Ornature

[Starla] "Can't see why ya jus' don't hustle up some money from like the tribe or some of yar richer kin. Don't they have money here in the city?"

August mentions the heat's out, it perks the ears of the dusky-skinned girl that was fussing with an air mattress. She seems to get it up on two church benches that she's slung together for a makeshift bed, her blanket falling off her shoulders with a colorful swear of words.

"Whole gaggle of people live here, Miss." her nose crinkles at the sight of the carrier, "Izzat a baby?"

[Roman Turner] His ears turned red first and heat rushed up from his neck turning the mottled burn scars there a deep purple with Starla's question. Immediately his attention went back to August and the baby carrier.

"Mother of God, it's a wonder y'all didn't freeze. Ya should of called me. I'm pretty sure I made sure to give ya my number on a napkin that one night in that cafe with Miss Rain. And yessum, Miss Kora is my Alpha, she lives here most of the time."

He ushered August and child closer to the fire and Starla.

"Miss August, this is Miss Starla, she's a cousin. Miss Starla, this here is Miss August and her baby girl. She's family."

He gathered a couple of blankets with every intention of wrapping mother and child up like mummies.

"Come warm up. Ya can stay here. It ain't fancy, but it's warmer than no heat."

[Miss August] "I didn't know where else to go.. " She muttered as she wandered closer to the fire and eventually set the baby carrier down.

"I don't believe I got your number that night Mr. Turner.. all I recall getting was a strong tongue lashing about how I was an ugly person inside." A beat as she began to unwrap. Her gaze for sure didn't meet his. "I do want to apologize for that evening.. and for everything else that I've done which has caused my family to distrust or dislike me. I want all that nastiness behind us and I hope you can forgive me."

[Miss August] Hazel eyes flicked over to Starla. She smiled a greeting as well as nodded in response to the question about the baby.

[Starla] She plucks at the braid hanging over her shoulder, pale green eyes set in the round features of her bronze face dart between Roman and then back to August, slipping down to stare at the bundle in the carrier. She scrunches up her nose again, her expression growing confused.

"Ya lugged a baby all the way in this snow? Why ain'tcha leave'em wit' ya man?"

[Roman Turner] For a moment his face went completely blank and then he was turning away to tend the fire, hiding his expression. When he spoke it was as neutrally gentle as he could make it.

"Give me your phone and I will put the number in. You are more than welcome to stay, you and the child. Going out in this is sure to cause all your deaths. As for the rest. We live and learn, or so they say. So let's live and learn."

Starla asked her question and he just wished the ground would open and and swallow him whole. Holy Mary Mother of God, the proverbial can was opened and the worms were rushing to come out.

"Her power is out. And the rest is, well I'll let Miss August tell those tales."

[Miss August] "I don't have one, Miss Starla. Bringing the baby with to the heat was the best plan I could come up with for the evening." August carefully began to pull the layers of blankets off of the baby until the light skinned, red haired and hazel eyed infant was staring back up at her, sucking on a fist.

The blonde kin was NOT about to open up that can of worms any further than to simply state there wasn't one. No one ever needed to hear her story again as far as she was concerned. They could make it up for all it really mattered. Maybe their versions would be better.

"The fire feels wonderful, thank you." She offered a soft smile to Roman (back turned or no), cheeks still rosy from the cold.

[Kora] The steps leading up to the church are lumpen with snow, poorly defined except by the patterns of footsteps in the rising mound. Someone's made an effort at shoveling out a path. Someone else went sledding down the unshoveled steps. That's where Kora walks, firmly bundled against the arctic chill, the collar of her wool coat pulled up, her hood over her hair, scarf wrapped around her mouth and chin, hands firmly in her pockets. Snowcoats her boots and higher; her jeans are damp to the thigh from it. The door swings open behind August and there is another abominable snowperson, stamping snow from her boots into the puddle of snowmelt just inside the front door.

Kora does not start shivering until the subtle gradation of temperature hits her. It's too cold outside to shiver, but now that she's thawing out, she allows herself one long shudder, a sharp exhale before she masters herself and starts taking off her winter things. "Roman, Starla, August - " her cold-thinned voice, quiet greetings as she unwraps the scarf. "everything okay?"

[Roman Turner] "Miss August's power went out. She and the baby have come for shelter and I offered hospitality."

He was never so glad to see anyone in his life. Though he couldn't resist asking with the snow covering most of Kora.

"That Yeti snow Ninja didn't get hold of ya, did he?"

[Starla] "Pfft. I done heard ya twice, I git it."

She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, flashing Roman a cheeky grin, "Always was the nice one."

She bends down to sweep up the fallen blanket, tucking it back around her before moving off to gather up the bedding she and Roman scrounged up earlier, and tosses it on the air mattress.

[Miss August] "Hello Miss Kora.. " August sat down on the pew and scooped the baby up. "I hope it's alright that Mr. Turner offered me a place to stay... I don't have any heat.. and I'd caught rumors that you were staying here.."

[Kora] "Just one of those snow blower's the city's been running to clear the main streets," Kora says, a faint twist of her mouth for Roman. "You're welcome here, August." A brief glance up, at the roof, the broken rafters, then back down at the baby. "Though it might not be too comfortable for long for your babe, with Garou in and out. If your power doesn't come back on soon, we'll put you up with Drew, I think." A brief glance at Roman, then August, "This is Roman's home, too, yeah? It's fine. The kitchen's through the door by the chancel, that's where the rest of the rooms are. There's food there, milk and cold stew, a few other things.

"Roman, make sure to give August a room away from the Garou's dens. And put a heater in her room. If we don't have extra mattresses, she can have mine, yeah?"

[Roman Turner] "I got a couple extra air mattresses today. And if ya don't mind Miss August, I am sure Miss Rain would share her room with ya. Or ya can have mine. I been staying out here anyway. I'll make sure ya have heat and show ya where the bathroom is. We're a little primitive but we make up for it with hospitality."

[Miss August] "Oh.. no.. I couldn't do that. You keep your mattress.. you need it, Kora. I'll be fine. I have a few blankets," namely the ones she had over the baby carrier and then whatever was stuffed into her bag. "I'll be fine. A heater is more than sufficent if you have one to spare.."

She patted the babes back as it cooed. "She doesn't mind the rage all that much - just gets this fussy pants look. I live with a Garou - but he's out of town for a bit.. so she's pretty used to it.. at least in small doses.."

"Please don't fuss over us. We're fine. Just a corner to stay in is more than a enough. We'll try to keep out of ya'lls hair as much as possible."

[Starla] By the looks of the makeshift bed Starla was making out of pews and the air mattress, she seems to prefer this area as well. She shuffles her feet, winter boots that she hasn't taken off since she got there stamping down the ground. She listens to them talk, arching an eyebrow every now and then.

[Roman Turner] "Ya get a room to yourself and some privacy for when ya need it. Ya don't want someone ogling ya when ya feed the baby or nothing. Besides, it will be warmer when ya sleep. Though I'm not saying ya have to go hide in the room or nothing."

He was quick to add that last part.

"We got blankets, Mr. Trent brought more lastnight. And we got some sleeping bags. No need to do without in this Pack."

[Starla] "Ah don't think ah'e ever seen anyone look a gift horse in the mouth and reject it."

Starla shakes her head, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth again, watching Roman do his best to provide and fuss over August and her baby. She sits down on the pews, pulling her legs up underneath the blanket and settles it around herself, pulling it up over her head like a robe.

[Kora] Make sure she has what she needs. Kora tells Roman, low-voiced. If she needs a long-term place, we'll put her up with Drew.

"There's plenty of room, August." A supple twist of her mouth, lifting her chin toward the old social hall attached to the church. "More rooms than I can count back there; it's not a fuss. We take hospitality seriously among the Fenrir. It's the old way; northern climates demand that sort of give and take." For the second time in two nights, Kora quotes a passage from the Eddas.

"Fire is needed by the newcomer
Whose knees are frozen numb;
Meat and clean linen a man needs
Who has fared across the fells,

Water, too, that he may wash before eating,
Handclothes and a hearty welcome,
Courteous words, then courteous silence
That he may tell his tale."

"Beer's in the coolers if you want it, milk and soda in the kitchen. What's here is yours. Now," a brief pause, as she unbuttons her coat, strips off the outer garments down to her dedicated things. "I need to go see if Linus got that murder of Hrafn flying." One she's stripped off her coat, gloves, hoodie and scarf, Kora fishes a small mirror from her pocket.

One minute she's there; then next she's gone, stepping across the barrier between worlds.

[Kora] (aaand, must sleep! thanks for the scene. :) )

[Kora] get your transcript!
to Kora

[Michael Carroll] He chuckles and shakes his head, turning to face Imogen across the marbled flooring. "You would think so, wouldn't you just? But the Lady Carroll must have her accolades, even if an ocean seperates her from the voices that praise. And as I am her only child, the burden o' securing said praise falls on my shoulders."

