[Imogen] (maybe next time! night!)
[Kristiana Coleman] "Just. Wow. Did you see her... Wow."
[Kora] Gina goes walkabout just as the door swings open for a tall, leggy blonde, pale hair pulled back from sharp features, her cheeks and nose red from the cold outside. Except for her coloring, Kora is not stereotypically Fenrir. She's narrow-shouldered, the strength in her body hidden in the long legs, in the great muscles flanking her spine, wrapped around her core. Wearing a woolen peacoat - above-the-knee length for most women hits her somewhere higher than mid-thigh - in a dark shade of plum that is virtually black in the shadows, hands pushed forward into her pockets, a scarf wrapped around her chin and neck, muffling her mouth, body hunched forward against the cold - the stranger stops just inside the double doors, careful to pull the one closed before it steals away all the heat in the place - and stamps snow and salt from her boots.
She's studying the coffee shop through half-narrowed eyes, looking without looking, making sure there's a table free - or searching out an acquaintance among the dark corners. She looks at Kristiana and Cordelia, looks past them, but the progress of her scan is arrested, a subtle twist of her brow brings her back to the pair. There's something steady about her regard, then. A human would never stare this long.
She looks away when the scarf is unwound, heads instead to the counter.
[Imogen] Not long after Kora enters, Imogen follows. The kinswoman is sharply different than the Fenrir, with her brilliantly red hair and her dark blue eyes. The kinswoman is pale, even with the cold outside, as if the chill had not caused blood to rush to her cheeks and nose, but dive deeper, toward the core of her warmth.
She, too, scans the area, but does not pause to look at either Cordelia and Kristiana, her gaze moving smoothly past.
The slight kinswoman steps up toward the counter as well, her high heeled shoes clicking softly on the floor beneath her feet. She raises a hand and begins to remove leather gloves, finger by finger as she steps behind the Fenrir in a way most humans would never dare.
"Kora," she greets the Jarl.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Her attention has wavered, and she catches a look at a woman with narrow shoulders, woolen coat and long legs. She inhales slowly, and purses her lips. Kora is well put together, an interesting woman, but.. most importantly, she's a woman who stares too long. Who looks and seems to know what she's looking for.
It makes Cordelia straighten up and look. She nods upward. A tilt of her chin.
Cordelia's not garou, but she does seem confident. Aware of her space. Not crumpling just yet.
[Kora] The Jarl tugs her own leather gloves off with her teeth and stuffs them back into the pockets of her wool coat. A year ago her coat was missing buttons, her gloves were threadbare, and her jeans trailed tangled threads of half-shredded denim over the floor. Now she seems considerably less derelict, with ordinary gloves and every button on her coat intact. Still, when she reaches to pay, shifting sideways and forward to worm cash out of her right front pocket to pay for her mocha, the bills are tucked into an old, battered passport rather than a proper wallet.
"Doc - " Kora says, low-voiced, turning to give Imogen the grazing edge of a half-smile made generous by the width of her mobile mouth. The barista steps away from the counter to make Kora's drink, and Kora begins unbuttoning her winter coat with nimble fingers. " - you having anything?" And then, a tip of her pale head toward the pair of Fang kin. "Know them?"
[Imogen] Imogen turns in the direction of Kora's gesture, her gaze fixing on both Cordelia and Kristiana, regarding them without much expression. "No," she answers.
"Half-bloods, then, are they?" Silver Fang kinfolk, of all the tribes, are perhaps the ones least likely to hear this particular, old world term that Imogen uses, for, to them, it would be even more insulting, the inference double-bladed.
Of course, Imogen cannot sense breeding, not even her own, which hangs heavy in the air, like humidity.
She turns back, away from the kinfolk. "Just coffee, I think," she says, "Somethin' strong."
[Kora] "Mmmph," says Kora in response, her voice settled in her throat, the sound distinct without being raw. She's poised mid-button, casting a glance back at the pair of kinswomen, her tall frame turned toward the dining room, the scattering of tables, though her shoulders are oriented to Imogen. "Katherine's, too. You know her, yeah?"
Not her, but the reference, subtle enough that the barista hears nothing out of the ordinary. Direct enough that there's no question about it.
