[Bridget Geroux] "Got my Mojo workin, but it just won't work on you."
The howling wail of a blues harmonica echoes through the cold, dingy streets. As if fire could dance, the hot allure of an old-time blues piano draws a crowd. That old-fashioned, hot-and-sticky blues threatens to tear the house down. On the street, a large sign like a blue moon declares the place, in fact, to be none other than Buddy Guy's Legends. The interior is painted indigo and black, the shiny black paint covering old wooden pillars.
A bouncer at the door cards the patrons. Those with VIP access would be informed to ask for the private party. In which case the bouncer would gesture to a door in the back with a sign that says, "Private".
By now the crowd is starting to build, but it's not slamming yet. Another hour or so and it might, if this music keeps up. Servers usher drinks and calorific southern diner style food to small tables by an elevated stage. The back of the bar looks antique, a hand-carved piece of art stacked with all sorts of spirited bottles. The draft selections are standard, save for Blue Moon and Woodchuck Hard Cider. Specialty brews are bottled on display in a fridge with a clear door behind the bar.
Through the Private door is a narrow staircase that reverberates with the sound of music. At the top is a lounge area that is very no-fuss, but well-planned and comfortable. Vintage prints of the old Kings of Blues are framed, mounted, and illuminated like a small gallery. In fact, this does have quite a gallery effect, save for the small private bar and lounge furniture. A black, curved couch is comfortably modern, several backless stools are gathered throughout the inset lounge area, surrounded by an elevated walkway with several small doors leading to a couple small rooms and a recording booth. These doors (save for the recording booth) have old window panels with writing across the glass declaring the purpose or occupant of the space. Another door, tucked into a nook that would appear to almost conceal it, declares RESTROOM. A curtain on the opposite side of the door prevents spying through the antique semi-frosted glass.
The sound from downstairs is well-muted here due to the sound dampeners in the walls, which are painted with the same color scheme as the downstairs. The dim illumination and comfortable seating gives a very intimate feel. The small bar has a few bistro stools and a no-fuss spread of finger food.
[Patrick Llewelyn] He's a little late.
But then, Bridget would know as well as any Kinfolk that sometimes the Full Bloods couldn't exactly help being tied up. Or beaten, or killed before they surged back to life. Nothing quite that dramatic was what kept Prayers to Broken Stone from being promptly on time for the gig at Buddy Guy's but he had been forced to duck to the pack-house for a change of clothes none the less.
To scrub the blood off his skin, and get the nastiness from out of the back of his throat.
Now, as he takes the private staircase, faintly aromatic with cigarettes, alcohol and the burn of bright stage lights elsewhere he's dressed as modestly well as he can afford in his black leather jacket, fresh jeans and boots and a long sleeved black dress shirt beneath, open at the collar a few buttons. His blond hair had seen the company of both shower and comb and remained slicked back from his brow.
It gave him a sleeker vibe; he could almost pass as a real musician with that guitar-case in one hand.
He reaches the lounge area as there's a smattering of applause from downstairs and glances around once, perhaps in search of Bridget herself, before taking up residence on the edge of the black sofa and unlocking his instrument case. He removes a pick, and and takes up the guitar, tuning it idly while he waits.
[Bridget Geroux] Patrick spends a few minutes tuning his guitar. He may or may not notice from his seated position another guitar case semi-concealed located somewhat behind the unattended bar. The sound of running water comes from the semi-concealed bathroom door. After another minute or two, the door swings open. The young woman emerges, looking equally modest for what she can afford. A clean set of dark-wash, clingy jeans, a set of kitten heels from her Fellowship sister; both further elongate her legs. She wears a navy babydoll tee screenprinted with an off-white nautical anchor and rope and a black vest over it to complete the effect. Her long hair is tossed back with a deliberate bed-head appeal. Her fingernails are trimmed short and unpolished.
Lightly framed by eyeliner, brown eyes light up at seeing the lounge is occupied at all. Patrick's small notes draw her out from the corner as her slight heels tap against the reclaimed wooden planks and down three steps into the inset lounge.
"Hey there," she says while taking a seat on the black couch. "How's it going?"
[Patrick Llewelyn] He knows who it is before she even fully steps out of the bathroom, to be perfectly honest.
Not because she smells bad, but simply because of what she is, and what he is. Patrick's got his guitar propped across his knees, one foot against the small coffee table his case rests upon and for the moment when Bridget emerges he has the pick between his teeth, tuning further a chord. He takes it out when his blue eyes find her, and there's a slight smile, there and not as he takes in her outfit.
"Hey, yourself," he replies and continues watching her as she sinks down beside him on the couch. "I like the outfit, very pro-blues era." There's a re-surfacing of the smile, and the Galliard resumes idly drawing his fingers over the strings. With his hair slicked back from his face, Patrick appears younger even than his twenty-three years, the tiny scar over his right eyebrow is more cleanly noticeable and for once he does not bring with him the scent of motor-oil.
Just that Rage, though even that seemed muted tonight.
"I dunno if Howard will turn up, I haven't seen him today yet," the Welshman shrugged. "But that's Howard for you."
[Bridget Geroux] An appreciative nod comes from the Canadian as Patrick comments on her outfit. "Yes, I try to dress up when I'm playing. One of the bands down there needed me for a song earlier."
She repositions herself so that she can reach for the harmonica in her back pocket. The shiny metal reed rests starkly against the black cushion. Bridget's eyes wander over the Galliard, smiling warmly.
"Not too shabby yourself," she notes before her eyes wander appreciatively over the guitar.
The Rage. It's difficult to discern why someone like Bridget doesn't bolt immediately from the presence of Garou, or why she seems to even like being in the company of the Wolves. Either through a sick deathwish, relative conditioning, human stupidity, or a number of other strange desires, the Albertan native quite often finds herself immensely drawn to that rush. In fact, she feels about as uneasy without that occasional reminder as she does when a certain Fianna Philodox bears his unnatural, Rage-filled attention to her.
Except without being near the Garou, she doesn't feel like she's being hunted... It's a different sort of ill-ease. Without it, she feels lost. She can't pretend to understand the complications of Garou life, but the lives of ordinary people is something Bridget feels completely uncomfortable with. Perhaps it is just that the thrill of being so close to these Killers, Chosen by the force of creation, makes her feel alive and connected with herself in a way that can't be replicated.
Or maybe the girl is just plain stupid.
Bridget shrugs when he mentions his packmate. "If he comes, that'd be great. But I'm not expecting it. I haven't seen you in a while."
[Patrick Llewelyn] Perhaps part of the reason Patrick comprehends and retreats so often from the effects of his Rage is that he had been in Bridget's shoes until his eighteenth year. He'd grown up under the same roof as Full Blooded mother, one who left the obligations of being a family relation to his father, and later on, brothers to instill in the youngest of their brood.
The Galliard had been far from an easy student; his eldest brothers tutorials in the ways of the Garou world had more often than not resulted in bloodshed and broken bones -- Patrick's, never Myrick's. Now, distant from those people who had striven to teach him about why he ought to care and why it mattered that he remembered, and recorded their lives -- he finds himself unwittingly surrounded by those who, like him, did not always understand the positions fate had flung them into.
Who did not know how to either live with, or without the suffocating reminder that they were not normal; that they would never be so, in the context of the regular, human world.
She compliments his wardrobe, and his eyebrow quirks upward, he strums the chords once more and then lays a palm over them to still the vibration of sound. She hasn't seen him in a while, and he's leaning back against the sofa, both its leather material and that of the jacket he wears protesting the movement.
Patrick's frowns were the most common expression to be seen across his features; he directs one at the room at large.
"Yeah, I tend to stay busy. Keeps me calmer, makes ..." He shrugs, "everything easier."
[Bridget Geroux] One way the Rage does take effect on the kinfolk is that it makes her more... energetic? Maybe that isn't quite the way to put it. Eager to move around, to be loud, to climb construction buildings, to run a footrace she's bound to lose, her instinctive reaction is to become more active. In a face-to-face, it's often not so terrible; however, a room of them, full of Rage and their starkly contrasting personalities, the Bridget known by few retreats behind the Bridget known by many.
The young woman suddenly fulfills her urge to move by rising from the couch. Fluidly, she prowls towards the minibar and goes behind it to scope the place out.
"I know how that is," she says. "I get psycho sometimes when I can't stay busy."
Some glass bottles clink as the kin rummages through the rows of spirits.
"Hey, you want anything while I'm back here?"
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Setting is a Blues Club newcomers! Patrick and Bridget are upstairs in the lounge/waiting area, there's the main space downstairs too, I believe. ]
[Bridget Geroux] [Anyone in need of the opening post, PM me.]
[Kora] "I'm starving." - says Kora, outside the blues bar. The air is cold enough that her breath forms an opaque cloud around her head, that you cannot tell ordinary people breathing from the smokers huddled around the entrance, exhaling their own - rather more toxic - clouds. No one smokes close to the odd pair they make, though. Roman, a good head shorter than Kora, nearly a decade younger, and Kora, her blond hair pulled back, hood pulled up, the shadows mostly concealing her features.
