Ornature

[Imogen] (maybe next time! night!)

[Kristiana Coleman] "Just. Wow. Did you see her... Wow."

[Kora] Gina goes walkabout just as the door swings open for a tall, leggy blonde, pale hair pulled back from sharp features, her cheeks and nose red from the cold outside. Except for her coloring, Kora is not stereotypically Fenrir. She's narrow-shouldered, the strength in her body hidden in the long legs, in the great muscles flanking her spine, wrapped around her core. Wearing a woolen peacoat - above-the-knee length for most women hits her somewhere higher than mid-thigh - in a dark shade of plum that is virtually black in the shadows, hands pushed forward into her pockets, a scarf wrapped around her chin and neck, muffling her mouth, body hunched forward against the cold - the stranger stops just inside the double doors, careful to pull the one closed before it steals away all the heat in the place - and stamps snow and salt from her boots.

She's studying the coffee shop through half-narrowed eyes, looking without looking, making sure there's a table free - or searching out an acquaintance among the dark corners. She looks at Kristiana and Cordelia, looks past them, but the progress of her scan is arrested, a subtle twist of her brow brings her back to the pair. There's something steady about her regard, then. A human would never stare this long.

She looks away when the scarf is unwound, heads instead to the counter.

[Imogen] Not long after Kora enters, Imogen follows. The kinswoman is sharply different than the Fenrir, with her brilliantly red hair and her dark blue eyes. The kinswoman is pale, even with the cold outside, as if the chill had not caused blood to rush to her cheeks and nose, but dive deeper, toward the core of her warmth.

She, too, scans the area, but does not pause to look at either Cordelia and Kristiana, her gaze moving smoothly past.

The slight kinswoman steps up toward the counter as well, her high heeled shoes clicking softly on the floor beneath her feet. She raises a hand and begins to remove leather gloves, finger by finger as she steps behind the Fenrir in a way most humans would never dare.

"Kora," she greets the Jarl.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Her attention has wavered, and she catches a look at a woman with narrow shoulders, woolen coat and long legs. She inhales slowly, and purses her lips. Kora is well put together, an interesting woman, but.. most importantly, she's a woman who stares too long. Who looks and seems to know what she's looking for.

It makes Cordelia straighten up and look. She nods upward. A tilt of her chin.

Cordelia's not garou, but she does seem confident. Aware of her space. Not crumpling just yet.

[Kora] The Jarl tugs her own leather gloves off with her teeth and stuffs them back into the pockets of her wool coat. A year ago her coat was missing buttons, her gloves were threadbare, and her jeans trailed tangled threads of half-shredded denim over the floor. Now she seems considerably less derelict, with ordinary gloves and every button on her coat intact. Still, when she reaches to pay, shifting sideways and forward to worm cash out of her right front pocket to pay for her mocha, the bills are tucked into an old, battered passport rather than a proper wallet.

"Doc - " Kora says, low-voiced, turning to give Imogen the grazing edge of a half-smile made generous by the width of her mobile mouth. The barista steps away from the counter to make Kora's drink, and Kora begins unbuttoning her winter coat with nimble fingers. " - you having anything?" And then, a tip of her pale head toward the pair of Fang kin. "Know them?"

[Imogen] Imogen turns in the direction of Kora's gesture, her gaze fixing on both Cordelia and Kristiana, regarding them without much expression. "No," she answers.

"Half-bloods, then, are they?" Silver Fang kinfolk, of all the tribes, are perhaps the ones least likely to hear this particular, old world term that Imogen uses, for, to them, it would be even more insulting, the inference double-bladed.

Of course, Imogen cannot sense breeding, not even her own, which hangs heavy in the air, like humidity.

She turns back, away from the kinfolk. "Just coffee, I think," she says, "Somethin' strong."

[Kora] "Mmmph," says Kora in response, her voice settled in her throat, the sound distinct without being raw. She's poised mid-button, casting a glance back at the pair of kinswomen, her tall frame turned toward the dining room, the scattering of tables, though her shoulders are oriented to Imogen. "Katherine's, too. You know her, yeah?"

Not her, but the reference, subtle enough that the barista hears nothing out of the ordinary. Direct enough that there's no question about it.

"Ma'am?" - the barista inquires, quiet. Imogen's coffee, Kora's mocha are both on the half-moon counter over the workspace beyond. Kora reaches for both as the barista points out which is which, and holds out the black coffee to Imogen with a careless sort of ease. "You feeling social?" - asks Kora, a mild note of irony beneath the inquiry in her voice.

The creature's dark eyes are settled on Cordelia and Kristiana again, the look utterly direct, unwaving, and animal for that.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "we're about to get company," she says to Kristiana. Her voice drops low, and she smiles politely. Kora's staring at them. too direct, too animalistic. Cordelia waves.

[Kristiana Coleman] She twists around to see who Cordelia is talking about, shrinking back a little in the booth.

[Imogen] The doctor has now removed her gloves, folding them in one hand before she slips them into her coat pocket. Bare, still chilled fingers reach for the gloves of her woollen coat. "I do," know Katherine, she answers. Imogen orders an Ethiopian blend in concise, quiet language. The barista pours it, and Kora picks it up, handing it over.

Imogen takes it with one hand, the other reaching up to unwind her scarf from her throat.

Kora asks her ironic question, and Imogen eyes flick toward her, a smirk curling her mouth. She does not answer, instead turning her gaze back toward Cordelia and Kristiana.

"One waves, the other cowers," she observes, low-voiced, before shrugging slightly and tilting her head toward the two kinfolk, resigned.

[Kora] Cordelia waves. The Fenrir inclines her head minutely. It's a polite gesture, an acknowledgment of that wave, with a certain weight, a certain age that makes it seem - formal, nearly courtly for all its brevity. Long fingers are coiled around the paper cup, and Kora does not bother with an insulated sleeve, inviting the warmth as it seeps into her fingers.

