[Imogen] Another night, another pub. She has a salad in front of her, half eaten, full of vibrant green things, fresh vegetables and warm goat's cheese. A beer, half-drunk, sits nearby.
She sits alone in an occupied pub, taking up a booth for herself, a pocket of solitude in the bar.
Garou frequently find her alone, but it is not true that Imogen is friendless, merely that she seeks solitude often. They find her on patios, smoking a cigarette while humans who know her are inside, drinking and joking, and if anyone asks if someone should check on her, someone who knows her well simply shakes her head, 'Nah,' they'll say, or some variation thereof, 'she does this all the time.' And maybe they offer some excuse, such as she gets sick of their American faces, or sometimes she just needs the air.
Tonight, she is simply alone, with her drink, with her dinner. The kinwoman is dressed in jeans, a v-necked sweater over a blouse. The colours she wears accents her own natural hues of red hair, pale skin and dark blue eyes and these colours are so stark and startling, they mute the colour of her clothing to forgettability.
The stage is empty now, but perhaps later, someone will play.
[Kora] "C'mon - " Kora says, pushing open the front door of the pub, relishing the first blast of warm dry air in her face. Outside, the air is cold, with a certain metallic tang that promises more of the same - another front sweeping down from the arctic, carrying with it the promise of winter snow and ice, bitter temperatures from the far northern latitudes. Her face it turned outward, though, toward the wind that whips in off the lake, through the dark park toward the pubs and restaurants with prime real estate fronting the park. " - I'm starving."
The aura of conviviality is almost as warm as the heater's blast. It's Saturday night with a winter storm promised for the beginning of the week - but now, people are out, lifting a glass. The place has been decked out in greenery - faux fir and real holly - and the bartender is wearing a red Santa hat that says bah humbug in green glitter around the fuzzy brim. People eat just a bit more, drink just bit more - party - just a bit more as Yule approaches.
She holds the front door open for Roman and stands just inside the pub, scanning the booths. Then, with a glance toward the bar, asks, "Hey. You want a beer? I'll get drinks while you find a place to sit."
[Roman Turner] The blast of cold air that announced the opening of the door was accompanied by a rush of denim and stomping boots as he slid in pass his Alpha to stomp his boots just inside the entry.
"Woo-we it's cold!"
Kora asked him if he wanted a beer with the directions to find a place to sit and he nodded as he lifted the hat from his head, freezing half way through the motion of smoothing his hair down with his free hand.
"Yessum, I.....hey, ain't that Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am?"
He'd felt something before he'd spotted that red hair all tucked away in a booth.
[Kora] "It's not cold," says Kora, back, her generous mouth quirking with a faint coil of humor, the subverted sort that lives as much under her skin as it lives in her voice. She breathes out, a subtle huff of laughter as she casts Roman a sidelong look. " - yet. And you do know that Miss and Ma'am occupy the same position, right? They're different forms of the same title.
While Roman is digesting that tidbit, Kora glances back, over Roman's head, following his line of sight and the pull of her senses toward Imogen. "Yeah, that's the doc. Go say hi. I'll be over in a minute - "
And with that, she turns away from the front door and the stage, cutting a rather direct path toward the bar as she begins to unwind a long purple scarf from around her neck.
[Roman Turner] For him it was cold, he had spent his entire life a good 16hrs drive southwest of Chicago where maybe once every couple of years they got hit with an ice-storm that took out power for a week or two, but never stayed that cold. His nose was a little red, but it didn't stop the big smile that bloomed as he ambled straight for Imogen's booth while smoothing his hand over his hair again to make sure the chestnut colored mass was not sticking up in hat-hair fashion.
"Well, howdy Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am."
Was his greeting despite the English grammar lesson his Alpha had just delivered. In his neck of the woods, it was just polite talk, respectful talk.
He had gotten cold enough to pull out the Carhart coat. Wool lined the inside and collar of that deep forest green coat and you could bet it was not only warm but water resistant, made to hold up to farm work.
[Imogen] "Roman," Imogen greets the Ragabash with less fanfare than he her. Not a miss, or a ma'am in sight.
