[Paul] His hands clasp together in a single clap. Leaving that guitar to rest and linger in his lap. "Cordelia, you are the world to me. How that you know me best and can explain me so quick is beyond words. Bridget...hold your knickers...I'd fuck you simply just to make you quiver. But we're not talking about how shallow I am or how undeposed to decorum I should be. The simple truth...dear Kristiana... As Paul now looked to her "Im the bad guy..simple and true..I realish the part that I play..its my role and mine alone...Though I love the compainionship it brings. Im Paul, the Cad as your sister of flock so says...known to the nation at the moment as Thats Great...but Im sure it'll be Cad shortly...Bound to Coyote and really a horn dawg. I poach kin, I love women..and Im just a simple tom of Unicorn..It's truly a pleasure to meet you"
[Kristiana Coleman] "I didn't do anything with him. I don't know what he's told everyone, but I didn't." She levels Paul with as cool a gaze as she can muster, which unfortunately isn't much.
[Bridget] "Well at least he is honest," she mumbles, trying to look to Kristiana's obviously horrified face. She may faint. Bridget braces herself to catch the fragile swanling.
"That's Great," she repeats.
Kristiana says something completely confusing. "What's this?"
[Paul] "Oooo, who's he? And what dear fille did you nawt do?"
[Kristiana Coleman] "Whatever you heard, I didn't do" She's regained her composure, adding a hair toss to her words for good measure, eyes flickering to Cordelia.
[Ivers] Without a churning cauldron of Rage inside of him, when the darkening of the moon has brought with it a darkening of his mood, Howard is capable of entering a social gathering without drawing every single pair of eyes in the vicinity to him with his outbursts. Last night he had done it by simply arriving quietly; that was enough of an anomaly to quirk Bridget's eyebrow and have her climb over the back of the couch to investigate.
When he shows up tonight, it isn't as though he's stepped out of the Umbra or emerged from a shadow. He walks down the shore, dressed in the same--comparatively--boring black outfit he'd had on last night, Guns N Roses swapped out for a black t-shirt with a silver impression of Debbie Harry emblazoned across his lower left quadrant. Sunglasses are clipped to his neckline rather than clapped onto his face, leaving his green eyes visible.
The first thing out of his mouth is directed at Bridget and Kristiana: "See, I fuckin' told you."
[Cordelia] "Paul," she says, and her voice is infinitely patient, "it's probably for the best you don't press right now. You ease into these questions. She's probably just shaken up over last night. Kristiana's a good kid."
Her gaze flickers over to her briefly, but goes back to Paul without much fanfare.
[Kristiana Coleman] "What did you tell me?" The composure crumples like newspaper when she sees, then hears Howard. Gaia, what else did she forget?
[Paul] His hand thrusted out in gesture towards her. "For you fine fille..." Obviously he were addressing Cordelia "...I'll mind m'manners, staple m'mouth shut and think only of me you and five other possibles if that only makes you happy...I am, and shall be your slave...tonight at least" Chuckling before unclasping his hands with a nod of understanding and wink casted to the Fang. His gaze swept then upon all those now seemingly gathered.
[Bridget] The Canadian nods her head and gives a suspicious, "Mmmmkay."
Her tribesman emerges from nowhere like some distant echo from Punk Nights Past. The Canadian's eyes light up. She abandons Kristiana with Cordelia. They're pretty girls. They can handle it. She migrates to the Afrikaan (or whatever nationality he claims) and does exactly what she told Cordelia about Quebecois and The Cold: they cuddle. Bridget links an arm around her tribesman, then looks back towards the others.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, also being oblivious as Kristiana to Howard's topic of conversation.
Her pouty bottom lip that met his last night has a nice fresh cut on it. It doesn't look like teeth marks, doesn't look like it is chapped. It is definitely a scratch from something sharp. The blood is fresh, but dry. Not a greivous injury, but a curious one indeed.
[Kristiana Coleman] She leans into Cordelia a little, linking her arm with the other Fang's when Bridget abandons her.
[Hatchet] The chain link fence at the edge of the bawn creaks, cold metal curling, and it leaves a soft shriek on the air that goes easily ignored, pressed like a flower into the background noises of the area. Someone climbs through, at first just a mass of shadow
and rage
that unfolds into the figure of a man, broad-shouldered and tall, carrying a rucksack over one shoulder. He starts to walk, and that walk takes him along the water's edge, til he comes towards the docks. There are people standing there, and the people just drip with breeding, enough to make you lightheaded, but the man doesn't faint. He just keeps walking, and then his booted feet fall with surprising lightness to each step on the boards of the dock.