The pacing resumes, far more slowly now as he takes his hands from his pocket to clasp them behind his back. "You told me once that you don't care for familial ties. If yours are anything like mine, I can't blame you one bit. How is the business o' dead people today? Anything o' interest?"

[Imogen] He suggests a reason she might be avoiding family, and Imogen merely smirks, turning back to the glass. "I daresay," she says, which is an answer which means precisely nothing, neither confirming nor refuting his assumption.

He asks her about how her day has been - has anything of interest come up. "Interest fer you?" she asks, rhetorically, answering the question herself. "No. Medically interesting? I performed an autopsy on a child wi' situs invertus." A flick of a glance toward him.

"His organs were reversed, in other words."

[Michael Carroll] His eyes widen, and once again he stops in his tracks to face her. "Reversed? You mean they were on the wrong side of his body?"

[Imogen] She nods, slightly, her thumbs hooking into the loops of her slacks, sharing space with her thin belt. "Heart on the right, liver and gall-bladder on the left, stomach on the right et cetera, yes."

[Michael Carroll] Now he moves to stand beside her, arms crossing over his chest as he stares through the thick glass at the floating jellyfish beyond. The dim lighting within the tank illuminates his face with a greenish glow that shifts and pulses as the water moves ceaselessly. "Is that what caused him to die? It seems like other than being a medical anomaly, that sort o' condition would be relatively benign."

[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, "There are some instances o' congenital heart defects, but primarily, the condition he had was not fatal. Complicates treatment though, if the doctors are unaware in an emergency situation. As it was in this case."

As she speaks, she watches the moon jellies as they float within their container. It is a sort of water-dance, slow and unending.

[Fiona Rogers] ooc: Sooooo where are y'all?

[Michael Carroll] "Oh."

The expression isn't dismissive, though Michael doesn't raise the subject of the unfortunate boy anymore. Instead he reaches up and places the tip of his finger on the glass, only inches from a sign specifically asking that patrons do not touch the glass. Slowly he traces invisible lines along the tank, connecting points that only he can see. "There are days I wish I had never come to this city. The...others here. They do things much differently than what I'm used to. I suppose that's what I came for, but it really shows me how far from home I am."

His eyes never leave the tank, and his voice is so quiet it could be coming from across a great distance. Maybe he's not even speaking to her.

[Michael Carroll] ((Looking at jellyfish! in a nearly empty aquarium!))

[Imogen] Her eyes close briefly - it's a blink really, but one that lasts microseconds longer than it should have, punctuated by a contraction of her brow. The contraction smooths, her eyes open.

"Welcome to America," she says, her voice flat, which goes beyond it's normal restraint.

[Fiona Rogers] It's mid-afternoon on a school day, and the educational quadrant of Grant Park is saying farewell to the yellow school buses which bring them children to educate (children who run riot [who giggle, and laugh, and bite freedom and swallow it whole]). There is one yellow bus, not in front of the aquarium, which is leaving just now, and the chaperones did not headcount very well because out of the seventy four children who went on the field trip there are only seventy two children actually squabbling and shouting and staring out the window and throwing things actually on the buses.

Imogen and Michael are looking at the moon-jellies, are where it is quiet, hallowed, lit as if by sealight. There is a hush in places like these, in the quieter corners, only broken by a distant shout, the squeak of sneakers against polished floor, noise in the gift shop. The (young [very]) girl is walking down a hall into the room Imogen and Michael fill and she is reading a timeline poster plastered on a wall, reaching out to thumb a pamphlet out of a sconce on the wall, then rolling it into a spyglass cylinder. She has no purebreed. She has not too many distinguishing features at all, really, except for an oversized hoodie, a hood pulled up over her flyaway [wistfully] waving hair. Her sneakers catch on a bump on the floor, and she jumps up and to the side like a startled cat (that sneaker squeak), and then as if nothing happened at all, just begins to wind around the cylinder-tank, looking through the glass at the distorted shape of People On The Other Side.

More than People, actually. People. Her forehead scrunches and she presses it against the glass, breath steaming, as she stares and tries to take their measure, pressing her palms against the glass. Her backpack starts to sag off of her shoulder.

[Michael Carroll] One of the luminous jellyfish floats slowly towards the Fianna as he stares into the tank. Quickly, before it can move away, Michael leans forward and fogs the glass with a hot blast of his breath. Fingers move deftly across the condensation, and in a split-second the jellyfish has a smiley face, glasses, horns and a beard. The image only lasts for a moment before the sea creature expands and then sharply contracts, propelling itself away from the indignity being forced upon it.

"Why is the child on the other side o' the glass trying to push her way through?" The question comes from nowhere, and is only explained by a simple gesture at Fiona's glass-shaped pig-face staring from the other side of the large tank.

[Roman Turner] Boots softly scuffed against the floor in a faint echo through the little oddly lighted tunnel from one larger room to the next. Fish swam up both sides of the tunnel and over the top, it was like walking in a big tube through a giant fish tank. The light here wavered, making odd designs on clothing and face as the light filtered through the water and the movement of fish momentarily altered it's direction. His upper face was cast in deep shadow created by the brim of a buff Stetson. His hands were tucked in the back pockets of jeans so dark and new, stiffly pressed they looked like they could stand on their own. A jean jacket hung open, the front pulled open with the hands in the back pockets posture, exposing a neatly pressed Western cut shirt in cream and rust.

"I'll be hanged, who would of thought."

Mused softly.

[Imogen] The moment is broken - and Imogen shakes it off metaphorically, leaning forward only slightly to narrow her eyes at the glass.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she says, straightening, almost dismissively. Unlike Michael she does nothing for the pleasure of the younger girl, merely noting her existence, evaluating her threat-level (green, so far).

"She's likely not to manage it though," she observes. "At least not like that."

[Imogen] (eating dinner!)

[Michael Carroll] ((Same actually! Gonna be slow!))

[Michael Carroll] ((Err...slower))

[Fiona Rogers] Even through the distortion of water, of drifting, boneless animals (who glow [they do]), it's hard to mistake Fiona's eyes for anything but huge. The kind of eyes she probably uses to stare at people solemnly with until they get uncomfortable or/and crack a joke or feel the need to make some comment. Michael's voice carries. So does Roman's. And Imogen's. The two Fianna (People) are looking back at Fiona, and she executes a maneuver in which she pulls back from the glass, then leans forward again, but miscalculates the distance from the glass, and bonks her head. She swallows any sound this might draw from her, ducking down a little too suddenly to just be tying her shoes. Roman's got that air of heroes in his carriage, too, muted though it is, and Fiona's heart is suddenly pounding, and her mouth is suddenly dry, and she hugs her knees there on the floor, trying to figure out what to do.

After a tense second, she rubs her nose with her sleeve, and then stands up. This is what she says to Roman, circling around the tank to get closer to Imogen and Michael: "Hi uhm. Hi. Sir. Hat sir. Sir with hat. Uhm, shit. I mean, fuck - no, I mean - ugh." Her face is pink. Very pink. "Sorry. I just meant to say hi. But without sounding so lame. But I sound lame. And I'm not. I mean, I'm very fit. Shit, I sound - I'm - I will - ack."

[Roman Turner] He paused with a mixture of expressions crossing his face with the babble that spilled out of the girl. Confusion was the biggest emotion before a huge smile spread cross his face, crinkling the corners of gray-blue eyes slightly.

"Well howdy. Do ya kiss your momma with that mouth? I ain't never heard so much spill out so fast since my cousin got caught sneaking in the winda in the middle of the night after skinny dippin in the neighbor's pond."

His accent was what many folk in the city would call a twang

[Fiona Rogers] Fiona bites the inside of her lip. Her lips are chapped, but prettily shaped, and she worries at a skintag, gnawing until -- oh, now her tongue tastes of copper, and her lip is bleeding, just enough for color. She presses her lips together, then lifts her eyes to Roman's face, all studious. He's smiling, and that draws a smile in response from Fiona, something that is utterly shy and quite unaffectedly hopeful. "Noooo," and here, she rolls her eyes, pulling on her hoodie. "My mom doesn't like me to kiss her. She says kissings bourgeoisie. And she'd like, I try uhm, I'm trying not to curse so much, because it is making serious dents in my allowance, and uhm, I can't really work, you know, 'cause. Well, and uhm. I just, I don't know, so I guess: no, I do not kiss my momma with this mouth." The smile becomes a grin, mischievous. "I try not to talk too much around her. It is safer. Way. I'm Fiona." With her name said, she darts a quick glance toward Imogen and Michael again, then back to Roman, and the smile and grin disappear (dissipate [foam on the shore]), replaced by hesitation.