One waves, the other cowers. - says Imogen, and Kora casts her a sidelong look, her cheek full as her half-smile curves deeper and a low sharp hint of laughter escapes her lungs.

"At least we know which one's the bad twin," returns Kora, philosophically, as she begins to weave her way through the scattered chairs and tables. It's here - amidst this obstacle course - that it becomes clear that Kora is pregnant too. She has to move chairs out of the way that she once might've squeezed by, she cannot gauge, not, the shape of her body, like a cat whose whiskers have been clipped.

As she reaches the Silver Fang's booth, Kora picks up to empty chairs from a nearby table, positioning them easily at the end of the booth. "Mind if you join you? I think we have some family friends in common."

[Rory] What Rory's doing on the 'Mile is anyone's guess. The truth of the matter is, she was wandering and just happened to end up here. She doesn't come here often - she's one who stands out too much for someone who wants nothing more than to blend in - but she likes it well enough. She happens to have a bit of loose change on her, enough to get a hot chocolate, at least, and she decides to treat herself to just that.

Few things about Rory change - she is still pale, freckled, with those red red curls tumbling about her face in chaotic disarray. She is still possessing a high enough rage that people shrink away from her, especially under the swelling moon. Her clothing is threadbare, and comfortable.

And she is unbearably shy - blushing easily and often, saying very little on the best of days. One new addition, however, is the guitar on her back, and the little MP3 she listens too instead of attending actual lessons - gifts from one of the very few she counts as a true friend.

She is cold, and this coffee shop is open, and she wants hot cocoa. She is, after all, a very simple creature.

She slips inside, and pauses to let the warmth of the shop flood over her before moving to the counter to go about ordering her hot cocoa.

[Kristiana Coleman] "Yes" She adds the Rhya mentally. "Of course"

[Imogen] Where Kora is animalistic, Imogen is restrained. No rage flows beneath her skin, the moon does not call her. She walks with Kora, not behind her, coming to a stop near the table as well.

She neither smiles nor speaks, her free hand lifting to brush a curl away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Her hair is pulled back, curled at the nape of the neck in a chignon. Despite this restraint, there are freed strands which brush her skin, offering what might be the appearance of artful disarray, or perhaps simply, hair which will not be ruled.

Kristiana invites them, and Imogen takes a chair by the back, and pulls it several inches away from the table, setting her coffee cup down before removing her handbag to hook it over the back. She leaves her coat on, and takes a seat.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Go ahead," she says. Her voice is accented- Cordelia might be blonde haired, blue eyed. Those glasses might be atrocious, but her voice is very distinctly Not From Here. And, one could not. Not French. not Nordic. Not something that people would readily associate with geeky blondes, "I don't think I've met you to before, I'm Cordelia, this is Kristiana."

She makes her introductions. It's quick and to the point. Not overly flowery. Not... too terribly pompous.

... are you sure she's Falcons?

The female catches a look at a particular redhead coming through the door. Pale, freckled, with chaotic curls. Cordelia sees a kindred spirit. Her attention lingers there briefly.

[Kora] "Thanks," says Kora to Kristiana, casting the kinswoman a quick, expressive smile accompanied by the sort of direct look whose weight and clarity belies the ease of the smile. Humans would not have counted her pretty - not precisely - even absent the rage that is so integral to her - humming through her blood, wrapped around her spine, smoldering in her guts and marrow; but her features are regular - even - marked by strong lines and strong blood, even if that blood is not pure. A firm jaw, a straight nose, a pair of dark eyes framed by a high, clear brow and pale lashes and a wide, mobile mouth.

"I'm Kora. This is Doctor Slaughter." Kora flicks open the last of the buttons on her coat before sitting down. Underneath, she's wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie. There's a dark choker visible at her neck, three strands of leather plaited together. She then looks up, following Cordelia's gaze as Rory enters. "That's Rory."

[Kora] [Per + Linguistics, Dif -1 for having spent three days camping in Ibiza that one summer.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 5) Re-rolls: 1

[Rory] She orders at the counter, her voice soft, her words singular. "Cocoa." It's easier that way - for her, and for others. As the barista makes up her drink, Rory goes about the painstaking task of trying to count out how much is owed. The barista, after a moment, takes pity on the scary, shy girl and helps her count the change, until there is enough to pay for her drink. Rory smiles, shyly, and takes the cup and pretends not to notice when the girl yanks her hand away as if she's been burned.

Rory turns then, hearing her name, chewing on her lower lip absently. She offers Kora and Imogen a shy smile, and after shifting her position slightly, nervously, she starts to weave her way to them to say hello.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] People once described Cordelia was beautiful, which isn't... exactly... accurate. Now, the best description is cute and slightly better than average looking. What gives people that impression is the fact that, despite the fact that she is tall and a little too thin, she seems completely aware and comfortable with her own position. She makes her stature and her glasses and her fashion choices look completely deliberate and completely the right choice.

"Encantado," she says, "it's nice to meet you."

[Kora] "Likewise," returns Kora, dark eyes flickering over Cordelia, taking in the glasses, the lanky awkward physique, all the rest of it. Kora looks at someone as if she were seeing them - as if it mattered. "You're from Madrid, yeah? I spent more time in Barcelona when I was in Europe." Kora's seat there at the end of the booth seems to be temporary. She's seated in a chair rather than a booth, her coat unbuttoned for comfort, so it does not gap or pull across her stomach, but still on. Her scarf - unwound now - has ends on the floor as she sits, hand around her mocha.

"Rory," continues Kora, when the Fianna is close enough for normal speech. She receives the edge of a quick half-smile. "I've already introduced you. This is Cordelia from Madrid."