He's wearing a thick black hoodie, and even if it's lined with fur or shearling it wouldn't be enough to keep a human being warm on a night like tonight, this close to the water. His hood is up, covering his hair, but the light beard on his jawline is a reddish-gold, more the latter than the former. His eyes are concrete, but not quite as cold as rock like that.
Two women with breeding of silver, cold and pristine and mad. One of stag's, snuggling up to the scrawny fellow that just sauntered his way over. The new one, the tall man with the gray eyes, tips his head. "'Scuse me," he says, his voice a baritone that's warmer than the weather and smoother than he looks, "either of you know if Reuben and Jenny Coltrane still run The Brotherhood of Thieves?"
[Asha Singh] The fence surrounding the Caern rattles sharply in the cold air. Warm enough even tonight that some of the snow is beginning to melt, leaving behind little piles of garbage, stones, cigarette butts in its wake like the moraine of some moving glacier. This slight creature emerges from underneath the fence. There's a spot or two of blood on the otherwise crisp cuffs of her white blouse - bright against the rich black wool of her finely tailored military-style coat, crisp rows of buttons gleaming up and down the both sides of the double-breasted coat like some Napoleonic officer's dress uniform. Standing, the dark-skinned, sloe-eyed little thing - takes the time to tug neatly at the cuffs of her blouse, pulling them into some order before she gives over her full attention to her kinswomen and the -
Hmmph. Asha gives Paul - who appears to be flirting with her blood the stink eye, then glances around. She wants to interrupt, but thinks that for the greater dignity of all, she really should be announced.
[Kristiana Coleman] Kristiana looks at the large man with wide eyes, clearly and obviously working her way in quick leaps from being slightly unnerved to being outright terrified.
[Ivers] "Course you don't," Howard says, after he's wound an arm around her shoulders. As far as bodies go, the Theurge's doesn't afford others much warmth; his Rage is not hot enough to burn through his flesh, to radiate outward from his clothing, and his mass is only worth mentioning due to how much of it there isn't. Paul, several inches shorter and a No Moon, could beat his ass without breaking a sweat.
His eyes are cast over her head, back towards the group, his interest not so much waning as simply bottoming out. When he looks back at the shorter woman, it isn't the vibrant red that catches his attention but the darkness of it against the pale of her lips. A frown creases his brow, and his free hand comes up to grasp Bridget's chin between his thumb and kinked index finger.
"That blood?" he asks, a second before a press of Rage comes out of the distance.
Neither Fiann has the purity of blood, the shock-red of hair, or the lilting brogue of accent, to identify them to each other. The Philodox's bearing, his carriage, his presence speaks of a rank that Howard will likely die before attaining, but the Cliath doesn't quaver. He does release Bridget from his dissecting attention and turn towards the newcomer.
Either of them know if Reuben and Jenny Coltrane still run the Brotherhood of Thieves.
"They were last night," he says, as though it's entirely possible that's changed in the last twenty-four hours. His accent, while not dripping green with Ireland's influence, could not be mistaken for North American unless he put forth effort.
[Paul] Paul rose his hand, almost dropped it. Yet his finger folded out in gesture. Towards Hatchet. "Hey buddy...I haven't seen you in awhile...tink last tiame I saw you was when you, me, Joey and oh hell what was that Gee Dubuwa bitches' name was? Doesnt matter..anyways..we got all a shit faced and were riaghtfully fucked. Howya doin and no good Monsuier..I can't answer that query cause I really have no diea who runs the place..Since Im seldom there..but niace to see ya again Bon'cade"
[Kristiana Coleman] Her hotel room isn't looking so bad suddenly. Her lonely hotel room. But her lonely, quiet, safe hotel room. She presses into Cordelia a bit more without even realizing it, trying to keep everyone in sight without moving too much.
[Hatchet] The man that is currently terrifying Kristiana does, in fact, have that effect on several people. If one had to guess -- and guessing is about all most of them can do -- he feels like an Ahroun. A Galliard at best, at most pleasant. To the gathered Garou he gives off a sense of authority, even without his name or rank given yet. You can almost smell it on him -- not just the strength, but the history. The ability to lead. The utter lack of need to prove it.