The scarf she wears - hand knitted, one of the traditional fair isle patterns - is so long that she has wound it around her neck and mouth three or four times in succession. She stands half-hunched forward, her body held firmly against the cold, gloved hands in her pockets. The menu is posted in the window, their reflections overlay it, twinned. Only the bravest of the smokers spilling out from the interior come close to the unprepossessing pair. "Shit," says Kora, a slanting a look up from the menu to her packmate. "This place has fried chicken. I'm in. C'mon."
And then she leads the way into the blues club, attracted by the food rather than the music.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Bridget reacts to the pressure of Rage around her with movement; the flurry of action as if to reassure herself that in the presence of the very thing that drove Garou to madness; to slaughter, she was in fact still alive. Vibrantly so, a part of the world without it. Patrick must guess that she moves away from him because of his anger, it's there in the way his eyes darken -- irritation, self directed, flashes across their blue depths and he lowers them to the guitar.
Places it with surprising tenderness back into its velvet lined case for the moment, now tuned.
"Yeah, surprise me with something," he offers, and sits forward to tug off his jacket; he folds it over the arm of the sofa and unpins the sleeves on the black shirt beneath it; rolling both up his forearms and then leaning his weight on one elbow; legs splayed in a position of apparent ease.
He's watching her, face half hidden by the placement of his hands against his head.
"So you don't hang with Howard much lately," she can hear the tinges of amusement in his voice. "Did he show you his porn stash?"
[Roman Turner] "I don't care if they serve road kill as long as it's warm."
His breath did not escape in to the air because he was so wrapped up about all that showed were his eyes. The collar of his coat was turned up and nearly met the stocking cap he wore in place of the usual Stetson. Kora opened the door and he was hot on her heels to enter.
[Kora] "Mmmph - " the noise is a low curl of laughter. Though her mobile mouth is hidden behind several layers of wrapped scarf, the brief impression of fullness in her cheek suggests a concealed little smile.
"You best get used to the weather, Roman." Kora advises, casting a slanting look back over her shoulder as she leads the way into the club, pushing open the front door with a brief, frowning glance at the flock of smokers who drift and scatter like gaggle of sparrows lifting from telephone wires on sighting of a distant hawk. "Or it's going to be a long winter."
The front door opens beneath the flat of her hand, a rush of hot air and a wall of sound coming out as they walk in. "The kitchen's not closed yet, right?" Kora asks the bouncer, raising her voice to be heard.
[Bridget Geroux] The fried chicken is not legendary at Legends, but it's damn good. Some other southern delicacies also are on the menu: fried okra, oysters, cajun-style crawfish, bourbon shrimp, po boys, cornbread, red beans and rice, etoufee, jambalaya, and gumbo. There are also all the regular cholesterol-inspiring dishes of American cuisine: burgers, steak, ribs, catfish, and several kinds of pie.
The bouncer informs Kora that the kitchen closes at midnight, so they're coming in just in time. He gives Roman an appraising look, but whether it is their combined Rage or his own laziness, he doesn't card him. The smell of food is definitely inviting.
The next band takes the stage. Tuning of instruments takes place while they prepare. There are even some free tables open in the crowd, which is mostly congregated by the bar and towards the front of the stage.
[Roman Turner] "You mean it's not over yet?"
It got cold back home, but it never held for more than a day or two at a time. This weather had him wearing long johns and wearing stocking caps. Stocking caps were sure to get you laughed at back home. Unfortunately, when the Bouncer gave him the once over, it was returned even if all that showed so far was his eyes and a bit of wind kissed, flushed cheek. He might not be the tallest person around, but he was wiry as a Ferret on speed. Already he was pulling off his gloves.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon got the Invitation and arrived, albeit a little late, before things could grind to a complete halt. He eventually managed to find himself pointed in the direction of the Private lounge and sooner or later he headed that direction. Curious and with a slight grin on that face of his. He kept nagging Bridget to invite him to one of her shows so it was nice to finally get the call.
He arrived in a black, and sleeveless shirt with some obscure band logo on the front with a denim coat over the top with lotsa fuzzy padding inside to keep his ass nice and toasty warm. That bandanna was still worn around his neck, though this time more for comfort than practicality. Black denim jeans covered his legs, and a pair of sturdy combat boots kept his toes from freezing. Though without his hoodie he needed something to keep his head warm so tonight he wore a dark leather cowboy hat. It was old looking and somewhat warm but matched well with the denim coat, and bandanna. Urban ninja turned urban bandito! He apparently hadn't expected much combat tonight and so why not try to look good?
He entered with a little grin as he brought his hands up to strip off the gloves he wore. His eyes slowly and curiously scanned, first for Bridget, and second for anyone else he might recognize! Rich green scanning from face to face, drawing eyes away, shyness and fear alike showing on those faces who realize they have met his gaze. Some excited, finding their pulse raising, terrified and yet wanting more, while others simply looked away and squirmed a little in discomfort though sooner or later they all checked back to see if he was still looking. Fortunately he wasn't here for them tonight no this Full Moon was hunting something in particular.
[Kora] She cuffs him in the shoulder for that; a gleam in her dark eyes as she thanks the bouncer with a close-lipped smile, scarf sliding down to circle her neck and chin, revealing the expressive curl of her mouth just as she favors the stranger with that look, and a brief, passing Thanks.
The pair walk into the bar. Roman's tugging off his gloves. Kora's unwinding her scarf, pushing her misshapen hood back as she lifts her chin to look around the bar. The whole act of it feels familiar; the people around the stage, the band playing - but she's looking not for friends or would-be friends - just a booth that is farther from the stage, but close enough to some natural path through the dining room that the waitress cannot find an excuse to ignore them.
"You've got months and months - !" Kora returns, gesturing Roman to follow in her wake toward the booth she's spied, closed to the windows, with a view out onto the dark street and a view of the entry, in direct line from the kitchen. Once the scarf is unwound, she tugs off her gloves with her teeth, tips her head back so the hood falls fully down, revealing a messy coil of pale blonde hair that gleams with health.
"Hey - " she snags a waitress before they've even tucked themselves into the booth. "We want buddy's bucket, fried chicken, extra crispy, a Bell's Two Hearted and a glass of milk, not skim." A glance at Roman, here, " - you want anything else?"
[Roman Turner] "Ketchup, lots and lots of Ketchup."
He pauses in the middle of removing the scarf from around his youthful face to give the request. As the scarf was removed, he grinned his best at the waitress. Adding politely.
"Ketchup, Miss."
Then the hat was tugged off and the dance of the static hair began. Chestnut hair waved in the air, standing a good two inches up as he struggled out of the heavy coat he wore.
[Bridget Geroux] Bridget returns after some debate and thorough scouring of the minibar. She finally decides on an off-brand, caramel-colored bourbon. She pours two glasses, makes her way back, and hands one to Patrick.
She slinks back to a seating position on the black modern couch when Simon enters in his urban bandito glory. He sees only the Fianna and kin within the room, but might have spotted Kora and Roman downstairs on his way in. Bridget smiles and takes a drink of the whiskey.
"Hey there," she greets. "Come on in. Have a drink, get comfortable."
[Kora] "I'll share the appetizer," Kora warns him, her dark eyes touching first on her boyish packmate, then on the waitress as she stuffs her gloves into her pockets and reaches up to begin unbuttoning the coat, with sure, deft motion of her fingers. " - but you aren't getting any of my fried chicken."
Her voice is low and serious, as if she were telling him about a pack of scrags around the corner, the gleam of a hunter spider up ahead. Only the gleam across the dark surface of her eyes and the faint curl of her mouth, the hint of amusement like a twist of already-vanishing smoke, belie the seriousness of her sure warning tone. "I already told you, I'm starving."
Underneath the coat: more layers. Her half-unzipped hoodie over a pale gray t-shirt and a thermal, both new, both sized to fit more comfortably over the new bulk of her stomach. Without her coat on, there's no hiding the subtle swell of pregnancy. Second trimester - somewhere in the midst of it - enough to show, but not yet enough to change her gait, to make her ponderous.
"And you are not seriously going to put ketchup on fried oysters, are you?"
[Patrick Llewelyn] Bone Grinder enters the upstairs waiting area for the performers, they can faintly hear the strains of the band who have just started their set on stage from up here, but it is likely nothing compared to being downstairs; front and central for the event itself. There was little that could compare with live music -- especially if it was good.
When the Ahroun enters, he sees Patrick sitting, or rather slouching, against one of the sofas. There's an open guitar case in front of the man, and his familiar leather jacket has found a home draped over the arm of the sofa; beneath his elbow. He sits up a little at the sight of the Shadow Lord; it's instinctive, perhaps.
But then, Bridget was also returning with his drink, he takes it and clinks the edge of it against the Kinfolk's own, then takes a generous sip of it. The fiery liquid burns a path down his throat, and the Galliard sits back again; his shoulder brushing Bridget's arm. There is familiarity in the manner the pair of Fianna sit, if not quite at the level to which she'd enjoyed with others of his tribe.
"Hey, man." He greets Simon, sipping from his glass. "Nice, uh, getup."
[Roman Turner] "It's the only way I would eat oysters. I mean, think about it. It's like the mucus glands on a moose, same color and texture, and I don't eat those even with Ketchup or deep fried."
His coat was shrugged off and tossed in to the booth before he slid in. He'd order something more when the waitress returned, though so far the noise had him too distracted to think about food. Already he considered pulling the cap back on to muffle his ears a little beneath the knit.
