[Kora] Davis' Place is a red-brick pub on the corner of 17th and Franklin, close to the river, a remnant of the old industrial days. There's a red brick extension built onto the front of an old 1920s brick four-square house, and neon signs in the window advertise beer brands that have long since gone defunct. It is the sort of place where steel- and dock-workers on their shift change might have come, once, for a few beers before hitting the road, heading home to the wife and kids. Now, they've added some microbrews to the mix and limp along on goodwill, neighborhood regulars, and a sort of blue collar cachet that hits all the right notes for certain professional types.
Sunday night, the place is dead. The baseball playoffs are on the single television set over the bar, and a couple of guys cheer on their favorites. It doesn't matter. The Cubs didn't make it. Neither did the White Sox. In a red pleather booth in the corner, near the jukebox, away from the men at the bar, sits a tall blonde woman - young, no more than 25 - with an easy grace to her stride. She glanced once, curiously at the television as she ordered drinks, then sauntered toward that nearly private booth in the corner to wait for her guest.
Izzy received a call. An invitation under any circumstances. Hey, went the message, Kora. Meet me at Davis' Place when your shift's finished, yeah? Except they are who they are, and there's a certain expectation there.
[Izzy Montoya] Cabrini Green is a lot of things. Run down, filled with gangs, drugs and the down and out trying to avoid (or find) both. It is also the part of town that Izzy connects with on a visceral level. This is her Chicago. This is where she cut her teeth as an officer of the law, this is where she did the unthinkable and took a transfer in order to protect the single man she's ever trusted, ever loved. This is where she came home too, where she drove too first on her return. She has lived here, loved here, bled here, and once - almost died here. She has lived a lot of places but Cabrini? Cabrini is home.
Not that she'd ever admit to thinking of it in such terms. This is her job, her life, what she was meant to do. She doesn't think of it any more deeply than that.
She is dressed, today, as she always is. Business casual, tailored slacks and blouse, neutral colors and designed to let her blend in - as much as she ever can, anyway. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves over too-sharp shoulders, sliding often across a face often described as 'strong'. Not pretty. Never that. She is lean, athletic in build, despite her propensity to drink too much, too often.
That propensity to drink, however, is something Kora has learned to cater too. When she calls and demands an audience [phrased ever so politely as a request, of course] it is often at a bar. Izzy isn't complaining.
The door opens, and she strides inside, unbuttoning her jacket, and shaking the moisture from her hair, her coat. There is the gleam of her weapon at the small of her back, and it is certain that's not the only one she carries. She gives her gaze a moment to adjust, and then - finding the back booth and Kora, she heads that way, slipping into the opposite side of the booth.
"Hello, Kora."
[Kora] "Detective." - the creature responds, her voice rich, confident, low. The lighting here is uncertain. Bright notes from the neon tubes humming in the windows - relics, all - highlight the crown and contour of her head, but her hair is pulled back, secured behind the nape of her neck in the haphazard way she always seems to sport. There are two drinks on Izzy's side of the booth - a tall glass of dark beer, and a single whiskey, amber.
On Kora's side: a tall glass with dark liquid, ice cubes breaking through the surface tension, visible against the glass.
A curve defines her mouth as she looks up, dark eyes on Izzy from the moment the front door opens and she steps in. The Phillies fans are waving white rally towels - top of the ninth, now, two outs, two men on base - even the drunks at the bar who don't give a hoot about either team are sitting up straighter now.
"It's good to see you," Kora says, when Izzy has settled in, inspected her drinks maybe. Made a choice. "I appreciated your assistance in hunting down the kin-killers. I'm not sure I made that clear to you that night, and wanted you to hear it from me."
[Izzy Montoya] It's the little things. Joe never would have remembered what she liked to drink. Of course, she had to order for the Modi more than once, due to his age - but it remains. He wouldn't have known. Neither would Kemp. On the other hand - her fellow officers and detectives never forget. Neither does Kora.
She wraps her fingers around the whiskey, lifts it to take a swallow, eyes closed in appreciation, before she sets the glass down again. It's then that she meets the Skald's gaze. A brow arches, slightly in something like surprise with the appreciation.
"It's what I do." Her comment, though a beat later, she nods again, serving as thanks. Unexpected, yet appreciated. "I figure you likely have questions about that, too."
[Kora] "You're not wrong," Kora returns, with this inherent sense of faint, abiding humor, the sort of that lives under her skin, expresses itself in her shoulders, in her spine, in the gleam of her eyes in the faint light of the bar. She is seated wih her spine pressed against the paneled walls, her body straight, her narrow shoulders set, one leg drawn up on the seat.
