kannivalistic

[kannivalistic]

It's all been falling to shit, and Valka can't tell if it's because she's trying too hard or not trying hard enough.

Brotherhood numbers in Port Leiry continue to swell -- easy when so many half-baked hunters are happily indoctrinated into those old, ancestral lines. Valka could have just as easily remained among their ranks, but seeing her brothers hesitate on the kill when their father was no longer their father... well, she knows she made the right choice.

That doesn't mean she doesn't fucking miss Alejo. And first Anika was MIA, then her old man dropped off as well. Yearwood is still kicking, at least as far as the Fellowship founder knows. But it's all getting to be too much. They're going to need a nuclear option.

For their sakes, she hopes her missing allies are still alive. But if they find themselves of an undead persuasion, it's smarter they don't show their faces around here.

The sound of her door rattling is enough to get her hackles up one quiet afternoon and the voice that follows sets her ears on fire. Valka's upstairs when it happens, so it takes her a few moments to hurry down. When she gets to the door, though, she looks out from the peephole first to make sure the girl's alone. The elder hunter swings the door open.

"Shit, Anika. You've looked better." It's as much a greeting as she can give because she feels like she's failed the girl, looking at her missing hand. Valka has a guy for prosthetics, if Anika wants. But no Book here... they've always been independent, but she worries what that means for the old man. "I'm relieved to see you, though... No offense. You still got a heartbeat? Cuz I ain't letting you in if you're a fuckin' mosquito now -- you hear they can daywalk?"

Despite her lack of welcome (a precaution, after everything), Valka steps back and waits for the girl to haul ass over the threshold before they can get to business.

closed —  @kannivalistic

"Valka—"

Her foot met the door with a sharp thud.

Hands were busy— stump wasn't good for shit, and the other one carried all that tattoo gear. Knuckles were hastily wrapped in strips of an old, torn up shirt, from when she punched that mirror in the motel bathroom earlier. The wound still bled in places, staining the fabric. She didn't have any gauze or bandages. All her shit was back at the apartment, and according to the news, that place burnt down. Good fucking riddance. Phone was gone too, left at the goddamn gallery or in the hands of that bitch. Either way, she didn't know any other means of contacting the hunter, but to come banging on her damn door.

What else was she supposed to do? Going on her own was suicidal. As if she had a chance against any fucker, while being down a limb and human in ways she hasn't been for over a decade.

Bang— again.

"Open up, Hadley. Come on—" a beat, "You thought you'd get rid of me that easily?"

[kannivalistic]

soundtrack

Anika + Valka = The Hand That Feeds, Nine Inch Nails

Just how deep do you believe? Will you bite the hand that feeds? Will you chew until it bleeds? Can you get up off your knees? Are you brave enough to see? Do you want to change it?

This is absolutely a hunting or training montage of some sort, in my opinion.

[kannivalistic]

closed starter for @nicolestueck when/where: the woods, full moon

Before she was a mother, Valka was a hunter. Valka has always been a hunter. And lately, she feels like folks have started to forget that.

The Fellowship has taken their fair share of blows lately. It started with Alejo. Then the Bookers. Countless others she's cared about. Hell, she isn't sure whether to keep a leash on Heron just to make sure she doesn't go off on her lonesome. The creatures of Port Leiry must feel mighty proud of themselves, as the hunters keep their heads down and lick their wounds.

She's tired of it.

Mother-hunter as she is, her child is a monster and she'll use him to hunt if she has to. They've tossed around the idea of using wolves and vampires to further their ends -- but it's a dirty idea that disgusts her in ways she can't articulate. Valka knows it's just a matter of time before more people she cares about -- good, human people -- are turned. Knowing your enemy is one thing, becoming them is another.

She craves blood, but she isn't a vampire. She eats prey, but she isn't a werewolf.

Even though she knows it might be a trap, Valka downs the brew she's been saving since the Masquerade, filled with some sort of witchy vigor. And she lets her wretched son take his transformation in the woods -- leading her right to his new pack. He wanted his mother's love? He could join the family business, and bring her wolves for the slaughter. She's the predator tonight.

