Ornature

[Rain] There is a blanket of stars behind the grey of the clouds. A handful of tiny pin-prick hopes cast out into the heaves, twinkling, brightly, shining, unseen. And among those half-breath, baited, lingering brightness, among their tiny time-struck faces, sails a fish hook moon so slender, so pale, so seemingly fragile that it casts no light at all through the clouds and then the falling snow.

The paths in Grant Park were already slippery at this time of night. Now that frozen danger is camoflagued by a light dusting of snow. It falls down, clumping and flocking, lingering on any horizontal surface, piling into white highlights, attention drawing smears of reflective bright. It catches up in her eyelashes, eddies in the wake of her breath, flecks her brown jacket with doe spots.

Rain has stopped seeing the snow as lovely, and decided it is merely cold. Tonight, though, she seeks to recapture a sense of that awe, to remember that she is a tiny pin-prick hope, a candescent lamp, a hope of her own. She's been sitting on this bench in the park for half an hour, now. Watching the snow, becoming a dark-and-white smear in the night, like any other stationary point. She smells of the bus, and the Chinatown alleys, and a coffee shop in Lake View, and a myriad of other small smells. She smells like the city, and she breathes in winter and breathes out something warmer than makes the snowflakes dance.

It's beautiful. It's cold. And the moon can't quite peak through to see it.

[Rain] [Go-go-gadget auto-correct: ...cast out into the *heavens...]

[Kora] The snow's still light, falling from the clotted gray sky in picturesque swirls that smear the lamplight, dampen sound, make the world seem both rather more private and - somehow - both hushed and expansive. There's a heavier promise behind those clouds, the building edge of a blizzard, some great storm tracking against the horizon. Maybe Rain caught the edge of a winter storm warning from the crawl at the bottom of the flat-screen in the waiting area in the Chinese place, or heard a pair of strangers discussing the storm on the bus. Maybe she's as disconnected from those concrete pieces of the human world as the Garou seem to be - living not by the turn of the calendar but by the movement of the seasons, the circuit of the moon.

So: something in the sky perks up Sorrow's animal senses; reminds her of other skies, other storms, other plains, other places. The sense is backgrounded still - just a spark of primal feeling - but enough to make her brighter, more aware of the immediacy of the physical world. The snow coating the ice coating the usually groomed sidewalks of the park. The icy halos surrounding the iron-black streetlamps here, meant to invoke some nostalgia for another, older age. The stillness of the young woman sitting on the park bench: who resolves into a familiar shape, a familiar face - only when she closes the distance.

Sorrow has a long stride, but she's not walking swiftly tonight. One hand's in the pocket of her winter coat; the other's wrapped around a hot drink in a cardboard mug, the sharp scent of chocolate - not coffee - a brief, sweet note against the cold air.

"You're starting to look like a snowwoman," says the Skald, when she's in speaking distance. The snowflakes melt in Rain's hair, against her cheeks. But they accumulate on the shoulders and yoke of her coat. There's a hint of humor in Kora's voice, muffled by a twist of a scarf. Her shadow here is long, multipartite - a half-dozen shades of gray, a half-dozen distorted shapes from a half-dozen distant light sources. Nearly all of them cut across the kinswoman's face when she looks up. Kora's backgrounded by light - not haloed, as her hair's bound back, concealed beneath a hood. She could have been anyone from a distance, until rage and the distinct timbre of her voice defined her as Kora.

"Mind if I join you?"

[Rain] You're starting to look like a snowwoman.

"I'm trying to blend in," Unicorn's kin says, with a glance upward through her eyelashes for the familiar Skald. Where once there would have been a tensing of her shoulders, a clench to her jaw, that general tight and readiness to the whole of her slight form, now a smile blossoms across her mouth and the warmth of it touches the dark fields of her eyes. Rain's face is cast in shadows, but for Kora it is anything but dark and hidden. Illuminated and open: starbright: moonlight: reflected.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," she says, reaching out with one gloved hand to sweep away the accumulation beside her. It leaves broad swaths of dark bench slats showing against the dusting a white. Carves out a niche for Sorrow beside her.

There were warnings on the televisions, but there had been no televisions where Rain spent the breadth of her afternoon and evening. She'd been looking for Eve in the alleyways and narrow streets. She'd been courting her past, with all its dangers and familiarity. And now she was alone, on a bench, in the park -- no, not alone anymore. She shared it with Sorrow.

There have been nights in the last week that Rain did not come home to the stout Church in the Green, with it's dappled stained glass moonlight and its snow drifting down from the frozen ribs and spine of the sanctuary roof. There'd been a span of nearly forty-eight hours when her guitar languished under the bunk that she'd claimed in the dormitory rooms. It was not every night, but it was often enough to notice. The gifts and tithes and groceries and money had not stopped appearing on their fridge and dining table, but they were grouped together. A couple days' offerings in one go. A little silence in between.

She wasn't underfoot as much. Less taxing. Didn't demand for them to divide their attention, such as they might have before.

[Kora] "If that's the aim," says Sorrow, a wry note touching her voice as she sinks into the space Rain has cleared off on the bench. " - well then, you've got a long way to go."

There's still snow there, the lightest dust - flakes stuck in the broken grooves of the painted bench, the knots and whorls of the dead pine planed and primed and painted to make the slates. Look at her sidewalks, she's half-smiling, her curving mouth twisting with a certain supple humor, more elastic than most of her fellow Garou. More settled - somehow - into her blood and her flesh and her bones than so many of her kind.

"You're well?" It is the quietest question, easy to throw off. Easy to settle into a groove that sounds like a call and response. There's a certain inflection on [i]well[i], though, a certain vibrance underneath, which is matched by the touch of her dark-eyes on the kinswoman's features - first her mouth, that smile, and then the warm light that shines from her eyes - a certain serious undercurrent that suggests that Sorrow is asking the question because she wants to know the answer. "With Howard - and the rest?"

The lake's out there, dark beyond the soft, still illumination enveloping the park. The city's orange glow reflects bright against the dark waters, but then recedes in the distance, until it seems swallowed by some indefinable horizon of dark waters and dark sky.

It's quiet enough that they can hear themselves breathe. Can hear the low hum of traffic on the loop - slower now, cautious with the new layer of snow on the old layer of ice and slush - that they can pick up the knocks of individual engines if they strain for them.

"The city never seems so quiet," says Kora, " - as when it snows."

[Rain] There was a time when Rain would not have sat this close to Kora on the park bench. When the sound of the Skald's breathing would have kept her quietly terrified. And all of it would have been because of what Kora is, rather than who she might be. There'd been some of that the night they'd met, Rain standing half-behind Linus, Kora thumping the table to emphasize some point. There had been a wariness then, it is worn down to something familiar now.

Kora smiles. Rain's answers that, spreading softly, somewhat sadly at the mention of the Fianna who had passed.

"We might have been friends," she says, of Howard, into that great quiet that wells up between them. She does not presume that they were friends. She does not imply anything greater or less. There had been potential for something precious; there had been some fondness spent on that hope. It is gone now. One more great If swallowed up by the black unknowable universe. One more small silence, slipped in to fill up its leaving.

"I'm well," Rain answers, after some consideration. It's a measured thing, weighed carefully against the cold winter night. It's a more weighty answer she gives to Kora than anyone else; more complete in its silences and its southern-shaped sounds. A thousand half-said things lurk in the corners of those two words. A sadness. A hope. Rain is skilled at expression; she keeps little back. These things float in the margins of what she does and doesn't say; they cling to the back of her throat, stopper it up, shift her breathing.

"I like the snow better at night. When it's soft-seeming; when it reflects the light. It seems so hopeful," she says. "So clear and clean."

[Kora] We might have been friends. says Rain. Nothing more, nothing less. Kora turns her head, studies the young kinswoman's profile, outlined against the muted winter night. The soft curve of her cheek, stark with cold, the bow of her mouth. The dark gleam of her eyes viewed aslant, depth lost with the angle of the glance, turned to a sort of errant brightness with the reflection of the path lighting.

And she breathes out, Sorrow - the sound is soft but clearly audible. That's as deliberate as anything: an acknowledgment of sorts; of grief's edge, turning over in dark waters, never wholly surfacing.

There's a strange concordance here. She sat here alone along the path on a cold spring night, scoured with grief over the death of her Alpha. HOllowed out and remade with it. The memory of that night impresses itself - not strongly - but with a sort of sense memory, arising from nowhere, the way the echo of a car's engine in a still house on a warm night brings back some still, long-past memory with a hopeless sort of immediacy. Like it could be eaten again, swallowed whole, some strange communion of loss.

Which is to say: there's a gravity to the half-smile of acknowledgment on Kora's supple mouth.

She breathes in again, and looks away, back out to the dark waters of the lake, the ripple of the city's lights fading to black in the distance.

"I fostered at this Sept in these remote islands in the North Atlantic. Hjaltland, the tribe calls them. The Shetlands. The Caern was even further, out among these scattered skerries in the middle of nowhere. Just sky and sea, and storms. Winter's so dark you started to ache for sunlight." Another huff, this one supple, quiet with memory.

"I used to sit on the headlands at the Sept and stare off into the east as the sun set. Not the west. I didn't want to see the sun, just the rush of night over the waters, yeah? Snow squalls in the distance until darkness erased the horizon, and even the rocks at the base of the cliff disappeared."

[Rain] "It sounds lovely," Rain says, followed by a little huff-chuckle sound as she realized how odd that might sound to someone without a poet's soul or countenance. The kinswoman smile cants, leans, is momentarily off-center as she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

"I used to sit on the shoreline at home and watch the colors shift on the horizon, not watching the sun, at the same time of night. There's a blush, then a lavendar fade, then a duskiness to all of it just before the moon rises -- yellow like a lantern over the sea. The Atlantic swells so sharply; everything smelled of sea and tide-lines. In the autumn, you could hear the moss sway on the breeze, hanging down from the trees like curtains. In the old town there were these plazas, in the heart of a cluster of old manor homes, some of them had statues or gazebos. I used to close my eyes and imagine I could hear the ghosts and spirits sweeping through them.

"And low, and slow, and fat-lazy came the peal of church bells, calling us home to Wednesday night sermons. Especially in the summer, when twilight stretched on forever.

"There's no slowness like that here, unless it's dark, and snowing."

[Kora] "Hah - " Kora's laugh is abrupt, not bright, falling just behind Rain's remark that it sounds - lovely. A burst of air from her diaphragm that quiets as Rain supplies her own memory of the Atlantic - a quieter, less storm-ridden shore.

"New Orleans?" Kora responds, giving the kinswoman another sidelong look, her chin rising above her scarf. The hot chocolate she brought with her rests nearly forgotten on her left knee, a welcome warmth, the scent permeating the air around them, competing with the metallic cast of the storm gathering off to the west. "Or - " watching Rain for confirmation or clarification.

There's that wry twist to her mouth again, though, and afterwards Kora shakes her head once, reaching up to tip back the hood that has mostly-shrouded her pale hair, her sharp, nordic features softened only by the subtle weight gain of pregnancy and the supple curve of her mouth.

"I didn't think of it as lovely then. I just wanted to get away; I didn't think I'd ever be anywhere other than that bloody place. The middle of nowhere, surrounded by blasted, violent strangers - most of whom didn't speak
my language. But somehow night feels the same everywhere, yeah? The way the horizon opens up, then closes off again. It's like shutting a window and opening a door.

"That was early, though. Right after. Before I settled into my skin, and remembered who I'd always been. Maybe later I thought of it as lovely. And when I left, I never thought I'd ever miss that place. But I do, you know? On dark nights at the lake's edge.

"When it's snowing. And the horizon's turned back in on itself, hung up between water and sky."

[Rain] New Orleans? Kora offers.

