[Slaughter] "Clap him on the back or something," this to Kora.
"Before he vomits or something."
[Slaughter] (remove the last "or something"! Jeesh)
[Sorrow] "Thanks doc," back to Imogen, in a low sardonic voice. For sparing her the lecture. Roman is slowly losing it beside, like a bank saturated with rain crumbling onto the road below. When Erika discusses her manicure, she receives a direct, dark-eyed glance from the Skald. "I'm surprised. A manicure wouldn't last a night on me."
Maybe Silver Fangs had a different - less martial - approach to war.
Then Imogen suggests that Kora clap Roman on the back. Kora glances between the sundae and the bowl full and sprinkles and the slowly-choking Ragabash, and claps him on the back.
[Sorrow] Dex + Brawl! Dif 6
[Sorrow] Bashing damage - clapping Roman on the back!
[Slaughter] (....)
[Roman Turner] A clap on the back was just what he needed. He was still swiping at his eyes, trying to get himself under control when he turned his head to Erika and rasped out.
"My apologies Ma'am. It's just not everyday I see a Kin completely ignore a question from a True in favor of studying her nails and all."
[Erika Irina Alexander] Seems completely confused and alarmed. Something about her tenses up, looking from one to the other. "I'm sorry," she is quick to say. "I.... missed it. I didn't mean..." Erika becomes rather spooked. The blonde kin rubs at her right cheek, keeping her hand there.
[Roman Turner] "Well ma'am, it might be because ya got so intent on your fingernails there that ya became mesmerized? Miss Kora asked ya if the Master's degree was the difference because ya seemed to look down upon counselors with your comment there."
[Erika Irina Alexander] Shaking, the thirty-year-old seems more than a little uneasy. The kinfolk tries to regain her composure a bit, placing her hand on the table. She breathes slowly, deliberately, and keeps her eyes down.
"I didn't think she needed my confirmation. I meant no disrespect."
[Slaughter] Imogen's watching Erika now, her gaze intent, her eyes narrowed. There is a certain directness to the way she looks at the other woman. A sharp edged perception. There is no empathy.
Still:
"That's enough, Roman."
Imogen is kinfolk. She speaks in ways most would never dare. Not even with one so young.
[Sorrow] So: Roman is saved from choking. Kora hits him squarely between the shoulder blades with the heel of her palm, hardly enough that the impact has a sort of resonance in the young Garou's chest, hard enough to sting, but not really hard enough to do anything more than inconvenience the kid. Erika gets a spooked look on her face, and reaches up to touch her old scars. Kora glances from the kinswoman to Roman, then back again.
There's a faint curl of a frown on her mouth then; call it - thoughtful. The look isn't for Erika, but for Imogen, "Hey doc, I'm not sure I told you yet, but if you find any stray Fenrir, kin or Garou, I'd appreciate it if you sent them to me, yeah?"
Back to Erika, then, as the kinswoman struggles to regain her composure. "None taken," Kora says, quietly.
[Roman Turner] He shook his head and pushed out of the booth.
"I don't mean to scare ya or make ya start babbling. Ya should just be aware of your environment and what's going on around ya. Becoming lost in envy over another's nail paint leaves ya vulnerable."
He nodded to the group.
"Sorry to disrupt supper. There's still some ice cream there and sprinkles, help yourself."
He fished out his wallet then headed for the counter with his hat tucked under one arm so he had both hands free to pull out a bill he placed on the counter calling to the waitress.
"Mighty fine ice cream sundae, Ma'am. Thank ya kindly."
[Roman Turner] He nodded towards the group at the table as he headed for the door. Kora would see him later on patrols. For now he opened the door the heat and stepped out where he could be seen settling the hat on his head before heading off up the street into the dark.
((Thanks for the play!))
[Slaughter] "Goodnight, Roman." Mildly answered as Imogen picks up her coffee and drains it to its cooling dregs. A flick of her gaze toward Kora as she starts to get up. By now, Roman's out the door. "I'll send Fenrir to you," she says.