[Kora] "You've seen the mucus glands of a moose, have you?" Kora returns, casting her packmate a - deeply doubtful look - as she pushes her winter gear into the booth and folds herself in after it. There's a certain ease to the motion, though she does not bend perhaps as deeply as she ones might, and her center of gravity has already started to change.
"Don't tell me your grandpappy raises them on the farm," she finishes with a doubtful expression that would be a smirk on someone else's face. There's something lighter though, about the expression, that keeps the darkest expression of irony at bay. " - because that I won't believe."
The street outside is dark and the windows here are tinted. It's such a cold night, with swirls of flurries fallen from a dull orange, that the cold leaches through the insulated windows, making these booths chilled and rather less popular with the patrons. She likes the view, though, the comfort of it. Her packmate can watch the entrance, and she can watch the street. She glances out, now, dark eyes lilting over their reflections to the street beyond before looking back at Roman. Quietly, a furrow of speculation between her pale brows.
"Heard from Sparrow, lately?" Her eyes remain fixed on the younger Garou's face with the question, quick and watchful and sure.
[Bridget Geroux] [Cha+Perf + PB 3]
[Roman Turner] "Raised Buffalo too. Steaks are pretty good if it's a fresh slaughter and not over cooked."
He got situated and started fiddling with the salt shaker while looking all over the place like he'd never seen such a place. Kora asked about Sparrow and for a split second something akin to pain flicked in those faded denim eyes of his.
"No, I guess she's busy or something."
[Izzy Montoya] Not many people would figure Detective Montoya for a music fan - let alone for Blues. Or Jazz. Or anything other than head banging screaming metal. Fact is, she has a healthy appreciation for all things music. So she's hear tonight, already in a booth, not far from where Kora and Roman decide to sit.
She's in the shadows of a booth, though it is certain that won't hide her for long, as Kora has the uncanny ability to find her in any crowd. She has a beer in front of her, though she has yet to order anything to eat. Her hair is down, her dress business casual, as usual. Even off duty, she looks to be on alert.
She watches as Roman and Kora take their seat, and should they turn this direction, lifts her beer slightly in hello, before tipping it back to drink deeply of the icy cool liquid. Sometimes this is as good as it gets. sometimes that's all she needs.
[Kristiana Coleman] The blond kin walks in dressed to impress in a shortish skirt and soft lightweight sweater. Maybe not exactly appropriate for the venue, but it's not club wear. Her hair is pulled back with clips at the sides, and she strides in after being carded and once again successfully passing. Phone out, she texts Bridget rather than spend the time and energy to look for her.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon takes the time to look them both Over. First there is Bridget, and his eyes slip all the way down and then back up before meeting her eyes."I just got your call, sorry I am late."He says before turning his head in the direction of Patrick. His smile grew and he nodded his head."You like? I thought it'd be nice to dress up a little, you know look nice and pretty?"He asks as he holds out his arms and spins a little for Patrick. When he turns back around he looks in the direction of Bridget.
"I think I saw Kora and Roman but not too sure... I mean I was just passing through. Not sure who else might be on their way."He says this with a nod of his head and a tiny little grin."So am I umm... Too late? You already done?"He asks before glancing in the direction of the minibar."I suppose I should get myself a drink."He says."I'll umm... Be right back."He says excusing himself for just a moment to wander past and grab himself a drink.
[Bridget Geroux] Downstairs, the next band finally starts in. They make a slow start, but maybe it will pick up. Some of the more inebriated patrons attempt to dance. The smell of fried southern food is mouth-watering. Soon enough, the waitress will return with their appetizer and ketchup.
Upstairs in the lounge, Simon finds the kinfolk and Galliard drinking bourbon and making small talk. She slowly sips at the bourbon, sets the glass on the table, and picks up her harmonica. The metal instrument gets polished briefly while the kinswoman looks off.
"I'm not going to even ask what you mean by Howard's porn stash. So no, I haven't seen it. He's been acting weird lately, and I kinda lost my temper and said some shit that Hunter had to kinda kick my ass for. Figuratively. I deserved it. But anyway, I've been keeping myself busy working."
She blinks a few times at her own rambling. Simon's attire is... well, it gets quite the appreciative look from Bridget. She shifts a bit in her seat as she sits there. Bridget is a performer, but she doesn't like to hear herself talk, not ramble on like this. The Canadian lifts the harmonica to her mouth and starts to play, following that same urge of movement as before.
Bridget starts to play a rowdy tune, George Thorogood's Madison Blues. It's quite the rendition, considering it was made for electric guitar. She leans into Patrick at some point, gesturing with her eyes at his guitar.
[Ivers] By the time he remembers he was supposed to be somewhere tonight he's already had most of a pitcher of beer and Christ knows how many doses of drugs not worth mentioning in polite company; there's no telling what reminded him, after all of that, but he looked at a clock or heard a song on the jukebox or maybe just took the world's most head-clearing piss, but at some point he said to himself, "SHIT!" and then hauled his skinny ass out of wherever he was and started over to Buddy Guy's.
Whereupon he realized that American assholes card for entrance into places like this.
Whereupon again he realized that breaking and entering isn't terribly difficult.
Though he did not come in the front door like the rest of the world, Howard stumbles out of the bathroom as though he has been in there for some time, a curly-haired twenty-something Rip Van Winkle. Stumbling is never indicative of intoxication for him, being as he walks like a sloppy drunk even when he hasn't touched a drop all day, and he looks worse than he smells; he does not reek, though he looks as though he does. He wears probably the worst outfit anyone has seen him in yet: black Converse sneakers, seafoam green twill pants, a bright orange t-shirt likely older than he is advertising Reese's peanut butter cups, a black-and-blue scarf, and a black leather jacket. It goes without saying his hair is a mess, and his sunglasses are in place.
Patrick was late for undisclosed reasons; Howard's lip is split.
He stands still a moment, looking around as though he's attempting to figure out where the fuck he is, where the fuck he's supposed to be. There are Fenrir everywhere, an underdressed Fang kinswoman nearby, and Howard starts aimlessly wandering in the blind hope he'll find Patrick before he gets into another fight.
[Kora] "No way," Kora returns, with a snort of disbelief. "There's no way you raised moose. I'm pretty sure they're like caribou, you know? Or reindeer in Lappland. They need cold weather to live, yeah? They're adapted to it." At the end of it, she offers Roman the slow, brief curl of a half-smile and drops her voice by a good ten decibels, finishing softly, " - like Fenrir."
The waitress has returned by now, with their drinks and the huge basket full of appetizers - chicken wings and fried oysters, fried okra and fried peas, fried pickles and fried twinkies.
Well, maybe not the twinkies.
Or the peas.
The woman has that harried look to her, bruises underneath her eyes, her hair flat from the heat in the room, from her sweat, from the long night of work. She puts the beer down in front of Kora and the milk down in front of Roman thoughtlessly. Kora does not switch them until the waitress leaves the booth, but switch them she does, picking up that tall glass of whole milk to return the quiet toast to Izzy.
Underneath the table, she bumps her toe against Roman's calf; acknowledging that frisson of pain without indulging it.
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Per + Charisma: Guitar playin'.]
[Patrick Llewelyn] [That was just depressing, Patrick.]
[Roman Turner] "Yessum, my family's ranch has all sorts of odd things on it that ya don't expect to find. Ostrich, Llama's, even some of them fainting goats. Course, after a while I wasn't able to get too close, so ended up shoveling stalls when they were empty."
He might be pulling Kora's leg on the Moose part but he sure wasn't admitting it if he was. The waitress returned and got an even bigger smile when she absently put the milk in front of Roman. Though Kora snagged the milk before he managed to stick his tongue in it or anything. Still receiving a beer in exchange was a good deal in his head. About the time Kora saluted Izzy was about the time she bumped his leg beneath the table so he thought one had something to do with the other and was twisting in his seat to locate the recepient of the salute to which he saluted too with his beer. Izzy got a devilish smile with the beer salute.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon finds himself watching. Settling in and watching when the two of them start to play. His eyes shifting as he pulls up a seat and settles his glass on the nearest table and just decides to watch. Patiently and quietly, let the Fianna do what the Fianna do best right?
I mean you wouldn't want them barging in when you are torturing or betraying someone ruining your fun now would you Simon? So let them do their thing and they will let you do your thing and in the end everyone wins.
[Izzy Montoya] Kora salutes her with milk, which makes the corner of Izzy's lips lift in the briefest, smallest of smiles. While she has no wish for ankle biters of her own, she knows Trent is excited - and that's enough to have her at least appreciative of Kora's condition. That devilish grin of Roman's however - that twists the smile into a huff of amusement.
She must be tired to let it be seen like that.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Simon is twirling and speaking of feeling pretty and the Fianna glances at him and simply --
pauses for a moment, mid swallow. He stares at the Shadow Lord from under a furrowed brow and then simply nods, and samples what might once have resembled a friendly smile but honestly rather looks more like an awkward grimace. That might also have something to do with, truth be told, the large amount of whiskey he just imbibed. Bridget responds with something about Howard's behavior and her own and then starts up with her harmonica.
And, well, it's easier for Patrick to play, then try and figure out why an Ahroun would tell a Galliard he feels pretty. He takes up his guitar, and starts picking up the chords to accompany Bridget's tune; it takes him a moment, perhaps two, and then he has it -- he taps his foot against his leg in time to the beat.