[kannivalistic]

Valka was pretty familiar with talk of the Halsteads and their family drama. Seems to run in the family, for most Hunter lines (her own included). Annalise, the youngest, could make great Fellowship if she could grow up and cut ties with the rest of the Brotherhood bureaucratic bullshit. But she understands the loyalty -- goin' to the grave with a dead brother and sister who quit the gig. She's surprised but quietly appreciative that the pipsqueak offers to top her up.

"Seen Reid? Not for a minute, not since he walked in here trying to cut a deal about, I'unno, being a monster hunting monsters in exchange for me not dusting his ass prematurely," she says bluntly, sipping her refurnished drink. Valka had discussed already with Heron too, about how they'd handle the Halstead man. Yearwood tended to do whatever got her off, but she promised to give a warning before she dealt with Reid altogether. "I don't know a Nisha. Why, you lost track of the boy scout?"

@kannivalistic

She was a fellowship hunter, not someone that Annalise would usually find herself going to for any sort of help, but desperate times called for desperate measures and Hadley was once one of them. The blonde was at the point where she didn't care who a person was or what their so-called alliegance was to - if they could provide answers, she would ask. "Valka." Lis greeted, taking a seat next to her at the bar and motioning for the bartender to get them both a drink, going for whatever the other had been drinking. "I need to know if you've seen Reid." She was getting straight to the point, tired of going through the motions of small talk with people just to get stone walled, or simply told no. It was a waste of time, and she had a feeling time was of the essence. Part of her thought that Reid would never leave his sisters again, not unless he was forced to. "Or Nisha." She added as that line of thought crossed her mind.

[kannivalistic]

[ locations ]

Valka isn't an exhibitionist but she's not necessarily shy about when the need strikes -- if the mood's right and everyone's revved up, she'll have sex in a bar bathroom, a truck bed, a supply closet, places like that. She won't do anything flagrant or illegally indecent, but she's not super picky about privacy when the mood is right. She's less concerned about people hearing her, too, but obviously something behind a closed door is gonna be best. If someone walks in on her, that's on them. Bar bathrooms might be her favorite, though. Especially if they've got fun graffiti to read.

[kannivalistic]

[ intimacy ] ― how are they during sex? do they prefer a more intimate / romantic approach or a more casual one?

Valka is absolutely a casual sex-haver (both in having casual sex and having sex casually). Roan was the result of a drunken one-night stand. Especially now in her hardened adulthood, intimacy is difficult and she feels very fundamentally broken in the department of love and romance. Also as a hunter, that sort of closeness wasn't exactly encouraged, because all you do is collect collateral damage in the end. Val is all about feeding her appetite, though, so if you have what she's hungry for she'll take her fill and not necessarily expect any more.

[kannivalistic]

"Just give me a heads up 'fore you do anything, 'kay, Yearwood?" Of course, Valka never wanted to turn into the bureaucratic Brotherhood types she abandoned, but her Fellowship hunters tended to shoot from the hip. It was a great advantage in better circumstances, but with so few of them kicking in Port Leiry after everything lately, it would be better to keep the strength in numbers. "All it takes is for him to bite the wrong person on the wrong day and he's SOL. Hell, even a Buffy wannabe might try to get lucky."

The butcher just nods silently at the mention of curse and the wolf. She's bitter that she barely got to know or teach her son before he was taken and turned and returned to her something he shouldn't have been. That bitch he keeps calling 'mother' teaching him all the worst parts of the world. And as far as Valka knows, neither the Bookers nor Heron know about him yet. But that would be a secret she couldn't keep forever -- how would it look, that she couldn't even properly take care of her own child, in whatever form that would take.

"It's a shame -- I figure that given a chance to let loose, she'd be half decent. Losing two thirds of the Halsteads from the game doesn't bode well for her if she can't get wise and get out," Valka mutters. She continues the work of slicing the pig, catching runoff blood for just such an occasion as a vamp like Reid walking in trying to convince everyone he was domesticated.

"The Masquerade... Graver's... every little creep on Port Leiry must think they've got us on the ropes. I'll burn this whole city to the ground if I have to to teach them a lesson." Her voice is a growl. Val trusts Heron's instincts. She just wants fuckin' results. "See if we can't shake out a witch or two for more ink. Some of us'll need to re-up soon, give 'em a surprise they won't see coming."

