[Kora] Sunday evening, the night is quiet and gray. It is cool outsid, the sky hidden between a bank of clouds behind a cold front that passed through this time yesterday, with bands of rain and thunder. Sometime after the sun has gone down, Kora walks into Thornton's apartment building the old fashioned way.
And knocks.
On the front door.
He knows she's coming, this time. The doorman let him know, set her up the elevator. She doesn't like the box, the artificial lights, the artificial air. The artiface of a place like this. She can feel the spiders crawling up the skin of the building on the other side, their terrible sameness, unrelenting. Hands stuffed down the front pockets of her worn jeans, Thornton's guest knocks.
[John Thornton] The door swings open a crack, and after a few moments, Kora sees John's untelling deadpan watching her on the other side of the entryway. Almost as though he was verifying it was indeed her, and only her, before opening the door more fully. A chain stretches from one side of the door to the door frame; apparently, expected or not, John new no respite from precaution.
"Just a moment."
He closes the door then briefly, the chain rattles as he releases the door. Then, the door swings open more widely to admit Kora into the room.
"Come in."
The room is clean, the gray burber carpet largely unblemished by stain or wear. Indeed... With the way John's shoes sink into it, you get the feeling he typically leaves them by the doorway after returning home. His clothing is business formal; the jacket of his navy suit tossed neatly over the back of the couch in the center of the room. A silk tie, in matching shade to the suit, rests against a crisply pressed dress shirt. As is usually the case, the collar rests unbuttoned, the tie hangs loose and askew. The shirt bunches in odd places from the leather shoulder holster and the weight of the heavy .45 caliber pistol resting within the leathern confines. A badge, the five pointed star of the Chicago P.D, rests on his belt near his hip; it glimmers as though recently polished.
It seems John had himself but just arrived from work... And had not taken the time to relax even at this point. Or perhaps, this was just a break...
A cup of black coffee, long since grown cold and stale, rests upon the black wood of the coffee table. It had a travel top on it; maybe he'd had it in the car with him when he drove up.
[Kora] "Detective," is the greeting she offers him, her generous mouth twisted into a faint hook-curve sort of half smile. The hint of irony there as he checks and double-checks her identity before sliding open the chain lock. The lock that she could slam open unthinkingly. The lock -
- but she's here in perfectly respectable form, with a perfectly respectable manner. Her clothing is rather less polished than his, worn jeans well fitted to her long legs, old Doc Martens cinched up her calves, and a fitted black t-shirt, the dye fading, most of the logo hidden underneath a cotton hoodie in varying shades of muted blue.
The hoodie is unzipped, and is also well fitted to her frame, which is tall and lean, and far from feminine. Only the curve of her hips keeps her from looking like some gangly teenaged boy. That, and the curve of her mouth, the deep color of her dark blue eyes.
She is older than some. More than 18 or 19. Somewhere in her 20s, with a manner rather like a graduate student somewhere - except that the wolf in her is evident as she enters his apartment, not bothering to remove her shoes, perhaps not understanding just how one keeps a carpet so pristine. There are dark stains on the knees of her jeans. Best not to think about it.
She walks in, hands still in her front pockets, this easy, hip-slung gait that is nearly a prowl, and glances around, with a sort of still, close-eyed attention, before returning her attention to him.
"Do you know why I'm here?"
[John Thornton] He closes the door behind her, a lock clicks into place... Whether through actual concern about other visitors or old habit remained to be seen. Then, as he turns, John shrugs... Hazel eyes considering the expression of the ...wolf woman before him momentarily.
"I have my suspicions."
Then, he starts toward the kitchen off to the left side. The apartment is largely dark; the only room lit was the living room in which Kora and John stood. However, he walked with the confidence of one who knew the furniture arrangement with his eyes closed as he passed into the dark kitchen.
"Can I get you a drink?"
The clink of a refrigerator door opening can be heard, as well as the lighter tinkling of glass as one or more tumblers was removed from a cupboard.
[Kora] "You do, do you?" There is a hint of strange humor in Kora's eyes in that moment, gleaming across the dark surface. The edge of her sardonic half-smile widens perceptibly, too. With her pale blonde hair pulled sharply back from her face, twisted into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck, her features are stark, defined by her generous mouth and her dark blue eyes.
Some part of her wants to know what Izzy told him.