Her right hand is wrapped around the glass, there's a faint reflection of her arm in the polished wooden top of the table. It is cool out tonight, cloudy and damp. Her shoulders are dark with rain, this pattern of it over the banded-blue hoodie she wears over her usual dedicated clothing. Through it all, the creature's dark eyes linger on Izzy, watching the moment of surprise chase itself across her strong features, followed by appreciation. Followed by -
"You have answers, yeah?"
[Izzy Montoya] She's not wrong, Kora says, and Izzy tips a lopsided grin at her with a bemused. "You get used to it." Some answers are automatic. Sometimes it's easier than others to believe she was beaten bloody on the street because of her mouth, because of the things she insists on, because of the decencies she believes she deserves. Most times it's easier to believe that, rather than admit that the hardened detective has a subtle sense of humor. Buried, but there.
She has answers... "Yeah. Want the short version, or the whole kit and kaboodle?"
Oddly enough, Kora's also the only she ever has offered the whole story too.
[Kora] This is easy.
"I'm a Skald," the young woman says, with this quiet, insistent sort of patience. Her mouth is curve, her eyes are even, fixed and firm. There's an easiness to her now that belies the spark of rage under her skin, as if she were made for moments just like this one - a smokey bar, the baseball playoffs on the telly, the corner booth, drinking and watching someone else's features as they off, " - I'll hear the whole thing."
Her quiet assurance has ancient roots. They could be sitting in a longhouse, over a fire, smoke swirling to the ceiling. They could be seated on a rocky beach, hoarfrost in the air, the smell of salt and burning driftwood, blood on the rocks, in the water. Briefly, Kora lifts her glass, offers it like a toast, then takes a sip.
And she listens.
[Izzy Montoya] The whole thing. Naturally. Izzy takes a breath, holds it, then lets it go in a whoosh that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. She spins the whiskey glass in her fingers, and then lifts it for another swallow. Undoubtedly, she'll finish the last bit, and start on the beer before she has finished talking.
"It's not an easy story to tell. There are only two, I believe, that have heard it in it's entirety. One was Kemp. He was going to force me to tell Daniel - but he left. Kemp felt it explained some things, and that Daniel would learn from it. I felt it was something he did not deserve to know. You are the first since Kemp, that I believe won't use it against me."
First Garou, she means. It goes without saying that John knows, and perhaps a couple other kin. But no Garou. None but the ones involved, and a dead man. That she trusts Kora with it now means something. Something she isn't willing to define, but that leans toward trust. It isn't there yet - but it leans in that direction.
"I'd taken a transfer to Florida, for reasons that don't really matter in this. I was there for ten years, rebuilding my career. At about the five year mark, we had been looking for a serial killer for months. He slipped through our fingers dozens of times. The force couldn't get a grip on him. The local Sept couldn't find them either, though we'd figured it was a local BSD kin, with a pack to back him up. It was down to us following up on every single crazy lead. I followed up on one on my own."
She pauses, and takes a drink. It is not an easy story to tell. "It was stupid. Reckless. And I paid the price. I've mentioned in passing my problem with enclosed spaces - elevators, etc. I was locked in a room for three days and..." she waves her hand absently. Details aren't important. It's clear that there wasn't anything good about it. Beaten, battered, bruised, broken. "In that time, he consistently called me kinswoman in a way that clearly meant slave, useless, worthless. He would not use my name, or even Detective. It was kinfolk, kinswoman, over and over and.." She stops. Takes a breath. In that sentence, the entirety of her problem with Daniel is revealed. It's a trigger. Plain and simple.
"It took them 3 days to find me. The sept banded together, and with the help of another kin on the force, they found me. I don't know the specifics, I lost a lot of the memory due to my injuries. They could only heal me enough to get me out of there, the rest I had to heal on my own to preserve the Veil. They destroyed the pack. The other kin got commendations for finding me. I swore I'd do anything I could to prevent it happening from another one of us."
She's lost in the tale now. In that time. "I went to the Jarl. I had heard that some Kin could learn gifts, and I asked that he allow his Godi to find something that I could do, that would give me an edge, that would make it easier to find someone like that again. The old Godi knew of a gift called Echoes, and taught me. Using it, I found and stopped countless assholes, human and not, and as a result built up my reputation and career enough that i could come home, and be welcomed here again." that slight smirk again. "Sort of."