"Ma'am?" - the barista inquires, quiet. Imogen's coffee, Kora's mocha are both on the half-moon counter over the workspace beyond. Kora reaches for both as the barista points out which is which, and holds out the black coffee to Imogen with a careless sort of ease. "You feeling social?" - asks Kora, a mild note of irony beneath the inquiry in her voice.
The creature's dark eyes are settled on Cordelia and Kristiana again, the look utterly direct, unwaving, and animal for that.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "we're about to get company," she says to Kristiana. Her voice drops low, and she smiles politely. Kora's staring at them. too direct, too animalistic. Cordelia waves.
[Kristiana Coleman] She twists around to see who Cordelia is talking about, shrinking back a little in the booth.
[Imogen] The doctor has now removed her gloves, folding them in one hand before she slips them into her coat pocket. Bare, still chilled fingers reach for the gloves of her woollen coat. "I do," know Katherine, she answers. Imogen orders an Ethiopian blend in concise, quiet language. The barista pours it, and Kora picks it up, handing it over.
Imogen takes it with one hand, the other reaching up to unwind her scarf from her throat.
Kora asks her ironic question, and Imogen eyes flick toward her, a smirk curling her mouth. She does not answer, instead turning her gaze back toward Cordelia and Kristiana.
"One waves, the other cowers," she observes, low-voiced, before shrugging slightly and tilting her head toward the two kinfolk, resigned.
[Kora] Cordelia waves. The Fenrir inclines her head minutely. It's a polite gesture, an acknowledgment of that wave, with a certain weight, a certain age that makes it seem - formal, nearly courtly for all its brevity. Long fingers are coiled around the paper cup, and Kora does not bother with an insulated sleeve, inviting the warmth as it seeps into her fingers.
One waves, the other cowers. - says Imogen, and Kora casts her a sidelong look, her cheek full as her half-smile curves deeper and a low sharp hint of laughter escapes her lungs.
"At least we know which one's the bad twin," returns Kora, philosophically, as she begins to weave her way through the scattered chairs and tables. It's here - amidst this obstacle course - that it becomes clear that Kora is pregnant too. She has to move chairs out of the way that she once might've squeezed by, she cannot gauge, not, the shape of her body, like a cat whose whiskers have been clipped.
As she reaches the Silver Fang's booth, Kora picks up to empty chairs from a nearby table, positioning them easily at the end of the booth. "Mind if you join you? I think we have some family friends in common."
[Rory] What Rory's doing on the 'Mile is anyone's guess. The truth of the matter is, she was wandering and just happened to end up here. She doesn't come here often - she's one who stands out too much for someone who wants nothing more than to blend in - but she likes it well enough. She happens to have a bit of loose change on her, enough to get a hot chocolate, at least, and she decides to treat herself to just that.
Few things about Rory change - she is still pale, freckled, with those red red curls tumbling about her face in chaotic disarray. She is still possessing a high enough rage that people shrink away from her, especially under the swelling moon. Her clothing is threadbare, and comfortable.
And she is unbearably shy - blushing easily and often, saying very little on the best of days. One new addition, however, is the guitar on her back, and the little MP3 she listens too instead of attending actual lessons - gifts from one of the very few she counts as a true friend.
She is cold, and this coffee shop is open, and she wants hot cocoa. She is, after all, a very simple creature.
She slips inside, and pauses to let the warmth of the shop flood over her before moving to the counter to go about ordering her hot cocoa.
[Kristiana Coleman] "Yes" She adds the Rhya mentally. "Of course"
[Imogen] Where Kora is animalistic, Imogen is restrained. No rage flows beneath her skin, the moon does not call her. She walks with Kora, not behind her, coming to a stop near the table as well.
She neither smiles nor speaks, her free hand lifting to brush a curl away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Her hair is pulled back, curled at the nape of the neck in a chignon. Despite this restraint, there are freed strands which brush her skin, offering what might be the appearance of artful disarray, or perhaps simply, hair which will not be ruled.
Kristiana invites them, and Imogen takes a chair by the back, and pulls it several inches away from the table, setting her coffee cup down before removing her handbag to hook it over the back. She leaves her coat on, and takes a seat.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Go ahead," she says. Her voice is accented- Cordelia might be blonde haired, blue eyed. Those glasses might be atrocious, but her voice is very distinctly Not From Here. And, one could not. Not French. not Nordic. Not something that people would readily associate with geeky blondes, "I don't think I've met you to before, I'm Cordelia, this is Kristiana."