"Well, maybe I will, maybe I won't - man like that's on a time limit though - I've seen it before - a Hunter gets turned, thinks they can fix it, or that they can hide it enough to keep on fighting the good fight." She watches Valka work. "Never works - either the wolf changes them or the blood does - these poor, sad fucks forget that we're all weak in the soul when up against a curse." At talk of the sister she issues a derisive "tch. Probably just got smart - realized that the options are kill beasts or die trying. Worst crime the Brotherhood commits is filling their heads with all this nonsense about morality and imperative, all the pretending that it isn't at least half about the sport of it." Leaning on a counter, she watches what's left of the pig's blood seep into the gutters of the butchers' block. "I'm gonna keep this Halstead boy on a string as long as I can - if he's trying to play both sides of this he'll no doubt have friend - other vampires, a witch or too maybe. Graver's Isle was a big setback an I want to recoup some of that loss."

[kannivalistic]

"Yeah, I can step out for a sec." Valka leans casually against the closed door when the stranger steps back out. It seems too weird to be any sort of trap, not that she knew any witches or wolves with enough spine to try something in broad daylight. And that kinda kills her vampire theory besides. As for the business talk, she figures she could sell bacon to a pig farmer in his own barn if she gets the chance. Still, she gestures up at the sign above their heads.

"Butcher," she says plainly. "I sell meats -- beef, pork, chicken, others. Prepared cuts and custom orders given enough notice."

Valka listens as the kid explains the wicked wristwear, surprised he's so candid about it. Who'd wanna chain someone up just so they couldn't get so far as a butcher shop? He speaks openly about magic too, not that the hunter has any herself. She hums with interest. "No offense, what's so special about you they gotta clap a glorified ankle monitor on your... well, wrist?" She's not really an expert at breaking curses, though she knows enough of her way around witchy rituals.

"I got power tools in the back but I'm guessing that won't really work. Can't say I've ever hear of something like this, exactly, but... I'unno. What's it worth to me if I help you out?"

"Ah-- right. My apologies." He said as he took a step back from the doorway. Tj was curious as to what the woman was selling but he didn't want to upset her by leaving the door open. "Could you come out here and talk, then? Just for a moment. I'd like to know what all you sell."

"Cursed, of sorts." He said with a shrug. "Someone's taken a keen interest in me. Put it on me after knocking me out. They told me it was to make sure I didn't wander off too far. I was just... testing to see how far I could actually go." He pressed his lips together into a thin line and nodded. "I've already tried to yank it off. Cut it off. And I don't have the type of magic that'll just... disintegrate it or anything."

A pause. "Do you, by any chance, know of a way to get it off?"

[kannivalistic]

"Sorry, Heron. I'm just as disappointed as you are to hear he's askin' every hunter to the dance," she says with a bit of a laugh. In truth, Valka's not disappointed -- if anything, she's amused. Curious. About what Reid's game is here, and if he really thinks alerting half the Fellowship to his plight is gonna get him any sympathy points. Halstead tragedy only has so much weight in these intimate circles.

Heron's always been an interesting one to watch. Carnifex, with an admiration of butchery. But she takes a more artistic interpretation of the word, really. Her knifework is more artistic, whereas Valka's is artisanal. One's a craft, one's a trade. At least, that's how the older woman sees it (with her one good eye, no less). Enhanced hunter strength, while useful, plays little part in her cleaving of meat here. You could have all the strength in the world, but if you make a sloppy cut, you're selling half-assed goods to the masses. Bad cuts, bad rates.

"With all the witches and shamans and deals with the devil out there, if someone had found a cure for anything, it'd be known," she mutters with impartiality. Valka believes in the fantastically unlikely as much as the next person, but that only made the true impossibilities that much surer. Like the thought of ever really, truly having her son back. The way he was, the way she made him to be. "Only cure of all of us is death. And after that, salt -- Yearwood, I've gotta have you over for some proper fuckin' bossam sometime."

But Valka digresses. She picks her gaze up from the meat on the table for a moment, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure you'll be the one to do him in, huh? I'm sure his sisters won't take too kindly to it, though I hear one of them's outta the game entirely these days."