[Roman Turner] "Well howdy Miss Fiona. Mighty pleased ta meet ya. I'm Roman, Roman Turner. I ain't sure what kissing bourboneese is, sounds like maybe a drinkin problem. Ya a local gal?"

He followed her look through the water of the tank and did a double take.

"Well boy howdy, I think I see a Mermaid."

[Michael Carroll] Michael watches curiously as Fiona seems to make an actual attempt at breaking through the glass, then collapses out of view. She has firmly secured his attention. With brow arched, he begins walking slowly around the edge of the exhibit. Eventually he rounds the large jellyfish habitat to spot the young girl babbling at a fellow No-Moon.

He smiles broadly, the Irish accent unmistakable as he trills and brogues his way through a simple question. "Shouldn't the two o' you truants be in school then?"

[Roman Turner] The voice got his attention instantly and the smile was returned with a bit of a wry one. "No sir, we're on a field trip. Ain't we?"

He nudged Fiona for support.

[Fiona Rogers] "I uhm, just moved here," Fiona says, very quietly. The aquarium might well swallow her voice. Drown it whole. Roman says he spies a mermaid, and Fiona looks down the glass, wide and wistful. Her voice is enthusiastic, though. "Oh! She does look like one. Or like, a Robin McKinley heroine, all fiery red hair and white skin. She's really pretty, like a Queen. I bet jellyfish would make good spies for a mermaid. Probably. Hello," she says, to a jellyfish, and she reaches out to touch the glass, her brow furrowing again. She sways, and then turns pink again (she blushes often, it seems), when Michael comes around, speaks to them with his Irish accent. The accent causes her to look absolutely delighted and she half-bounces in place. "HELLO." The delight stays -- like he is the best thing she has heard all day, and she's trying to keep the excitement down. (She is.) That was way too loud. It echoes. When Roman nudges her, she grins at him, "Yes totally. We're learning stuff. Way more awesome than algebra."

[Roman Turner] "Yeah, what she said. Way more awesome than algae bras."

He hadn't noticed anything familiar about Fiona yet, but Michael gave off all the little signs that had Roman teasing him.

"Are ya the tour guide?"

[Michael Carroll] "Learnin' how to create a public disturbance by shaking apart these fishtanks wi' your bouncin', girl." Despite the chiding in his voice, he continues to smile brightly for Fiona. His eyes lift slowly from the energetic young girl to Romans face, his expression cautious. "I'm more tourist than tour guide. I know you, from the gathering at the high school. Wasn't your school, was it? That'd be a serious lack o' school pride, fella."

[Roman Turner] "Truth be told? It weren't top on my list of brightest ideas being there like that." For a second he looked like he'd sucked a lemon and the expression came and went like a flash. "And no sir, weren't my school. Where I came from, we were raised more self contained, home schooled."

[Imogen] Imogen walks around the tank, considerably slower than Michael, taking longer to drag her interest over to the two teenagers currently standing in front of the older Garou.

The kinswoman is slight and the way she joins them speaks volumes - she does not quite join them - does not stand beside Michael, does not stand beside Roman but more adjacent to them all, able to keep them all in sight.

"Roman," she greets one, her gaze flicking briefly toward the girl, her eyes narrowing slightly. "H'lo."

[Roman Turner] "Howdy Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am." The sudden smile he gave her was pure puppy love. Touching the tip of his hat as he greeted her and introduced Fiona.

"This here is Miss Fiona, like the Princess in Shrek. Only, I don't know if she turns big and green at night yet or not."

[Fiona Rogers] There is now: one boy her age with Unicorn's blood, one Fianna from Ireland she really, reallyreally, really wants to ask a question but manages to refrain with dignity and will, another Fianna who sounds like she's from across the pond and looks like a Queen, and Fiona. That's three people she doesn't know, and she's not quite sure what to do. For a confounded second she studies her toes again, listening to Michael and Roman, trying to parse this businesss about schools and highschools and, "You teach at a high school? My daddy's a principal." Even she seems to find this question inadequate, though, and she doesn't quite pull her eyes from her feet to ask it. The queen woman talked to you! The queen woman talked to you! Her heart is beating fast, again. "Whoa. Slaughter? That's your real name? Or did it earn it for something?" The wide eyes go right to Imogen's, and her shoulders are a little hunched -- self-protective. "Uh erm, not that that would mean it wasn't real, just uhm. Like is it your real DOCTOR name?"

Roman makes her smile again, bouncing a little in place, and she gives him a sidelong look, which she couples with a baring of her teeth [frisson (this is for play, but it COULD be for a real)] and a, "RAR. I am a name riddle and the name is something cool. And howly. Awoo." She makes claw fingers at him, and then ducks her head again. She is still smiling at being likened to a cartoon princess.

[Kora] God knows there are enough Garou in the aquarium today. Add one more: turning the corner from another display room. Tall, long-limbed, with pale blond hair, attractive, perhaps, but not pretty. A function of even features, sharp, well-defined bones beneath her face; strong cheeks and a strong jaw softened by the width of a curving mouth. Dressed in jeans tucked into black Doc Marten's, pale-blue cotton tunic underneath a gray University of Chicago hoodie, unzipped. Pregnant. Very pregnant, and alone today.

Strangers do not approach her, though. They don't crowd her, reminisce about their own children and grandchildren, offer the usual unsolicited advice. They most certainly do not ask if she's chosen a name, or try to touch her stomach. Instead: most step aside, especially parents with children, driving by an instinct they cannot name. At least it leaves her direct path free. Hands in the front pockets of her jeans, forearms framing her pregnant stomach, she ambles toward the small group, giving Roman a familiar bump as she joins them, bathed in the dappled blue light from the water. "Doc. Roman." Greetings, offered quietly. She arrives soon enough to hear Fiona's name too, and gives the girl a brief, sure once-over, then cuts a glance toward Michael. "Michael, yeah?" Confirming, though she needed. They were introduced one night change he challenged her packmate to a drinking contest. She doesn't forget names.

A glance back to Roman, then. "Making friends, are you?" Then, a lifting look back to Fiona, frank and appraising, all in one.

[Imogen] Imogen regards Fiona with something resembling resignation.

"It's my real name, yes. Cousins don't earn names."

Clearly the kinswoman has worked out Fiona's blood, if only partway. Kora approaches, heavily pregnant, slightly slow moving, a little heavier in her weight, in the way she moves.

No one would dare say she waddles.

"Kora," the kinswoman greets her.

[Michael Carroll] He nods at the Fenrirs approach, offering a distracted. "Yeah. Well to see ya again, Kora." The standard honorific is carefully left off in consideration of the possibly mixed company. Much like Kora, Michaels attention is drawn entirely now to Fiona. The one piece here that hadn't quite fit in place. Every word from her causes his expression to switch from amusement to confusion and back again, but it's Imogens reference to "cousins" that turns the Irishman serious. He glances to the doctor curiously. "Is she?"

[Roman Turner] He was a good deal more demonstrative than many. Kora bumped him and he full turned to grasp her in a quick brotherly hug including a swift brush of his lips across her cheek. His smile was big when he released Kora. To him there was nothing prettier in the world than a woman carrying the future of their kind and this particular woman was as close as relationships could get between Garou other than blood shared, they were Pack.

"This here is Princess Fiona."

He introduced Fiona to Kora, nudging the girl closer.

"She's a bouncy as a kid what ate his entire Easter Basket's contents in one sitting."

[Imogen] "She is," answer the pure bred Fianna, evenly, without hesitation or misunderstanding.

[Fiona Rogers] "Slaughter. Wow." Fiona seems impressed. "That's cool. Like a name for an ax queen." Kora - Kora, with her status, clear as anything; at least as clear as the lineage of the two Fianna and Roman - Kora, pregnant and appraising, draws Fiona's eyes for only a second. Then, rather firmly, as if remembering her lost (heh?) dignity, Fiona refuses to look at Kora's face. Instead, she focuses on Kora's collarbones, and Fiona is Princess of Blushes, because the Blush is here to stay, it is shining through her eyebrows, it is even turning her neck pink. Roman calls her Princess Fiona again, and her smile widens a hair, and then snaps off like a light while her eyebrows draw together in sudden worry. "ButI'mnotreally. Cadbury eggs would be nice. Uhm, I didn't. Cousins earn," a pause. She swallows, and then says, "YesIdothinkwearerelatedbutyouguysaremoreinterestinglyrelatedtothefamilytreethanIam. Like, way. Uhmshould. I. Do you want more?" This question is asked more of Kora than the rest, and her voice has dropped to a Discreet Whisper. She sounds utterly miserable.