"Savannah," Rain answers. The Skald is one of only a few, now, who know where home is for the small songbird. Who could track her last name back to a shanty on the wrong side of the tracks, to parents who were neither distinguished nor kind. Kora could follow her history back to the accident of her birth, now, and then forward, slowly, toward the place the Nation found her. Rain doesn't offer it up often; they knew her by a different name then.

She is not so entirely different from they who have Changed.

"A place becomes weighty when it joins the rest of history," the songbird says, softly. She is young, but she has been tried and tested, forged in a hotter fire than most her age. The Nation does that, both to its warriors and to its keepers of lineage and hearths. "Somehow it becomes more than it ever was in a moment: all sounds and sentiment, raw and smoothed over, perfect and untouchable, and impossible to recreate. You can never go back, and it can never come forward the way that you knew it.

"It hangs, out there, like that horizon. No matter how far you go to find it, it'll always be just out of reach."

Rain draws her hair over one shoulder, glances over at the Skald again. They can talk like this, about places far away, about longing, deep and keening things, without having to touch on the imperfect parts of now. There's ache enough, Sorrow enough, in the things they share to sum up the hurts of the moment they live in. When Rain breathes these things out, she imbues them with a sort of hope and warmth, a gilded edge, a gentling. Like the vignetting of an old photograph, curled edges, smiles softened away from whatever they had been meant to mean: fondness: continuation: enduring: hope that runs like a river, slow moving and steady, even under a frozen surface.

The water is dark, out there, where the sky swallows its edge, and the clouds refuse to give up the moonlight, the starbright, the pin-pricks of hope. So Sorrow sits beside one instead, and Rain shines softly. It's the only way she knows how to be.

"I miss Eve," she says, and it's as poignant as anything they've shared. It needs no elaboration. She casts it out there, thrown into the sky like a little prick of light, a thing lost in the vastness of the stories they keep.

The quiet stretches. She counts her heartbeats, the shape of her breath, the way the cold makes her chest constrict, the numbness in her fingertips. She knows all of these things keenly now, bright and immanent; she knows that, years from now, when she talks of sitting on a bench in the snow near the lake in the winter, they will have faded away like the dimming contrast of another old photograph, the unspoken lines of prose, the weighty and weightless adjectives uncaptured in the cadence of a poem.

"But I think --" she stops there, exhales, disrupts the fall of snowflakes and causes them to dance and jig and sway and slow. "I think I might have found someone who eases that." Tentative. Quiet. Uncertain. Hopeful. These things are all wrapped up in that breath she lets go, to the quiet, to the snowfall, to the Skald sitting beside her. There's no surety to it. It rises up to the starlight; it fades like the twilight.

[Kora] (pause!)

[Patrick Llewelyn] The last time most of the people present that know of Patrick saw him -- glimpsed him -- he had either been exceptionally drunk, exceptionally angry or seeing fit to ignore most of his surroundings. But on each occasion, spare perhaps the Detective, they had seen him while his Alpha, his best friend had been alive. Had been, typically, present to pull Patrick back -- to taunt him, tease him, distract him from his melancholy; his aggression; his warpath toward his own demise.

Tonight, he is less one Theurge pack-mate, having come to the city less one Philodox Alpha to begin with.

They are wolves; the female Fenrir that comes forward to greet him, and the Fianna that lifts his chin and nods at her; his expression somber; perhaps even a degree wary. Kora can no doubt read much of his current state straight from his rumpled clothing, his tousled hair and the healing cuts to the knuckles, the fingers of which brace the pockets of his jacket.

"Rhya," he says, the touch of deference seems alien on the Fianna's tongue, a sentiment he is not familiar with using all that often. "Nice digs." The corner of his mouth pulls, attempts a smile. "Great acoustics."

[Izzy Montoya] She sets the bags on the counter, and goes about emptying them. There's a collection of random types of Thai food, and a bunch of it, as well as two six-packs of beer to refresh the cooler. If anyone was to ask her what the occasion was, she wouldn't be able to answer. She's never randomly showed up with food before, though she has picked up the tab around town on more than one occasion. If it were anyone else, they might think she wanted company.

But it's Izzy.

She grabs one of the beers, opens it and takes a swallow or four, as she moves to take a seat in the corner of the kitchen - out of the way.

[Imogen] Imogen regards the gathering, the Jarl taking a Fianna off to the side to speak, a Ragabash, drawing the others toward the kitchen. She does not know that she was not considered a guest - is not privy to the mental conversation - and truthfully, it is hard to say, precisely what her reaction would be to that knowledge.

If there were any at all.

Something muted and indescribable passes her expression as she looks about at the goings on, before she reaches into her jacket pocket, retrieving a cigarette case, catching Roman's eye briefly (it takes a moment as the boy snorts and snortles at Drew's misfortune and Erek's antics) and lifting the case in indication.

With that, the kinswoman turns and steps back outside, leaving the tepid warmth behind her for the cold stone stoop and lungs she can fill with tar and poison.

[Ki Mondblume] *Despite his own car, he STILL walks most places. He all but jogs towards the place. Backwards. It leads to problems in some places, but this place seems to be okay. He is holding a paper plate of three hot dogs. He eats with a great deal of relish. Well. Enjoyment. Food is BLISS.*

*He shoves half of one into his mouth, swelling his cheeks. His eyes widen slightly, at the cars. SO many cars. He cants his head idly, and he raises his head to the sky, sniffing idly. He pulls his backpack around his front, and shoves the two remaining hot dogs into the bag, as he finishes off the first. Defend the food. At ALL costs. He does smell cigarette smoke.*

[Drew Roscoe] The tall Rotagar that looked every bit the part of what his blood said he should be moved to stand behind Drew and clapped one hand onto her shoulder. You'd think, for a second, that he was being supportive or affectionate in some way. Noticing how tension had hitched up along her shoulders and at the back of her neck, how humor and cheer had dropped from her demeanor like flies that just got hit with a cloud of Raid.

Then that snowball he's been packing idly between his gloves for the past several minutes is dropped right on top of her head, smashed into her hair so that it crumbles and falls over her face and shoulders onto the floor. Roman barks out a laugh, no one else seems to look terribly amused.

Drew sighs, for a moment it seems she's only going to be upset with the cold wet surprise, but a small smile effects one side of her mouth and she shakes her head some, reaching up to shoo the Rotagar's hand off her scalp and brushing what's left of the snowball away. An elbow goes back, aimed to bump into his stomach. There's not nearly enough momentum or emotion in the gesture for her to be truly attempting to hurt or attack the Rotagar, it's just playing around is all.

"'Ppreciate that," she chuckled a bit and shook her head, touching the wet spot on the top of her head with the tips of her fingers.

[Roman Turner] He was still smiling when he acknowledged Imogen's motion that she was going outside to smoke and he turned back to join Izzy before she could eat all the food, as if. Snickering as he joined Izzy.

"Did ya see that? Right smack on the noggin. I bet she gives him a good shove when they go back out on the ice."

[Imogen] There is a red-haired woman on the stoop of the church, an ember now burning between her fingers. She does not sit, but leans against the doorjamb. She's dressed better than here - certainly better than a squatter who might have appropriated a place like this.

The slight woman has pure breeding. It's heavy as silk, a smell, a taste, a touch. And at some point, as the other walks along the street, she appears to be watching him, lifting her cigarette back to her lips, inhaling deep.

[Ki Mondblume] *His nostrils flare, and he chews on the last bit of hot dog. He watches the woman. His own breeding is fairly clear, though thinned down a bit. It seems he's trying to figure her out for a moment. And then he grins.*

HEY! Didn't anyone ever tell you smoking's bad for you?

[Erek Skulason] *Erek grunts as Drew's elbow connects with his stomach. He releases his grip on her, pulling his arms back to hug his sides as his hands move to rub over the spot of impact. He looks down at the smaller kin, puckering his bottom lip out in a pout at her, using his own humility to get a smile on Drew's face. When he sees that she's grinning just a little, he laughs again, shaking his head*

Move your ass, Ms. Roscoe, to get some grub or I can haul you over like a sack of potatoes.

*His stomach rumbles in protest, the smell of the Thai filling his nostrils as Roman and Izzy were digging into the food. He didn't want to leave Drew by herself, so makes harmless threats at her*

[Izzy Montoya] She lifts her bottle in slight toast, but doesn't have much to say on the subject of shoving, or Drew, or the new kid. Aside from the obvious question: "Who is he?"

She hasn't been about much - which is no different than usual - and has yet to be introduced. She does manage to bite back another comment, hiding it behind a swallow, and a gesture toward the food. "Help yourself. Didn't know what you liked, brought a little bit of everything."

[Roman Turner] "He's your family. Erek."

There was no way he could say the last name correctly, so he coughed while saying it, making it sound sort of like Skullsomething.

"New Moon. Want me to ask if he's single?"

[Izzy Montoya] He's her family. She snorts. Roman is well aware of her views on Tribe. Or, if he isn't, he should be by now as she never makes an attempt to hide it. Kora has earned her respect - something Kemp also had, though others are few and far between.

Want him to ask if he's single? She arches a brow, slightly, and deadpans. "Why, you lonely?"

[Imogen] There is a brief silence - the woman turns her head, exhaling smoke into the wind, letting it blow away. Another drag, then she steps off the stoop and walks toward him.

Imogen does not yell across a front lawn.

The slight kinswoman moves with an utter ease a visceral knowledge of the boundaries of her body. She navigates the uneven snow, the unplowed walkway, her boots crunching through the ice and snow. Her jacket is open, and her free hand slides beneath it to the small of her back, then slides out, empty again. She does not come up to him entirely, but closes to a speaking distance.

She pauses there, taking another drag of her cigarette, and turning her head away to blow the smoke. She lowers the fag, tapping the ash toward the snow - it hisses nearly inaudibly.

"Do you want to exchange witticisms about cigarettes and its effects on human health or do you want to talk about my blood and yours?" she asks, evenly, an eyebrow arching.

[Drew Roscoe] Familiarity was something that was both sweet and sour for Drew right now. It was nice having another body in the house to warm it, to come home and not stare at blank walls and listen to absolute silence and wonder how the hell she was going to keep pushing through the days with things remaining as empty and mundane as they were. The Rotagar provided company, conversation and something to keep busy with as well (taking care after a teenage boy was time consuming, ask anyone).

Yet, at the same time, time alone was crucial. She still needed to be able to shove off the weight of playing like she wasn't grieving or hurt, to stop pretending that everything was okay and sit quietly, looking at pictures or having the occasional cry. She needed these moments of non-judgment, with no one staring at her looking sympathetic or uncomfortable to make her pull up the act once more. They were precisely as crucial as the company was, oxymoronic as that may seem.

It's the familiarity born from this agreement that makes Drew acquiesce to the teasing, that has her donning the grin easier. It's the only reason she's walking toward the kitchen at all. She liked beer as much as the next midwestern twenty-something, but alcohol right now could really only be trouble.

Still, regardless, she walks to the kitchen, shaking her head at Erek and grinning as she went. "Sure, you could. But then you'd be cooking your own meals and washing your own dishes for god knows how long."

[Kora] There's a brief glance at Drew when she says something about who her father is. Mental note: ask later. Otherwise, Kora's perfectly content to give over guest-duty to her packmate. He says yassum in the back of her mouth, and before he disappears back toward the kitchen, whatever food Izzy brought as offer, Roman will catch the edge of a fond glance, a generous sort of twist to her curving mouth. Which deepens into a smirk when Erek calls her snookums-rhya.

He earns himself a look of warning perfecly matched to that smirk, before Kora's attention returns to the newest guest.

The Skald takes Patrick in a glance, missing little. The blood, the grief, the disshevelment. Her footsteps echo quietly in the stark interior of the old church, all the way up to the half-broken rafters, and she glances up, following the arc of his glance when he says nice digs.

