be able to sense it himself.
Smoothly he rises, his own white-gloved hands emerging from the pockets of his designer jeans. White gloves: the sign of either a very careful or very foolish man. Which Alma is remains to be seen.
But it does not appear he's dirtied them yet.
"Miss Blanctorche!"
The self-possessed psion raises his voice ever so slightly, just loud enough to cut through the winter air, just low enough to seem as mild-mannered as ever. "What an unexpected pleasure." He's smiling gently, the burnt discolorations on his once-ideal face shifting. "I see you've succeeded in your endeavor... congratulations."
He doesn't sound ironic, exactly, but-- the pause suggests he considers encountering the man she's sought something of a mixed blessing.
"Crimson-san," he continues, turning his head to acknowledge Elisabeth's companion, who remains a couple steps ahead, "I was told you've graced my little tourney with your presence." He actually sounds sincere. Only Alma can pull off saying stuff like that and sounding like he means it. "I appreciate your charity. I thought perhaps we might meet during the event itself; I didn't expect to encounter you beforehand."
His smile broadens slightly, the ex-model tilting his head.
"Are you in preparation for King of Fighters?"
Inexorably, his gaze drifts back to Elisabeth. One might read too much into it, but in fact, it is her aura more than anything that intrigues him. It takes a strong spirit for Alma to instinctively recognize it after only a single encounter. She might quite an impression on him, and he takes the opportunity to study her briefly. That hat is cute. He was never a hat person. Too much work put into his hair--
Oh, dear.
"Miss Blanctorche, are you gloveless?" he murmurs, and unthinkingly removes his own. "May I offer you mine? The cold troubles me little." Eyebrows lifting slightly, still smiling, he proffers them, extending his arm to her. Even as he talks, his mind is elsewhere, contemplating the both of these unusual companions' emanations. If that weren't the gaze, he might take more care not to seem as though he's, you know, trying to make Ash look like a jerk.
Ash might be offended at the implication he needs help with that.
Crimson's disbelief at her reindeer suggestion is met with the slightest raising of Elisabeth's shoulders while taking in her surroundings. Fine, don't believe me, the motion seems to say. It does briefly bring to mind the story of the night before Christmas where the rhyme tells of Pere Noel's sleigh being pulled by eight tiny reindeer. It's a popular story that's surely seen a translation into Japanese. Perhaps the hapless creature's creator had that in mind? Either way, it would appear that the strange dog-deer-thing has lots its appeal and Elisabeth's left with a small frown for Ash's comment about her missing gloves. What to say to that? Nothing! She certainly won't ask for his, not after he makes a show of rubbing his own mittens together. Giving the taller man a sniff of displeasure, she begins to step towards the vaguely familiar man shape she'd spied over yonder. At least Ash is letting her go first. Not all of his manners have atrophied with disuse.
At the greeting offered by Alma, blue eyes looking much darker in the low light levels widening, "Monsieur... Towazu?" she half asks as his features resolve themselves in the scarred young man she'd met on the historic streets of Paris. Pulling one of her hands from her pocket, she lifts it greeting. The heiress actually wears a smile for Alma when the three finally come within reach of each other. "A pleasant surprise, indeed," she agrees, then nods. "You could say that." The smile becomes more of a smirk as she settles in to listen to Alma direct the conversation to include Ash.
When the gloves are offered, Elisabeth is genuinely surprised by the gesture. An eyebrow quirks as she shoots the flamewielder beside her a look. You see, that's what a gentleman does in polite society. She doubts such speaking glances would do much good where Ash is concerned, however. "It's kind of you to offer." The hand she'd raised in greeting reaches out to the gloves, but instead of taking them, makes the attempt to press them gently back towards Alma. "It's warmer tonight. I'll be fine."
His argument still stands. Reindeer have hooves. This creation is an insult to genetics and art alike.
"Endeavor, hmmm?" Remarks the Frenchman as they walk, catching up to match Elisabeth's stride. While he may draw out the questioning sound with a note of interest, it is only for his amusement that he asks. Ash doesn't really expect an answer. Soon, his blue eyes are lazily half-lidded, and he moves in particularly close, angling his face towards the noblewoman. The slender man's voice drops down to an almost private whisper, "I wonder who you've been talking to, Betty." Apparently Alma, it would seem. She accuses the flamewielder of being the sly one? Look at her admitting to it!
Inclining his fair head at the formal conversational inclusion, Ash blinks, but utters a cheerful laugh, "Calling me 'Ash' is fine, you know." How many times will he have to tell people not to refer to him that way? Politeness is still far too ingrained in this one to make a difference, but the Frenchman was under the impression that the message penetrated his prettily thick skull the last time they met.
Despite the obvious error, oh well, he graciously smiles, all jovial and the like, "I didn't enter because of the restoration efforts or for charity." What a bold thing to say! "I was just needed something to do before the King of Fighters." In actuality, encountering Southtown's Scarred Phoenix might have been part of his intention, but the man doesn't make mention of it. Ash just seems... coldly indifferent to Sunshine City's plight.
