Ornature

[Missing the first half of the scene!]

[Trent Brumby] The way he responds to her, that flat line of his mouth, the way he looks away from, the thrill inside him going sour and wrong imprints itself on his face, twists his mouth, darkens the light in his eyes. She's still now, grown rather more still at his silent reaction. The way he pulls back from her, withdraws just so from the space between them. The way he watches the breeze dancing through the curtains instead of her eyes and her mouth.

He always watches her; sees her the way no one else can or will. It is no small thing that he looks away from her now. That he picks up his knife and his fork and cuts precisely into his multigrain French toast, with cage-free eggs and organic cinnamon in the batter.

Her toes still over his, and then withdraw. She is breathing more sharply now, her heart beating quickly inside her chest. The moon has changed, now. Shadow has eaten away at the full and now there is no more in the sky, just a void - so the pressure inside her doesn't come from her rage or the tidal rhythm by which she is pulled, just here. Just now.

Two of the tests he purchased are in the medicine cabinet, tucked amidst his old pain prescriptions from his injuries earlier in the summer, his toiletries, behind the mirror. The others, god knows what she's done with them. Every time he gave her one she went just a hint stiff and kissed him on the cheek and said thank you and that was that.

Now, she pushes her chair back from the dining table, wipes her mouth with her napkin the way people do in movies, on television shows, never in real life. She stands up. Her hands are shaking, like someone with stage fright about to go on in front of a thousand people, like some reluctant witness about to take the stand. The tremor is subtle but present, the sudden excess rush of adrenaline opening her in her veins, coursing through her body with every beat of her heart.

She slides them into her front pockets, that familiar, easy gesture that now looks somehow awkward as she disappears down the hallway into the bathroom, silent except for the slap of her bare feet on his hardwood floors.

[Trent Brumby] He glances towards her when she reaches for a napkin and wipes her mouth. His gaze drifts across her face and meets her eyes as she moves back from her seat. Still holding his cutlery he stills as he watches, swallowing down his mouthful of food as she begins away from the table and down the hallway. The shaking of her hands makes him feel guilty.

Once she is gone he sets down his cutlery and rubs his face with his hands, sighing quietly as he rests an elbow on the edge of the table and rests his brow into his palm. There's a war of emotions in him and he's on the verge of getting up and following her, to tell her that she doesn't have to, and that he's sorry for pressuring her. But there's others too. He wants to know. Needs to know. That they both should.

Dropping his hand down, he leans back in his chair and waits with a knot in his stomach. He watches the drape in the breeze again, silent and listening out. The television is louder then any sound coming from further in his apartment. But he listens out for anything from the bathroom.

[Kora] Trent is left at the dining table alone for five minutes. Longer maybe. There's no noise, except maybe Kora putting the toilet seat down, both the ring and the lid. Dinner cools slowly on the table. Outside, the sounds of the city shift and change as full night falls. It's cooler now. There's someone on the street shouting. The sound of a car backfiring, or gunfire maybe. A siren, someone else's television program drifting back through the ordinary night.

What Kora does when she is alone is quite simple. She finds the two tests where they are tucked away among the linens, opens the first box, unfolds the tissue-paper thin instructions, with their close crabbed script and half-dozen precautions and instructions and caveats and warnings and legal regalia, each repeated in three different languages.

And sits there, cross-legged on the toilet seat, her elbows on her thighs.

And reads.

And reads.

- and reads. She reads every line, breathing slowly, letting herself think about knowing, which is right, underneath, in this strange and animal way. The bathroom is quiet, almost hermetically sealed. She's still. There's just the sound of the her breathing, her fingers on the paper, the television in the background, heard through the bathroom door.

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opens again. Kora's barefeet on his hardwood flares are a quiet, subtle slap against the floorboards. She ghosts down the hallway, pauses at the table, grabs her nearly full glass of juice, and gives him this - little look, this tremulous little smile that seems fragile until widens, wry.

"Turn up the television," she directs, a flush underneath her skin. "The volume, yeah? I don't want you - " but it's uncomfortable, in this strange and wholly human way, and the flush deepens and she tucks the glass of juice against her body and disappears back into the bathroom where she seems to have camped out as she drinks the juice and reads the second set of directions.

---

When she comes back out with an empty glass of juice, the whole thing has taken an absurd amount of time. Dinner's cold, the maple syrup is sort of congealing on the plate, starting to crystallize. Her hands are damp from washing, and she dries them on her thighs like a heathen and she says to him not yes or no or anything else.

Just, "So," she breathes out, short and sharp, lifts her dark eyes to him in a sidelong glance, half-shadowed by her pale lashes, " - how accurate are those things?"

[Trent Brumby] She's taking awhile, and the food is getting cold. It wouldn't do for him to just sit there, so he gets up with the single minded purpose of starting to put the food in a warm oven. Kora may be too absorbed by the details of instructions to pay much attention to the shift of crockery as he moves about keeping himself busy.

But when she comes out, he wipes his hands on a kitchen towel and slings it over his shoulder as he walks towards her. There's question in his eyes, and his stomach is curled into a tight knot by this point. He can't remember the last time he was anxious like this. Pale eyes flick to her hand as she picks up the juice and then up at her face as it flushes and then some more. She's stumbling over words and leaving him confused, and he doesn't understand until she walks back off towards the bathroom.

Goddamn it. She hasn't even done it yet. Huffing out a sigh, feeling strung out, he walked over to the television and turned it up loud enough that next door neighbours are going to wonder if he's suddenly gone deaf. Leaving the living area then, he goes back to putting food away to be eaten and keeping himself occupied.

She takes forever, and when she comes out the next time he's sitting on the arm of the couch, looking like he needs a cigarette and a bottle of whiskey by this point. He looks up at her, less expectant than last time as he schools his expression. "They're ninety-eight percent accurate, or thereabouts. There's blood tests that can be done that can tell you, but ... I wouldn't recommend those." His smile is short lived, nervous.

[Kora] The television is so loud now, that she reaches past him for the remote and hits the mute button. He looks up at her, haggard but careful, his pale eyes still, his expression composed, the agitation lingering underneath his skin.

He tells her more than she needs to know - about blood tests that he wouldn't recommend. She cuts him off before he's finished the sentence, reaching out to touch her fingers to his thigh as he sits on the arm of the couch. She's standing no, an arms' length away, but she inches closer. Half-an-arms' length now, as she finds his eyes, shuttered a bit from the strain of being out here while she - thought her way back into her body, while she read every last word typed into the thin paper tucked away and folded into halves and quarters and eights and gives him this direct look, meeting his gray eyes, standing cross-wise to him, and says just,

"Yeah," the edge of the half-smile fades. She's still and even somber, the beginnings of a thoughtful look between her brows. It's not a frown, not yet. She's watching him in that still, sure way though. "I am."

[Trent Brumby] Instantly he's quiet when she touches him and comes closer. His head tilts so that he can watch her without anything between them. He's waiting with his heart beating hard enough that if he was a thinner man she would have been able to see it pulse through his flesh. As it is the veins at the side of his neck is throbbing, and his hands, curled to the sides of his legs resting on the arm of the couch, have his fingers curling into the fabric. He's still, too, breathing deeper and slow.

"You are?" He repeats, breathing out through his mouth. "You're pregnant?" Is that what she means? He doesn't want any mistakes or misunderstandings. Was she asking something else? Something about the blood tests or? His brain tries to catch up to the situation. Already once she had fooled him running back off into the bathroom again with her juice when he had thought she was coming out to tell him whether she was or not.

And now that she is, he's not sure that is what she's saying. If he was being more rational, he'd know it. But there's nothing rational about waiting to know if a woman, a Garou, is carrying his child. Especially not when he comes from the Tribe that he has and the sort of cultural upbringing that comes with it.

[Kora] He repeats her affirmation as a question and he is sitting there, his pulse throbbing hard enough that she can see it move, that she can imagine the way his heart is beating somewhere inside the cage of his chest. It is a muscle like any other, four-chambered, with a didactic, echoing beat. All she sees is his pulse. He's still just like she is, and it's quiet her, the shadows moving mutely on the television absurd without their voices, divorced from the present.

There's this moment where she laughs, her mouth curling around it, one of her swallowed laughs, more of it living in her body than given voice in her mouth and throat.

"I am," she repeats, her fingers spreading out over his thigh, her palm flattening against his tense quadriceps. Except for that touch, her palm warm aganst his thigh, warmer than his skin, she's still half an arm's length away, but the hint of laughter warms her otherwise still expression, gleams in her eyes. "I'm pregnant."

[Trent Brumby] "Oh my ... " the rest fades away. He can't believe it. Eyes become wider like saucers and he breathes out in a pant that breaks that stillness in his body and makes it thrum with energy. There's no way to describe the way his face lights up. The olive undertones become more evident as his skin glows and his eyes are bright as they dart from her smiling mouth, down to her flat stomach. He's amazed and thrilled, and so much more that he couldn't ever contain it. But his blood sings.

He reaches out and grips her by the waist, sliding from the couch to lower himself enough, and brace his back against the arm of the couch in some awkward way, as he kisses the material of her top right under her navel. "You're pregnant." Fingers flex, hold her tighter, staring as if he could see through cloth and flesh alike to the little bud that's growing inside. Folding his head forward he rests his brow into her stomach and breathes against her, eyes closed. His throat constricts a little and his world is dizzying. He can hear the blood rush past his eardrums, his heart thudding hard enough he's not sure he can contain it much longer.

His hands slide around to her back, cradle her in as he pulls her in against him, pinning himself between her body and the couch arm at his back. He buries his face into the flat of her, rubbing hands along her back as if it could soothe her, apologizing for his behaviour, or maybe just because he's suddenly got all this living energy that he doesn't know what to do with it.

[Kora] There's something provisional in her expression, the suggestion of some live-wire thing underneath the warming laughter, evident in the way she holds herself apart from him that dissolves with his reaction, all the firm chemical bonds holding all that fraying connective tissue of her awareness and her - not alarm, not fear, just something else, sharp as both but different in tone and quality - underneath her skin are broken down, liquified, bathed in the strange, perfect solvent of his simple, heart-wrenching delight.

She's closed her dark eyes as he finds and kisses her stomach through her cotton t-shirt, which is taut, fitted against her long, lean frame. There's a sliver of pale skin between the dark hem of the t-shirt and the waistband of her jeans, which skim her hips rather than fit against her waist. Her fingers slide into his hair, twist through his half-curls, the gesture utterly familiar, soothing, the suggestion of strength in her hands as she holds him against her body, feels his breath against her skin, warm, and imagines she can feel his heartbeat through her clothes.

Maybe it's her own.

His hands are on her back then, cradling her close against him, following the line of her spine as he does when she is aggitated or griefstricken, when rage has left her raw, when he wants to find her again through her skin and sooth her back into her body, her self. His mouth is against her somtach, his eyes closed, her scent, the heat of her body, the rough junction of her jeans and her t-shirt against his face, the rivets on her belt loops, her hip pockets digging into his skin as he presses his face to her frame and she edges into him, rubbing her thumb through his curls now so that they will splay over her fingers, watching him through downslanting lashes, absorbing his joy by osmosis to quiet all her anxieties about What It Means.

Underneath, too, something moves in her eyes - dark and animal and possessive - this primal, feral sense that this is exactly what is right. It is wordless and nameless; when it rises, it leaves her breathless.

[Trent Brumby] It's a selfish moment of celebration that he takes, unable to think much more then his mate, his not-wife, his keeper too, has their child growing inside of her. Life is there, growing into something that they could hold, if death does not steal them before then. He knows this too, as he holds her, as if he could protect her, keeping her right here and letting this hope have a chance.