"Thanks." Her voice is quiet; the power subsumed, contained, constrained in the undertones. She isn't a singer, but she still knows how to use that particular instrument, in her own quiet way.

She comes closer to Patrick than a human ever would, but does not quite touch him. They're wolves: there's a certain concordance there. A certain awareness.

"C'mon." She tells him, brushing past toward the tables. The coolers underneath, crouching down to pull the lid off one, looking back up at Patrick over her shoulder as she digs through the slurry of ice. "You want a beer?"

[Roman Turner] He considered Erek a moment then murmured around a mouthful of food to Izzy.

"You're right, he is kinda comely. Ok, dibs! You get your own man."

[Ki Mondblume] *He snorts at that.* Well, MY conversation was a lot more fun. Not sure I want to talk blood. *He starts to pace slowly, back and forth, examining.*

If I'm in the way, I can move. But I couldn't help but smell it. Ash. *He wears flip-flops in the snow. And socks with said flip-flops. The socks are a lovely shade of pink, as if they were washed with red clothing.*

[Imogen] "Your conversation is one I've had a hundred times before." Not that the other conversation she proposed was any different.

She's small - her heels make her taller, but it does not hide the basic petiteness of her. Small bones, gracile joints. A slim body, half hidden beneath the fall of her open jacket. She wears jeans, a sweater beneath the jacket. Her skin is pale in the poorly light night. The clouds hide the stars. Cabrini Green has more burnt out lamps than lit ones.

"Other than that, I imagine blood is all we ha' in common."

Her accent is foreign. She's been asked if she's Irish, Scottish, Australian. Any number of British colonies, and even British itself. They rarely get it exactly right, though some get it close enough.

[Erek Skulason] *It takes a lot of restraint to follow through with the threat that he gave Drew, twitching his nose at her once, but the desired effect is still the same as she walks over to the kitchen area that the others reside in. He follows after her, long legs carrying him across the room quickly, slipping around the kin to hit the tables. He just barely catches Roman's remark, looking over at the other with a confused expression*

You checking my ass out, man?

*He asks, looking through the containers of food. He jerks his head in Izzy's direction, giving her another glance over*

Who are you? Besides the fact I can tell that you'd pop out an army of furry bastards with that pedigree of yours.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Kora comes close to him, closer than she needs to and with a flare of his nostrils the second Galliard takes note of the first. Her swelling belly is the most obvious thing about her right now and as such is the last to be focused on. A thing known, but not his concern, not his business. He instead traces her face as if to sketch its likeness later on -- his eyes remain on her until she is too near, and it has been bordering on too long to be considered polite to continue.

He rounds back his shoulders instead; digs his fists back down into the pockets of his worn in jacket; the leather carries its own scent, but it is faint, barely a trace beneath the tang of smoke that clings to him when he comes near; when she brushes past him and he turns, twisting to observe her.

"Yeah," he admits, a hand emerging to scruff over his head; it does little to tame his hair, growing longer and in need of tending to but ignored in favor of most every other thing. Patrick's hands are stained; the nail-beds dark with car grease; motor oil. He does not smell particularly strongly tonight of his human occupation but the hint is there, mingling with that of leather, and cigarettes.

"Wanted to talk to you," no shit, Patrick. "Now that Ho--", he pauses, licks his lips and looks down at his worn sneakers; frowning. "Now my pack is gone, I been trying to figure out where I might fit. Given, we don't know one another that well and I know my brother never exactly endeared himself, but," he shrugs shoulders, as if helpless but to spit it out.

"You got need of another body to run with you, I could try."

[Ki Mondblume] Likely. *He smiles, pacing back and forth.* Well. Similar blood, at least, but definitely not the SAME. *His nostrils flare, and he wrinkles his nose.* It's STINKY, *he complains, idly, before peering behind her.*

What's going on over there? Are you having a party? Are there snacks? I'm hungry. *Yes. He has two hot dogs in his bag. Yes. It seems he's had more than this before. And yes. He IS still hungry.* I like french fries, in case you want a suggestion.

[Izzy Montoya] She lifts the bottle in slight toast, giving Roman his 'dibs' on Erek, easily enough. She does not remind him she has chosen her own man, because that would lead to questions, and to wondering, and to another night without sleep for her while she tried to dig up information on the case he was working on, why it had him so deep under cover that he couldn't (or - god forbid - wouldn't) get some sort of message to her. In other words - only heartache would come from actually speaking about him.

Instead, she turns her attention to Erek as he demands to know who she is, and decides she can raise an army of bastards, all at once. She smirks slightly, and answers only "Detective Montoya."

[Roman Turner] Erek asked if he were checking out his ass and the first thing that came out of his mouth was.

"Well, considering I ain't seen your backside yet, I'd be a mite leery asking that particular question just yet cause I might get a bit confused on what's what."

Then he was watching the play between Izzy and Erek. Last time he stepped in on the behalf of one of the Fenrir Kin, he'd had to remind Remy that this was the home of the Last Watch and all guests were to be respected while within the walls. This time he said.

"Lady present, ain't polite to start talking about reproducing before ya get to the hand shaking point."

[Drew Roscoe] Drew was nudged past, Erek slipping lightly around her to enter the kitchen first. He made a beeline for Izzy after catching some quip about being dibsed upon from Roman and returning it in kind. It must be that breeding again, he's commenting on how Izzy could likely produce an army of True Born.

Drew, in the meantime, tugs open a cooler and pulls out a bottle of beer. Rather than joining up at the table she plants a palm on the edge of the counter and hops up easy, effortlessly, without a grunt or a 'hup' to announce the physical exertion. She might be short, thick about the thighs with muscle and firm on the belly and arms from athletic passtimes as well, but it all worked toward something besides detracting from the commonly more appreciated 'tall and leggy' build.

The top of the bottle was snapped away, and the lid rubbed idly between the fingers of her left hand while her right controlled the path of the bottle to and from her lips for periodic sips.

[Imogen] He points out there are differences in her blood, and Imogen merely arches an eyebrow. Her response to the clarification is perhaps best described as a silent: 'Whatever'.

The details don't matter to her.

"S'not my place to invite you in," she says. "But come wi' me a moment."

And she turns to walk, but not toward the maindoors, instead around the building and toward the kitchen window.

[Erek Skulason] Detective.... Montoya?

*Oh, there's a devil playing in Erek's expression now, one that is going to get him killed. But Roman seems to be stepping on the no moon's fun right before he can shoot off any fireworks. He changes his demeanor, ducking his head and fluttering his blond lashes at Izzy, trying his best to put on the boyish charm*

Out of respect to the Jarl, I might behave, but I'll state that Ms. Montoya is a tad older than me, and I'm likely to get Chicago's Finest in a heap of trouble if I'm caught fraternizing with Law. Though, I'm sure she packs some really nice guns...

*He gives Izzy a thoroughly look over* Just ain't sure where she's hiding them.

*He laughs, seizing one of the containers of food for himself and finds some utensils, he points them at Roman*

If Miss Kora wants me to run with you all, we better play nice, pumpkin. Two no moons under one cathedral's going to raise some kinda hell.

[Ki Mondblume] *He doesn't see anything wrong with her. He begins to whistle the opening song from the Disney version of Robin Hood, looking pleased with himself. He walks to the beat, quite cheerily. He should be watching her hips move. He does not.*

[Imogen] Her hips, in either case, are hidden beneath the fall of her jacket. She glances over her shoulder, briefly as the Garou fairly ... skips after her, whistling, her glance wry, but more tolerant than in good humour.

As said, she is slight - the window is high enough that is a reach. Still, she lifts up easily on her toes, rapping on the window perfunctorily. Thrice.

[Roman Turner] Oh he couldn't wait for this guy to run in to Linus. On the heels of that thought the devil whispered in his ear and out of his mouth came.

"Pumpkin? That's Linus' pet name. Just ask him."

He wasn't going to touch the guns comment cause he figured Izzy might show him how that gun could fit up certain orifices just before she pulled the trigger. He'd leave Erek to find that out on his own also.

[Izzy Montoya] "Detective." Not Ms. It's her preferred title, her preferred form of address, and she says it with quiet intention, though she does not comment on much of the rest of it. Not even her age.

Those who knew her before might think she has mellowed, might think she has grown content with her lot in life with the Chicago Fenrir. They may think many things, and she lets them think them. If they want to know, they'd have to actually take the time to discover it.

Her only comment is... "Oh, I could show you my guns." Likely, her thought process is similar to Roman's there. She confirms it with "...but you wouldn't like it."

[Ki Mondblume] *He looks curious at that, and his whistle is interrupted by his own words.* That's a rather boring secret knock. This a clubhouse? But girls are allowed. WEIRD clubhouse.

*He stands on his tippy-toes, perfectly balanced, watching the window, as if expecting something to happen. He should not look this excited.*

[Roman Turner] He immediately looked towards the window with the knock and in the flash of an eye, reached for it and yanked it open to stick his head out.

"Why howdy Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am. Ya lose your key or trying out the drive thru?"

His gray blue gaze landed on Ki.

"Pay at this window, then please drive through."

[Erek Skulason] Linus the Chimney Sweep? Met'im already, he was here the last time I was covered in soot. Real nice chap that one is.

*Erek digs into the food with ferocious appetite, inhaling it in until his cheeks began to compact with food, puffing out like a puckerfish. It takes a few swallows to clear his mouth, washing his tongue across his lips to clean the sauce away. He smirks at Izzy, but his comment is all for Roman*

If pumpkin is out of the question. How about Peaches? You look like a peach, all smooth and perty-like. *Erek mimics the twange that he hears in Roman's voice, chuckling under another mouthful of food. He looks around, his eyes drinking in the other occupants in the room, namely Patrick who speaks with Kora, and then finally settling on Drew, noticing how quiet she's become. He gives her a questioning look, tilting his head*

[Kora] "You're welcome here." There is a certain formality to the way she shapes those words. They aren't placeholders, pro forma human throwaways. He tells her that he's looking for a place where he fits. And Kora, settled on her haunches, digging through the ice to produce a beer and a root beer in the sort of brown glass bottle that at least feels like a beer bottle in the hand, between the fingers, tells him you're welcome here. - immediately, automatically. Seriously.

Then she stands, holding out the bottle of beer to him, keeping the root beer for herself, before levering herself up to sit on the table. Which bows, a bit, at the middle under her weight, but does not bend or break.

"I lost my Alpha not long after the spring equinox. Then my pack just after the solstice. Roman and his cousin, Sparrow, came and held the land we'd claimed with me until we made it official then, yeah? A real thing." There's a certain rough empathy there, which does not devolve into sympathy or - worse yet - pity. Her dark eyes are sure on him; she doesn't share his specific grief, but she knows the shape and weight of it, and that shapes and weights her voice.

"Right now, it's Linus, and Roman, and me. We follow a Fenrir totem. Harder, I think, for folks outside the tribe to understand Hermodr, but right now - after all that loss, you're still here. You made a sacrifice, more than one for this land.

"And I think that means something. Both to me and the big guy.

"So yeah," Kora says, now sliding from the table to stand. " - run with us, yeah? Fight with us. Get to know my pack, our territory. Our totem."

[Ki Mondblume] *He frowns at that, curiously.* But my truck wouldn't start up this morning. So I can't drive through. Can I pay at the door instead? *He seems quite serious at this.*

[Roman Turner] He glanced back at Erek with the hint of a smile.

"Sure thing. And I'll call ya cream cause ya all pale and smooth like cream."

He winked and turned his attention back to the window.

"Pay at the door? Why sure ya can. Come on around. Just remember, no refunds."

He leaned out further and pointed towards the corner of the building.