"Ha' a seat." A flick of her gaze over the bar, and she catches sight of blonde hair, perhaps a messy ponytail. "Kora's 'ere as well?"
[Roman Turner] "Yessum, we're both here."
And it was true, as Pack mates they often were found together, as was right and proper. It was one of the quirks and filled a need most wolves had. Material whispered as the coat was slid free before he was sliding in to the booth across from Imogen.
"It's mighty nice to see your smiling face. It brings joy to my frozen heart."
[Imogen] "Is that so?" Imogen answers mildly, picking up her pint glass. "I'll do my best not to smile too often, then. Rapid rewarming can cause tissue damage."
Her eyebrow arches, the only hint of her humour, "Alright?"
[Kora] Kora is taller than most of the women in the room, and a reasonable number of the men; it's easy to catch a glimpse of her hair, messy knot at the back of her head, the pale, gleam of healthy color that comes from something embedded in her DNA rather than a complex of chemicals in applicator bottle. The folks at the bar shift out of her way - justifying themselves, never quite admitting to the thing that pulls out some jangled, subconscious cord deep inside - the instinctual fear predators always bring forth in their (once/future) prey.
Her exchange with the bartender is brief and to the point. His Santa hat inclines forward as he begins to draw a pair of stouts, and makes some joke, rather less affected by her presence than most of his customers. When the exchange is finished, Kora picks up three drinks with the expertise of someone used to drinking with mates, bracing the third between the first two, and begins weaving her way back toward the booth from the bar.
[Roman Turner] He was in the middle of giving Imogen his most earnest/innocent smile when Kora headed back their way.
"Oh but Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am, it's too late to worry about tissue damage, because my heart broke clean in two the first time I set eyes on ya. It sauntered a rift in this poor heart that is only mended by the caress of your voice and the sight of your pretty face at the other end of a gun barrel."
[Roman Turner] ((Horse shit....sundered))
[Imogen] Imogen makes a sound with her tongue against her teeth. "Stop," she says without the coyness that most women would say the word. It is not quite irritation, either merely an admonishment. "You've no gift for poetry."
She glances up as Kora weaves toward them.
"Kora," she greets her.
[Roman Turner] "Oh that weren't poetry. Poetry is more like. Roses are red. Violets are Purple. I think you're as sweet as Maple surple."
[Kora] "Doc. It's that magnet thing again. Mind if we join you?" the Fenrir replies, giving Roman a brief look, all direct dark eyes, still mouth, and flared nostrils. " - that's doggeral, Roman. Not a poem. Maybe you shouldn't attempt it until you've had two or three of these in you - " and so saying, she sets her drinks down on the table, a pair of stouts so dark that the light shining through them is amber colored, the interior the color of molasses. One in front of Roman, the other for Imogen. The third drink is just as dark, but has melting ice cubs visible through the liquid, and a straw - the sort of an accordian bend at the distal end - bobbing around, half floating in the drink.
"I ordered dinner at the bar - " she tells Roman, standing until she's given some sort of permission to sit by Imogen, and then finishes stripping off her scarf, unwinding it entirely before she shrugs her way out of her heavy winter coat. Underneath, she's dressed as always - in jeans, a long-sleeved thermal underneath a t-shirt, PIXIES in white letters on faded black cotton. She's fit enough that the changes of early pregnancy and still subtle on her frame - though the thickening of her waist is more pronounced now. "Figured we might not get good service back here."
[Imogen] A flick of her gaze toward Roman. "'Surple'," she says, "is not a word."
It's that magnet thing again, "So it is," the kinwoman sounds dry as she shifts further down the booth, silently giving Kora permission to join her on her side.
"Thank you," as the beer is set down. The kinwoman's flick of her gaze toward the thickening of the Garou's waist is subtle and brief. Downward then up again to the Galliard's face.
She picks up her nearly finished beer and drains it completely.
[Roman Turner] He had no idea what a doggeral was, though for a moment he did wonder if Kora was saying he was speaking something like dog Latin instead of pig Latin. So while his brain wrestled with that one and his mouth replied to Imogen.
"Surple is a word, I done said it, didn't I?"