The whiskey is gone, and she takes up the beer instead. "In short, I can hear echoes of past conversations that happened withing a frame of time. Sometimes, it's within the last 24 hours. Others it's up to a week. Never more than that. It's easier in a room, but I can do so outside with marginal success, like I did for you that night. It doesn't always work. But when it does.." she lifts her shoulder in a shrug. "And that's the story."
[Kora] Kora listens. Just once, her dark eyes trace over the kinswoman's shoulder, seeking glance off the men gathered at the bar. The baseball game is over now. She doesn't know who won. After, the local news comes on. There's a bright bottle blonde now framed in the screen, reporting perkily on the day's murders, the near-disaster at the chemical plant in Gary, the drug raids in the high-rises that do little more than scatter the roaches with a brief, glancing flash of sunlight. This is all mute now, the bartender digs for the remote and cuts off the noise, and the woman keeps talking, wordless.
Occasionally, the other patrons glance up, waiting looking for the weather forecast.
Izzy and Kora are alone in the corner booth, and Izzy tells her story with the matter of fact evenness of a police report, no matter how difficult the underlying truth is to tell. And Kora listens, her eyes back on the kinswoman, now, her shoulders fixed and straight against the wall, her right elbow resting on the table, fingers wrapped around her drink. Sometimes, her eyes wander, drop from Izzy's eyes to her mouth, to her hands wrapped around the glass.
"Thank you, Detective Montoya," Kora says, in the end. Her voice has that amber tone to it, hushed and private, a certain awareness written into the texture. She does not diminish Izzy's tale by offering commentary, by commending her on her strength. It's written into the woman's bones. " - if you don't mind," a pause, that twist of her wide mouth almost winsome, her eyes briefly bright with distance, not memory this, but thought. " - and if I have need."
[Izzy Montoya] "I don't mind," she starts, and adds with a subtle emphasis.. "...if you have need."
Under it, the request that the store not be shared. She trusts few with the tale as it is - to have others spread it would hurt in a way she isn't prepared for. She wants them to think of her as headstrong, strong, mouthy, intense. Not broken and bleeding, not crying for a mother she doesn't remember, not begging... never begging.
"I'd rather not become the beck'n'callgirl of the entire Sept."
[Kora] There is a subtle tip of her head by way of acknowledgment. This minute moment of give in her as she does just that. The pale hair gleams chrome and crimson, reflecting the neon signs in the windows. Otherwise, Kora is still, her hand around her drink, which fizzes and pops with the release of carbonation. Her thumb glides over the surface of the glass, tracing the lines of color in the glass.
"Of course, Detective. If you want that privacy, I will respect it. Some stories, I think -" a brief, lifting glance toward the bar, the patrons, the weather written acros the bottom of the screen. "should be shared only in their own time." Or at the expiration of that time.
"The gift you know, though - " a brief, faint curl of her mouth, still. "Sooner or later I will need to share that with my pack. They will need to know it, to trust the information you bring them. Sparrow, Roman, and soon my brother, Linus. No details, of course, and not until we need your aid. But then - they will have to know, I hope thatyou understand.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly. "I expected as much. That's fine."
Underneath it, there's acceptance, there's a trust that Kora will not use and abuse the power she now holds over her, and her abilities. "Share it with them, whenever you need too."
A beat, and then. "John knows, of course. He even knows why I took the transfer, now. It's part of what binds us together." Part of why she would be unfit for any other. "So if you can't get in touch with me, call him. He'll know where I'm at."
[Kora] The creature simply nods, this brief touch of acknowledgment there. There's little pause, though, before she returns, quietly, still looking for the boundaries of the story. "Does Trent?" - with a lifting look, upward from the surface of her drink. Not beer, but soda tonight. " - know your story?"
[Izzy Montoya] She shakes her head, slightly, though its with a little smile. She likes Trent - that much is clear. He's likely the only man who never made a move on her, that she is able to enjoy time with.
"I didn't tell him, no." She lifts her gaze to meet Kora's, and there's understanding there. "I would never ask you to keep something from your mate, Kora, just like I wouldn't keep anything from John. Trent is a good man, and a friend. Tell him, if you feel the need." A beat. "All of it, if necessary."
Trust is hard won, with Izzy, but once given, it is complete.
[Kora] The faintest nod of acknowledgment, and Kora's mouth curls neatly, mirror to Izzy's little smile. "I won't tell him unless it comes up," the creature offers the faintest of shrugs, this twist of her narrow shoulders underneath the cotton hoodie. " - though a good deal comes up between us. Thank you, Detective."