[Imogen] Imogen turns her head as Kora speaks Rory's name, glancing at the Fianna, before flicking a briefly wry glance toward the Fenrir.

"A pleasure," she says absently to the two kinfolk, picking up her coffee and removing it's plastic lid. She blows on the hot, black surface, before taking her first measured sip.

Rory arrives, and Kora completes the introductions. Imogen offers the Fianna Garou a faint smirk. "We're having a bit of a party," she says, dryly.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "They're scheduled to complete Segrada Familia in twenty-twenty six, but I heard the construction's been up to speed, so it might be completed in seven years," she says. her eyes light up.

Speaking of sand castle cathedrals.

[Rory] Rory has already been introduced, and the smile for Kora is at once shy, and relieved. Imogen says there's a party, and she wrinkles her nose, slightly, the smile still warm, even as she hides it behind those curls as she lifts her cup to take a sip.

Only to hiss because it's hot. Because it's Hot Chocolate. And that would be logical.

"Hi." It encompassing them all. A woman of few words, Rory.

[Kora] "It's not a party, Doc." Kora returns, in a dry, quiet voice. " - not until there's confetti. Or beer, at least." By way of demonstration, she half-toasts the kinswoman with her paper mug, which smells sharply of coffee and chocolate, and still vents steam up through the small opening in the plastic lid. When Cordelia remarks on the current pace of construction for the Segrada Familia, Kora's dark eyes linger on the young woman's face.

"You sound like you're working for the tourist board," she says quietly, not-quite-reproof in her voice. "Maybe you'll tempt the Doc, but I'm pretty sure I won't make it back."

Then, a brief glance to Rory. "I heard Hatchet was back in town." There's a certain energy to the name. "Is he leading you and yours? Or do you still have that honor?"

[Rory] She's heard Hatchet's in town. There's another brief, smile from Rory, as she nods. There's relief there, too. It was not so much an honor, when one considers how many times she was told she was to have nothing to do with kin, that it wasn't her place to understand them, to do anything other than protect them. unseen, unheard, not allowed to be in their presence for anything resembling friendship. Duty, that is what she is.

All she is.

Emotion flickers across her face, undefined, and then clears away, sunshine after a storm. "Latchet heads." She doesn't hear her mistake, to correct it - hearing only what she intended to say.

[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales sharply, her mouth twisting. "I'll keep that' in mind," she answers. "Confetti or beer."

They are both quiet, Imogen and Kora, deliberate in their speech. The latter is a Skald. She knows the power of words; the power of the voice. Imogen seems deliberate in everything. From the moments she raises her voice to speak, to the sips she takes of her coffee.

Her eyes flick to Cordelia as Fenrir speaks, and she shakes her head slightly. "S'not very likely."

The Garou begin to speak of the Fianna leadership, and Imogen turns to glance at Rory as she speaks. A line forms between her brows, brief, then fades again.

[Kristiana Coleman] Good kin. Good, seen but not heard, keeping her damned mouth shut out of a strong sense of self preservation kin.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Rory speaks and Cordelia... looks... confused.

Her head cocks to the side, and she reaches for something.

[Kora] That energy - when Kora speaks the name - is not positive in her voice. It's just there, under the surface. Kora flashes a glance at Imogen, noting the brief drawing of her brow without commenting on it or otherwise drawing attention to it.

The Skald glances back at Rory then, her dark eyes tracing over the sin-born Garou's girlish features - the blood-red curls, the shy mien - without apology. "Okay," she says at last, reaching up to begin wending her scarf back around her neck once more. Reaching her arm over her head, turning the hand-knitted length around three or four times. "Thanks for the information, Rory. Hope you gave him a good fight over it, first."

"I think I'm warmed up if you are, Doc." she continues, standing, coffee cup in one hand, the last loop of the scarf in the other. "How many more bags do you think we have?" A glance back at the kin. "Night, ladies."

[Kora] Then later, only when they're walking out the door, Kora remarks, low-voiced, to Imogen. "Fucking charach, Hatchet."

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Goodnight, it was nice to meet you both," she says.

At this point, Rory is here. And, the foreign-speaking female pushes over a rice crispie treat to the other foreign female. Cordelia smiles something content, but... alas, she doesn't quite understand that Rory is speaking English.

"Me llamo Cordelia," she offers.

[Imogen] Imogen draws in a long breath as she gets to her feet. "Two or three, if we're lucky."

A glance at the gathered. "Goodnight," before she heads toward the door with the Fenrir. As they cross the threshold, the kinfolk and Garou can see Kora say something to Imogen, and see Imogen's sharp glance, and arched eyebrow before she steps over the threshold and lets the door fall shut behind them.

Outside, Imogen comments not at all on the statement, merely starting back down the street toward a particularly rank and bloody alleyway.

[Rory] She looks at Imogen, and then back. She could say that she told Hatchet that Imogen was Kora's as much as she was anyones, but she doesn't. Hatchet will leave her be as she is, independent for that reason. She doesn't say if she put up a fight, or anything of the like.

Fact is -the Churach is more accepted leader than the Mule. The nation is quite fucked up that way.

They go, and after a moment, Rory perches on the seat vacated by Kora, not wanting to be rude. And then Cordelia says.... something. Rory does nothing to hide her confusion... "...sorry?"

[Kora] (night folks! thanks!)

[Kristiana Coleman] Her eyes get the size of dinner plates, and she freezes in Katherine's gaze for a moment before nodding vigorously. "Yes Ma'am." Hopping to her feet, she gnaws at her bottom lip for a moment" Kristiana Coleman. It's very nice to meet you, Ma'am." Not that she has any idea who the woman is...

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget has seen Katherine once, maybe twice before. One would be the night of the eclipse. Since then, Bridget's started to make a bit of a name for herself. Kristiana tenses at the presence of all that Divine Rage, the perfect sculpted splendor that is Truth's Meridian. Maybe she should have taken up that joint, after all.