He reached for the stout to salute them with before taking a drink.
[Imogen] "Saying random sounds does not a word make." The kin's eyebrow arches, "Despite what most Americans seem to think."
[Kora] "A word's not just a sound you make, you know. It's a symbol, a thing with meaning, concrete or abstract," Kora slides easily into the booth beside Imogen, and lifts up her drink in silent answer to the kinswoman's quiet thanks, then drinks from the rim, not the straw. The lights in the room catch out the palest tones in her hair, warming them, and her eyes shine with distinct points of brightness, some reflection of the christmas strands scattered around the room, framing the posters, running around the soffits, fitted wherever they might be fitted.
Her mouth edges into a deeper curve, as she gleams over the rim of her drink, dark eyes lingering on her packmate. " - what does surple mean, then?"
Then, a flashing glance at Imogen. "Americans? I'm sure your countrymen have made up their share, too."
[Roman Turner] Both his brows rose way up towards his hairline as he watched Imogen for a second before replying.
"I'm sorry Ma'am. I sometimes forget how some folk are wired a little tight in the city. Now I'll just close my American mouth before it says something else ya don't like."
He shook his head slightly as if requesting Kora not push it when she first chimed in with Imogen on correcting his English then asked for a definition. His complextion was still flushed but now it had nothing to do with the cold.
[Imogen] Roman has misinterpreted Imogen's reaction for censure, when it was humour. This is not implausible. The kinwoman keeps her emotions close to her chest. Very little is revealed beyond a smirk or an arched eyebrow, either of which can cut or warm a frozen heart.
She had studied Roman for a moment and perhaps had intended to respond, but Kora speaks, and the redhaired doctor smirks ruefully.
"Quite," she says. "However, I like the sound o' ours."
[Kora] "Say it with an accent," says Kora to Roman, her mouth curving in a rather warmer cousin to Imogen's rueful smirk. " - then maybe she'll approve, yeah?"
[Roman Turner] He gave a small shake of his head, seeming intent on finding the bottom of that glass he held as fast as he could.
"I'm afraid the only accent I know is country bumpkin."
[Kora] "Country bumpkin's pretty close to Shakespeare's language. I've heard the closest accents to Shakespeare's dialect are living in like, the Ozarks," returns Kora, her dark eyes intent on Roman now, nevermind that he's searching for the bottom of his beer. " - so maybe that would work, after all."
[Imogen] "According to quite a few people back 'ome," Imogen says, "my accent would be, as yeh call it 'country bumpkin'." Her mouth twists into a smirk before she hides it behind her glass, drinking deeply. "S'been educated out, of course, but never quite enough."
[Roman Turner] He had absolutely no idea what Kora was talking about, only really understanding the Ozarks part of it. For a brief moment his confused gaze met her's before returning to the foam breaking up to ring the edges of the beer in the glass. It was weird how beer foamed up to die in to a tiny island in the middle with a circle ringing the outer rim of the glass, it always reminded him of a wagon in the middle of a ring of Indians.
Imogen mentioned her accent was country bumpkin where she came from and he mumbled.
"Y'all sound the same to me. Only understand every other word anyway."
[Kora] hey guys! I think I neeed to crash. hah.
to Imogen, Roman Turner
[Imogen] (ME TOO)
to Kora, Roman Turner
[Kora] shall we fade darlings?
to Imogen, Roman Turner
[Roman Turner] ((ok!))
to Imogen, Kora
[Imogen] Imogen inclines her head slightly. "Fer the most part," she says, her voice suddenly being broken by the sound of her phone ringing, "you all sound th'same t'me."
She pulls her phone from her handbag, glancing at the number as it continues to ring.
"Better let me out," she says to Kora, "It looks like I'm not stayin'."
True to her word, Imogen soon leaves, work pulling her away. The food that Kora ordered takes a while to arrive, but in the absence of the kinfolk, the conversation between the two packmates, perhaps, eases. In either case, live music comes on an hour or so later. A traditional folk band playing music from 'across the pond', indiscriminately.
They're good, though not amazing.