"Same thing he wanted from you, apparently." She says, clicking her tongue, face darkening into disappointment that her fun little news wasn't fresher on the hook than it is - the pout fades however. She tilts her head, regarding the the exacting cuts. A cleaver may not look the part, but its size and weight betray the finer points of its use, and watching somebody who knows how to use it is an experience that she isn't all that often audience to - instead usually in the position of one demonstrating where to strike a joint for clean separation. She nods at the dragging of the Brotherhood and the Halsteads, even if she agrees more on the latter assessment than the former - Brotherhood influence out here might be waning, but that cult has deep claws in the world. Still, an opportunity is presenting itself. "Initially it was your average self-hating hunter turned vampire, couching suicidal ideations in some hare-brained attempt at finding a cure - I wish I could say it was novel but, well, the opposite actually." She shrugs. "I still think I'll entertain him for a bit, see if he can lead me to anybody interesting before I put him out of his misery."

[kannivalistic]

Valka never intended to be a mother. The circumstances of Roan's birth were more or less the result of her carefree attitude and choices to live recklessly, chasing her wildest thoughts. It's what led to the creation of the Fellowship, after her boy was taken from her. But motherhood and leadership aren't the same, thought to a casual observer they might appear to be related. She had her family beside her to raise the boy, but she scrapped hard and fought to build a new family of hunters when that boy was taken.

Still, it's lonely at the top, in a profession that teaches you never to trust, never to get attached or to love.

Valka's lip twitches in a sneer about his dog comment. She looks to Bolillo to break the tension and forces a chuckle. "Bo's spoiled. He knows good meat from bad," she says, turning back to Roan. Hearing him call that bitch wolf 'mother' makes her want to go out and kill something just for the hell of it. Oh, she'd love to carve that one up on the table right now and make her boy watch as she skins and butchers it. Normally, the crime of being a wolf would be enough to satisfy Valka's hatred, but this vendetta runs deeper than the curse. No one makes a fool of the Hadleys and lives to get away with it.

"Ro... I know you wanted to... look, that's sweet of you. Thinkin' of me. I don't want you worryin' -- or worse yet, settin' my goddamn house on fire," she says, searching his face for the traces of what precious little she remembers from those earliest days, scared when she finds those bits of herself in him despite the years apart. "Could you... be okay with lettin' me do something better for us? I can show you how to make a decent steak, I've got potatoes and some other fixins... And yeah, we can finish off with the pie, if you've still got room."

Roan faintly remembers his last Thanksgiving; watching his uncle play Crash Bandicoot on his Playstation, the sweet smell of pie, the heavy scent of meat. He remembers laughter, stuffing his stomach nearly to the point of bursting, of wanting nothing more than to sit on the couch in his mother's arms. Valka's.

He wishes, sometimes, she would hold him; after a nightmare, during a bad day. How many times did he wish it was her arms around him instead of the cold metal of his cage? He doesn't know how to ask; can I sleep with you? I've had a bad dream; could you hold me? The world is big and scary.

He doesn't think she would want to hug him, wouldn't be comfortable with it. He is not sure if he would be comfortable, or safe, in her hold either.

The mutual fear and discomfort is something he tries not to think about while he tries to follow the recipe through; he knows how to read, he just doesn't do it fast enough, and the turkey is on fire before he can stop it. The burns on his hands are of no worries to him, as he tries to blow the smoke away.

If he flinches at her voice, makes himself small and raises his shoulder to protect his face, he hopes she doesn't notice. "You wouldn't feed it to a dog, huh?" Self-defense. He is embarrassed, shy, caught tongue-tied and fearing a possible hit that doesn't come. She won't punish him. The fear, however, is there. He clears his throat, shrugging.

"I - Mother always liked dinner to be-" words die on his tongue, and he shakes his head, blinking. "I wanted to have food ready. For when you got home. Figured you would be tired. I got pie, too." He picks up the store bought pie with red hands, just a boy begging his mother to love him. "I'm sorry."

