Ornature

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] Her brows arch, just a hint, as if waiting for him to say something. He does, then, but it's a changed topic, and makes her mouth curl at the edges once again, bemused this time, rather then soft. It's comfortable, like this, resting as she is, leaned against her knee, propping herself up with it and her cheek resting on it. Although it gives her a slanted vision of the world, tilted far from being upright, the posture is relaxed, and although she's vulnerable, wounded as she is (and how wounded is hard to tell), she seems uncaring about that.

But that remark, something she finds funny has her head lifting from where she rests and makes a pointed look at her shoulder. There's a little surprise there, registered only in a curious blink as she notices that its now started to bleed through her shirt, something that happens over a course of such a long time that the increase of size happens too slow for the eye to watch. "So I am," she tells him, darting her gaze back towards him.

"What others?" Following his line of sight, she glances down the path, into the darkness around her. She doesn't twist to look behind her, it would pull on her skin more, uncomfortable and painful. Only after looking in the vague direction, she's glancing back to him.

"It's a few days old, " she tells him, "and it wasn't here that it happened. You're safe." This has come more seriously, thinking he was worried about the enemy that had caused her the problem rather then a pack of wolves that she should, by every right, be with.

[Dr. Alexander] The woman continues along the sidewalk, oblivious to the din of gossip and whose diamonds are passe, whose little pampered hellspawn is up to what new outrage, etc. There are two other blondes beside a park bench, both well-groomed and well-dressed as she. This isn't unusual. What is unusual is the spot of red she barely notices in this light.

Blood on a woman's shirt. An urbane man in a business suit peers towards the injured woman. The kinswoman stops and leans in to say something, not caring that she has no business butting in. Good Samaritan laws and allthat.

"Excuse me," she glances quickly to the man with his sharp suit and proud jaw. Her attention and dark eyes return to the blonde, injured woman.

"Are you alright?" she queries.

Her suit is too costly for someone of her practice. Clinical psychiatry pays well, but not as well as some industries, especially for one as young as thirty.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] [to make clear, Will is standing away from the bench Sarah is sitting on. Is Alexander approaching Sarah close enough to be leaning in?]

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] [and sarah is in safari shorts and a t.shirt.]

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] repost: Bleeding through gauze, spots on her left shoulder, close to her neck and down her shoulder blade, are darkening the blue fabric. The same is on her opposite side, down by her ribs, small and subtle, growing over the space of the day. It's not yet too obvious to a passing eye.

[Katherine Bellamonte] (Hey guys! Can I slip into this scene with you or have you enough folk already? I don't want to overcrowd!)
to Dr. Alexander, Sarah Madison Kerensky, Will Talbot

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] [it's an open scene. just a slow one. :) you can come on in.]
to Dr. Alexander, Katherine Bellamonte, Will Talbot

[Dr. Alexander] ((Yes she would approach that closely, but not like... terribly close or quickly))

[Dr. Alexander] ((Right, sorry about that. It was difficult for me to tell))

[Dr. Alexander] ((Well, still... either that or she keeps walking and vacates the scene))

[Will Talbot] "That's not what I - " this is the beginning of Will's reponse to Sarah's assurance that he is safe. The look he sends her is sharp and controlled. It sharpens when Erika approaches, well-dressed in the park on a warm dark night, in a clothing best suited to the crisp air conditioning of the museum's interior rather than the humid paths of the park. Not unlike his own. He's a tall man, with cropped blond hair and pale blue eyes that glitter but do not gleam in the darkness.

He is not an animal. He is only kin to the wolves.

Whatever else he meant to say is lost. Instead, he remains where he stands, by the railing overlooking the dark, glittering expanse of the lake, Blackberry in hand, still at the moment, though he holds it rather like a weapon in his strong hand. "She's fine," he answers for Sarah, then, glancing from Erika to Sarah in quick succession.

[Will Talbot] (Welcome to join but I am MTing! and slow! :()
to Dr. Alexander, Katherine Bellamonte, Sarah Madison Kerensky, snail

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] Suddenly, there's a woman that approaches her. It's not anybody that Sarah knows, and yet the woman, filled with Silver Fang breeding, is walking at her. Uncurling from where she sat on the bench, Sarah stood. She's not tall, but taller then Erika. Nostrils flare and muscles become rigid, prepared.

Then, she's being asked if she's alright. "I'm fine," she answers. The wording is curt, barely concealing the snappish edge to it. Will's tone is much nicer. Walking past Erika then, giving the other a small berth, she keeps eyes on the older woman as she begins to approach Will, moving to intercept any path from the stranger to the Kinfolk she does know.

"Who are you?" She asks of Erika, coming to stand still only a few feet from the tall, suited man. Her back is to him, but she hasn't blocked his line of side. She puts him to her injured shoulder instead. Subconscious as the positioning is, it's driven simply by instinct. The wolf in the woman strong enough to guide her better then human social graces.

[Dr. Alexander]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Dr. Alexander] ((wits + emp))

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Her name is Erika Alexander," comes a voice in response to Sarah's curt demand for identity. The voice comes in tandem with the clip of yet another pair of heels against the pathway winding from the Art Museum and its glittering function lights. The figure is taller in her heels, but then, she was already quite there on her own bare toes, her figure sheathed in a white cocktail dress with a plunging neckline modestly pinned together with a glittering clip.

The long strand of pearls wound several times around the neck perhaps gave Honor's Compass away as surely as her breeding did, to another wolf. That, and the familiar glossy waves of blond hair, secured back from her face behind an ear with the aid of a matching silver clip.

Red lips have twisted in some semblance of humor at the other Garou's query; her pale eyes flick between Sarah, Erika and then stray to Will. There's no disguising that her gaze softens a touch on the man, but only briefly. There and gone.

[Dr. Alexander] There are some subtle gestures most are not privy to... some that some even perceptive people can feel aren't quite right without knowing why. Today, Falcon's eye is on her side. Her finely-honed skills as a specialist in the psychoanalytic field dealing with shell shocked soldiers, rape victims, and the like means she knows certain signs like the back of her hand. Being a seasoned kinfolk only sharpens her skills with experience.

Yet with body language as obvious as Sarah's, Erika didn't have to have sharp eyes.