[Imogen] There!
to Kora, Roman Turner
[Roman Turner] ((night guys!))
to Imogen, Kora
She sits alone in an occupied pub, taking up a booth for herself, a pocket of solitude in the bar.
Garou frequently find her alone, but it is not true that Imogen is friendless, merely that she seeks solitude often. They find her on patios, smoking a cigarette while humans who know her are inside, drinking and joking, and if anyone asks if someone should check on her, someone who knows her well simply shakes her head, 'Nah,' they'll say, or some variation thereof, 'she does this all the time.' And maybe they offer some excuse, such as she gets sick of their American faces, or sometimes she just needs the air.
Tonight, she is simply alone, with her drink, with her dinner. The kinwoman is dressed in jeans, a v-necked sweater over a blouse. The colours she wears accents her own natural hues of red hair, pale skin and dark blue eyes and these colours are so stark and startling, they mute the colour of her clothing to forgettability.
The stage is empty now, but perhaps later, someone will play.
[Kora] "C'mon - " Kora says, pushing open the front door of the pub, relishing the first blast of warm dry air in her face. Outside, the air is cold, with a certain metallic tang that promises more of the same - another front sweeping down from the arctic, carrying with it the promise of winter snow and ice, bitter temperatures from the far northern latitudes. Her face it turned outward, though, toward the wind that whips in off the lake, through the dark park toward the pubs and restaurants with prime real estate fronting the park. " - I'm starving."
The aura of conviviality is almost as warm as the heater's blast. It's Saturday night with a winter storm promised for the beginning of the week - but now, people are out, lifting a glass. The place has been decked out in greenery - faux fir and real holly - and the bartender is wearing a red Santa hat that says bah humbug in green glitter around the fuzzy brim. People eat just a bit more, drink just bit more - party - just a bit more as Yule approaches.
She holds the front door open for Roman and stands just inside the pub, scanning the booths. Then, with a glance toward the bar, asks, "Hey. You want a beer? I'll get drinks while you find a place to sit."
[Roman Turner] The blast of cold air that announced the opening of the door was accompanied by a rush of denim and stomping boots as he slid in pass his Alpha to stomp his boots just inside the entry.
"Woo-we it's cold!"
Kora asked him if he wanted a beer with the directions to find a place to sit and he nodded as he lifted the hat from his head, freezing half way through the motion of smoothing his hair down with his free hand.
"Yessum, I.....hey, ain't that Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am?"
He'd felt something before he'd spotted that red hair all tucked away in a booth.
[Kora] "It's not cold," says Kora, back, her generous mouth quirking with a faint coil of humor, the subverted sort that lives as much under her skin as it lives in her voice. She breathes out, a subtle huff of laughter as she casts Roman a sidelong look. " - yet. And you do know that Miss and Ma'am occupy the same position, right? They're different forms of the same title.
While Roman is digesting that tidbit, Kora glances back, over Roman's head, following his line of sight and the pull of her senses toward Imogen. "Yeah, that's the doc. Go say hi. I'll be over in a minute - "
And with that, she turns away from the front door and the stage, cutting a rather direct path toward the bar as she begins to unwind a long purple scarf from around her neck.
[Roman Turner] For him it was cold, he had spent his entire life a good 16hrs drive southwest of Chicago where maybe once every couple of years they got hit with an ice-storm that took out power for a week or two, but never stayed that cold. His nose was a little red, but it didn't stop the big smile that bloomed as he ambled straight for Imogen's booth while smoothing his hand over his hair again to make sure the chestnut colored mass was not sticking up in hat-hair fashion.
"Well, howdy Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am."
Was his greeting despite the English grammar lesson his Alpha had just delivered. In his neck of the woods, it was just polite talk, respectful talk.
He had gotten cold enough to pull out the Carhart coat. Wool lined the inside and collar of that deep forest green coat and you could bet it was not only warm but water resistant, made to hold up to farm work.
[Imogen] "Roman," Imogen greets the Ragabash with less fanfare than he her. Not a miss, or a ma'am in sight.
"Ha' a seat." A flick of her gaze over the bar, and she catches sight of blonde hair, perhaps a messy ponytail. "Kora's 'ere as well?"