The rest of her knows she is better off not knowing.
"Water'd be great," she tells him, shadowing him through the apartment, a lean, feral presence not entirely at ease in a building like this one, wrapped in the weaver's technology, high in the air. "Thanks." Her hands are still in her hip pockets, the hoodie unzipped to show the lean line of her torso underneath, the dark t-shirt, the inexpensive, well-used clothing.
She has bracelets at her wrist, leather and fiber, and a black leather choker around her neck, a dark contrast to her pale, northern skin. The bracelets move with her body as she follows him, her step quiet enough, though not stalker-silent, on his plush carpet.
"I'll get to it, then. Karl Holds-the-Line challenged Joe War-Handed for Jarl, and won. I challenged Karl Holds-the-Line, and won. I'm Jarl of the Fenrir, and as kin to the tribe, I am your guardian and your warder and your protector in the city. You understand what that means, don't you?"
[John Thornton] John opens the refrigerator again, and pours out part of a cool, unopened bottle of Dasani into one of the tumblers of ice. The other tumbler... An unnamed amber liquid, much in kind with the amber liquid in the open bottle of scotch beside it on the counter, rests... Ice cubes bounce like merry balloons on its surface. Once poured, John extends a hand with the glass of ice water to Kora, the glass of scotch in his other hand.
This close upon his heels, he smelled faintly of tobacco smoke, leather, and gun oil, with faint traces of the aftershave he'd used this morning still left over upon his cheeks. Though, given the faintness of the aftershave... A shave wasn't something he'd done since morning.
"You're welcome. As to the heart of the matter... Perhaps you should tell me what it means to you.
I understand not everyone who holds the position of Jarl agrees as to the nature of the post."
His expression doesn't seem to change, and while many would blanch at meeting the gaze of a ... Her gaze, John doesn't seem to have so much trouble. Which isn't to say he stares either.
Instead, he stands and calmly watches Kora, as one might a something of interest or a curious happenstance in more mundane circumstances. As though werewolf-ism and the associated curiosities it posed were not a major player in the discussion.
[Kora] The ice water poured, Kora unearths - at last - both hands from her pockets, reaching out with the right to accept the glass of water. "Thank you," she returns, her head tipped aslant. Her voice is even and serious, the gesture polite, except for the hint of the wolf that seems to frame it, the even manner in which she returns his surprisingly direct look. The inhuman way she keeps on looking at him, with this well-considered attention, intense and watchful and carefully observed.
She's expressive compared to him. He asks her to tell him what it means to her, and she laughs, this rich, brief, quiet thing that moves her shoulder, deepens the certain curve of her generous mouth, that gleams in her eyes. The laughter lingers in her shoulders, in the torque of her spine, in the tension in the fine muscles around her eyes rather longer than it is given voice.
"It means," a pause, her voice is an instrument, but it is soft here. She shifts her water glass from hand to hand, and the ice cubes clink against the glass. Her thumb is damp from condensation, and she rubs it away against her forefinger. " - what is has always meant. It is my duty to protect you if someone transgresses against you, and my right to punish you if you transgress against another. I will guard you as if you were my own mate. In return, I expect you to honor the blood that runs in your veins. To be a man of Fenris.
"Does that - " a hint of a smile, here, easy, even generous. Bemused perhaps. " - comport with your understanding of the position?"
[John Thornton] "Perhaps."
A swig of scotch... John's jaw barely tightens as the burn hits his throat. However, after a moment, he speaks anew.
"While I'm not sure I understand all of the specifics you have in mind, I see no reason to believe otherwise at this point. That said... Are there any specific rules you would enact that might be different than others who have held the title Jarl? I'm not the sort to violate the rules from ignorance if I can avoid it."
[Kora] "I don't have specific rules, Detective. You're a man of Fenris, not a pre-school boy. Treat Garou and kin with respect. If someone insults or threatens you, come to me. I will take whatever insults they offer you out of their hide. If you find evidence - direct or circumstantial - of the work of the wyrm, bring it to me. I may make requests of you from time to time. Some great, some small. I expect absolute honesty from you, if it cannot be done or endangers you in some way of which I am unaware, tell me.