"Back door is that way."

[Imogen] "Don't you ever stop talking?" Imogen asks Kiernan almost absently. It is worth noting she's not asked him for his name.

Roman appears and offers his joke, the rhythm slightly damaged by the long way he handles her name, all the extra syllables. Imogen ignores it. "I've found a stray," she says, mildly. "Who would like to be fed. Since he looks unfamiliar, I thought one o' yeh might want to talk with him first. Though," a brief glance at the young Uktena and his earnest expression, "I don't think he's much risk."

She talks, easily, as if the other were not there.

[Ki Mondblume] *He scratches at his stomach, and he actually seems to consider Imogen's words.* Yes, occasionally, *he says idly. He hasn't asked for hers either.* And I've been around for a LITTLE bit. I keep TRYING to meet new people, but they either go away, don't say anything, or we end up sparring. *He doesn't seem displeased at this last bit.*

[Roman Turner] "What's yer name?"

He was letting all kinds of cold air in with handling the conversation through the open window.

"Ya smell like hot dogs."

He sniffed, leaning out further.

"Yep, I smell wieners."

[Drew Roscoe] Drew was letting the three talk, lending an ear to Kora and Patrick out in the sanctuary half of the time as well. Her hearing wasn't so sharp as to pick up more than the low rumble of low voices and an occasional recognizable word or two, but that wasn't what she was after. She wasn't eavesdropping with honest interest in what was being said, she wasn't nosy, it was just something to listen to. Background noise, like when you put on the History Channel when you lay down for a nap.

Erek casts an eye toward her while Roman pokes his head out the window to talk to Imogen and some unknown other person, another boy judging by the voice. One blond eyebrow lifted on the Rotagar, and Drew answered it by lifting both, closing her eyes in a dismissive and 'what can ya do' signal, and shrugging her shoulders to tie the whole thing together. She relaxed from that once more, cast her eyes past Erek to Roman at the window, and took another drink from her beer.

She was nursing it, but constantly. Already half the bottle was gone.

[Ki Mondblume] I'm Ki, *he says, rather cheerfully, though at the sniffing, the change in expression is quite rapid, as his face goes cold. He holds on tightly to his backpack, and a low growl starts in his throat.* MY hot dogs.

[Roman Turner] Both his brows lifted with the growl

"Now son, we don't want to be rude and start to growling like that when folk are offering to feed ya in their home. Ain't good manners to get all ruffled up like that. If ya got a problem with your temper, best keep yourself outside cause we don't cotton to that in here. We straight with that?"

[Ki Mondblume] *He holds tightly to his bag, and he watches Roman suspiciously. He nods only once, though he still looks QUITE possessive of his bag.*

[Roman Turner] "I ain't pullin your tail here. I'm as serious as a heart attack. Ya come in here thinking I want to harm ya, steal from ya when I, out of the goodness of my widdle heart, invited ya inside to warm up and eat, then we got a problem from the get go. Just so ya know it up front. I won't cotton to it in here. And I'm the nice one."

He watched Ki closely.

"Do ya understand the words coming out my mouth, Ki?"

[Imogen] Imogen, now, remains silent, waiting. Her phone chimes, and though she reaches into her jacket pocket to silence it, she does not take it out.

[Erek Skulason] *Erek caught the cream comment, snorts out in laughter at it, passing a quick glance to Roman, but he doesn't remark back. There'd be time for that later, Roman was directing traffic out the window to someone else, and Drew was quietly verbalizing with Erek with facial expressions. He holds up the container of food in Drew's direction, pointing at it with a plastic fork as he licks his lips again, then half-turns his face away to smear what sauce remained onto the sleeve of his new coat*

You should eat, Drew, food's not bad and the beer'll go to your head pretty fast for such a wee thing. Already know you can't hold your liquor as well as me. *He winks at Drew before looking away*

So! Detective Montoya, I haven't forgotten about you, ma'am. You sure I wouldn't like to see them guns? How much you bench press on a daily basis? Two, maybe three pounds of donuts?

[Ki Mondblume] *He pauses. And then the corner of his mouth twitches. He snorts, and he starts to laugh.* REALLY? Did you MEAN to quote that movie, or was it by accident? *He is CLEARLY trying to calm down, though the possessive state he displays over his belongings is quite clear.*

[Izzy Montoya] She just watches Erek, blandly as he asks about her doughnut pressing prowess. At least he caught the hint and called her Detective. Sometimes Fenrir can be taught. Rare, but sometimes.

"Positive." That he wouldn't want to see them. She has the perfect deadpan, really. Not even a twitch of reaction at the stereotypical jab. "Six."

....wonder where she puts it all, if there's even an inkling of truth in it...

[Roman Turner] "Oh I meant to. Though I gotta tell ya son, ya ain't exactly filling me with confidence that I should hold to my invitation to come on in. Take a deep breath and say to yourself. If this fella meant me harm, I would be in a world of hurt before the growl cleared my throat."

He smiled his most tolerant smile, counting to ten himself.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick is silent, watchful, perhaps cautious as the Fenrir Skald speaks.

He does not know much of other tribes; yet he knows everything about them in the past. Their pasts; his own tribe's past. The Fianna has a connection to his own ancestors, though it is a frail, and inconsistent connection. But sometimes, he has felt their presence, called upon them in his time of need and discovered a reasurrance beyond the scope of words.

She passes him a beer bottle, and Patrick's hands emerge to grasp it; his knuckles rough with fighting; unknown if its brawling for sport or the result of some battle against the enemy. When the Fenrir invites him to fight with her pack; to get to know them; there's a gleam of surprise in Prayers to Broken Stone's eye, his sandy brows rise.

"Alright." A beat, he steps closer, seats himself.

"Half expected you to laugh, to be honest." He studies the beer label.

[Ki Mondblume] *He breathes slowly.* I can't help it, *he says with a wince.* I'll behave, though. And if I don't, well, I'm sure you can kick the shit out of me. *He blinks at that.* But they ARE my hot dogs. I'm saving them for later, though. For when I get REALLY hungry. *Good lord - there's a REALLY hungry for him?*

[Erek Skulason] Six... really? Only six?

*Erek squints at Izzy, peering at her searchingly as if he's trying to make out something. He flicks his gaze up and down the length of her frame, setting the now-devoured container down on an available table space*

Six isn't that impressive.

[Roman Turner] He turned his head, speaking to someone in the kitchen, meeting Erek's eyes.

"There's a fella out here what seems to be a bit feral. I'm letting him come in to warm up and eat, but I'm gonna depend on your good sense to make sure he minds his manners."

He lowered his voice.

"Do what ya think ya consider best."

Leaving that door wide open for Erek as he turned back to the window.

"Well then, come on in son. Back door is around there. Ask for Erek."

With that he closed the window.

[Imogen] Her phone chimes again. This time Imogen removes it, lifting it to Roman in indicate it. "Tell Patrick t'make his own way back, will yeh?"

A flick of her gaze toward Kiernan, before she turns and starts to walk away without farewell.

[Drew Roscoe] Through suggestions that she come eat and insisting that she's a lightweight, Drew just grins from around the rim of her beer bottle, shifts it away from her mouth to speak clearly. "No, you have one watered down drink and I kept going. Size isn't all there is to holding liquor." There's a dismissive wave of her hand. "Anyways, the metabolism and healing abilities on you guys, you probably burn it off like it's just water anyways."

The offer to food is overlooked or ignored. Drew remains planted with her rear on the countertop, legs swinging and the heels of her boots bouncing quietly, rhythmically off the cabinets beneath her.

She wasn't worried about crossing legs or anything like that because she wore jeans, it wasn't a common thing that she'd wear a skirt outside of summertime. She reached up to undo the buttons of her coat, opening it up to reveal a very simple white long-sleeved tee underneath. A bit of ventilation couldn't hurt.

[Izzy Montoya] "You specified donuts. Perhaps you were thinking of something else?"

She arches a brow, slightly, and lifts her bottle to take a drink.

[Ki Mondblume] Thank you! *he says cheerily, and he goes around back, quite curious. He looks back to Imogen.* Aren't you coming too? *He furrows his eyebrows, and then he goes back to the back door.* Weird girl. *He knocks on the back door. Shave and a haircut.*

[Roman Turner] He nodded to Imogen with a touch of his fingers to his brow in salute. In the next moment he was making his excuses and thanks to Izzy. Saying his farewells to Drew and Erek before stepping out. It was time for his rounds.

[Roman Turner] ((Sorry folks, I am up at 4am for work, I gotta sleep. Thanks for the play!))

[Imogen] "Not tonight," she answers, before heading back towards her car.

[Erek Skulason] Why are you suddenly directing traffic at me, Peaches? This ain't my home!

*Erek makes eyes at Roman, staring at him like he has two heads for a second, but the other no moon was leaving. He sighs, shaking his blond head and picks himself up. He rolls his shoulders up in a shrug at Izzy, lifting a hand to press the tip of his index finger to his left temple*

Detective, I was referring to donuts, though I'm sure you could drink me under the table as well.

*Erek shakes out the bit of cold that started to creep into his bones, shuffling his way over to where Drew sat on the counter and leans up against it, eying her quietly* We'll have to test that theory, Mrs. Robinson, to see if you can outdrink me.

[Izzy Montoya] "Will we, then?"

There's a huff of amusement, as she shakes her head. "I am not that old." a beat. "But I could drink you under the table. Twice. But it would be contributing to the delinquency of a minor."

Because that's stopped her before when it comes to Garou. Not.

[Ki Mondblume] *He frowns at the door, then, and he does not let himself in. He ducks back at that. Curious. He'll come back later.*

[Erek Skulason] *Erek barks out in laughter, his shoulders shaking under the heaviness of his coat. Tiny lines crinkle at the corner of his blue eyes, he lifts a hand up to shove back the blond hair that is constantly falling down to obstruct his vision, too lazy to cut it. Or too stubborn to wear it short*

Yes, we should. Just so I may test your prowess in a friendly sport of binge drinking.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew just huffed a breath out over the rim of her beer bottle, and it was rough to determine what it was in response to, or just a gathered up response to the whole flurry of activity going on about her. Some stranger was coming in, Roman was taking off and leaving Erek to handle the new kid, even though Erek was dreadfully new himself. Wasn't Kora just out in the Sanctuary? Shouldn't she be handling the new faces instead?

It wouldn't matter, he wasn't coming inside, but Drew didn't know this.

Instead she just tipped her chin up toward the ceiling when Erek took up post beside her, killed what was left in her beer bottle, and let it rest sitting on top of her thigh, kept from falling only by the loose grip of her fingers near the bottom.

There's a second, then a total change of topic. An f.y.i. for Erek. "Probably Saturday I'll be heading down to Peoria. I'll likely spend the night there. Just so ya know. So, ah, no crazy parties, right?"

[Erek Skulason] *Drew snags the boy's ear immediately with the detail that she was leaving town for a night, and warned him against crazy parties. He folds his arms across his chest, tilting his head to the side to look at her*

What's in Peoria? Should be fine, can always crash here if I get lonely. Or pester Sofie.

[Izzy Montoya] "Ah, but Erek, if we did that..."

And here, she pauses, and finishes her beer, before she stands and goes to retrieve another. She opens it, as Drew makes a change of topic. Then Izzy brings it back once again. "...you would invariably end up face down on my bathroom floor, thanking it for being cool on your hungover brow. There are easier ways to get to my XBox."

And that little smirk admits she knows exactly what that sounds like. She lifts the bottle again, and turns to make her way back toward the sanctuary, and likely the front door soon after.

[Kora] The beer's an IPA - Goose Island - a warm, clear color - amber through the dark glass, gleaming through the neck. A local beer, though the label he thumbs is fading from being immersed in that slurry of ice and water for so long. Kora's dark eyes flicker down at the label, following the movement of his hand, the settled way his fingers curve around the bottle.

