[Trudy Adler] Directions secured at the Caern, Trudy had made her way towards Bronzeville and the Junkyard. With things settled at home, as much as they were going to be, she had made tonight the night of introductions, having first visited the Caern, made her announcement, and issued chiminage to the Caern's Totem. The large SUV, a few years old now, parked across the road from the piling junk and she looked out across the grounds from the opposite side of the street.
Headlights flick off before she gets out, locking the door after her and pocketing her keys into a pair of well worn jeans. She wears sneakers instead of boots, quieter on the concrete as she walks towards the main entrance of the place. A sweater is slightly over-sized, pulled on in haste as she walked out the door earlier that evening, and dark blonde hair is left loose.
She's watching, looking for signs of people, wolves, and territorial glyphs or markings as she crossed the road.
[Joe Holst] Bronzeville is a wretched sort of place. Downtrodden, dilapidated, a mirror image of Cabrini Green, but for the multitude of struggling businesses and the warehouse district that abuts one end of the gang and drug infested landscape. Few buildings are above three or four stories, and the place bears the crumbling facade of what might have at one time been a bubbling stew of culture. Given over now to the dogs.
...taken, since, by the wolves.
She'd seen the glyphs. Hidden appropriately, just another layer to the tapestry of scratch and bullet hole riddled Bronzeville. Fenrir, Home, and Claimed.
The territory itself rides an uneasy blind spot in the pattern of surrounding street gangs. Located on the edge of Bronzeville, where the streets are wider and more abandoned, she may have noted the denizens of such areas of any city growing more and more obvious as evening wore into night, and Chicago's sky slowly painted itself in the uneasy purple tapestry of smog and cloud cover.
A wall of smashed cars abutting a reinforced steel fence marks the edges of the large plot the abandoned junkyard sits on. "Carv- y and S-ns Wre--ing" reads the faded sign. The building occupying a break in the wall of smashed vehicles looks like its been boarded up since the Carter administration, but a narrow gap between steel bodies and the peeling paint of the rectangular building offers an entry.
Menacing, sky blue eyes remain riveted to the body of Trudy's truck as she rumbles to a stop, and flicker across her lean form as she crosses the street. The kid is huge like lions are huge. Formidable. Graceful in the manner of warriors and meteors. The sort of person well suited to ramming his way through life.
The bald head, narrow blood red suspenders dangling at his waist, and odd blend of neo- nazi and Asatru tattoos that peek out from around a black flight jacket don't make Joe any prettier, or seem more welcoming. Nevertheless, his face breaks into a broad, gap- toothed grin that never touches hard eyes.
"Any trouble findin' da place?" He can't be older than eighteen. perhaps younger. A heavy jaw that has torn through Jormugandr but hasn't managed to sprout hair swings up and down the street.
[Kora] There's a woman behind him, nearly of a height with the menacing kid - pale hair pulled back sharply from her pale face, with eyes dark enough that the color is lost in the evening's shadows. She is seen in piecemeal, from a distance, standing just before the bullish kid at his right shoulder, her own frame obscured by his heavily muscled torso, the insistence of his presence in the space. Her head is canted, just - sidelong, her dark eyes intent and watchful over his shoulder. Her wide mouth is still, calm, quirked up at the right corner. Their closeness - their physical familiarity - bespeaks their pack bond more eloquently than any scattering of human words could do.
[Trudy Adler] Just as well as they let themselves be known, she was two seconds away from whistling out. Good to see that they're mindful of rumbling vehicles in their area. Never know, they may not have been home. This has saved her another trip out here.
He's just a kid, but they all are. It doesn't make them any less violent or respected. They've learned more then she has in the time of becoming Garou, or, rather, coming into their true skins. In the Garou nation they're about the same, just above the pups and making their way into the world, making a name for themselves to leave behind.
Still, it gets her every time, these hard lined baby-faces.
She doesn't head into their territory, but comes to stop a step over the curve, nodding to each as she takes them both in. Her eyes aren't blue. She may have the strong lines, the blonde hair, and the presence of one of the Tribe but her eyes are a dull, olive green. But they're sharp; intelligent.