[Roman Turner] "Yessum, we're both here."
And it was true, as Pack mates they often were found together, as was right and proper. It was one of the quirks and filled a need most wolves had. Material whispered as the coat was slid free before he was sliding in to the booth across from Imogen.
"It's mighty nice to see your smiling face. It brings joy to my frozen heart."
[Imogen] "Is that so?" Imogen answers mildly, picking up her pint glass. "I'll do my best not to smile too often, then. Rapid rewarming can cause tissue damage."
Her eyebrow arches, the only hint of her humour, "Alright?"
[Kora] Kora is taller than most of the women in the room, and a reasonable number of the men; it's easy to catch a glimpse of her hair, messy knot at the back of her head, the pale, gleam of healthy color that comes from something embedded in her DNA rather than a complex of chemicals in applicator bottle. The folks at the bar shift out of her way - justifying themselves, never quite admitting to the thing that pulls out some jangled, subconscious cord deep inside - the instinctual fear predators always bring forth in their (once/future) prey.
Her exchange with the bartender is brief and to the point. His Santa hat inclines forward as he begins to draw a pair of stouts, and makes some joke, rather less affected by her presence than most of his customers. When the exchange is finished, Kora picks up three drinks with the expertise of someone used to drinking with mates, bracing the third between the first two, and begins weaving her way back toward the booth from the bar.
[Roman Turner] He was in the middle of giving Imogen his most earnest/innocent smile when Kora headed back their way.
"Oh but Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am, it's too late to worry about tissue damage, because my heart broke clean in two the first time I set eyes on ya. It sauntered a rift in this poor heart that is only mended by the caress of your voice and the sight of your pretty face at the other end of a gun barrel."
[Roman Turner] ((Horse shit....sundered))
[Imogen] Imogen makes a sound with her tongue against her teeth. "Stop," she says without the coyness that most women would say the word. It is not quite irritation, either merely an admonishment. "You've no gift for poetry."
She glances up as Kora weaves toward them.
"Kora," she greets her.
[Roman Turner] "Oh that weren't poetry. Poetry is more like. Roses are red. Violets are Purple. I think you're as sweet as Maple surple."
[Kora] "Doc. It's that magnet thing again. Mind if we join you?" the Fenrir replies, giving Roman a brief look, all direct dark eyes, still mouth, and flared nostrils. " - that's doggeral, Roman. Not a poem. Maybe you shouldn't attempt it until you've had two or three of these in you - " and so saying, she sets her drinks down on the table, a pair of stouts so dark that the light shining through them is amber colored, the interior the color of molasses. One in front of Roman, the other for Imogen. The third drink is just as dark, but has melting ice cubs visible through the liquid, and a straw - the sort of an accordian bend at the distal end - bobbing around, half floating in the drink.
"I ordered dinner at the bar - " she tells Roman, standing until she's given some sort of permission to sit by Imogen, and then finishes stripping off her scarf, unwinding it entirely before she shrugs her way out of her heavy winter coat. Underneath, she's dressed as always - in jeans, a long-sleeved thermal underneath a t-shirt, PIXIES in white letters on faded black cotton. She's fit enough that the changes of early pregnancy and still subtle on her frame - though the thickening of her waist is more pronounced now. "Figured we might not get good service back here."
[Imogen] A flick of her gaze toward Roman. "'Surple'," she says, "is not a word."
It's that magnet thing again, "So it is," the kinwoman sounds dry as she shifts further down the booth, silently giving Kora permission to join her on her side.
"Thank you," as the beer is set down. The kinwoman's flick of her gaze toward the thickening of the Garou's waist is subtle and brief. Downward then up again to the Galliard's face.
She picks up her nearly finished beer and drains it completely.
[Roman Turner] He had no idea what a doggeral was, though for a moment he did wonder if Kora was saying he was speaking something like dog Latin instead of pig Latin. So while his brain wrestled with that one and his mouth replied to Imogen.
"Surple is a word, I done said it, didn't I?"
He reached for the stout to salute them with before taking a drink.
