Shine Your Light Now (OPEN!)

[Hollywood Dawson]

www.polyvore.com/untitled/set?id=12947062

Hollywood Dawson leaned casually against the side of the twenty-story building, acoustic guitar hanging loosely at her side as her mocha-colored eyes idly surveyed the ever-changing lights and signs above her, seeing but un-seeing. The bustling excitement of Times Square never really got old to her. It was like a new adventure every time she came, a new day, or rather a new night. Lately she had found herself unable to sleep, even more so than usual, and every time she found herself twisting and turning in bed, she came here to the hum of Times Square. She didn’t know what she planned to accomplish here, but each time she came she brought her precious guitar with her, as if she intended to play for the masses, though she never did.

She sighed to herself and closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the building. She felt as if she should play, for Adam. Every day that passed without him made her feel farther and farther away from her twin brother. She couldn’t lose her memories of him, not his spirit, not her other half. She remembered the countless times they would hop on the train to Chicago, their instruments in hand, and play in the quieter areas of Millennium Park. They had never done it for money, she singing and strumming her acoustic, he echoing her with his guitar-slapping technique that showcased his drumming skills as well. No, they had never wanted money, just sheer enjoyment, something to share with the fellow inhabitants of their beloved city. They did it for the love of it.

Just as she was beginning relax, a grinding voice, always laced with sarcasm, jarred her out of her thoughts. “In the middle of Times Square now, really?” Holly opened her eyes, already irritated by the audacious owner of the voice who stood in the shadows of the alleyway to her left. Aryana Matthews: key figure in the curse she had never wanted, daughter of the clan leader who was fixated on getting Holly involved in the werewolf/vampire rivalry. “Holly, what are you doing? Oh, Holls, don’t make a fool of yourself.”

A blistering anger tried forcing its way up her throat at Aryana’s assumption, but Holly merely ignored her five foot two school-mate, checking to make sure her guitar was properly tuned. “If it’s money that you want, you well know I can get it for you,” Aryana continued, leaning against the corner of the building. “I don’t want money,” Holly answered bluntly, not looking up from her guitar. “Then what could you possibly be looking for?”

Holly scowled for a moment, her rose colored lips wryly curving downwards, before pushing off from the building and looking at Aryana. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said simply, resolutely. Flipping her straightened ruby red hair over her shoulders, she proceeded down the sidewalk, leaving a flustered Aryana in the darkened alley way.

To avoid being followed by her wolfish comrade, she wove in and out of the sidewalk traffic, fusing herself into the sea of night-dwellers within a matter of seconds. Turning a corner, she headed towards the quieter areas of the city, closer to home. Whatever she had planned on doing was not happening now. Aryana always had a way with turning Holly’s foul moods fouler. As a person and in an earlier life, Holly could see herself becoming quite good friends with Aryana Matthews. Both of them had a habit of seeing things outside the box. As it happened, however, Aryana was obsessed with the ongoing enmity between vampires and werewolves, and she viewed Holly as a new recruit to the cause.

Holly didn’t understand the animosity between the two groups anyways. According to the Matthews household, vampires were vile beings with an appetite only for killing. “Fangs” they called them. Perhaps her naiveté was because she had never met a vampire herself, but if what they said was true, she couldn’t see much of a difference between vampires and werewolves. At times, her own kind could be nothing but a bevy of bloodthirsty animals. But as it went, this vampire had killed this werewolf and this werewolf had killed this vampire, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It had nothing to do with Holly and she wanted nothing to do with it.

Staring at the ground as she walked, her view an incensed haze of red, Holly cursed Aryana, the girl whose kid brother had turned her into the monster she now was. “Stinkin no good werewolf,” she growled under her breath, the wind blowing her dazzling red hair in her face. So absorbed was she in her hatred of her cursed kind that she began to lose track of where she was going and, glancing up, found herself in an empty shady-looking alley.

[*sombra delgadillo]

