Ornature

[Alexa Thanos] Saturday night and Luna is almost at her fullest glory. It's around these times that the city becomes an unsettled place; even the humans feel the touch of her in their veins, becoming more unpredictable and with it the violence is cruel. They are unable to hold the force which comes from a God, barely touched by Her and they create chaos for emergency wards across the country. The worst is yet to come.

Only the Garou have the ability and discipline to hone these wyld touches. Neither flesh or spirit, they walk both worlds, blessed by the gods. Neither human or beast, they struggle to find the middle ground between the two. This life is not easy, but yet they must continue to strive forth. They do not have the luxury to give up, or to become selfish beings to do as they wish, ignoring duty and calling. Life for them is short, leaving little chance to live or leave something of them behind, and the glories made in such a small lifespan are left unknown to the world at whole. Here to save the world, the Mother Gaia, and those living on her, torturing her, are none the wiser.

So while humans run rampant through the city streets, leaving dirt and decay in their wake, spreading disease and filth, Alexa Thanos takes refuge in Grant Park. She lays across a bench, with the sound of the fountain splashing a distance away, the light display flickering in her peripheral vision. Hands resting on her stomach, she watches the sky. The stars are dimmed, their light stolen by generated street lights, humming in orderly lines, forming grids. Traffic drowns out the sounds of crickets, of birds settled down for the night, and steals the sound of the blowing wind.

She is silent and still.

A backpack resting beneath the bench, holding all her worldly belongings. Jeans are faded, worn well on the thighs and backside, but not yet threadbare. Her t.shirt is red with a faded print across the front,and numerous woven threads wind their way around her wrists, brightly contrasting to a leather cuff, soft with age. Her dark mane of hair, spreads, the curls making a cushion between her scalp and the hard wooden surface beneath her.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] One of those summer storms passed through Chicago earlier today, unleashed a downpour that sucked all the humidity from the air. For an hour or two after, the air felt bright and clean, the musk of rain heavier than the usual combination of rotting garbage and car exhaust that marks the city's rather noxious perfume midsummer.

Now, near dusk, after dusk, and the humidity has returned. Walk out of some crisply air conditioned store or theater wearing glasses and they'll fog up in an instant, leaving you blind. A low curtain of fog hangs over the dark surface of Lake Michigan, looking thickened, nearly opaque where the lights from the park shine directly into the fog. Otherwise, it seems threaded, soft, licking at the shore, though never quite creeping over the edge of the bank. The sky has cleared, as much as it ever does.
It's darker here, where the city ends at the edge of the dark lake, but never dark. The moon rose before the sun had fully set, and now it climbs in the southeastern sky

The art museum has just closed for the evening, and the Millennium fountain has two more shows - on the hour, every hour - before parks workers will come and shut it down for the night. There are people in the park, walking home from dinner, or walking from home to the bar. Lingering after some afternoon blues concert at the ampitheater by the marina.

Tourists crowd around the flickering light display of the fountain, oohing and ahhing over the changing light. One pair, a tall, rangey man hand in hand with a child - seven or eight - pause to watch some dramatic color transition, then melt away from the display, cutting through the tourists, away from the fountain.

They're holding hands, the man and the girl, swinging them between. He's got a fountain soda in his free hand, and she's got a giant tub of movie popcorn, still half-full, in her free hand.

"I liked the flying," she says, the girl, laughter in her voice, "pigs best - " the girl is saying, as they round the corner and see Alexa laying down on the bench. There's this silence, after, where she's swallowing her words, the girl, frowning at the woman on the park bench, and slowing her pace.

Lucy worms her hand out of her father's then, reaches over to tug on the hem of his Ramones t-shirt, wrapping her fist in the worn old cotton, pulling. "Do you think she's homeless?" she asks, in a child's whisper, which means it is still rather perfectly audible to everyone in conversational distance.

"I don't know, Luce," he replies, his voice a rumble.

"Do you think she wants my popcorn?" Lucy asks next, her narrow frame curling close to her father's, her dark hair gleaming. They've let go hands, now, and instead he curls his big palm over her head, the fines strands of her hair catching in the callouses on his palm.

"You could ask her," he says; and this is more quiet than the child's whisper. More private, just for the girl.

--

They're ordinary, the man and the child. Except for the subtle hint of breeding in the blood, underneath the skin. Faint in the man, enough that it might be overlooked at first, were it not stronger in the girl.