At this range it's quite easy to see the scars on the right side of her face and neck, the ones hidden partially by her hair and the dim light. Erika's body language changes entirely. Immediately, but slowly, she pulls back, eyebrows go up and eyes go down. Her hands turn upward in a non-threatening sign.

A voice rings out in the dark, one that's familiar to her. But she doesn't turn her head.

"Yes," she says softly. "Ms. Bellamonte is right. I am merely a psychiatrist, but I am well-trained as a medical assistant also."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] Another Silver Fang comes out of nowhere; this time it's a Garou.

Her eyes dart from Erika to Katherine, who answers a question not directed at her. Sarah isn't a fan of being flanked by strangers, even of her own Tribe, and certainly not in the mood she's in. Honey-browns glitter as she looks from one to the other, and her spine straightens that little more. Katherine eyes soften, Sarah steps a small step back, slightly over, blocks more of Will from view.

"How lovely." This, after Katherine's answer. Her heart is thudding under, quickening her pulse in her throat, creating a fine flush across her pale neck.

Erika continues with it, confirming who she is and what she does. It also tells her who the unknown Garou is, the leader of the Tribe here. Psychiatrist. Her mouth quirks, briefly; come and gone. She knows a few people that could use one of those. Herself is not included in that little tally. But the knowledge of it, makes her posture become less defensive, her shoulders sink a little, spine eases.

She steps aside, leaves Will in view again but she doesn't step away from him. "Nice to meet you both," she tells them, without a smile but a more pleasant tone then the earlier snap. "I'm Sarah Kerensky."

[Dr. Alexander] The psychiatrist doesn't move. Not an inch. Not knowing if this person before her is Garou or merely an unstable bystander. When in doubt, it is best not to stir the pot. Her downcast eyes flick over towards Will's shoes, then back to center on Sarah's clavicle.

"Yes, good to meet you, Sarah." The psychiatrist is careful not to provoke. She's not exactly comfortable being flanked by Katherine and a possible Garou (or else a hostile bystander).

Ah, well... such is the life. "Are you sure you don't want me to take a look?" the kinswoman asks softly. Her countenance is soft, non-threatening, relatively calm. Her brow drops a bit, and the edges of her mouth form a slight smile.

[Sinclair] It is hard to imagine a being like Warcry in a dress. Upon learning that she not only owned a skirt but would willingly and gladly wear it, her ex was almost in shock. The truth is she doesn't own a lot of skirts, or a lot of dresses. The truth is that tonight, when Katherine so graciously invited her packsister along with her to the benefit or opening or whatever the fuck that would have free champagne awesome I'm there, Sinclair didn't have anything that would be appropriate to wear.

So borrowed something. Which is why she's wearing the only thing Katherine could find that fit the occasion, fit the packmate, and covered up -- at very least -- the tattoo on her packmate's right thigh, if only because it would distract so much from the art. The fabric is some silk or satin blend. The length is just past her knees. The heels are also Katherine's. They aren't quite the same size but close enough. The makeup, however, is Sinclair. Dark, intense eyes. A light lip. Hair more windblown-looking, more wild, than an updo.

She's coming a few yards behind the Silver Fang Elder, muttering as she nearly falls, "...mother-fucking goddamn piece of shit high heel trying to break my fucking ankle..."

[Will Talbot] "Katherine," Will greets her over Sarah's shoulder, as the philodox approaches, the tone familiar, warmer, perhaps even fond. The kinsman does not remain half-hidden behind Sarah for long; and as she attempts to conceal him, she wll feel his hand lightly on the small of her back as he steps out from behind her. There are strangers, here. A glance from Katherine to Erika, lingering briefing on the blond woman - whose blood he cannot read, whose name he does not know - for a moment before it shifts to shoot from Sarah to Katherine.

Quite frankly, he assumes that they are packmates until Sarah introduces herself to Katherine. This pulls up his pale brows. He cuts a look between the two young Garou, something closed about his pale eyes, in the set of his crisp mouth in his rough jaw, the faint bristle of a beard the only thing at odds with his otherwise perfectly appropriate attire, the bepoke suit and the tailored white shirt, the silk tie, hand-made, hand-dyed, pulled loose around his collar.

Then, brows drawing together he glances down at the screen of his blackberry, clicks over and lifts it to his ear "Zdrastvuyte " he says, low, to whoever is on the other end. There's a moment of quiet, then another and he's nodding as if the person on the other end of the connection could see him. "If you ladies will excuse me," he says at last, holding the phone away from his ear. "I have to take this call." Russia's burning, after all. Sarah overheard him earlier: commodities, the price of wheat, the positions one has to extend, the shorted futures to be dumped not yesterday, but last fucking week.

"Katherine, you have my number." He says, as he fishes out business cards, offering one to Sarah, first. And then perhaps merely for politeness' sake - to Erika. "Good evening, ladies."

[Will Talbot] The business card reads:

William Edward Boone Talbot, III
Managing Director - Chicago Operations
Olyphant Templeton, LP

Private Equity Partners - Wealth Management

There are two numbers on there, too. One has a Chicago area code. The other appears to be the cell, with an NYC area ode.
to Sarah Madison Kerensky

[Will Talbot] William Edward Boone Talbot, III
Managing Director - Chicago Operations
Olyphant Templeton, LP

Private Equity Partners - Wealth Management

There are phone and fax numbers, both with Chicago area codes.
to Dr. Alexander

[Will Talbot] (Sorry folks! My chariot turned into a pumpkin an hour ago. :( )

[Dr. Alexander] ((That's ok))

[Ivan Press] "That may be true," it seems Silver Fangs have a habit of simply appearing, all dapper and dashing, out of thin air tonight, "but I think they make your ankles look very nice. Also, your ass."

A beat.

" -- Rhya."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] "I'm fine," she reassures Erika, "really. The gauze needs a change is all."

Will is leaving then, and she takes the card from him with a quick glance over it and slides it into the pocket of her shorts. "Take care," she tells him, watching him begin to walk off before she looks to the other two, no - three now, women. And a guy.

She's the only one that's in casual gear, fitting for a walk in the park. Canvas shoes and a blue t.shirt over safari shorts. Her hair is bound in a loose plait, strands of it escaping by the sides of her temples. She watches them for a moment, lifting her right hand to tuck it behind her ear.

It's Erika she focuses on then. "Thanks for the concern, though." It's not just for politeness sake. Perhaps there's a bit of an apology in the tone, too.