[atrb=width,400,true][atrb=border,0,false][bg=000000] New York was an interesting place for anyone to find a one Sombra Delgadillo. Indeed the constant jarring sensation of the swarming flock of humans milling through the streets was enough to offset any sort of pleasant aura cast by the city. And to add to that it smelled; of industrial odors, body odor, car exhaust, whatever hot dog stand was nearest and a suffocating array of colognes and perfumes. So why, exactly, was the Alpha female putting herself through the trauma of being her? Easy answer - to piss Josef Abad off. Silly boys and their vanishing tricks. He'd made it quite clear to everyone in New York that she had as much authority as he did now, so while he had decided to be "missing in action", why not play and encroach a little? It was the musing of a bitter, beaten woman. All hope seemed to have disintegrated from the she-wolf, Abad's disappearance being the final straw on the threshold for "Chances of happily ever afters", and now that she'd run that dry it was time to stomach the ordinary and dull. Hey, she'd been doing it her entire life. Twenty three or twenty four years now - her birthday was probably just over. (It had actually been in November, but since she'd never celebrated a birthday it sufficed to know it was in the fall.) Sitting lazily on a bench in the park, her elbows resting heavily on her knees while her palms were clasped between them, the ginger gave a careworn sigh. Her large eyes were roaming the figures, though without will to find anything worth engaging. What was there for her here? The wolf in her certainly was pissed - this environment was simply unacceptable. Smog everywhere and a cage on every tree. What was this hellhole doing in her line of sight anyway?! Smirking at the rage filled animal she housed, she scented another angry soul on the wind. Yes, like an animal she had the tendency to sense feelings and/or auras and this chick was blazed about something. Rising, the she-wolf followed. Why? Well let's not forget children, Sombra was an instigator to the core. Riling people up just to take their pride down a notch while she made them eat dirt was just her way of giving back to the world. In any case Hollywood Dawson would soon meet the Alpha wolf of California and the simultaneously New York at present. She was reigning, vaguely aware of what happened in both places thanks to a few well placed scouts. There wasn't a true need to govern the places heavily - pack wolves were sparse and rogue wolves while playing by certain rules of civility were not her responsibility so long as they weren't killing off pack members. She stretched as she walked, the lean, toned muscles in her arms flexing as they moved with her strides. She was dressed well today - black slacks, a red swooping blouse, and a purse. Coupled with creme pumps, a creme fedora and some of the reddest lip gloss one might every stumble across. Respect could be more quietly found the more intimidating you looked. Not that she didn't miss the constant brawls but those were for California, where the people could take it without a law suit. Running from the bobbies was always interesting but a warrant for her arrest would be unfortunate. Blinking slowly as she reached her destination - where the wild haired youth had stopped, she arched a brow at the hissed speech, stifling a growl. Hey, Sombra got bitterness, but she would never understand cursing what you were. Her voice, when it did escape would probably be easily compared to a snap of the fingers in sharpness and subtlety - it was quiet and yet gave the impression of a gunshot. And the words? "Excuse me?" It was very Hollywood of her, no pun intended, she was standing there with her palms in her pockets, purse hanging off her shoulder and her head inclined in a mild indication that her temperament was not always the best. Otherwise she seemed temperate enough. Save for the dangerous tone in her voice and that inescapably dominant aura she cast. Since she was a child she'd been "a boss", commanded the numbers and respect and it had never faded. In fact it'd grown so strong that most wolves worth their weight could recognize it. Those that couldn't? Chosen blindness because it was always there, like running straight into a brick wall and trying to shake it off like it never happened - you'll still carry the bruise either way. In essence, like her condition Hollywood would not be able to run from the Alpha she and her position. Still, while Sombra was a cantankerous soul she wasn't the cruelest brute that the young wolf could have encountered. It was a dark place, one that begged for rape and murder. But one, Sombra was female (much less likely of the former) and two for all of her rough edges, she was never forceful without cause. Though, sometimes she'd create cause. She hadn't yet, and it was doubtful she would. As far as Sombra was concerned this was just a social venture, nothing more or less and a job entailed by her current height in power. Two cities was a large range especially on opposite coasts. It had aged it, at least in mind. For appearances sake it didn't appear she'd aged a day. But we all know how that goes….and how long it lasts. There would be a day when twenty four would just be a memory, and fifty was yesterday. But not today. Today she was twenty four, probably at the peak of her health despite her grim outlook on her personal life, and talking to a certain disgruntled she-wolf. Carpe Diem. count; 975 tag; Holly dress; Click! comment; nope.

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[Hollywood Dawson]

((OOC: Excuse the delay. Work and school and the sudden absence of spring break. You know how it goes. Lo siento. =]))

To the left, to the right; nothing but a hollow darkness that seemed to writhe with a serpentine danger. Holly shuddered, tugging at the sleeves of her denim jacket as she pulled it closer to her body, hugging herself not in an attempt to ward off a sudden chill, but to dispel the apprehension she felt. Standing dumbly in the center of the alley, she turned her head upward, three stories of moldering brick building framing her view of the waxing gibbous moon, most luminous against the dull gray city sky. She seemed like a lost child caught in the middle of a busy street, her ruby red hair whipping about her face as the wind picked up as if in warning of peril.

How did she always land herself in these situations? And where in the world was she? Just a short moment ago she had recognized the streets, yet now a slight tinge of dread shadowed her perception of her surroundings, inhibiting her ability to think straight. Back down Kingston, left on Burkwood…blank. This was all Aryana’s fault. If the damned cretin of a werewolf had not brought Holly’s soothing reminiscing to an abrupt and screeching halt, she would not have stormed off in a blind rage of stupidity and therefore would not have unknowingly landed herself in this treacherous alley where she would surely die. ~*I always knew she’d be the death of me,*~ the perturbed wolf thought with quite a dramatic grimace.

Unfortunately, though Aryana might be responsible for Holly’s predicament, it was Holly’s job to get herself out. With a quick glance behind her and a supplementary shudder, she continued forward, attempting a normal pace though her brain raged at her to run. Though her outward semblance appeared composed and unruffled, mentally she had her fingers crossed that she would get to the other end of the alley untouched. She inadvertently fiddled with the Eiffel Tower pendant around her neck, an adornment her brother had given her one summer after a failed vacation to Paris. If only he were here to protect her now…

No more than a few yards from the end of the alley, relief only feet away, the smell hit her, its resonations more of a sensation than a scent. Another of her kind, heading in her direction. At first she figured it was Aryana, come to rein in the lost puppy, and her fury resurfaced like a sudden crash of thunder. However, zoning in further, she realized it was not her one and only best pal, but someone with a little more credibility, someone a bit more powerful than the average wolf. Before she had the chance to turn and face this oncoming entity, the sharpness of the lycan’s words struck her, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Excuse me?”