[kannivalistic]

While she and Book have known each other for a while, and shared a lot of stories of the trade with one another, there's still plenty it seems they haven't discussed openly. It makes sense, especially in their line of work. Hell, it's why she had no idea Anika was his daughter for the longest time. It's why she still hasn't opened up about her own son. He'll find out eventually and he'll react how he reacts... but the Fellowship's been about bending the rules, being less uptight and more innovative than the Brotherhood... flexing the policy for desperate monsters might be a needed edge or a death knell.

"It's a shit hand to gamble with. Gonna get you run out of the game quickly," Valka asserts. She wonders what impossibility it is that he wants -- the sun on his cheek or a cure for a wolf or someone's head on a platter or his own breath back. Most of those things ain't gonna happen, and on a different day he'd get stabbed just for asking. But she's feeling charitable enough (or lacking just enough appetite) to stick her finger in the neck wound and prod a little more.

"Some noble vampire -- what, you wanna be the last monster standing and then have someone take you out before you're too far gone? This path doesn't have a storybook ending, even if we all get what we want outta this, you have to understand. You're asking me to make a big fuckin' exception to the Fellowship's creed. As a leader, I set the tone. Quite literally stickin' my neck out for you if we actually do make a deal."

She follows his gaze to the blood and carnage quite literally commodified behind her. Valka smiles. "So, what is it you do want? What's so impossible, Halstead?" A pause, then a curiosity for her own sake. "You been feedin'?"

"A gun, actually," It's an easier quip than admitting to the woman how deeply he does know Book. That the man played equal parts in training a younger, cockier Halstead as his own father did. The same boy that smiled too wide at a monster and got his neck torn open in his arrogance. She can believe it's homework if that's what she needs to figure out he's not here to play butcher and blackbird (on the chopping block).

Reid's still eying her warily with an edge that he cannot kick, a determination in his gaze that gets battered and bruised with every degrading phrase that spills from the woman's mouth. It's well deserved and he too, would use those terms the same way. Even if he is the mosquito in the metaphor. So it's whiplash that she cares to offer some form of condolences in amongst her declination to meet him in the middle. He has to pinch the laughter in his throat because it doesn't belong here.

His gaze still wanders in intervals to that bucket of blood sitting idle at the end of the butcher's block. Catching the spillage of Valka's brutality to the dead.

He can hardly cling to pride when she'll be quick to learn he's got none left in his state of undeath. Reid shoves down his apprehensions because she's not stupid and he doesn't like to think he is when it comes to the sheer basics. Tight-jawed he's looking back at her. "Can't I play the hand I'm dealt?" One way or another, it is what he's doing. But self-loathing probably isn't a trait she'll favour either. "I want an impossibility, and the Fellowship might not have it at their disposal, but they're the closest — you're the closest to it. You don't have to shake my hand. But I want monsters gone, just as I did before." It's one way to put it and he's sure Valka's smart enough to know that the Brotherhood wouldn't welcome that, the same way the unhinged corners of Fellowship rumours do.

[kannivalistic]

"Well, I figure you'll be glad ya did show. Especially if you sell a piece," she shrugs. Valka's never exactly known how to encourage someone in a creative pursuit, but she knows as well as anyone else the benefits of a therapeutic outlet. Butchery and cooking for her are as much an art as she supposes painting is for Anika. And yeah, the money's nice too, but sometimes, it's just for you.

Still, she knows the girl's going through a lot. No one drawn to the life of a hunter had a happy childhood or a well-adjusted adulthood, really. But Valka sees an opportunity in her to prove that the older woman isn't broken beyond all repair. She can still support and protect the ones she hasn't failed yet. Every time Roan slips and calls that bitch wolf 'mother' it makes her want to tear the skin from her own eyelids. She takes another somewhat aggressive sip of the free booze they offered here, in an attempt to calm her own nerves.

"Well, they're all good. I mean it -- I know I don't have all the fanciest words for 'em. But I can tell you aren't just... y'know, fuckin' around for no reason," she says, grateful for Anika's added comment distracting her from having to try to say something smarter. It strikes her as a surprise, and Valka blinks for a moment as she processes the thought. "You have a painting for me? No foolin'? That's... Anika, that's real sweet, of course I've got room for it. I mean, I know I might come off like a real hardass but I've got a few sculptures and accent walls 'n shit at home. Thank you... you'll have to come over for dinner and we can find a place for it, yeah?"