She makes her introductions. It's quick and to the point. Not overly flowery. Not... too terribly pompous.
... are you sure she's Falcons?
The female catches a look at a particular redhead coming through the door. Pale, freckled, with chaotic curls. Cordelia sees a kindred spirit. Her attention lingers there briefly.
[Kora] "Thanks," says Kora to Kristiana, casting the kinswoman a quick, expressive smile accompanied by the sort of direct look whose weight and clarity belies the ease of the smile. Humans would not have counted her pretty - not precisely - even absent the rage that is so integral to her - humming through her blood, wrapped around her spine, smoldering in her guts and marrow; but her features are regular - even - marked by strong lines and strong blood, even if that blood is not pure. A firm jaw, a straight nose, a pair of dark eyes framed by a high, clear brow and pale lashes and a wide, mobile mouth.
"I'm Kora. This is Doctor Slaughter." Kora flicks open the last of the buttons on her coat before sitting down. Underneath, she's wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie. There's a dark choker visible at her neck, three strands of leather plaited together. She then looks up, following Cordelia's gaze as Rory enters. "That's Rory."
[Kora] [Per + Linguistics, Dif -1 for having spent three days camping in Ibiza that one summer.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 5) Re-rolls: 1
[Rory] She orders at the counter, her voice soft, her words singular. "Cocoa." It's easier that way - for her, and for others. As the barista makes up her drink, Rory goes about the painstaking task of trying to count out how much is owed. The barista, after a moment, takes pity on the scary, shy girl and helps her count the change, until there is enough to pay for her drink. Rory smiles, shyly, and takes the cup and pretends not to notice when the girl yanks her hand away as if she's been burned.
Rory turns then, hearing her name, chewing on her lower lip absently. She offers Kora and Imogen a shy smile, and after shifting her position slightly, nervously, she starts to weave her way to them to say hello.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] People once described Cordelia was beautiful, which isn't... exactly... accurate. Now, the best description is cute and slightly better than average looking. What gives people that impression is the fact that, despite the fact that she is tall and a little too thin, she seems completely aware and comfortable with her own position. She makes her stature and her glasses and her fashion choices look completely deliberate and completely the right choice.
"Encantado," she says, "it's nice to meet you."
[Kora] "Likewise," returns Kora, dark eyes flickering over Cordelia, taking in the glasses, the lanky awkward physique, all the rest of it. Kora looks at someone as if she were seeing them - as if it mattered. "You're from Madrid, yeah? I spent more time in Barcelona when I was in Europe." Kora's seat there at the end of the booth seems to be temporary. She's seated in a chair rather than a booth, her coat unbuttoned for comfort, so it does not gap or pull across her stomach, but still on. Her scarf - unwound now - has ends on the floor as she sits, hand around her mocha.
"Rory," continues Kora, when the Fianna is close enough for normal speech. She receives the edge of a quick half-smile. "I've already introduced you. This is Cordelia from Madrid."
[Imogen] Imogen turns her head as Kora speaks Rory's name, glancing at the Fianna, before flicking a briefly wry glance toward the Fenrir.
"A pleasure," she says absently to the two kinfolk, picking up her coffee and removing it's plastic lid. She blows on the hot, black surface, before taking her first measured sip.
Rory arrives, and Kora completes the introductions. Imogen offers the Fianna Garou a faint smirk. "We're having a bit of a party," she says, dryly.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "They're scheduled to complete Segrada Familia in twenty-twenty six, but I heard the construction's been up to speed, so it might be completed in seven years," she says. her eyes light up.
Speaking of sand castle cathedrals.
[Rory] Rory has already been introduced, and the smile for Kora is at once shy, and relieved. Imogen says there's a party, and she wrinkles her nose, slightly, the smile still warm, even as she hides it behind those curls as she lifts her cup to take a sip.
Only to hiss because it's hot. Because it's Hot Chocolate. And that would be logical.
"Hi." It encompassing them all. A woman of few words, Rory.