Downstairs, his Alpha has arrived and Patrick feels the familiar tug at his senses telling him he's nearby: We're upstairs, man Howard hears, along with a mental projection of the room, and the staircase leading there.
[Ivers] "Whoa."
This, out loud, as though Patrick had sneaked up on him and not projected an image of where it is he's supposed to be going rather than yelling it in his ear. As tempting as it likely has to be for him to go over to the seated kinswoman who insisted he call her Detective Montoya instead of whatever obnoxious nickname he would have come up with for her, or to the pregnant Skald who had threatened to geld him when last their paths meet, the brightly-colored Theurge does not wander over and attempt to ruin their nights.
Either he can be taught, or he has simply reached the point of being inebriated where his perception of his surroundings is completely nonexistent.
Up the stairs he goes, grabbing the railing so he doesn't wipe out attempting to ascend, and when Howard arrives at the VIP lounge he identifies himself in a relatively sober-sounding voice. Patrick and Bridget have started playing already, and there's Simon, parked at a table dressed like a 70's flashback in his denim jacket. A grin of forewarning comes over his lips, the barely-formed scab on his lower lip threatening to crack and bleed again if he isn't careful, and he ambles over, bumping into a chair before hauling it back and dropping himself down right next to Simon.
"Dear Jesus are you handsome tonight," he says, and reaches out to steal the Ahroun's beer.
[Kora] Kora shakes her head doubtfully, somehow imagining Roman's family ranch as a cross between Noah's Arc and Dr. Doolittle's lab. Her laughter rises underneath her breath, and disappears just as quietly - brief and charming before she dives into the giant basket of deep fried - well, deep fried anything on the table between them.
"The Sept where I fostered - Vindur und Ringing - it's off on the north Atlantic, on this barrier islands, my people call it Hjaltland, right? And the only thing that could survive on that turf grass, in the winter conditions, was sheep. So the kin there raised sheep, and fished for a living. Winter was pretty much mutton or dried fish, dried fish or mutton in endless combinations. Every piece of both, too. It was - "
There's a brief, far away look - though her ruminations are interrupted by the vision that is Howard Ivers - and when she looks back to Roman, her dark eyes are shot through with a certain ironic light, the nostalgia subsumed beneath the surface of her pale skin, bleeding through only in the shape of her half-smile. "Stark. And so far north that winter was dark and long. Sometimes you could see the northern lights, though - scintillating across the sky."
[Bridget Geroux] Indeed, Simon. Indeed.
The Fianna make child's play of the song collectively. Even if it takes a second for Patrick to get into gear. Somewhere towards the end of the song, a cheap black cell phone on the coffee table buzzes, vibrating against the glass. It lights up with the name "Kris" on the outer screen.
Bridget eyeballs the cell but doesn't go to pick it up until they're done. Howard, man of the hour, stumbles in the VIP lounge in a drunken stupor, collapses on a chair, and starts flirting with Simon. This elicits a throated chortle from the young woman a few seconds after the last note.
She grabs the phone with one hand, then bumps Patrick with her shoulder lightly.
"You've got some mad skills there, Slick," she says before punching some letters into the phone and clicking SEND. The phone gets dumped back onto the table, the glass of bourbon goes to her lips. A deeper sip warms her belly.
Bridget stretches her legs out, kicking off her black kitten heels. "So, what's next?"
[Roman Turner] For his part, he was working on draining the beer as Kora talked about home and cold and fish and sheep. Boy he had some sheep jokes not fit for mixed company that he had to keep to himself. In the middle of talking Kora paused to look at someone and that had Roman turning to see who it was. He didn't know Howard from Jesus, so wasn't so sure that's who Kora looked at when she did that little pause in her story before continuing.
"I miss flat land with an unobstructed view. All this traffic, snow and folk rushing around is just plum crazy. I would of likely ended up in love with a Sheep if I'd lived where you grew up and that would of been baaaad.
[Patrick Llewelyn] As Bridget's song tapers out, the Galliard's fingers soften on the chords; he grins despite himself when Howard makes an instantaneous bee-line for the Shadow Lord and starts hitting on him and keeps his head lowered so as not to distract himself from the riff he starts evoking out of the strings.
Bridget nudges into him and he mmphs, glancing across at her without ceasing in his gentle, aimless play. "Back at you, I don't think I've seen someone elicit those sounds from a harmonica since -- " he looks momentarily blank -- "Well, ever." Patrick then returns to his bluesy playing, alternately his time with thumps of his palm against the side of the instrument for a dull, rhythmic backing.
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The perpetually grinning one slips through the door, stepping into the establishment. Perhaps surprisingly, she's not dressed in the same motif as she usually is. The duster's been left at home tonight, with a brown leather jacket replacing it. She's got a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses on, a white tank-top that reads "Destination: Grassy Knoll" with the o in 'knoll' consisting a crosshair target. Torn, well-worn blue jeans and a pair of cowboy boots complete the the ensemble.
She steps a few paces inside and then off to the side, so as not to block traffic to and from the door as she looks around the place.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon was watching Bridget mostly, transfixed by the kin as she and Patrick play so he didn't notice when Howard came wandering up to join him. His eyes shifted towards the Theurge and his smile grew a little. He pulled the hat off his head and nodded back to him before looking back in Bridget's direction."Thanks... I thought I would at least try to look decent seeing as how I got the invite and all right?"He asks before flicking his eyes back to Howard.
Simon wasn't the kind to be weirded out or creeped in the slightest by comments like this."You get your lip bit?"He asks him with a little smile as he watched Howard steal his drink."It's rum... I thought you kind were more the scotch sorts."He says before looking back up to his face and finally back to Bridget.
"It's nice just to get a chance to settle back and relax now and again."He says, those green eyes just watching, admiring, the kin as she played. Quiet and reserved. The full moon wasn't terribly talkative or speechy at the moment it would seem.
[Kora] "The dude with the bad fashion sense is Fianna," explains the woman who wore the same blood-stained jeans for six-months straight, and had a no more than two other changes of clothes until a kinfolk espied the lack, and brought her a new wardrobe she usually eschewed in favor of her dedicated things. She further explains: "Loudmouth." - with a brief, narrow little smirk.
"Anyway, I didn't grow up there," returns Kora, making that clear distinction between her fosterage and her childhood. She is making steady progress through all the deep fried treats delivered to their table, employing Roman's hard-won ketchup only sparingly. "It was an accident of circumstance, really. I was in Edinburgh when I changed, and that was the closest Fenrir Sept. Linus and I, we moved around alot when we were kids. Sort of like military brats, without being in the military, yeah?
"Lived almost anywhere you can think of. Florida, Kentucky, upstate New York, southern California. We were in Missouri when I graduated high school. Then they moved up north somewhere. I think they were in Montana when Linus' dad came looking for him."
[Ivers] Here's the joy and beauty of being in the presence of the Ahroun of this Sept: they will talk and talk and talk and eventually forget having asked Howard a question in the first place, eliminating the number of instances in which he could potentially be caught fabricating some wild story to be teased apart and dissected as his companion searches for the truth amidst all the bullshit that comes out of his mouth every night.
Simon asks if his lip was bitten, and while it's a nasty cut, the Theurge doesn't answer the question. There's a question as to whether or not he was a scotch drinker, and Howard flicks his heavy brows up over the edge of his aviators before tossing back a mouthful of Simon's drink. To his credit he doesn't put his cut lip on the glass or straw, although that may be more due to a desire to avoid the sting of alcohol on exposed tissue than to avoid getting germs on the other man's drink.
"You should do it more often," Howard says, to the matter of settling back and relaxing. "Take that stick out of your arse, yeah? Although if you did that I don't know what I'd do with myself. That whole uptight prick thing really works for you."
[Izzy Montoya] When the waitress swings her way again, Izzy still does not order food, though the scents of the cooking are enticing enough. Maybe she's already eaten, or perhaps the more plausible truth is she has decided to drink her dinner tonight. Thus, it's another drink she orders - another beer, this time with a friend - whiskey, neat - to keep it company.
She doesn't change tables, doesn't move to interrupt Kora and Roman's conversation, doesn't move upstairs. If she saw Howards entrance - and she did, she misses very little - it doesn't get more than a glance. Instead, most of her attention seems to be for whoever is on stage - right up until she grabs a file folder from the briefcase beside her, opening it up and littering her night off with work.
[Roman Turner] "I lived in Clearwater my entire life till I came with Sparrow to here. Who would of thought I'd still be here and she ain't?"
For a moment his face screwed up like he bit in to something sour. The beer was polished off and he waved down a waitress to shove the leftovers in a box before he rose and started replacing his winter wear. One hand was held out to Kora to pull her out of the booth.
"Ok, back to the grind. Here, let me help ya with your coat."
He made sure Kora was bundled and grabbed the box of leftovers with a wave to Izzy before the pair made for the door. They stuck close together, touching now in the familiar way of Packmates.
"I think we should get some ice cream on the way home, watcha think?"
His words soon swallowed by the howling wind and sound of the street as they stepped out.
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She heads to a table as close to the stage as she can, taking a seat and taking the aviator shades off. She smiles at a waitress and orders a tequila sunrise, watching the stage for a moment before she looks around the room, looking for faces that she knows.
[Roman Turner] (( thanks ))
[Kora] (night folks!)