Maybe invite Book over too, if it wouldn't be too much flirting with danger.

"Well, I almost didn't — show up, either." she gave her some drunken semblence of honesty. Not the whole truth, never the whole truth. What was she supposed to say anyway? I'm a fucking idiot, so I've been avoiding the reality of that with severe amount of booze? No. Valka didn't need all that weight on her shoulders, she had enough to deal with as it was. Knowing her, Anika thought she'd want to carry her burden too, help her get rid of it — one way or another. And she would never let her, just as she wasn't ready to stop punishing herself — let that sharp blade of her own knife fall away from her skin. The colors of her own creations pulled her fleeting attention and she wondered how much any of them were worth. She claimed she was here for the money, but looking at all the spilled blood, Anika wasn't sure if she'd let them get taken away from her. Money be damned. She hated that sentimental fucking thought. "A couple." she said, blinking herself sober. "Years, some of them. And some — are recent." her voice laced with bitterness, her face keeping a neutral facade. And as if to force Valka's eyes to avert from the car crash that she was, Anika voiced another honesty. "I have one for you. Didn't want to put it on display here, didn't want to sell it to anyone actually." mostly because she wanted her and only her to have it. "It's yours, if you have the room for it." Anika didn't really know how the other felt about art — it wasn't something they've dicussed in the dark woods of their past, while plunging knives in the undead.

[kannivalistic]

closed starter for: @sntshadleys where/when: the hadley household, thanksgiving

The butcher shop is open in the morning, the best Valka can offer to salvage other families' Thanksgivings. She doesn't have enough birds to save all of Port Leiry's forgetfuls (and those whose turkeys are still pitifully frozen), but she's got enough variety, enough prepared cuts, that it's worth going in for the first few hours of the day to rake in a little extra money.

She's not expecting to get home to the rough scent of something burned, though -- any other day of the year she'd think someone was trying to send the Fellowship a message, but today Valka is surprised to find that Roan's taken it upon himself to massacre a bird all on his own. Even Bolillo isn't looking too excited about the scraps.

"Hey, hey, what the hell are ya doin' there?"

She would have raised him better than this, if she'd raised him at all. But Roan's been raised by wolves. Her son isn't much better than a dog with thumbs and the know-how to at least get an oven fired up. She refuses to be bitter about all the family meals they lost out on. She knows she's too far broken to fix it all. But no Alejo, no Bookers... Valka's got fewer folks than ever in her life and the lone ranger gambit works for some folks, but not her. She softens, sighing.

"Roan... if there's one thing I know, it's how to cook meat and do it right. You could'a asked me. I was gonna make us dinner when I got back from the shop -- I can't let you try to choke down a blackened bird, I mean that's just sad."

[kannivalistic]

"Nice to meet you, Natasha," she says, laughing a bit at the feminist comment. "Honestly, it was probably to protect you as much as it was to make sure the Clayton name stayed known for one thing and one thing only. But you can learn the trade under any name -- it's your actions that'll do most of the talking."

Valka hasn't really taken on any new apprentices for a while -- sure, she taught Anika most of what she knew, but even then the girl had Booker blood in her this whole time. And it's true she practically trained a whole generation of Fellowship hunters, but hell if she's got tabs on most of them now. All she can hope is that they do what they can with what she's given 'em, and the rest is up to the imagination. But if Natasha wants it -- wants more -- badly enough, well, she's in no position to get too protective of the process.

"I ain't gonna dump your ass on the curb, if that's what you're wondering," she asserts, finishing what's left of her drink before turning back to the other woman. "But I'm not gonna force you into it neither. If you need some time to think it over, I get it. We can start with some training -- soon as you get that tattoo you'll be in the game. As much a fighter as you are a target for everyone who isn't on our side. No papers to sign or nothin', just your commitment. When you're sure, we can meet at my butcher shop and I'll give you the lowdown. Gotta see a witch about some tattoo ink in the meantime.:

THERE HAD BEEN SOME ASSESSMENT TO THOUGHT that everything her father had told her was like an exaggerated truth. Pride seemed to run in the family to some degree; that want to be seen while simultaneously wanting to remain hidden in the shadows. But still looked at as someone worthy and accomplished. Quite the conundrum, really. Part of her wonders just how much like him she really is, given her chosen professions and artistic views.