[Katherine Bellamonte] (ack, sorry all! had a phone call!)

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] [*decides to keep this character instead of changing* Who's posting up first!]

[Imogen Slaughter] (I'll post)

[Imogen Slaughter] Hot sticky days. Heat, weather, unpleasant. Chicago is disgusting in summer. The wind never stops, but it just grows hotter. It picks up dust and dirt and dried filth and carries it with it on the breeze. It sticks to the skin, leaving behind a film of the scab.

The proximity of water does nothing to alleviate the weather, and in fact, only seems to make the humidity worse, but at least the breeze off the lake is cleaner.

Imogen is pulling herself up a concrete embankment her hands planted on the balustrade, the muscles of her bare arms standing out in definition as she hauls herself up by the strength of her upper arms, at least until she can lift a knee over the edge, and find an easier method of getting back over to the pedestrian sidewalk.

She brushes off her hands and shakes out her arms, her gaze flicking down the walk and back again. The lake is at her back. Her shoes are muddied, as are the cuffs of her jeans. There's a jacket laid askew against the embankment. She picks it up, shaking it out before slipping back into it.

[Kora] The evening is hot, sticky and humid, even with the sun falling to a fat, hot ball somewhere in the west, behind the downtown apartment buildings, heat lingers like a haze through the park. This close to the lake, everything feels heavier, drenched in moisture, humming with insects that drone in the summer heat. The sky is partially occluded by heavy summer storm clouds, and there's a promise of rain in the air - that lingering sense of expectancy which can only be fulfilled by a sudden cloudburst.

"Doc - " the Fenrir is perched on the back of a park bench close to where Imogen's jacket had been discarded on the embankment. Her feet are on he seat, and she's neatly balanced between the seat and the back. There's a certain wry curl to her mouth when she continues, "I'm going to guess that you weren't fishing." Lifting her chin back down the embankment, the lake hidden below, she finishes, " - need help with something down there?"

There's a hot dog half-eaten in a wrapper close to her foot, and a bottle of water in her right hand. She's dressed for the weather, in a tank top that leaves the rather strong shape of her narrow shoulders bare, showing off what is clearly a farmer's tan, darker. Her forearms and the lower half of her upper arms are more tanned than her shoulders and upper arms.

[Kyle] Tugging at the leather collar around his neck, Kyle groans as he looks up at the sky. He could handle heat but this muggy weather bugged him big time. He was tempted to roll up his long sleevse on his shirt but remembering the looks he got last time he did that he decides not to freak people out. Absently he pulls an elastic band from his pocket and ties his hair back into a pony tail to give his neck a little more air.

Spotting a familiar figure ahead in the form of Imogen he casually wanders towards her and Kora. Clad all in black with that white pale skin he looks like a typical goth. Today he's sporting a new pair of silver rimmed classes with blue tinted lenses. Why someone would be wearing long sleeved clothes, heavy biking boots, jeans and a leather collar in this weather is anyone guess.

Once close enough he slips the guitar case over his shoulder so his hand can give a casaul wave in greeting.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] There's plenty of reasons to hate a city, and Sarah is discovering just how much she hates a city today. This heat, the moisture in the air, the filth of everything is almost strong enough to gag on in some parts. Out here it's not so bad. There's slightly cleaner air, coming up off the water, which isn't exactly freshwater even if it's meant to be one of the cleanest lakes in the country. It's not home. It's not woodlands and streams or tall mountains and valleys.

But it's where she is, walking along the path that will take her past Kora and Imogen. The woman climbing over the embankment had caught her eye. Sunshades conceal them, perched on a lean, pert ended nose. Sarah is dressed in a pair of shorts, volleys and a simple t.shirt. She looks like she should be in California.

[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly, glancing briefly in Kora's direction before looking down at her hands, the palms first, then the backs. Imogen dusts them off absently on the thighs of her jeans.

"False alarm," she says. "There's one bloody bloke who thinks everything is a tainted creature." She does not smirk though her mouth threatens it. Her eyes do not come close, as she turns her head to look back at the Skald.

"But one day he might be right, so."

Kyle approaches, and Imogen watches him as he does. "Kinfolk," she says, simply, quietly in Kora's direction, a word heard only between them. "Kyle," she greets him when he's close enough. There's no warmth there, though there has never been.

(Lost the rest of the scene!)

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] By the time Will comes back, Sarah has cleaned her hands and face with ocean water and had made her way over to the boardwalk to take a seat on the bench that hosted his shoes. Hers are no where to be seen, somewhere on the estate where she left them earlier before gallivanting around the tomato fields. She's sitting down and was in the process of fixing her hair again - it won't be perfect, but she's not concerned with that, having gathered the loose tendrils she curls it with the rest and rolls it into a clip.

When he comes back with the drink, she takes it from him with a gracious; "Thank you," and takes a sip from it, and several more as she rests back and crosses over her legs, smoothing out her dress across her thigh and knee.

"Are we missing much?" she asks him, turning her gaze from the ocean to the man that had been kind enough to go and fetch her some water after the self induced choking on the tomato and scotch combination, a very foul combination at that. There's sand between her toes, which she's wiggling faintly to grind some of it off.

[Will] "It depends," he replies when he returns. There is a mild thread of irony layered into the deep tones of his voice, which surfaces now, finds purchase in the twist of his mouth inside the 5 o'clock shadow tht bristles on his jaw. " - on what your definition of missing and much might be. I wouldn't presume to make a judgment on so short an acquaintance."

The water is Pellegrino, one of thos fat-bottomed green-glass bottles, with gas, as they say in Europe. It looks oddly small in his hand, particularly compared against the standard 20-oz servings of water or soda served in the States. He holds it by the neck. The night is humid enough that the bottle is sweating in his hand, the glass starkly cold in contrast to the warm damp air around them. He carries it in is left hand, and offers it to her carelessy. It should be noted - he dusts the sand off his feet and eases them back into his shoes - fine Italian leather, custom-made - before returning to the house party, and leaves them on, standing at the edge of the beach, where the boadwalk spills into the sandy path leading down the dunes to the waterline.