[Kora] "It's not a party, Doc." Kora returns, in a dry, quiet voice. " - not until there's confetti. Or beer, at least." By way of demonstration, she half-toasts the kinswoman with her paper mug, which smells sharply of coffee and chocolate, and still vents steam up through the small opening in the plastic lid. When Cordelia remarks on the current pace of construction for the Segrada Familia, Kora's dark eyes linger on the young woman's face.
"You sound like you're working for the tourist board," she says quietly, not-quite-reproof in her voice. "Maybe you'll tempt the Doc, but I'm pretty sure I won't make it back."
Then, a brief glance to Rory. "I heard Hatchet was back in town." There's a certain energy to the name. "Is he leading you and yours? Or do you still have that honor?"
[Rory] She's heard Hatchet's in town. There's another brief, smile from Rory, as she nods. There's relief there, too. It was not so much an honor, when one considers how many times she was told she was to have nothing to do with kin, that it wasn't her place to understand them, to do anything other than protect them. unseen, unheard, not allowed to be in their presence for anything resembling friendship. Duty, that is what she is.
All she is.
Emotion flickers across her face, undefined, and then clears away, sunshine after a storm. "Latchet heads." She doesn't hear her mistake, to correct it - hearing only what she intended to say.
[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales sharply, her mouth twisting. "I'll keep that' in mind," she answers. "Confetti or beer."
They are both quiet, Imogen and Kora, deliberate in their speech. The latter is a Skald. She knows the power of words; the power of the voice. Imogen seems deliberate in everything. From the moments she raises her voice to speak, to the sips she takes of her coffee.
Her eyes flick to Cordelia as Fenrir speaks, and she shakes her head slightly. "S'not very likely."
The Garou begin to speak of the Fianna leadership, and Imogen turns to glance at Rory as she speaks. A line forms between her brows, brief, then fades again.
[Kristiana Coleman] Good kin. Good, seen but not heard, keeping her damned mouth shut out of a strong sense of self preservation kin.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Rory speaks and Cordelia... looks... confused.
Her head cocks to the side, and she reaches for something.
[Kora] That energy - when Kora speaks the name - is not positive in her voice. It's just there, under the surface. Kora flashes a glance at Imogen, noting the brief drawing of her brow without commenting on it or otherwise drawing attention to it.
The Skald glances back at Rory then, her dark eyes tracing over the sin-born Garou's girlish features - the blood-red curls, the shy mien - without apology. "Okay," she says at last, reaching up to begin wending her scarf back around her neck once more. Reaching her arm over her head, turning the hand-knitted length around three or four times. "Thanks for the information, Rory. Hope you gave him a good fight over it, first."
"I think I'm warmed up if you are, Doc." she continues, standing, coffee cup in one hand, the last loop of the scarf in the other. "How many more bags do you think we have?" A glance back at the kin. "Night, ladies."
[Kora] Then later, only when they're walking out the door, Kora remarks, low-voiced, to Imogen. "Fucking charach, Hatchet."
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Goodnight, it was nice to meet you both," she says.
At this point, Rory is here. And, the foreign-speaking female pushes over a rice crispie treat to the other foreign female. Cordelia smiles something content, but... alas, she doesn't quite understand that Rory is speaking English.
"Me llamo Cordelia," she offers.
[Imogen] Imogen draws in a long breath as she gets to her feet. "Two or three, if we're lucky."
A glance at the gathered. "Goodnight," before she heads toward the door with the Fenrir. As they cross the threshold, the kinfolk and Garou can see Kora say something to Imogen, and see Imogen's sharp glance, and arched eyebrow before she steps over the threshold and lets the door fall shut behind them.
Outside, Imogen comments not at all on the statement, merely starting back down the street toward a particularly rank and bloody alleyway.
[Rory] She looks at Imogen, and then back. She could say that she told Hatchet that Imogen was Kora's as much as she was anyones, but she doesn't. Hatchet will leave her be as she is, independent for that reason. She doesn't say if she put up a fight, or anything of the like.
Fact is -the Churach is more accepted leader than the Mule. The nation is quite fucked up that way.
They go, and after a moment, Rory perches on the seat vacated by Kora, not wanting to be rude. And then Cordelia says.... something. Rory does nothing to hide her confusion... "...sorry?"
[Kora] (night folks! thanks!)