The howling wail of a blues harmonica echoes through the cold, dingy streets. As if fire could dance, the hot allure of an old-time blues piano draws a crowd. That old-fashioned, hot-and-sticky blues threatens to tear the house down. On the street, a large sign like a blue moon declares the place, in fact, to be none other than Buddy Guy's Legends. The interior is painted indigo and black, the shiny black paint covering old wooden pillars.
A bouncer at the door cards the patrons. Those with VIP access would be informed to ask for the private party. In which case the bouncer would gesture to a door in the back with a sign that says, "Private".
By now the crowd is starting to build, but it's not slamming yet. Another hour or so and it might, if this music keeps up. Servers usher drinks and calorific southern diner style food to small tables by an elevated stage. The back of the bar looks antique, a hand-carved piece of art stacked with all sorts of spirited bottles. The draft selections are standard, save for Blue Moon and Woodchuck Hard Cider. Specialty brews are bottled on display in a fridge with a clear door behind the bar.
Through the Private door is a narrow staircase that reverberates with the sound of music. At the top is a lounge area that is very no-fuss, but well-planned and comfortable. Vintage prints of the old Kings of Blues are framed, mounted, and illuminated like a small gallery. In fact, this does have quite a gallery effect, save for the small private bar and lounge furniture. A black, curved couch is comfortably modern, several backless stools are gathered throughout the inset lounge area, surrounded by an elevated walkway with several small doors leading to a couple small rooms and a recording booth. These doors (save for the recording booth) have old window panels with writing across the glass declaring the purpose or occupant of the space. Another door, tucked into a nook that would appear to almost conceal it, declares RESTROOM. A curtain on the opposite side of the door prevents spying through the antique semi-frosted glass.
The sound from downstairs is well-muted here due to the sound dampeners in the walls, which are painted with the same color scheme as the downstairs. The dim illumination and comfortable seating gives a very intimate feel. The small bar has a few bistro stools and a no-fuss spread of finger food.
[Patrick Llewelyn] He's a little late.
But then, Bridget would know as well as any Kinfolk that sometimes the Full Bloods couldn't exactly help being tied up. Or beaten, or killed before they surged back to life. Nothing quite that dramatic was what kept Prayers to Broken Stone from being promptly on time for the gig at Buddy Guy's but he had been forced to duck to the pack-house for a change of clothes none the less.
To scrub the blood off his skin, and get the nastiness from out of the back of his throat.
Now, as he takes the private staircase, faintly aromatic with cigarettes, alcohol and the burn of bright stage lights elsewhere he's dressed as modestly well as he can afford in his black leather jacket, fresh jeans and boots and a long sleeved black dress shirt beneath, open at the collar a few buttons. His blond hair had seen the company of both shower and comb and remained slicked back from his brow.
It gave him a sleeker vibe; he could almost pass as a real musician with that guitar-case in one hand.
He reaches the lounge area as there's a smattering of applause from downstairs and glances around once, perhaps in search of Bridget herself, before taking up residence on the edge of the black sofa and unlocking his instrument case. He removes a pick, and and takes up the guitar, tuning it idly while he waits.
[Bridget Geroux] Patrick spends a few minutes tuning his guitar. He may or may not notice from his seated position another guitar case semi-concealed located somewhat behind the unattended bar. The sound of running water comes from the semi-concealed bathroom door. After another minute or two, the door swings open. The young woman emerges, looking equally modest for what she can afford. A clean set of dark-wash, clingy jeans, a set of kitten heels from her Fellowship sister; both further elongate her legs. She wears a navy babydoll tee screenprinted with an off-white nautical anchor and rope and a black vest over it to complete the effect. Her long hair is tossed back with a deliberate bed-head appeal. Her fingernails are trimmed short and unpolished.
Lightly framed by eyeliner, brown eyes light up at seeing the lounge is occupied at all. Patrick's small notes draw her out from the corner as her slight heels tap against the reclaimed wooden planks and down three steps into the inset lounge.
"Hey there," she says while taking a seat on the black couch. "How's it going?"
[Patrick Llewelyn] He knows who it is before she even fully steps out of the bathroom, to be perfectly honest.
Not because she smells bad, but simply because of what she is, and what he is. Patrick's got his guitar propped across his knees, one foot against the small coffee table his case rests upon and for the moment when Bridget emerges he has the pick between his teeth, tuning further a chord. He takes it out when his blue eyes find her, and there's a slight smile, there and not as he takes in her outfit.
"Hey, yourself," he replies and continues watching her as she sinks down beside him on the couch. "I like the outfit, very pro-blues era." There's a re-surfacing of the smile, and the Galliard resumes idly drawing his fingers over the strings. With his hair slicked back from his face, Patrick appears younger even than his twenty-three years, the tiny scar over his right eyebrow is more cleanly noticeable and for once he does not bring with him the scent of motor-oil.
Just that Rage, though even that seemed muted tonight.
"I dunno if Howard will turn up, I haven't seen him today yet," the Welshman shrugged. "But that's Howard for you."
[Bridget Geroux] An appreciative nod comes from the Canadian as Patrick comments on her outfit. "Yes, I try to dress up when I'm playing. One of the bands down there needed me for a song earlier."
She repositions herself so that she can reach for the harmonica in her back pocket. The shiny metal reed rests starkly against the black cushion. Bridget's eyes wander over the Galliard, smiling warmly.
"Not too shabby yourself," she notes before her eyes wander appreciatively over the guitar.
The Rage. It's difficult to discern why someone like Bridget doesn't bolt immediately from the presence of Garou, or why she seems to even like being in the company of the Wolves. Either through a sick deathwish, relative conditioning, human stupidity, or a number of other strange desires, the Albertan native quite often finds herself immensely drawn to that rush. In fact, she feels about as uneasy without that occasional reminder as she does when a certain Fianna Philodox bears his unnatural, Rage-filled attention to her.
Except without being near the Garou, she doesn't feel like she's being hunted... It's a different sort of ill-ease. Without it, she feels lost. She can't pretend to understand the complications of Garou life, but the lives of ordinary people is something Bridget feels completely uncomfortable with. Perhaps it is just that the thrill of being so close to these Killers, Chosen by the force of creation, makes her feel alive and connected with herself in a way that can't be replicated.
Or maybe the girl is just plain stupid.
Bridget shrugs when he mentions his packmate. "If he comes, that'd be great. But I'm not expecting it. I haven't seen you in a while."
[Patrick Llewelyn] Perhaps part of the reason Patrick comprehends and retreats so often from the effects of his Rage is that he had been in Bridget's shoes until his eighteenth year. He'd grown up under the same roof as Full Blooded mother, one who left the obligations of being a family relation to his father, and later on, brothers to instill in the youngest of their brood.
The Galliard had been far from an easy student; his eldest brothers tutorials in the ways of the Garou world had more often than not resulted in bloodshed and broken bones -- Patrick's, never Myrick's. Now, distant from those people who had striven to teach him about why he ought to care and why it mattered that he remembered, and recorded their lives -- he finds himself unwittingly surrounded by those who, like him, did not always understand the positions fate had flung them into.
Who did not know how to either live with, or without the suffocating reminder that they were not normal; that they would never be so, in the context of the regular, human world.
She compliments his wardrobe, and his eyebrow quirks upward, he strums the chords once more and then lays a palm over them to still the vibration of sound. She hasn't seen him in a while, and he's leaning back against the sofa, both its leather material and that of the jacket he wears protesting the movement.
Patrick's frowns were the most common expression to be seen across his features; he directs one at the room at large.
"Yeah, I tend to stay busy. Keeps me calmer, makes ..." He shrugs, "everything easier."
[Bridget Geroux] One way the Rage does take effect on the kinfolk is that it makes her more... energetic? Maybe that isn't quite the way to put it. Eager to move around, to be loud, to climb construction buildings, to run a footrace she's bound to lose, her instinctive reaction is to become more active. In a face-to-face, it's often not so terrible; however, a room of them, full of Rage and their starkly contrasting personalities, the Bridget known by few retreats behind the Bridget known by many.
The young woman suddenly fulfills her urge to move by rising from the couch. Fluidly, she prowls towards the minibar and goes behind it to scope the place out.
"I know how that is," she says. "I get psycho sometimes when I can't stay busy."
Some glass bottles clink as the kin rummages through the rows of spirits.
"Hey, you want anything while I'm back here?"
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Setting is a Blues Club newcomers! Patrick and Bridget are upstairs in the lounge/waiting area, there's the main space downstairs too, I believe. ]
[Bridget Geroux] [Anyone in need of the opening post, PM me.]
[Kora] "I'm starving." - says Kora, outside the blues bar. The air is cold enough that her breath forms an opaque cloud around her head, that you cannot tell ordinary people breathing from the smokers huddled around the entrance, exhaling their own - rather more toxic - clouds. No one smokes close to the odd pair they make, though. Roman, a good head shorter than Kora, nearly a decade younger, and Kora, her blond hair pulled back, hood pulled up, the shadows mostly concealing her features.
The scarf she wears - hand knitted, one of the traditional fair isle patterns - is so long that she has wound it around her neck and mouth three or four times in succession. She stands half-hunched forward, her body held firmly against the cold, gloved hands in her pockets. The menu is posted in the window, their reflections overlay it, twinned. Only the bravest of the smokers spilling out from the interior come close to the unprepossessing pair. "Shit," says Kora, a slanting a look up from the menu to her packmate. "This place has fried chicken. I'm in. C'mon."