[Fiona Rogers] ooc: sorry all! I'ma be a little slow for a while. Making food! You can always assume Fiona's way too tonguetied to reply to questions if necessary (grin)

[Kora] Roman is a good deal more demonstrative than Kora. She gives him a familiar bump - heavier, rather more graceless for it - as she insinuates herself into the loose knot. He turns and hugs her and she is too gravid to step away from it, but she's stiff, awkward looking - every five feet and eleven inches of her Fenrir in that moment - her generous ease withdrawn behind that awkward sense of tolerance. Of things to be endured, like great aunts at Christmas time, their papery skin and talcum powder scent.

Then Roman releases her; she acknowledges Michael's nicety with a quiet "Cheers," lifting her chin in his direction, then glancing back at Fiona, taking in the overwhelming avalanche of words with a certain clear bemusement. "It's pretty public here, Fiona. I'll let you off the hook tonight, yeah? We'll do the official thing when we leave, or save it for some other night."

Then, a glance back at Imogen, a flare of her nostrils. The expression is subtle, a bit distant. "Some do, Doc." Watchful, maybe, though she goes no further with the thought. Instead, a more general question, wry - "Tell me where wasn't a murder at the aquarium."

[Kora] (Add - )

"Because this is an insane coincidence."

[Imogen] Imogen's gaze is brief and blue when Kora mentions that some do, her expression controlled and even. Unrevealing. She does not answer, but answers the next, a question, wry.

"If it were a murder, I'd not be standin' here chatting wi' you lot, would I?" she asks, casting a glance to her watch.

"Insane coincidence it is, then. I'd best be off though."

[Roman Turner] "I don't know, ya might be casually talkin while watching for bits of flesh to float by in the tanks. I seen ya do some strange things."

Imogen mentioned leaving and Roman immediately gave Kora a look as he said.

"I'll walk her to her car. Wouldn't want one of them fish men to come take our Mermaid."

[Fiona Rogers] "Okay," she says, whispering. Fiona's sleeves are long. The hoodie is oversized, remember? Fiona pulls them, tugs them, awkward, until they're trailing over her fists, and then shoves them up her skinny wrists and touches the back of her hands to her cheeks, as though to cool them. Her lips part, and she half-closes her eyes, just -- content to listen. Just -- listening, although through those half-closed eyes, she's watching Imogen and Michael, half-anxious, half-testing, daydreaming, away with the fairies. And then, "UhmbyeDoctor - " a pause, and a half-giggle, dredging itself up " - Slaughter." She then says to Kora, "Anduhm. Hey. Is it - soon? That, I mean. You look f- uhm, you look soon."

[Kora] "Maybe you just finished covering it up," still wry, though Kora matches steadiness for steadiness. There's a different quality to her own stillness. She's not unrevealing, just reserved. The surface breaks for the edge of an easy smile near the end, though it goes a bit still as she flicks a glance at Roman. "Night doc. Roman."

Then Fiona, stretching out the already too-long sleeves of her hoodie, turns and asks her is it soon; Kora gives her a look, pale brows drawing close over her dark eyes, her confusion too clear. The lights from the tank swim across the surface of her gaze but do not illuminate the depths. "Is what - ?" It's Fiona's line of sight, though. The faint, suggestive way the younger creature drops her eyes to Kora's not-to-be-ignored (everyone ignore it) stomach, and her own eyes follow the look.

Dear world, she cannot see her toes.

Kora breathes out, a huff of breath. "Oh," like revelation. Her narrow shoulders twist in a fatalistic shrug. The waxing moon makes everything harder. Being in her skin; being in one place; stuck here between worlds, unable to access both. The restlessness mirrors the restlessness from before she knew what she was. Then she was free; now she's anchored.

" - yeah. It better be fucking soon," she goes on. She does not, it seems, have a swear jar, no matter how much Roman wanted to start one. I don't know when, though."

[Imogen] Imogen turns to talk, Roman walking beside her. As they walk toward the domed aquarium hallway, one imagines, they can hear Roman's voice as he says something - anything. And Imogen's more sedate reply. Within seconds, they are distorted by water, then a passing shark obscures them from view. Then, they are gone from sight, a corner turned.

(Thanks for the RP!)

[Fiona Rogers] ooc:No, thank YOU for letting me play with y'all!

[Roman Turner] ((Thank you guys! Bed time! ))

[Fiona Rogers] Then there were three. Michael, Kora, Fiona. Fiona begins knotting the ends of her sleeves, pulling them around each other into fanciful, dragonesque shapes, an expression of her nervous energy, and she directs her gaze up toward the ceiling of the aquarium. The room is so hushed; there isn't anyone yelling in the rest of the aquarium right now. There isn't a cluster of people around the sharks: staring in awe at an alien which scents by blood -- and never, ever stops. "Should we, uhm. Leave too?" A beat. And then, "This guy back home. He was older, uhm, and I. Er, he told me that, uhm, you - that because you can't STRETCH out like," here, a meaningful look, "like you wanna, when you're, like. Uhm, you know. The way you are. That girls never got pregnant and it was okay." She smiles, "But I knew he was being stupid. I still have never actually met someone who was pregnant." A pause, a frown. "Well, not someone with flesh that wasn't for eating."

[Kora] "Yeah," Kora affirms, quiet too. Not the way Fiona is quiet, swallowing her sleeves into strange new shapes, coming up with big expressions and big eyes and big - words - all allusive, the meaning perfectly clear. "Let's go." Another glance back at the fish tank, then. Gods only know why she's here today, prowling the blue-bathed audience chambers, past the captive sea animals, flowering in their narrowly defined tanks, perfectly authentic reproductions of their ocean homes, except for the bounding glass.

She walks, a look of invitation for Michael if he wishes to join them, but just that. "Of course girls get pregnant. How else do you think we have another generation?" Voice low, like she's sharing a confidence then, "It's not easy, though. If you come from the country, most probably retreated from community life for a while. It's not the same in a place like this."

[Fiona Rogers] When Michael takes his leave, rather than staying, Fiona waves to him, and says to Kora -- her delight still clear: "He's Irish. I wish," envy, thy name is Fiona, thy shape is a teenage girl's, "I wish I had that kind of voice. I mean then. I could just. It's so cool." And: she and Kora are walking, and Fiona is very careful of the space she gives the pregnant Fenrir, is very careful of her body language, none of which is threatening, much of which is awkward. She stops before they've quite left the jellyfish tank room and gazes at the jellyfish, thoughtful, and then waves to them. And then, then then, back to Kora, "Do you. Know who. When your time comes. Who's going to? I could try, I mean. I should know."

[Kora] "If you meet Patrick," Kora cautions while they walk, pausing to glance back at the jellyfish tank, dropping her gaze back to Fiona as the Fiann waves to the invertebrates. "Don't call him Irish, alright? He's Welsh. Big on Welsh pride. Refuses to use any words with vowels other than Y," the last is solemn, as if she were just imparting the truth. She doesn't wait long for Fiona to finish her wave, though, continuing with a chin lifted back at the tank full as they start walking again. Kora, long-legged, paces as if she had someplace to be. As if she had not wandered into the aquarium today because of her enforced idleness. Because she literally has nothing else to do.

"You think they can see you?" she queries, then swallows nearly a full laugh, draws the whole breath of it in as if she were choking on it. Expels a breath, all at once. "Oh, - no, I don't know. And I think - I think - I'd like someone who's done it before. Since it'll be my first time, too. Maybe if you find an even more pregnant woman, though, and convince her - "

[Fiona Rogers] "I'm offering them respect, uhm, though it isn't in their custom and they may not care, I, I guess I PROBABLY won't like, make friends with their others," Fiona says, unwontedly serious, a keen glance at the end, sidelong, edging into something touched by anxiety. But then -- Fiona is a whimsical creature. That much is obvious to anybody who's spent any time with her at all. Given to fancy, something of a geek, and even humans often just put her into the box labelled Weird. "But uhm. I try to be respectful. When it is not bellyshowing. And when it is. And stuff, like. Argh," misery, again. "I just can't. Blah."

Pause. And she heaves a biiiiiiiig sigh, and then giggles, giggles helplessly. Fiona's giggles are breathy, not very high-pitched, but lilting and infectious and quiet, like she's trying to get water into a water balloon and it's not WORKING, so it's splashing everywhere. "PATRICK," she says, loudly, loudly. "He's AWESOME. And I - oh man, I - I did not - I could have been way - but it's okay. I reallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreally like Patrick. I will only call him Irish if. If I .. if I am ... if there is a reason," she beams at Kora. "He said I should find his - uhm. His," and her voice drops low, to an almost whisper, "pack. 'Cause. He likes me. I think. And I was like that's cool oh man how nice and he was like I'm not saying anything for real but you should meet them and I was like I totallyget it I mean, I really do, but you are being the best head guy ever, and I really like him."

She giggles, again. "If I find another pregnant woman before you give birth I will let you know. Can I maybe be there in case I don't? With someone more experienced? Just so I can - can know? I have, uhm. I mean, I have helped - there - I'm not very good at - there was a time. Which I can tell you about, but it was totally different," a pause. The word appears: "Biology!"