His rage does, in fact, radiate. It warms him. It warms those who get close enough, but no one is. He flicks his eyes over at Kristiana and Cordelia, sniffing the air once, then swivels his head back around to the Blondie fan and the girl whose breeding crawls up the back of his neck and grabs him by the hair.
He keeps his eyes on Howard. "Good enough for me," he says dryly, and gives him a nod. "Merci," he adds, and moves to head that direction. Paul goes off on a blue streak and Hatchet does pause, looking over at the single face he sort of remembers. Stares for a second, as though trying to place him, then gives a small upward nod. "Her name was Echo. Still is, if we're lucky. You wouldn't know if Joey's still in Chicago, would you?"
[Cordelia] She had a whole host of things she could have said in reply. A whole slew of things. There's a list, an absolute laundry list of things she could hae said, and she oepened her mouth and was ready to fire when, at right about that time she noticed a man who was tall, scarred, and had a nice voice coming up. He's polite enough. Makes her shut her mouth and smile something with closed lips.
"They do," she replies, "and they still have the best food on this side of town."
She casts a look around. Surveys. Kristiana is pressing into her, so she stands taller and a little more confident. She presses back, and notes... Asha. Who she hasn't met before. Who looks very nice and very, very, very intense with a mighty powerful stink eye that Cordelia didn't want to be on the receiving end of.
"I'm Cordelia, and this is Kristiana, it's a pleasure to meet you both," making her introductions (their introductions), with a distinctly not-from-'round-these-parts voice.
[Kristiana Coleman] Smile, Krist. Where are your manners? She manages a nearly full smile, nodding to Cordelia's words. "Yes. A pleasure."
[Paul] "Shit man I wish...If she is..that woman has my claws, breast, heart n soul...to follow in whatever massacre she liakes. She is my Evagalien..." With a snicker as his hand fell over his heart. But unlike many of the other garou, and much to his own chargin. Paul were perceptive. But only in moments he cared to reveal to others. "I tink we're scaring the young new fille's...nawt a good thang I assure ya. Cordelia" As he turned his attention towards her..probably to her dismay even. With a snigger. "Ya'll fine cheri's are safe despite the angst ya miaght feel from the liakes of he" With a definate point towards Hatchet, even unapologetically. "So don't be squirmin off just yet..we'ze got ample tiame and festivities to make any n all relax on such a blissful niaght of our mother Gaia's tranquility...meaning I got some E if that helps"
[Bridget] A man and woman full of rage come through the fence of an area she's never been allowed to traverse. But for now her eyes lock with her kinsman, whose rage echoes a recognition of her slight injury. She makes a small noise that might be a confirmation, or simply a natural response to the sudden flux of rage all around her.
She speaks with a very slight Quebecois accent on occasion. Only in summer when she's gotten too much sunlight does her hair ever reveal any slight reddish tone. But she certainly knows how to fry like a fair-skinned Fianna. The Welsh heritage is almost completely dominated by her father's side, who migrated as fur traders. It is very possible she may have very, very distant Algonquin cousins, which is likely why her breeding doesn't shine nearly so clearly as a majority of Silver Fangs. But it is still dizzying.
Bridget gets a good look at either of the other Garou that none of them have met yet. Bridget recognizes the woman from the cafe. She doesn't offer her hand, but pushes her hair to one side and lowers her gaze. Probably the most respectful gesture the part-feral moonbrain could give.
"Bridget Geroux... of the Red Deer sept," she offers. Identifying with her father's sept is a wise choice when you are a lone female kinfolk of significant breeding.
[Ivers] "All I got out of that was 'E,'" he says, quite possibly to himself. He gestures to Kristiana with a lazy finger that quickly decides remaining raised isn't worth the effort, his left arm still wound about Bridget's shoulders, "Which I would keep very, very far away from her."
[Kristiana Coleman] She's so obviously, painfully clueless, and doesn't appear to be following the conversation at all. "What? Keeping what away from me?"
[Paul] Paul quickly swung around, pointing his finger at Ivers. "Oh so you want some?"
[Asha Singh] Asha's eyes remain fixed on Cordelia and Kristiana. There's something about the way she does it, the way her black eyes are staring straight ahead as if some sort of invisible anchor kept her attention glued to the pair of them while she moves as she does not, with a soft, unerring sort of grace that offers absolutely no quarter.