But he draws himself out of it, swallowing before he pulls back and looks up at her. If, before, she thought he would bend over backwards, now, as he stares up the length of her body, there's this devotion that could be utterly frightening. In a single moment she has shifted from mate and lover, to something more akin to a goddess, creating life. That's how he sees it and how he feels it, and she's let him be a part of this. Maybe someday he would explain that, that this is something he could be a part of, not settled on the fringes.

At least he hopes she allows him that. There's fear there too, that she will take this away from him. But it's a distant one, nothing he'd ever voice.

He kisses her belly again, watching her, and sliding his hands down to the curve of her jeans. Slowly he begins to rise up, holding to the back of her thigh. He finds his footing and lifts her up, steady and certain as he seeks to wind her legs around his waist, and hold her against him as he's done so many times before. Except this time he has initiated it without any sort of hesitation.

"I'm sorry Kora," he tells her, voice low but still unable to hide that sheer elation in it, "how do you feel?" Searching her face, he looks for those signs again. That fear that he'd seen on the beach, the worry, more that he didn't understand. Kora is Get of Fenris, not a Black Fury, and he's realized that there's a large difference between the two, when he had first asked her if she was pregnant and she hadn't glowed with pride. Right now he has enough for the both of them, but he tries to swallow it down, for her, so that she may express how she feels without more pressure - too late, now.

[Kora] "Don't apologize," she tells him, her voice quiet but firm and fierce at once. Her right hand is stilled twined in his hair. Her grip shifted as he rose from his knees, as he slide his hands down her legs to pull her thighs up around his waist, and settle her weight on his. She leans into him, then, locking an ankle behind the opposite calf to hold herself in place, bracing her forearms on his solid shoulders. Her hair has mostly unwound itself from its haphazard twist to spill down the middle of her back. Long loops and whorls frame her face, and a thick hank spills forward to curtain his face as she leans down to look at him.

"Don't." He can feel the warning in the word, sure as he can feel the edge of her smile against his mouth as she dips her head to touch her forehead to his. A deep breath expands through her chest, lifts her shoulders, moves her body against his. She is still like this for a long moment, her thighs tightening around his waist, her weight shifting closer because she wants to feel his body underneath hers, his hands gripping her thighs, the way his muscles are taut with the strain of her weight on his body.

He asks her how she feels, struggling to swallow his elation, to give her space for the worry, the fear he has already seen in her, every time the subject arose. Some distinct substrate of her would rather not think about it than give voice to the confusion of emotions that thrum underneath her surface; but she reminds herself how simple it was - to sit cross-legged on the toilet and read the damn directions. Every last one of them, until she was ready to know.

"I'm happy." That's the first thing she tells him. Her voice is low, it rumbles through his skin. Her brow slips from his to his cheekbone, and her mouth is close to his ear. She sounds surprised that it is true, and appends, like it was a mystery, " - I think. I think I'm happy. And I'm happy you're happy, yeah?"

"And I'm worried." This is more quiet. She's still, leaning close to him. Usually she tells him stories that tell him what she feels; whom she admires, what she misses. When she was grieving her Alpha she told him a half-dozen stories in one night, one after the other, sitting on a park bench under a spring sky.

The world's turned, and now she doesn't have a narrative for him except her own, stripped back to its essentials. The ancestor spirits inside her dream of war and ruin, not first-borns. They hunger for death and glory, nothing more. "Because I don't know what I can do. If I can shift or go into the spirit world, or - " or fight, but even she has the self-possession not to say that to him. " - or anything. Yeah? That has to do with whom I am. I have my pack to lead. And I have my tribe to lead. I'm the Jarl, and I - I'm afraid that they'll see me, and think me - think me weak. Right? Fragile, and selfish. But mostly - weak."

[Trent Brumby] Stepping back, he settles some of their weight into the arm of the couch. He sits himself there and balances her on his lap taking her weight upon himself and allowing his hands to slide up and curl around her back there, comfortable and solid with fingers spread wide. He tries to look at her after she murmurs into his skin, her words having the effect of cutting back some of his bursting emotion. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, it doesn't change the fact that he still feels that way, only he's aware of her more now then living in the moment, attuned to her as he is himself.

"You're not weak Kora," he tells her this in a steady, firm voice. "And they won't see you that way, because you are not, and therefore it's impossible." This logic he uses is sound, trying to work through her fears with her to the heart of it.

"You can still fight and lead, and do what it is you must do. The Black Furies do it all the time." This doesn't mean he mentions how he feels about it, because he also knows that there is more important things at stake, even as awful as that sounds. It's the truth and a reality and he has never shied from that and does not start doing so now. "As for the rest, Garou have been doing this for generations, so there will be answers easily found for those questions. I wish I knew myself, but I don't know when you can shift or anything to do with that. But there's plenty of Garou that can tell you, and we'll work with it."

"Strength is not only your ability to tear your enemies apart with your claws or throw your body in harms way." Pale eyes are steady on her. "You know this, too."

[Kora] He seeks her eyes in the end, and finds them. She brushes her mouth against the rough stubble covering his jaw as she turns her head back to looked down at him again, to find and meet his eyes. He tells her that no one will see her as weak because she isn't, and she smiles at him, wisely not reminding him of what a bunch of testosterone-charged freaks her fractious tribesmates are. She's still, comfortable her weight on his lap, his warmth underneath her thighs, his shoulders underneath her forearms, in the intimate space between them.

When he mentions that Garou have been having kids for generations, she laughs in that physical way she has - her body moving, her eyes bright, but no more than a huff or two audible of the laugh, and leans close, kissing his temple, his brow, sliding her mouth to find his ear again. "You mean we didn't invent this whole sex thing?" The laughter lingers. Sometimes when she's with him if feels like their own personal discovery.


"At my old Sept - in Hjaltland, yeah? - there were a couple kinswomen who were midwives. You know - generational, mother to daughter to granddaughter, that sort of knowledge, I suppose they took care of kin and Garou. It's not the same here, but maybe there's someone like that. I could ask my ancestors, but they're not - " a faint snort, " - a maternal lot. Mostly they like talking about the size of their hammers."

"You're right, though." Quiet, this isn't new. This is what she was thinking about when she sat cross-legged on the toilet, reading through the directions. "Roman and Sparrow won't see me as week. Though Roman might try to protect me when he finds out. But my tribe, baby. They're not Black Furies. There are no guarantees."

[Trent Brumby] "As adventurous as we are, " and they're not really, not compared to some other uh relations he's had, "we didn't invent sex." But this makes him laugh too, a quiet deep sound in his chest. His hands slide around her back, hugging her to him and soothing her at the same time. He enjoys this closeness, this happiness welling up inside of him again, and so easily. His life is changing from now. There's something to look forward to other then the loneliness that comes after a Garou dies, and they do, all too soon and often. Hope, something to hold onto, a physical reminder and something of him, too, that he can call his own.

He listens then, brushing his mouth across her shoulder and neck in a soft way that doesn't hold any hint of reservations. He doesn't hold back, forgetting for the moment the dominance of her, or completely content with his place now that it doesn't register in the front of his mind, which is full of a simple amazement. "There's midwives everywhere. I know it's not the same," hesitation lingers here, "but I can help you. I am a qualified paramedic, Kora." This is a gentle reminder. It's not the same but he's capable. "I'm not a woman, you know, but .. uh, well, we can look. Don't worry. You're Garou, your body isn't the sort that has problems that humans do." She has superior genetics.

"It's going to be fine." Looking for her eyes again. His voice is full of confidence and holds no sort of worries that hers does. "You are in charge. You're Jarl. Nobody has questioned that and there is no reason to start now. You are fulfilling a duty of having a mate. You're strong Kora, believe in yourself instead of your fears."

[Kora] "It's weird," she returns, looking up again when he seeks her gaze, apprehension still underneath her skin, for all that edge of it has been chased away by his infusion of confidence. "You know? This idea that I have - some part of you inside me, wherever I am now."

Then she leans closer, lingers, enjoyng the quiet intimacy in the space between them until something shifts, until something catches and sparks.

And then she tells him to take her to bed.

[Imogen Slaughter] Early morning. It's so early it might be called late by some. The sun has not even thought of rising and the moonless night is black as pitch.

There are stars above, their light unhindered by clouds, but with the bright lights of Chicago's skyline they are barely more than dim pinpricks of light.

It is late (or early) enough that the streets are deserted, the denizens of the neighbourhood, sleeping, or perhaps hidden in small apartments with night cap drinks, speaking in low voices as they wait for the sun to rise before they finally tumble into bed.

And Imogen - well, she is running. If she were less athletically inclined, it would be jogging, but the word does not do justice to her speed, the pressure she puts on herself to keep up the rhythm, the speed, the distance.

She has been the only soul on the streets for - well, some time. Long enough for her skin to be slick with sweat for her breath to come short, her heart to pound.

Ahead a van, it's back door already closed, two men in the final steps of their interaction - the signature on a paper on a clipboard. One looks familiar - the shaved head, the tattoos. A second later, her location comes to mind - the location of a restaurant comes to mind, and her mouth draws infinitesimally tighter. Still, she begins to slow - some half a block away, beginning to bring herself to a walk.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The van is a pale gray, old. There's a faint odor of french fries in the air around it, and the driver - now shifting the half-empty crates of picked-over produce back into the back of the van - has those long white-boy dreads and a Che Guavara t-shirt on. It's tie-dyed. There is a handmade stencil along the side of the van, which says: BIRCH RIVER FARMS on the side. Some organic, back-to-the-earth place, carved out of the rich, poisoned soil of the Illinois prairie lands.

The pair of them shake hands firmly; John Brendan is the taller of the pair, dressed in the morning in a pair of old jeans, torn at the left knee, the hems worn to insubstantiality, and an old Neil Young t-shirt. His bare arms are strong, tanned, tendons roped around muscle that comes from work rather than working out. It is cool enough this morning that there's a hint of fog at the edges of the seen, but the sky above is clean.

"See ya later, man," JB says as the hippie-dude climbs back into his vegetable-oil-powered delivery van. The former pats the flank of the reconstituted vehicle the way a rancher might pat a prime piece of horseflesh by way of farewell. There's a dull sound of impact, his flat palm against the sheet metal, and then the van is pulling away. He spots her before the van pulls away, and his eyes touch on her as he hits the side.

There's a pencil behind JB's ear. The restaurant is dark, the lights low. There is a single light shining through the half-open blinds of the living space above. Some single light, turned on the blind dark. He's still watching her as she brings herself from a run to a walk, lingering outside the dark front doors.

"Too bloody early to be out running," he remarks, when she's in eartshot. Then, with a glance toward the dark restaurant. "There's coffee on, inside. Can I offer you a cup?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Her attire is good quality work-out clothing, though the name brand emblems are subtle and mismatched, as if she were more interested in quality than designer. Her tattoo is clear on her bare arm, snaking around a defined bicep, her pulse beating heavy in her throat.

"It's too bloody early to be out working," she retorts, deliberately throwing his words back at him, albeit slightly breathlessly as she comes to a complete stop in front of him, her spine leaning forward as if she might rest her hands on her knees, but then lifting again to neutral as her pride or posture gets the better of her. She lifts a hand to push back a damp tendril of hair, tucking it back behind an ear, glancing toward the dim interior of the Café.

"Yeh got water in there too?" she enquires, though the question is more a placeholder, or perhaps, a point of faint amusement, as her faint and faded smirk may attest.