"Not too much," she answers Joe, a life-time of living in Minnesota making its mark upon her accent. "The bonus about modern marvels, eh?"
"I'm Trudy."
"Fistful of Reason."
"Mind if I come in and chat?"
[Joe Holst] "Shuwah." The Jersey accent is thick, and though muted, the kid's voice must generally be a braying, slightly high pitched noise. He turns for the gap in the fence, his bulky form sliding around Kora's with none of the awkward jostling for position that would mark a pair of humans..
A muffled jangle of steel links, and he stands next to the peeled back edge of the fence, holding it as he watches Trudy curiously.
"Comeahn inside.. we'll hold up intraductions feh a minute.. couple uh Disciples onna cornah been tossin' eyeballs dis way." He points his chin up the street, and the bullish skinhead chews hard on a wad of gum.
"Yah truck'll be ok wheah it is."
[Kora] "Hey Trudy," Kora's voice is more quiet than her Alpha's; the sound is richer, too - a burnished quality undergirds the vowels. Otherwise, her accent is merely American - the bob-standard tones of cable television, and marching suburbs everywhere, with their matched houses and manufactured lawns, huge garages yawning in the center of vinyl-clad houses that aspire to imitate the spikes and gables of 19th century construction on a mass-produced level. "Good to meet you."
She steps back as Joe peels open the fence, her narrow shoulders set straight over the line of her pelvis, her spine curving between the two in a posture that is not-quite-a-slouch. Joe is all eyes on the gang members on the corner; Kora gives him a flashing glance, includes the rest of the street in the sweeping arc of her survey, then settles her dark, clear-eyed attention on Trudy, watchful and intent.
[Trudy Adler] Disciples. There's plenty of street lingo that Trudy's going to have to learn. Though she's been in and out of cities throughout her lifetime, she's never been one to live in the streets or be a part of them. She takes a glance across her shoulder, following the direction of Joe's pointed chin, before glancing back to the duo.
She moves in through the parting gap of the fence, sliding her leaner figure through to step into their territory, now that she'd been invited.
"Nice to meet you too," she had told Kora, despite having her name yet.
[Colt Montgomery] ~the spit shined black Yukon pulls across the street from the destination, he eyes the junkyard, yep it was the right spot, he slid from the drivers side, two feet on the concrete, he looked around, taking in the area, seeing some of the gylphs, two steps away, he arms the alarm, seeing a body disappear into a fence.
He crossed the street, noting the fella's on the corner. Exotic ostrich skin Nocona boots crush the small stones on the asphalt. low-rise, faded indigo jeans that look expensive, finished with fading and whisking to enhance their appeal. His black tee shirt fit snug across his chest, his body chiseled, the outlines of his well defined pecks visible.
He stands six foot three, dark curls hidden beneath the straw cowboy hat that sat low on his brow, he pulledl out his phone and dialed Joe, he'd let him know he was out front~
[Kora] "The cowboy I told you about is here," Kora's eyes have cut beyond Trudy's shoulders, out to the dark street again. Her voice is low. She does not look toward Joe when she speaks to him, and she speaks aloud only as a concession to their guest, quiet and direct. "I'll invite him in too, yeah?"
Colt can perhaps see the way light sheens across her pale hair from a distance; the shadows moving behind the fence. Only Trudy and Joe see the subtle quirk of her mouth, the low drift of humor in her voice as she lifts her chin toward Joe without every moving her dark eyes from the street beyond them. " - I bet you're about to get a phone call, boss."
The last word, boss, feels like ash in her mouth. It shows on her fine features only as a tightening of her pale brows.
[Joe Holst] Where the two female monsters look, they find two different sort of predators. The aforementioned Disciples. Grand name for what look more or less like any other gang-bangers. Kids with something to prove and mean streaks a mile wide. As Kora and Trudy have a look for themselves, the two bangers turn away. Such territorial disputes having long since been worked out between the various denizens of this dilapidated concrete jungle, they don't stare long.