And then she leads the way into the blues club, attracted by the food rather than the music.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Bridget reacts to the pressure of Rage around her with movement; the flurry of action as if to reassure herself that in the presence of the very thing that drove Garou to madness; to slaughter, she was in fact still alive. Vibrantly so, a part of the world without it. Patrick must guess that she moves away from him because of his anger, it's there in the way his eyes darken -- irritation, self directed, flashes across their blue depths and he lowers them to the guitar.
Places it with surprising tenderness back into its velvet lined case for the moment, now tuned.
"Yeah, surprise me with something," he offers, and sits forward to tug off his jacket; he folds it over the arm of the sofa and unpins the sleeves on the black shirt beneath it; rolling both up his forearms and then leaning his weight on one elbow; legs splayed in a position of apparent ease.
He's watching her, face half hidden by the placement of his hands against his head.
"So you don't hang with Howard much lately," she can hear the tinges of amusement in his voice. "Did he show you his porn stash?"
[Roman Turner] "I don't care if they serve road kill as long as it's warm."
His breath did not escape in to the air because he was so wrapped up about all that showed were his eyes. The collar of his coat was turned up and nearly met the stocking cap he wore in place of the usual Stetson. Kora opened the door and he was hot on her heels to enter.
[Kora] "Mmmph - " the noise is a low curl of laughter. Though her mobile mouth is hidden behind several layers of wrapped scarf, the brief impression of fullness in her cheek suggests a concealed little smile.
"You best get used to the weather, Roman." Kora advises, casting a slanting look back over her shoulder as she leads the way into the club, pushing open the front door with a brief, frowning glance at the flock of smokers who drift and scatter like gaggle of sparrows lifting from telephone wires on sighting of a distant hawk. "Or it's going to be a long winter."
The front door opens beneath the flat of her hand, a rush of hot air and a wall of sound coming out as they walk in. "The kitchen's not closed yet, right?" Kora asks the bouncer, raising her voice to be heard.
[Bridget Geroux] The fried chicken is not legendary at Legends, but it's damn good. Some other southern delicacies also are on the menu: fried okra, oysters, cajun-style crawfish, bourbon shrimp, po boys, cornbread, red beans and rice, etoufee, jambalaya, and gumbo. There are also all the regular cholesterol-inspiring dishes of American cuisine: burgers, steak, ribs, catfish, and several kinds of pie.
The bouncer informs Kora that the kitchen closes at midnight, so they're coming in just in time. He gives Roman an appraising look, but whether it is their combined Rage or his own laziness, he doesn't card him. The smell of food is definitely inviting.
The next band takes the stage. Tuning of instruments takes place while they prepare. There are even some free tables open in the crowd, which is mostly congregated by the bar and towards the front of the stage.
[Roman Turner] "You mean it's not over yet?"
It got cold back home, but it never held for more than a day or two at a time. This weather had him wearing long johns and wearing stocking caps. Stocking caps were sure to get you laughed at back home. Unfortunately, when the Bouncer gave him the once over, it was returned even if all that showed so far was his eyes and a bit of wind kissed, flushed cheek. He might not be the tallest person around, but he was wiry as a Ferret on speed. Already he was pulling off his gloves.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon got the Invitation and arrived, albeit a little late, before things could grind to a complete halt. He eventually managed to find himself pointed in the direction of the Private lounge and sooner or later he headed that direction. Curious and with a slight grin on that face of his. He kept nagging Bridget to invite him to one of her shows so it was nice to finally get the call.
He arrived in a black, and sleeveless shirt with some obscure band logo on the front with a denim coat over the top with lotsa fuzzy padding inside to keep his ass nice and toasty warm. That bandanna was still worn around his neck, though this time more for comfort than practicality. Black denim jeans covered his legs, and a pair of sturdy combat boots kept his toes from freezing. Though without his hoodie he needed something to keep his head warm so tonight he wore a dark leather cowboy hat. It was old looking and somewhat warm but matched well with the denim coat, and bandanna. Urban ninja turned urban bandito! He apparently hadn't expected much combat tonight and so why not try to look good?
He entered with a little grin as he brought his hands up to strip off the gloves he wore. His eyes slowly and curiously scanned, first for Bridget, and second for anyone else he might recognize! Rich green scanning from face to face, drawing eyes away, shyness and fear alike showing on those faces who realize they have met his gaze. Some excited, finding their pulse raising, terrified and yet wanting more, while others simply looked away and squirmed a little in discomfort though sooner or later they all checked back to see if he was still looking. Fortunately he wasn't here for them tonight no this Full Moon was hunting something in particular.
[Kora] She cuffs him in the shoulder for that; a gleam in her dark eyes as she thanks the bouncer with a close-lipped smile, scarf sliding down to circle her neck and chin, revealing the expressive curl of her mouth just as she favors the stranger with that look, and a brief, passing Thanks.
The pair walk into the bar. Roman's tugging off his gloves. Kora's unwinding her scarf, pushing her misshapen hood back as she lifts her chin to look around the bar. The whole act of it feels familiar; the people around the stage, the band playing - but she's looking not for friends or would-be friends - just a booth that is farther from the stage, but close enough to some natural path through the dining room that the waitress cannot find an excuse to ignore them.
"You've got months and months - !" Kora returns, gesturing Roman to follow in her wake toward the booth she's spied, closed to the windows, with a view out onto the dark street and a view of the entry, in direct line from the kitchen. Once the scarf is unwound, she tugs off her gloves with her teeth, tips her head back so the hood falls fully down, revealing a messy coil of pale blonde hair that gleams with health.
"Hey - " she snags a waitress before they've even tucked themselves into the booth. "We want buddy's bucket, fried chicken, extra crispy, a Bell's Two Hearted and a glass of milk, not skim." A glance at Roman, here, " - you want anything else?"
[Roman Turner] "Ketchup, lots and lots of Ketchup."
He pauses in the middle of removing the scarf from around his youthful face to give the request. As the scarf was removed, he grinned his best at the waitress. Adding politely.
"Ketchup, Miss."
Then the hat was tugged off and the dance of the static hair began. Chestnut hair waved in the air, standing a good two inches up as he struggled out of the heavy coat he wore.
[Bridget Geroux] Bridget returns after some debate and thorough scouring of the minibar. She finally decides on an off-brand, caramel-colored bourbon. She pours two glasses, makes her way back, and hands one to Patrick.
She slinks back to a seating position on the black modern couch when Simon enters in his urban bandito glory. He sees only the Fianna and kin within the room, but might have spotted Kora and Roman downstairs on his way in. Bridget smiles and takes a drink of the whiskey.
"Hey there," she greets. "Come on in. Have a drink, get comfortable."
[Kora] "I'll share the appetizer," Kora warns him, her dark eyes touching first on her boyish packmate, then on the waitress as she stuffs her gloves into her pockets and reaches up to begin unbuttoning the coat, with sure, deft motion of her fingers. " - but you aren't getting any of my fried chicken."
Her voice is low and serious, as if she were telling him about a pack of scrags around the corner, the gleam of a hunter spider up ahead. Only the gleam across the dark surface of her eyes and the faint curl of her mouth, the hint of amusement like a twist of already-vanishing smoke, belie the seriousness of her sure warning tone. "I already told you, I'm starving."
Underneath the coat: more layers. Her half-unzipped hoodie over a pale gray t-shirt and a thermal, both new, both sized to fit more comfortably over the new bulk of her stomach. Without her coat on, there's no hiding the subtle swell of pregnancy. Second trimester - somewhere in the midst of it - enough to show, but not yet enough to change her gait, to make her ponderous.
"And you are not seriously going to put ketchup on fried oysters, are you?"
[Patrick Llewelyn] Bone Grinder enters the upstairs waiting area for the performers, they can faintly hear the strains of the band who have just started their set on stage from up here, but it is likely nothing compared to being downstairs; front and central for the event itself. There was little that could compare with live music -- especially if it was good.
When the Ahroun enters, he sees Patrick sitting, or rather slouching, against one of the sofas. There's an open guitar case in front of the man, and his familiar leather jacket has found a home draped over the arm of the sofa; beneath his elbow. He sits up a little at the sight of the Shadow Lord; it's instinctive, perhaps.
But then, Bridget was also returning with his drink, he takes it and clinks the edge of it against the Kinfolk's own, then takes a generous sip of it. The fiery liquid burns a path down his throat, and the Galliard sits back again; his shoulder brushing Bridget's arm. There is familiarity in the manner the pair of Fianna sit, if not quite at the level to which she'd enjoyed with others of his tribe.
"Hey, man." He greets Simon, sipping from his glass. "Nice, uh, getup."
[Roman Turner] "It's the only way I would eat oysters. I mean, think about it. It's like the mucus glands on a moose, same color and texture, and I don't eat those even with Ketchup or deep fried."
His coat was shrugged off and tossed in to the booth before he slid in. He'd order something more when the waitress returned, though so far the noise had him too distracted to think about food. Already he considered pulling the cap back on to muffle his ears a little beneath the knit.