When he agrees, the smirk becomes more clear, etched across her mouth. "I'll ha' both."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Someone," he returns, this crooked half-smile on his mouth, edging toward a smirk, "has to bake the bread and brew the coffee." There's a sense of the sun at the edges of the world just now. The sky behind the stars is lightening. Only the brightest are visible in the east, while the whole of the sky - such as can ever been seen from the city's heart - still burns in the west.

He has his eyes narrowed briefly against the distant glare of headaches, the subtle thrum of some big engine. Garbage truck maybe. Streetsweeper.

"C'mon," he says when she accepts, pulling open the front door and holding it open for her. The gesture is casual rather than courtly, but there's no oh no you first go-ahead game with JB. He holds the door against his broad frame and slips in behind her, letting it fall closed, after.

Most of the lights are off, but there's music on. It's coming from the kitchen, the morning broadcast on the local college radio station, an up-tempo mix of indie and old-school rock. Just now, it's the Ramones, Twenty twenty twenty four hours to go - and someone in the kitchen is singing along to them. The lights spill out from the back, illuminating the dining room in patchwork.

The smell of baking bread is strong, here. Baking bread and good coffee. "Have a seat," he tells her when they're inside, indicating the counter rather than the tables. He slips through between the register and the bakery cases, lifting the movable counter, letting it down after, and serves her strong coffee and a glass of water the way a bartender would serve her whiskey, neat, with a Guinness chaser.

[Imogen Slaughter] He holds the door open and there is certainly no game over who enters first, no demure or attempt to do so. "Ta," she merely says and steps inside, absently rubbing the back of her neck as she enters. Her gaze flicks toward the kitchen, the sound of an amateur voice singing along with the Ramones.

She pauses as he indicates to at one of the counters before reaching down to the line of her capris. She removes a gun from her waistband, setting it aside on one of the counter seats, out of sight should anyone come in from the kitchen, before taking a seat herself.

She makes no production of what she does. Unless he's watching her, he may not even notice.

She takes her seat, watching him as he serves her the coffee, the water. She reaches for the former, first, picking it up between long slender fingers, nails carefully shaped and trimmed. "Ta," she says again; British thanks. She does not yet take a sip, the fresh coffee too hot. Outside the bay window, a garbage truck trundles by, coming to a stop and blocking their outside view. A man dressed in coveralls, a hat worn backwards over his dreads leaps down to pull the trash bag from the nearby receptacle, then whipping out another from his back pocket to replace it.

"Business pickin' up yet?" it's almost small talk, though the question is not absent or merely meant to fill the air.

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The coffee is good, even excellent. It is one of the few things not made, roasted, prepared, pickled, coddled, smoked, braised, or carved on site. The scent is strong, now. When she takes her first sip, she find the flavor complex, brighter notes peeking through the bitterness.

Ta she says, and "Welcome," he responds, the shape of his expression lost in the long shadows of the dark dining room. There are background lights on here. The display lights in the display cases, the lights behind the counter, where the bar would be if the place served mixed drinks. It's too small to support that trade, though, and still serve the sort of food he wants to cook. So the counter is a counter, not a bar. He has a cup of coffee already poured, half finished, cooling now. After serving her he tops his off. She has one of those fashionable pottery style mugs in warm subtle colors. Fiesta ware, or maybe something shaped by some local potter's hand. He is drinking out of a souvenir cup from Seattle. As he pours the hot liquid in, the outline of Mount Ranier appears hovering in the background over the painted city like some great goddess.

She leaves hers to cool; he drinks his coffee hotter than sin, gulping back a mouthful. It's early and he's not yet awake, but he's awake - not bright the way she is, from her run, still bleary-eyed.

He leans against the bar, the coffee cup in hand, looking at her, then past her to the dining room, considering the shadows, thoughtfully. "It's picking up," he says, "though it's not a going concern yet. Cooked for that thing down at the River, and we've had some business from it. We're starting to get a few regulars from the neighborhood, too. Regulars: folks who've been back more than once."

There's her gun, on one of the seats. There's no sign that he's noticed, until he glances that way, lifting a dark brow while idly rubbing one of the tattoos on his right hand. "The run can't be official business. Always carry that with you?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She nods absently at his answer, with nothing more to say to it. She had asked out of curiosity, and now with the answer, has little of it left.

Her own dark eyed gaze moves toward the weapon when he refers to it. He says the run can't be official business. "It's not an official weapon," she replies.

He can see the line of her shoulder blade through her shirt, the dip of her spine. Her musculature shows through her skin - not overtly, but with a solidity that speaks of more than an absent commitment to fitness. More than a casual desire for a thin, attractive body.

She takes a gulp of coffee as he speaks, she drinks it black, unadorned. It's a compliment of sorts. When she thinks the coffee will be sub-par she drowns it in sugar. When she trusts the quality, she does nothing to the flavour.

"Just about," she says, her fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the countertop before stilling. "Anywhere I can keep it hidden, anyway."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] His laugh is an unsubtle snort of a thing, quiet enough that it won't drag attention from whoever is in the kitchen, warbling now to vintage Beck (I'm a loser baby - so why don't you kill me?) inexpertly. There's work being done back there, the sound of metal against metal, shifting scents - the yeasty bloom of bread, something sharper, sweeter, scones or muffins. - in the background, the low whirring of an industrial mixer, the occasional curse, some braying back and forth.

"Too-chay," he says, not a smidgen of good French pronunciation in him except for the culinary words, and even then they have that American flatness. His gaze lingers on the stool where the weapon sits, unseen. There's a moment of almost meditative blankness on his features, early morning he loses focus except when there is physical work to be done. Something to be hefted or wrestled or needed or carted about. Then he seems to come too, cutting her a lingering look in the darkness, teasing out the lines of her features from the shadows that have fallen all around them.

He takes another gulp of his coffee, before asking, " - that bad here, eh?" That's low, too. His voice is a tired rumble in his chest, but there's a sharpness to his features seen in profile in the low light, his mouth set and still, his eyes on her face.

[Imogen Slaughter] She is thoroughly awake. The epinephrine still pulses in her blood, giving a sharp clarity to her thoughts. She is a practised insomniac; trained by medical school honed by weeks of on-call schedules and - other things.

She sips her coffee while he appears to disassociate for moments, swallows it as he comes back, her gaze steady upon him. In the dim lighting here, her eyes offer only the faintest impression of blue, her skin visibly pale, untouched by sunlight, despite the ending summer.

"It wasn't here tha' got me in the habit," she observes circumspectly, before adding, "But it's bad enough 'ere, yes. The Full Bloods call it war," she says, her voice low enough to carry no farther than him.

"Though how they can tell the difference between this and the normal state o' affairs is beyond me."

[Imogen Slaughter] She is thoroughly awake. The epinephrine still pulses in her blood, giving a sharp clarity to her thoughts. She is a practised insomniac; trained by medical school honed by weeks of on-call schedules and - other things.

She sips her coffee while he appears to disassociate for moments, swallows it as he comes back, her gaze steady upon him. In the dim lighting here, her eyes offer only the faintest impression of blue, her skin visibly pale, untouched by sunlight, despite the ending summer.

"It wasn't here tha' got me in the habit," she observes circumspectly, before adding, "But it's bad enough 'ere, yes. The Full Bloods call it war," she says, her voice low enough to carry no farther than him.

"Though how they can tell the difference between this and the normal state o' affairs is beyond me."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "Fuck if I know," he replies. The interjection is quiet, automatic, and heartfelt, though she's a fine enough counterpoint to his rough morning presence - unshaven, half-awake - that he gives her a rueful look, after, for the curse.

He is a solid presence in the shadows across the counter, tall and broad-shouldered, with the effortless physicality of an athlete rather than an animal. Of someone who works with his body, his scarred hands. Just now he's still - still in this thorough, early morning, conserving-his-energy way, except when he lifts the cup to gulp, not sip, his coffee down.

Soon he's ready for another cup. He turns around, grabs the put from the machine and wordlessly offers to top off her mug before he refills his own. Mount Ranier disappears as the heat fades, and reappears again when the mug is fool.

"Let's say," he says, while returning the coffee pot to its cradle as he turns back around. " - that some ordinary citizen wanted to be as prepared as you are. Are there some sort of hoops to jump through to get the right permits so I'm not committing a crime wandering down the street?"

[Imogen Slaughter] "If an ordinary citizen," she says quietly, "gets into the situations tha' I do, he should run." He tops off her coffee. She does not thank him this time.

"All a gun will do is make yeh think that yeh ha' any option other than that."

[John Brendan Cavanagh] "I've got a kid," he returns low, with a glance at the ceiling that is thoughtless. She's sleeping, still. Tucked away in the dark of room. They painted it purple three days after they arrived, the walls and the ceiling, with lavender clouds and and soft gold stars, and no hint of the moon in the changed sky. That moment of knowledge, awareness - the thought of her up there sleeping, in four walls safe from the world that is going to find her soon enough - passes as quickly as it came.

When JB looks back at Imogen, there's a certain bristling, underneath his skin. The muscles of his forearms are tense, the tattoos crawling with the movement as he grits his teeth and shifts his grip on the mug, tightening it. He's stirring from the morning sleepiness, and a spike of irritation enters his voice. " - and I'm not a fool. I don't play a fucking hero on TV. So answer the question or don't, but don't patronize me."

[Imogen Slaughter] She had not been slouching, nor even leaning against the counter, but as she sets down her coffee mug, she seems to straighten nonetheless, laying her hands palm down on the countertop and fixing him with a steady regard, a sealed mouth and unwavering gaze.

Seconds pass in silence.

"You're right," she says finally, low and deceptively mild, "you have a child."

The words hang flat in the air between them, dispersed only as she speaks again. "So do her a favour and run.

"And if yeh don't want my advice, yeh can google 'gun licences Illinois'."

[Imogen Slaughter] (correction: "And if you don't like my advice...")

[John Brendan Cavanagh] The irritation is under the second layer, the third layer of his sky. Sharpened by her presence, suddenly, but the flat way she agrees with him. By the stillness of the room. In the back kitchen - a clatter of metal against metal, a curse in fluent Spanish. He looks up, but doesn't back there. Anything short of a fingertip amputation is an ordinary day.

Briefly, the singer is both still and silent. There's just the radio DJ, some college kid, stumbling through the day's weather forecast, low in the background. Then the silence breaks, the industrial mixer thrums to life, this deep mechanical noise in the background.

He looks back at her, his dark eyes closed, disengaged. There's no hiding the hint of truculence underneath. Then, the hint of a sour smirk, an exhaled breath. There's enough tension in his arms that she can see the tension in his bicep underneath his skin.

"Thanks," he says at last, that sour smirk deepening. "for the advice. There's something in his mouth that he clearly swallows back. It's not important. It's not productive. It's childish. He feels 12. He feels 23. It's just - he gulps back his coffee instead, swallows it all and swallows it hot. Then he sets the cup down on the workspace beneath the dining counter, down in some bar sink. The sound of porcelain against stainless steel is dulled but distinct.

"Stay as long as you like." Somehow, he manages to excise that sense of sourness from the invitation. He's waking, though, drawn back. A professional. "Scones will be up in a few. I've got to get back to work."

[Imogen Slaughter] She has an incredible mastery of her emotion. Better now than it was. When she looks at him, he cannot possibly imagine what she's thinking.

A few seconds pass, then she gets to her feet. "I'll be going, I think," she says, picking up the glass of water draining it with a grimace. She sets it down with a solid click.

"Thanks fer the coffee," she says, picking up her gun from the seat and sliding it back into the hidden holster, a flicker of her skin visible as she shifts her shirt for access.