"What would you regret missing?" He's standing a handul of feet from her, the glass of Scotch in his right hand full again, refilled while he engagd in his mission of mercy. The question is sardonic - but only just - and his pale blue eyes trace the reflection of the moon over the waves rolling in to shore.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] She holds the bottle in her hand even after she's done drinking from it and watches him watch the water, her mouth twisted at his remark about the definitions and the presumptions of such. That she hadn't answered but only sipped from her water again, which really isn't water since it's filled with bubbles, but this isn't an argument she was going to have.

When he asks her what she would regret missing she let her head tilt back and her eyes close, fanning darker lashes across her cheek as she contemplates or envisions what it really was she might regret. With her sight concealed her nose and ears heighten, picking up the slack, and she can make out the vague smell of him over the sea on the wind. "Do you know in the movies," she tells him in a quiet, vaguely amused tone, "where there's always a mishap by the pool side and several ladies in evening gowns and gents in full finery are tossed inside the chlorinated water?"

Eyes peek open and slant his way. "I might miss that."

"Or," she continues, righting her head again and glancing towards him fully, her body twists so that her elbow rests on the back of the bench, all too casual for a lady in a dress, but she manages to make it somewhat dignified, "for someone to become absolutely paralytic drunk and start spewing about their partners affair, illegitimate children, with the full flare of sordid details that would outrage the host."

"That I might also miss." There's a beat before she adds, pleasantly: "And yourself, Mr. Talbot, what might you regret missing?"

[Will] "I have been to more of these events than I could count in an evening," he replies to her with perfect seriousness, his features composed, except for the the way his flat mouth twists, somewhere between bemused and sardonic. " - and, my dear young woman, I must regretfully inform you that I have never seen anything of the like outside the movies. So,"

The little speech is interrupted as he takes a small. lingering sip from the Scotch in his right hand. "I feel rather secure now in telling you that you aren't missing much." That, last, is dry as a martini. The peat of the Scotch is the dominent scent around him; that and some recently-smoked cigar, the fine sort, Cuban, imported illegally into the United States from abroad. Underneath it: his blood, which is rich as a child of the mad kings should be.

The look he gves her then is sidelong. He stands with his left hand in his left pocket, flaring out the custom-fitted suit jacket with casual aplomb. His hair is cropped close, short, and the moonlight that gilds the water in wavering lines of platinum light makes it seem silver, too. A trick of the moon, that - only a few threads at the temples show the signs of his age. There is the subtle suggestion of laughter in is shoulders, in the crinkles around his eyes in response to her returned question. Then, he rejoinder, with a bark of low laughter, "I make it a policy to regret nothing."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] "Your dear woman? Tonight is taking a rapid turn for the unexpected." The bottle is lifted again and she takes from it a sip, chuckling quietly as he tacks on that she isn't missing much now that she's explained what it is she just might. "I thought a much."

She looks over the bottle, turning it in her hand as she scans the label and make of it before setting it down on the bench seat next to herself. Her hands are brushed off before smoothing through her hair, and she gives an easy smile to the way his laughter barks out. "No regrets? You haven't lived then."

But that smile fades into something quieter, more serious, as she studies him. "Can you truly say that you regret nothing and strive to live your life that way? Tell me why? I'm curious. I could never live that way. I already regret not getting myself two tomatoes." She's relaxed in the way she's sitting, still crossed leg and spine straight, but body twisted and arm lounging on the back brace of the beach bench.

[Will] "Someone's dear young woman then," he corrects easily and thoughtlessly, with an inaudible huff of breath visible in the subtle flare of his nostrils.

They are cast in darkness, the lights of the estate brilliant behind them. Now and again an errant wind, some trick of the gardens or the wetlands or the dark mounds of the sand dunes brings back to them the sounds of the party inside. The clink of glasses, music from the string quarter in the ballroom, the jazz trio on the patio, one of those ribbons of laughter that begins life as a quiet thing, but soon enough ripples through the crowd the way a breeze ripples across the surface of a pennant.

She has him in profile, a near complete profile cheated when he cuts a direct look back at her, as he does now, half-way through her all-too-serious series of questions. His attention lingers, his expression still now - not closed, precisely, but far from open. When remarks that she regrets not stealing two tomatoes, he laughs again, easy, charming even, then returns, rather gently for all that, "A figure of speech, nothing more," Will's pale blue eys are narrowed faintly, his expression little more than a faint, private sort of smile - of which likely unaware.

Then he continues, still rather quietly, his deep voice a low rumble of counterpoint to the crashing wave. "I'm not in the habit of sharing my regrets, great or small, with a stranger on a beach, no matter how lovely the stranger or how idyllic the setting."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] His correction of himself has her laughing under her breath as she glances away from him and towards the water. This time, though, when he glances back towards her she looks at him. No more of these little fleeting glances of profiles that they are doing, her eyes are bold and light but not too pale; lighter then her brows and hair, darker then her complexion. There is an underlying thoughtfulness, a calculating mind beneath this easy laughter and careless facade. As boisterous as she may be, especially for a lady, she's solemn beneath it, as serious as any other Garou may be.

"A stranger is the better person to confide in," she tells him over the crash of waves and distant sound of music, "who better than one that doesn't have any expectations of you, that you may never see again, and who cares, frankly, for nothing of you? It's the most sound ear. Not one that would spread the word to your closest friends, who may react and change the dynamic of relationship thereafter."

"But-" she halts it there, "- it's all a little philosophical for tonight and I'm starting to sound like an old crone." The bottle is picked up from the bench as she drops her arm from the one behind her and uncrosses her legs to place bare toes back on the ground. "What do you say to a walk or a dance, because you're right, this setting is idyllic," this said as if she's just noticed it now that he's brought her attention to it. Her gaze casts up to find the moon and stars in the sky.

[Will] As she discusses the virtues of confiding in strangers, his gaze slips back to the dark strand, the sand glistening in the moonlight near the waterline, glittering above it, reflective surface of mica chips or glass or - he is considering this only passingly while she speaks, and the thought twists its way across his mouth. When she's finished, he cuts her another look. This one is minute, direct and unreadable. There is no comment in response to her suggestion, nor does he murmur some sort of reassurance after, underneath her comment about old crones.

Instead, he's quiet, which is to say: silent but for the whisper of his suit against his body as he considers the drink he has in hand. He lifts the old fashioned glass to his mouth again, swirling the amber-colored Scotch around to release the aroma and takes a passing moment to savor it, then holds out the glass, studying the drink speculatiely, before drinking it down, all at a go.