The bull of a Modi looks from Kora to the street again, and jumps a little when the phone buzzes in his pocket.
"Is'e a real cowboy? Like... horses an' home on da' range an' shit?" Joe squints at the other truck rumbling to a stop, the threads of something like excitement coloring the edges of his Jersey bray.
"I'll wait up feh 'im den. Bet dat's him ovah deah." Joe raises an arm like a bridge girder and waves.
[Trudy Adler] She stands inside the junkyard, waiting for them to be done talking about the cowboy over yonder. A hand tucks into her jeans, and her hip cocks out slightly as she watches. The disappearing bangers are noted with a glance across the territory; the place that the Fenrir calls home.
[Joe Holst] ((Guys, I'm reeeeeeeal sorry. but one of the mares is finally foaling. Water bag and everything, thankfully. No false alarm this time. But! I gotta go stand there in case she needs a tug or two.))
to Colt Montgomery, Kora, Trudy Adler
[Colt Montgomery] ~Colt catches sight of Kora from across the street, he lifts a hand in the air, was it a salute, a wave, hard to distinguish in the fading light, he put his phone back in his pocket, hoping that the man was in fact Joe, or at least another one of the pack, he gave a holla~ "Howdy over there" ~his strides long as he made his way to where the others were~
[Kora] This sparks a supple thread of amusement in his packmate's eyes, curling across her mouth. Something of it: horses and home on the range, the way Joe jumps when his phone rings. "I don't imagine he rides horses, much. So probably not a real cowboy," the amusement weaves itself around her tone, inside and outside the words, " - more like a movie cowboy. Or plays one on TV. That sort of cowboy. Maybe he liked the hat."
When Colt catches sight of her, Kora gestures him over. Her speculation about what sort of cowboy he is ends.
[Kora] shall we, alas, assume introductions since dirge has to go? i'm actually fading, too, alas.
to Colt Montgomery, Joe Holst, Trudy Adler
[Trudy Adler] (we can catch this up another time?)
[Kora] (that works for me. I'm sorry y'all! :( )
[snail] (BOO! *demands refund*)
[Kora] (cooks snail in garlic+butter. eats.)
Headlights flick off before she gets out, locking the door after her and pocketing her keys into a pair of well worn jeans. She wears sneakers instead of boots, quieter on the concrete as she walks towards the main entrance of the place. A sweater is slightly over-sized, pulled on in haste as she walked out the door earlier that evening, and dark blonde hair is left loose.
She's watching, looking for signs of people, wolves, and territorial glyphs or markings as she crossed the road.
[Joe Holst] Bronzeville is a wretched sort of place. Downtrodden, dilapidated, a mirror image of Cabrini Green, but for the multitude of struggling businesses and the warehouse district that abuts one end of the gang and drug infested landscape. Few buildings are above three or four stories, and the place bears the crumbling facade of what might have at one time been a bubbling stew of culture. Given over now to the dogs.
...taken, since, by the wolves.
She'd seen the glyphs. Hidden appropriately, just another layer to the tapestry of scratch and bullet hole riddled Bronzeville. Fenrir, Home, and Claimed.
The territory itself rides an uneasy blind spot in the pattern of surrounding street gangs. Located on the edge of Bronzeville, where the streets are wider and more abandoned, she may have noted the denizens of such areas of any city growing more and more obvious as evening wore into night, and Chicago's sky slowly painted itself in the uneasy purple tapestry of smog and cloud cover.
A wall of smashed cars abutting a reinforced steel fence marks the edges of the large plot the abandoned junkyard sits on. "Carv- y and S-ns Wre--ing" reads the faded sign. The building occupying a break in the wall of smashed vehicles looks like its been boarded up since the Carter administration, but a narrow gap between steel bodies and the peeling paint of the rectangular building offers an entry.
Menacing, sky blue eyes remain riveted to the body of Trudy's truck as she rumbles to a stop, and flicker across her lean form as she crosses the street. The kid is huge like lions are huge. Formidable. Graceful in the manner of warriors and meteors. The sort of person well suited to ramming his way through life.