[Kora] "I'm his leader, yeah?" Kora offers, allusive, her curving mouth opening wider, the bemusement lifting some of the restlessness from her, some of the solemnity. It shines in her eyes, sheens across the surface, and even though that quicksilver smile on her mobile mouth disappears as quickly as jellyfish change directions, surging through the water, it lingers underneath in the finer planes of her face - a certain smiling tension about her eyes, a certain awareness, a certain twist to her mouth. "I'll show you our clubhouse, so you'll know where to come. How's that?"

Then, a supple flare of her nostrils - her eyes closed - and amusement is still predominant. Cuts the giggling girl a dark-eyed look, bemusement lingering in her eyes. "I'll think about it, okay? Though I'm not sure I want to be a training project. It's serious to me, personal? I don't think I've talked about it this much. Ever." Then she turns around, a last glimpse of the jelly tank, the girl raising her hand, respectful. " - but I'll consider it. Cool?"

[Fiona Rogers] Fiona gives Kora an aghast look. Here's the packleader Patrick told her about, and clearly, she, Fiona, has been a total dumbass this entire time, even compared to the unfortunate introduction at the caern which was how she and Patrick met. There's much of horror in that look. Much, much of horror. How's she going to impress Kora if she's not talking properly and probably sounding like a stupid little girl? Fiona closes her eyes, and her shoulders slump, absolutely crushed.

Still. She says, mustering some dignity, in a veryvery quiet voice, "I would like that. And please, ma'am, I uhm. I'm not silly." A pause. And then, flinging herself onto the other topic, words hasty, tripping over themselves in the eagerness to begin, "Cool. I mean, uhm. Okay, and fair and stuff. Just, I get that it's serious - okay? And, hm. I mean, I'm connected, so I could ask some of my friends if they know how, and have them step up. If there's an emergency, or something. But if cats can do it on their own - I don't - you probably - well, of course you'll be fine."

Miesry, again. "Do you want to talk about something else now? I don't want to overstep - uhm. To like, if it's not okay."

[Kora] Fiona assures Kora that she's not silly. It's solemn, and quiet. They're still in the aquarium, though it is hushed here, some interval place, some corridor underneath the shark tank - bluelit and brilliant. And Kora ignores the misery and horror, the slumping shoulders, the deepening blush. She keeps walking. Waddling.

"I know you're not." Kora says; it's bracing rather than reassuring. Silly, she means. "I'll think more on it when it's closer to the time, yeah? And why don't you tell me where you came from before you came here? When we get outta here, I'll tell you a story about Chicago in exchange."

[Fiona Sullivan] (places?)
to Casey Steward, Iona McNevin, Kora, Marc de Vogue, Rory

[Rory] (all kinda surrounding Rory who's seating on a random bus stop bench. :) She's not uncomfortable with that AT ALL. hahahaha. )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Iona McNevin, Kora, Marc de Vogue

[Iona McNevin] Iona felt around her pockets and pulled out some paper and a short pencil. To Rory, Casey and Marc, they all receive a slip of paper with her number on it. "I be needin' tae get back tae work on tha forge. Should any o' you need me, just gimme a call."

She kisses the top of Rory's head, trying to make her feel better, then heads out, waving to them all. "Have a good evenin' tae ye ahl."

[Casey Steward] Casey seems distracted his eyes upon his personage as he rummaged through his coat pockets, he either misses, or ignores the other man's nod as he pulls out a lighter, and a single, bent over looking cigarette which he sticks between his teeth and goes to light it, having to flick the miserable little lighter five or six times, shaking it a few times as he swears in gaelic under his breath, before the thing finally caught and ignited the tip of the dilapidated cigarette.

He snorts, and then coughs when Marc makes mention of Iona being a beauty in a sea of darkness...not because it wasn't true...but because the man had heard the line just a few times before from french tourists going after Irish beauties.

"Aye nae heard tha one before, I swear all people can do is compare the lassies to Island's which aint tru at all nae true at all.." He says more to himself then to anyone else as he watches the trueborn talk, and the frenchman waggle his tongue, he then takes a drag off the cigarette before watching Rory fold in on herself, and shake his head.

[Casey Steward] "Wee bit o a callin than ain't it?" He says as Iona tells him about just how long she's been involved in forging, in pounding iron and steel into shapes, and forging one's will and imagination into something tangible....not really Casey's usual bit.

The Iona continued to try and give Rory encouragement to make her less...withdrawn, something had obviously happened between them and others, and it was certainly something to look into later.

Then the fancy car rolled by, full of its fine leathers and master crafted parts and Casey couldn't help himself but sigh and look unimpressed. When the man got out...it didn't help much either, a frenchman...great, just what he wanted to see today.

The tall blonde haired man speaks french, probably trying to be impressive, Casey just retorts in the same language. "Aye, I'm sure it is for ya." Before starting to rummage through his pockets.

[Casey Steward] "Good ta see tha ol custom's alive an well then." He says in response to Iona's explanation though he still seem's somewhat skeptical as he looks her over, leaning this way and that as he stuffs his hands in his pant's pockets, it seems he's trying to imagine the woman infront of a hot forge all day.

"Don bite ma head clear off lass, but ya jus' don' seem tha.....build for tha job." He says innocently enough. "No tha I don believe ya a course, I'm sure I'd not wan ta be on tha other end of tha 'ammer."

He then looks back to Rory and shrugs towards Iona. "Sound's like somethin of a sweet deal there Rory, don ya thenk?"

[Rory] (watches Casey's instant replay. hahaha.)

[Casey Steward] [Sorry bout that...had some technical difficulties:P]

[Casey Steward] [Bottom most post in the most recent]

[Marc de Vogue] He accepts the slip of paper from Iona and nods. “Thank you Iona.”
Then watches her interact with Rory before leaving. A thoughtful look as he watches her go. His voice is low when he speaks again.

”It was a mere play of words on the meaning of her name, not some island in specific, and nothing but truth when regarding her beauty.”
The tall young kin retorts to Casey.
“I have never been to Ireland myself, but I do hear it is quite lovely.”

His gaze goes back to Rory, and then he shrugs his shoulders and takes a seat beside her on the bench, head turned to look at both Casey and her with just a slight turn of his head.
“Anyway Rory. I do not know how your people deal with matters such as these, but for myself, it would be unthinkable not to show my gratitude. I have been wracking my brain to come up with a fitting thing since we parted ways last, but I have not yet found anything suitable that would show my gratitude.”

[Fiona Sullivan] Just what the city needed - more blonds with rage.

Fiona moves along the sidewalk, the scuffed soles of her boots eating up pavement as she walks, a predator's grace revealed through the sleek, yet muscled curves of her frame. Head held high, blond hair falling across her shoulders to curtain the sides of her face. Bright green eyes swimming along the terrain to drink in the details of the city, of the buildings and street signs, mapping out her location in the back of her mind.

Bits of flesh are exposed to the cool air, the dull gray sweat jacket riding up the flat plane of her stomach when her arms lift upward, allowing hands to brush over her brow as fingers comb hair out of her face. Freckles paint across her cheeks and nose, sun-kissed skin burns hotly as if still radiating from the sun's warm on a summer afternoon. A constant broil of heat always surrounding the woman.

Motion flits across her peripheral, a gathering of people at a bus stop. Nostrils flare as she breathes out sharply, sucking in a deep breath and holding it for a second before releasing it again. It causes the silhouette of her chest bound tightly in a tee shirt to bounce as it rises and falls when she exhales.

[Rory] Iona hands her a piece of paper, and she glances at it without comprehending what it is other than vague shapes in a certain order. A phone number, likely. She simply tucks it into the front pocket of her backpack, and then falls very. very. very. still as Iona... kisses her.

she blinks, and then ducks her head again, that blush creeping along her skin, her freckles standing out in sharp relief of the sudden color under them. She hugs the music box tighter to her chest, and tries to remember how to breathe as she's left alone with not one, but two pure bred kin nearby. Then Marc sits down next to her and... well.

Nervous doesn't even begin to cover it.

She swallows, hard, and peeks up at him, before a quick look includes Casey as well, and then she finds something very interesting about her... knees. "You don't teed noo..." She would have helped anyway, and she doesn't understand why he wants to pay her back.

[Imogen Slaughter] They are a mismatched group, the Child of Gaia, the Fenrir and the doctor. A teenager, a twenty-something blonde, a redhead in her thirties. They have no obvious connections, at least not to a human who might look at them. No reason to ever associate. No possible point of conversation.

In the human world, they would have never known each other. In this world, however: The kinwoman, slight and slender, carries, incongruously, a bucket. It does not make her stand out - at least no more than she might otherwise.

