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The measure of a city cannot be taken at ground level. Proximity grants no advantage to taste the diesel-slick air coated in distant salt brine, sweat, spices of grilled meats, and the wayward routines of its denizens. How can someone see the green forest for the bark pressed to their cheek? Nothing differs among the high-rises clothed in glass and steel from the veldt.
He sits upon the cement lip of one of those skyscrapers half-completed. Demand for real estate pushes them up and up. Cranes stud the cold autumn skyline. Lights wired up for the construction workers throw the eeriest of glows, cast in topaz upon naked concrete and raw steel girders.
The Wakandan king, in all his somber glory, chews thoughtfully on a shawarma. The scents are thick and rich, bitter earthy aromas to stir the stomach. "This makes much worthwhile. A city of strongmen and dictators. Despots and tyrants. Their peace is the peace of the dead."
Beside the king, a shadow bearing near-equal gravitas despite her smaller build. The heel of her sneaker makes a soft popping sound against the side of the building as she works her way through a proper mouthful of the ethnic food that would have had her nurse-maid glowering.
"Heavy thoughts tonight, brother. We are above the murk below. If you squint, you may even see the stars." Shuri attempts to point out one of these distant beacons with the tines of her fork, off in the direction of a lesser-lighted section of the night sky.
Robbie was actually on business in that very same tower.
TChalla might here sounds of someone punching another person quite a few times in the face before it goes silent. Seeking some air time, Robbie moves up to the top of the unfinished building, and it appears his skin has juuuust been recovered on his face after finishing some Ghost Rider business. Though his eyebrows lift a moment when he sees Tchalla and Shuri, putting his hands in his leather jacket pockets her approaches.
"Guess I'm not the only one with a heavy head tonight." he looks between Shuri and Tchalla, though clearly poses no innate threat to the two, or interest in violence towards them.
How terrible the great city is deprived of its celestial balefires. He ruminates over the soft flatbread, chewing thoughtfully with the kind of deliberation often reserved for the schoolroom or the savannah. Heavy is the head that bears the crown, and T'Challa is never without some of his own terrible noblesse oblige. "We must contend with them," he says, the fluting cadence of Wakandan Swahili. "How can there be any other choice than smiling and facing men I would not break bread with, if there will be peace?"
Had he pointed ears, they would swivel in Robbie's direction, pricked to something in particular. Pants make a certain zipping zing, the slither of cloth over a belt as noisy to him as the howling wind below. His nostrils flare lightly. How not at the crackling brimstone traces? But it would be rude to snarl or show a territorial arch for the tower. He switches to English. "Clear air brings wider thoughts and lightened burdens."
"I do not disagree with you, brother," Shuri replies in that same singular language. "But the sun has set. In Wakanda, the night bird would call and the lights dim low. The men of this city sleep and dream their restless dreams." She has time for another scoop of shwarma before Robbie makes himself known.
A long time ago, the younger sister learned to heed her brother's reactions — to separate a flinch of surprise from restraint in anger, a mask against laughter or against disgust foretold by the subtle microtells in his expressions. Her light-brown eyes check for signs of true concern before she turns her face to look at Robbie, the line of her shoulder cutting off view of her jaw at first. Recalcitrance — a shield in itself.
"And it smells less of the fouler smokes."
Robbie perhaps only lightly scoffs or perhaps takes a breath relating to humor as he walks to the very edge of the building, looking out to the city. Though Tchalla gets his attention pretty quick with his words of wisdom. "Yeah….guess so." he takes a sigh then. "Mind if I stand here or are you two having a private converation?" Not that the Rider cared either way, but apparently its polite to ask first, or so he hears.
Though he does look to Shuri then. "Yeah….sounds about right." coming from the burn master himself.
A long time ago, the boy may have flinched at a sudden appearance and felt his palm itch for the spear, the knife. He simply doesn't require the consolation of fine-grained wood to ascertain a potential threat level. Tattoos stitched into his flesh serve for that all again. T'Challa's expression carries a smoothness to it that attests to donning a mask. Pleasant and neutral, something not to terribly offensive to the average person on the street. The colour of his dusky skin must seem near black in the side of his profile denied the unflattered marigold flame of the electric lamps.
His job to be the friendlier face, Shuri's to assess tactically. The shawarma wrapped up in foil glints in his hand. "No one yet claims the sky. We are looking at the stars." True, there may be a few peeking through the light halo.
"We've yet to find such a thing," adds the one still assessing the possibility of hidden knives on the newcomer's person — checking for the matte glint of gunmetal revealed by the chance slip of jacket or shirt. "They are elusive things with the reach of the city's glow."
The young woman sits straighter on the edge of the building, deciding at this point to keep her thoughts to herself. The last of her food is now untouched, fingertips resting upon the flatbread as if undecided on action.
Robbie looks out towards the city itself, though he does look to TChalla when he gives his permission for Robbi to stay. "Many lay claim to the sky…it's just none of them have come to try and take it yet." he shrugs then, knowing much of the -many- supernatural entities at work. He looks then to Shuri.
if she could detect weapons…the smallest glint of metal around Robbie's right wrist….a bladed chain that's more often than not wrapped around Robbie's torso, but he's incognito right no, so it's around the wrist. but otherwise? no weapons.
No fear of crumbs and bits of seasoned meat turned into a last meal here. T'Challa can forego a bit of shawarma to observe the other niceties expected of a man of his station. He nods to one point or another. The easy shift on the edge of the building denies gravity of another victim. Reserve cloaks his dark eyes, and their darkness is a betrayal of the underlying sepia and sienna tones that would warm his face otherwise.
"We launch our metal birds into the sky and expect to conquer the falcons and the shrikes?" He must be in something of a contemplative mood.
A chain seems a lesser thing to worry about in the end, especially when T'Challa seems more inclined to wax philosophical about the matter of celestial ownership than strike. How little Shuri knows about the owner of the length of chain, but — she's still learning and while admitting that aloud in public will never happen, brother probably knows well enough.
Still, the young woman remains silent, her countenance not necessarily closed off, but slackened just enough to convey mild interest in the proceedings.
Robbie glances to T'Challa "What's your name Aristotle?" and he only knows that name because his actual education has been very limited, but he knows it about as well as the next guy. What? the king waaasss being strangely philosophic.
He looks then to Shuri, as if asking the same question to her silently.