The bumpkin mountain girl, the Albertan Fianna kin of equally strong breeding as the kinswoman beside her, the Queen before her. Bridget blinks a few times, her normally fierce, wild eyes glazed over a bit.

Howard was the conversation, now it has diverted to Kristiana, her Sister in spirit. Bridget only wishes she could be so composed, in-control. She wishes she had an answer for her question. A better question would be: Why are you drawn to two opposite men you don't intend to be mated to?

Bridget simply looks down and hands over the joint to the Ragabash.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She takes it back and takes another hit before passing it back over, giving Bridget a "what's this about" expression.

[Bridget Geroux] If Bridget was alone with Kristiana, there might be some gossip. If Cordelia was there, there would definitely be. So far, she's seen Sarita twice as well. Bridget takes back the joint and takes another hit. She has a mind to offer it to the Lady before them, and merely looks at her from her seated position, holding it out but not outstretched.

If the daughter of Falcon wanted to take the joint, she could very well. Otherwise, she could turn her nose at it if she wanted to. As for Sarita's look, Bridget pretends not to notice.

[Katherine Bellamonte] The Silver Fang, as the Strider knows very well is such already, as Katherine can detect what she is in return, though perhaps not as strongly, takes a moment to unbutton her hooded coat and slide it off. Beneath it; the young woman's [for she seemed, in body, no older than perhaps twenty-two or three] wore a very fine silk blouse in warm peach, paired with jeans and knee high boots. They had zippers running along one edge, and the heel made her already impressive height more so again.

She takes a moment; then returns Sarita's greeting with a head-tilt, a little smile bewitching her lips.

"Oh, bonjour indeed, how sweetly short an introduction you give, stranger. Allow me to present my own self, though pardon me if I do run on with things." Her attention deserts the Cliath in favor of the Kinswoman. Her attention quite fierce, but without reproach.

Presently.

"I am Katherine Isabella D'Albret Bellamonte, daughter of the House of Bellamonte, of the House of Wyrmfoe, and also by lieu of my good maman jointly a child of the House of Gleaming Eye. I am known as Truth's Meridian, Honor's Compass, Fostern Philodox to the Unbroken and Silver Fang tribe and I am your Elder in this city. I am also the Master of Challenges, and the Elder for all Philodox within city walls."

A beat; she sighs with delicate charm.

"So much to get through at first meetings. Now," she says, swatting the air before Kristiana playfully. "You arrived, when? And to whom are your House loyalties? I wish to know all about your time so far in the city. Do you have concerns? What do you desire to know of myself?"

She sits, then. Crossing long legs and folding her hands in her lap with an air of expectancy.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] "Right. Hi. I'm Sarita. You're busy, so we'll do intros later." She gets up, brushing herself off, and nods to Bridget before heading toward the door, off to the bathroom.

[Katherine Bellamonte] The daughter of Falcon raises an eyebrow at the joint, and politely defers. The Silent Strider departs, and the Fostern's eyes travel with her for a moment, she can feel the pressure between her shoulder blades before it slides away, back to those before her.

[Kristiana Coleman] "Oh." Oddly enough, she seems less nervous upon finding out who the woman is, but her posture and manners remain firmly intact. "I arrived just before Christmas. You no doubt spoke with our representative before my arrival, as my family did not wish to have me arrive unannounced. I have no concerns with my time in the city, and have found everyone to be very hospitable." Some more than others....

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget takes note and politely shuffles off towards the bathroom after the Silent Strider. There is some Tribal thing going on here, and as fascinating as it is.... this is NOT Bridget's cup of tea.

[Asha Singh] The door downstairs opens and shuts. Whoever is coming up the stairs after Katherine is now taking them in a headlong manner - heedless and fast, stomping on the risers if only for the pleasure of making some fucking noise. Katherine will sense the arrival before the others see her: a sharp, slight creature who seems to be the Frenchwoman's opposite in every way - dark skinned, black-haired, with dark wild-eyes - except for the haughtiness that seems to be carved into the bones of her face. The girl is wearing a bronze sequined dress that sends a wash of painted colors sparkling around the room and carrying something bloody in a ziplock bag.

As you do.

"Hello Kate." - says Asha, with a bracing familiarity, though her black eyes are affixed the whole time on Kristiana, as if they girl were a tasty morsel - a mouse, say, in a field - and she the raptor that stands as patron to their mad tribe.

[Kristiana Coleman] She holds her ground, though her gaze respectfully drops to the floor when Asha's eyes fix on her.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She's not in the bathroom when Bridget gets there. Probably came in just for the mirrors.

[Bridget Geroux] Damn, she mutters to herself. Bridget sighs and shuffles off to finish her joint in Room 8 and give the scary women in the common area some privacy.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Kristiana tells her that she would have spoken to her family's representative and Katherine's fair brow furrows as if she's straining to recall such an event. Whether or not she in fact had spoken to Ms Coleman's spokesman does not, in truth, appear to overly concern the Silver Fang. She is present now, and accounted for and the Half Moon; whose very one blazed in the sky outside, gifting her a more suffocating presence than ever, can update her records.

She was no Galliard; but she kept a tight ship.
This was known enough, by those of her ilk in Chicago.

"Mm," she comments, finally, a fine noise woven from her throat and runs the tip of a finger along her jawline, thoughtfully watching the girl. Asha; fierce, dark, carrying a warrior's fresh kill in a bag joins the meeting of Falcon and like the pair of her children they are; the dark and fair Garou watch their cousin with such eyes.

Such razor sharp attention.