[Kristiana Coleman] "Just. Wow. Did you see her... Wow."
[Kora] Gina goes walkabout just as the door swings open for a tall, leggy blonde, pale hair pulled back from sharp features, her cheeks and nose red from the cold outside. Except for her coloring, Kora is not stereotypically Fenrir. She's narrow-shouldered, the strength in her body hidden in the long legs, in the great muscles flanking her spine, wrapped around her core. Wearing a woolen peacoat - above-the-knee length for most women hits her somewhere higher than mid-thigh - in a dark shade of plum that is virtually black in the shadows, hands pushed forward into her pockets, a scarf wrapped around her chin and neck, muffling her mouth, body hunched forward against the cold - the stranger stops just inside the double doors, careful to pull the one closed before it steals away all the heat in the place - and stamps snow and salt from her boots.
She's studying the coffee shop through half-narrowed eyes, looking without looking, making sure there's a table free - or searching out an acquaintance among the dark corners. She looks at Kristiana and Cordelia, looks past them, but the progress of her scan is arrested, a subtle twist of her brow brings her back to the pair. There's something steady about her regard, then. A human would never stare this long.
She looks away when the scarf is unwound, heads instead to the counter.
[Imogen] Not long after Kora enters, Imogen follows. The kinswoman is sharply different than the Fenrir, with her brilliantly red hair and her dark blue eyes. The kinswoman is pale, even with the cold outside, as if the chill had not caused blood to rush to her cheeks and nose, but dive deeper, toward the core of her warmth.
She, too, scans the area, but does not pause to look at either Cordelia and Kristiana, her gaze moving smoothly past.
The slight kinswoman steps up toward the counter as well, her high heeled shoes clicking softly on the floor beneath her feet. She raises a hand and begins to remove leather gloves, finger by finger as she steps behind the Fenrir in a way most humans would never dare.
"Kora," she greets the Jarl.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Her attention has wavered, and she catches a look at a woman with narrow shoulders, woolen coat and long legs. She inhales slowly, and purses her lips. Kora is well put together, an interesting woman, but.. most importantly, she's a woman who stares too long. Who looks and seems to know what she's looking for.
It makes Cordelia straighten up and look. She nods upward. A tilt of her chin.
Cordelia's not garou, but she does seem confident. Aware of her space. Not crumpling just yet.
[Kora] The Jarl tugs her own leather gloves off with her teeth and stuffs them back into the pockets of her wool coat. A year ago her coat was missing buttons, her gloves were threadbare, and her jeans trailed tangled threads of half-shredded denim over the floor. Now she seems considerably less derelict, with ordinary gloves and every button on her coat intact. Still, when she reaches to pay, shifting sideways and forward to worm cash out of her right front pocket to pay for her mocha, the bills are tucked into an old, battered passport rather than a proper wallet.
"Doc - " Kora says, low-voiced, turning to give Imogen the grazing edge of a half-smile made generous by the width of her mobile mouth. The barista steps away from the counter to make Kora's drink, and Kora begins unbuttoning her winter coat with nimble fingers. " - you having anything?" And then, a tip of her pale head toward the pair of Fang kin. "Know them?"
[Imogen] Imogen turns in the direction of Kora's gesture, her gaze fixing on both Cordelia and Kristiana, regarding them without much expression. "No," she answers.
"Half-bloods, then, are they?" Silver Fang kinfolk, of all the tribes, are perhaps the ones least likely to hear this particular, old world term that Imogen uses, for, to them, it would be even more insulting, the inference double-bladed.
Of course, Imogen cannot sense breeding, not even her own, which hangs heavy in the air, like humidity.
She turns back, away from the kinfolk. "Just coffee, I think," she says, "Somethin' strong."
[Kora] "Mmmph," says Kora in response, her voice settled in her throat, the sound distinct without being raw. She's poised mid-button, casting a glance back at the pair of kinswomen, her tall frame turned toward the dining room, the scattering of tables, though her shoulders are oriented to Imogen. "Katherine's, too. You know her, yeah?"
Not her, but the reference, subtle enough that the barista hears nothing out of the ordinary. Direct enough that there's no question about it.
