[Kora] Earlier that day, Izzy received a voice mail. A woman's voice, low and rich and distinct, a new authority that still fitted strangely over her lean frame, but a surety to it, nonetheless. "I'd like to talk. Tonight?"
A handful of messages after that, and the meeting was arranged for Fat Patty's Bar and Grill, where the run-down Cabrini neighborhood runs into gentrification along the river, bordering the park. It is a hot, humid night, and those patrons lingering in the bar at this hour have chosen the air conditioning inside rather than the patio outside, light by a string of laterns and served by a long barmaid. All except one, who lounges underneath one of the open umbrella, a burger and fries on a plate in front of her, and a beer in hand. There's another place setting and another beer there, both crisp and fresh, the glass sweating condensation, the head foaming, crisp. When Izzy turns the corner or parks her car on the quiet sidestreet fronting a spur of the parkland, Kora lifts a hand by way of greeting, applying herself to the fries.
When Izzy is close enough to address, she says, "Have a seat, detective. I would've ordered you a burger, but wasn't sure what you'd want. They have Bell's on tap here, though. I got you a two-hearted ale. The brewmaster's brilliant." Small talk, for the moment. As soon as Izzy walked into view, Kora's dark, sure eyes were fixed on her, in that animal way that Garou have.
[Izzy Montoya] She had answered the email with a simple text agreeing to the meeting, tapped out one handed in the midst of shift change, while Sarge went on and on about the list of cases that needed worked. She'd answered the rest in the same manner, agreeing to the time, the place.
When she parks her car, and steps out, it's clear that today has not been the best of days. She's worn down, and the exhaustion is showing in her eyes. When she closes the door of her non-descript unmarked car, that all but screams 'cop!' by its very unmarked-ness, She takes a moment, her eyes on the ground, her breath even and slow. Then, if Kora is watching, she sees shoulders roll up, spine straighten, jaw set as Izzy settles herself into the facade she shows the world. With that, she turns and heads to the Patio - dressed in typical 'uniform', business casual, dark slacks, and a lighter tailored blouse under a light blazer worn only to cover the presence of her gun.
The wave gets a nod in return, as long strides carry the Detective to the table, and the place settings there. To the greeting, she nods, and pulls out the chair, and settles into the seat, reaching behind her to adjust her holster at the small of her back so that it doesn't catch on the edge of the seat. She crosses her legs - long, and slender - and smooths the material over her thigh. She reaches for the beer, and with the barest, briefest hint of a grin, she nods. "Thanks. I'm not hungry, the beer is fine. To what do I owe the pleasure.."
Even if she's quite sure it's going to be anything but...
[Izzy Montoya] (email = voice mail. really. heh.)
[Kora] They look nothing alike. Kora has a feral certainty about her, the animal grace written into her body, blood and bones. The way she sits, leaning back, her body a neat curve inside the right angle of the patio chair, her chin rising, her hair half-kempt, half loose down her back. And, more than that, she is a sharply casual counterpoint to the detective's precise wardrobe, the blazer, the fitted blouse underneath, tucked in, the pressed trousers, all the signs of her success and her professional life. Kora is dressed in a t-shirt that has been soaked in her blood so many times the seams are stiff with it. The black cotton conceals the stains, old and new, admirably.
"Cheers," Kora returns, when Izzy reaches for and picks up the beer. She lifts her own in counterpoint, her head canted aslant, her dark eyes watchful on the kinswoman's face. She could not miss the reluctance written into the woman's body language, so close and careful is her observation, but there's a delicacy to it. She watches, she doesn't stare, and she does not indulge the other's misgivings by acknowledging them.
The minor toast offered, Kora takes a quick sip of her beer, then returns the glass to the iron and glass patio table. The light out here is shifting, indifferent, but not so meager that Izzy will miss the fine amber color of the two-hearted.
"I have a bit of a project," Kora begins, reaching for one of her fries, dunking it quickly in a small container of mayonnaise. "I was hoping you could get the Police Department involved somehow. Sponsorship or participation - that sort of thing. You want to hear about it?"
[Izzy Montoya] She takes a healthy swallow or two of her beer, before setting it it down again, a sound of appreciation of the taste made in the back of her throat, before she settles back into her chair. She knows she is being watched, expects that she is being judged in some fashion, doesn't seem to care either way. Instead, she awaits the reason for the meeting, and what is expected of her.