"Those are the basics." Her position shifts minutely, and she takes another sip of water, eyes half-closed, pale lashes a shadow against her cheeks. When she reopens them, she finds his eyes directly. "There are some specific, too, Detective. I'm aware of your relationship with Detective Montoya." A beat.
Her voice is soft. Her eyes are not. "I'm not unsympathetic. I told Detective Montoya, and I will tell you - if a Garou of another tribe challenges for you or for her, I will refuse the challenge categorically. If another Fenrir challenges for one of you - " here she shrugs, this neat, faint little movement of her narrow shoulders. " - what am I to do? It would not be honorable for me to refuse such a challenge in the eyes of the Nation.
"If you want the tribe to respect your relationship the way we would if one of you were Garou, you and she should have children."
[John Thornton] John nods...
"I can appreciate your position; that is not an easy question to answer. Whatever other considerations of the matter I have, I will admit a certain practicality to your logic..."
John stops, taking another swig of the scotch in the glass. Thoughtfully then... almost as though he were thinking aloud, he continues.
"For the time being, in lieu of children... what form would such a challenge take?"
[Kora] "That would depend, Detective." Her voice is low, quiet. Just the clink of ice cubes in the glass as counterpoint to her rich alto. " - on who challenged. And why. On their rank, and their honor. Though, in the end, Detective - "
She breathes out, this brief flare of her nostrils, and her mouth curves, and her eyes gleam.
" - we're Fenrir. Generally, we fight."
[John Thornton] John nods at this... As though it had confirmed another supposition. Then, as the cubes in his own glass clink in answer, the rest of the scotch in his glass disappears.
The merest hint of flush appears at his cheeks.
"I understand. Should I have questions or need to speak with you again, what is the best method for me to do so? Do you have a cell phone or pager?"
[Kora] "I know," this is quiet, lingering. Her voice is soft but not gentle, and low, amber-toned, earth-rich and sure. " - that Detective Montoya thinks that I consider her weak, worth only her womb. That I tell her that she should have children because I disdain her work, her individuality. That's not so, Detective Thornton.
"I tell you that an honorable mating means - children. We are a dying race, detective. We're fighting a desperate battle, and we live in the end times. Maybe five years. Maybe ten. Maybe fifty. We have to be ready now, and we have to be ready then, because we will all have to fight when the final battle comes.
"The seer saw the future, saw the final battle."
And so she continues, softly, directly, distinctly.
"Further in the future afar I behold
The twilight of the gods who gave victory.
Brother shall strike brother and both fall,
Sisters' sons defiled with incest;
Evil be on earth, an age of. whoredom,
Of sharp sword-play and shields clashing,
A wind-age, a wolf-age till the world ruins:
No man to another shall mercy show.
From the east drives Hrym, lifts up his shield
The squamous serpent squirms with rage.
Now death is the portion of doomed men,
Red with blood the buildings of gods,
The sun turns black in the summer after,
Winds whine. Well, would know more?
Earth sinks in the sea, the sun turns black,
Cast down from Heaven are the hot stars,
Fumes reek, into flames burst,
The sky itself is scorched with fire."
When the quiet recitation is over, she smiles, this errant, lingering, curving half-smile. And finds a pen. And writes, in a sharp, distinctive hand, two phone numbers.
"I don't know why you do what you do, Detective. That's why we fight, though. That is what we fight, and why we need every single one of our good-kin to stand strong for us. If we win the final battle, we will restore the balance.
"If we lose, Hel's gates will never close."
Finished writing, Kora picks up her glass of ice water again, and drains it. She caps the good Detective's pen, and places it across the slip of paper on which she wrote her phone numbers.
"Thank you for the water, Detective." She tells him, as she turns to head for the door. " - good night."
[John Thornton] John doesn't answer... Perhaps he doesn't know quite what to say. Or perhaps he's merely been surprised; something that seemed to happen all too rarely in this world these days. Regardless, he takes the slip of paper in hand with a nod, it joins similar slips of nameless, formless information in an overfull wallet.
An entire library of information worthless to anyone who didn't know what it meant or how it all tied together.
He sees Kora to the door, and as she readies to leave hands her the still cool bottle of Dasani from which he'd poured her glass of ice water.
"Good night, Jarl..."
And strangely, what would have typically come out sounding more like a curse word than anything honorary... comes out sounding as the Garou considered it.
Respectful.