"If you give my kinswomen drugs, I will see you hung from the bridge of the Hestia," Asha, quick and sure and soft - with this sharp winging glance at Paul, naming one of the larger hulks in the Caern full of abandoned ships. " - by your small intestines, with the large intestines stuffed into your mouth to ensure that you don't starve to death."
It is a relief, at least, for Kristiana and Cordelia from the intensity of Asha's dark-eyed stare.
Then she resumes her advance on the linked pair. "He's very common," she tells them, quiet-like, her dark eyes flashing. "If he offends you tell me and I will flay his skin from his bones and make you a purse of it." This makes her smile, sudden and savage - this fine-boned, fine-handed, fine-featured girl - full on to both kinswomen. "I'm - " a frown creases her brow. " - well, we should be properly introduced. I'll have to find Thomas first, though - he's much better at it than I am." - and so saying she will soon disappear blithely into the dark, absurdly looking for her herald in the ruins of the old docks so that he may announce her nineteen names and teeming ancestors to strangers in the middle of the night.
[Asha Singh] (Otherwise known as the: LIST HAS TO GO TO BED post. :) )
[Asha Singh] (LIZ CAN SPELL HER OWN NAME POST.)
[Kristiana Coleman] She makes a tiny squeaking sound, standing absolutely still under Asha's gaze.... is she holding her breath?
[Kristiana Coleman] (Which just proves you need sleep!)
[Hatchet] A gesture comes his way, apologies made by a Unicorn to two of Falcon's for one of Stag's. Hatchet doesn't so much as blink. He just stares at Paul for a few seconds longer until about halfway through the Ragabash's tear he turns and gives his attention back to those of his blood. Which is when he meets Bridget's eyes, at least for a moment. He is paying attention. It is not easy, being the focus -- however momentary -- of his attention.
"I've been there," is all Hatchet says to that, to the name of her father's sept. There's a beat of consideration before he adds: "I've met your father."
His eyes leave her then, though, perhaps a bit mercifully, as Paul and Ivers face off. E! Keep it away from her! Want some! Hatchet watches the two of them for a moment, then Asha's speaking up and he seems vaguely relieved and vaguely wary and entirely exhausted for a moment. He hangs back, as though waiting for someone to throw down a glove or some such, and then... Asha turns around and goes to look for her 'Thomas'.
Hatchet blinks.
"It is too fucking cold for this shit," he mutters, and starts walking off the docks. "I'm getting a beer."
[Bridget] "Le sacrament qui était en calvaire a calissé dehors l'ostie en tabarnac."
The Albertan has a potty mouth. It doesn't quite translate to the pristine French the girls are used to, nor the murky Creole influence of Paul's French. There's some reference to sacred items of a church.
[Kristiana Coleman] "I didn't do anything with him. I don't know what he's told everyone, but I didn't." She levels Paul with as cool a gaze as she can muster, which unfortunately isn't much.
[Bridget] "Well at least he is honest," she mumbles, trying to look to Kristiana's obviously horrified face. She may faint. Bridget braces herself to catch the fragile swanling.
"That's Great," she repeats.
Kristiana says something completely confusing. "What's this?"
[Paul] "Oooo, who's he? And what dear fille did you nawt do?"
[Kristiana Coleman] "Whatever you heard, I didn't do" She's regained her composure, adding a hair toss to her words for good measure, eyes flickering to Cordelia.
[Ivers] Without a churning cauldron of Rage inside of him, when the darkening of the moon has brought with it a darkening of his mood, Howard is capable of entering a social gathering without drawing every single pair of eyes in the vicinity to him with his outbursts. Last night he had done it by simply arriving quietly; that was enough of an anomaly to quirk Bridget's eyebrow and have her climb over the back of the couch to investigate.
When he shows up tonight, it isn't as though he's stepped out of the Umbra or emerged from a shadow. He walks down the shore, dressed in the same--comparatively--boring black outfit he'd had on last night, Guns N Roses swapped out for a black t-shirt with a silver impression of Debbie Harry emblazoned across his lower left quadrant. Sunglasses are clipped to his neckline rather than clapped onto his face, leaving his green eyes visible.
The first thing out of his mouth is directed at Bridget and Kristiana: "See, I fuckin' told you."
[Cordelia] "Paul," she says, and her voice is infinitely patient, "it's probably for the best you don't press right now. You ease into these questions. She's probably just shaken up over last night. Kristiana's a good kid."
Her gaze flickers over to her briefly, but goes back to Paul without much fanfare.