"Asha, meet Kristiana Coleman, she is a new comer to our family in the city. Kristiana, I would have you know Asha Singh, my pack-mate and Full Moon to the Nation." The finger drops from her skin, and she settles once more. "There are others, of course, to be aware of. Some you might have met, some not. At present there only a handful of us to keep note of. Matthieu Louvel de Ponthieu, is a Galliard, known as Mirror's Whisper, there is Ivan Press, Resplendent Dusk, a Ragabash, and there is myself."

A moment, she cants her head.

"Are any of these names familiar yet to you?"

[Kristiana Coleman] Apparently, given the dark shade of red that she's currently turning. "Yes, Rhya"

[Asha Singh] "I met her before," Asha informs Katherine. Still staring at Kristiana, with the sort of fixed attention some Victorian lady might give to her collection of butterflies pinned against velvet. There is a certain lethal potential about the girl, though perhaps it arises from nothing more than her utter lack of regard for ordinary human body language. Take the staring, for instance.

"There was a very common person who was going to give her drugs, so I told him if he did I would string him up by his intestines from the Hestia. The small ones." Asha continues, with a quicksilver sort of smile, at last turning away from Kristiana to Katherine - beaming now. There is a flash of that vicious smile. "I told him I'd stuff the large ones in his mouth so he wouldn't starve to death while he hung up there." Clearly, Asha considers that a magnanimous gesture. A sort of noblesse-oblige.

"Thomas is coming up. He can introduce me when he gets here."

[Kristiana Coleman] Now she remembers Asha. Howard and Bridget and. Oops. She looks increasingly uncomfortable, forcing herself to stand absolutely still.

[Cordelia] Someone is tromping up the stairs. Surely, this must be Thomas coming up the stairs- Asha's herald. the one who gets to make with the introductions and announce her like she really deserves. Alas, when somene comes up the stairs, it's Cordelia... not Thomas. Which has to be a disappointment, because instead of someone who knows how to do introductions properly there is a tall, wispy blonde with awkward glasses and flushed cheeks.

Cordelia comes in the common room and looks from Katherine... to Asha... to Kristiana...

"... is everything alright?"

[Kristiana Coleman] (Oh thank god ;) )

"Cordie!" The relief in her voice is evident, and must have something to do with the bright maroon that she's blushing.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Now, Katherine was a quick witted creature; she was a Philodox, after all and her capacity to spot a falsehood a mile away was perhaps second only to a few notable others currently in the city area. She watches the manner the Kinswoman turns red; a clear sign of discomfort if not comprehension of her actions creeping up on her.

She is, therefore, making a study of the girl and her body language, perhaps plucking from her mind the name likely to have caused such a reaction. Asha informs her then she's met her before, and that some common person tried to issue her with drugs and she threatened to hang him up by his intestines.

She smiles; and Katherine returns it briefly, a flash of white teeth.

"Which name, Kristiana, do you know?" Cordelia comes in, and Katherine does not turn her face directly, but raises a finger to signal patience. "One moment, Cordelia. I am chatting with your Cousin." Katherine blinks, slowly.

"Do go on."

[Kristiana Coleman] She swallows hard, pulling up all of her charm school training to keep from stammering. "I am familiar with Matthieu, Rhya." Not Matthieu Rhya, not Mirror's Whisper Rhya. Just Matthieu.

[Katherine Bellamonte] [guys, do post! I'm just sending an email and then I'll have Kate respond. :) ]

[Kristiana Coleman] (I think we're kind of at a stand still until you respond, though...)

[Asha Singh] Thomas is just on Cordelia's heels. His footsteps are nearly silent, which is something important he learned in butlering school. Which is an actual school he attended. Also taught there: how to tie a cravat, how to maintain composure, a stiff upper lip while your master descends into blood and madness. How to serve tea to both harridans and tittering little girls. How to starch a collar. How to get the blood out.

So: Thomas, a handsome man, in his forties, blond hair graying at the temples, with smoke-blue eyes, a solid jaw, and a certain presence that is both solid and unobtrusive. He is wearing an excellent bespoke suit, crisp on his frame. Asha gives Cordelia a look because she can, but then retreats to Thomas' side. And nudges him.

Wisely, Thomas does not interrupt Katherine despite Asha's nudge. She whispers, sotto voce, "Why didn't you bring your stick?" And he replies, "I did not deem it appropriate."

It should be noted, Thomas' whisper is approximately 75 decibels softer than Asha's.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Some find her an intimidating creature.

Moments such as this, do shed some light on why that might be. In truth, there is nothing about how Katherine is speaking; softly, clearly, or the way she's sitting, legs neatly crossed, hands poised on her knee that suggest she means anyone present any harm whatsoever.

It's in her air, though. The charm and sophistication lend themselves to their own sort of menace, paired with those strikingly pale eyes of hers. The way they pin, much like Asha's, an individual to the spot without much effort. It simply happens, when she looks at you. She stammers, or tries very hard not to out the name of the Galliard and the Silver Fang before her nods, once.

Quite precisely.

"Very good, then. He is a noble one, Matthieu, he would guard you well. If there is nothing else that you wish to discuss with me," she raises a brow, idly, inviting. "Then I will invite my dear Thomas, and Cordelia into the conversation." It's funny, the way Katherine makes the common room suddenly feel like the welcoming chamber of a Silver Fang Court.

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget just... continues to toke up in her bedroom.

[Marni] So, she doesn't come to the Broho often. So rarely, in fact, that one of kin in the kitchen that she knows has her jaw openly FALL to see Marni when she peels off a layer or two and drapes them over her arm. There's laughter, and she is loaded up with a plate, and finally heads upstairs.

She is, after all, eating for two. (even if, at this stage, she looks like she's already eaten a rather large watermelon...)

So this is Marni: tattered jeans, with the top button undone, because there's zero chance of it buttoning around the 8.5 month swell of her belly. An oversized t-shirt, and socks that don't match. At the bottom, sturdy shoes and socks that don't match, and at the top, a mop of curls and dark eyes that twinkle with a joke no one else is privy too. She's got a coat and a sweatshirt over her arm, and a plate piled high with food in the other.