Her own bottle is label-less, a sharp, sweet, fizzy scent makes a sort of undercurrent in the air.

Half expected you to laugh, to be honest. says Patrick.

She does then, Kora. A brief, narrow sound. The supple humor of it is mostly contained in her body. In her throat, behind her eyes, which gleam in the low light. The air is sharp, bright with cold, with the promise of a coming storm that the animal in each of them can sense in some formless, nameless way. The shifting pressure, the movement of wind. The way the barometer drops.

"Yeah?" says Kora, lifting up her bottle of root beer to clink his in a spare toast. "Well, that's where you miscalculated. Get of Fenris don't laugh." The gleam of humor lingers behind her eyes. There's a certain gravity to her, though, behind it. A certain awareness that is both light and dark. "Mostly we growl. Sometimes we snort. But we don't laugh." The low noise she makes in the back of her throat gives lie to that.

"So, Prayers to Broken Stone. Tell me a story."

It sounds like the beginning of a long night.
to Ki Mondblume

[Kora] The beer's an IPA - Goose Island - a warm, clear color - amber through the dark glass, gleaming through the neck. A local beer, though the label he thumbs is fading from being immersed in that slurry of ice and water for so long. Kora's dark eyes flicker down at the label, following the movement of his hand, the settled way his fingers curve around the bottle.

Her own bottle is label-less, a sharp, sweet, fizzy scent makes a sort of undercurrent in the air.

Half expected you to laugh, to be honest. says Patrick.

She does then, Kora. A brief, narrow sound. The supple humor of it is mostly contained in her body. In her throat, behind her eyes, which gleam in the low light. The air is sharp, bright with cold, with the promise of a coming storm that the animal in each of them can sense in some formless, nameless way. The shifting pressure, the movement of wind. The way the barometer drops.

"Yeah?" says Kora, lifting up her bottle of root beer to clink his in a spare toast. "Well, that's where you miscalculated. Get of Fenris don't laugh." The gleam of humor lingers behind her eyes. There's a certain gravity to her, though, behind it. A certain awareness that is both light and dark. "Mostly we growl. Sometimes we snort. But we don't laugh." The low noise she makes in the back of her throat gives lie to that.

"So, Prayers to Broken Stone. Tell me a story."

It sounds like the beginning of a long night.

[Drew Roscoe] "My dad."

The answer is simple, matter-of-fact. Completely devoid of the discomfort that came up when she told Kora it wouldn't be okay if Roman tagged along.

He said he could crash at the church, sleep there rather than at her house so that she wouldn't have to worry about him doing what animals left at home alone do-- chew things, rip up doors, break stuff, go on the rug, ect ect. Back to Sophie again, Drew chuckles a bit, quietly, and shakes her head, tapping her shortly clipped fingernails on the sides of her empty beer bottle. "If she gets your goat so much, why do you keep going around her?"

[Imogen] hassle

[Imogen] (... please ignore)

[Erek Skulason] *Erek becomes slackjawed by the Detective's admission, his head snaps away, pulling his attention from Drew to focus on the Detective woman. Eyebrows lift high on his head, nearly touching the hairline as he stares - and half chokes as he watches Izzy leave. He reaches out to grab at Drew's lap, clinging to her like a frighten child.

He turns his head to whisper conspiratorially to the kin he clings to*

...did she just suggest... do I... would...

*He never finishes the sentence, peering up at Drew with a grin before shaking his head*

I'm a dumb male that's interested in playing with her Xbox, or that Detective lady's, or who knows? Do you have an Xbox?

[Imogen] (I AM GOING TO BED NOW)

[Kora] (dies)

[Kora] (THAT TURNIP IS SO CONSPICUOUS.)

[Inconspicuous Turnip] (*rolls in through an open window*)

[Imprimatur] "It's just for a week, Izzy."

That's what her sergeant said when the reassignment came down. Bronzeville, Precinct 13. Not her territory, not her turf. Not her colleagues. Not her desk. Not her coffee pot. Not even her fucking favorite coffee cup.

"For fuck's sake, it's just a week. You know if I could do something I would. They've got too many out. But hey - while you're over there, maybe you could figure out what their secret is. Bring it back with you."

---

"Jesus fuckin' Christ." That's the reaction of her new lieutenant the first day she reports for duty in the Precinct 13 detective squad. Lieutenant John O'Malley. "I said a warm fucking body," he complains to the sergeant, Jerry Wolciezewick. "And look at what I get." Then, a glance up at Izzy. "Sit your ass down." It's a command, not a request.

And, as the sergeant stands to leave. "Keep me posted.."

[Izzy Montoya] Its just for a week. She closes her eyes, holding the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Exhales noisily through her mouth. Her mouth stays open, as if to say something, and then? Snaps shut again. they've got too many out. And a secret. "Secret to wealth, well-being and happi-fuckin-ness?" It's neat growled... but she drops her hand and looks up at Sarge - the man who's fought for her more than once, without ever asking her the most important question of all...

why.

So she nodded. She grabbed her shit, AND her favorite goddamn coffee cup, and reported to Precinct 13. In fuckin' Bronzeville.

---

She smirks. "Maybe a fuckin' Ice Queen is the warmest we fuckin' got." She stands for half a beat more. It's a contest of wills, and a command. She hesitates just long enough for him to know she does so because she wants too, not because he commanded her too. It's the little battles that keep life interesting, after all. She does sit though, and crosses one long leg over another, smoothing the dark material of her slacks over her thigh. She's often been told she walks and talks like a man. Even sitting like this - there's no mistaking her for a lady.

She folds her hands in her lap, and waits, gaze steady on O'Malley.

[Imprimatur] O'Malley gives Izzy a flat look, closed mouthed. He has that pale Irish skin and a red nose full of broken capillaries that give him the look of some comic drunk out of an old movie. Still, his eyes - flat as they are - are shrewd and direct, and his hands are big things, blunt. He has the build of a former boxer, solid underneath the fat that has slowly accumulated over the years.

"We have," he tells her, giving her that same flat look. " - the best fucking clearance rate this side of fucking Amsterdam here. You catch my meaning? Lowest fucking crime rate. Highest fucking solvency rate. In the past fucking three years the murder rate's down near about 20%." There's a low boast in there, but it doesn't inch into his voice. Clearance rate's how many murdered dead get solved, versus shunted off to the no-man's land of the cold case files. This shit matters to central administration. This shit makes careers.

"Robberies down 32%. Rapes, 13%. So you are here for one fucking week because two of my detectives are taking fucking paternity leave and another stubbed his goddamned toe. And in that week, you are not going to fuck it up for me. Hear? I've been through your fucking file. I don't want any miracle shit. We do fucking police work, we don't go looking for extra what we don't need. We get 'em open and we get 'em closed, and you are going to toe the line, or I will personally - "

A grimace. Whatever else he was going to say, he doesn't. Might've if she were a man, but fuckin' Christ - if he said it to a woman she might whine harassment. "Do we understand each other, Detective?"

[Izzy Montoya] She snorts, and a slow smirk curls across her lips. "If you've been through my fucking file, O'Malley, you'll notice that I have the highest fuckin' clearance record of my department. So as I see it, since your detectives are out playin pattycake, and another ain't got the sense god gave him to side step a desk - you've get the benefits of havin' the best. For a week."

A beat.

"ONLY a week." She smiles - a slow and not at all comfortable thing to see, as it seems quite a bit more like she'd cut him up and eat him raw, instead of something warm and inviting. "Or I'll personally..."

And she lets it fall, just like he does, with a chuckle. "Maybe in that time you'll learn I'm the last bitch that's gonna cry if you say you're gonna put your foot in my ass." She arches a brow, amused. "..sir."

[Imprimatur] "Ninety percent." O'Malley's level, direct. He doesn't seem to care about her smile, intimidating or not. The words are almost dead-soft, like unworked silver. "My detectives have a clearance rate of ninety percent.

"Your department is lucky to get past 65. On a good week. Toe the fucking line, you hear me? If I hear you're pulling some crackpot fucking theory out on a one and done, fucking up my numbers, I will personally pull your uvula outta your throat and shove it back down your tear ducts."

Without another word, O'Malley goes back to the reports on his desk. If she lingers, he cuts a look up at her. "Dismissed."

[Izzy Montoya] She stands "Aw, O'Malley. Remember that when I make you eat them goddamn words."

And with that, she turns and walks out. She'd better get a goddamn vacation out of this....

[Izzy Montoya] [Intell+investigation - COME ON KAHSEENO!]

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Chinatown is busy, merchants closing up shop, people scurrying home from their businesses with trudging steps, feet splashing through half slushy puddles of rainbow run off. The Streets are narrower here, the shops smaller, more ramshackle than in the main drag that draws many of Chicago's tourists. No, this was Chinatown proper, where people irked out a living out of the public eye, catering to residents rather than culture hungry outsiders.

Lou sticks out like a sore thumb, ghetto diva lounging on the hood of a dark blue corvette, long pink nails drumming on a bony knee. Impatient. To those who make assumptions upon seeing her skin color and sensing her Gaia given anger - A threat. The section of street where the corvette is sloppily parked is given a wide berth by wary pedestrians.*

[Marni] She probably shouldn't be wandering around on her own this late in her pregnancy. She probably shouldn't have been wandering around on her own when she conceived, either, but that ship done sailed, son. Fact is, she loves chinese food, and Ray is working late and has already learned that he cannot keep his mate inside when she decides she's going out. Especially now when she's so uncomfortably fat, so irritably close to being done, while labor refuses to start so that she can get it over with already.

Tonight it's not trouble she craves (though she does crave enough of that - she simply has common sense to keep her out of it while she cannot fight effectively), but rather a bowl of noodles from the House Of Noodles. Nothing else will suffice, she wants HoN or nothing at all, and she's accustomed to getting what she wants one way or the other. Which is why, the very VERY pregnant gnawer exits HoN with a steaming bowl of noodles in hand, her expression one of bliss as she inhales the aroma, and makes her way toward a bench. She settles to sit with an 'OOF' that suggests getting up will be a very complicated ordeal, and digs into her meal.

Belatedly noticing Lou sprawled out on the corvette. When Lou looks up, Marni waves with a chopstick, before putting it back into it's preferred use - shoveling noodles into her mouth.

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Marni was not difficult to spot, enlarged as she was with her squalling brat to be. So it is that the noodle scarfing raggie offers a wave, and is responded with a jerk of Lou's chin in acknowledgement. Yet the ahroun doesn't move, apparently waiting for something, her eyes scanning the streets, her jaw working on bubble gum.

POP.

A thin weasel of a man pokes his head out from the door of the nearest shop, and the metallic ratchetting of a heavy duty garage door opening is Lou's cue to deke into her sportscar and ease the purring motor-beast into captivity. The door shuts behind her, and a few short moments later, Lou emerges and makes her way across the street with a hip rolling swagger. Bawling around a mouthful of gum.*

Sheeyit girl. You bes' be gettin back to yo crib, you look like you gon' pop, fo' sho. How much rent that brat got left to pay?

[Marni] She rolls her eyes, but chuckles as she chews up whats in her mouth, resting her bowl on her swollen belly. It's one perk of pregnancy, carrying around a table with you everywhere you go. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Supposedly less than a week. Ain't too sure the Bean here ever's gonna come out."

She sighs, and shakes her head, before shoving another mouthful of noodles into her gob, before "Wan'sum?" Offering to the other girl..

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] Shit yeah.

*Lou opens her palm for the bowl, slurping a hearty mouthful of noodles up before handing -no- one more mouthful - ok now she hands it back. Scrawny gnawer gnashing noodles into gum for the satisfying illusion of still eating something later on. A pink tongue skates over her teeth as she looks the pregnant woman over, and offers generously.*

Want I should punch you in the gut?