"Enjoy yer day," and she turns away, heads for the door.

[Lost - the meat of the scene, really. Cigney told Kora about her encounter with Paul, and Kora counseled her in response.]

[Luana Kirchmann] [*grins* Sorry! You're thinking Luna Ve-askdajds something or other. She's vanished from the Kinfolk list.]

[Roman Turner] (( I thought it was Luna, but then thought maybe I just spelled it wrong before LOL! Sorry! Strike all Roman said.))

So he responded to Kora about Luana.

"Nope."

[Cigney] Cigney breathes slightly in relief, smiling warmly at Kora. Thankful that she understood, and that she wouldn't make her resture the lost pictures.

"Thank you Kora".

It's quiet but very appreciative. Relief is a good for it. She then pushes her beer off to the side, having absolutely no taste for it whatsoever. She does eye the sauerkraut ball though for just a moment. She then blinks over at Luana as Roman speaks of her. Half wondering, she looks to Kora.

"I will consider this. It sounds like whatever the bank is doing, its not very good. I want to help the sept. Do you think I should? Help with these photo's?"

Her questions are posed like a little sister to a big sister for advice.

[Roman Turner] "I don't recall Paul saying this bank thing of his was to help this Sept."

He mumbled in the middle of stuffing his mouth with another fry.

[Roman Turner] "He mentioned a Sept called Sept of the King Cotton or something. But like I said to him and you earlier Cigney, if I were him, I wouldn't admit a Kin got the better of a New Moon like that."

[Cigney] "Sure he did, he quite clearly mentioned this bank thing was for the good of the sept. You know, wyrm tained money and all. He's gonna work it so far and turn it over to someone else...some other name I can't remember.

Cigney watches Roman stuff his face, then back to Kora

"He's obviouly casing the joint. The two females...let's see, one is a mulatto by the name of Candice Burke. An the other had dark hair and red lips. I think her name starte with a T...but Paul said he was some sort of legal person for the bank."

[Cigney] "Oh...maybe he did mean that sept...huh".

She nods at that, figuring she could have been wrong with her interpetation of what Paul had said. After all, his hackles were kind of raised at the time, so she had oher worries on her mind.

"Is it really supposed to be that difficult? I mean, it was pretty easy..."

Cigney chuckles a little and nudges Roman's shoulder before looking at Kora, visibly brighter now than she'd been for most of her day.

[Roman Turner] "I'm telling ya, he mentioned the King Cotton Sept. And it don't matter, he seemed pleased as punch when he was told to bring this stuff up with Kora if it concerned ya. So to my way of thinking, the entire thing was a reason to come speak to Kora. And if it is that easy to do, then he can do it himself, can't he?"

He looked at Cigney with a raised brow.

"I mean, ya did just say ya didn't want to work with him, didn't ya?"

[Luana Kirchmann] She can't really make out what they're talking about over there, and leaves eavesdropping to anyone that's sitting closer. From the waitress she orders herself a drink from the bar, a whiskey, and a bowl of wedges with some guacamole and sour cream, or whatever other trimmings it comes with. As she waited, she drummed her fingertips on the table. The nails are painted a pale, pastel blue.

[Kora] "She came down from upstairs. She'll be kin or garou most like. No breeding, though." This is all spoken quietly, Kora glances from the limp fry in Roman's hand to the stranger, smiling at him, "You could go find out who she is, yeah? Doesn't seem like she'd mind."

When Cigney eyes the sauerkraut balls, Kora nudges the basket toward her. "These things are brilliant. They sound so wrong. They taste so good. The hot fudge cake here is pretty killer, too." There's this flash of a look, then. "I know, I know, it's not organic wheat germ with added spelt, or whatever, but you can spend an extra hour running tomorrow, yeah?"

Then, Cigney poses her questions, and Kora's brows draw together, this neat little line appearing between them. She's older than Cigney and Roman both - nearly twenty-five, for all that she remains a cliath, late change, that - and rather deliberate. That deliberate pacing returns, she looks between them at their exchange, her fine brow furrowing.

Finally, to Cigney, "I'm not sure I would trust his word. Paul left August in the - rather dubious - care of a Shadow Lord who imprisoned and - worked to destroy the independence of - another kinswomannot of his tribe. He disappeared and made no other provision for her, or her child. So: we need confirmation beyond his word that he wasn't just trying to rob a bank for his own reason. I'd like to know more about your skill at dissembling. About how exposed you might be to whatever is inside the place.

"If, indeed, this place is tainted, and these pictures are necessary, and he has not backed them up somewhere, and cannot simply - describe the women in question - then," a faint curve of her smile, "yes, I think you should. As I said, though. You'll work with Roman, if there is work to be done. Is that clear?"

[Roman Turner] He wasn't so sure he wanted anything to do with bank jobs after hearing of Paul's troubles with robbing banks so recently. Still Kora mentioned the girl at the bar and he did need to go see a man about a horse. So he rose, taking his hat from the seat where it had rest.

"I'll go see about that pretty girl and send her your way. Meantime, I gotta go see a man about a horse. Ladies."

He bowed, hat held against his chest. Then turned for the bar where he paused just long enough to speak to Luana.

"Ma'am, the ladies over yonder are just dying to meetcha."

He lowered his voice to a whisper.

"They think you're some movie star or something. Go on over and make their night, will ya?"

With that he winked and headed for the restrooms.

[Roman Turner] (I gotta sleep folks. Thanks!)

[Luana Kirchmann] Roman comes over to her about the same time her whiskey is set in front of her. She tilts her head as she listens to him whisper, surprised at what he had said. Before she could answer he was already walking off, and she turned to watch him go, before throwing a longer look to where Cigney and Kora are sitting.

She picks up her drink and slides out of her seat, heading towards their booth.

[Cigney] At the mention of Roman going to socialize, Cigney looks again to the kinswoman. No doubt pretty, and she decides to get up so Roman can get out of the booth. No use in holding the guy back. It was a good time to leave she figures

"Absolutely clear".

She shakes her head at the offer of food. Though very tempted, today has left her not very hungry. Despite the fact that Kora's not angry with her. Cigney had been terribly about that. She never wanted to disappoint Kora, ever.

"Guess I'll go then. By the way, Imogen and Night were talking about this "war" thing going on. Is that for the whole city, or just Grant Park".

Her gaze watches Roman go to the woman up at the bar, and the womans look at Roman as he left her. Fingertips touching her a particular place just lower than her collarbone, absently...then drops the hand and smiles again.

No matter.

[Kora] "The whole city, Cigney. More, really. We'll have to discuss the details sometime, but for now - just know that you have to avoid, at all costs, a northern suburb of Chicago called Elk Grove. It's suburban and rural, and there's a state park there, but our enemy is strong there, and you should not ever go there." Kora's eyes linger on Cigney as she shakes her head, as she lifts her gaze to follow Roman's path through the bar, watches the brief interaction tere.

"The enemy is everywhere in the city, too," this is more quietly spoken. Despite her supposition that Luana is Garou or kin, she is careful with the stranger approaching their booth. "I assume that you take all ordinary precautions. Let's talk a bit more about self-defense another evening, I think. You've had enough worry over this, if I don't miss the mark.

"I'm glad you came to me, though. It speaks well of you."

Then, Luana approaches, her whiskey in hand. "You're a new face. Staying upstairs, are you?"

[Cigney] Cigney nods, her gaze full of fondness for Kora.

"Okay...goodnight, and take care".

She nods to Luana, but doesn't make any introduction as she's leaving. Her mind at rest now that the matter had been discussed, and she needn't worry about Paul anymore tonight. The door opens and then closes behind her as she retreats to her car across the street.

[Cigney] ((Sleep! Thanks for the scene!))

[Luana Kirchmann] Stepping aside, she watches Cigney leave, giving the other woman a small nod of her head. Her gaze, somewhere between gray and olive green, depending largely on what she's wearing or the surrounds, shift from the leaving Kinfolk to the Garou sitting at the table.

"The young man told me you wanted to meet me, the both of you," her voice is accented but she speaks around it carefully. Her English is long learned. "But I see that it may have been a little fib."

Before she answers Kora's question she takes a sip from her straight whiskey, the ice in it clinking against the edge of the glass as she lowers it back to waist height. "No, I'm not. But I had come to speak to someone that wasn't there."

She doesn't sit or make herself comfortable, but stands at the edge of the table, more towards the vacated side of the booth. "Do you stay here?"

[Kora] "Is that what he told you?" Kora replies, her dark eyes darting toward the wooden doors as they close again behind Cigney. Her attention lingers there, brief, then skims back to Luana. The table is littered with debris of the half-meal. Cigney's half-finished bottle of Coor's Light - almost an effront to order mass-produced American beer in a place where they brew their own, but what did wheat-grass girl know? - and another pair of steins, one empty, the other three-quarters full. There's a glass of iced tea, and a slowly congealing plate of french fries and cheese and chili, with a rather fresher basket of sauerkraut balls of which Kora is presently partaking.

"Well," she continues, splitting one of the balls open with her thumb, eating it with a certain savour. "I like to know who's ours, and who belongs elsewhere. I don't stay there, though. Can't get over the dorm setting. It seems like a bad movie in the making, yeah? Some B-Movie. Mind if I ask who you were there to see?"

[Luana Kirchmann] "He did," she confirms without elaborating.

Her gaze rakes over the items on the table, taking them in quickly before she looks back up to the woman talking to her. Smiling faintly, there's a quiet sound in the back of her throat at the mention of the place being like a bad movie in the making. Luana had thought something similar when she first came along, though not as creative.

"Lukas."

Taking in a breath, she eases into the seat, sitting on the edge of it rather then making herself comfortable. "Do you know him?"

[Kora] "I do." Kora confirms, quietly, watching as the stranger finally eases into the seat opposite, perching at the edge. "You and he, you're related, then?" Her generous smile rises, and then thins with a sort of withheld amusemet. "Distant cousins? Or is there some other connection?"

Luana aleady has a whiskey in hand, so Kora does not offer her another drink. Instead, she pops half of her sauerkraut ball into her mouth, then nudges the basket toward Luna by way of invitation. When she has swallowed the deep-fried appetizer, she takes a drink of her tea to clear her mouth, then, "Sauerkraut balls. They're brilliant. You're welcome to try them. Specialty of the house."

[Luana Kirchmann] Her mouth quirks again, a gesture that comes easily to her, it seems. "I suppose you could say we are, though I'm far more handsome, don't you think?" It's a quip from a conversation that Kora hadn't been part of, which doesn't seem to stop the Kinfolk from remarking on it anyway, or finding amusement in the little taunt.

She's drinking from her glass again, taking a sip from it as she's offered to eat one of the sauerkraut balls. Luana doesn't need to be asked twice. "Thank you." Despite having wedges in the making, she reaches out and picks one of the smaller balls out of the mix and carefully bites some of it off, expecting it to be hot enough to burn her lip. For someone so small she has a decent appetite.

[Kora] "For my part," Kora returns, a lingering bit of humor in her voice, "I try not to look at him like that. S'a bit incestuous, if you take my meaning. So I'll plead the fifth if asked again, I think." It lingers in the shape of her mouth, this neat, perfect little half-curve. Though it is summer's end, Kora is both blonde-headed and pale-skinned enough that she appears to spend very little time in the sun. The hint of a tan on her forearms is belied by the pallor of her inner wrists as she incises her thumb into another ball, opening it in half, then dipping it into the horseradish sauce.

"What's your name, then?"