Imogen is not particularly a woman suited to these surroundings. Though she wears plain attire, jeans, a corduroy jacket, a nondescript dark blue t-shirt, her skin is too pale, too fine. Her hair is too vibrant. Her body is too well cared for, and her spine is too straight.

She would stand out anyway.

The rage of the Skald does nearly as much as Imogen's poise and beauty might. The rip-snarl-shred of burning ozone, the weight of it on a Garou on the night of her birth-moon.

Poor Roman - well, his youth makes him stand out. That and his stetson hat. Not much call for those here in the Windy City.

Imogen speaks, with rapidly unravelling patience, a cutting glance directed toward the Ragabash Child of Gaia.

"The bucket is not that heavy, I can manage it just fine on my own."

The bucket contains the remains of a rag, turned red and grimy with things better left unmentioned. A copper-and-salt smelling crud has gathered at the bottom of it along with a slime of dirty water, still pooled from when the bucket had last been dumped out, a few blocks away.

[Casey Steward] Casey took the paper and pocketed it, with a smile to Iona. "See ya round smithy." He says with a lightheartedness towards his own Tribesman before turning his gaze back to Rory and Marc who sat upon the bench now, forcing the woman to begin to.....not breath?

Casey shook his head and gestured to Rory with his right hand, the hand with the smoke in it. "I think ya migh be wan'in ta be standin up there lass an give yur self some aire before ya dun go an pass out on us." He says honestly, trying to get the woman a bit more comfortable.

He takes a moment at that to look around, and notices three other people of note, the man in his hat, the woman beside him....and the blonde, but nothing seemed out of place, so the man turned back to Rory and Marc, and took another long drag from his cigarette. Before speaking once more.

"I mean...less tha's your kinda deal o course."

[Roman Turner] "I know ya can carry it, I can see ya carrying it, and it ain't right. What's wrong with a man being a man and helping a pretty lady?"

He rolled his eyes with a look to Kora for help, infact behind Imogen's back he mouthed.

"Do something, will ya?"

Meantime he kept pace with Imogen, just itching to take the bucket from her.

"Ya showed your muscles Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am. I see them bulging and all lady nice and all, now it's my turn."

[Kora] Sorrow's rage is nearly incandescent tonight; no matter her will, no matter how easily she wears it under ordinary skies, under ordinary moons, on ordinary nights, when she was shadowed by the rage of her tribesmates. Tonight - it is bright and it is heavy and it is liquid, a slow-moving liquid, mercury. Roman cuts a glance behind Imogen's back and mouths at Kora; she looks back at him, her dark eyes sheened with reflected light from the streetlamps.

Do what - she mouths back at him, exactly?

Kora stands head and shoulders taller than Imogen, and a good head taller than the young Gaian. She is does not cheat her height, not does she shorten her stride, but she is walking slightly more slowly than she might were she alone. Her hands are in her pockets, and she cuts that sidelong glance only once, just briefly, meeting Roman's eyes without offering him aid in his quest to be a gentleman cowboy helping a pretty lady carry a bucket of blood and solvent residue through the streets of a depressingly impoverished neighborhood, toward a particular bus stop where an equally oddball trio have gathered.

"The city's running limos, now?" she asks, when she marks Marc's vehicle near the bus stop. Her pace slows from a distance, and her attention sharpens. On this night, under this moon, her attention is almost a physical thing. To Imogen, to Roman, "I've seen the redhead at the full moon; the others, though - "

Her rich voice is laced with suspicion. There is blood under her fingernails. There is blood between her toes. Otherwise, she's clean.

[Marc de Vogue] ”Nonsense.”
His gaze goes to Casey for a moment, offering the man a smile.

“I know my people would never let me live it down if I did not offer you at least something. Now…”
He looks back to Rory, offering her that dazzling smile that is like the sun.
“Tomorrow, remember where the car dropped us off last time at the hotel? Meet me there in the lobby tomorrow, say around noon? I am looking at a more permanent residence, but until I find one, I still have a room there. A friend told me of a place with a good view that serves excellent lunch. “

“Let me treat you to a meal, and we can talk further about this. I would not want to disappoint my people, and I hope that you will give me a chance at the very least.”
He places a well-manicured hand on Rory’s knee, fingers tapping gently as he smiles.
“I shall leave you to this... pleasant young man now, unless you want a ride somewhere?”

Marc stands up, stretching to his full height of 6’4, looking to Casey, then to Rory. Then the others draw near, and Marc finds his attention drawn. Kora, Imogen and Roman, and on the other side, a busty blonde straight out of a mans fantasies. they are all given the top to toe look, appreciative smiles for all of them (including the young cowboy, Yum!)

[Rory] She blushes bright as Casey points out her lack of breath... and blushes. Of course. As always. It really does seem to be her default reaction to just about any situation. "...I'm ok. Shus... jy."

And completely messing up her words, though she doesn't notice it at all.

He asks if she remembers the hotel, and she nods, her color deepening. She remembers. And finally she simply gives in, as she doubts he'll let her turn him down at all. "Alright." She'll meet him tomorrow, and they can talk. She can't risk his disappointing Ms. Katherine anyway... she's already a disappointment to Lukas.

He stands, and she follows his gaze toward the three coming down the street - The Doc, the boy who's mower she fixed, and Kora. A brief meeting of the gaze, and quick lowering of her own. Submissive, always.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen casts Roman a glance full of narrowed eyes. A look cool enough to crack snow. "You will find that life is full of disappointment and hardship," she informs the Ragabash, ignoring the obvious sidebar occurring behind her back.

"Start by accepting this one."

Kora speaks of things marginally more important than bickering with a teenager, and the kinwoman's gaze flicks toward the fancy car, then the gathering of Garou and kinfolk.

"Rory," she supplements. The redhead. "I believe. As fer the others, I've not met them."

[Fiona Sullivan] The street is filling up quickly, sweltering with the presences of wolves that begins to send the sheep running. If any normal human, beat it the random drug pusher, vagrant or wandering prostitute had thought to step out onto this particular stretch of sidewalk, they will quickly encounter the unknown forces that growl quietly at them from behind human masks. An instinct in the back of their minds will keep them away, sending them turning on spiked heel or boot and walking off into another direction, or seeking another route as they made their way through the neighborhood.

But not here, not now. Not even when Fiona was coming up one direction towards the bus stop and slowing down, not when Kora and Roman were flanking the small red-haired woman that carried a bucket filled with blood and solvent residue.

[Roman Turner] He could easily vanish behind Kora with his smaller height, that and his ability to blend in when he wanted. Still Roman walked next to Imogen, making faces at Kora behind Imogen's back. Mouthing.

I don't know.

Feeling helpless because the pretty doctor was so danged stubborn she reminded him of a particularity stubborn mule, albeit a pretty mule.

Kora mentioned the people ahead and the limo and for a few seconds Roman looked that way before muttering.

"I seen lots of limos in this city, danged fools ain't got no sense when it comes to pollution and fuel consumption. As for the folks, I think I seen one of them before, ain't seen the others."

[Marc de Vogue] (Limo? Bah! That is no limo! Check the gallery for a visual. )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Roman Turner, Rory

[Roman Turner] "Life is full of disappointments, but sometimes life is sharing a load and helping those we care about with something simple, like carrying a dang stinking bucket."

Adding sweet as American Honey.

"Ma'am."

He even had the gall to smile cheekily.

[Kora] (That car looks like a limo to my character! :) )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Marc de Vogue, Roman Turner, Rory

[Roman Turner] ((Poor pimp-mobile! LOL! ))
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Marc de Vogue, Rory

[Casey Steward] "Aye lass, I gathered tha much, but ya really shouldna..." He pauses mid sentence and then shakes his head. "No ma place ta say I suppose, ya do wha ya wan'." He says with a shake of his head before he put the smoke back in his mouth and took a moment to look up and down the street once more.

It looked like they were being corralled, three from one direction, one from the other, he'd seen this situation more then once, hell more then twice, he'd seen it far more often then he cared to. So he backed up, and kept backing up till his back met the wall behind the bus stop and watched as they came. Not much he could do at the moment about it.

His eyes are...admittedly drawn to the blonde who walks alone, it was hard not to be even if his own innate journalistic testicles were itching, warning him of approaching danger, or maybe it was just the heat.

[Rory] She really shouldn't.... and she closes her eyes, and swallows hard, and suddenly unfolds her legs to stand. "...i shouldn't. I know... sorry..." Some words are easier, and then come in a rush as she clutches her little music box tighter to her chest, and grabs her pack in her other hand, and takes a step toward the alleyway, where she knows she can simply disappear...

She shouldn't.
She can't.
She's not allowed...

But there are others coming, and she hesitates, not wanting to leave him alone to face them... torn by indecision, she shifts her weight from foot to foot, green eyes bouncing from Marc, where he's getting into his car, Casey who's put his back against the wall, and the others - Fiona, and the Doc and Kora and Roman...