At long last, Elisabeth is offered gloves, but it does not come from the flamewielder, who is made to look rather bad, even if it isn't on purpose. He shrugs at the pointed look, movements reeking of nonchalance, but the freckle-faced flamewielder's posture is oddly rigid. For the rest of the exchange, when the scarred one's offer is rejected, Ash's gaze locks on the taller man, wondering what his reaction will be.
Alma is a suck-up, clearly.
Oh, right.
"Of course. My apologies, Ash," the host of Asahishoubu murmurs, inclining his head again toward the aloof Frenchman. "Then," and he turns his gaze back to Elisabeth, his mild smile widening slightly again, "please call me Alma." He is obviously referencing the woman's greeting, rather than directing his comment to Ash. Of course, Ash didn't call him anything. Quietly, Alma has acknowledged to himself that Crimson probably doesn't care /what/ he'd prefer to be called -- which is not a sentiment he attaches any particular value to. He may have thought highly of his role in the world before, but his personal pride is relatively limited in situations such as these.
That being said, he doesn't particularly want to be embarrassed in front of Elisabeth, and acting too familiar with Ash seems like a good way to make that happen...
Even the best of us can be so tempted.
"Certainly," he murmurs at Elisabeth's demurral. The contact of her hands against his, though their skin does not brush through the gloves he holds, sends a gentle tingle of his spine which he composed young man manages not to reveal. This manner of woman, passionate but calm -- he's always admired them. All passionate people inspire him, of course, and he is drawn to combat most fundamentally to experience passion at its height, and revel in that visceral struggle to assert and validate one's existence. But women, women in particular. There's a good reason for that, and it's maybe a little Freudian, so it's in Alma's best interest not to go too deeply into it. Suffice to say, he is thoroughly impressed, and his eyes soften, making his smile seem all the more sincere, and less merely polite. "I never should have doubted your fortitude."
Suck-up.
Quietly, he dons his own gloves again, tilting his gaze back to Ash. Much as he has taken in stride his suspicions of Ash's disdain -- not that Alma would be special in that regard -- he seems unruffled by the Frenchman's bold statement. In fact, Alma anticipated both that this was the case and that Ash would brashly say so outright. He doesn't know Ash /that/ well, but if anyone can learn a man through battle, it's Alma. He's picked up that much, at least. "Nevertheless, your participation has contributed to our cause, and for that I am very grateful." He inclines his head again, his smile remaining just as it was. "Whatever your intentions, you've drawn us a greater audience. You have many fans, Ash."
Indifference is attractive to some people.
The French heiress can only hope that her calm exterior is holding up well to the abuse Ash puts it through. He's gotten much too close, nearly invading that aforementioned spacial bubble. If anything, her declining the gloves has a little to do with the flush of warmth her 'childhood' companion's breath evinces against her chilled skin. The desire to stamp her foot against the slushy ground and tell him to knock is off is great, but Elisabeth knows he'd only laugh at her or turn it around to make it look as though she was the problem. He's too good at that. Instead, she chooses to stay silent towards his idle query as Ash expects.
Alma is given another smile, one that actually touches her eyes and shows her amusement at his graceful acceptance of her declining the gloves. He's a nice young man, polite, unlike some others she's been forced to interact with. It's a nice change to be around someone that doesn't make Elisabeth want to pound her fist into their face. "Ash, I didn't realize you were quite so popular," comes the slightly curious, slightly wry, comment from the Frenchwoman. The conversation between Ash and Alma is of some interest, and Elisabeth listens as well she's able to without Ash himself being a distraction. More pieces to a puzzle she's desperate to solve. They're filed away before she can drive herself mad trying to figure out where those pieces might fit. There'll be time later. "Will you be in the King of Fighters tournament," she finds herself asking of Alma.
Let's just put this on the table here, right now: Ash has no qualms with Alma (but the guy's still a butt-kisser, I mean c'mon). Depending on his intended direction at the King of Fighters, the rising Phoenix has earned the enigmatic Frenchman's attention, but not his action. Southtown's Scarred Beauty is not a threat to him. However, all is not said and done... The inclusion of Elisabeth may complicate matters, and he has wasted too much time already. Fun though the days have been, Ash returned with a purpose, ready to do whatever he must to see that it is achieved.
He finds it bothersome that they've met, but his confidence allows Ash to carry on unaffected, even amused.
Besides, this is something of a game, and the Frenchman is far better at it than most. He has some control of others, influencing their actions, and can ultimately prevent them from interfering. Look at Elisabeth's lack of retort, despite his repeated invasions of her personal space. Whether he would laugh it off or not, she does not stand up for herself.
Nodding briefly, carelessly, in response to Alma's apology, /what/! Embarrassment? Perish the thought, he is not the type! Ash does his very best to ensure that each and every single person on this entire planet is properly represen--Okay, so this is a blatant lie, but the flamewielder does not commit to pointless anything without good reason. There is no such thing present here.
Not yet, anyway.