That said, he sees Kora the rest of the way out... Throwing on his suit jacket so as to obscure his pistol and badge... An unlit cigarette already in hand as he approaches the door.
((Cool to fade here?))
And knocks.
On the front door.
He knows she's coming, this time. The doorman let him know, set her up the elevator. She doesn't like the box, the artificial lights, the artificial air. The artiface of a place like this. She can feel the spiders crawling up the skin of the building on the other side, their terrible sameness, unrelenting. Hands stuffed down the front pockets of her worn jeans, Thornton's guest knocks.
[John Thornton] The door swings open a crack, and after a few moments, Kora sees John's untelling deadpan watching her on the other side of the entryway. Almost as though he was verifying it was indeed her, and only her, before opening the door more fully. A chain stretches from one side of the door to the door frame; apparently, expected or not, John new no respite from precaution.
"Just a moment."
He closes the door then briefly, the chain rattles as he releases the door. Then, the door swings open more widely to admit Kora into the room.
"Come in."
The room is clean, the gray burber carpet largely unblemished by stain or wear. Indeed... With the way John's shoes sink into it, you get the feeling he typically leaves them by the doorway after returning home. His clothing is business formal; the jacket of his navy suit tossed neatly over the back of the couch in the center of the room. A silk tie, in matching shade to the suit, rests against a crisply pressed dress shirt. As is usually the case, the collar rests unbuttoned, the tie hangs loose and askew. The shirt bunches in odd places from the leather shoulder holster and the weight of the heavy .45 caliber pistol resting within the leathern confines. A badge, the five pointed star of the Chicago P.D, rests on his belt near his hip; it glimmers as though recently polished.
It seems John had himself but just arrived from work... And had not taken the time to relax even at this point. Or perhaps, this was just a break...
A cup of black coffee, long since grown cold and stale, rests upon the black wood of the coffee table. It had a travel top on it; maybe he'd had it in the car with him when he drove up.
[Kora] "Detective," is the greeting she offers him, her generous mouth twisted into a faint hook-curve sort of half smile. The hint of irony there as he checks and double-checks her identity before sliding open the chain lock. The lock that she could slam open unthinkingly. The lock -
- but she's here in perfectly respectable form, with a perfectly respectable manner. Her clothing is rather less polished than his, worn jeans well fitted to her long legs, old Doc Martens cinched up her calves, and a fitted black t-shirt, the dye fading, most of the logo hidden underneath a cotton hoodie in varying shades of muted blue.
The hoodie is unzipped, and is also well fitted to her frame, which is tall and lean, and far from feminine. Only the curve of her hips keeps her from looking like some gangly teenaged boy. That, and the curve of her mouth, the deep color of her dark blue eyes.
She is older than some. More than 18 or 19. Somewhere in her 20s, with a manner rather like a graduate student somewhere - except that the wolf in her is evident as she enters his apartment, not bothering to remove her shoes, perhaps not understanding just how one keeps a carpet so pristine. There are dark stains on the knees of her jeans. Best not to think about it.
She walks in, hands still in her front pockets, this easy, hip-slung gait that is nearly a prowl, and glances around, with a sort of still, close-eyed attention, before returning her attention to him.
"Do you know why I'm here?"
[John Thornton] He closes the door behind her, a lock clicks into place... Whether through actual concern about other visitors or old habit remained to be seen. Then, as he turns, John shrugs... Hazel eyes considering the expression of the ...
"I have my suspicions."
Then, he starts toward the kitchen off to the left side. The apartment is largely dark; the only room lit was the living room in which Kora and John stood. However, he walked with the confidence of one who knew the furniture arrangement with his eyes closed as he passed into the dark kitchen.
"Can I get you a drink?"
The clink of a refrigerator door opening can be heard, as well as the lighter tinkling of glass as one or more tumblers was removed from a cupboard.
[Kora] "You do, do you?" There is a hint of strange humor in Kora's eyes in that moment, gleaming across the dark surface. The edge of her sardonic half-smile widens perceptibly, too. With her pale blonde hair pulled sharply back from her face, twisted into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck, her features are stark, defined by her generous mouth and her dark blue eyes.
Some part of her wants to know what Izzy told him.
The rest of her knows she is better off not knowing.