What she hears is not necessarily what she expected, and that's given away by the arch of a brow, slight yet visible. "A project." A beat, and then a carefully casual "Sure, tell me about it."
[Kora] "The Chicago River," the Skald says, quiet, this sort of simmering presence underneath. There's a subtle thread of humor in here, " - is filthy." Here, the humor sparks bright in her dark eyes, lingers in the shape of her generous mouth without finding any other expression in her voice. "I expect that's nothing you didn't already know. We fought a huge spirit, made of trash and spilled oil there, on the other side. It was working to poison the river further, destroy whatever might be left in there of balance. We won, but it was a close thing - and afterwards, all this trash sort of rained down on us. Some of the spirits in the river healed my packmate, and cleansed use both of the poison that would've killed us.
"So," another fry, which she - hungry - practically inhales. "I was thinking that we could start there, yeah? Picking up the trash, cleaning up the river banks. One of those river clean-up days that folks organize, just getting as much of the trash out of the river, the banks, and the shallows as possible. Trent's working to organize some kin resources, and I thought you might be able to get the PD, or at least the Fraternal Order or the police union or something involved, yeah? As sponsors, or volunteers. I told him I'd get in touch with you, and ask you to get in touch with him."
[Izzy Montoya] That brow quirks again, and she can't quite hold back the "No shit.." at hearing the river is filthy. She follows it with a chuckle, though, brief as it is. The abbreviated tale of a battle on the other side, of Spirits and such, is listened to curiously, though little of it shows through her features, barely glinting in her gaze.
She is a warrior of another - weaker - kind, but that doesn't mean she lacks appreciation for the efforts of the others. Then she blinks. "Trent... Trent Brumby?" and almost a smile, there. "Haven't seen him in ages. Wasn't sure if he was still around." Clearly, there's a past there, of some sort. And with it, a decision. "I can see what I can do - it's not my usual forte, but I know who I can get to help grease the right wheels and get involved."
Poor Finn. He's about to be recruited once again...
[Kora] "Yeah," Kora replies to the question, when Izzy puts together the kinsman's first and last names. The rightmost corner of her mouth rises, briefly familiar. " - one and the same. He's still around." The smile deepens briefly; Kora glances away, watching the drift of headlights along the building fronts, pale and ghostly as some SUV as the closest intersection makes a leisurely left turn against traffic. In profile, her features are sharp, dominated by cheekbone and jaw rather than her expressive mouth. Her dark eyes gleam in the dim light and her hair is haloed into white by the background illumination, though the rest of her expression is lost in the shadows.
Then, she lifts her chin neatly and cuts a look back to Izzy. "He's Fenrir now, yeah?" Half-rising from her chair, Kora pulls out a torn sheet of notebook paper on which she has scrawled a pair of numbers, pushing this across the table to Izzy. "Give him a call. I appreciate this, Detective."
[Kora] transcript!
to Kora
[Izzy Montoya] Izzy doesn't miss that reaction, and she's not one of the best Detectives in the city because she's dumb enough to miss the obvious signs. It doesn't take her long to put together the thrown out news of Kora's being mated at their last meeting, and the way she looks away now, the way her eyes gleam and then - the clincher - the fact that he's Fenrir now.
"Is he then." A bemused chuckle, brief, but certainly there, as she takes the piece of paper.
"I'll call him tomorrow, and see what I can do at work." There's no promise of results, but certainly one to try - and likely, not for the woman who asks, but for the man she asks for, instead.
[Kora] "Brilliant," the Skald replies, low-voiced and sure. She lifts her glass of beer again, making that vague gesture toward a toast that is never wholly resolved into one, and sits back in the chair, gesturing toward her fries with a help yourself sort of look. She's quiet after that, small talk about the heat, maybe. Some notorious crime in the neighborhood she calls home. A passing question about Thornton, how the move went, whether Izzy was all finished with it, whether she still had more to move.
The advantage, Kora will say then, of packing light. Because she can carry all her belongings in a back pack. The rest, gleaned and otherwise, are locked away in a storage locker in Cabrini.
Very little to show for a life. She doesn't say that, good-natured underneath it, easy when the moon is dark, in control of both her tongue and her temper always. When Izzy finishes her first beer, Kora offers her a second, never expecting her to accept, but ready and willing to purchase it if she's so inclined. And so on, until the detective leaves, or the Skald. Or both, off into the humid summer night, the steaming, filthy city.