She stops at the top of the stairs to take a breath, before heading into the common's to find a seat she won't need a crane to get herself out of afterwards.

[Cordelia] So, she stands there. Steps away from Thomas and Asha and edges away. That qwoman is... intense. She inhales and puts her hands in her pockets. Cordelia is... definitely dressed down. Comfortable, yes. Glamorous? Certainly not. She pushes her glasses up again.

She watches as a pregnant woman comes up the stairs. Her brows raise, and the next thing that comes out is a half-voiced aww.

Baaaabiiiieees.

[Asha Singh] "He forgot his stick." Asha informs Katherine, and it is difficult to tell whether Asha is scandalized by the oversight or simply prefers to make a scene. "So we've got to go and get it before we can have a proper introduction. I don't think it's right otherwise. It's just not the same to clap one's hands. I like the stick. It makes a very proper rap against the floorboards. So we're going to go get it. We'll be right back!" she finishes, brightly, elbowing the poor gentleman charged with announcing her presence before she goes into rooms.

"If you are that concerned about propriety, Miss Asha - " continues Thomas, precisely, a hint of a smile cresting the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps you should not run ahead of me, but should instead allow me to precede you and announce your entrance before you have actually entered the room."

"Only - " says Asha, rather darkly. The bloody thing in the ziploc bag slaps wetly against her thigh. " - if you promise to bring it next time."

It seems that introductions must be postponed, once more. Asha goes stomping down the stairs. Thomas gives Marni a polite smile. And so on. In the end: out they go!

[Asha Singh] (must sleep darlings! night!)

[Paul] His hands clasp together in a single clap. Leaving that guitar to rest and linger in his lap. "Cordelia, you are the world to me. How that you know me best and can explain me so quick is beyond words. Bridget...hold your knickers...I'd fuck you simply just to make you quiver. But we're not talking about how shallow I am or how undeposed to decorum I should be. The simple truth...dear Kristiana... As Paul now looked to her "Im the bad guy..simple and true..I realish the part that I play..its my role and mine alone...Though I love the compainionship it brings. Im Paul, the Cad as your sister of flock so says...known to the nation at the moment as Thats Great...but Im sure it'll be Cad shortly...Bound to Coyote and really a horn dawg. I poach kin, I love women..and Im just a simple tom of Unicorn..It's truly a pleasure to meet you"

[Kristiana Coleman] "I didn't do anything with him. I don't know what he's told everyone, but I didn't." She levels Paul with as cool a gaze as she can muster, which unfortunately isn't much.

[Bridget] "Well at least he is honest," she mumbles, trying to look to Kristiana's obviously horrified face. She may faint. Bridget braces herself to catch the fragile swanling.

"That's Great," she repeats.

Kristiana says something completely confusing. "What's this?"

[Paul] "Oooo, who's he? And what dear fille did you nawt do?"

[Kristiana Coleman] "Whatever you heard, I didn't do" She's regained her composure, adding a hair toss to her words for good measure, eyes flickering to Cordelia.

[Ivers] Without a churning cauldron of Rage inside of him, when the darkening of the moon has brought with it a darkening of his mood, Howard is capable of entering a social gathering without drawing every single pair of eyes in the vicinity to him with his outbursts. Last night he had done it by simply arriving quietly; that was enough of an anomaly to quirk Bridget's eyebrow and have her climb over the back of the couch to investigate.

When he shows up tonight, it isn't as though he's stepped out of the Umbra or emerged from a shadow. He walks down the shore, dressed in the same--comparatively--boring black outfit he'd had on last night, Guns N Roses swapped out for a black t-shirt with a silver impression of Debbie Harry emblazoned across his lower left quadrant. Sunglasses are clipped to his neckline rather than clapped onto his face, leaving his green eyes visible.

The first thing out of his mouth is directed at Bridget and Kristiana: "See, I fuckin' told you."

[Cordelia] "Paul," she says, and her voice is infinitely patient, "it's probably for the best you don't press right now. You ease into these questions. She's probably just shaken up over last night. Kristiana's a good kid."

Her gaze flickers over to her briefly, but goes back to Paul without much fanfare.

[Kristiana Coleman] "What did you tell me?" The composure crumples like newspaper when she sees, then hears Howard. Gaia, what else did she forget?

[Paul] His hand thrusted out in gesture towards her. "For you fine fille..." Obviously he were addressing Cordelia "...I'll mind m'manners, staple m'mouth shut and think only of me you and five other possibles if that only makes you happy...I am, and shall be your slave...tonight at least" Chuckling before unclasping his hands with a nod of understanding and wink casted to the Fang. His gaze swept then upon all those now seemingly gathered.

[Bridget] The Canadian nods her head and gives a suspicious, "Mmmmkay."

Her tribesman emerges from nowhere like some distant echo from Punk Nights Past. The Canadian's eyes light up. She abandons Kristiana with Cordelia. They're pretty girls. They can handle it. She migrates to the Afrikaan (or whatever nationality he claims) and does exactly what she told Cordelia about Quebecois and The Cold: they cuddle. Bridget links an arm around her tribesman, then looks back towards the others.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says, also being oblivious as Kristiana to Howard's topic of conversation.

Her pouty bottom lip that met his last night has a nice fresh cut on it. It doesn't look like teeth marks, doesn't look like it is chapped. It is definitely a scratch from something sharp. The blood is fresh, but dry. Not a greivous injury, but a curious one indeed.

[Kristiana Coleman] She leans into Cordelia a little, linking her arm with the other Fang's when Bridget abandons her.