"Water'd be great," she tells him, shadowing him through the apartment, a lean, feral presence not entirely at ease in a building like this one, wrapped in the weaver's technology, high in the air. "Thanks." Her hands are still in her hip pockets, the hoodie unzipped to show the lean line of her torso underneath, the dark t-shirt, the inexpensive, well-used clothing.
She has bracelets at her wrist, leather and fiber, and a black leather choker around her neck, a dark contrast to her pale, northern skin. The bracelets move with her body as she follows him, her step quiet enough, though not stalker-silent, on his plush carpet.
"I'll get to it, then. Karl Holds-the-Line challenged Joe War-Handed for Jarl, and won. I challenged Karl Holds-the-Line, and won. I'm Jarl of the Fenrir, and as kin to the tribe, I am your guardian and your warder and your protector in the city. You understand what that means, don't you?"
[John Thornton] John opens the refrigerator again, and pours out part of a cool, unopened bottle of Dasani into one of the tumblers of ice. The other tumbler... An unnamed amber liquid, much in kind with the amber liquid in the open bottle of scotch beside it on the counter, rests... Ice cubes bounce like merry balloons on its surface. Once poured, John extends a hand with the glass of ice water to Kora, the glass of scotch in his other hand.
This close upon his heels, he smelled faintly of tobacco smoke, leather, and gun oil, with faint traces of the aftershave he'd used this morning still left over upon his cheeks. Though, given the faintness of the aftershave... A shave wasn't something he'd done since morning.
"You're welcome. As to the heart of the matter... Perhaps you should tell me what it means to you.
I understand not everyone who holds the position of Jarl agrees as to the nature of the post."
His expression doesn't seem to change, and while many would blanch at meeting the gaze of a ... Her gaze, John doesn't seem to have so much trouble. Which isn't to say he stares either.
Instead, he stands and calmly watches Kora, as one might a something of interest or a curious happenstance in more mundane circumstances. As though werewolf-ism and the associated curiosities it posed were not a major player in the discussion.
[Kora] The ice water poured, Kora unearths - at last - both hands from her pockets, reaching out with the right to accept the glass of water. "Thank you," she returns, her head tipped aslant. Her voice is even and serious, the gesture polite, except for the hint of the wolf that seems to frame it, the even manner in which she returns his surprisingly direct look. The inhuman way she keeps on looking at him, with this well-considered attention, intense and watchful and carefully observed.
She's expressive compared to him. He asks her to tell him what it means to her, and she laughs, this rich, brief, quiet thing that moves her shoulder, deepens the certain curve of her generous mouth, that gleams in her eyes. The laughter lingers in her shoulders, in the torque of her spine, in the tension in the fine muscles around her eyes rather longer than it is given voice.
"It means," a pause, her voice is an instrument, but it is soft here. She shifts her water glass from hand to hand, and the ice cubes clink against the glass. Her thumb is damp from condensation, and she rubs it away against her forefinger. " - what is has always meant. It is my duty to protect you if someone transgresses against you, and my right to punish you if you transgress against another. I will guard you as if you were my own mate. In return, I expect you to honor the blood that runs in your veins. To be a man of Fenris.
"Does that - " a hint of a smile, here, easy, even generous. Bemused perhaps. " - comport with your understanding of the position?"
[John Thornton] "Perhaps."
A swig of scotch... John's jaw barely tightens as the burn hits his throat. However, after a moment, he speaks anew.
"While I'm not sure I understand all of the specifics you have in mind, I see no reason to believe otherwise at this point. That said... Are there any specific rules you would enact that might be different than others who have held the title Jarl? I'm not the sort to violate the rules from ignorance if I can avoid it."
[Kora] "I don't have specific rules, Detective. You're a man of Fenris, not a pre-school boy. Treat Garou and kin with respect. If someone insults or threatens you, come to me. I will take whatever insults they offer you out of their hide. If you find evidence - direct or circumstantial - of the work of the wyrm, bring it to me. I may make requests of you from time to time. Some great, some small. I expect absolute honesty from you, if it cannot be done or endangers you in some way of which I am unaware, tell me.
"Those are the basics." Her position shifts minutely, and she takes another sip of water, eyes half-closed, pale lashes a shadow against her cheeks. When she reopens them, she finds his eyes directly. "There are some specific, too, Detective. I'm aware of your relationship with Detective Montoya." A beat.