[Luana Kirchmann] She chuckles openly and nods, catching the drift just fine. It answers the questions she had, unspoken. Being that this is a Kinfolk and Garou place, she figured that this woman and the others would have to be something of the same. It's common for Luana to be asked questions, given that she has a lack of breeding, unlike plenty of the others running around in town.

It's not until she's swallowed her mouthful and is contemplating her next bite that she answers: "Luana Kirchmann." A smile is offered with it, small, but obvious. There's a slight expectant look given to the other woman, lifted from where she watched the horseradish cling to the others food. "Yours, and the others?"

[Kora] There's an answering half-smile, the faintest huff of breath in response to Luana's answering chuckle. The way they speak around the things they are. The way they substitute human ideas and human relationships and human doctrines as stand-ins for their own, entirely inhuman.

"Kora," she supplies, low-voiced, with a direct look, tracing out the lines of the stranger's features. "I run with Roman. The girl's my kin, Cigney. I'd offer to carry a message to Lukas but I expect that you will see him sooner than I. I'll wish you luck instead, tracking him down."

[Victor Oseragighte] "Oh. Try a bit whatever you like. Ah, meat, though. Veggies and... ah... roughage I don't do so good with." How to explain his strict dietary needs openly? Kin might understand, but others... Victor might well need to come up with some sort of excuse, like training, he's seeing. He smiles, though, a genuine expression, and is happy to try whatever JB will offer him.

[Cigney] The arrival by taxi is hard to miss...and the way he's dressed, Cigney watches Adrian a moment or two longer than she should have probably. As the grillmaster speaks, she turns to him instead and gives a warm smile. She opens her mouth just as she moves back to the table. Awkward. So it is with Cigney. Out of place just doesn't quite sum it all up.

Two kids start shoving each other, and Cigney goes to intervene. Separating the two and threatening a penalty box. They then run off to play again. She watches the food table now for a moment, before calling a break so the kids can reorganize and start round 2 of their game.

[Archie] He nods back at Trent and pauses to look around at the area."Well if you don't mind I think Jamie and I will have a little look around to see what needs to be hit and once we have a plan ready we'll get to it. I know Jamie was looking forward to the free food so best we get crackin' to earn our keep."He adds with a little laugh before turning around to head back towards the truck to begin getting himself set up.

[JB Cavanagh] There's no genuine way to explain. Not here. The other man on the grill bears no pure blood at all, and the waitress with the candy-apple red hair and the tight tanks and tees is equally normal, human. Human enough to shy just away from Victor, in this way that is barely noticeable, spooning out a serving of the corn salad onto someone's plate by way of refill.

JB meets Victor's gaze with rather more directness than most kin can manage. Maybe it's that he's taller than the Garou. Maybe he doesn't understand what or who Victor is. After all, he doesn't have the sense of blood ties that Garou have. There's a whole world underneath his skin, and Lucy's, that he cannot see or sense. "Atkins diet, eh? You know, I'm pretty sure that roughage is part of it though. Just fruits you can't have." And, so saying, he serves Victor a pair of plain burgers, no buns, with a gesture toward the salads and toppings. "Help yourself. I swear most of those won't up your carb-count."

--

One of the children in the center of the shoving is Lucy, who is still small for her age and cute as a button, with shining dark hair and huge blue-gray eyes, set in a perfectly round face, rosy cheeks a contrast to her pale skin and dark hair. It takes just a bit - more, to pull her away. Louder voice, a stronger hand on her shoulder, but it doesn't really go beyond kids being kids, except in the way she stares down her opponent when it's over, then eschews the second round of the game as baby-ish, prefering to circle back to Cigney, curl an arm around the young woman's thigh, and look up at her, bright-eyed. "What's your name?"

[Adrian Sandenberg] Catching Cigney looking his way, he offers a smile - and it's a model's smile, a runway smile, that's half smirk and all smooth. In fact, he's full of that runway look - he's hardly stunning, but there's just something about him. The way he fills out the jeans and shirt, maybe. The way he drops his aviators to cover his eyes. Something.

"Thank you, Trent," he answers easily, and a hand brushes over Victor's shoulder briefly - clearly, he knows both men, and is friendly with them. The accent is a bit British-like, but not really - something about the vowels, the way his Ws and Vs resolve into something different. Whatever it is, it's certainly not American. "It looks like a good turn out. I meant to be hear earlier, but there was a department meeting - I'm not too late, am I?"

Of course there's still work to be done; there's always work to be done.

[Trent Brumby] Laughing low at the mention of how Jamie is looking forward to the free food, he nods to the other man and tells him: "Thanks for coming along. If you need a hand, there's plenty willing around, and if you've got any more questions I'll be roaming around." Then Archie is heading off towards the truck and Trent is moving in the opposite direction.

He gives a glance towards the children and Cigney, offering a woman a smile and a nod of her head. He doesn't come over and see if she's alright, because well, there were times in his life that he would have had his head bitten off by suggesting that they couldn't handle children, after all they are women and know how to raise children best -- all for just asking if they needed a hand. Some habits are hard to break and he leaves her to it.

Over at the food, Adrian asks about being late. "Never too late," he remarks easily, "I think we'll be here until late afternoon. Then pack up and call it a day." With this he looks up, meeting John's eyes as if to see if that was alright with him. Trent likes working in teams when he has to make decisions, he doesn't like to delegate unless he really has to. This whole event had been something of a challenge for him. But challenges are met head on and with plenty of drive behind it.

[Cigney] Must be a style thing, these aviator sunglasses. Cigney pushes her back up the bridge of her nose and offers a half smile in Adrian's direction until she's startled by something, or in this case someone wrapping around her leg.

"Oh...well, my name's Cigney. How about you?"

She smiles and pushes a strand of hair from Lucy's face. The way the child looks and approaches her is interestingly different. There's a force behind this girls actions that interest Cigney. The kinswoman notes that the girl isn't playing anymore...but lets it go unless the girls wants to talk about it more.

A small wave in Trent's direction. Here in just a little bit she'll make sure the kids return to their families and suit up for some trash detail.

[Victor Oseragighte] He sees that JB doesn't quite understand and nods politely, foregoing the toppings even so to have at the burgers themselves. Adrian's brush earns him a smile, one of the few present he actually knows. The Wendigo wanders off to the side to eat and watch, thinking to have his snack before he gets to work.

[JB Cavanagh] "My name's Lucy," returns the curl with her arm curled around Cigney's leg. She lifts her chin in the direction of the grills, the two cooks, the waitress with her hair the color of red patent leather, and that 50s pin-up girl haircut, the straight strong bangs and the straight strong bob. "My dad's over there."

Both the waitress and the tall, dark-headed chef have an eye on the girl, are aware of her place at all times. Lucy is wearing jeans, the cuffs frayed and worn, with Converse all-stars and a pink and gray t-shirt. There's a cursive P in a circle on the back, which baseball fans would recognize as the Philadelphia Phillies' symbol. "He's cooking," Lucy adds helpfully as she watches her father serve up another burger with a smile, and then gesture down the line at the salads.

The waitress, meanwhile, is digging among the coolers hidden underneath their tables to start refilling some of the catering tins.

--

Trent suggests late afternoon as a stopping point, and JB glances over at one of the kin familiar to Garou and the rest from the Brotherhood. "That sounds great to me. Then maybe a quick break-down and a round of drinks for the - " pause, "extended family? I don't have my beer and wine license yet, but I know the Coltranes would be happy for the custom at the Brotherhood."

"We'll serve lunch a bit longer," he continues, "then set up the desserts. Cookies and brownies from the cafe, and the baked goods folks have donated."

[Cigney] "I see..."

Cigney glances over at them, then turns her attention back to Lucy.

"So...you mind if I ask what a locavore is? Cause like...I'm kind of scared it means your part dinosaur or something".

She grins.

[Trent Brumby] "That sounds great. I really appreciate all the effort you've gone to," this isn't the first time he's said it to John, and the other man is probably getting sick of hearing it, "and I know I've said it before, but if there's anything I can do, you just give me a yell."

Instead of taking up John's busy time, Trent moves along the table to get himself some food. He's been running around after folks here and there, and even if it's not Kinfolk or Garou getting his attention, there's plenty of other people here that knows him, either by name or simply by the fact he put his name behind getting this together and is the loose organizer of the day. Amusingly enough, most of those he does know is women. Women that needed a Mr. Fix It that looks like Trent; manners like a gentlemen and a body from the gym. Even if he's getting sick of all the questions just for the sake of talking to him, he's polite and patient.

But right now, he sneaks a break, standing off to the side with his food in hand, munching it down while keeping an eye out on, well, everyone.

[JB Cavanagh] "It is just like being dinosaur," Lucy informs Cigney, in this oh-so-solemn way. This may have been a story she's heard since she was a little girl. Her shoulders are straight underneath her baseball t-shirt, and her gleaming hair a bit tangled. A mother would have pulled it back for the day's work, into a French braid or a well-made ponytail. JB has made sure that Lucy is washed, her dark hair gleaming. It was combed earlier, a pair of those plastic barrets tucked into the mass to hold it back from her face, but it's tangled now, except where JB or Cindy, the waitress, or Cigney herself has smoothed it down, tucked the odd strand behind her ear.

"Dinosaurs didn't eat stuff that got shipped in from Austalia or China or Japanese - " so perhaps the child's knowledge of the world wide food economy leaves something to be desired, "or all the way on the other side of the world or the country on the other ocean or anything, they ate what was close, and if you do that then you - uhm. You - "

Lucy frowns, a fierce little look, as she struggles for words.

"Well," the frown hasn't resolved, but she's emphatic on this point. "It is way better for the polar bears and stuff. And aminals like them."

[JB Cavanagh] (guys! I'm'a switch to Kora. (grins) I'll still play JB as long as folks want to interact w/him, but Kora knows everyone here. :) )

[Cigney] Lucy's description of supporting localized food intiatives surprises her. So much so that Cigney looks shocked, then chuckles and nods at the sentiment the girls is getting at.

"You know what, you're right. That must mean I'm a locavore too...wow, it's nice to meet you. We should hang out sometimes and do dinosaur stuff".

And with that, Cigney gives a loud whistle and tells the kids its time to clean up. She dumps her cup in the recycle bin for plastics and decides to grab a trash bag, gloves and a poker-majigger.

[Kora] "My dad," Lucy tells Cigney proudly when Cigney remarks that she's a locavore. The girl nods over at the cafe Lulu tables, where lunch services is winding down. " - you should come to our place sometime!"

- so the exchange ends, as Cindy coaxes Lucy away with promises of setting up the cupcake pyramid, while the restaurant crew starts serving up the remaining burgers, before shutting down the grills.

---

"Victor," Kora's been further downriver, closer to the mouth, closer to the edge of the Caern. Working sometimes, watching sometimes. She doesn't trust the world not to shift suddenly, doesn't trust the waters to remain still, foetid but still. She knows the sort of nightmare things that come out in the world. Now, though, with the lunch crowd drifting back to start picking up trach and recyclables again, she comes back, lowers herself beside the Wendigo briefly, where he has segregated himself to eat. "I know you've met Trent and Adrian. How about Cigney?"

"C'mon," she suggests, by way of invitation, waving to Cigney and Adrian as crosses the green space of the riverfront, heading toward Trent as he takes a break. "I'll introduce you, but let me say hello to Trent first, yeah?"

[Archie] Archie and Jamie are... Well... This is what they do for a living. So they are quickly suited up in the white suits that would imply the area was the victim of some kind of terrible chemical spill. Though there's no need to cover their heads more than eye glasses for basic protection. Before long a few of the others join them in getting suited up and grabbing hold of bags, shovels and all manner of other tools to begin the work of getting the place clean.