A handful of messages after that, and the meeting was arranged for Fat Patty's Bar and Grill, where the run-down Cabrini neighborhood runs into gentrification along the river, bordering the park. It is a hot, humid night, and those patrons lingering in the bar at this hour have chosen the air conditioning inside rather than the patio outside, light by a string of laterns and served by a long barmaid. All except one, who lounges underneath one of the open umbrella, a burger and fries on a plate in front of her, and a beer in hand. There's another place setting and another beer there, both crisp and fresh, the glass sweating condensation, the head foaming, crisp. When Izzy turns the corner or parks her car on the quiet sidestreet fronting a spur of the parkland, Kora lifts a hand by way of greeting, applying herself to the fries.
When Izzy is close enough to address, she says, "Have a seat, detective. I would've ordered you a burger, but wasn't sure what you'd want. They have Bell's on tap here, though. I got you a two-hearted ale. The brewmaster's brilliant." Small talk, for the moment. As soon as Izzy walked into view, Kora's dark, sure eyes were fixed on her, in that animal way that Garou have.
[Izzy Montoya] She had answered the email with a simple text agreeing to the meeting, tapped out one handed in the midst of shift change, while Sarge went on and on about the list of cases that needed worked. She'd answered the rest in the same manner, agreeing to the time, the place.
When she parks her car, and steps out, it's clear that today has not been the best of days. She's worn down, and the exhaustion is showing in her eyes. When she closes the door of her non-descript unmarked car, that all but screams 'cop!' by its very unmarked-ness, She takes a moment, her eyes on the ground, her breath even and slow. Then, if Kora is watching, she sees shoulders roll up, spine straighten, jaw set as Izzy settles herself into the facade she shows the world. With that, she turns and heads to the Patio - dressed in typical 'uniform', business casual, dark slacks, and a lighter tailored blouse under a light blazer worn only to cover the presence of her gun.
The wave gets a nod in return, as long strides carry the Detective to the table, and the place settings there. To the greeting, she nods, and pulls out the chair, and settles into the seat, reaching behind her to adjust her holster at the small of her back so that it doesn't catch on the edge of the seat. She crosses her legs - long, and slender - and smooths the material over her thigh. She reaches for the beer, and with the barest, briefest hint of a grin, she nods. "Thanks. I'm not hungry, the beer is fine. To what do I owe the pleasure.."
Even if she's quite sure it's going to be anything but...
[Izzy Montoya] (email = voice mail. really. heh.)
[Kora] They look nothing alike. Kora has a feral certainty about her, the animal grace written into her body, blood and bones. The way she sits, leaning back, her body a neat curve inside the right angle of the patio chair, her chin rising, her hair half-kempt, half loose down her back. And, more than that, she is a sharply casual counterpoint to the detective's precise wardrobe, the blazer, the fitted blouse underneath, tucked in, the pressed trousers, all the signs of her success and her professional life. Kora is dressed in a t-shirt that has been soaked in her blood so many times the seams are stiff with it. The black cotton conceals the stains, old and new, admirably.
"Cheers," Kora returns, when Izzy reaches for and picks up the beer. She lifts her own in counterpoint, her head canted aslant, her dark eyes watchful on the kinswoman's face. She could not miss the reluctance written into the woman's body language, so close and careful is her observation, but there's a delicacy to it. She watches, she doesn't stare, and she does not indulge the other's misgivings by acknowledging them.
The minor toast offered, Kora takes a quick sip of her beer, then returns the glass to the iron and glass patio table. The light out here is shifting, indifferent, but not so meager that Izzy will miss the fine amber color of the two-hearted.
"I have a bit of a project," Kora begins, reaching for one of her fries, dunking it quickly in a small container of mayonnaise. "I was hoping you could get the Police Department involved somehow. Sponsorship or participation - that sort of thing. You want to hear about it?"
[Izzy Montoya] She takes a healthy swallow or two of her beer, before setting it it down again, a sound of appreciation of the taste made in the back of her throat, before she settles back into her chair. She knows she is being watched, expects that she is being judged in some fashion, doesn't seem to care either way. Instead, she awaits the reason for the meeting, and what is expected of her.