Her voice is soft. Her eyes are not. "I'm not unsympathetic. I told Detective Montoya, and I will tell you - if a Garou of another tribe challenges for you or for her, I will refuse the challenge categorically. If another Fenrir challenges for one of you - " here she shrugs, this neat, faint little movement of her narrow shoulders. " - what am I to do? It would not be honorable for me to refuse such a challenge in the eyes of the Nation.
"If you want the tribe to respect your relationship the way we would if one of you were Garou, you and she should have children."
[John Thornton] John nods...
"I can appreciate your position; that is not an easy question to answer. Whatever other considerations of the matter I have, I will admit a certain practicality to your logic..."
John stops, taking another swig of the scotch in the glass. Thoughtfully then... almost as though he were thinking aloud, he continues.
"For the time being, in lieu of children... what form would such a challenge take?"
[Kora] "That would depend, Detective." Her voice is low, quiet. Just the clink of ice cubes in the glass as counterpoint to her rich alto. " - on who challenged. And why. On their rank, and their honor. Though, in the end, Detective - "
She breathes out, this brief flare of her nostrils, and her mouth curves, and her eyes gleam.
" - we're Fenrir. Generally, we fight."
[John Thornton] John nods at this... As though it had confirmed another supposition. Then, as the cubes in his own glass clink in answer, the rest of the scotch in his glass disappears.
The merest hint of flush appears at his cheeks.
"I understand. Should I have questions or need to speak with you again, what is the best method for me to do so? Do you have a cell phone or pager?"
[Kora] "I know," this is quiet, lingering. Her voice is soft but not gentle, and low, amber-toned, earth-rich and sure. " - that Detective Montoya thinks that I consider her weak, worth only her womb. That I tell her that she should have children because I disdain her work, her individuality. That's not so, Detective Thornton.
"I tell you that an honorable mating means - children. We are a dying race, detective. We're fighting a desperate battle, and we live in the end times. Maybe five years. Maybe ten. Maybe fifty. We have to be ready now, and we have to be ready then, because we will all have to fight when the final battle comes.
"The seer saw the future, saw the final battle."
And so she continues, softly, directly, distinctly.
"Further in the future afar I behold
The twilight of the gods who gave victory.
Brother shall strike brother and both fall,
Sisters' sons defiled with incest;
Evil be on earth, an age of. whoredom,
Of sharp sword-play and shields clashing,
A wind-age, a wolf-age till the world ruins:
No man to another shall mercy show.
From the east drives Hrym, lifts up his shield
The squamous serpent squirms with rage.
Now death is the portion of doomed men,
Red with blood the buildings of gods,
The sun turns black in the summer after,
Winds whine. Well, would know more?
Earth sinks in the sea, the sun turns black,
Cast down from Heaven are the hot stars,
Fumes reek, into flames burst,
The sky itself is scorched with fire."
When the quiet recitation is over, she smiles, this errant, lingering, curving half-smile. And finds a pen. And writes, in a sharp, distinctive hand, two phone numbers.
"I don't know why you do what you do, Detective. That's why we fight, though. That is what we fight, and why we need every single one of our good-kin to stand strong for us. If we win the final battle, we will restore the balance.
"If we lose, Hel's gates will never close."
Finished writing, Kora picks up her glass of ice water again, and drains it. She caps the good Detective's pen, and places it across the slip of paper on which she wrote her phone numbers.
"Thank you for the water, Detective." She tells him, as she turns to head for the door. " - good night."
[John Thornton] John doesn't answer... Perhaps he doesn't know quite what to say. Or perhaps he's merely been surprised; something that seemed to happen all too rarely in this world these days. Regardless, he takes the slip of paper in hand with a nod, it joins similar slips of nameless, formless information in an overfull wallet.
An entire library of information worthless to anyone who didn't know what it meant or how it all tied together.
He sees Kora to the door, and as she readies to leave hands her the still cool bottle of Dasani from which he'd poured her glass of ice water.
"Good night, Jarl..."
And strangely, what would have typically come out sounding more like a curse word than anything honorary... comes out sounding as the Garou considered it.
Respectful.
That said, he sees Kora the rest of the way out... Throwing on his suit jacket so as to obscure his pistol and badge... An unlit cigarette already in hand as he approaches the door.
((Cool to fade here?))
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