After a little instruction on how to search and systematically remove every bit of trash from the area as efficiently as possible the little group is off, breaking up into smaller teams of two who are soon working to get the area cleaner than it has been for some time.

[Victor Oseragighte] He looked up as Kora came over, not surprised he's not the only Garou who thought that the river was too dangerous not to have somebody there to watch over their kin, their family, effectively. He rises at her urging and finishes the last of his meal, depositing the plate in a recycling bin before he wends his way after her, falling in at her side once he catches up, half-filled bag tucked under his arm, thumbs hooked into his pockets.

[Cigney] Cigney swears she's developing a sixth sense for Kora. The silvery grey eyes have no problem finding her midst the small crowd. She gives a small wave back before picking up her stuff headng down to the river to do her part. The kids tell Cigney just how much trash they're going to pick up, attempting to impress her as kids often do with adults. She smile and offers encouraging words.

The kinswoman works by herself, content to do as such.

[Trent Brumby] Watching this person and that, he talks to a few passing by between bites of his meal, snippets of conversation that come and go with the passing tide of wandering helpers. He watches Archie get together his official crew, hopes to the Gods that those white suits doesn't scare off people from actually helping out, as he swallows down a chunk of burger. They break off into their own groups and start to systematically work their way through the area and Trent lets his gaze drift.

When he spots Kora, his eyes light up and he quickly polishes off the rest of his food. He turns away before she can leave Victor, throwing his trash away, and moving to quickly snag another plate full of good food, explaining its for the girlfriend. So by the time Kora does get to him, he turns to her with a lemonade and a plate full of good food.

"Look, it's burgers," he jests. There's so much they have to talk about, that's been avoided, but none of that crops up here and now. Trent's been happily pleased by the turn out, feeling some sense of achievement for the days efforts, and his mood isn't easily swayed from that. That she's here and coming to say hello just makes him feel that more proud. He's a simple creature, really.

[Kora] "With a rather suspicious-looking amount of vegetables, to boot," she returns, the familiar curve of her smile deepening. There's no reservation here and now. The night last, she was tense - speaking with her tribesmates, mistrusting now both their intentions and their staying power. The cynicism lived under her skin rather than on her tongue, but it suits her ill.

Trent receives the full benefit of her mouth engaging smile as she and Victor cut through the humans and kin to meet him. She accepts the plate full of food from his hand easily though, vegetables and all.

"This is great," the width of the smile stills a bit. She lifts her chin, up and down the waterfront, indicating the turnout. The folks in their official suits for the major decontamination, and the ordinary people picking up fast-food wrappers and old tires and broken shoes and driftwood and all the flotsam and jetsam accumulated on the water. Not just the food. Meeting his eyes, with her customary directness, her own are shining with a sort of reflected pride.

Not just at what Trent has accomplished, but that the rest of her kin are here, too. Izzy's police officers, Cigney and Adrian. "You guys have really accomplished alot. It's good to see."

Kora leans in to brush a chaste kiss over Trent's cheek, then leans closer, her mouth briefly close to his ear before she pulls away.

When Cigney and Adrian come back to exchange full bags for empties, she gestures them over, too. Time for introductions, all around.

[Kora] Her mouth close to his ear, she murmurs, You are so getting sex tonight. before she pulls away.
to Trent Brumby

[Adrian Sandenberg] Adrian is not particularly trying to keep up with the ebb and flow of lunchtime conversation - he'd been fed at the meeting he came from, though he'll gladly snake a cupcake or similar when the time for such comes. Kora's arrival, though, is noted, and he gives her a smile from behind his aviators - looking like a very clean, very stylish, very well put together workman, he.

He does, indeed, come to exchange a full bag for empty, and there - again, he's friendly with the Garou, known and knowing.

"Hej, Kora. It's good to see you - you're well?"

The hair, so often teased to wild abandon, is pulled neatly into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck today, the better to be out of his way - already, some bits are struggling for freedom, but for now they're trapped.

[Trent Brumby] "Yeah, but you don't have to eat them if you want an unbalanced diet." He wasn't going to pressure her, but he could be amused about it. They had this battle of food choices constantly. Sometimes he gives in, sometimes he pushes, but they always find common ground.

Then looking back over the place, he tucks both his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, elbows sticking behind him, and surveys the people working hard. "It's an unexpectedly good turn out, and I've made a few networks getting this organized. John and the Coltranes had a winner with the food, a real crowd pleaser."

He gets kissed then, and his hands slide out of his pockets, one reaching to touch her back. A glow of pleasure flares through him an a spark of interest in a look he gives her, but he says nothing other then what can be found in the outright grin he gives - rare for him, but full of laugh lines and teeth.

"Cigney, you were a hit with the kids today," he tells her when she comes over, presumably, to join the gathered. "Thanks for all your hard work. It's really appreciated."

[Victor Oseragighte] He has to smile at Adrian, the effort put into looking good and looking like he's not even trying. Even here, at such an event. He wonders how much of his bravado is show, though, knowing that with Karl and Moira gone he's lost some very close friends and supporters. Silent, the Half-Moon nods to him and then glances over to Cigney, mentioned by Kora but not actually met yet.

[Cigney] The amount of garbage in this city it doesn't take long to fill the bag at all. Upon her return she makes her way to Kora and says hello. Looking at those who are with her. At Trent's praise she blushes a little and shrugs.

[Kora] Kora's dark eyes linger on Trent's face a moment longer, than unexpected glow that suffuses his skin, before she turns Adrian, opening the little circle as he greets her to include him, and Victor, and Cigney.

"Quite," Kora returns to Adrian, that lingering edge of her engaging smile still curving her mouth, still gleaming in her eyes. Perhaps to Trent's surprise, she's enamoured enough of the summer vegetables - the fresh end of season tomatoes - that she snags a trio of slices and eats them with a sound of unexpected pleasure. Summer tomatoes, sweet corn - for some pleasures there are no substitutes. She looks, as she says, quite well, a healthy glow about her in the later afternoon sun.
" - and I'm glad that you're here, yeah? Thanks for coming."

Then, "Cigney," her rage, and Victor's are enough to give the small group a bubble of privacy, particular as the lunch crowd returns to the work up and down the river. "I'm glad you're here, too."

And then, the introductions, neatly managed. "Victor, you know Adrian and Trent. This is Cigney, also my kin. Cigney, Adrian, Adrian, Cigney."

Then, a glance up at the Hazmat team. An aside, to Trent. " - who are the guys in the suits?"

[Cigney] "It's nice to meet you Adrian".

Cigney takes off the gloves and offers her hand. He won't sense any PB...just her scent, and that she's pretty solid with a good balance of lean muscle mass. Her smile is warm and friendly.

[Trent Brumby] "That's Archie Hackett and his crew, he actually works for the EPA I think," he tells her quietly when she asks it of him. "I wasn't expecting the suits, which is a bit overkill for a day like today. Everyone's going to think there's some chemical spills or something," which is something he's worrying about considering a large group is heading back this way. The timing was just off, is all.

"I don't know if any of you are interested, but John suggested we head somewhere after all this is finished up. Maybe have some drinks and unwind." It's meant for the lot of them, collectively. "Rounds on me." As some sort of thank you or something.

He's glad to see Kora eating and watches her out of the corner of his eye, while his hand rests neatly on the middle of her back, a solid presence there without taking any sort of liberties.

[Cigney] "And you as well Victor..."

She extends a hand to him as well. Busy remembering faces to names at this point for future reference. The kinswoman watches him a moment, a warm engaging smile on her face before turning to Trent.

"It sounds like fun..."

[Victor Oseragighte] Victor's polite, friendly even despite his terse usage of words; when he speaks, it is brief and simple, but does not come across as unpleasant. The Wendigo accepts the offered hand, his grip firm but not testing, his hands heavily scarred and callused, the hands of somebody who is anything but idle. "Same here."

[Adrian Sandenberg] "Nice to meet you as well, Cigney." He gives his hand, once it's divested of its glove (clean, as new as his jeans and shirt), for a shake - reasonably strong, but not crushing, bruising. It's just a shake, paired with that smile he'd given earlier. "Are you new in town, then?"

He's not quite shy, but he's certainly not outgoing either - doesn't talk a lot, but isn't quite reticent either. What he is, is reserved. A bit distant. He keeps himself to himself, and it may well be part of that look of his.

[missing posts?]

[Victor Oseragighte] He shook his head; he figured that Trent was simply interested in arranging for the river to be cleaned up. He remembered how adamant he was about arranging the whole event, and it certainly seemed to be successful beyond anything Victor had expected. He watched as people departed and waits for Kora's explanation, though he does nod toward the bank and head that way to resume the pickup.

[Adrian Sandenberg] Adrian, after a fond, light bump against Kora (strong kin, so [relatively] comfortable with the Galliard) moves to get back to work as well - with a stop by Cigney. "I think it's safe to assume that you know what I mean when I say I'm one of hers," he offers with a jut of his chin towards Kora. "And less . . . moon-driven. I'm working on my masters at University of Illinois."

Which is to say, of course, that he's Fenrir kin. And, the more he talks? The clearer his not American-ness becomes.

"If you've need of a number to call for company or assistance, I'll be pleased to share my mobile number."

[Trent Brumby] After dealing with some group that soon disperse, he finds his way over to where Archie is and comes up along side him. Trent's snagged some gloves and a bag for himself, cleaning up along the way, but he comes over to strike up some conversation with the other Kinfolk. "Archie, isn't it? We're going to go for a few drinks after this if you want to come along," he nods back to where Kora and that are, "with that lot of there."

"Drinks are on me," he adds with a smile.

[Adrian Sandenberg] ((Which is to say! It's 1am, and time for bed for tired CCs everywhere.))
to Archie, Cigney, Kora, Peeker, Trent Brumby, Victor Oseragighte

[Trent Brumby] [thanks for playing CC!]

[Victor Oseragighte] (( That's cool. Rest well! ))
to Adrian Sandenberg, Archie, Cigney, Kora, Trent Brumby

[Cigney] Cigney nods and exchanges numbers with Adrian, curious to know more about him. But she doesn't keep him.

"Good luck in your studies. Please let me know if I can ever assist you as all. I'm a physical trainer and work with a few gyms in the area".

[Kora] "There's a shrine to Sparrow close by," Kora begins, her voice low, " - outside one of the old Eagle pack's kinshouses. When I first came here with Joe, we cleaned it up, started back taking care of that shrine, you know? I have a few deals like that - seed and water, free access, that sort of thing, in exchange for a bit of message work or fair warning of changes in the land. There are other birds," and the doubled suggestion, of course, of bird-spirits, " - that like to roost in the bell-tower of the church.

"So, Roman and I were there taking care, refilling the feeders, that sort of thing, when the wind kicked up. Strangely, yeah? We crossed over and found an air elemental that wanted our aid. It said that there was fighting at the river, and the spirits were losing.

"Running, we followed it, booking through the territory. We found the spirits of the river and a fire jagglling fighting this huge - sort of poisonous oil-thing, formed of trash and filth. And losing they were. Roman and I joined the fight. Somehow, the huge thing swallowed me, almost whole. I started fighting my way out, but could feel the - poison, the filth burning my skin. Couldn't see a thing - my nose, my mouth, my ears were all full, and everywhere I moved, slashed my claws, the mass seemed to move with me.

"I don't know how long I was in there, fighting. Couldn't have been long. Then suddenly it all dissolved around me. I found Roman in the river, floating, unconscious, humanskinned, and didn't know at first whether - " she leaves this blank, for Victor to fill in. Whether Roman was dead, or whether he had raged back from death. The results were the same.