Then, he bends down, setting he glass beside her on the wooden bench. When he straightens, he responds, " - of course," casually and naturally settling his suit jacket around his body, smoothing out the subtle wrinkles that developed from his posture, arm abducted across his body, before offering her his arm. This is familiar, all of it. It has the patina of routine, when he crooks his arm out for her, giving her a direct, expectant look.

"Lady's choice," he tells her, that faint smile twistin across his features once more.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] "Since I'm the only Silver Fang that can't dance," she tells him, taking his arm with her hand in the crook of it, "I'll take the walk, otherwise it's going to ruin the picture." Barefoot and a little disheveled compared to his custom loafers, his crisp suit and his cigar scent, the shorter woman takes by his side and lets him lead the way. She doesn't seem to mind whether they were hitting the sand dunes or walking the boardwalk or even heading back into the party. Her drink, along with his glass, is left behind on the chair.

For the first time since coming across him, the woman then falls momentarily silent as she listens to his suit whisper and the roll of waves coming to clutch at the sand. Her hold on him is light and undemanding, like the Rage that is quiet under her skin; both of which have the potential to be much more. For all her vine wandering, beach walking ways, she still smells like some faint irritation of modern perfume. Irritating to her, anyway. Its in her clothes and hair more then in her skin.

[Will] "There are others," he assures her easily, then continues with a certain passing humor. "I've had the personal privilege of having each one of the Misses Delacroix tread on my feet on several occasions. Trust me," he continues, smiling dow at her with an easy intimacy, "it as deep honor, though not one I have any intention of repeating within the next decade."

He is broad-shouldered and long-legged: an athlete once, and natural one years ago. Now he stays fit, though some of his former speed and agility have disappeared, he still walks easily beside her. Conscious of both her smaller stature and her bare feet, he walks slowly, steering them onto the beach rather than the boardwalk and the manicured grounds of the Estate. There are, at odd intervals, torches set out in the sand, casting an oily vapor meant to drive away the mosquitos that flock to the shore. Their light is a harsh contrast to the soft waves of light shed by the moon over the velvet sea.

Except for the quip, Will seems content to escort her quietly, matching her silence with his own. There is just the sound of their feet on the sand, the crashing waves, the low, mournful call of a foghorn somewhere close, and the whisper of her dress over her skin, her bare feet in the sand.

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] It makes her chuckle quietly, the smile she gives closer to a grin as she considers his plight. "I don't envy you, really." There's a moment between that though, and anything other, as she pauses to listen to the horn blare in the distance and glance that way. It's a small distraction that passes her easily before she's focused on what she was going to say. "I'm sure some craftsmen has devised a party shoe with steel in the tip for those occasions. I can't say that I'd have the patience to be in them, though."

A few steps later, and she's looking up at him. "Do you ever get tired of it? The social expectation of your role." Which includes dancing and escorting Silver Fangs across the beaches, and all the other things that aren't immediate or spoken about. While she may be a Garou she considers his life, a Kins, she expects, though can't be certain. Even so, there's the role of his gender that she could be discussing, encompassing all of it.

For shorter legs she keeps up, but has noted that he's matched her pace - as well as he should. He's good at playing his part, whether it's natural or practiced she's not sure, or cares of. Most of the Tribe was this way, even herself for all her distaste of it. Some nights it got to her worse than others.

[Will] "The polite answer," he replies, in a tone of utmost seriousness, unmatched by the light in his eyes when he cuts her a cross-glance as they walk, gaze lingering as she asks him whether he tires of his role. " - is no."

This is a counter-factual statement; both of them know it, but he allows it to linger in the warm air around them unshaded by irony. Then, he continues, "Never. The true answer is: everyone does, even the Misses Delacroix and their rather extraordinary battle-axe of a mother."

He does not offer her his answer, though, allowing the polite and/or true answers to serve as perfectly reasonable stand-in for a more personal response. Will is conscious of where they walk; he steers Sarah around driftwood and other flotsam and jetsam on the beach with a careless ease that suggest it has become second nature, keeping their pace slow and their path - such as it is - meandering as it is - close to the waterline.

There's a certain shrewd cast to his features as he looks back at her, then, "Why," he returns, quiet, " - do you tire of yours?"

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] She's quiet as she listens to him, offering nothing yet, not for a long time in that. He avoids questions easily, which she's came to expect - not just by him but by most around. It's all that politeness, etiquette they say, an expectation of standard and never dipping below it in public, when everyone very well knows its not what happens behind closed doors. It's adults play acting that has become reality. Sarah finds it both sad and amusing, depending on her mood and the occasion.

For all that she can't dance, she follows his body as a shadow by his side, never jostled off balance or redirecting herself elsewhere. She slinks along beside him as if she were made for it, and she was, not necessarily for him though. She picks up cues subconsciously and reacts much the same. So it's an easy meandering walk they take, where bare feet avoid anything but sand, dry or damp.

"I suppose I will, at some point, and have done at others. I wouldn't say I tire of my role in the dutiful sense. But I despise that there's many that speak plenty and say absolutely nothing." Whereas she hasn't had a single problem sprouting about what she really thinks about anything and anyone around her. Not that any of it had been important, and really, it still wasn't. "Nor do I like the dressage that's required, and the expectations that go along with it. Why, for Gaia's sake, is all this necessary? To think on it, really, does any of this matter?"

"I suppose once it did," her lips purse here, light and with thought, and although her eyes are focused from glowing lamps to the darkest waves, her mind is clearly following a different path, "keeping order and a certain level of standard. But it's only we that keep to them now, and what good have they done?"

[Will] "You're young." There is a certain compassion in his voice when he says this that seems more genuine that anything else she has heard from him this evening. Or, rather: it all seems genuine, an engaging mask that well might signify that this stranger's depths are no deeper than others shallows. Still, when she asks him why must we or says speak plenty and say nothing, he says: you're young. As if she didn't know that. As if that were answer and explanation all at a go.

"You see the surface, and find it empty." They have passed the last of the torches a good four hundred feet back. Here is just the surface and moonlight. Will stops and then escorts Sarah in a great turn in the sand, leading her back, passed the field full of tomato plants from the neighboring farm's truck garden. The green leaves are silvered in the moon's cast light.