[Alexa Thanos] Whispered words are captured by sharp ears but she doesn't turn her head to look at them. Her smile is a quiet thing, more to herself then anyone else, barely touching the edges of her mouth. Perhaps the child is right. There are a pair of well worn boots to the side of that pack, the socks tucked in, the laces are long and red, left to curl on the ground. Bare feet are long and lean, coloured like the rest of her - which is to say, that she's not quite Caucasian, olive enough to have tint and the summer makes her darker. It's the sort of complexion that one might consider in need of a scrub, not enough to be dark, and not light enough either. Her knees are comfortably raised, toes resting on the wood.

Slow and steady breathes are relaxed, filling up her lungs and belly in subtle, rhythmic waves. She can feel them under her palms, the rise and fall under lean muscle. As she listens to them, estimating just how far away they are, she can pick up something else. There's breeding in the air. It's not her own - she doesn't have one. Faint as it is, she recognizes it. People like herself are keenly aware, because people like them are born from heroes that still sing in their blood, quietly awaiting to be recognized. Breeding is ancestors speaking in the flesh.

But still she waits. Wondering if the child with the kind heart has the courage to go through with her fathers (assuming) suggestions. It's a rare thing, this quality. Perhaps more readily seen in the eyes of the Nation then that of humanity, but still a jewel to keep safe.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] There's this silence, after. Lucy hugging her father's thigh, her chin sharp against his flank, her soft face, pale and round, disappearing against the white t-shirt he wears. His palm slides from the crown of her head to the back of her head, pulling the strands, combing them back with his long, blunt fingers. He glances at the woman on the bench; maybe she can sense the look, which lingers without being intrusive, tracing the line of the laces on the boots she's kicked off up the shanks, onto the worn wooden slats of the bench where she rests.
Gauging, quietly, firmly, whether he means to encourage his daughter in her instinct to charity, or steer her away.

The pause lingers; the sounds of the crowd around the fountain filter back. There's a loose smattering of applause for the final show, but as there's no person or persons to take a bow, the applause doesn't take hold. Instead, the crowd begins to break apart. Some people drift down toward the water, toward the pier. Others turn back, hoping to catch the next bus, the last express train.

"Go on," the man tells the child at last, as she peels herself away from his leg. His encouragement is engaging but low and quiet but not wheedling. There's a certain firmness underneath. The girl glances up at him, the lights of the park gleaming across her eyes, then uncurls herself from her father's side, leaves the path and crosses a few steps over damp grass to the bench.

"Uhm," says Lucy, the sound humming in her soft palate, extended, thoughtful - uhhhhhhhm - "would you like my popcorn?"

[Alexa Thanos] She feels it and hears it. That look has thought to it, a consideration that she knows well enough, but her hands stay where they are and she looks about as non threatening as she can. Still, she is Garou. It's more clear in her features, in her large eyes or in the way she moves, but right now she is pretending to be human.

When the girl approaches, Alexa turns her head slowly so not to startle her. Dark brows arch, matching the way the edges of her mouth curl upward, slight but obvious. Her eyes are blue, but darkly coloured and the gaze of them flickers across the soft, rounded features of the kindly child not meeting her eyes for too long so not to make her uncomfortable. Long lines in her face give her a sharpness, but its the mouth and the large eyes that softens it.

Turning her hip, she pushes up to prop on an elbow. Hair falls down to one side, dark curls sliding down a lean arm to gather on the bench. "Popcorn you say?" Her interest has a little more enthusiasm for the child's sake, and she glances from the girl to the popcorn in her hand. "Is it the buttery kind?" A gaze flicks up again. It smells good this. She can't remember the last time she actually had popcorn, it's not exactly a staple diet with much nutrition to it, more of a luxury for theaters and what not - places Alexa does not attend.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "No," the girl says directly, with a certain limitless seriousness. "That's not real butter. That's chemicals." So she continues, perfectly serious, saucer-eyed as she holds out the half-eaten tub. "It's got hydro - " here she slips, passingly, searching for a word she's too stubborn to ask her father to supply. " - hydro-den-nated oils, too. Which is bad for you."

She's no more than seven or eight, a summer tan warming her otherwise sharply pale skin, huge eyes, some paler color that is lost in the shadows of the park, and fine dark brown hair that gleams in the lights. She's wearing jeans and a Yellowstone t-shirt, with a good half-dozen neon sillybandz bracelets around either wrist, and a sparkly little dragonfly clip in her hair. And she holds out the tub carefully, nervous underneath her skin, but prideful too - far too prideful to show her nerves, now.