[Kora] "In a neighborhood like this," Kora returns in response to Roman's concern about pollution and fuel consumption. " - someone driving a car like that is asking to be jacked." Her voice is still low; it's a cool night, and the presence of Garou has driven away any humans who might've considered this bus stop. They've moved on, wandered further down the street to some other stop; decided to take the cross-town rather than the express. Decided, perhaps, that they do not need milk for the baby tonight anyway.

Kora is dressed with perfect practicality, in jeans and a black t-shirt, in shit-kicking boots, her pale blond hair drawn back from her features in a loose knot. Look: her hands are in her front pockets, but they are curled into fists. She swings her legs easily, a long stride slowing now as the trio approach Rory and Casey and Marc on the bench.

"Rory, yeah?" says Kora, her gaze dropping back to the mule in the center of the shifting ink blot of Garou. She lifts her attention over Rory's shoulder, marks out Fiona; the wariness has not left her body. Instead, a flicker of a look at Marc. If he looks her top to toe again, she'll bare her teeth.

Humans might call it a smile.
Wolves would call it a warning.

[Rory] (adds)

Her flight is brought to a speedy halt as Kora mentions her name. She nods, and keeps her gaze lowered, never liftin farther than somewhere along the Fenrir's jawline.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is the slightest of the trio. The one without rage, the one with a heavy dose of pure breeding, her blood singing of Fianna memories, and history.

She adjusts the fall of her coat as she approaches, her step easy, restrained, even.

"Hello Rory," Imogen greets the Metis easily, but not kindly.

"New friends?"

It is not that she did not hear Roman's dig about sharing a heavy load. It is that she is now ignoring it entirely now that they've approached the other group. The bucket remains hers.

[Fiona Sullivan] Fiona stops dead; all movement halted with the growing presence of other wolves. Thick lashes flutter low over green eyes, a shiver runs through her body, raising bumps along her flesh as it became feverish. A slight tick forms in the line of her left jaw as the muscles tighten, teeth gritting together. The softest of growls break loose from her throat as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck raise up.

It is a warning of sorts, a threat issued out in the direction of Kora and Rory. It did not matter if the blond Fianna was the stranger wandering into another's territory. Her heart begins to hammer wildly in her chest, blood pulsating in her veins as her breathing grows labored. The flat planes of her stomach dipping in with each flare of her nostrils as air exhales out of her nose.

She blinks once, slitting her eyes to pass them over the other's ignoring Roman as he didn't present the biggest threat to her. The two male kin pulled into her line of sight as she focuses on Marc first - snorts softly, then to Casey and snorts again.

[Marc de Vogue] The gathering of Rage made Marc look around. But not nervously. No, if anything, it made him stand a little taller, made that smile widen just a bit more, as if he enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the dark sensation it washed over his skin as it set his nerves on fire. He drew a deep breath, eyes closing for a moment, and then he shakes his head a little.

When his eyes open, he seeks out Rory, and that smile is as warm and friendly as always for the metis, as if she was the center of the universe. It is a strange thing for the shy creature to be under such appreciative focus.
“I will see you tomorrow for lunch.”

His clear eyes go to Casey as he puts his back to the wall under the assault of rage.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. Next time, I certainly do hope you have found some manners to be civil, even to strangers who have done you no harm or insult. I would think that is the least one could expect in company such as this.”

“Goodbye Rory. Take care of yourself.”
And with that, the young silver fang moves over the road, away from the rage and the sensation of it. He opens the car door and slips in. The engine starts with a low growl before settling into a muted roar. Marc looks back to the bustop, to the approaching people, then offers a slight wave of his hand, aimed at Rory before he takes off, peeling away from the curb and vanishing down the street.

(It is 4 am, time for the Swede to sleep! Thanks for the scene!)

[Roman Turner] "Hey, Lawnmower fixer! Howdy Miss."

He touched the brim of his hat with the shadow of a nod to Rory before he turned his attention to the others gathered here. What an odd collection. Of course with his boots, dark blue stiff as a board Wranglers and the tee that nearly matched eyes the blue of faded denim all topped by the stetson, he probably looked just as odd to them. Sweet sixteen and as out of place looking in the city as they came. Fresh scrubbed face that had nothing but peach fuzz on it and a bit of flaking blood along the jawline that he'd missed earlier. He was a little less than five and a half feet in height, making it easier to slip behind Kora and go unnoticed most times.

The car was soon claimed and pulled off, leaving one less to keep an eye on, which was good considering the way one seemed to be rumbling in her chest.

[Casey Steward] Casey chuckled and shook his head at the frenchman as he told him to find some manners. "Oh, I got plenty in stock for tha likes of others, jus no for tha likes o ye." He says as he waves to the man, over exagerating the motion to add just a hint of sarcasm to his voice as the kin climbs into his fancy car and takes off.

His eyes then go to Rory, who had tried to slip into the alley and then to those around them. He expected much the same show and he smiled in her direction, encouragingly. "Buck up lass, I don't think they gonna hurt ya. They ain't the enemy righ." Its a question just as much as a statement, and he hopes she answers it quickly.

Especially given the look the blonde was giving him, he wasnt quite certain if he should be excited, or terrified. But he pushed off the wall somewhat...it never paid to appear preylike around predator's after all.

[Kora] Rory bends her head low, Rory shows her throat, Rory offers the Fenrir utter submission without a thought - to avoid another beating, to live inside the boundaries defined by her station, by her breed, by her birth. Kora looks down at her, her fine mouth drawing flat across her the sharp planes of her pale face, curling at the corner in response to this submission, and not pleasantly. Then Roman pipes up, and touches the brim of his Stetson; this is all a sketch in the corner of her peripheral vision, but it is enough to draw the sharp line of her attention upwards.

Sidelong, as Marc slips into his "limo" and waves with particular directness at the mule, before taking off down the street.

"If so," she says, appending to Imogen's question as to whether these folks were friends of Rory's, " - that one should find a ride more appropriate to the neighborhood, or he's going to make himself an easy target for the cursed ones. You," her dark eyes cut to Casey then; the tension remains in her frame; it sharpens her gaze and makes her skin seem all the paler. " - wouldn't be quite that foolish, would you?"

Another flick of a glance toward Fiona, all but growling down the street. Kora squares her shoulders, but says nothing to the stranger, and does not approach her.

[Rory] She watches Marc go, and then Imogen says hello, followed by Roman, and both get the shyest of little smiles. She answers Imogen with an introduction of sorts. "Casey." and a point toward the car. "Marc." It answers Casey's question - at least those three are friend.

But the other...

But of all of them, it is Fiona that gets the most sudden and unexpected reaction. She growls. She dares growl and threaten in the streets that Rory calls home. She drops the backpack at Casey's feet, and takes a step toward the other Fianna, her hands held loose and light at her side.

A low snarling growl starts at the base of her throat. She is Bogeyman. This is HER place. She stands her ground. THIS is a different Rory. This is the warrior, the full moon, the antithesis of the shy retiring hiding woman of a few moments ago. This is the Garou [uncomfortably] nearing Fostern.

The low growl rumbles up into a single word as she takes a step forward on the street of her territory, deliberately making a point.

"Mine."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen arches an eyebrow slightly, as Marc departs, at Casey's shot in the other's direction. The bucket she carries has a certain smell. Anyone familiar with blood would recognize it. One does not easily forget such an odour.

Imogen, too, turns her head to look at Fiona, growling down the street. The kinwoman's gaze narrows, resting upon the Garou's frame.

Rory steps forward to guard her territory. The eyebrow arches higher.

[Fiona Sullivan] The shyness that had been displayed in Rory vanishes all of sudden. Where she shows instant submission to Kora, it changes suddenly as Rory adheres to the blond's threat and rightfully stands up to protect what is hers. An eyebrow arches high atop Fiona's brow, surprised at the change. She rolls her shoulders forward, head lowering slightly to tilt her face to the side at other Fianna.

Green eyes on Rory, and to Rory alone. Tension bleeds out of Fiona as quickly as it had sprung, she crinkles up her nose, the slightest of smirks peeling at the corners of her mouth.

"Yours." She says simply.

[Roman Turner] He had no idea what the hell was going on. The growling, the sudden standing up and claiming and, oh man, folk sure were weird here. Yup, this was the time to do what he did best. He had slipped in closer to Imogen, on the other side from her shooting arm. He knew better than to get in the way of that of a woman and her sidearm. And he looked towards Kora, taking his cue from her.

[Casey Steward] Casey had seen the switch in the shy redhead like a thunderbolt, one moment all was calm and quiet, the next there was a flash, and things might start burning..or exploding. The man's hand went quickly to his coat pocket. But then Fiona accepts and the tension bleeds out of her, not rising to the challenge.