She ends with a lifting toast, a gesture toward Izzy's empty whiskey glass on the table, a glance toward the bar. " - another round?"
Sunday night, the place is dead. The baseball playoffs are on the single television set over the bar, and a couple of guys cheer on their favorites. It doesn't matter. The Cubs didn't make it. Neither did the White Sox. In a red pleather booth in the corner, near the jukebox, away from the men at the bar, sits a tall blonde woman - young, no more than 25 - with an easy grace to her stride. She glanced once, curiously at the television as she ordered drinks, then sauntered toward that nearly private booth in the corner to wait for her guest.
Izzy received a call. An invitation under any circumstances. Hey, went the message, Kora. Meet me at Davis' Place when your shift's finished, yeah? Except they are who they are, and there's a certain expectation there.
[Izzy Montoya] Cabrini Green is a lot of things. Run down, filled with gangs, drugs and the down and out trying to avoid (or find) both. It is also the part of town that Izzy connects with on a visceral level. This is her Chicago. This is where she cut her teeth as an officer of the law, this is where she did the unthinkable and took a transfer in order to protect the single man she's ever trusted, ever loved. This is where she came home too, where she drove too first on her return. She has lived here, loved here, bled here, and once - almost died here. She has lived a lot of places but Cabrini? Cabrini is home.
Not that she'd ever admit to thinking of it in such terms. This is her job, her life, what she was meant to do. She doesn't think of it any more deeply than that.
She is dressed, today, as she always is. Business casual, tailored slacks and blouse, neutral colors and designed to let her blend in - as much as she ever can, anyway. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves over too-sharp shoulders, sliding often across a face often described as 'strong'. Not pretty. Never that. She is lean, athletic in build, despite her propensity to drink too much, too often.
That propensity to drink, however, is something Kora has learned to cater too. When she calls and demands an audience [phrased ever so politely as a request, of course] it is often at a bar. Izzy isn't complaining.
The door opens, and she strides inside, unbuttoning her jacket, and shaking the moisture from her hair, her coat. There is the gleam of her weapon at the small of her back, and it is certain that's not the only one she carries. She gives her gaze a moment to adjust, and then - finding the back booth and Kora, she heads that way, slipping into the opposite side of the booth.
"Hello, Kora."
[Kora] "Detective." - the creature responds, her voice rich, confident, low. The lighting here is uncertain. Bright notes from the neon tubes humming in the windows - relics, all - highlight the crown and contour of her head, but her hair is pulled back, secured behind the nape of her neck in the haphazard way she always seems to sport. There are two drinks on Izzy's side of the booth - a tall glass of dark beer, and a single whiskey, amber.
On Kora's side: a tall glass with dark liquid, ice cubes breaking through the surface tension, visible against the glass.
A curve defines her mouth as she looks up, dark eyes on Izzy from the moment the front door opens and she steps in. The Phillies fans are waving white rally towels - top of the ninth, now, two outs, two men on base - even the drunks at the bar who don't give a hoot about either team are sitting up straighter now.
"It's good to see you," Kora says, when Izzy has settled in, inspected her drinks maybe. Made a choice. "I appreciated your assistance in hunting down the kin-killers. I'm not sure I made that clear to you that night, and wanted you to hear it from me."
[Izzy Montoya] It's the little things. Joe never would have remembered what she liked to drink. Of course, she had to order for the Modi more than once, due to his age - but it remains. He wouldn't have known. Neither would Kemp. On the other hand - her fellow officers and detectives never forget. Neither does Kora.
She wraps her fingers around the whiskey, lifts it to take a swallow, eyes closed in appreciation, before she sets the glass down again. It's then that she meets the Skald's gaze. A brow arches, slightly in something like surprise with the appreciation.
"It's what I do." Her comment, though a beat later, she nods again, serving as thanks. Unexpected, yet appreciated. "I figure you likely have questions about that, too."
[Kora] "You're not wrong," Kora returns, with this inherent sense of faint, abiding humor, the sort of that lives under her skin, expresses itself in her shoulders, in her spine, in the gleam of her eyes in the faint light of the bar. She is seated wih her spine pressed against the paneled walls, her body straight, her narrow shoulders set, one leg drawn up on the seat.