Her father stands behind her, tall and rangey, his Ramones t-shirt black letter on white backround rather than the other way around. He's wearing jeans torn at the knee, shredded at the bottom hem, and leather sandals. He watches them both, Alexa now, more than Lucy, a certain readiness writ into the musculature revealed by the white tee.

[Alexa Thanos] "Hmmm." The sound plays on her tongue and in the back of her throat as she considers what this young one tells her. A brow hitches and her tone takes on something a little more playful. "You'd like to give me your popcorn filled with chemicals that are bad for me?" Her smile threatens to come fully to the fore. "How can I resist?"

"I'd be happy to take them off your hands, but on one condition." There's a small pause here as she waits to see the child's curiousity, perhaps the girl even asks what that might be. "That I give you something in return," this seems easy enough, "and that I might have your name so that I may thank you properly."

"You can have mine first, if you'd like."

"It's Alexa." She offers out her hand, long fingered and clean, to shake.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] This time, Lucy gives in briefly, shoots a glance over her shoulder at her father. He is a solid shadow behind her, made brighter only by the white t-shirt over his solid torso. The oversized movie soda looks absurd in his hands. He holds it loosely by the edges. Moisture beads over the waxed cardboard, glittering in the light when he shifts or moves. Something about his posture, though, suggests that he is ready to employ even the lowly damn soda as a weapon, should the need arise.

Dark eyes are fixed on Alexa. The strange man has close-cropped dark brown hair, and one of those beards shaved to follow the shape of his jaw rather than hide it. It's gone a bit over tonight; the man needs a shave. There's a leather necklace around his neck; and another, a gunmetal chain that is slightly longer. Last of all, old dog tags, on a metal popcorn chain.

Lucy looks to him briefly, her eyes shining, her body language caught between that sort of bravery that rises from native fearlessness, overwritten by caution. He drops his eyes to his daughter briefly, nodding chin-up to her wordlessly.

Then Lucy turns back to Alexa, glancing at her sidelong, this frowning little look that draws her dark brows together, turns her bow-mouth into a moue of thought.

"I'm Lucy," the girl says at last, reaching out to take Alexa's hand. Her own is small, both wrists wrapped by a hand-dozen little neon sillybandz.

[Alexa Thanos] "Lucy," Alexa shakes her hand gently, fingers light, "it's a pleasure to meet a kind young lady such as yourself." It sounds genuine, mostly because it is. Releasing the others hand, she moves to sit up slowly, sliding her feet off the bench and onto the ground. Moving, then, she crouches on the balls of her feet as she pulls her hiking pack closer to her. There's a bed roll tied to the bottom of it, camping style.

"Let me see what I have in here." It takes her a moment, opening up a small zipper section of the outside, and she looks through some odds and ends. A small draw string back is pulled out and she opens it up, digging her fingers inside to find what she was looking for. From inside she pulls out an elephant made out of rose quarts. The bag is put back within the pouch of her back pack and she turns the elephant over, which is just large enough to see the details etched into the surface, the trunk raised, the ears flat, eyes small. It's a purchased thing, not something made herself.

She offers it out to Lucy. "This is a rose quarts," she explains softly, "which is said to be for all warmth and happiness. Most suitable for a young lady like yourself." Nodding for her to take it. "The elephant has the longest memory, and will remember your kindness today. Take it with you. It's seen many places, all the way from India."

There's a small glance here, over to the man that watches her closely. Alexa hopes that she is not crossing any boundaries here, and seeks some sort of approval like the child had asked, before looking back to Lucy.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] Alexa glances over at the man, and finds him looking back at her. His features are cast in shifting shadows. The light is uncertain here, brighter flickers cut through the line of ornamental trees that screen the path from the fountain in the square behind them, soft pools spread beneath the artful streetlamps that line the street. She knows that he is watching her by the angle of his regard, because his eyes are in shadow. What light there is catches the furrow in his brow, the firm set of his jaw, marked by a faint, watchful frown.

His arms are loose by his side. Even in the darkness, his tattoos are evident. The right arm is covered by a tribal tattoo, dark black ink against his tanned skin - a single piece that covers his arm from the midpoint of his forearm, over his elbow, and disappears beneath the sleeve of his Ramones t-shirt.