"You seem like you're the type to want more." The other brunette makes her comment and Nat can't even rightfully argue it as true or false. Leaning on true, since she wouldn't have bothered to stay here for as long as she has if she didn't. It gets her thinking. Good to know he wasn't just some lunatic who swan-dived into the shallow end of the pool.

Valka's the first person she's met thus far who's heard of her father, or at least, the first to admit it to her face. Good a sign as any, right—? Attention draws down towards the extended hand that's added on with a proper introduction. Another sip of her own drink taken before she obliges in the polite request and shakes the woman's hand in turn. ❝ Natasha Kassin. Always assumed being given my mother's maiden name was some kind of feminist thing. ❞ She's starting to rethink that now, though. Maybe it really was strictly for her own protection at the time ❝ So then, Valka, window's already been broken, so-to-speak, you gonna be the one to hold my hand while I jump through into this whole new big bad world? ❞

[kannivalistic]

"In my experience, you gotta keep an open mind about what's lurking in the dark," she says, and as if to answer herself, remembers that it's still daytime. Valka's never seen anything quite like the way this young man's behaving, though it may be a witch's hex of some kind. Not exactly her specialty, but she is curious enough to bite.

The hunter slides herself out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a rag as she approaches. He's holdin' the door open but not coming inside. "Gonna let in all the flies," she mumbles. Her tattoo's itching a mite, but now she's not sure whether to chalk it up to wolf or witch genes, or the bracelet he's got on. Not the first time she's ever seen enchanted jewelry, but it's the first that's got someone acting a fool on her doorstep.

"That's a pretty piece of work. Cursed? Where'd you pick it up? Guessing you can't just yank it off yourself, that'd be too easy."

"Vampire?" Tj couldn't help but chuckle. "I look like a vampire to you?" His eyes dramatically do a once over on his body. "I suppose I give off... undead vibes. But I am not one of them." He told the woman at the counter. It was a first, someone thinking he was a species other than the one he was. But considering how he wasn't able to just walk into the building, he supposed it wasn't the worst guess.

"I am not fucking with you and nothing is wrong with me, exactly." He then held up his hand, showing off the gold bracelet wrapped around his wrist. "This thing, however... prevents me from going very many places."

[kannivalistic]

Valka exhales a short laugh. Not rude, just amused. Knowing she can't get Book to do shit about shit if he don't want to. When she'd first met Anika, she had no idea she was getting into a whole tangled world of family matters. While being a hunter was often family biz, as it had been with hers and many others like them, with the Bookers it was clear it was their rage, raw and unresolved, that drew them both into the dangerous life. Any DNA they shared was pure coincidence.

She thinks bitterly of her own child, suddenly thrust back into her world. The burden of rage she's cultivated and carried all these years is purely her own, and it's left her too hot for much else. Whatever Hadley genes were in Roan, whatever she'd given to him before he was taken from her, that's not there anymore. She doesn't know who she gave blood to the night of the Masquerade, and she's terrified to finally find out.

But she says none of this to Anika. Just inhales and shakes her head forlornly. "I didn't keep it from you on purpose, y'know. It just... didn't occur to me at the time. And there never felt like a good time. I'm sorry, though, I owe you that much." Even if the elder hunter knows this girl won't accept that, because she doesn't want pity. But it's not pity -- it's the closest thing to love that Valka might have left to give.

"Leave? Like, ditch Port Leiry or leave leave?"

Fellowship tattoos would fade, in time. Unlike the Brotherhood, you had to want it bad enough. Bad enough to keep going and taking and burning up everything behind you. Is Anika saying she don't want it no more?

Wouldn't it be easier if she just asked herself. If the two of them, father and daughter, sat down and cleared the air — shared a list of their allies, a longer list of their enemies, allowed each other a glimpse of the past twelve years and forgive themselves for finding each other so late. That would only ever be a perfect fantasy in her head, something she should've done instead of avoiding her father. Besides the constant calls of concern, Anika didn't know how much her father wanted to open up to her, either. Perhaps, just as little as she did. Now, if Valka had to be the better option for getting him to talk, then so be it. "Do that. You'll get him to talk." she was sure of it.