Her right hand is wrapped around the glass, there's a faint reflection of her arm in the polished wooden top of the table. It is cool out tonight, cloudy and damp. Her shoulders are dark with rain, this pattern of it over the banded-blue hoodie she wears over her usual dedicated clothing. Through it all, the creature's dark eyes linger on Izzy, watching the moment of surprise chase itself across her strong features, followed by appreciation. Followed by -
"You have answers, yeah?"
[Izzy Montoya] She's not wrong, Kora says, and Izzy tips a lopsided grin at her with a bemused. "You get used to it." Some answers are automatic. Sometimes it's easier than others to believe she was beaten bloody on the street because of her mouth, because of the things she insists on, because of the decencies she believes she deserves. Most times it's easier to believe that, rather than admit that the hardened detective has a subtle sense of humor. Buried, but there.
She has answers... "Yeah. Want the short version, or the whole kit and kaboodle?"
Oddly enough, Kora's also the only she ever has offered the whole story too.
[Kora] This is easy.
"I'm a Skald," the young woman says, with this quiet, insistent sort of patience. Her mouth is curve, her eyes are even, fixed and firm. There's an easiness to her now that belies the spark of rage under her skin, as if she were made for moments just like this one - a smokey bar, the baseball playoffs on the telly, the corner booth, drinking and watching someone else's features as they off, " - I'll hear the whole thing."
Her quiet assurance has ancient roots. They could be sitting in a longhouse, over a fire, smoke swirling to the ceiling. They could be seated on a rocky beach, hoarfrost in the air, the smell of salt and burning driftwood, blood on the rocks, in the water. Briefly, Kora lifts her glass, offers it like a toast, then takes a sip.
And she listens.
[Izzy Montoya] The whole thing. Naturally. Izzy takes a breath, holds it, then lets it go in a whoosh that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. She spins the whiskey glass in her fingers, and then lifts it for another swallow. Undoubtedly, she'll finish the last bit, and start on the beer before she has finished talking.
"It's not an easy story to tell. There are only two, I believe, that have heard it in it's entirety. One was Kemp. He was going to force me to tell Daniel - but he left. Kemp felt it explained some things, and that Daniel would learn from it. I felt it was something he did not deserve to know. You are the first since Kemp, that I believe won't use it against me."
First Garou, she means. It goes without saying that John knows, and perhaps a couple other kin. But no Garou. None but the ones involved, and a dead man. That she trusts Kora with it now means something. Something she isn't willing to define, but that leans toward trust. It isn't there yet - but it leans in that direction.
"I'd taken a transfer to Florida, for reasons that don't really matter in this. I was there for ten years, rebuilding my career. At about the five year mark, we had been looking for a serial killer for months. He slipped through our fingers dozens of times. The force couldn't get a grip on him. The local Sept couldn't find them either, though we'd figured it was a local BSD kin, with a pack to back him up. It was down to us following up on every single crazy lead. I followed up on one on my own."
She pauses, and takes a drink. It is not an easy story to tell. "It was stupid. Reckless. And I paid the price. I've mentioned in passing my problem with enclosed spaces - elevators, etc. I was locked in a room for three days and..." she waves her hand absently. Details aren't important. It's clear that there wasn't anything good about it. Beaten, battered, bruised, broken. "In that time, he consistently called me kinswoman in a way that clearly meant slave, useless, worthless. He would not use my name, or even Detective. It was kinfolk, kinswoman, over and over and.." She stops. Takes a breath. In that sentence, the entirety of her problem with Daniel is revealed. It's a trigger. Plain and simple.
"It took them 3 days to find me. The sept banded together, and with the help of another kin on the force, they found me. I don't know the specifics, I lost a lot of the memory due to my injuries. They could only heal me enough to get me out of there, the rest I had to heal on my own to preserve the Veil. They destroyed the pack. The other kin got commendations for finding me. I swore I'd do anything I could to prevent it happening from another one of us."
She's lost in the tale now. In that time. "I went to the Jarl. I had heard that some Kin could learn gifts, and I asked that he allow his Godi to find something that I could do, that would give me an edge, that would make it easier to find someone like that again. The old Godi knew of a gift called Echoes, and taught me. Using it, I found and stopped countless assholes, human and not, and as a result built up my reputation and career enough that i could come home, and be welcomed here again." that slight smirk again. "Sort of."
The whiskey is gone, and she takes up the beer instead. "In short, I can hear echoes of past conversations that happened withing a frame of time. Sometimes, it's within the last 24 hours. Others it's up to a week. Never more than that. It's easier in a room, but I can do so outside with marginal success, like I did for you that night. It doesn't always work. But when it does.." she lifts her shoulder in a shrug. "And that's the story."