Attention on her, his features do not soften when Alexa looks to him for permission. He's alert, wary and still. He does not, however, wave her off when she offers the child the carven elephant. This time, Lucy does not look back at her father. She reaches out and curve her small hand around the elephant, fitting her fingers around the grooves that define the stumpy legs, the trunk, the ears. Her fingernails are painted a peeling pink, and the little silicone bracelets are bright against her wrist.

"Have you been?" Lucy asks, " - to India? Did you have samosas? I like samosas. And mulliga- mulligantowny soup. I've been to Texas and California and I've been to the Okeefenokee Swamp but I've never been to India. Are you gonna go back? Is that why you're - "

"Luce," the man interrupts her, cautions her. It is his father's tone of voice, deep and sure. The girl wraps her small fingers around the elephant and shoots a lilting glance back over her shoulder at her father. "Did you say thank you?"

The girl, with a bit of a guilty start, turns back to Alexa and says just that. "Thank you."

[Alexa Thanos] "Samosas? Oh, they're alright," Alexa says easily, still resting in a one knee crouch. Her bag is all zipped up and left to the side and her elbow now rests on the seat, gently leaning into it. There's a small distance between her on the child, purposeful. Parents never liked strangers getting close to their children, and with good reason. "But biryani is my favourite."

Her gaze darts to John when he reminds the girl, and slides back to Lucy when she offers her thanks, smiling to her with a small nod. "You're most welcome, Lucy."

"And yes, I suppose I shall head back there at some point. I never really stay in one place for too long." While the father may have cut the child off from that particular questioning, the woman has no qualms returning to it or even speaking about it. "I have the blood of the gypsies," she goes on to tell her, winking one of her dark blue eyes, "and the wind always pushes at our back, telling us to keep moving."

Another glance is given over towards John, even as she talks to Lucy. "Is that your dad over there? Would you mind if I go and introduce myself to him?"

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "C'mere, Luce - " the kinsman says quietly to his daughter after Alexa has explained that she has the blood of the gypsies, before Lucy tells Alexa that her best friend Jennifer dressed up like a gypsy for Halloween last year which is where called Samhain even though most people don't even know that and they carved pumpkins and turnips and marrows and put them all around the cafe to keep away the spirits of the dead and now Jennifer is still in Seattle but Lucy is here and she's got to go to a new school and make new friends and she thought gypsies had to wear scarves on their heads and have funny names and -

- instead of all that, she watches Alexa bright-eyed, tucks away the elephant in the front pocket of her jeans and returns to her father's side. His slides his large left hand affectionately through her hair, a fond glance down at her softening the alertness, the evident caution in his eyes and posture.

"My name's John," he tells her. The introduction is partial, and cautious. There is a hint of apology in his tone, but it doesn't soften the firmness of his voice. " - and we have to be getting home." Lucy yanks on the hem of his t-shirt, gives him an elbow in his solid thigh. He looks down at her as she looks up, all shining eyes, pale blue gray.

The invitation that follows arises only from the girl's prompt. "If you need a meal sometime while you're in the city, I've got a place here in the city. Café Lulu. Drop by and we'll get you fed."

[Alexa Thanos] When the girl heads back over to her father, Alexa slowly rises from her crouch, enough to sit on the edge of the seat. Her bare toes rest on the cement that's been poured over the earth, helping the bench legs root themselves in the soil. She nods to John as he offers his name, explaining that they need to be getting home. It's late, and she assumes well past a child's bedtime, but she doesn't think that is the reason why they're going. That, too, she can understand.

Since she had said her name earlier, she adds now, to John. "Strider." It's enough to be said in front of a child with a loose tongue. Enough to let him know she doesn't mean any harm, but it's good that he has it in him anyway.

"Thank you, for the invitation." She smiled then, both to him and the child, but it wasn't something full. It warms more on Lucy. "And thank you for the popcorn."

"May you both have a good night."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The last detail sharpens John Brendan's attention on Alexa. One word changes the equation of their conversation. His brown eyes are level on her face, even and still wary. It is a different sort of wariness; and for all that he is an open book, with one of those honest faces that seems to give away his every tell, he meets her eyes with a directness that most kin can not summon, and will not bear.

"Kin," he asks, though his voice does not rise, it is clearly a question. "or -- "

The rest is unvoiced. Lucy is quiet now. She has that eerie sort of awareness that the adults are talking about adult things, and her stories and questions can wait. Instead, she listens, tipping her head back against her father's cradling hand to crane up a look at his face, then looking back across at Alexa.