[Imogen] "Saying random sounds does not a word make." The kin's eyebrow arches, "Despite what most Americans seem to think."
[Kora] "A word's not just a sound you make, you know. It's a symbol, a thing with meaning, concrete or abstract," Kora slides easily into the booth beside Imogen, and lifts up her drink in silent answer to the kinswoman's quiet thanks, then drinks from the rim, not the straw. The lights in the room catch out the palest tones in her hair, warming them, and her eyes shine with distinct points of brightness, some reflection of the christmas strands scattered around the room, framing the posters, running around the soffits, fitted wherever they might be fitted.
Her mouth edges into a deeper curve, as she gleams over the rim of her drink, dark eyes lingering on her packmate. " - what does surple mean, then?"
Then, a flashing glance at Imogen. "Americans? I'm sure your countrymen have made up their share, too."
[Roman Turner] Both his brows rose way up towards his hairline as he watched Imogen for a second before replying.
"I'm sorry Ma'am. I sometimes forget how some folk are wired a little tight in the city. Now I'll just close my American mouth before it says something else ya don't like."
He shook his head slightly as if requesting Kora not push it when she first chimed in with Imogen on correcting his English then asked for a definition. His complextion was still flushed but now it had nothing to do with the cold.
[Imogen] Roman has misinterpreted Imogen's reaction for censure, when it was humour. This is not implausible. The kinwoman keeps her emotions close to her chest. Very little is revealed beyond a smirk or an arched eyebrow, either of which can cut or warm a frozen heart.
She had studied Roman for a moment and perhaps had intended to respond, but Kora speaks, and the redhaired doctor smirks ruefully.
"Quite," she says. "However, I like the sound o' ours."
[Kora] "Say it with an accent," says Kora to Roman, her mouth curving in a rather warmer cousin to Imogen's rueful smirk. " - then maybe she'll approve, yeah?"
[Roman Turner] He gave a small shake of his head, seeming intent on finding the bottom of that glass he held as fast as he could.
"I'm afraid the only accent I know is country bumpkin."
[Kora] "Country bumpkin's pretty close to Shakespeare's language. I've heard the closest accents to Shakespeare's dialect are living in like, the Ozarks," returns Kora, her dark eyes intent on Roman now, nevermind that he's searching for the bottom of his beer. " - so maybe that would work, after all."
[Imogen] "According to quite a few people back 'ome," Imogen says, "my accent would be, as yeh call it 'country bumpkin'." Her mouth twists into a smirk before she hides it behind her glass, drinking deeply. "S'been educated out, of course, but never quite enough."
[Roman Turner] He had absolutely no idea what Kora was talking about, only really understanding the Ozarks part of it. For a brief moment his confused gaze met her's before returning to the foam breaking up to ring the edges of the beer in the glass. It was weird how beer foamed up to die in to a tiny island in the middle with a circle ringing the outer rim of the glass, it always reminded him of a wagon in the middle of a ring of Indians.
Imogen mentioned her accent was country bumpkin where she came from and he mumbled.
"Y'all sound the same to me. Only understand every other word anyway."
[Kora] hey guys! I think I neeed to crash. hah.
to Imogen, Roman Turner
[Imogen] (ME TOO)
to Kora, Roman Turner
[Kora] shall we fade darlings?
to Imogen, Roman Turner
[Roman Turner] ((ok!))
to Imogen, Kora
[Imogen] Imogen inclines her head slightly. "Fer the most part," she says, her voice suddenly being broken by the sound of her phone ringing, "you all sound th'same t'me."
She pulls her phone from her handbag, glancing at the number as it continues to ring.
"Better let me out," she says to Kora, "It looks like I'm not stayin'."
True to her word, Imogen soon leaves, work pulling her away. The food that Kora ordered takes a while to arrive, but in the absence of the kinfolk, the conversation between the two packmates, perhaps, eases. In either case, live music comes on an hour or so later. A traditional folk band playing music from 'across the pond', indiscriminately.
They're good, though not amazing.
[Imogen] There!
to Kora, Roman Turner
[Roman Turner] ((night guys!))
to Imogen, Kora
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