[Hatchet] The chain link fence at the edge of the bawn creaks, cold metal curling, and it leaves a soft shriek on the air that goes easily ignored, pressed like a flower into the background noises of the area. Someone climbs through, at first just a mass of shadow

and rage

that unfolds into the figure of a man, broad-shouldered and tall, carrying a rucksack over one shoulder. He starts to walk, and that walk takes him along the water's edge, til he comes towards the docks. There are people standing there, and the people just drip with breeding, enough to make you lightheaded, but the man doesn't faint. He just keeps walking, and then his booted feet fall with surprising lightness to each step on the boards of the dock.

He's wearing a thick black hoodie, and even if it's lined with fur or shearling it wouldn't be enough to keep a human being warm on a night like tonight, this close to the water. His hood is up, covering his hair, but the light beard on his jawline is a reddish-gold, more the latter than the former. His eyes are concrete, but not quite as cold as rock like that.

Two women with breeding of silver, cold and pristine and mad. One of stag's, snuggling up to the scrawny fellow that just sauntered his way over. The new one, the tall man with the gray eyes, tips his head. "'Scuse me," he says, his voice a baritone that's warmer than the weather and smoother than he looks, "either of you know if Reuben and Jenny Coltrane still run The Brotherhood of Thieves?"

[Asha Singh] The fence surrounding the Caern rattles sharply in the cold air. Warm enough even tonight that some of the snow is beginning to melt, leaving behind little piles of garbage, stones, cigarette butts in its wake like the moraine of some moving glacier. This slight creature emerges from underneath the fence. There's a spot or two of blood on the otherwise crisp cuffs of her white blouse - bright against the rich black wool of her finely tailored military-style coat, crisp rows of buttons gleaming up and down the both sides of the double-breasted coat like some Napoleonic officer's dress uniform. Standing, the dark-skinned, sloe-eyed little thing - takes the time to tug neatly at the cuffs of her blouse, pulling them into some order before she gives over her full attention to her kinswomen and the -

Hmmph. Asha gives Paul - who appears to be flirting with her blood the stink eye, then glances around. She wants to interrupt, but thinks that for the greater dignity of all, she really should be announced.

[Kristiana Coleman] Kristiana looks at the large man with wide eyes, clearly and obviously working her way in quick leaps from being slightly unnerved to being outright terrified.

[Ivers] "Course you don't," Howard says, after he's wound an arm around her shoulders. As far as bodies go, the Theurge's doesn't afford others much warmth; his Rage is not hot enough to burn through his flesh, to radiate outward from his clothing, and his mass is only worth mentioning due to how much of it there isn't. Paul, several inches shorter and a No Moon, could beat his ass without breaking a sweat.

His eyes are cast over her head, back towards the group, his interest not so much waning as simply bottoming out. When he looks back at the shorter woman, it isn't the vibrant red that catches his attention but the darkness of it against the pale of her lips. A frown creases his brow, and his free hand comes up to grasp Bridget's chin between his thumb and kinked index finger.

"That blood?" he asks, a second before a press of Rage comes out of the distance.

Neither Fiann has the purity of blood, the shock-red of hair, or the lilting brogue of accent, to identify them to each other. The Philodox's bearing, his carriage, his presence speaks of a rank that Howard will likely die before attaining, but the Cliath doesn't quaver. He does release Bridget from his dissecting attention and turn towards the newcomer.

Either of them know if Reuben and Jenny Coltrane still run the Brotherhood of Thieves.

"They were last night," he says, as though it's entirely possible that's changed in the last twenty-four hours. His accent, while not dripping green with Ireland's influence, could not be mistaken for North American unless he put forth effort.

[Paul] Paul rose his hand, almost dropped it. Yet his finger folded out in gesture. Towards Hatchet. "Hey buddy...I haven't seen you in awhile...tink last tiame I saw you was when you, me, Joey and oh hell what was that Gee Dubuwa bitches' name was? Doesnt matter..anyways..we got all a shit faced and were riaghtfully fucked. Howya doin and no good Monsuier..I can't answer that query cause I really have no diea who runs the place..Since Im seldom there..but niace to see ya again Bon'cade"

[Kristiana Coleman] Her hotel room isn't looking so bad suddenly. Her lonely hotel room. But her lonely, quiet, safe hotel room. She presses into Cordelia a bit more without even realizing it, trying to keep everyone in sight without moving too much.

[Hatchet] The man that is currently terrifying Kristiana does, in fact, have that effect on several people. If one had to guess -- and guessing is about all most of them can do -- he feels like an Ahroun. A Galliard at best, at most pleasant. To the gathered Garou he gives off a sense of authority, even without his name or rank given yet. You can almost smell it on him -- not just the strength, but the history. The ability to lead. The utter lack of need to prove it.

His rage does, in fact, radiate. It warms him. It warms those who get close enough, but no one is. He flicks his eyes over at Kristiana and Cordelia, sniffing the air once, then swivels his head back around to the Blondie fan and the girl whose breeding crawls up the back of his neck and grabs him by the hair.

He keeps his eyes on Howard. "Good enough for me," he says dryly, and gives him a nod. "Merci," he adds, and moves to head that direction. Paul goes off on a blue streak and Hatchet does pause, looking over at the single face he sort of remembers. Stares for a second, as though trying to place him, then gives a small upward nod. "Her name was Echo. Still is, if we're lucky. You wouldn't know if Joey's still in Chicago, would you?"

[Cordelia] She had a whole host of things she could have said in reply. A whole slew of things. There's a list, an absolute laundry list of things she could hae said, and she oepened her mouth and was ready to fire when, at right about that time she noticed a man who was tall, scarred, and had a nice voice coming up. He's polite enough. Makes her shut her mouth and smile something with closed lips.

"They do," she replies, "and they still have the best food on this side of town."

She casts a look around. Surveys. Kristiana is pressing into her, so she stands taller and a little more confident. She presses back, and notes... Asha. Who she hasn't met before. Who looks very nice and very, very, very intense with a mighty powerful stink eye that Cordelia didn't want to be on the receiving end of.