[Kora] "You've seen the mucus glands of a moose, have you?" Kora returns, casting her packmate a - deeply doubtful look - as she pushes her winter gear into the booth and folds herself in after it. There's a certain ease to the motion, though she does not bend perhaps as deeply as she ones might, and her center of gravity has already started to change.
"Don't tell me your grandpappy raises them on the farm," she finishes with a doubtful expression that would be a smirk on someone else's face. There's something lighter though, about the expression, that keeps the darkest expression of irony at bay. " - because that I won't believe."
The street outside is dark and the windows here are tinted. It's such a cold night, with swirls of flurries fallen from a dull orange, that the cold leaches through the insulated windows, making these booths chilled and rather less popular with the patrons. She likes the view, though, the comfort of it. Her packmate can watch the entrance, and she can watch the street. She glances out, now, dark eyes lilting over their reflections to the street beyond before looking back at Roman. Quietly, a furrow of speculation between her pale brows.
"Heard from Sparrow, lately?" Her eyes remain fixed on the younger Garou's face with the question, quick and watchful and sure.
[Bridget Geroux] [Cha+Perf + PB 3]
[Roman Turner] "Raised Buffalo too. Steaks are pretty good if it's a fresh slaughter and not over cooked."
He got situated and started fiddling with the salt shaker while looking all over the place like he'd never seen such a place. Kora asked about Sparrow and for a split second something akin to pain flicked in those faded denim eyes of his.
"No, I guess she's busy or something."
[Izzy Montoya] Not many people would figure Detective Montoya for a music fan - let alone for Blues. Or Jazz. Or anything other than head banging screaming metal. Fact is, she has a healthy appreciation for all things music. So she's hear tonight, already in a booth, not far from where Kora and Roman decide to sit.
She's in the shadows of a booth, though it is certain that won't hide her for long, as Kora has the uncanny ability to find her in any crowd. She has a beer in front of her, though she has yet to order anything to eat. Her hair is down, her dress business casual, as usual. Even off duty, she looks to be on alert.
She watches as Roman and Kora take their seat, and should they turn this direction, lifts her beer slightly in hello, before tipping it back to drink deeply of the icy cool liquid. Sometimes this is as good as it gets. sometimes that's all she needs.
[Kristiana Coleman] The blond kin walks in dressed to impress in a shortish skirt and soft lightweight sweater. Maybe not exactly appropriate for the venue, but it's not club wear. Her hair is pulled back with clips at the sides, and she strides in after being carded and once again successfully passing. Phone out, she texts Bridget rather than spend the time and energy to look for her.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon takes the time to look them both Over. First there is Bridget, and his eyes slip all the way down and then back up before meeting her eyes."I just got your call, sorry I am late."He says before turning his head in the direction of Patrick. His smile grew and he nodded his head."You like? I thought it'd be nice to dress up a little, you know look nice and pretty?"He asks as he holds out his arms and spins a little for Patrick. When he turns back around he looks in the direction of Bridget.
"I think I saw Kora and Roman but not too sure... I mean I was just passing through. Not sure who else might be on their way."He says this with a nod of his head and a tiny little grin."So am I umm... Too late? You already done?"He asks before glancing in the direction of the minibar."I suppose I should get myself a drink."He says."I'll umm... Be right back."He says excusing himself for just a moment to wander past and grab himself a drink.
[Bridget Geroux] Downstairs, the next band finally starts in. They make a slow start, but maybe it will pick up. Some of the more inebriated patrons attempt to dance. The smell of fried southern food is mouth-watering. Soon enough, the waitress will return with their appetizer and ketchup.
Upstairs in the lounge, Simon finds the kinfolk and Galliard drinking bourbon and making small talk. She slowly sips at the bourbon, sets the glass on the table, and picks up her harmonica. The metal instrument gets polished briefly while the kinswoman looks off.
"I'm not going to even ask what you mean by Howard's porn stash. So no, I haven't seen it. He's been acting weird lately, and I kinda lost my temper and said some shit that Hunter had to kinda kick my ass for. Figuratively. I deserved it. But anyway, I've been keeping myself busy working."
She blinks a few times at her own rambling. Simon's attire is... well, it gets quite the appreciative look from Bridget. She shifts a bit in her seat as she sits there. Bridget is a performer, but she doesn't like to hear herself talk, not ramble on like this. The Canadian lifts the harmonica to her mouth and starts to play, following that same urge of movement as before.
Bridget starts to play a rowdy tune, George Thorogood's Madison Blues. It's quite the rendition, considering it was made for electric guitar. She leans into Patrick at some point, gesturing with her eyes at his guitar.
[Ivers] By the time he remembers he was supposed to be somewhere tonight he's already had most of a pitcher of beer and Christ knows how many doses of drugs not worth mentioning in polite company; there's no telling what reminded him, after all of that, but he looked at a clock or heard a song on the jukebox or maybe just took the world's most head-clearing piss, but at some point he said to himself, "SHIT!" and then hauled his skinny ass out of wherever he was and started over to Buddy Guy's.
Whereupon he realized that American assholes card for entrance into places like this.
Whereupon again he realized that breaking and entering isn't terribly difficult.
Though he did not come in the front door like the rest of the world, Howard stumbles out of the bathroom as though he has been in there for some time, a curly-haired twenty-something Rip Van Winkle. Stumbling is never indicative of intoxication for him, being as he walks like a sloppy drunk even when he hasn't touched a drop all day, and he looks worse than he smells; he does not reek, though he looks as though he does. He wears probably the worst outfit anyone has seen him in yet: black Converse sneakers, seafoam green twill pants, a bright orange t-shirt likely older than he is advertising Reese's peanut butter cups, a black-and-blue scarf, and a black leather jacket. It goes without saying his hair is a mess, and his sunglasses are in place.
Patrick was late for undisclosed reasons; Howard's lip is split.
He stands still a moment, looking around as though he's attempting to figure out where the fuck he is, where the fuck he's supposed to be. There are Fenrir everywhere, an underdressed Fang kinswoman nearby, and Howard starts aimlessly wandering in the blind hope he'll find Patrick before he gets into another fight.
[Kora] "No way," Kora returns, with a snort of disbelief. "There's no way you raised moose. I'm pretty sure they're like caribou, you know? Or reindeer in Lappland. They need cold weather to live, yeah? They're adapted to it." At the end of it, she offers Roman the slow, brief curl of a half-smile and drops her voice by a good ten decibels, finishing softly, " - like Fenrir."
The waitress has returned by now, with their drinks and the huge basket full of appetizers - chicken wings and fried oysters, fried okra and fried peas, fried pickles and fried twinkies.
Well, maybe not the twinkies.
Or the peas.
The woman has that harried look to her, bruises underneath her eyes, her hair flat from the heat in the room, from her sweat, from the long night of work. She puts the beer down in front of Kora and the milk down in front of Roman thoughtlessly. Kora does not switch them until the waitress leaves the booth, but switch them she does, picking up that tall glass of whole milk to return the quiet toast to Izzy.
Underneath the table, she bumps her toe against Roman's calf; acknowledging that frisson of pain without indulging it.
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Per + Charisma: Guitar playin'.]
[Patrick Llewelyn] [That was just depressing, Patrick.]
[Roman Turner] "Yessum, my family's ranch has all sorts of odd things on it that ya don't expect to find. Ostrich, Llama's, even some of them fainting goats. Course, after a while I wasn't able to get too close, so ended up shoveling stalls when they were empty."
He might be pulling Kora's leg on the Moose part but he sure wasn't admitting it if he was. The waitress returned and got an even bigger smile when she absently put the milk in front of Roman. Though Kora snagged the milk before he managed to stick his tongue in it or anything. Still receiving a beer in exchange was a good deal in his head. About the time Kora saluted Izzy was about the time she bumped his leg beneath the table so he thought one had something to do with the other and was twisting in his seat to locate the recepient of the salute to which he saluted too with his beer. Izzy got a devilish smile with the beer salute.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon finds himself watching. Settling in and watching when the two of them start to play. His eyes shifting as he pulls up a seat and settles his glass on the nearest table and just decides to watch. Patiently and quietly, let the Fianna do what the Fianna do best right?
I mean you wouldn't want them barging in when you are torturing or betraying someone ruining your fun now would you Simon? So let them do their thing and they will let you do your thing and in the end everyone wins.
[Izzy Montoya] Kora salutes her with milk, which makes the corner of Izzy's lips lift in the briefest, smallest of smiles. While she has no wish for ankle biters of her own, she knows Trent is excited - and that's enough to have her at least appreciative of Kora's condition. That devilish grin of Roman's however - that twists the smile into a huff of amusement.
She must be tired to let it be seen like that.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Simon is twirling and speaking of feeling pretty and the Fianna glances at him and simply --
pauses for a moment, mid swallow. He stares at the Shadow Lord from under a furrowed brow and then simply nods, and samples what might once have resembled a friendly smile but honestly rather looks more like an awkward grimace. That might also have something to do with, truth be told, the large amount of whiskey he just imbibed. Bridget responds with something about Howard's behavior and her own and then starts up with her harmonica.
And, well, it's easier for Patrick to play, then try and figure out why an Ahroun would tell a Galliard he feels pretty. He takes up his guitar, and starts picking up the chords to accompany Bridget's tune; it takes him a moment, perhaps two, and then he has it -- he taps his foot against his leg in time to the beat.