"Ma'am?" - the barista inquires, quiet. Imogen's coffee, Kora's mocha are both on the half-moon counter over the workspace beyond. Kora reaches for both as the barista points out which is which, and holds out the black coffee to Imogen with a careless sort of ease. "You feeling social?" - asks Kora, a mild note of irony beneath the inquiry in her voice.
The creature's dark eyes are settled on Cordelia and Kristiana again, the look utterly direct, unwaving, and animal for that.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "we're about to get company," she says to Kristiana. Her voice drops low, and she smiles politely. Kora's staring at them. too direct, too animalistic. Cordelia waves.
[Kristiana Coleman] She twists around to see who Cordelia is talking about, shrinking back a little in the booth.
[Imogen] The doctor has now removed her gloves, folding them in one hand before she slips them into her coat pocket. Bare, still chilled fingers reach for the gloves of her woollen coat. "I do," know Katherine, she answers. Imogen orders an Ethiopian blend in concise, quiet language. The barista pours it, and Kora picks it up, handing it over.
Imogen takes it with one hand, the other reaching up to unwind her scarf from her throat.
Kora asks her ironic question, and Imogen eyes flick toward her, a smirk curling her mouth. She does not answer, instead turning her gaze back toward Cordelia and Kristiana.
"One waves, the other cowers," she observes, low-voiced, before shrugging slightly and tilting her head toward the two kinfolk, resigned.
[Kora] Cordelia waves. The Fenrir inclines her head minutely. It's a polite gesture, an acknowledgment of that wave, with a certain weight, a certain age that makes it seem - formal, nearly courtly for all its brevity. Long fingers are coiled around the paper cup, and Kora does not bother with an insulated sleeve, inviting the warmth as it seeps into her fingers.
One waves, the other cowers. - says Imogen, and Kora casts her a sidelong look, her cheek full as her half-smile curves deeper and a low sharp hint of laughter escapes her lungs.
"At least we know which one's the bad twin," returns Kora, philosophically, as she begins to weave her way through the scattered chairs and tables. It's here - amidst this obstacle course - that it becomes clear that Kora is pregnant too. She has to move chairs out of the way that she once might've squeezed by, she cannot gauge, not, the shape of her body, like a cat whose whiskers have been clipped.
As she reaches the Silver Fang's booth, Kora picks up to empty chairs from a nearby table, positioning them easily at the end of the booth. "Mind if you join you? I think we have some family friends in common."
[Rory] What Rory's doing on the 'Mile is anyone's guess. The truth of the matter is, she was wandering and just happened to end up here. She doesn't come here often - she's one who stands out too much for someone who wants nothing more than to blend in - but she likes it well enough. She happens to have a bit of loose change on her, enough to get a hot chocolate, at least, and she decides to treat herself to just that.
Few things about Rory change - she is still pale, freckled, with those red red curls tumbling about her face in chaotic disarray. She is still possessing a high enough rage that people shrink away from her, especially under the swelling moon. Her clothing is threadbare, and comfortable.
And she is unbearably shy - blushing easily and often, saying very little on the best of days. One new addition, however, is the guitar on her back, and the little MP3 she listens too instead of attending actual lessons - gifts from one of the very few she counts as a true friend.
She is cold, and this coffee shop is open, and she wants hot cocoa. She is, after all, a very simple creature.
She slips inside, and pauses to let the warmth of the shop flood over her before moving to the counter to go about ordering her hot cocoa.
[Kristiana Coleman] "Yes" She adds the Rhya mentally. "Of course"
[Imogen] Where Kora is animalistic, Imogen is restrained. No rage flows beneath her skin, the moon does not call her. She walks with Kora, not behind her, coming to a stop near the table as well.
She neither smiles nor speaks, her free hand lifting to brush a curl away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Her hair is pulled back, curled at the nape of the neck in a chignon. Despite this restraint, there are freed strands which brush her skin, offering what might be the appearance of artful disarray, or perhaps simply, hair which will not be ruled.
Kristiana invites them, and Imogen takes a chair by the back, and pulls it several inches away from the table, setting her coffee cup down before removing her handbag to hook it over the back. She leaves her coat on, and takes a seat.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Go ahead," she says. Her voice is accented- Cordelia might be blonde haired, blue eyed. Those glasses might be atrocious, but her voice is very distinctly Not From Here. And, one could not. Not French. not Nordic. Not something that people would readily associate with geeky blondes, "I don't think I've met you to before, I'm Cordelia, this is Kristiana."