The bald head, narrow blood red suspenders dangling at his waist, and odd blend of neo- nazi and Asatru tattoos that peek out from around a black flight jacket don't make Joe any prettier, or seem more welcoming. Nevertheless, his face breaks into a broad, gap- toothed grin that never touches hard eyes.
"Any trouble findin' da place?" He can't be older than eighteen. perhaps younger. A heavy jaw that has torn through Jormugandr but hasn't managed to sprout hair swings up and down the street.
[Kora] There's a woman behind him, nearly of a height with the menacing kid - pale hair pulled back sharply from her pale face, with eyes dark enough that the color is lost in the evening's shadows. She is seen in piecemeal, from a distance, standing just before the bullish kid at his right shoulder, her own frame obscured by his heavily muscled torso, the insistence of his presence in the space. Her head is canted, just - sidelong, her dark eyes intent and watchful over his shoulder. Her wide mouth is still, calm, quirked up at the right corner. Their closeness - their physical familiarity - bespeaks their pack bond more eloquently than any scattering of human words could do.
[Trudy Adler] Just as well as they let themselves be known, she was two seconds away from whistling out. Good to see that they're mindful of rumbling vehicles in their area. Never know, they may not have been home. This has saved her another trip out here.
He's just a kid, but they all are. It doesn't make them any less violent or respected. They've learned more then she has in the time of becoming Garou, or, rather, coming into their true skins. In the Garou nation they're about the same, just above the pups and making their way into the world, making a name for themselves to leave behind.
Still, it gets her every time, these hard lined baby-faces.
She doesn't head into their territory, but comes to stop a step over the curve, nodding to each as she takes them both in. Her eyes aren't blue. She may have the strong lines, the blonde hair, and the presence of one of the Tribe but her eyes are a dull, olive green. But they're sharp; intelligent.
"Not too much," she answers Joe, a life-time of living in Minnesota making its mark upon her accent. "The bonus about modern marvels, eh?"
"I'm Trudy."
"Fistful of Reason."
"Mind if I come in and chat?"
[Joe Holst] "Shuwah." The Jersey accent is thick, and though muted, the kid's voice must generally be a braying, slightly high pitched noise. He turns for the gap in the fence, his bulky form sliding around Kora's with none of the awkward jostling for position that would mark a pair of humans..
A muffled jangle of steel links, and he stands next to the peeled back edge of the fence, holding it as he watches Trudy curiously.
"Comeahn inside.. we'll hold up intraductions feh a minute.. couple uh Disciples onna cornah been tossin' eyeballs dis way." He points his chin up the street, and the bullish skinhead chews hard on a wad of gum.
"Yah truck'll be ok wheah it is."
[Kora] "Hey Trudy," Kora's voice is more quiet than her Alpha's; the sound is richer, too - a burnished quality undergirds the vowels. Otherwise, her accent is merely American - the bob-standard tones of cable television, and marching suburbs everywhere, with their matched houses and manufactured lawns, huge garages yawning in the center of vinyl-clad houses that aspire to imitate the spikes and gables of 19th century construction on a mass-produced level. "Good to meet you."
She steps back as Joe peels open the fence, her narrow shoulders set straight over the line of her pelvis, her spine curving between the two in a posture that is not-quite-a-slouch. Joe is all eyes on the gang members on the corner; Kora gives him a flashing glance, includes the rest of the street in the sweeping arc of her survey, then settles her dark, clear-eyed attention on Trudy, watchful and intent.
[Trudy Adler] Disciples. There's plenty of street lingo that Trudy's going to have to learn. Though she's been in and out of cities throughout her lifetime, she's never been one to live in the streets or be a part of them. She takes a glance across her shoulder, following the direction of Joe's pointed chin, before glancing back to the duo.
She moves in through the parting gap of the fence, sliding her leaner figure through to step into their territory, now that she'd been invited.
"Nice to meet you too," she had told Kora, despite having her name yet.