"I'm Cordelia, and this is Kristiana, it's a pleasure to meet you both," making her introductions (their introductions), with a distinctly not-from-'round-these-parts voice.

[Kristiana Coleman] Smile, Krist. Where are your manners? She manages a nearly full smile, nodding to Cordelia's words. "Yes. A pleasure."

[Paul] "Shit man I wish...If she is..that woman has my claws, breast, heart n soul...to follow in whatever massacre she liakes. She is my Evagalien..." With a snicker as his hand fell over his heart. But unlike many of the other garou, and much to his own chargin. Paul were perceptive. But only in moments he cared to reveal to others. "I tink we're scaring the young new fille's...nawt a good thang I assure ya. Cordelia" As he turned his attention towards her..probably to her dismay even. With a snigger. "Ya'll fine cheri's are safe despite the angst ya miaght feel from the liakes of he" With a definate point towards Hatchet, even unapologetically. "So don't be squirmin off just yet..we'ze got ample tiame and festivities to make any n all relax on such a blissful niaght of our mother Gaia's tranquility...meaning I got some E if that helps"

[Bridget] A man and woman full of rage come through the fence of an area she's never been allowed to traverse. But for now her eyes lock with her kinsman, whose rage echoes a recognition of her slight injury. She makes a small noise that might be a confirmation, or simply a natural response to the sudden flux of rage all around her.

She speaks with a very slight Quebecois accent on occasion. Only in summer when she's gotten too much sunlight does her hair ever reveal any slight reddish tone. But she certainly knows how to fry like a fair-skinned Fianna. The Welsh heritage is almost completely dominated by her father's side, who migrated as fur traders. It is very possible she may have very, very distant Algonquin cousins, which is likely why her breeding doesn't shine nearly so clearly as a majority of Silver Fangs. But it is still dizzying.

Bridget gets a good look at either of the other Garou that none of them have met yet. Bridget recognizes the woman from the cafe. She doesn't offer her hand, but pushes her hair to one side and lowers her gaze. Probably the most respectful gesture the part-feral moonbrain could give.

"Bridget Geroux... of the Red Deer sept," she offers. Identifying with her father's sept is a wise choice when you are a lone female kinfolk of significant breeding.

[Ivers] "All I got out of that was 'E,'" he says, quite possibly to himself. He gestures to Kristiana with a lazy finger that quickly decides remaining raised isn't worth the effort, his left arm still wound about Bridget's shoulders, "Which I would keep very, very far away from her."

[Kristiana Coleman] She's so obviously, painfully clueless, and doesn't appear to be following the conversation at all. "What? Keeping what away from me?"

[Paul] Paul quickly swung around, pointing his finger at Ivers. "Oh so you want some?"

[Asha Singh] Asha's eyes remain fixed on Cordelia and Kristiana. There's something about the way she does it, the way her black eyes are staring straight ahead as if some sort of invisible anchor kept her attention glued to the pair of them while she moves as she does not, with a soft, unerring sort of grace that offers absolutely no quarter.

"If you give my kinswomen drugs, I will see you hung from the bridge of the Hestia," Asha, quick and sure and soft - with this sharp winging glance at Paul, naming one of the larger hulks in the Caern full of abandoned ships. " - by your small intestines, with the large intestines stuffed into your mouth to ensure that you don't starve to death."

It is a relief, at least, for Kristiana and Cordelia from the intensity of Asha's dark-eyed stare.

Then she resumes her advance on the linked pair. "He's very common," she tells them, quiet-like, her dark eyes flashing. "If he offends you tell me and I will flay his skin from his bones and make you a purse of it." This makes her smile, sudden and savage - this fine-boned, fine-handed, fine-featured girl - full on to both kinswomen. "I'm - " a frown creases her brow. " - well, we should be properly introduced. I'll have to find Thomas first, though - he's much better at it than I am." - and so saying she will soon disappear blithely into the dark, absurdly looking for her herald in the ruins of the old docks so that he may announce her nineteen names and teeming ancestors to strangers in the middle of the night.

[Asha Singh] (Otherwise known as the: LIST HAS TO GO TO BED post. :) )

[Asha Singh] (LIZ CAN SPELL HER OWN NAME POST.)

[Kristiana Coleman] She makes a tiny squeaking sound, standing absolutely still under Asha's gaze.... is she holding her breath?

[Kristiana Coleman] (Which just proves you need sleep!)

[Hatchet] A gesture comes his way, apologies made by a Unicorn to two of Falcon's for one of Stag's. Hatchet doesn't so much as blink. He just stares at Paul for a few seconds longer until about halfway through the Ragabash's tear he turns and gives his attention back to those of his blood. Which is when he meets Bridget's eyes, at least for a moment. He is paying attention. It is not easy, being the focus -- however momentary -- of his attention.

"I've been there," is all Hatchet says to that, to the name of her father's sept. There's a beat of consideration before he adds: "I've met your father."

His eyes leave her then, though, perhaps a bit mercifully, as Paul and Ivers face off. E! Keep it away from her! Want some! Hatchet watches the two of them for a moment, then Asha's speaking up and he seems vaguely relieved and vaguely wary and entirely exhausted for a moment. He hangs back, as though waiting for someone to throw down a glove or some such, and then... Asha turns around and goes to look for her 'Thomas'.

Hatchet blinks.

"It is too fucking cold for this shit," he mutters, and starts walking off the docks. "I'm getting a beer."

[Bridget] "Le sacrament qui était en calvaire a calissé dehors l'ostie en tabarnac."

The Albertan has a potty mouth. It doesn't quite translate to the pristine French the girls are used to, nor the murky Creole influence of Paul's French. There's some reference to sacred items of a church.