She makes her introductions. It's quick and to the point. Not overly flowery. Not... too terribly pompous.
... are you sure she's Falcons?
The female catches a look at a particular redhead coming through the door. Pale, freckled, with chaotic curls. Cordelia sees a kindred spirit. Her attention lingers there briefly.
[Kora] "Thanks," says Kora to Kristiana, casting the kinswoman a quick, expressive smile accompanied by the sort of direct look whose weight and clarity belies the ease of the smile. Humans would not have counted her pretty - not precisely - even absent the rage that is so integral to her - humming through her blood, wrapped around her spine, smoldering in her guts and marrow; but her features are regular - even - marked by strong lines and strong blood, even if that blood is not pure. A firm jaw, a straight nose, a pair of dark eyes framed by a high, clear brow and pale lashes and a wide, mobile mouth.
"I'm Kora. This is Doctor Slaughter." Kora flicks open the last of the buttons on her coat before sitting down. Underneath, she's wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie. There's a dark choker visible at her neck, three strands of leather plaited together. She then looks up, following Cordelia's gaze as Rory enters. "That's Rory."
[Kora] [Per + Linguistics, Dif -1 for having spent three days camping in Ibiza that one summer.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 5) Re-rolls: 1
[Rory] She orders at the counter, her voice soft, her words singular. "Cocoa." It's easier that way - for her, and for others. As the barista makes up her drink, Rory goes about the painstaking task of trying to count out how much is owed. The barista, after a moment, takes pity on the scary, shy girl and helps her count the change, until there is enough to pay for her drink. Rory smiles, shyly, and takes the cup and pretends not to notice when the girl yanks her hand away as if she's been burned.
Rory turns then, hearing her name, chewing on her lower lip absently. She offers Kora and Imogen a shy smile, and after shifting her position slightly, nervously, she starts to weave her way to them to say hello.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] People once described Cordelia was beautiful, which isn't... exactly... accurate. Now, the best description is cute and slightly better than average looking. What gives people that impression is the fact that, despite the fact that she is tall and a little too thin, she seems completely aware and comfortable with her own position. She makes her stature and her glasses and her fashion choices look completely deliberate and completely the right choice.
"Encantado," she says, "it's nice to meet you."
[Kora] "Likewise," returns Kora, dark eyes flickering over Cordelia, taking in the glasses, the lanky awkward physique, all the rest of it. Kora looks at someone as if she were seeing them - as if it mattered. "You're from Madrid, yeah? I spent more time in Barcelona when I was in Europe." Kora's seat there at the end of the booth seems to be temporary. She's seated in a chair rather than a booth, her coat unbuttoned for comfort, so it does not gap or pull across her stomach, but still on. Her scarf - unwound now - has ends on the floor as she sits, hand around her mocha.
"Rory," continues Kora, when the Fianna is close enough for normal speech. She receives the edge of a quick half-smile. "I've already introduced you. This is Cordelia from Madrid."
[Imogen] Imogen turns her head as Kora speaks Rory's name, glancing at the Fianna, before flicking a briefly wry glance toward the Fenrir.
"A pleasure," she says absently to the two kinfolk, picking up her coffee and removing it's plastic lid. She blows on the hot, black surface, before taking her first measured sip.
Rory arrives, and Kora completes the introductions. Imogen offers the Fianna Garou a faint smirk. "We're having a bit of a party," she says, dryly.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "They're scheduled to complete Segrada Familia in twenty-twenty six, but I heard the construction's been up to speed, so it might be completed in seven years," she says. her eyes light up.
Speaking of sand castle cathedrals.
[Rory] Rory has already been introduced, and the smile for Kora is at once shy, and relieved. Imogen says there's a party, and she wrinkles her nose, slightly, the smile still warm, even as she hides it behind those curls as she lifts her cup to take a sip.
Only to hiss because it's hot. Because it's Hot Chocolate. And that would be logical.
"Hi." It encompassing them all. A woman of few words, Rory.