[Marni] She takes the bowl back when it's offered, not having worried about how many bites were taken or where. She can always get another bowl - one of the benefits of having a rich baby daddy. She takes a bite, and then narrows her gaze over at Lou with that offer.

"Ya do, an' I'll fuckin break you after I drop this kid." There is no faster way to get up a pregnant woman's ire than to threaten the baby, even under guise of being helpful. Then, she dimples into a smile, and shrugs. "It'll happen sooner or later."

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] Donchu trip gurl, I's jus playin with yo' pretty ass. What I wanna fuck witcher kid for? Sheeyit, drink yerself some caster oil or some shit.

*A snerk, Lou raising an eyebrow before trying to blow a bubble and failing due to noodle complication. A bounce of narrow shoulders as the darker woman leans casually against the House of Noodles storefront. A couple starting as they come out of the establishment and are confronted with ANGER to their left, pair quickly scurrying away. Lou bad for business, clearly.*

So where's yo' pissy assed kin?

[Marni] Lou may be bad for business, but that means there will be more noodles for Marni, as soon as these ones settle. Pregnancy has done nothing at all toward taming her hunger. It's likely nothing will - well, save one thing, but they don't talk about that. Not since deciding to name The Bean after her, that is.

As for her pissy assed kin, she arches a brow. "Which kin is that?" Curious... because she certainly can't mean Ray...

[Jack Hill] There are a half-dozen restaurants within a two block radius; including a dim sum place right behind Marni's chosen branch, with red brocade curtains shot through with faded gold thread and neon signs in Chinese and English characters glowing dully into the (relative) warmth of the falling night. The mercury crept above freezing today and the sidewalks are clear of ice and snow - on the north side of the street, at least. That snowmelt is starting to refreeze again in the choked gutters, and the slagpiles of dull gray slush shoveled up by storeowners or the odd city garbage truck have a crystalline exoskeleton now - more ice than snow, a lacy dun gray in the orange light of the street lamps.

The door behind the pair swings open - three men, one, a black man in a crisp suit with a wool overcoat in his 30s, one, a white man - older still - in overalls, a carhart coat and a NASCAR baseball cap, the last younger than both wearing a t-shirt under a sports jacket under a short gray wool peacoat emerge. They have that cloud of laughter around them that carries over from a good meal, but they're already breaking up.

"Thanks, man." - says gray coat, blond beard to the big man in the overalls, reaching to shake hands but going further, clasping forearms. "This has been insanely helpful."

"You coming for the pancake breakfast?" says the Suit.
"Are you kidding me? There's only one thing I like better than pancake breakfasts."
A moment of expectant silence. Blond beard's face splits into a quick, engaging grin.
"Spaghetti dinners."

Someone's phone rings. It's Dies Irae. "Shit, that's me - " he says, grabbing for the phone. They're saying their goodbyes, splitting off in different directions. He's speaking low into the phone. But he stops when the big guy in the overalls is still in shouting distance, holds the iPhone away from his cheek. "Hey, Howie! When's the vote?" "NEXT THURSDAY - " is the big guy's reply.

Jack waves him off, tucks the phone back against the ear and repeats the information into the receiver.

[Jack Hill] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDFFHaz9GsY ringtone!
to Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins, Marni

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] Pasty assed Fianna ho, red hair an a shitty tuu-

*Lou trails off. Heavily made up eyes narrow behind knock off raybans, two dark fingers flicking in the direction of the Silverfang kin talking on the phone nearby. A pop of oriental flavored gum punctuates the gesture, as - master of tact - the gnawer bawls*

Oh SNAP! Lookit this shit, we got us a Prince Charmin in the howse! Sound off for royalty baby! Hells Yeah!

[Marni] the ring tone drags her attention from lou to Jack, and she tips her head, slightly. A slow inhale, and lips curl into a chuckling smirk. "OooohHOOO, looks like Lady Kate got herself another one in town..." She drags her eyes appreciatively over Jack's form, because well, that's what she does. Some things never change...

At some point it clicks who Lou is talking about. Red hair, fianna... "Oh! The Doc... I dunno, she ain't answer to me. Sure she's doin something important though, she usually is." Marni likes Imogen, and enjoyed their conversation last time immensely. "Possibly even findin me a midwife to help evict the Bean."

[Jack Hill] Prince Charming looks like anything but to human eyes. He's somewhere in his mid-twenties, about six one, a bit on the thin side, though underneath that jacket his shoulders are broad enough. Both wool coat and the sport coat hang open; beneath them, a white t-shirt that says Nobody Expects the Macroeconomic Inquisition.

And, just now, he's tugging an oft-folded baseball cap out of the depths of some internal pocket and slipping it over his mop of (rather shaggy) hair. Dirty blond, needs a cut, just like he needs a shave. He's got a bristle of more-than-three days growth of beard, not trimmed to some neat shape but scraggly underneath his throat.

Maybe's he growing it for warmth in the Chicago winter.

Marni are Lou are both looking at him; he's still speaking into the phone while fumbling into an inner pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He looks up, gives them the sort of abstracted half-smile meant to encompass strangers. There's no spark of recognition for the name Kate, but he's keeping them in view as he finishes his conversation and drops the phone to thumb through a handful of text messages.

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *A shrill whistle is sure to interrupt whatever conversation Jack was having, Lou gesturing him over to the pregnant gnawer (better dressed as she's a Kept woman these days) and her own Gutter-chic self. *

Motherfucker you deaf?! I say hell the fuck O.

*Lou would seem to have selective hearing at the very least, no reaction to Marni's appraisal of "the doc" though the information is tucked away for later.

[Marni] She just chuckles under her breath as Lou gestures for Jack to come over and join them. Marni shifts in her seat, a little, then adjusts so that she can swing her legs under the bench idly, much like a little kid. Babies havin' babies. It's a tragedy, really. Only not so much.

She lets Lou be Lou, because really, who could stop her? She eats some more of her noodles, and chomps them contemplatively as he keeps them in view.

Like that'll save him...

[Jack Hill] "Sorry - " he returns, a frown creasing his brow, somewhat bushy eyebrows drawn sharply inward. Some part of him would like to clear out his ear as people tend to do in cartoons after a whistle like that, but it seems pointless. The sound waves don't get stuck. It's all for comic effect.

Jack gives Lou half-a-smile. It's not supercilious - there's a certain easy charm there - but it's not precisely friendly either. Call it distant. The look you give strangers on a train when you accidentally meet their eyes when you were supposed to be staring off at nothing. " - where you talking to me?"

The iPhone screen goes dead. He tucks it back into some inner pocket and taps out a cigarette for himself. Staying where he is, just in front of the dim sum place, holding the freed cigarette casually between fore and middle fingers as he starts patting himself down, searching for a light. And he looks around, demonstratively, right and left, mouth twisted inside the beard in a look of - well - genial befuddlement. "I don't think we've met. I thought you were talking to someone else."

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] Well ainchu fancy witcher big ass words on your shirt.

Shit yeah I'm talking at you. You got "Royal" written all over yo ass, boy.

*A jerk of her chin, Lou's hand sliding to a skinny hip as the other points a pink nail to the silverfang kin. Despite her obnoxious and confrontational persona, she's offering a grin, teeth white against the backdrop of dark lips.*

M'Lou. This fat ho be Marni. You is?

[Marni] He's patting himself down, looking for a light, and Marni balances the bowl of noodles on her belly so that she can reach into her pocket, and pull out a battered bic. She tosses it easily to Jack with a "catch" to warn him it's on it's way, before she goes back to her meal.

"Don't mind Lou, here. She's harmless. Mostly." Not at all.

[Jack Hill] "Right." This is the point where Jack is working out whether Lou is crazy, a prostitute, a mugger, or just bored. That befuddled grin deepens a bit; there's a certain spark in the corner of his eye. "I'm fucking Prince Harry. Let me introduce you to my future - " Then Marni's bic comes flying, end over end. Jack catches, with a substrate quickness that is human. He's an athlete. Was an athlete, and he catches it with ease against his chest - lean, not large - then turns it over and thumbs the mechanism, flint to steel. A spark.

A flame.

It illuminates his face. Oh, the blood's there, underneath, that current - but it's a minor note. They see him and know what he is, but he's the sort that Falcon overlooks. That Falcon would never accept if he were to change. The blood's so dilute in him that he's practically a commoner. "Thanks, man - " Jack says to Marni, tossing the lighter back to her with that same easy, unassuming precision, like he's been tossing baseballs or footballs back and forth all his life. He's got the rangy build of a long-distance runner rather than the power of a football player who made it past the high school varsity squad. Then:

"Shit." Understanding, just like that, sparks in his eyes, an unremarkable shade of blue-gray. "Jesus fucking christ. You're like - " and he makes a gesture with his free hand, finds moving, running as he takes a welcome drag on his cigarette. God knows what it means. " - right? One of - ?"

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Its the startled understanding that has Lou laughing, it taking only that much to endear Jack to her. She pushes up from the wall with a fluid sort of grace moving her spindly limbs, a hand shaking out curly hair.*

Fo' Sho we is.

*Lou pokes her sunglasses up and looks the child of falcon's brood over more thoroughly. The merest whisper of madness and majesty. Its enough to get a snort.*

Fuck me you's light in the ass boy. Fresh as Cream. Got you a babysitter up in the WindzeeCee?

[Marni] All bets point to Lou being just a crazy bored prostituting mugger, but that's only ocne you get to know her. She catches the lighter as it flies back, and tucks it into her pocket, before watching him, and the light as it dawns.

She can't help it - she laughs. She shakes her head at Lou's antics, before gesturing with her chopsticks. "Yeah, we are. Ain't of your polished background, but the same none the less. Ya one of Lady Kates, an' we're gutter rats. Ya met her yet?"

[Jack Hill] "Lady Kate?" he returns, with an incredulous laugh to Marni. Imagining tea and crumpets in some mad hatter's living room. Maybe a crown, for fuck's sake. And he's shaking his head already, mouth pressed together around it to hold back whatever else he might've said. Suggesting, perhaps, that he's not entirely touched. That, when spread thin, the blood loses some of its madness. "Ah - " another shake of his head, a drag of the cigarette, smoke flaring from his nostrils like a dragon.

That's Jack decides he's going to play along. " - no, I haven't had the pleasure. No royal summons yet, you know? Have to wait for my engraved invitation." Then he pushes away from the brick wall, his coat and sport coat swinging open around his t-shirt with all those big ass words.

Macroeconomic.
Inquisition.

And just like that, Jack holds out a hand to Lou, to shake. "Jack Hill. Good to meet you both." And Marni too, stepping forward so the pregnant woman need not stand out. "I'm pretty sure I don't need a babysitter. I swear to god I'm paper trained." The last part ends with a twist of his mouth, a quick, subtle grin for his small joke.

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Jack's hand is slapped in a gutter shake. No firm grip here, just the smack of skin on skin, Lou hauling a leg up onto the bench beside Marni. She clucks around a wad of gum.*

So whatchu do when you ain't waitin atcher crib fo a invite from the bigs?

*She wobbles her shades and twists her lips into a cocky smirk. A playful predator, heavy on the predator.*

[Marni] She dimples into a grin at his reaction to the idea of Lady Kate, and decides right then and there she likes him. "I might keep'em. As a backup in case my babydaddy goes broke..." it's said as a stage whisper, fully meant to be overheard.

"As for the invitation, I hear it's fanTAStic. Me, i jus' dig through her dumpsters on occasion, jus t'piss her off." When she shakes his hand, her grip is strong but not crushing, a mere suggestion of what she can do, when she's not the size of a blimp. "You wanna BE a babysitter?" A beat, then a chuckle. "Jus' kiddin."