" - I'm sure I felt rather the same when I was your age. The surface, though, ripples with undercurrents. If Amanda Morgan Edwards can find the - fortitude, shall we say - to stand in the foyer and greet every guest with a smile after burying three sons," his deep voice is even as the rest. He speaks of the deaths as easily as he discusses tomatos. " - who am I to deny her the comfort of ritual?

"I am here," he continues, at some remove, "because I do business with and for these men and women, and it is important that they see me, and know me, and like me, and trust me. If you make a life for yourself outside of the tribe, I suspect you'll find things are much the same without as within."

[Sarah Madison Kerensky] "Young, you say, and yet old enough to carry the weight of the world and the expectation that a God has set on me to delve between the dirty sheets that's our society." This comes out, not sharp, but low and holds a darker humour then those before. Her look, brows raised, is almost daring him to tell her she's young again. "Who sees the surface and finds it empty?"

"I wasn't speaking of the ritual of comfort, because that serves a purpose. I'm asking what is the purpose of masking it all. Surely it can't be all for comfort, some soft silk so that they can wrap themselves in something pleasant while blood stains their feet." Her index finger has taken to sliding back and forth across the material of his jacket, to feel the fabric under the tip of it and scrap her nail gently across it.

"It seems... ridiculous. Not the Traditions and rituals, but the way this, here at the estate, that we've slipped out here to find a moment outside of it all, mimics a society that has nothing to do with our own. This is a human culture. I find it absurd that I can come to one of these after pulling entrails out of a living being, and act as though it's perfectly natural."

[Will] "You're young," he repeats, when she returns to him that daring look; he finds and holds her eyes now. Her humor is open, dark and daring. His own is closed; hidden behind the pale discs of his irises. Still, he finds her eyes and holds them, unflinching she discusses the blood that stains his feet and her hands. " - I hadn't realized you were Garou."

Will glances down at their intertwined arms, then, her index finger pale against the dark silk-wool blend of his summerweight suit jacket. His attention lingers there, his mouth caught in a rueful shape that gradually widens, untl he offers another bark of laughter, " - and I'm not entirely sure how I took on the role of defender of the traditions of the tribe. I'm going to bow out of that one here and now. If you really want answers to those questions, you have to ask someone else. I don't have anything else to give you on the matter except this.

"Listen, Sarah," his voice rumbles in his chest; maybe she imagines she can feel the vibrations of the sound waves in the cage of her ribs. "Life is short." Hers, shorter than most. "If you don't like these thing," he nods to the lights of the estate, now visible as a glittering arc against he hummocks of the sand dunes that define the immediate shadow of the horizon. "If you hate these things, don't go to another."

His voice is light enough that she'll never know how serious he is, in that moment.

[Will] Late summer and the sky is a brilliant, dying bloom, and the air is rich with the scent of jasmine and salt water and gardenia. Late summer in the Hamptons, Long Island at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean - the bucolic towns are choked with celebrities and would-be celebrites, with reality stars and muscle heads, with nannies and tutors and dualas and governesses, with au pairs and drivers and security guards and paparazzi. With, here and there, farmers whose families have farmed the same plots of the same land on this sandy island for centuries. Which means: more than one.

There are sailboats in the harbor and a private dock curving into the sound. Beyond the house, the slowly eroding beach sinks into the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean, picturesque as any Maine seaport. Here is an estate set well into the piny woods of the island. Next door, behind a row of trees that serve as a windbreak, a farmer's meandering field, tomatoes ripening in the sun. There's a small winery further down, the grapes trained to trellises in tortured, vining pattern.

The Hamptons have grown and grown and grown; most of fashionable New York City relocates here for the summer now. Out here in Montauk, though, the estates are larger, the houses older, the drives all private. The paparazzi don't venture this far north. Their quarry stays to the south, and the wealthy who live here are all too private in any event. Tonight, one of the Estates glitters, brilliant, thronged with - not celebrities and pseudo-celebrities and gossip writers and so on - but the wolves and their kin.

Will breaks away from a knot of men - glad-handing them as he goes, all careless charm - an Old Fashioned glass of scotch in hand, and walks down the pool deck, heading aimlessly through the grounds, in the vague direction of the ocean. Far enough away, out in the gloaming, he pulls a blackberry from his left front pocket and begins skimming through messages as he walks.

The night smells crisp and clean, the low hum of mosquitos and cicadas fills the air. Close enough, the crash of the ocean onto the sure. He is dressed formally - a crisp, bespoke suit and a silk tie, the knot of the latter loosened, just, so that it hangs faintly askew. The air is a hint too warm for the suit, though the ocean breeze will be cool and crisp by midnight, driving away the lingering humidity of the hot afternoon.

[Sarah Kerensky] She had ditched the party long ago, had meandered through the estates property next door, far enough away from the prying eyes that dark blond hair would be easily missed through the vines. Her bare feet have left little footprints in the wake of her path, and the summer dress that she wore had minimal dirt upon its pale peach colour.

Tomato in hand, she had found herself on the sand of the beach heading back towards the throng of people at the estate. Her hair was only partially kept in the french twist, the wind coming across the ocean had gently coaxed out long tendrils of hair by her ears, more at one side then the other. Bare toes, painted a naked pink were lost in the soft white sands, continuously dipping under the grains as she walked across the dunes. Unsteady as most people can be on unstable, moving grounds, Sarah has a little better footing, walking slow and unhurried as she is.

Another bite into the ripe tomato has her other hand catching juice and preventing it from spraying any further then on the immediate part of her chin, protecting her clothing below the lower collar line that dips below slender shoulders. She uses her thumb to wipe moisture from below and on her lip, chewing slowly as she spies the figure coming out from the estate. There's still enough distance that some features are lost, but she can make out his suit, his tie and his general appearance of height and structure.

Her own is slight, at best 5.5, not as tall and imposing as many Silver Fangs can be. She is slim too, but the design of her dress gives her a waist and accentuates her bust. It makes her look as feminine as her features are. Not quite delicate, though, because those features are also sharp, from the high arch of her brows to the light upturn of her nose.

[Will] Will is tall and broad-shouldered. In the darkness, with dusk spreading deep shadows across the dunes, heights and distances are distorted. Still: that much is clear. He has an athlete's frame, tall and strong, maintained by regular visits to the gym. His hair is clipped short and blond, the failing light catches it and sets it on fire, making him look - from her angle - as if he were wearing a halo.