[Kristiana Coleman] "What did you tell me?" The composure crumples like newspaper when she sees, then hears Howard. Gaia, what else did she forget?
[Paul] His hand thrusted out in gesture towards her. "For you fine fille..." Obviously he were addressing Cordelia "...I'll mind m'manners, staple m'mouth shut and think only of me you and five other possibles if that only makes you happy...I am, and shall be your slave...tonight at least" Chuckling before unclasping his hands with a nod of understanding and wink casted to the Fang. His gaze swept then upon all those now seemingly gathered.
[Bridget] The Canadian nods her head and gives a suspicious, "Mmmmkay."
Her tribesman emerges from nowhere like some distant echo from Punk Nights Past. The Canadian's eyes light up. She abandons Kristiana with Cordelia. They're pretty girls. They can handle it. She migrates to the Afrikaan (or whatever nationality he claims) and does exactly what she told Cordelia about Quebecois and The Cold: they cuddle. Bridget links an arm around her tribesman, then looks back towards the others.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, also being oblivious as Kristiana to Howard's topic of conversation.
Her pouty bottom lip that met his last night has a nice fresh cut on it. It doesn't look like teeth marks, doesn't look like it is chapped. It is definitely a scratch from something sharp. The blood is fresh, but dry. Not a greivous injury, but a curious one indeed.
[Kristiana Coleman] She leans into Cordelia a little, linking her arm with the other Fang's when Bridget abandons her.
[Hatchet] The chain link fence at the edge of the bawn creaks, cold metal curling, and it leaves a soft shriek on the air that goes easily ignored, pressed like a flower into the background noises of the area. Someone climbs through, at first just a mass of shadow
and rage
that unfolds into the figure of a man, broad-shouldered and tall, carrying a rucksack over one shoulder. He starts to walk, and that walk takes him along the water's edge, til he comes towards the docks. There are people standing there, and the people just drip with breeding, enough to make you lightheaded, but the man doesn't faint. He just keeps walking, and then his booted feet fall with surprising lightness to each step on the boards of the dock.
He's wearing a thick black hoodie, and even if it's lined with fur or shearling it wouldn't be enough to keep a human being warm on a night like tonight, this close to the water. His hood is up, covering his hair, but the light beard on his jawline is a reddish-gold, more the latter than the former. His eyes are concrete, but not quite as cold as rock like that.
Two women with breeding of silver, cold and pristine and mad. One of stag's, snuggling up to the scrawny fellow that just sauntered his way over. The new one, the tall man with the gray eyes, tips his head. "'Scuse me," he says, his voice a baritone that's warmer than the weather and smoother than he looks, "either of you know if Reuben and Jenny Coltrane still run The Brotherhood of Thieves?"
[Asha Singh] The fence surrounding the Caern rattles sharply in the cold air. Warm enough even tonight that some of the snow is beginning to melt, leaving behind little piles of garbage, stones, cigarette butts in its wake like the moraine of some moving glacier. This slight creature emerges from underneath the fence. There's a spot or two of blood on the otherwise crisp cuffs of her white blouse - bright against the rich black wool of her finely tailored military-style coat, crisp rows of buttons gleaming up and down the both sides of the double-breasted coat like some Napoleonic officer's dress uniform. Standing, the dark-skinned, sloe-eyed little thing - takes the time to tug neatly at the cuffs of her blouse, pulling them into some order before she gives over her full attention to her kinswomen and the -
Hmmph. Asha gives Paul - who appears to be flirting with her blood the stink eye, then glances around. She wants to interrupt, but thinks that for the greater dignity of all, she really should be announced.
[Kristiana Coleman] Kristiana looks at the large man with wide eyes, clearly and obviously working her way in quick leaps from being slightly unnerved to being outright terrified.
[Ivers] "Course you don't," Howard says, after he's wound an arm around her shoulders. As far as bodies go, the Theurge's doesn't afford others much warmth; his Rage is not hot enough to burn through his flesh, to radiate outward from his clothing, and his mass is only worth mentioning due to how much of it there isn't. Paul, several inches shorter and a No Moon, could beat his ass without breaking a sweat.
His eyes are cast over her head, back towards the group, his interest not so much waning as simply bottoming out. When he looks back at the shorter woman, it isn't the vibrant red that catches his attention but the darkness of it against the pale of her lips. A frown creases his brow, and his free hand comes up to grasp Bridget's chin between his thumb and kinked index finger.