He then turns his gaze on the much, much closer Fenrir who stood over him, asking him if he was anywhere near as foolish as the man in the fancy car and he shakes his head with a smile. "Nae lass, I know how ta blen in an disappear like fog on the banks in tha early morn."

He says as he gestures to his dirty, sand blasted leather coat, worn out jeans, and a black t-shirt which reads 'Press! Tell me everything!' He does his best not to look worried, but he hadn't been this close to this many trueborn since he'd left Ireland.

[Kora] There is something strange going on here; something strange and primal - and the odd little trio, the redhead, the young cowpoke, and the feral, twenty-something blond are not part of it. They stand apart, arrayed oddly, watching as the sports car zooms off into the night, its brake lights winking against the darkness. Imogen holds a bucket of blood. This goes unremarked by all. Roman darts from the kinswoman's right side to her left, knowing where she holds her gun. There is a moment of sharpening tension; Rory goes from utter submission to a feral snarl of challenge. Fiona - backs down. Or something; crinkles her nose and smirks.

In the space of those spare moments, Kora took an unconscious step or two forward, putting herself between both kin - Casey and Imogen - and the Garou facing off. Then the subtle challenge is over and Kora looks back down, sidelong, at Roman.

A brief, assessing glance at Casey then. "That is rather more neighborhood appropriate, I grant." As if - what happened had not just happened. As if the thread of this conversation had been continuous throughout. Her humor is subsumed into her body; it does not read as humor, not on a night like this one. "You're okay here, right?" - she continues, a dark flickering glance at Casey, "because, if so," a jerk of her head toward Imogen and Roman. " - we need to get going."

[Rory] The other Fianna lowers her gaze, bares her neck, tilts her face, and the tension bleeds away. Rory is a contradiction - fearless, yet impossibly shy. Strong, yet instantly submissive to those she knows are of higher station [..everyone..], to those she respects, to those who are simply better than she is. Yet here, in the face of a new one clearly challenging her territory, who came up with a growl in her throat and clear threat - the rage in the lean metis is undeniable. She holds her gaze steady on the other as the smirk curves Fiona's lips, and tips her head, slightly.

"Mine." Acknowledgment, confirmation of Fiona's submission.

Then a simple demand. "Who are you."

[Roman Turner] Boy howdy he was ready to leave the Twilight Zone they had passed in to. From one trip in to the zone to another part of it, what a night. All he was waiting for was a change in body language that told him to make like a sheepherder and get the flock out of there.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's gaze moves to follow Kora as she steps between them. Little expression shows as she notes the protective, unasked for act. Merely stillness of the face, of the body.

Roman moves to allow the kinwoman a free shot, if it should become necessary, assuming that it would, guessing that it might. Two Fianna face off.

She watches the entire scene with an expression much like that. Remote, as if she were watching a play. Reserved, as if this did not affect her at all. She might even be bored.

As it is, Fiona acknowledges Rory's claim and Rory begins the usual: demands of name, rank, tribe. Imogen's heard it all before. Kora asks Casey if he's alright, and Imogen turns to glance at the kinfolk, her expression unrevealing as she waits for his answer.

[Roman Turner] "My turn to carry it."

Persistent is what he was. Barely speaking the words like he thought maybe Imogen would think it was her inner voice or something.

"Fingers gotta be getting sore by now and ya might need a free hand. Wouldn't want to splash yourself."

[Casey Steward] "Aye, Aye no worries here lass, ya can move on, you an your pals and yer...yer fine lookin bucket there." Oh he had noticed the smell of blood, but it wasn't a smell that particularly got to him anymore. He glanced briefly at the red liquid held within and then back to the faces of those around him.

"I'd certainly hate ta be whoever' tha all came from then. I bet he deserved it even." He says with a light laugh, not a nervous one, but one that was meant to disarm, to make others laugh with him. "Mayhaps sometime one a ye can tell me tha story."

He asks, before looking briefly over to Rory and Fiona, before returning his gaze to those around him.

[Fiona Sullivan] The blond does not move from her position, she does not raise her head any higher that it already is, nor does she level her gaze with Rory's. The other had become a contradiction - a surprise to Fiona, who in turn expected the redhead Fianna to simply back down. Her breathing quiets down as she swallows the desire for confrontation, the itch to fight. Shackling her beastly tendencies down with each intake of breath.

Her heart no longer thrums in her chest, no longer pulsates wildly in her throat. Rory demands a name. "Fiona Sullivan, Strength of Nehmain. Child of Danu. Full Moon. Cliath." it all rolls off her tongue easily, the main focus of her attention was Rory and not the others, they were only shadows that played at the corner of her eyes, their voices a whisper in her ear, though, she can't quite make out what they are talking about.

[Roman Turner] "It's spoiled fruit punch. Had a wild shindig a few blocks back in the back of a limo. Broke down, fridge went out, had to hike it. Can't leave the goodies behind, you understand. Though a good time was had by all. We gotta go. People to do, things to see."

Explaining the bucket in the weirdest way this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

[Kora] "Sure," Kora says, quiet, noting the man's breeding. She can smell it, sharp and nearly as pungent, as promising as Imogen's blood. She lifts her chin to his t-shirt, then, " - as long as you don't mean to print it someplace, I'll share it with you. You'll owe me a beer, though."

Then, with a faint, curling shrug, Kora jerks her head across the street, and starts around the pair of Fianna, giving them a certain berth. When Roman makes his offer yet again, Kora looks down at Imogen, at the bucket in the kinswoman's hand. "Give him points for persistence, yeah?"

[Rory] She tips her head, slightly, listening. Then nods. "Rory. Tongue Twister. Cliath Fianna Mull Foon."

She doesn't seem to notice her mistake in her words as she studies Fiona for a moment more, and then relaxes, and steps back, lifting her fingers to tuck her curls behind an ear, and moving back toward the others.

She catches Roman's explanation of the bucket and she wrinkles her nose, slightly. She doesn't apologize for the way she acted, as any of them would have done the same. She simply makes her way back to Casey, and her pack that is still resting at his feet, offering those leaving a shy smile.

[Kora] -- Roman's explanation of the bucket, though, draws the first edge of a genuine smile across her mouth. Kora barks out a sharp laugh; low, brief and sharp .

"What he said," she confirms, the suggestion of laughter still woven into the weight of her words.

[Casey Steward] "Nay, nay no publishin, sharin amongst folk maybe, but no publishin." He grins at the mention of beer and nods at the idea, lips briefly licked by a tongue as if in anticipation. "Tha sounds wonderful, canna wait ta see ye again." He says as she walks around and out, Roman gives his explanation, and Casey arches a brow before laughing.

"I giv ya poin's for tryin fella, but tis a wee bit harder than tha to fool tha press."

He says with light joviality before looking back to the two women who had been staring each other down. Rory was headed in his direction, and he bent to pick up the pack and offer it too her.
"So ya are both of tha Tribe than?" He asks lookin from Rory to Fiona in the distance. "Saint's alive tha's a coincidence."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen, too, smirks at the explanation of the bucket, which she has, one must note, not handed it over to Roman, despite his persistence.

She's said barely a half-dozen words since arriving. Of them all, it would appear, the kinwoman is the most reticent. From what he's heard, the Irishman can make a few guesses about her, should he so choose. The British accent is a many layered thing. The woman is from the south of England, her Cornish accent still ever-present in her voice. She is educated - an expensive education, to boot. There is a bit of 'pony and pims' to the way she speaks, though it is by no means perfect.

"A pleasure," she says toward Casey, though she had not offered her own introduction, stepping away, nodding to Rory in farewell. As she takes her leave, she offers Roman a bone - "Tell yeh what," she says, as she starts away. "Next time, I'll get yeh a bucket all fer yer very own. Alright?"

And with that, the trio takes their leave.

[Roman Turner] "I want a shiny new one, metal, not one of them plastic ones."

And he was off with the other two, still chattering away.

"Good metal bucket lasts years, won't crack if ya leave it out in the winter and won't fade from the sun."

[Kora] (thanks for letting us crash the scene, guys!)

[Fiona Sullivan] Fiona has not moved. She watches quietly as Rory introduced herself before making her way back to Casey. She straightens up, rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension still built up. Her head sliding from side to side with a pop of vertebrae that rolls down her spine. Hands tuck into the pockets of her sweat jacket, an eyebrow arched as she swings her attention to the others.

[Imogen Slaughter] (thanks for the RP, folks!)

[Fiona Sullivan] (welcome)

[Roman Turner] ((Thank you and night!))

[Casey Steward] [Thank you! later!]

[Rory] That pack? Weighs considerably more than it looks like when Rory handles it, and it weighs Casey's arm down as he offers it back to her. Rory picks it up as if it's nothing, and slips an arm through one of the straps, slinging the pack around to her back.

"Sorry."

Shy, again. Though not quite so badly she's forgotten to breathe. Yet.