"The poison was working through me. I didn't have much time, no real way to stop it, and I was sick, and getting sicker. There was little time, so I appealed to the elementals in the water to come heal Roman before I succumbed to the poisons. They healed him, and cleansed me, neutralizing the poison.

"So," she finishes, some of the solemnity that comes with the telling of the tale fading from her features, chased away by the fond width of her smile. "This his way of offering chiminage. Mine, too. The river borders our territory - cuts right through the heart of the city."

[Kora] (night CC! thanks for the RP! and if uhm: anyone who wasn't there wants to pretend they were there for the story, please pretend. alternatively, kora's likely to tell it again when they go for drinks!)

[Adrian Sandenberg] ((Night, and thanks! *poofs*))

[Victor Oseragighte] It made sense. It was logical. Respectful. Reverent even. And he'd have to climb up and give his own thanks to those high-up spirits. As she told him her tale, he went about picking things up, the gloves pulled on once more, snugged tightly into place.

"So you have much to thank the river for." He finds an irony there; a river once nearly took his life, and he still bore the spiritual scars of this. Yet this river, another river, had saved Kora's, and Roman's as well. He drew his fingers through some muck, skimming from it a plastic bag he shook out first and then stuffed into the bag.

[Kora] "Exactly," she returns quietly. No gloves, just her hands as they move and work. " - and, more than that, that huge - thing, we fought was made of oil and chemicals, and trash, the sort of household trash that fills the river. So maybe cleaning things here will - reduce the power of such things, on the other side. Hell," she continues, " - imagine if we had lost, and that poison had spread to destroy and corrupt the river. If the river had been lost," she breathes out quietly, her nostrils flaring, a brief spike of her normally quiescent rage at the thought.

"So, yeah. I'm - " a glance back, she can see Cigney working, Adrian. Trent. " - thankful." Maybe that was the word.

[Cigney] Wanting to clean up before joining everyone for drinks, Cigney excuses herself. She thanks Trent and Kora for the invitation for the clean up, and again tells Victor she's glad to have met him and hopes to see him later.

Returning her gear, Cigney waves and heads off to her car.

[Cigney] ((And on the heels of CC...I'm on my way to bed. ;)

[Trent Brumby] [Thanks for playing!]

[Kora] (sleep tight and thanks, MoonLily!)

[Victor Oseragighte] "One side reflects the other," he agreed simply, a lesson he'd learned many times over. He glanced out across the other, and felt her anger, understood it, even responded to it in kind a little at the thought of this poor choked waterway defiled. Victor might not like the water, but he hardly wanted to see it corrupted and ruined.

[Kora] (ack! non-refreshing thing.)

[Victor Oseragighte] (( Did that to me also. ))

[Trent Brumby] After talking with Archie, Trent made his way along the bank, spending some time doing some active cleaning himself. He threw the occasional glance over to where Kora and Victor were, did some chit chat with Cigney and Adrian as they worked, steady and constant.

Until the sun was starting to go down towards the tall buildings and the light was beginning the first fades from the sky. He helped pack equipment away into trucks and vans, hands on with helping anyone that had came out today and required it - and even if they didn't. Busy, the Black Fury kinfolk was making sure they didn't leave any mess behind them, as often tends to happen with things like this - ironic, really.

[Trent Brumby] [stupid thing.]

[Kora] Kora agrees, quietly enough, about the idea of reflection. One side reflects the other. It started as a stray thought, a quiet exchange, and turned into this. By the time the light is shifting and the cool evening air - such a contrast to the recent heat of the summer, this first hint of fall - even the pair of Garou have filled some trash bags. Few humans come close to them, and Kora spends as much time surveying the water, the dark places along the land, the street above, the abandoned warehouses - for any dangers that might be hidden away, waiting for something to happen, waiting for something to strike.

By the time the trucks and tables and food is being packed away, Kora and Victor have returned to the bank. The best Kora can do is to stay out of their way. Most humans do not feel comfortable, not entirely, in her presence. Instead, she finds a place to perch - a picnic table, a retaining wall - and polishes off a pair of oatmeal raisin cookies, the last two snagged from the trays, before rounding up those who remain for a round of drinks, after.

[Kora] (I am thinking that IIII need to sleep. So tired. I might bow out, and leave you two to it if you want. Or we could end it there and you can go play something else?)
to Archie, Trent Brumby, Victor Oseragighte

[Trent Brumby] [I think we might leave it there for the night. I've got to run off in an hour or two in any case. But thanks for everyone that came along.]
to Archie, Kora, Victor Oseragighte

[Victor Oseragighte] Victor has it a little easier; the Curse is not felt so keenly with the Philodox, though he still unnerves many. Like her, he's spent more time keeping watch than cleaning, but he does his part, and is good and filthy by the time they're carting everything away. He nods his farewells largely, before tagging along with Kora and her crew of kin.

[Victor Oseragighte] (( Sounds good to me. ))
to Archie, Kora

[John Brendan Cavanagh] (fyi! I have 'net problems, sometimes I lose connection and it stops refreshing. so! please have ze patience with me. :) )

[Trent Brumby] The word had been spread out, not only with the Kinfolk community but through the human organizations too. The idea had been to get people involved in cleaning up the area, specifically in and around the river. This would be the first of many efforts in locations around the city. It's something that Kinfolk should be doing anyway, if you were to ask Trent's opinion.

Today, earlier in the morning, he had gathered along a stretch of area along the river bank, setting up some folding tables that he had hired out from some company. These would be filled with various items in table clusters: information pamphlets for organizations and charities in the area that promoted environmental issues and welfare; boxes of disposable gloves and two coloured bag options - one for recycling and the other for ordinary trash; tables for food and drink that had been arranged with the help of John Cavanagh and some kinfolk at the Brotherhood, and so on. Everyone had contributed their own little bit as they spread the word out and while it had been Trents idea he had happily let others take some control as long as they kept in the spirit of the day. This wasn't some money making scheme where people were forced to sign up for third world charities or buy products to support some monetary funds. In fact, those that were here early enough, had seen him get quite irate with a group that had showed up with such plans to do that. They had set up further down the river but there wasn't much he could do about that since it was a public area. He'd fumed quality about it and certainly made sure that they kept their distance. It certainly helped that Izzy had got on board a good lot of officers that had came down to help the cause in a good show of force - Trent was most pleased, in more ways then one.

Now as it drifts over towards lunch, there's quite a few people milling about in their groups, eating or moving along the banks with gloves and bags, picking up rubbish. From elderly to teens and all walks of life, they have shown that it is possible to still get a community together - even if they are all just a minority.

Trent is standing behind the table with bags and gloves, smiling as he hands over some bags to a group of younger teenage girls who are more then happy to flirt with the older man. He finds it harmless enough and in good humour, as he instructs which bags are what and where to put them when they're finished up. He tells them to help themselves over by the drinks and thanks them very much for coming, and if they're interested there's a sign up sheet where they can leave contact details if they're interested in doing this again sometime.

[Mighty Mei] (dusts off boot and stomps off with purpose!)

[JB Cavanagh] The afternoon is bright and clear, and cooler than it has been. The first hint of fall is in the air, and everything feels sharp, crisp, particularly in the cool morning air, first light, when the event started. Mist settled over the Chicago river made the setting softer, but the sun soon burned it away.

Lucy wanted to work; to wear the gloves and pick up trash, to skip stones in the river and search for toads or lizards in the shallows. He kept her away from the shallows, knowing she'd find mostly broken glass. After a good hour's worth of work, Lucy was ready to serve coffee and and tea and scones to the workers at one of the tables. The girl is this soft contrast to her dad, pale skinned, with shining dark brown hair and opaque blue-gray eyes.

While John and his sous-chef start to unload their catering van to set up for lunch, she remains there with the last of the morning's scones and sliced whole-grain breads and muffins, under the watchful eye of a tattooed waitress with bright, candy-apple red hair cut in a Betty Paige style.

There's water now, and lemonade too. And a tattooed man tending a pair of heavy-duty looking grills while another starts to set out aluminum tins full of a series of bright salads. The tables are covered with linens, and there's a small cafe Lulu banner in front of one.

[Victor Oseragighte] There are a lot of kin present. A lot of faces he doesn't know. He takes his gloves and a bag and stands apart then, not unsocial, just watchng, not wishing to unnerve anybody; some kin he knows can't handle them as well as others. His usual garb is good enough for today, hard-toed boots, black jeans, a black tank-top. It's chill out, but rather nice for somebody of a more northerly origin.

[Cigney] She came dressed in some old beatup jeans, an old Chemical Romance concert t-shirt, and worn in steel tipped hiking boots. Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a braid that falls half way down her back. A pair of aviator sunglasses shields her eyes from the glare of the bright autumn sun. Her presence as always is warm, her scent a mixture of wild flowers, sandalwood, and a hint of citrus...the feeling of summer clings to her aura.

Once the clean up is finished, Cigney lends herself to organize the smaller children into a play group to keep them busy while the adults took a rest and socialized. They play "what time is it Mr. Wolf?", and sit in a circle while eating, drinking, as the Get kin quizzes them about nutrition and exercise. Questions like what is protein and what does it do, or how much water we need a day. Followed up by a game of freeze tag. Cigney doesn't seem to tire one bit.

[Trent Brumby] Leaving the table to the tender hands of an older housewife who calls Trent at least twice a month, he heads over to greet Victor. Like everyone else, he's dressed rather casual, a pair of jeans and a t.shirt to go with it, with some work boots on his feet.

"Hey Victor," he calls out, approaching the Garou that he spied standing off to the side by himself. As he nears, he extends a hand out to shake the others. "I'm glad to see you could make it." Trent, for all his quietness, can be quite personable when he needs to be, and (surprisingly) can organize and give direction for all of his submissiveness to certain Garou.

[JB Cavanagh] There are kin - strangers - and ordinary humans. Police here, college kids there. - among the kin is the seven year old girl who watches Victor with huge round eyes, perfectly blue, some gray sky-color. Her blood is Fianna - pure, coursing under her skin, more pronounced than her father's when he comes by and slides his large hand over her shining head. She tugs JB away from the grill as it begins to heat up, and he bends his head to listen to her request.

JB glances briefly at Victor, waves his spatula to Trent, and then sends Lucy off to join the circle of children around Cigney. When the kinswoman asks about protein and nutrition, Lucy is a star. There's a point where she starts talking about the harvest and seasonal vegetables and "hydro-de-nated" oil and real food. One of the other children pronounces himself a vegetarian, just like his parents, with their hemp shoes and their Sierra Club t-shirts, who are trudging back from the river today. Lucy calls herself a "locavore" with this little grin. She doesn't know entirely what it means. Sometimes says it because she thinks it sounds like a dinosaur.

[Archie] Archie's arrival was marked by the arrival of a truck. There were ladders on the outside of the truck as well as all manner of containers loaded with equipment on board the truck. He hopped out of the passenger side and began to approach the group. He was dressed in a t-shirt and blue jeans, and would appear unassuming if not for the badge that he wore on his belt identifying him as law enforcement of some sort.

He had company. A larger man with a shaven head, sun glasses and a grim look on his face. Both men approached, though only Archie really presented a smile when he wandered up to introduce himself to others."Is there a Trent around here somewhere?"He calls out to the group. He hadn't met most of these people but he was here on his day off to... Well... Do what he does every day anyway.