[Kora] Kora listens. Just once, her dark eyes trace over the kinswoman's shoulder, seeking glance off the men gathered at the bar. The baseball game is over now. She doesn't know who won. After, the local news comes on. There's a bright bottle blonde now framed in the screen, reporting perkily on the day's murders, the near-disaster at the chemical plant in Gary, the drug raids in the high-rises that do little more than scatter the roaches with a brief, glancing flash of sunlight. This is all mute now, the bartender digs for the remote and cuts off the noise, and the woman keeps talking, wordless.
Occasionally, the other patrons glance up, waiting looking for the weather forecast.
Izzy and Kora are alone in the corner booth, and Izzy tells her story with the matter of fact evenness of a police report, no matter how difficult the underlying truth is to tell. And Kora listens, her eyes back on the kinswoman, now, her shoulders fixed and straight against the wall, her right elbow resting on the table, fingers wrapped around her drink. Sometimes, her eyes wander, drop from Izzy's eyes to her mouth, to her hands wrapped around the glass.
"Thank you, Detective Montoya," Kora says, in the end. Her voice has that amber tone to it, hushed and private, a certain awareness written into the texture. She does not diminish Izzy's tale by offering commentary, by commending her on her strength. It's written into the woman's bones. " - if you don't mind," a pause, that twist of her wide mouth almost winsome, her eyes briefly bright with distance, not memory this, but thought. " - and if I have need."
[Izzy Montoya] "I don't mind," she starts, and adds with a subtle emphasis.. "...if you have need."
Under it, the request that the store not be shared. She trusts few with the tale as it is - to have others spread it would hurt in a way she isn't prepared for. She wants them to think of her as headstrong, strong, mouthy, intense. Not broken and bleeding, not crying for a mother she doesn't remember, not begging... never begging.
"I'd rather not become the beck'n'callgirl of the entire Sept."
[Kora] There is a subtle tip of her head by way of acknowledgment. This minute moment of give in her as she does just that. The pale hair gleams chrome and crimson, reflecting the neon signs in the windows. Otherwise, Kora is still, her hand around her drink, which fizzes and pops with the release of carbonation. Her thumb glides over the surface of the glass, tracing the lines of color in the glass.
"Of course, Detective. If you want that privacy, I will respect it. Some stories, I think -" a brief, lifting glance toward the bar, the patrons, the weather written acros the bottom of the screen. "should be shared only in their own time." Or at the expiration of that time.
"The gift you know, though - " a brief, faint curl of her mouth, still. "Sooner or later I will need to share that with my pack. They will need to know it, to trust the information you bring them. Sparrow, Roman, and soon my brother, Linus. No details, of course, and not until we need your aid. But then - they will have to know, I hope thatyou understand.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly. "I expected as much. That's fine."
Underneath it, there's acceptance, there's a trust that Kora will not use and abuse the power she now holds over her, and her abilities. "Share it with them, whenever you need too."
A beat, and then. "John knows, of course. He even knows why I took the transfer, now. It's part of what binds us together." Part of why she would be unfit for any other. "So if you can't get in touch with me, call him. He'll know where I'm at."
[Kora] The creature simply nods, this brief touch of acknowledgment there. There's little pause, though, before she returns, quietly, still looking for the boundaries of the story. "Does Trent?" - with a lifting look, upward from the surface of her drink. Not beer, but soda tonight. " - know your story?"
[Izzy Montoya] She shakes her head, slightly, though its with a little smile. She likes Trent - that much is clear. He's likely the only man who never made a move on her, that she is able to enjoy time with.
"I didn't tell him, no." She lifts her gaze to meet Kora's, and there's understanding there. "I would never ask you to keep something from your mate, Kora, just like I wouldn't keep anything from John. Trent is a good man, and a friend. Tell him, if you feel the need." A beat. "All of it, if necessary."
Trust is hard won, with Izzy, but once given, it is complete.
[Kora] The faintest nod of acknowledgment, and Kora's mouth curls neatly, mirror to Izzy's little smile. "I won't tell him unless it comes up," the creature offers the faintest of shrugs, this twist of her narrow shoulders underneath the cotton hoodie. " - though a good deal comes up between us. Thank you, Detective."
She ends with a lifting toast, a gesture toward Izzy's empty whiskey glass on the table, a glance toward the bar. " - another round?"
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