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and I saw you there, by blackened lights
Jun. 11th, 2014 02:52 amPeter knew who Dyson was, generally.
He knew the name, that he was a werewolf, that he was on the police force. Unfortunately, he was lacking specifics. He didn't know about the Dal, didn't have a phone number or the name of a certain siren. All he really had to go on was his senses, and the knowledge that there was supposed to be a sizable contingent of Fae here.
When he'd left Lynda behind, he'd thought that it would be easy enough. Fae smelled different. It was one of the first things that he'd noticed when his abilities had started to manifest: Nicolae smelled different from everyone else. Not just wolf, but something warm and indescribable and strange but in the best sort of way. When he'd started to shift, Nicolae had taught him what he could, but there simply hadn't been enough time. Six months, give or take a few weeks. He knows how to shift, how to control himself even when the moon is full and bright and the seas rush to greet her. But that's about all he knows. And at seventeen it had simply no longer felt like enough.
It's late, and three days in, when he finally catches a trail. That same sort of scent, different in nuances but still with that same way it had set Nicolae apart from everyone else. So he follows him, as casually as he can manage; just another street rat in dark blue jeans and a thrift store button-down and shielding his cigarette from the evening wind when it gusted. Peter was attractive, but he wasn't spectacular. He didn't have features that drew the eyes and committed his face to memory -- useful given his habit of stealing whatever his fingertips happened to touch.
He traces the figure not too far, but onto a bustling street, with people in vinyl and leather and mesh. He can hear the thrum of the music, and how colored lights filter through the doorway. Traveling with Lynda, he's snuck into clubs more than once or twice. It does surprise him a little when his quarry slips inside, but he doesn't balk at following. He knows he sticks out once he's in here. He has no piercings, his visible tattoos definitely a little too modest -- not even a pair of combat boots. With his attention on trying to filter out the scents of a hundred club-goers to find the one he'd been hunting... Peter isn't exactly surprised when someone stops him.
He knew the name, that he was a werewolf, that he was on the police force. Unfortunately, he was lacking specifics. He didn't know about the Dal, didn't have a phone number or the name of a certain siren. All he really had to go on was his senses, and the knowledge that there was supposed to be a sizable contingent of Fae here.
When he'd left Lynda behind, he'd thought that it would be easy enough. Fae smelled different. It was one of the first things that he'd noticed when his abilities had started to manifest: Nicolae smelled different from everyone else. Not just wolf, but something warm and indescribable and strange but in the best sort of way. When he'd started to shift, Nicolae had taught him what he could, but there simply hadn't been enough time. Six months, give or take a few weeks. He knows how to shift, how to control himself even when the moon is full and bright and the seas rush to greet her. But that's about all he knows. And at seventeen it had simply no longer felt like enough.
It's late, and three days in, when he finally catches a trail. That same sort of scent, different in nuances but still with that same way it had set Nicolae apart from everyone else. So he follows him, as casually as he can manage; just another street rat in dark blue jeans and a thrift store button-down and shielding his cigarette from the evening wind when it gusted. Peter was attractive, but he wasn't spectacular. He didn't have features that drew the eyes and committed his face to memory -- useful given his habit of stealing whatever his fingertips happened to touch.
He traces the figure not too far, but onto a bustling street, with people in vinyl and leather and mesh. He can hear the thrum of the music, and how colored lights filter through the doorway. Traveling with Lynda, he's snuck into clubs more than once or twice. It does surprise him a little when his quarry slips inside, but he doesn't balk at following. He knows he sticks out once he's in here. He has no piercings, his visible tattoos definitely a little too modest -- not even a pair of combat boots. With his attention on trying to filter out the scents of a hundred club-goers to find the one he'd been hunting... Peter isn't exactly surprised when someone stops him.