"That blood?" he asks, a second before a press of Rage comes out of the distance.
Neither Fiann has the purity of blood, the shock-red of hair, or the lilting brogue of accent, to identify them to each other. The Philodox's bearing, his carriage, his presence speaks of a rank that Howard will likely die before attaining, but the Cliath doesn't quaver. He does release Bridget from his dissecting attention and turn towards the newcomer.
Either of them know if Reuben and Jenny Coltrane still run the Brotherhood of Thieves.
"They were last night," he says, as though it's entirely possible that's changed in the last twenty-four hours. His accent, while not dripping green with Ireland's influence, could not be mistaken for North American unless he put forth effort.
[Paul] Paul rose his hand, almost dropped it. Yet his finger folded out in gesture. Towards Hatchet. "Hey buddy...I haven't seen you in awhile...tink last tiame I saw you was when you, me, Joey and oh hell what was that Gee Dubuwa bitches' name was? Doesnt matter..anyways..we got all a shit faced and were riaghtfully fucked. Howya doin and no good Monsuier..I can't answer that query cause I really have no diea who runs the place..Since Im seldom there..but niace to see ya again Bon'cade"
[Kristiana Coleman] Her hotel room isn't looking so bad suddenly. Her lonely hotel room. But her lonely, quiet, safe hotel room. She presses into Cordelia a bit more without even realizing it, trying to keep everyone in sight without moving too much.
[Hatchet] The man that is currently terrifying Kristiana does, in fact, have that effect on several people. If one had to guess -- and guessing is about all most of them can do -- he feels like an Ahroun. A Galliard at best, at most pleasant. To the gathered Garou he gives off a sense of authority, even without his name or rank given yet. You can almost smell it on him -- not just the strength, but the history. The ability to lead. The utter lack of need to prove it.
His rage does, in fact, radiate. It warms him. It warms those who get close enough, but no one is. He flicks his eyes over at Kristiana and Cordelia, sniffing the air once, then swivels his head back around to the Blondie fan and the girl whose breeding crawls up the back of his neck and grabs him by the hair.
He keeps his eyes on Howard. "Good enough for me," he says dryly, and gives him a nod. "Merci," he adds, and moves to head that direction. Paul goes off on a blue streak and Hatchet does pause, looking over at the single face he sort of remembers. Stares for a second, as though trying to place him, then gives a small upward nod. "Her name was Echo. Still is, if we're lucky. You wouldn't know if Joey's still in Chicago, would you?"
[Cordelia] She had a whole host of things she could have said in reply. A whole slew of things. There's a list, an absolute laundry list of things she could hae said, and she oepened her mouth and was ready to fire when, at right about that time she noticed a man who was tall, scarred, and had a nice voice coming up. He's polite enough. Makes her shut her mouth and smile something with closed lips.
"They do," she replies, "and they still have the best food on this side of town."
She casts a look around. Surveys. Kristiana is pressing into her, so she stands taller and a little more confident. She presses back, and notes... Asha. Who she hasn't met before. Who looks very nice and very, very, very intense with a mighty powerful stink eye that Cordelia didn't want to be on the receiving end of.
"I'm Cordelia, and this is Kristiana, it's a pleasure to meet you both," making her introductions (their introductions), with a distinctly not-from-'round-these-parts voice.
[Kristiana Coleman] Smile, Krist. Where are your manners? She manages a nearly full smile, nodding to Cordelia's words. "Yes. A pleasure."
[Paul] "Shit man I wish...If she is..that woman has my claws, breast, heart n soul...to follow in whatever massacre she liakes. She is my Evagalien..." With a snicker as his hand fell over his heart. But unlike many of the other garou, and much to his own chargin. Paul were perceptive. But only in moments he cared to reveal to others. "I tink we're scaring the young new fille's...nawt a good thang I assure ya. Cordelia" As he turned his attention towards her..probably to her dismay even. With a snigger. "Ya'll fine cheri's are safe despite the angst ya miaght feel from the liakes of he" With a definate point towards Hatchet, even unapologetically. "So don't be squirmin off just yet..we'ze got ample tiame and festivities to make any n all relax on such a blissful niaght of our mother Gaia's tranquility...meaning I got some E if that helps"
[Bridget] A man and woman full of rage come through the fence of an area she's never been allowed to traverse. But for now her eyes lock with her kinsman, whose rage echoes a recognition of her slight injury. She makes a small noise that might be a confirmation, or simply a natural response to the sudden flux of rage all around her.