[Victor Oseragighte] He accepts the offered hand with a nod and a smile. "Hey. Good crowd." The tone is complimentary, impressed, even if he doesn't say much. But then, Victor doesn't unless he has to. He recognizes that the scope of this was larger than he'd expected, and probably all the better that he was here; so many kin in one place, after all, not a bad idea to have a Garou or two on hand in case something happened.

[Trent Brumby] "Yeah, it is a good turn out. I'm quietly impressed. Make sure you go and grab some food, that over there," nodding with a smile to John when he gets a wave of a spatula in his direction, "runs a cafe. He's grilling up a storm. He's one of our own and has a daughter running around somewhere. Cute as a button."

"Oh," this is when his name is called out. "Sorry, just a tick Victor," he tells the Garou, and turns back to head towards the person that's calling his name out.

Picking up his pace his long stride eats up the ground as he approaches Archie, glancing from him to others with him and back again. "I'm Trent," he extends a hand out to shake the others. "What can I help you with?"

[Trent Brumby] [edit: "Make sure you go and grab some food. That man over there, John, -- runs a cafe." ]

[Cigney] She's very impressed by the answers everyone gives, and especially Lucy's knowledge of the hydro-de-nated oils. Cigney explains that there's all sorts of ways people eat. At the mention of "locavore", the kinswoman perks an eyebrow and decides to ask the girl later what exactly that means, having maybe a small idea in the back of her mind.

Once the game is done, Cigney walks back towards the hydration station to get some more water. The gaggle of kids follows her, speaking up to get her attention. She jokingly orders a round for her new best friends. Taking a moment, she looks around and feels glad to be here. It was a good day.

Aside from Trent, she doesn't know anyone here. But it doesn't seem to matter. With the water she needed, she lets the kids organize their own game, standing off to the side to referee. Allowing her the time to watch the interactions of the group in general.

[Adrian Sandenberg] Adrian's there - or rather, he arrives there, steps out of a cab in stylishly distressed jeans and a long sleeved Henley (because it might just be a bit cooler to most people here, but to a desert born boy, it's nearly frigid) that fits nicely to his slim frame, with sturdy work boots - all of which he may have bought for just this occasion, as Adrian-the-fashion-plate is hardly the jeans-and-work-boots type. To complete the impression, though, there are work gloves in his back pocket and, for those Garou present, there's that faint whiff of Fenrir breeding.

He's quite the picture, is Adrian Sandenberg.

He knows Trent, of course, and Victor, but Cigney and JB are strangers. So it's towards those he knows that he heads, the better to check in and do his part. "Hej, Trent," he says, but doesn't keep him occupied when others are there to do so. "Hallo, Victor."

[Archie] He reaches out his own hand and smiles warmly. He certainly didn't give off the same vibe as the larger man beside him."Archie Hackett... I don't believe we had a chance to meet in person yet."He then turns to the larger man beside him."And this large bull of a man beside me is Jamie Reynolds... Don't mind his sour look he's still pouting cause I wouldn't let him bring his sidearm with him."He adds with a little laugh.

"Anyway I brought a cleanup truck with me. We got everything you need in there... Garbage bags, Gloves, Biohazard Suits... They might seem like a bit much but they're not a huge deal just something to help keep the crew from getting anything nasty on 'em."He says with a nod of his head."And if we stumble on anything particularly nasty just give Jamie and I a call... We'll handle it."He says with a laugh."Pretty much whatever you need on the truck... Probably a lot more than we'll need."He nods and shrugs."But you can never be too careful right?"He asks with a smile before looking back at the larger man with him."Go get the truck opened up will ya?"He asks with a smile before turning back to face Trent.

"With that done... Where do ya need me?"

[Victor Oseragighte] He smiled as Trent spoke, and when he was called away he looked over to note John again and headed his way, thinking he might get a bite before everything was underway. The gloves are tucked into his back pocket. Adrian calls out to him and he looks over, raising a hand in greeting before he's arrived at the restauranteer's grill to nod to him.

[JB Cavanagh] The food on the tables is fresh and local. There's a tomato and onion salad, made with a variety of heirloom tomatoes, every shade from purple to yellow to red, some striped, some saturated, sweet onions and fresh shredded basil. Beside it, another simple summer salad of chopped cucumbers, feta cheese, and mint. A pair of wooden bowls are filled and refilled with fresh potato chips.

There are a pair of men behind the grill. One has dirty blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail, a Dead Kennedy's t-shirt, and a smattering of tattoos. The other, taller with short, cropped dark hair - the one with the spatula - has the faint hint of blood that marks him as kin.

There and hamburgers - and turkey burgers and black bean burgers, with condiments like caramelized onions and home-made pickles. There's a tin full of roasted ratatouille for vegetable sandwiches, to each as a salad or a topping, and John and his staff cook and serve the picnic food with an easy, engaging charm. Sweet corn and black bean salad round out the offerings.

John always has an eye out for Lucy, and when the teaching sessions shifts to a game, with Cigney standing alone alongside, the chef - who smells of cooked meat, now, smoke and sweat from the work - steps away from the grills, grabbing a bottle of water and swallowing back a mouthful or two, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his Ramones t-shirt.

"Clever idea, to organize the kids like that. Oh, hey. Gimme a sec - " then he turns heads back to the tables, offering Victor an engaging grin, briefly explaining the menu.

"The beef's grass fed, locally raised. The turkeys, too. There are three or four lamb burgers left if you'd prefer. I get them from a farmer in southern Wisconsin. What can I get you?"

[Trent Brumby] "Nice to meet you Archie," Trent shakes his hand with a warm grasp, releasing it as he listens, nodding along. His brows hitch at the mention of bio-hazard suits, surprised and a little thrown off guard. Archie's laugh gets a smile out of him. Jamie gets his hand shaken too and told it was nice to meet him as well.

"Thanks for coming along and bringing a crew," he tells Archie, sincere about it. "You know, anywhere you want to start. There's heaps of folks doing their own thing wandering around." Turning to look around at the various people walking about picking up rubbish or eating food, they drift along the river bank doing their part.

Looking back to Archie he smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Grab a bag, some gloves and help out. Every little bit counts. There's also some food over there and drinks, if you guys are hungry. Go and help yourself. John over there is a chef at Cafe Lulu, and his food will fill you right up."

Adrian says hello and gets a smile and a wave of hand. His smile for Adrian is warmer in the paleness of his gray eyes. They go way back, as far as way is with Trents time in Chicago. "Good to see you Adrian. You're looking well," he calls out.

[Victor Oseragighte] "Oh. Try a bit whatever you like. Ah, meat, though. Veggies and... ah... roughage I don't do so good with." How to explain his strict dietary needs openly? Kin might understand, but others... Victor might well need to come up with some sort of excuse, like training, he's seeing. He smiles, though, a genuine expression, and is happy to try whatever JB will offer him.

[Cigney] The arrival by taxi is hard to miss...and the way he's dressed, Cigney watches Adrian a moment or two longer than she should have probably. As the grillmaster speaks, she turns to him instead and gives a warm smile. She opens her mouth just as she moves back to the table. Awkward. So it is with Cigney. Out of place just doesn't quite sum it all up.

Two kids start shoving each other, and Cigney goes to intervene. Separating the two and threatening a penalty box. They then run off to play again. She watches the food table now for a moment, before calling a break so the kids can reorganize and start round 2 of their game.

[Archie] He nods back at Trent and pauses to look around at the area."Well if you don't mind I think Jamie and I will have a little look around to see what needs to be hit and once we have a plan ready we'll get to it. I know Jamie was looking forward to the free food so best we get crackin' to earn our keep."He adds with a little laugh before turning around to head back towards the truck to begin getting himself set up.

[JB Cavanagh] There's no genuine way to explain. Not here. The other man on the grill bears no pure blood at all, and the waitress with the candy-apple red hair and the tight tanks and tees is equally normal, human. Human enough to shy just away from Victor, in this way that is barely noticeable, spooning out a serving of the corn salad onto someone's plate by way of refill.

JB meets Victor's gaze with rather more directness than most kin can manage. Maybe it's that he's taller than the Garou. Maybe he doesn't understand what or who Victor is. After all, he doesn't have the sense of blood ties that Garou have. There's a whole world underneath his skin, and Lucy's, that he cannot see or sense. "Atkins diet, eh? You know, I'm pretty sure that roughage is part of it though. Just fruits you can't have." And, so saying, he serves Victor a pair of plain burgers, no buns, with a gesture toward the salads and toppings. "Help yourself. I swear most of those won't up your carb-count."

--

One of the children in the center of the shoving is Lucy, who is still small for her age and cute as a button, with shining dark hair and huge blue-gray eyes, set in a perfectly round face, rosy cheeks a contrast to her pale skin and dark hair. It takes just a bit - more, to pull her away. Louder voice, a stronger hand on her shoulder, but it doesn't really go beyond kids being kids, except in the way she stares down her opponent when it's over, then eschews the second round of the game as baby-ish, prefering to circle back to Cigney, curl an arm around the young woman's thigh, and look up at her, bright-eyed. "What's your name?"

[Adrian Sandenberg] Catching Cigney looking his way, he offers a smile - and it's a model's smile, a runway smile, that's half smirk and all smooth. In fact, he's full of that runway look - he's hardly stunning, but there's just something about him. The way he fills out the jeans and shirt, maybe. The way he drops his aviators to cover his eyes. Something.

"Thank you, Trent," he answers easily, and a hand brushes over Victor's shoulder briefly - clearly, he knows both men, and is friendly with them. The accent is a bit British-like, but not really - something about the vowels, the way his Ws and Vs resolve into something different. Whatever it is, it's certainly not American. "It looks like a good turn out. I meant to be hear earlier, but there was a department meeting - I'm not too late, am I?"

Of course there's still work to be done; there's always work to be done.

[Trent Brumby] Laughing low at the mention of how Jamie is looking forward to the free food, he nods to the other man and tells him: "Thanks for coming along. If you need a hand, there's plenty willing around, and if you've got any more questions I'll be roaming around." Then Archie is heading off towards the truck and Trent is moving in the opposite direction.

He gives a glance towards the children and Cigney, offering a woman a smile and a nod of her head. He doesn't come over and see if she's alright, because well, there were times in his life that he would have had his head bitten off by suggesting that they couldn't handle children, after all they are women and know how to raise children best -- all for just asking if they needed a hand. Some habits are hard to break and he leaves her to it.

Over at the food, Adrian asks about being late. "Never too late," he remarks easily, "I think we'll be here until late afternoon. Then pack up and call it a day." With this he looks up, meeting John's eyes as if to see if that was alright with him. Trent likes working in teams when he has to make decisions, he doesn't like to delegate unless he really has to. This whole event had been something of a challenge for him. But challenges are met head on and with plenty of drive behind it.

[Cigney] Must be a style thing, these aviator sunglasses. Cigney pushes her back up the bridge of her nose and offers a half smile in Adrian's direction until she's startled by something, or in this case someone wrapping around her leg.

"Oh...well, my name's Cigney. How about you?"

She smiles and pushes a strand of hair from Lucy's face. The way the child looks and approaches her is interestingly different. There's a force behind this girls actions that interest Cigney. The kinswoman notes that the girl isn't playing anymore...but lets it go unless the girls wants to talk about it more.

A small wave in Trent's direction. Here in just a little bit she'll make sure the kids return to their families and suit up for some trash detail.

[Victor Oseragighte] He sees that JB doesn't quite understand and nods politely, foregoing the toppings even so to have at the burgers themselves. Adrian's brush earns him a smile, one of the few present he actually knows. The Wendigo wanders off to the side to eat and watch, thinking to have his snack before he gets to work.