"And I ha' somethin' to show you, if you ha' the time." Her eyes move to Erika, "You mentioned you ha' clients to see," she notes, mildly. "I'd hate to keep you from them. Enjoy the reminder o' yer evening."
[Erika Irina Alexander] Remains quiet, hoping desperately for her drink of choice or something to keep her from having a panic attack on the spot. She fumbles for her wallet, takes out thirty, and leaves it on the table. "Keep your money. I'll take care of it."
Erika wasn't looking for empathy, not at all. She keeps her eyes down, thinking of things she buried in her past long ago. Maybe there's a reason she's gone all this time alone and filled her schedule with work.
[Erika Irina Alexander] ((Woah, delayed. Grr Stupid Jove))
[Erika Irina Alexander] Erika gladly takes the invitation to leave. She takes a breath and forces a smile, checking her watch. "Yes, well just the last for today." She takes out two business cards and gives one to Kora, one to Imogen.
"In case either of you need to contact me." One quick gaze to Kora before quietly managing, "Elder, again I'm sorry."
[Sorrow] "Sure thing, doc," Kora replies, her voice low and rich as always. She's managed to consume half her Coke, and requests the meal she ordered to go. A pair of Chicago-style hot dogs and huge serving of fries and accordingly wrapped in butcher paper and quickly stuffed into a white paper back, the sharp call-response between the waitress and the short-order cook has a certain patois rhythm to it, patterned and engaging and essentially unrecognizeable.
"Erika," the tall Fenrir offers as she unfolds herself from the booth, accepting the business card with a flick of her fingers. After a moment's thought, she scrawls a number on a napkin, offering it back to Erika to tuck into a pocket.. "My number, if you need it. I told you, I didn't take any offence. Be safe, yeah?"
Kora waits long enough for the waitress to bring her her take-out bag, sliding Erika's card into her right hip pocket, then starts toward the door,, her reflection narrow, lean and tall and pale, walking through the windows like soe movie that is constantly resetting itself.
[Erika Irina Alexander] Erika takes the napkin and leaves, pushing onwards for safety on the streets of Chicago, ironic as that sounds. "Goodnight," she says to the both of them.
"Before he vomits or something."
[Slaughter] (remove the last "or something"! Jeesh)
[Sorrow] "Thanks doc," back to Imogen, in a low sardonic voice. For sparing her the lecture. Roman is slowly losing it beside, like a bank saturated with rain crumbling onto the road below. When Erika discusses her manicure, she receives a direct, dark-eyed glance from the Skald. "I'm surprised. A manicure wouldn't last a night on me."
Maybe Silver Fangs had a different - less martial - approach to war.
Then Imogen suggests that Kora clap Roman on the back. Kora glances between the sundae and the bowl full and sprinkles and the slowly-choking Ragabash, and claps him on the back.
[Sorrow] Dex + Brawl! Dif 6
[Sorrow] Bashing damage - clapping Roman on the back!
[Slaughter] (....)
[Roman Turner] A clap on the back was just what he needed. He was still swiping at his eyes, trying to get himself under control when he turned his head to Erika and rasped out.
"My apologies Ma'am. It's just not everyday I see a Kin completely ignore a question from a True in favor of studying her nails and all."
[Erika Irina Alexander] Seems completely confused and alarmed. Something about her tenses up, looking from one to the other. "I'm sorry," she is quick to say. "I.... missed it. I didn't mean..." Erika becomes rather spooked. The blonde kin rubs at her right cheek, keeping her hand there.
[Roman Turner] "Well ma'am, it might be because ya got so intent on your fingernails there that ya became mesmerized? Miss Kora asked ya if the Master's degree was the difference because ya seemed to look down upon counselors with your comment there."
[Erika Irina Alexander] Shaking, the thirty-year-old seems more than a little uneasy. The kinfolk tries to regain her composure a bit, placing her hand on the table. She breathes slowly, deliberately, and keeps her eyes down.
"I didn't think she needed my confirmation. I meant no disrespect."
[Slaughter] Imogen's watching Erika now, her gaze intent, her eyes narrowed. There is a certain directness to the way she looks at the other woman. A sharp edged perception. There is no empathy.