What she hears is not necessarily what she expected, and that's given away by the arch of a brow, slight yet visible. "A project." A beat, and then a carefully casual "Sure, tell me about it."
[Kora] "The Chicago River," the Skald says, quiet, this sort of simmering presence underneath. There's a subtle thread of humor in here, " - is filthy." Here, the humor sparks bright in her dark eyes, lingers in the shape of her generous mouth without finding any other expression in her voice. "I expect that's nothing you didn't already know. We fought a huge spirit, made of trash and spilled oil there, on the other side. It was working to poison the river further, destroy whatever might be left in there of balance. We won, but it was a close thing - and afterwards, all this trash sort of rained down on us. Some of the spirits in the river healed my packmate, and cleansed use both of the poison that would've killed us.
"So," another fry, which she - hungry - practically inhales. "I was thinking that we could start there, yeah? Picking up the trash, cleaning up the river banks. One of those river clean-up days that folks organize, just getting as much of the trash out of the river, the banks, and the shallows as possible. Trent's working to organize some kin resources, and I thought you might be able to get the PD, or at least the Fraternal Order or the police union or something involved, yeah? As sponsors, or volunteers. I told him I'd get in touch with you, and ask you to get in touch with him."
[Izzy Montoya] That brow quirks again, and she can't quite hold back the "No shit.." at hearing the river is filthy. She follows it with a chuckle, though, brief as it is. The abbreviated tale of a battle on the other side, of Spirits and such, is listened to curiously, though little of it shows through her features, barely glinting in her gaze.
She is a warrior of another - weaker - kind, but that doesn't mean she lacks appreciation for the efforts of the others. Then she blinks. "Trent... Trent Brumby?" and almost a smile, there. "Haven't seen him in ages. Wasn't sure if he was still around." Clearly, there's a past there, of some sort. And with it, a decision. "I can see what I can do - it's not my usual forte, but I know who I can get to help grease the right wheels and get involved."
Poor Finn. He's about to be recruited once again...
[Kora] "Yeah," Kora replies to the question, when Izzy puts together the kinsman's first and last names. The rightmost corner of her mouth rises, briefly familiar. " - one and the same. He's still around." The smile deepens briefly; Kora glances away, watching the drift of headlights along the building fronts, pale and ghostly as some SUV as the closest intersection makes a leisurely left turn against traffic. In profile, her features are sharp, dominated by cheekbone and jaw rather than her expressive mouth. Her dark eyes gleam in the dim light and her hair is haloed into white by the background illumination, though the rest of her expression is lost in the shadows.
Then, she lifts her chin neatly and cuts a look back to Izzy. "He's Fenrir now, yeah?" Half-rising from her chair, Kora pulls out a torn sheet of notebook paper on which she has scrawled a pair of numbers, pushing this across the table to Izzy. "Give him a call. I appreciate this, Detective."
[Kora] transcript!
to Kora
[Izzy Montoya] Izzy doesn't miss that reaction, and she's not one of the best Detectives in the city because she's dumb enough to miss the obvious signs. It doesn't take her long to put together the thrown out news of Kora's being mated at their last meeting, and the way she looks away now, the way her eyes gleam and then - the clincher - the fact that he's Fenrir now.
"Is he then." A bemused chuckle, brief, but certainly there, as she takes the piece of paper.
"I'll call him tomorrow, and see what I can do at work." There's no promise of results, but certainly one to try - and likely, not for the woman who asks, but for the man she asks for, instead.
[Kora] "Brilliant," the Skald replies, low-voiced and sure. She lifts her glass of beer again, making that vague gesture toward a toast that is never wholly resolved into one, and sits back in the chair, gesturing toward her fries with a help yourself sort of look. She's quiet after that, small talk about the heat, maybe. Some notorious crime in the neighborhood she calls home. A passing question about Thornton, how the move went, whether Izzy was all finished with it, whether she still had more to move.
The advantage, Kora will say then, of packing light. Because she can carry all her belongings in a back pack. The rest, gleaned and otherwise, are locked away in a storage locker in Cabrini.
Very little to show for a life. She doesn't say that, good-natured underneath it, easy when the moon is dark, in control of both her tongue and her temper always. When Izzy finishes her first beer, Kora offers her a second, never expecting her to accept, but ready and willing to purchase it if she's so inclined. And so on, until the detective leaves, or the Skald. Or both, off into the humid summer night, the steaming, filthy city.
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