Downstairs, his Alpha has arrived and Patrick feels the familiar tug at his senses telling him he's nearby: We're upstairs, man Howard hears, along with a mental projection of the room, and the staircase leading there.
[Ivers] "Whoa."
This, out loud, as though Patrick had sneaked up on him and not projected an image of where it is he's supposed to be going rather than yelling it in his ear. As tempting as it likely has to be for him to go over to the seated kinswoman who insisted he call her Detective Montoya instead of whatever obnoxious nickname he would have come up with for her, or to the pregnant Skald who had threatened to geld him when last their paths meet, the brightly-colored Theurge does not wander over and attempt to ruin their nights.
Either he can be taught, or he has simply reached the point of being inebriated where his perception of his surroundings is completely nonexistent.
Up the stairs he goes, grabbing the railing so he doesn't wipe out attempting to ascend, and when Howard arrives at the VIP lounge he identifies himself in a relatively sober-sounding voice. Patrick and Bridget have started playing already, and there's Simon, parked at a table dressed like a 70's flashback in his denim jacket. A grin of forewarning comes over his lips, the barely-formed scab on his lower lip threatening to crack and bleed again if he isn't careful, and he ambles over, bumping into a chair before hauling it back and dropping himself down right next to Simon.
"Dear Jesus are you handsome tonight," he says, and reaches out to steal the Ahroun's beer.
[Kora] Kora shakes her head doubtfully, somehow imagining Roman's family ranch as a cross between Noah's Arc and Dr. Doolittle's lab. Her laughter rises underneath her breath, and disappears just as quietly - brief and charming before she dives into the giant basket of deep fried - well, deep fried anything on the table between them.
"The Sept where I fostered - Vindur und Ringing - it's off on the north Atlantic, on this barrier islands, my people call it Hjaltland, right? And the only thing that could survive on that turf grass, in the winter conditions, was sheep. So the kin there raised sheep, and fished for a living. Winter was pretty much mutton or dried fish, dried fish or mutton in endless combinations. Every piece of both, too. It was - "
There's a brief, far away look - though her ruminations are interrupted by the vision that is Howard Ivers - and when she looks back to Roman, her dark eyes are shot through with a certain ironic light, the nostalgia subsumed beneath the surface of her pale skin, bleeding through only in the shape of her half-smile. "Stark. And so far north that winter was dark and long. Sometimes you could see the northern lights, though - scintillating across the sky."
[Bridget Geroux] Indeed, Simon. Indeed.
The Fianna make child's play of the song collectively. Even if it takes a second for Patrick to get into gear. Somewhere towards the end of the song, a cheap black cell phone on the coffee table buzzes, vibrating against the glass. It lights up with the name "Kris" on the outer screen.
Bridget eyeballs the cell but doesn't go to pick it up until they're done. Howard, man of the hour, stumbles in the VIP lounge in a drunken stupor, collapses on a chair, and starts flirting with Simon. This elicits a throated chortle from the young woman a few seconds after the last note.
She grabs the phone with one hand, then bumps Patrick with her shoulder lightly.
"You've got some mad skills there, Slick," she says before punching some letters into the phone and clicking SEND. The phone gets dumped back onto the table, the glass of bourbon goes to her lips. A deeper sip warms her belly.
Bridget stretches her legs out, kicking off her black kitten heels. "So, what's next?"
[Roman Turner] For his part, he was working on draining the beer as Kora talked about home and cold and fish and sheep. Boy he had some sheep jokes not fit for mixed company that he had to keep to himself. In the middle of talking Kora paused to look at someone and that had Roman turning to see who it was. He didn't know Howard from Jesus, so wasn't so sure that's who Kora looked at when she did that little pause in her story before continuing.
"I miss flat land with an unobstructed view. All this traffic, snow and folk rushing around is just plum crazy. I would of likely ended up in love with a Sheep if I'd lived where you grew up and that would of been baaaad.
[Patrick Llewelyn] As Bridget's song tapers out, the Galliard's fingers soften on the chords; he grins despite himself when Howard makes an instantaneous bee-line for the Shadow Lord and starts hitting on him and keeps his head lowered so as not to distract himself from the riff he starts evoking out of the strings.
Bridget nudges into him and he mmphs, glancing across at her without ceasing in his gentle, aimless play. "Back at you, I don't think I've seen someone elicit those sounds from a harmonica since -- " he looks momentarily blank -- "Well, ever." Patrick then returns to his bluesy playing, alternately his time with thumps of his palm against the side of the instrument for a dull, rhythmic backing.
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The perpetually grinning one slips through the door, stepping into the establishment. Perhaps surprisingly, she's not dressed in the same motif as she usually is. The duster's been left at home tonight, with a brown leather jacket replacing it. She's got a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses on, a white tank-top that reads "Destination: Grassy Knoll" with the o in 'knoll' consisting a crosshair target. Torn, well-worn blue jeans and a pair of cowboy boots complete the the ensemble.
She steps a few paces inside and then off to the side, so as not to block traffic to and from the door as she looks around the place.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon was watching Bridget mostly, transfixed by the kin as she and Patrick play so he didn't notice when Howard came wandering up to join him. His eyes shifted towards the Theurge and his smile grew a little. He pulled the hat off his head and nodded back to him before looking back in Bridget's direction."Thanks... I thought I would at least try to look decent seeing as how I got the invite and all right?"He asks before flicking his eyes back to Howard.
Simon wasn't the kind to be weirded out or creeped in the slightest by comments like this."You get your lip bit?"He asks him with a little smile as he watched Howard steal his drink."It's rum... I thought you kind were more the scotch sorts."He says before looking back up to his face and finally back to Bridget.
"It's nice just to get a chance to settle back and relax now and again."He says, those green eyes just watching, admiring, the kin as she played. Quiet and reserved. The full moon wasn't terribly talkative or speechy at the moment it would seem.
[Kora] "The dude with the bad fashion sense is Fianna," explains the woman who wore the same blood-stained jeans for six-months straight, and had a no more than two other changes of clothes until a kinfolk espied the lack, and brought her a new wardrobe she usually eschewed in favor of her dedicated things. She further explains: "Loudmouth." - with a brief, narrow little smirk.
"Anyway, I didn't grow up there," returns Kora, making that clear distinction between her fosterage and her childhood. She is making steady progress through all the deep fried treats delivered to their table, employing Roman's hard-won ketchup only sparingly. "It was an accident of circumstance, really. I was in Edinburgh when I changed, and that was the closest Fenrir Sept. Linus and I, we moved around alot when we were kids. Sort of like military brats, without being in the military, yeah?
"Lived almost anywhere you can think of. Florida, Kentucky, upstate New York, southern California. We were in Missouri when I graduated high school. Then they moved up north somewhere. I think they were in Montana when Linus' dad came looking for him."
[Ivers] Here's the joy and beauty of being in the presence of the Ahroun of this Sept: they will talk and talk and talk and eventually forget having asked Howard a question in the first place, eliminating the number of instances in which he could potentially be caught fabricating some wild story to be teased apart and dissected as his companion searches for the truth amidst all the bullshit that comes out of his mouth every night.
Simon asks if his lip was bitten, and while it's a nasty cut, the Theurge doesn't answer the question. There's a question as to whether or not he was a scotch drinker, and Howard flicks his heavy brows up over the edge of his aviators before tossing back a mouthful of Simon's drink. To his credit he doesn't put his cut lip on the glass or straw, although that may be more due to a desire to avoid the sting of alcohol on exposed tissue than to avoid getting germs on the other man's drink.
"You should do it more often," Howard says, to the matter of settling back and relaxing. "Take that stick out of your arse, yeah? Although if you did that I don't know what I'd do with myself. That whole uptight prick thing really works for you."
[Izzy Montoya] When the waitress swings her way again, Izzy still does not order food, though the scents of the cooking are enticing enough. Maybe she's already eaten, or perhaps the more plausible truth is she has decided to drink her dinner tonight. Thus, it's another drink she orders - another beer, this time with a friend - whiskey, neat - to keep it company.
She doesn't change tables, doesn't move to interrupt Kora and Roman's conversation, doesn't move upstairs. If she saw Howards entrance - and she did, she misses very little - it doesn't get more than a glance. Instead, most of her attention seems to be for whoever is on stage - right up until she grabs a file folder from the briefcase beside her, opening it up and littering her night off with work.
[Roman Turner] "I lived in Clearwater my entire life till I came with Sparrow to here. Who would of thought I'd still be here and she ain't?"
For a moment his face screwed up like he bit in to something sour. The beer was polished off and he waved down a waitress to shove the leftovers in a box before he rose and started replacing his winter wear. One hand was held out to Kora to pull her out of the booth.
"Ok, back to the grind. Here, let me help ya with your coat."
He made sure Kora was bundled and grabbed the box of leftovers with a wave to Izzy before the pair made for the door. They stuck close together, touching now in the familiar way of Packmates.
"I think we should get some ice cream on the way home, watcha think?"
His words soon swallowed by the howling wind and sound of the street as they stepped out.
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She heads to a table as close to the stage as she can, taking a seat and taking the aviator shades off. She smiles at a waitress and orders a tequila sunrise, watching the stage for a moment before she looks around the room, looking for faces that she knows.
[Roman Turner] (( thanks ))
[Kora] (night folks!)
Post a Comment