[Colt Montgomery] ~the spit shined black Yukon pulls across the street from the destination, he eyes the junkyard, yep it was the right spot, he slid from the drivers side, two feet on the concrete, he looked around, taking in the area, seeing some of the gylphs, two steps away, he arms the alarm, seeing a body disappear into a fence.
He crossed the street, noting the fella's on the corner. Exotic ostrich skin Nocona boots crush the small stones on the asphalt. low-rise, faded indigo jeans that look expensive, finished with fading and whisking to enhance their appeal. His black tee shirt fit snug across his chest, his body chiseled, the outlines of his well defined pecks visible.
He stands six foot three, dark curls hidden beneath the straw cowboy hat that sat low on his brow, he pulledl out his phone and dialed Joe, he'd let him know he was out front~
[Kora] "The cowboy I told you about is here," Kora's eyes have cut beyond Trudy's shoulders, out to the dark street again. Her voice is low. She does not look toward Joe when she speaks to him, and she speaks aloud only as a concession to their guest, quiet and direct. "I'll invite him in too, yeah?"
Colt can perhaps see the way light sheens across her pale hair from a distance; the shadows moving behind the fence. Only Trudy and Joe see the subtle quirk of her mouth, the low drift of humor in her voice as she lifts her chin toward Joe without every moving her dark eyes from the street beyond them. " - I bet you're about to get a phone call, boss."
The last word, boss, feels like ash in her mouth. It shows on her fine features only as a tightening of her pale brows.
[Joe Holst] Where the two female monsters look, they find two different sort of predators. The aforementioned Disciples. Grand name for what look more or less like any other gang-bangers. Kids with something to prove and mean streaks a mile wide. As Kora and Trudy have a look for themselves, the two bangers turn away. Such territorial disputes having long since been worked out between the various denizens of this dilapidated concrete jungle, they don't stare long.
The bull of a Modi looks from Kora to the street again, and jumps a little when the phone buzzes in his pocket.
"Is'e a real cowboy? Like... horses an' home on da' range an' shit?" Joe squints at the other truck rumbling to a stop, the threads of something like excitement coloring the edges of his Jersey bray.
"I'll wait up feh 'im den. Bet dat's him ovah deah." Joe raises an arm like a bridge girder and waves.
[Trudy Adler] She stands inside the junkyard, waiting for them to be done talking about the cowboy over yonder. A hand tucks into her jeans, and her hip cocks out slightly as she watches. The disappearing bangers are noted with a glance across the territory; the place that the Fenrir calls home.
[Joe Holst] ((Guys, I'm reeeeeeeal sorry. but one of the mares is finally foaling. Water bag and everything, thankfully. No false alarm this time. But! I gotta go stand there in case she needs a tug or two.))
to Colt Montgomery, Kora, Trudy Adler
[Colt Montgomery] ~Colt catches sight of Kora from across the street, he lifts a hand in the air, was it a salute, a wave, hard to distinguish in the fading light, he put his phone back in his pocket, hoping that the man was in fact Joe, or at least another one of the pack, he gave a holla~ "Howdy over there" ~his strides long as he made his way to where the others were~
[Kora] This sparks a supple thread of amusement in his packmate's eyes, curling across her mouth. Something of it: horses and home on the range, the way Joe jumps when his phone rings. "I don't imagine he rides horses, much. So probably not a real cowboy," the amusement weaves itself around her tone, inside and outside the words, " - more like a movie cowboy. Or plays one on TV. That sort of cowboy. Maybe he liked the hat."
When Colt catches sight of her, Kora gestures him over. Her speculation about what sort of cowboy he is ends.
[Kora] shall we, alas, assume introductions since dirge has to go? i'm actually fading, too, alas.
to Colt Montgomery, Joe Holst, Trudy Adler
[Trudy Adler] (we can catch this up another time?)
[Kora] (that works for me. I'm sorry y'all! :( )
[snail] (BOO! *demands refund*)
[Kora] (cooks snail in garlic+butter. eats.)
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