[Kora] "It's not a party, Doc." Kora returns, in a dry, quiet voice. " - not until there's confetti. Or beer, at least." By way of demonstration, she half-toasts the kinswoman with her paper mug, which smells sharply of coffee and chocolate, and still vents steam up through the small opening in the plastic lid. When Cordelia remarks on the current pace of construction for the Segrada Familia, Kora's dark eyes linger on the young woman's face.
"You sound like you're working for the tourist board," she says quietly, not-quite-reproof in her voice. "Maybe you'll tempt the Doc, but I'm pretty sure I won't make it back."
Then, a brief glance to Rory. "I heard Hatchet was back in town." There's a certain energy to the name. "Is he leading you and yours? Or do you still have that honor?"
[Rory] She's heard Hatchet's in town. There's another brief, smile from Rory, as she nods. There's relief there, too. It was not so much an honor, when one considers how many times she was told she was to have nothing to do with kin, that it wasn't her place to understand them, to do anything other than protect them. unseen, unheard, not allowed to be in their presence for anything resembling friendship. Duty, that is what she is.
All she is.
Emotion flickers across her face, undefined, and then clears away, sunshine after a storm. "Latchet heads." She doesn't hear her mistake, to correct it - hearing only what she intended to say.
[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales sharply, her mouth twisting. "I'll keep that' in mind," she answers. "Confetti or beer."
They are both quiet, Imogen and Kora, deliberate in their speech. The latter is a Skald. She knows the power of words; the power of the voice. Imogen seems deliberate in everything. From the moments she raises her voice to speak, to the sips she takes of her coffee.
Her eyes flick to Cordelia as Fenrir speaks, and she shakes her head slightly. "S'not very likely."
The Garou begin to speak of the Fianna leadership, and Imogen turns to glance at Rory as she speaks. A line forms between her brows, brief, then fades again.
[Kristiana Coleman] Good kin. Good, seen but not heard, keeping her damned mouth shut out of a strong sense of self preservation kin.
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Rory speaks and Cordelia... looks... confused.
Her head cocks to the side, and she reaches for something.
[Kora] That energy - when Kora speaks the name - is not positive in her voice. It's just there, under the surface. Kora flashes a glance at Imogen, noting the brief drawing of her brow without commenting on it or otherwise drawing attention to it.
The Skald glances back at Rory then, her dark eyes tracing over the sin-born Garou's girlish features - the blood-red curls, the shy mien - without apology. "Okay," she says at last, reaching up to begin wending her scarf back around her neck once more. Reaching her arm over her head, turning the hand-knitted length around three or four times. "Thanks for the information, Rory. Hope you gave him a good fight over it, first."
"I think I'm warmed up if you are, Doc." she continues, standing, coffee cup in one hand, the last loop of the scarf in the other. "How many more bags do you think we have?" A glance back at the kin. "Night, ladies."
[Kora] Then later, only when they're walking out the door, Kora remarks, low-voiced, to Imogen. "Fucking charach, Hatchet."
[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Goodnight, it was nice to meet you both," she says.
At this point, Rory is here. And, the foreign-speaking female pushes over a rice crispie treat to the other foreign female. Cordelia smiles something content, but... alas, she doesn't quite understand that Rory is speaking English.
"Me llamo Cordelia," she offers.
[Imogen] Imogen draws in a long breath as she gets to her feet. "Two or three, if we're lucky."
A glance at the gathered. "Goodnight," before she heads toward the door with the Fenrir. As they cross the threshold, the kinfolk and Garou can see Kora say something to Imogen, and see Imogen's sharp glance, and arched eyebrow before she steps over the threshold and lets the door fall shut behind them.
Outside, Imogen comments not at all on the statement, merely starting back down the street toward a particularly rank and bloody alleyway.
[Rory] She looks at Imogen, and then back. She could say that she told Hatchet that Imogen was Kora's as much as she was anyones, but she doesn't. Hatchet will leave her be as she is, independent for that reason. She doesn't say if she put up a fight, or anything of the like.
Fact is -the Churach is more accepted leader than the Mule. The nation is quite fucked up that way.
They go, and after a moment, Rory perches on the seat vacated by Kora, not wanting to be rude. And then Cordelia says.... something. Rory does nothing to hide her confusion... "...sorry?"
[Kora] (night folks! thanks!)
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