What does exist is thoughtful acknowledgements and observation when it is not his turn to speak, then an idle swat at his long fringe, unable to toy with the platinum strands since his hands are mittened. "Ahaha, fans? I never really noticed, either." It is a statement fit to one remark, but also somehow matches the second. He laughs a bit, as if the flamewielder were actually bashful, scratching the back of his head. How silly.
"You had the letter last we met, didn't you?" At the end, Elisabeth's question is something that Ash has something to add to. He was... fairly certain Alma received an invitation, but the flamewielder's memory is notoriously bad. If not, then Alma is not really a threat at all now, is he?
Threat, no -- qualms, yes. For all that being unable to detect another person's aura is an unsettlingly unusual occurrence for Alma Towazu, one reminiscent of such sinister adversaries as Kagero, the Phoenix does not anticipate that Ash has any real designs on him. He cannot help but feel, however, that his recent apparent move from 'totally irrelevant' to 'possibly interesting' has put him in a rather cold spotlight. More than he does around others, he cannot help but find himself watching his own actions, uncertain as to whether a word or a movement will cause the flighty Frenchman's attitude toward him to shift. Before, it wouldn't have mattered. Now, however, well-- who knows what Ash truly wants? And that is precisely the problem.
Then again--
"I did receive an invitation, yes."
Such concerns hardly seem to distract him from Elisabeth's gaze.
"Though I... haven't yet made my final decision."
Something about a beautiful woman's presence heartens a man to boldness.
"The man I have to speak with regarding the tournament," he murmurs, his gaze at last leaving Blanctorche's piercing eyes to lift and study the clouded horizon, "is somewhat difficult to get ahold of."
Or, you know, rashness.
"He takes it upon himself to wander the world in an airborne battleship."
Okay, now you really are just showing off, Alma.
No, in all seriousness, the refined psion seems more bemused than anything, his brow quirking slightly as he contemplates just how exactly he expected all this to work out. As usual, he's very trusting in his own intuitions, which in his defense tend to work out fairly well. But if he doesn't encounter Adelheid Bernstein soon, he may be out of luck. "Well, if he doesn't happen to pass this way," he abruptly adds, a smile blossoming again before glancing first at Ash and then settling back on Elisabeth -- of course -- "I'm fortunate to have a number of potential allies still at the YFCC. Ah," the lady may not be aware, he realizes, "the community organization which I've been leading."
His tone is as modest as he can make it. His smile widens into a grin, the now-worldly warrior revealing in that moment, through his cultured mien, his actual relative youth.
"Please stop by some time, if you can."
It's very flattering to have someone so intently interested in what you have to say, even when you haven't said much of anything. Alma's a very attentive conversationalist, Elisabeth will give him that. As he's given her no reason to suspect him of rude or odd behavior, it's quite refreshing not to feel under constant threat of attack. Or constant thread of oddity, in Ash's case. She suspects that she's not close enough to figuring out anything yet, and were she, Ash wouldn't let himself be anywhere near her. Until then... yeah. She'll take what he dishes out until he pushes back just that bit too far.
"Perhaps I will," Elisabeth finds herself saying, charmed by the boyish grin Alma beams out at them. "It could be... interesting to see what you've done." Slipping her hand back into her pocket to fight off the chill she so bravely claimed didn't affect her overmuch, she gives Alma a last nod. "I hope to see you at the tournament, then, and wish you luck finding your partner." Sails around on a battleship? ...really? And Elisabeth figured she had the monopoly on eccentrics. "It will be interesting to see what happens." The heiress glances up to the platinum haired man to her side for a moment, a delicately arched eyebrow lifting. Yes, she includes you in that statement, Ash. It will be very interesting, indeed.
Ah, Elisabeth, your pretty face... It is the milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard except Ash.
His blue-eyed gaze turns shrewd, taking in the scarred one's features and the softness in his expression... Perhaps the threat presented would not be found in the tournament itself, but other matters - the way Alma looks at the heiress just bothers him, somehow. At least he's not outright hitting on her like a certain Benimaru Nikaido.
But here she is charmed by it, ooooooh boy.
Ash's reaction is far more pronounced at the mention of an airborne battleship - he breathes an interested, "Oho?" But it is hardly explained, and so his attention starts to wander. For the most part, the Frenchman doesn't really hear much about the YFCC; it is limited to tone and not words. Not even a bat of an eyelash when she agrees to visit! At least, when done, he lazily returns focus, with a smile to match, "I'm sure it will be, ah, an experience to remember." All life in those blue eyes fades away, replaced with an unfathomable nothing, and the further twist of his lips is just... creepy.
"Hopefully I'll see you again before the tournament, if you make it, mon ami." Bright and chipper, who was that, just then? "Betty, we should probably go." He does not usher her away, just simply turns with a wave and starts walking. All this talk about King of Fighters reminds him of why he invited the Blanctorche heir here in the first place! Ash forgot, because he's a dick. She'll likely have plenty to say about that.
When the noblewoman catches up to him, the flamewielder slides the mittens from his hands, passing them to her, "Here." He smirks, "You can't fool me, you know."
Well-played, Ash.
Log created on 23:28:56 01/05/2011 by Alma, and last modified on 05:56:04 01/06/2011.