Beyond him, the squat shadow of the estate, the dark shadows of the whispering trees, and the great vault of the sky gone to smoke and cream and fire as the sunset plays itself out in the west. To the east, the ocean is a dark, smokey blue. The horizon line in the distance is lost in shadow, the darkness broken here and there by the shifting light of floating buoys marking out the channels, warning sailboats away from the treacherous rocks.

The boardwalk from the Estate dips into a hollow before it rises over the dunes that protect the grounds from the highest of high tides. His shadow disappears below, and then reappears as he surmounts the height of the dune, pausing where the boardwalk through the boggy land ends, spilling out onto the packed sand of the beach proper. There, he stops long enough to bend down and pull off his shoes, tossing them carefully aside onto a teak bench lining the path.

If he saw her shadow earlier, he made no sign. Now, though, she can see the way his head turns to track her position on the beach. He still has the scotch in hand, held casually across his body, and he stands there quiet still for several long minutes, taking in the empty beach, the constant movement of the ocean - treacherous, now, as the tide begins to change, churned up by a storm somewhere out in the Atlantic.

Something shifts in the architecture of his frame, and he begins again, down the path worn through the dunes to the beach. The stranger does not alter his trajectory to intercept her; nor does his change paths to avoid her. Call it, if anything - a coincidence - when their paths cross within speaking distance - he with his scotch and she with her tomato. He lifts the former in the suggestion of a toast - or maybe simply a gesture - toward the ocean.

"You must have been hungry," he observes, his features lost in shadow. "I'm not sure I've seen anyone eat a tomato like an apple before."

[Sarah Kerensky] Closer. More features are marked out in the growing dark, and although she can't tell what colour his eyes are or what may or may not be in them, she can make out the shape of his nose and the complexion of his skin, good enough is her sight. Her own aren't blue or gray, nor are they dark, but a honey coloured brown with hints of green - only in the right light, which is not out here where a storm is brewing in the sea.

"Haven't you?" She asks this after the tip of her tongue dabs at the plumper middle of her lower lip. "You're missing out." There's still half a tomato to go and there's a guarantee that there's been plenty of juice, wet and dry, left on those fingertips, in her palm and the webbing between her finger. Sarah has stopped to talk, she doesn't just walk on by, taking his remark as an invitation to linger by and converse, even if she's looking beyond him now and facing the sea. This angle has the wind blowing loose hair away from her face, making it easier for her to eat.

But she doesn't do that yet. Instead she lifts her hand, offering. "Do you want to try?" There's some daring in that mild manner in which she asks, more in the way her brow hitches an inch and her mouth quirks with the slight cant of her head. "I promise that I don't have rabies." Go on.

[Will] He's a stranger, though he has the sort of rugged good-looks that men settle into in their thirties. It has been 12 hours since he shaved, or more, and his chiseled jaw bristles with a new growth of pale hair. His stance is loose and confident; he's facing the ocean directly and cutting a look at her, aslant. There is a certain scent to him now; the close jostle of the crowd of well-bred relations inside, the smoke-scent of the excellent single-malt he's drinking - an Islay, peaty as a red burn cutting through the Highlands - and something richer, deeper that she may or may not recognize.

"Thanks," he says, rather mildly for all that, although she can see the shadow of faint smirk cutting across his cheek. " - but no thanks."

He holds the drink he carries at a right angle across his body, elbow bent, his arm bisecting the well-cut line of his suit. She offers the tomato, the half-a-tomato, and he remains fixed to the sands, still warm from the sun, damp here and compacted from the high tide. " - but I'd never pair an Islay with raw tomato," he tilts the glass vaguely toward her by way of explanation. "maybe a Speyside. Never an Islay."

His regard changes, shifts - sharpens on her profile as she arches he brow, and the smirk slowly fades from his face. From what she can read of it: the cut of a strong jaw, the glimmer of narrowed eyes, some pale color, all further definition lost in the shadows. "Not a fan of the Masterson's caterer, are you?" He says, in a tone and temper that tells her he's marked her as a fellow guest at the estate.

[Sarah Kerensky] The moment he is declining her generous offer she's retracting her hand and bringing it to her own mouth to take a bite, smaller this time, and since she's already eaten half of it there is less juice to spill everywhere and more soft flesh for her to chew upon. She does this slowly, while he's talking to her; telling her he'd never pair it with what he's drinking, as if she cared for mixing wines and ripe fruits.

By the time he asks about the caterer she's finished her mouthful and offers him a quick sidelong glance that has an accompanying smile. "Add too much dressings and you loose the original intentions, and there is nothing wrong with the simplicity of something already quite perfect in and of itself." This would happen to be the tomato that she nods towards, raising it towards her mouth again for another bite of sharp teeth, nipping the thicker skin from the greater part and swallowing it down again.

This time when she's not eating, properly aside from eating it whole and by hands, she's looking away from the ocean to turn to him fully. "I'd offer you a hand, but I'm sure you'd appreciate that I didn't," given that they're invisibly messy. "I'm Sarah."

[Will] "I've never been a fan of original intentions," he tells her in response, an air of careless irony about him. His chin is held upright, though, an his eyes are on her as she shares her theoryof simplicity and perfection, perfection and simplicity. His eyes are affixed on her profile, rather than the ocean in front them, as it drills the shore. " - to be perfectly frank."

Rocking back on his heels, he offers another gesture with the liquor then lifts it to his mouth for a drink. The scent is strong, unadulterated and undiluted by ice or water. His smile is a flash of white, even teeth against the darkness, a practiced carelessness. "Will," he offers back, when she gives him her name. "Will Talbot."

Were they inside the estate, were she not eating a tomato, barefoot and sticky-handed, he would offer her his card, make some remark about his relations. What was it he said to someone, once - he might forget names and faces, but he never forgets fortunes. He's still a deep-voiced stranger, even if she places the name. Some kinsman. Some family, connected by some loopin branch to the rest of it. They have heralds and geneaologists for a reason.

"And if you offered me your hand," he continues, after a rather deliberate beat. "I'd take it."