Still:
"That's enough, Roman."
Imogen is kinfolk. She speaks in ways most would never dare. Not even with one so young.
[Sorrow] So: Roman is saved from choking. Kora hits him squarely between the shoulder blades with the heel of her palm, hardly enough that the impact has a sort of resonance in the young Garou's chest, hard enough to sting, but not really hard enough to do anything more than inconvenience the kid. Erika gets a spooked look on her face, and reaches up to touch her old scars. Kora glances from the kinswoman to Roman, then back again.
There's a faint curl of a frown on her mouth then; call it - thoughtful. The look isn't for Erika, but for Imogen, "Hey doc, I'm not sure I told you yet, but if you find any stray Fenrir, kin or Garou, I'd appreciate it if you sent them to me, yeah?"
Back to Erika, then, as the kinswoman struggles to regain her composure. "None taken," Kora says, quietly.
[Roman Turner] He shook his head and pushed out of the booth.
"I don't mean to scare ya or make ya start babbling. Ya should just be aware of your environment and what's going on around ya. Becoming lost in envy over another's nail paint leaves ya vulnerable."
He nodded to the group.
"Sorry to disrupt supper. There's still some ice cream there and sprinkles, help yourself."
He fished out his wallet then headed for the counter with his hat tucked under one arm so he had both hands free to pull out a bill he placed on the counter calling to the waitress.
"Mighty fine ice cream sundae, Ma'am. Thank ya kindly."
[Roman Turner] He nodded towards the group at the table as he headed for the door. Kora would see him later on patrols. For now he opened the door the heat and stepped out where he could be seen settling the hat on his head before heading off up the street into the dark.
((Thanks for the play!))
[Slaughter] "Goodnight, Roman." Mildly answered as Imogen picks up her coffee and drains it to its cooling dregs. A flick of her gaze toward Kora as she starts to get up. By now, Roman's out the door. "I'll send Fenrir to you," she says.
"And I ha' somethin' to show you, if you ha' the time." Her eyes move to Erika, "You mentioned you ha' clients to see," she notes, mildly. "I'd hate to keep you from them. Enjoy the reminder o' yer evening."
[Erika Irina Alexander] Remains quiet, hoping desperately for her drink of choice or something to keep her from having a panic attack on the spot. She fumbles for her wallet, takes out thirty, and leaves it on the table. "Keep your money. I'll take care of it."
Erika wasn't looking for empathy, not at all. She keeps her eyes down, thinking of things she buried in her past long ago. Maybe there's a reason she's gone all this time alone and filled her schedule with work.
[Erika Irina Alexander] ((Woah, delayed. Grr Stupid Jove))
[Erika Irina Alexander] Erika gladly takes the invitation to leave. She takes a breath and forces a smile, checking her watch. "Yes, well just the last for today." She takes out two business cards and gives one to Kora, one to Imogen.
"In case either of you need to contact me." One quick gaze to Kora before quietly managing, "Elder, again I'm sorry."
[Sorrow] "Sure thing, doc," Kora replies, her voice low and rich as always. She's managed to consume half her Coke, and requests the meal she ordered to go. A pair of Chicago-style hot dogs and huge serving of fries and accordingly wrapped in butcher paper and quickly stuffed into a white paper back, the sharp call-response between the waitress and the short-order cook has a certain patois rhythm to it, patterned and engaging and essentially unrecognizeable.
"Erika," the tall Fenrir offers as she unfolds herself from the booth, accepting the business card with a flick of her fingers. After a moment's thought, she scrawls a number on a napkin, offering it back to Erika to tuck into a pocket.. "My number, if you need it. I told you, I didn't take any offence. Be safe, yeah?"
Kora waits long enough for the waitress to bring her her take-out bag, sliding Erika's card into her right hip pocket, then starts toward the door,, her reflection narrow, lean and tall and pale, walking through the windows like soe movie that is constantly resetting itself.
[Erika Irina Alexander] Erika takes the napkin and leaves, pushing onwards for safety on the streets of Chicago, ironic as that sounds. "Goodnight," she says to the both of them.
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