Stuck in place, an escalating annoyance visible in her mocha eyes, Holly slowly pivoted to cast her eyes on Sombra Delgadillo, taking in the wolf’s displeased and imposing posture. Excuse her, what? Holly had said nothing of importance and certainly nothing that was any of this woman’s concern, so the question confused her. Nevertheless, her outright audacious approach sorely reminded Holly of a certain Miss Matthews, and such recollection only further sullied her mood.

Inquisitively arching an eyebrow at the female, Holly uncrossed her arms and brushed down her raw edge gypsy skirt. “I’m sorry?” she queried in an innocent enough voice. “I don’t believe I said anything, let alone to you.” Unremarkably, in her incensed frame of mind the second half sounded much less innocent, though she hadn’t meant it to seem uncouth.

~*Three for three, Hollywood Dawson,*~ she scolded herself, chewing on the bottom corner of her lip. Strike one. Leaving the warm confines of her bed to traverse the streets of New York. Strike two. Leaving the moderately safe quarters of Times Square to wander the less populated areas of the city. Strike three. Pissing off a fellow werewolf.

[*sombra delgadillo]

[atrb=width,400,true][atrb=border,0,false][bg=000000] Youths roaming the streets of New York City were not a new occurrence, in fact, one saw quite an array of children or near children meandering amongst the muck. It was a troubling thought that they were out there, probably harboring thoughts that no one care or ever would, no one understood them. Troubling because it bred an entire generation of hostility and anger and that meant even more turmoil for the next generation whose customs would be wrapped around the finger of sex, drugs and money. Sombra was unimpressed by the parents of today, and those of tomorrow. They were fools, wasting precious moments on jobs that no one gave a shit about in the end. Jobs they probably hated even more than the fact that they didn't know their spouse any longer. It was difficult to peg what exactly made Sombra mad about that - the fact that children were being harmed, or the fact that there were so many who hurt (in some regard) the way she did. Taking part in the existence of any said creatures seemed masochistic, they were just so ungrateful. So defiant. Such rebels and they thought they were so tough…That is until she took the gloves off and let reality rules apply. Then they were laying in a pool of their own stupidity. Slobbering idiots. The aura cast by the she-wolf that Sombra presently pestered was that of annoyance, anger even before she'd arrived. That was amusing enough. Anger was the flavor of the month don't you know? Only no one had told the alpha that. She just fed off it, the sensations cast by the resident wolves. It was what she went by, intuition as well served its purpose but instinct and scent? Far more reliable. At least that's what the lycan insisted. Human intuition was faulty and prone to be affected by emotion and opinion. Instinct was only as good as it was and it made no apologies or false statements. As the youth turned on her heel to face Delgadillo, she arched a brow, taking in the disgruntled appearance of the child who appeared already defiant by the stance she assumed. I'm sorry? I don't believe I said anything, let alone to you. Sombra pursed her lips, her pupils narrowing at the bite in the mongrel's voice, harnessing the absolute will to wipe the floor with the youngster that surface immediately following that last syllable. "Then you have a very poor sense of self awareness," she stated blandly, unimpressed by the impudent show of "You don't know me" and "I'm so badass I can color my hair". Sombra was rarely impressed though so the comedic elements to be found in this particular scenario were missed by the dominant. "What's your name?" Sure, she'd skipped over the scathing words that now knotted in her stomach to the affect of speaking to an older wolf that way, namely an older wolf who could very well kill her. But hey, some things should come first. Names were important to some degree, though the lycan doubted this girl had a name that meant anything. She seemed just the type to writhe around in the dirt of self pity. Unimpressed, yet again. However, the vaguely abrasive little she wolf reminded Sombra something of herself, of course by the time she was this wolf's age she probably had the skills to back her words in a fight or the speed to escape if she couldn't. She assumed this pouty miss didn't have those skills, not out of arrogance but out of experience. She looked the type who got pissed and stomped her feet until someone felt bad enough to apologize. I have bad news for you, Hollywood Dawson, Sombra has apologize twice in her life, and there won't be a third coming up for stepping on your toes. In fact, there won't be a third even when she makes you feel as small and insignificant as you want to think the world sees you as. You want to be pissy? You want to pout? Fine. She'd give you something to pout about. Maybe even some pain worth complaining over. Sombra was a crowd pleaser that way. A humanitarian even. People wanted to act hurt? She'd make it true, just for them. That wasn't so much a threat as a condition. If Hollywood was going to act bitter and plagued, then damn it she would be plagued by the agony of her own inferiority. So you have two choices, ball player, you keep on the road you're on and meet the turf, or you stop making an ass of yourself and meet the Alpha. count; 779 tag; Holly dress; Click! comment; nope.

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