[Sarah Kerensky] "Well, then, I'd hate to be rude." Her hand is offered out, the tomato resting in her left and her right extended towards him, casual rather than imposing. There's not a great deal of Rage about her to be sure, something easily overlooked. The glint in the eye is less so, a particular gleam that catches in the right light, differs her from any other human around. Sometimes, not always, she's more of an animal playing at human, as it is, tonight she is simply going through the motions. Admittedly with a bit of interest in the older man wandering away from the gaggle back and beyond.

"It's a pleasure, Will Talbot." Which was honest enough. She rather liked it out here rather then brushing shoulders with the masses, which she had done plenty of over the course of the night and grown quickly tired of. Out here, with the stolen tomato almost finished, with the picturesque views it had filled her with a quiet pleasure, one she could admire along with a handsome stranger named Will.

[Will] Look: shifts the Scotch he carries from his right hand to his left, and he takes her small hand in his own, rather larger, the palm unexpectedly calloused. Otherwise, though, his are not a workman's hands: well-groomed and precise. Stones of some sort glitter in his cufflinks, and he can make out the suggestion of a monogram on the cuff, a neat scrawl of arabic letters embroidered against the white.

She can make that out if she looks down. He'd rather she didn't. He holds her gaze quite directly as they shake hands, his own just damp from the condensation forming around his old fashioned glass, shifting his weight over the hard-packed sand to step closer to make the gesture more intimate than casual. This is instinct, too, this sense of easy rapport, the way he looks her over again and frees her hand at last, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, feeling the tackiness of the spilled tomato juice against the calloused pads of his fingers.

"So," the glass is shifted back from his left hand to his rgt as he steps back, settles into the wide-legged stance, " - since you so generously offered to share your tomato," the edge of his grin is evident in the arch of his brow. Otherwise, his rugged features are still - just this intent, long-seeing look turned on the ocean rather than the girl beside him. "The rules of etiquette dictate that I should offer you some of my Scotch."

His nostrils flare with a laugh that otherwise finds no voice. It could be just a sharp breath. The joke, whatever it is, remains private. He does not share.

[Sarah Kerensky] She does have a much smaller hand and instead of a cuff there is a bracelet that is much too delicate to be around a Garou wrist, which sparkles when under the light, the shine of diamonds lost out here. The grip is light as she shakes his hand in a slow rather then brisk manner, letting go after he does. In that moment where he had stepped closer the woman's chin had been tilted up so that she could look into his features from her shorter height. Her eyes are expressive, currently quiet and smiling, meeting his gaze directly.

When they're done, she's popped the rest of the tomato in her mouth as she glanced off towards the water. She swallows just in time to chuckle at his remark and swings her attention back towards him. "Etiquette would dictate we be by the poolside, too. But, let's see if an Islay, is it? Tastes well with tomato, courtesy of the next estate over." Her hand is out again, ready to relieve him of the scotch he has in hand, fully intending on taking a sip of it even though he had not offered in all but jest.

She licks the middle of her lip, the upper one this time, where it dips in sharply. If she had any lipstick on earlier its far gone by now, leaving them a pale rose against her unblemished skin - which has a hint of a dark, small mole on the side of her chin and another on her cheek, both of which are on the left side of her face. Beauty marks, they were once called, small and easily overlooked.

[Will] "Etiquette be damned," he replies, carelessly looking back to her as he holds out the Scotch. The vague smirk lingers on his mouth, pressed between the bristle of his later-than-five-o'clock shadow. Given the precision of the rest of his grooming, that may be a deliberate choice he has made. Regardless, he holds out the glass of Scotch, the scent sharp and peaty as the liquid is jostled against the side of the glass by the motion.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Scotch drinker," the lance of humor lingers in his voice. He doesn't say what he would have pegged her as, but he does watch her, closely, rather shrewdly, as she takes the glass in hand. " - you'll have to tell me how you like it."

[Sarah Kerensky] Sticky fingers find the glass around the middle and pluck it from his giving hand with a quick, large smile. She raises it to her mouth, not to drink from right away, but to inhale the scent with a slow flare of her nostrils that fills her lungs with the scents found within, rather then the salt of the sea and the tart sweet of the juice on her fingers. When she's satisfied and the scent is still fresh in her nose and on the back of her tongue, she takes a sip from the glass. Not a small one, as if she was afraid of what the glass may behold, but as casual as one might take one of water along with their meal.

The taste hits her, and he can see it, even if he wasn't watching as closely as he was, register on her face. Wrinkles appear at the bridge of her nose as it screws up entirely, her mouth twisting as she refrains from spitting it back out or laughing - perhaps both, and her eyes water in a shimmering gleam. She waves the glass back at him for him to take in a hurry, her other just short of pressing to her peach summer dress, pretty and light for the evening party.

She swallows and immediately makes a sound, "Blerk!" or something like it, her head shaking as she steps away, tongue coming out as if her teeth could scrape the taste of it off. Her shoulders shudder with the one that crawls up her spine and toes curl in the sand with her bodies effort. The tongue wags a little more as her throat makes another of those yucking, unpleasant sounds, before it dissolves into a laughing:

"That was revolting." Teeth flash, and although she gives another little shudder, she's quickly smoothed herself out, expression animated with easy, rich humour, which carries in her continued laugh. "You were right; tomato does not go with Islay."

She tosses him a brilliant smile, part over her shoulder as she begins towards the unsettled water at the edge of the sand. Maybe, he might think, she's going to wash her mouth out with that awful sea water, which may taste better then the mix of tomato and scotch that had to have been unpleasant in her mouth.

[Will] Will reaches out easily, laughing now, the unbuttoned suit jacket swinging with the movement of his body as the accepts the Scotch back from her while she struggles and chokes. He, very much the gentleman, simply - takes back the glass and again abducts his arm across his body, the liquid gleaming dark against the white shirt, the dark coat, the half-undone tie. He seems to be inclined to allow her to cough and sputter her way back into order, until begins down the beach, where the wet sand dissolves into sodden sand, and the waves churn in disequilibrium.

"You can't say I didn't warn you. But wait - if you need to cleanse your palate - " the laughter is still in the swell of his deep voice; it comes from his chet, rumbles through him, " - wait here. I'll find you some water that isn't salted." Indeed, if she looks back, he's already half-turned to go - back to the party, back to some cater-water with a tray full of pellegrinos, their precise dark green bottles familiar, bottom-heavy.