[Jack Hill] "Sorry," he says to Marni, grin deepening as he salutes her with his cigarette, with no genuine hint of sorrow. "I don't do diapers." Which seems final; he finishes it with an edged grin. Then, back to Lou - not quite looking her in the eye, but weather her presence rather better than most humans. For all that he finds his skin does not quite fit his skeleton when he gets this close.

He smokes that cigarette casually, holding the butt near the base between his index and middle fingers, and breathes the smoke upwards so it doesn't choke the pregnant one of them. "Anyway, I'm - uh," a pause, "Director of Community Relations for REACT, actually." Which sounds fifteen times more important than it is, but he doesn't give that part away. "New in town, so I'm still getting a feel for it. I was here back in '06 for a bit; and during the primaries in '08." Oh-six. He says. Oh-eight. "So, yeah. That's what I do. We're - uhm, like ACORN." Then, a quick grin. An old joke he's tossed around before. He probably doesn't realize that the pair of THEM are unlikely to begin to understand it. Or maybe he does: that grin has an awkward edge, like someone repeating a joke from a 1920s joke book about nylons, the sort that needs a footnote to explain the humor. " - without the nuts?"

"Direct democracy stuff," he adds, helpfully. "Registering voters. Sponsoring debates in local elections, right down to alderman. That sort of thing."

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] [baby issue!post around me for a minute!]

[Marni] She arches a brow as he goes on about what he does, which is decidedly more than the diapers he doesn't do. She doesn't recognize the names he tosses around, but at the end, with the helpful addition, she nods.

"Oh, political shit." Human political shit. "I never really paid attention to much of that shit. We have our own politics we gotta deal with. Which would make democracy cry."

She grins again, and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "We won't hold it against ya though."

[Jack Hill] "Yeah," Jack returns, smoke streaming from his nostrils. He takes another drag, blunt fingers spread over his bearded jaw as he does so. Then inhales the last little bit like a reformed potsmoker, taking it all deep into his lungs. It sounds like he's agreeing with her. "Yeah," he's still grinning, after all. " - most people don't pay any attention to much of that shit.

"Might be why there are so many fuckers digging about in dumpsters while a self-perpetuating oligarchy tightens their reins on power by manipulating the slack jawed masses with porn and deep fried fucking twinkies. I mean," and he sweeps his hand, an open gesture, up and down the street. Marni has a wealthy baby daddy to pay for her clothes and her noodles; Lou's got enough rage to keep her warm at night; enough raw menace to keep her in strange bubble gums, day or night. There are shadows everywhere, though. Pre-teen chinese girls smuggled into the country to service that furtive looking fucker heading into the Oriental Massage Parlor down the street. An old man - the ripe odor of his body sharp in the cold air - walking a three-legged dog on a length of rope, talking to himself. The gleam of the city's office towers, visible even from here, cool and modern and distant. Divine temples, never to be razed or sacked. " - that's one theory, anyway." The grin's fading; something sharp, something passionate underneath the easy charm.

"Glad you won't hold it against me."

[Marni] She blinks, and watches him, listening as he comments about digging out of dumpsters, and how the rich get richer, while the poor...

She chuckles softly. "Maybe it ain't so different after all. Lots a good stuff can be found in dumpsters though. I ain't always had a babydaddy that'd take care a me, ya know. An' I ain't stupid enough t'think it'll last forever, neither. Hell, I ain't likely to live past 30 anyway. But there's plenty out here t'survive on, if ya of a mind t'do so." She brushes her hair back, and shrugs a shoulder. "Jus' sayin. It ain't somethin to be ashamed of, t'be diggin outa dumpsters."

[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Jack's talking about acorns and being the director of communication or some shit, and its well above Lou's head. So she smiles. And nods. And scratches at her hair. What the hell was an oligarcky now? Eyes close behind her shades, gnawer suddenly second thinking having hollered at the kin.*

Sheeyit.

*A grease monkey's wet dream prowls down the street, no doubt bought with money from one of those pre-teen sexshops found in the underbelly of the vice district. The driver wears a cocky grin, and sunglasses not to hide a feral gleam, but the red rimmed coke-eyes he's sporting. Lou's attention is fully hijacked for several moments, as she mutters.*

I like deepfried twinkies...... Man.. I'ma bounce.

*A glance to Marni over her shoulder as Lou uncoils in the direction the car went.*

Leave yo ass chatta Mr. GeeCue. Peace!

*That apparently good bye, Lou slinking towards an alley with technique that would do any ragabash proud. On the hunt for a new caddy, and a fat wallet.*

[Jack Hill] Marni's comment has Jack shaking his head. He breathes in through the nose, flashing Lou a two-fingered peace sign as she goes prowling toward the alley with a level of comfort a man like him - with BROWN on his much-abused baseball cap - should not possess.

"I never said," he tells her, with a certain deliberation. With a certain precision. " - that there was anything shameful about digging in dumpsters. And if that's what you think I said - " a brief, narrow shrug. " - then you weren't listening very well." A glance down at his watch. "Shit - " and back up. "Listen, I gotta jet. You want me to call you a cab or something? Before I go?"

[Marni] She shakes her head, and chuckles. "Nah, ya said that it ain't fair that those up in the high rises are bleedin the rest of us dry so we gotta do some diggin. Or something. Ya can explain it to me another time maybe, if ya want. I like t'listen, even if I hate politicin. I ain't fond of folks too big for their britches, neither."

She winks, as he offers to call her a cab, and shakes her head, though she does hold out a hand. "Nah, I can walk. But if ya can help me get my fat ass off this bench it'd be appreciated. Center o'gravity is all fucked up..."

[Jack Hill] "Here - " He dashes the cigarette into the gutters. The last embers spark briefly, flare and die in the slurry of ice and snow and cinders. Then he circles the bench, stepping carefully over the gutter. It's hiking boots and jeans rather than well-cut trousers and polished loafers. His hands are rough - not big, precisely - but roughened. A life lived half-outdoors, or just working now and then. He holds them both out to give her the leverage she needs to stand straight up, as much as she needs.

When she's standing, he asks, " - sure you don't need a cab?" He's already reaching for his phone, waking it, thumbing through the screen in search of his GPS ap. Looking for the nearest El station.

s[Matthews] Hunter nods his head to Lukas without hesitation, speaking up for the both of them.

"Ya' bout right. Not bad's puttin' it lightly tho' don't mind me sayin' -rhya."

Wait, did Hunter just call someone rhya?

[Drawn in Blood] The look on the Modi's face when Lukas informs him that perhaps the Jarl can find him something more productive to do than what he was doing tonight is easily translated as a dry Oh, hah hah. He cannot vocalize this, and he doesn't come up with any way of attempting to thank the Ahroun Elder for passing along the information as to where he could find the rest of his tribe. Blood-stained fingers take back the paper, then the pencil, which he hands off to Joey. Wiping his face one more time, the still-nameless-to-her young man looks to Drew, his expression briefly apologetic, then steps away from the congregation and starts off down the street without excusing himself.

It isn't for lack of awareness that that is the socially acceptable means of leaving a conversation, but of all the things he is worried about, seeming rude doesn't appear to be one of them.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew had, for the most part, stood near the curb, distancing herself from the whole congregation of Garou without moving too far away, out of earshot, or appearing to be separate from the group from an outsider's point of view. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets, after she'd shaken the snow from the hand that had offered it to the Modi with the broken nose, and listened in. Watched as writing utensils were passed to Drawn in Blood-- realization spread on the Kin's face there, but faded into nothing soon enough.

All goes back and forth, Lukas's attention hops from Drawn in Blood to Hunter and Joey (A pack, huh? Really now?), and the Modi takes the chance to glance toward her, look somewhat apologetic, and then make his way up the sidewalk. Drew pauses, but only for a moment, before nodding briskly to the three left in front of the cafe.

"Joey, Lukas. Glad to see you're both still around, I'll have to catch up with ya sometime. Gonna go... be Family for the time being, though." Hunter gets a momentary stare, a shake of the head, and she's walking after Drawn in Blood with the low, dull clack-clack of utilitarian work heels on the pavement to carry her away.

[Oliver] Joey watches Lukas and the Ahrouns. Drawn in Blood isn't the only one to shoot Hunter a quelling look, though the look from his Beta is less skin-melting. There's no point in pointing out the obvious, once they've all figured it out.

When the Modi hands her back her pencil, she accepts it with a wry grin. He leaves without a word, perhaps in search of the rest of their tribe in Chicago. Joey watches his retreat, nods to Drew and waves. "Yeah, later."

Then, her attention's back on the sept's war leader.

[Lukas] Lukas turns briefly from the Vanguard to nod to the departing Drew, a faint smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "It's good to see you're back, Drew." The polite corollary would be to wish Joe well -- but something, some sixth sense, some intuition, keeps Lukas from saying it. "See you," is all he says before turning back to the Vanguard.

"That's good," he says, "because things have been quiet in the area, but I doubt it'll stay that way. It'll be good to have some advance notice. Where do you guys usually roam? Lakeview?"

[Matthews] "Bronze, southside." He repeats, and he watches the retreat of Drew while he says it. It isn't a look that roams her form or finds appreciation in a beautiful woman. It's a look like, she don't like me much I dun know why!

"Speakin' a which, been in contact with Imogen n'Kora. Got some funky shit goin' down on my side'a town mainly. Some in the green too but mostly my side. Don't know much yet but it seems.."

He frowns.

"S'like corporate fronts n'shit ya' know? But worse'n that, it's them that live out north if ya' catch my drift. I'm sure ya' heard bout' it already but yeah. Keepin' busy with that right now."

[Drawn in Blood] [THANKS FOR THE SCENE SUCKERS]

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon spots Lukas outside and he is drawn in that direction once he has some coffee. His hoodie is pulled back on, however, and he moves to find the group. His attention sliding over the others outside the building. Curiosity about why he has been summoned here, and what, exactly, his elder wished of him. Lukas was more than just an Elder Ahroun, or an Elder, he was an Elder Shadow Lord and no matter how one might attempt to separate individuals from their tribes there would always be a link there between them.

He greeted all those gathered outside. A little smile worn as he lifted his cup before turning his attention to Lukas."You rang Rhya. I got here as quickly as I could."He says figuring he should announce his presence properly. It was only then that he took the time to acknowledge the others gathered. Joey wasn't technically lower in station but it was Lukas he came to meet... Besides the old man was getting up there in years and bound to be a little farther ahead rank wise than Joey!

[Lukas] "Good. I was going to reassign you to Bronzeville if you weren't there already. Most of the skirmishes that go down in this city seem centered there. Cabrini looks like hell, but the Fenrir seem to keep it under control.

"I want you and your packmate to keep tabs on that place and whatever might be going on. Keep lines of communication open with Dark Sky, too. They'll probably be joining you in the area. We might need to recon the Hive area again soon, too. The Knights at the Church have been taking heavier losses again recently. Something might be up, and right now the two of you are looking more and more like my best scouting pack. So be ready for that."

A beat.

"So don't fuck around getting in brawls." It takes a certain sort of person, personality, and composure to sling off obscenities so smoothly, so sternly. "In Lakeview, of all places. What was that all about?"

[Matthews] He listens, nods, pays attention. It isn't often Hunter Matthews gets the chance to look like a soldier rather than a charismatic thug. Sure he is a leader in battle, a warrior, but this isn't natural right here. This is practised.

"Keepin' em, Keepin' em" he says almost quietly to himself when Lukas mentions lines of communication with Dark Sky.

And when finally he gets asked a question? He doesn't sigh, he just raises both his eyebrows.