She speaks with a very slight Quebecois accent on occasion. Only in summer when she's gotten too much sunlight does her hair ever reveal any slight reddish tone. But she certainly knows how to fry like a fair-skinned Fianna. The Welsh heritage is almost completely dominated by her father's side, who migrated as fur traders. It is very possible she may have very, very distant Algonquin cousins, which is likely why her breeding doesn't shine nearly so clearly as a majority of Silver Fangs. But it is still dizzying.
Bridget gets a good look at either of the other Garou that none of them have met yet. Bridget recognizes the woman from the cafe. She doesn't offer her hand, but pushes her hair to one side and lowers her gaze. Probably the most respectful gesture the part-feral moonbrain could give.
"Bridget Geroux... of the Red Deer sept," she offers. Identifying with her father's sept is a wise choice when you are a lone female kinfolk of significant breeding.
[Ivers] "All I got out of that was 'E,'" he says, quite possibly to himself. He gestures to Kristiana with a lazy finger that quickly decides remaining raised isn't worth the effort, his left arm still wound about Bridget's shoulders, "Which I would keep very, very far away from her."
[Kristiana Coleman] She's so obviously, painfully clueless, and doesn't appear to be following the conversation at all. "What? Keeping what away from me?"
[Paul] Paul quickly swung around, pointing his finger at Ivers. "Oh so you want some?"
[Asha Singh] Asha's eyes remain fixed on Cordelia and Kristiana. There's something about the way she does it, the way her black eyes are staring straight ahead as if some sort of invisible anchor kept her attention glued to the pair of them while she moves as she does not, with a soft, unerring sort of grace that offers absolutely no quarter.
"If you give my kinswomen drugs, I will see you hung from the bridge of the Hestia," Asha, quick and sure and soft - with this sharp winging glance at Paul, naming one of the larger hulks in the Caern full of abandoned ships. " - by your small intestines, with the large intestines stuffed into your mouth to ensure that you don't starve to death."
It is a relief, at least, for Kristiana and Cordelia from the intensity of Asha's dark-eyed stare.
Then she resumes her advance on the linked pair. "He's very common," she tells them, quiet-like, her dark eyes flashing. "If he offends you tell me and I will flay his skin from his bones and make you a purse of it." This makes her smile, sudden and savage - this fine-boned, fine-handed, fine-featured girl - full on to both kinswomen. "I'm - " a frown creases her brow. " - well, we should be properly introduced. I'll have to find Thomas first, though - he's much better at it than I am." - and so saying she will soon disappear blithely into the dark, absurdly looking for her herald in the ruins of the old docks so that he may announce her nineteen names and teeming ancestors to strangers in the middle of the night.
[Asha Singh] (Otherwise known as the: LIST HAS TO GO TO BED post. :) )
[Asha Singh] (LIZ CAN SPELL HER OWN NAME POST.)
[Kristiana Coleman] She makes a tiny squeaking sound, standing absolutely still under Asha's gaze.... is she holding her breath?
[Kristiana Coleman] (Which just proves you need sleep!)
[Hatchet] A gesture comes his way, apologies made by a Unicorn to two of Falcon's for one of Stag's. Hatchet doesn't so much as blink. He just stares at Paul for a few seconds longer until about halfway through the Ragabash's tear he turns and gives his attention back to those of his blood. Which is when he meets Bridget's eyes, at least for a moment. He is paying attention. It is not easy, being the focus -- however momentary -- of his attention.
"I've been there," is all Hatchet says to that, to the name of her father's sept. There's a beat of consideration before he adds: "I've met your father."
His eyes leave her then, though, perhaps a bit mercifully, as Paul and Ivers face off. E! Keep it away from her! Want some! Hatchet watches the two of them for a moment, then Asha's speaking up and he seems vaguely relieved and vaguely wary and entirely exhausted for a moment. He hangs back, as though waiting for someone to throw down a glove or some such, and then... Asha turns around and goes to look for her 'Thomas'.
Hatchet blinks.
"It is too fucking cold for this shit," he mutters, and starts walking off the docks. "I'm getting a beer."
[Bridget] "Le sacrament qui était en calvaire a calissé dehors l'ostie en tabarnac."
The Albertan has a potty mouth. It doesn't quite translate to the pristine French the girls are used to, nor the murky Creole influence of Paul's French. There's some reference to sacred items of a church.
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