It had never even crossed her mind before. That he'd be alive, let alone picking up wooden stakes and kiling beasts. He was the last thing on her mind, when she first met the other woman. Back then, she couldn't even remember how to spell her last name. She didn't remember what his face looked like. She only saw darkness, and every face she'd even known was swallowed by it. "And you've known him all this time?" it was gut wrenching, and heart breaking and she felt nauseated by the idea of it — being so close to him, all this time, just at an arms reach.

"I'm not blaming you." Anika wanted to make sure that was clear, because her voice surely did sound accusatory. It always did sound weapon-like.

Leather boots suffed the pavement, as she moved closer to the other hunter. "That and I want to leave. My shit's packed anyway, and I only came here to find him." she was only hoping he'd come with.

[kannivalistic]

Painless. It's a hilarious choice of word for a vampire who's already set her trigger tattoo itching. A creature that's literally always armed to the teeth, stepping willingly into a butcher's den, where the hunter hides specialized equipment in and among her bevy of knives designed for the sole purpose of commercially cutting flesh and bone. Where's the fun without the pain?

Closing the store sends enough of a message to satisfy her -- she's not unreasonable. Just proactive. And sure as hell not stupid. Reid Halstead was a dead man walking, but she'd hope that even current circumstances haven't dulled his hunter instinct. Still, she has the advantage that he's Brotherhood born, and so was she once, 'til she got wise and turned Fellowship. So if anything, her instincts will move her faster than his. And he seems too cowed to do much with his vampire speed to make a difference.

"Lotta people know Book -- big whoop. Wouldn't be surprised if you know him from the business end of a knife, but... it's cute, you've done some homework," she says, keeping a smart distance from him but still standing ready to face down trouble. A grin catches Valka's lips at the mention of unorthodox -- it's a cute word. Polite way to put it, if he's heard even half a lick of truth. He's standing in the church of her unorthodoxy. If the body is a temple, then she's worshipping at her very own altar. Taking of the flesh and eating it too. But a vampire's got no taste for that. It's the blood he needs.

"No offense, but I've tried it. Training the fuckin' dogs, bleeding the mosquitos. Yeah, we may be workin' on shit you don't know about but I don't see what you can offer -- or what you want to get out of some sort of deal. I know you're hunter blood and I'm sorry for your family's loss, but... you're either a traitor or suicidal, stepping into the lion's den and asking for a handshake. And I can't say either of those options is exactly a good business model for partnerships. But I'm just curious enough to know -- what's it you want that badly?"

"Sure. I could stroke your ego about it, but I don't think you need me to," Her reputation did precede her. In a mouth that actually mattered too — Book had mentioned Valka's name even before he'd had to shake another guy down for the finer details; she's bigger than a butcher shop.

And he finds her admittance for lack of personable qualities, relatable. "Neither am I. So I suppose we can make this painless for both of us." He's got the idea to stay firmly on the opposite side of the counter to the hunter. For one. Eyes drift to the glimmering blade before it vanishes. Reid draws his sights upwards again.

His idea to stay on the opposite counter is quickly thrown out the window when she comes around to his side. Reid can think like a hunter, just as much as he used to — but he's got no leg to stand on, without meeting in the middle with his current capability. The magic in his tattoo has faded, erased upon death; it's simply a washed-out symbol marking his failure on his hand. And he won't use the power granted to him in death.

The room darkens as she closes down the store.

Reid's not sure when the best moment to shoot his shot is, but — he's cut enough corners, or tried to and she's been plenty blunt in telling him how it is.

"I know Book," to start — as if he's abusing the name; a blasphemer, claiming devotion to a prophet. "But like I said, I don't want trouble. I heard you might have... unorthodox methods for your hunting." He's pandering, and they both know it. "Fellowship are up to something behind the scenes, and I want to know if they — you'd be willing to work together, on something." He tries not to cringe at his botched proposition. He's got a pocket of ashes to drop at Book's feet, in partial spite of the ultimatum he'd been given. But Valka sounded important in the hierarchy of the branch and whilst turncoating isn't in his nature — he can't switch sides if he belongs to neither.