"I just said hello to the guy s'all called em' dibs cause that's his deed name n'all. He's been hangin' with JoJo a bit so thought I'd try get friendly with em' but guess he took it the wrong way."

"I ain't come here for a fight, I just ended one s'all."

[Lukas] And:

"Simon. No need to hurry -- just wanted to talk about the war-readiness of the packs of the Sept, but let me finish up with the Vanguard first. I was just telling them that I might pair your packs up in Bronzeville's defense. You spend a lot of time down in that area, don't you?"

[Oliver] Hunter listens, pays attention. Joey watches on, silently attentive. Her attention becomes more focused at mention of scouting the Hive.

"I'm gonna talk to Honor's Compass about challengin' for Ragabash leader before the month's out, boss. Someone's gotta rally the scouts."

She falls silent again when talk turns to the brawl, but this silence holds a different weight to it. It's thoughtful, considering.

"That guy's gotta lotta pride. You saw how he was 'bout trying to communicate." It's all she says aloud.

Dibs? Seriously? The questions are not amused.

[Lukas] "Fair enough. Fenrir tend to take their names seriously. It's a thing of pride for them, particularly their Ahrouns. Just ask Joey. You didn't know better, but now you do. Find him and make peace with him. If the only peace he'll accept comes at the expense of an all-out brawl, then forge your peace that way -- but do it somewhere where the humans can't see you.

"And before you say it -- I know he started it. But you're an Alpha with a strong totem, and he's a metis without a pack. That puts the responsibility on you for keeping your relations civil."

To Joey, then, "Good. I haven't seen Leaves No Trace for months. That either means he's doing a very good job or a very bad one. I suspect we'll find out which when you challenge."

[Simon Zahradnik] He nods his head and shrugs his shoulders."Dark Sky has largely been based in Lake View but we're at war. I'm not gonna fuck around or fuck with someone's territory but for the most part I go where I am needed. If that is Bronzeville then that is where I will go. If that is the middle of the ocean... That's where I go too. Cept space... I don't do space. You want someone up there get a Glasswalker they love that kinda crap anyway."He corrects at the end. It was his way of cracking a little joke.

"I've been doing some hunting and searching on my own... But it's hard without proper organization and orchestration between packs to really gain much ground. So if you want us to start working together I have no problem doing just that. I'd much rather we head more in that direction anyway... Not gonna help any of us if we bicker about who gets to defend what side of town when our enemies are united against us."He says with a little nod of his head. He's apparently already in agreement with this as it seems to be something he's been thinking about already.

"If any pack needs us we stand ready to respond. If not the rest of my pact then you can sure as hell bet that I am ready. Anytime anywhere..."He says with a sharp nod of his head.

[Matthews] "I'll sort it." He confirms with Lukas in response to his relations with the new metis Modi and that is the end of it. His eyes shift to Simon to listen to him talk. Man can he talk. It just so happens though that the topic is of interest to the Alpha of the Vanguard.

"Don't mind help in ma' hood if I know's bout' it. Don't liken no surprises when it comes ta' shit like that. We should have'a sit down sometime, keep up healthy outlooks n'all that for when the shit hits the fan."

That's all he has to say about that really. His eyes go back to Lukas.

"Well ya' know what ya' got in ya' corner. When the time comes we'll be up there, just like our name. Ain't nobody gettin' in and out like The Vanguard."

His eyes go to Joey, then back to the War Leader and Simon. An obvious raised eyebrow. That all?

[Lukas] "I know," Lukas replies, and then gives both Hunter and Joey a nod. The dismissal couldn't be clearer if they were all in uniform and saluting. The big Shadow Lord turns to his tribesman instead, his hands sliding into his pockets as he tilts his head toward the parking lot.

"The humans inside are too jazzed up for us to talk in there. We'll have to talk in the car." He takes his keys out, tosses them to Simon. "Give me a minute to grab a coffee and I'll be right out."

[Matthews] And that is that.

"Last one home has ta' do dishes." He says to Joey, and makes a bolt for his car.

[Oliver] Hunter bolts for his car, Joey just watches him go. She turns to Lukas. "Later, Lukas." No rhya. Feels so weird.

She doesn't run for Cassius. She doesn't have to.

[Simon Zahradnik] He watches the other two leave with a silent and Empty look on his face and then he watches Lukas through the window. He wasn't going anywhere... He would wait and do as he is told/directed by his elder.

[Oliver] [woo thanks for the scene, ya'll!]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] People in Lake View are accustomed to seeing some strange things.

Sometimes, usually when there's a full moon in the sky some really odd occurrences happen, too. Tonight there's barely a sliver of one left yet it didn't stop the Ahrouns having a fist fight in the middle of the Cafe. It also doesn't, apparently, prevent a Fianna Galliard from appearing around the corner of a block covered in drying black goop; it dots his coat; the shirt beneath which was some lurid colored abomination that set off the uncanny blue of the Fiann's eyes.

He's broad-shouldered, bares the breeding of a son of Stag and is accompanied by a Silent Strider who, while not as coated in grime as he, also bears the signs of a recent battle. The blond has his hands in his pockets; his eyes downcast; though every now and then he raises them to glance at his companion and frown.

He does not slow down, as they come upon the Cafe. Or seem to care, particularly, if he gets the odd glance, an up and down of uneasiness.

[princess] Asha is napping in the backseat of Lukas' car. It's almost sweet. Her dark head is pillowed in a cloud of gleaming back hair, and she's curled up in a fetal position - sleeping the sleep not of the dead, but of wolves - which is to say, she'll be deeply asleep until she's startled awake by movement outside.

And then she will be immediately, utterly awake.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She's walking along at Patrick's side, in a much better mood from the looks of it than the Fianna. "...don't worry. You loosened the lid of the jar, so to speak. I just finished it up." Whether Patrick was worried or not about that may be a completely different story, but she's putting it out there anyway as they walk along. If Sarita is worried about what people think of her and Patrick's odd appearance, she sure as hell isn't showing it. In fact, when someone on the corner gives them a strange look, she pauses turns her head in their direction.

"OIL! Go tell J.P. Morgan, we struck ]black gold! Texas tea, right here in River City!" The now thoroughly-wierded out person gets the excuse they need to escape their rage, and Sarita grins and speeds her steps to make up the small amount of lost ground.

[Lukas] Lukas is back outside in record time. It seems no one in the cafe wants to delay his order. He's fasttracked to the front of the line, and then his drink is fasttracked past a row of empty waiting cups. Two, three minutes tops and he's coming back out with a steaming cup of joe in hand. If he's surprised to see Simon still waiting, he doesn't show it. He tilts his head toward the car, holding his hand out for his keys as he goes.

The front doors unlock. Asha comes instantly awake, and then Lukas climbs in, depressing the car on its shocks.

"Have you met Asha? Asha, this is Simon Bone-Grinder, my tribesman, fellow Ahroun, and current Wyrmfoe of the Sept. Simon, Asha K&+257;lar&+257;tri, my packmate, also an Ahroun."

[princess] Too bad Thomas wasn't asleep in the front seat. He'd introduce Asha properly. Instead, she's to be contented with two names and a moon-sign. The creature straightens, pushes a hand through sleep-tousled hair and yawns once, revealing perfect rows of sharp white teeth before she snaps her mouth closed and shakes free of the lingering hints of sleepiness, chasing them from the edges of her consciousness like cobwebs burned from the darkest corners of the room.

"Hi." Asha says, making a mental note that they've not been properly introducted. Keeping it mental so as not to shame her Alpha.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon follows... Why Lukas would be surprised if at all would be beyond him! The Full Moon had asked him to stay so they could speak! It would actually be rather impolite to disobey his elder like that would it not? Still he walks to the door and glances in at the sight of Asha. He smiles a little and he nods his head...

"She distracted a dragon for me once... But Adam scared it off before I could strike the killing blow. Ruined what woulda been a great story to tell my eventual children about their father. Still we made it out alive so it's all good!"He says with a grin."It's a pleasure to meet you Rhya..."He did not know if she was his elder or not, the rank was not mentioned but she was Packmate to his alpha so he opted for respectful.

His smile showed as he looked her over. Cautious and curious to see if she recalled that little bit of history.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] She's trying to comfort him about the gigantic garden worm from Hell they just slaughtered and set on fire in Bronzeville; and the Fianna walking at her side slants her a rather incredulous look, and punctuates it with a snort. It's good natured, though, at least as good natured as you were likely to receive from Patrick right now.

Ahead of them, a blaze of Rage in the form of the current Ahroun Elder walks out of a Cafe with coffee in hand, and gets into a car where another two Garou sit -- he recognizes the passenger in the front seat, and one of his eyebrows crawls upward a little. "What the Hell," he says under his breath; a mixture of genuine bemusement and irritation.

"They conduct meetings in their cars, now?"

Patrick comes to a stop outside the Cafe, slouches his back against the brick facade and promptly pulls another of Sarita's cigarettes out -- he'd held onto the packet, what a prince -- he lights up; fostering nothing to disguise his interest in what was going on inside the car. "Whose the guy in the front seat with Bone Grinder?"

This, an aside to Sarita, like she's expected to know.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The semi-sorta good-natured snort from Patrick gets a little twinkle in the mischievous Latina's eye. She's making headway. She pulls out another couple of cigarettes and passes Patrick one before she lights up.

"Who, what?" She looks ahead, squinting a bit at the car. "Oh...that's Simon--obviously--and Lukas. Simon's tribe. Ahroun. Master of the Challenge's packmate, and I think he's the tribe elder if I remember my conversation with him right. I was a tiny bit stoned at the time, but I think I got that right."

[Lukas] It's still warm in the car -- lingering effects of the heater. It gets warmer when Lukas fires up the engine, but they don't go anywhere. He thumbs down the window on his side a little to vent. Too much rage, too much body heat.

"You're both Cliaths," Lukas says, sips his coffee, and then passes into the back in case her highness wanted some. "Anyway, Simon, I wanted to talk to you about taking on a more active role. For a long time Wyrmfoe's been largely a ceremonial role, but you're a Shadow Lord, and we're pragmatists. I doubt you would have taken it on if you didn't want to do something with it.

"So this is the first thing I want you to do. I want you to go around to each pack and assess their combat ability. I don't care if this means fighting them, taking them out to fight with you, or giving them a questionnaire -- as long as you get answers and those answers are reliable. I want to know how good they are, and I want to know if you'd classify them as scouts, warpacks, or something else altogether.

"Then I want you to start training Garou who need training. I don't expect a Child of Gaia Theurge to be at the caliber of a Get of Fenris Ahroun, but I want everyone in the Sept to be competent."

A pause, another sip.

"I know you wanted to take a bigger role in actually getting packs to mesh, too, but I'm going to put someone else on that. Maybe Joey, if she wins her challenge. It's not that I doubt your conviction, Simon, but you're a warrior. A weapon. Social graces aren't your strong suit, and you've got a strong, polarizing personality. Someone like Joey, someone who gives off the impression of being laid-back and easy to talk to, will ruffle feathers much less as she goes around sussing out conflicts and how to mend them."

[princess] Naturally, Asha assumed that Simon addressed her as -rhya out of natural deference to her breeding, her blood, her tribe. She nearly tells Lukas that when he mentions it, but thinks better of it when he passes his coffee back to her highness.

Lately, she's preferred her eminent highness, thank you very much. So: her eminent highness takes a deep drink of coffee, mouth curling. It is perhaps here that Lukas might rethink giving that girl caffeine.

Still, she flashes him a winning grin, all razor-wide, all white teeth - and bounces experimentally on the back seat. "That's good," Asha tells Lukas, opening the back passenger's door already. "I'm gonna go get it in Super Extra Venti with a double-shot and some chocolate sauce. Be right back!"

[princess] (this is liz going to bed! night guys!)