[Alexa Thanos] "New moon," she fills in the blanks for him. No, she's not Kinfolk. She's a Silent Strider, one of Gaia's questioners, scouts, and sometimes - more often then not, warriors. A foot leaves the ground and the knee folds, bending the heel in towards the other thigh, resting her foot against the inside of it. She sits like this, casually propped onto the edge of the bench. Her fingers of one hand curl around the shin, and the other leans into her opposite thigh.

For now she doesn't offer anything more, merely watches him from her distance without adding any pressures to his already cautious self. She lets him work through his thoughts, potential problems, allowing him to still escape her to head home, as much as she's inviting the conversation to continue.

Silent Striders are quite adapt in listening, also communicating, and not just with words.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] She says New Moon, fills in the blank for him; that she is kinfolk, not Garou. The eye contact lingers, not challenging, but clear and confident. He is easy to read, except that the flash of expression that gleams in his brown eyes and twists his mouth, framed by his trimmed beard, is so complex that even he could not name it. There is awareness, an unconscionable sort of pity, tinged with bitterness so brief it is hardly perceptible, so sharp that it draws the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as if he had just bit into a lemon. Here he would feel it spark against his soft palate. Here he would shave it back, until he could taste something else, again.

Then his gaze drops abruptly back to Lucy, to the way the strands of the girl's hair pull like silk underneath his calloused palm. The same complex of emotions sharpens his otherwise ordinary features - a strong jaw, a too-wide nose - emphasizing the hint of breeding that marks him so easily as kinfolk.

The hint of breeding is stronger in the girl. Fianna, too - more clearly so, with her light skin, her round rosy cheeks, her clear eyes an opaque gray-blue, the hint of fire in the undertones of her chestnut hair - and aware, too, of the changing atmosphere, for all that's she's quiet know, her attention almost a solemn thing.

"John Brendan Cavanagh," he gives his full name, now. His voice is a low rumble, his hand still in the girl's hair. "The invitation stands. It's in Lake View, though a bit far from the condos. I'm sure you can find it. Ask for Chef Cavanagh."

[Alexa Thanos] For all that he is going through, she is simply watchful and silent. Alexa does not need to school her expressions, for all the fire in her blood, it's quiet and takes a lot to get simmering in the first place. While Luna may be round in the sky, heating her skin, outward from her core, she is disciplined with it. Follower of Owl, she is still and silent.

"I will," she tells him. She would, too, find that cafe. Whether she comes in and asks for a hand out is another thing altogether, but she would come there to know where it is, he and the girl are, just for the sake of knowledge. "Thank you, John." For the kindness and thoughts.

Her toes curl a little, gripping the jeans covering her thigh, and relax again. Idle, restless, comfortable. The world was what she could call home, this bench likely to be her bed tonight, and she seems relaxed in the openness of it. There's thoughts to continue the conversation. A want to keep them here, talking to her, but the overriding desire wins out - that which is not to become a burden. It's easy to spend the hours alone.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] His gaze lingers a moment. There's a spark of humor in his eyes and his mouth, which does not deepen into laughter full throated or otherwise. "My mother's the only one who calls me John," he tells her, though he does not offer her another name. Does not tell her which of the many potential contractions and diminutives he recognizes as his name.

Then, he drops his eyes to his daughter. "C'mon, Luce," he says again, his hand pillowing her head now. The thread of his voice is low and dark, and the girl looks up at him, her eyes gleaming in the ambient light. "Let's go."

Lucy has one fist in the front pocket of her jeans, cradling her elephant. The other hand is wrapped through one of the belt loops on her father's jeans. The brown belt he wears is soft, dark against her small hand, a good half-dozen years old, if the lines in the leather are any indication.

That's all he says by way of farewell. The pair of them walk off down the path that cuts through the park toward the bus stop that will take them home. He has his hand on her head, and she holds onto his clothing or his body as they walk. The park bench is left behind, Alexa with it, in the opening, sleeping under the stars, over an apron of poured concrete that smothers the soil beneath it.

As they walk, Lucy twists her head half-way round, walking Alexa, who was left behind, until the Strider is swallowed by the shadows, or a bend in the path takes them out of line of sight. Her gaze is simmering and watchful and alive. Then she's gone, and they're gone, somewhere beyond a copse of trees planted as a manicured homage to the forests that once covered these lands.