Kin Liaison, Part 1

[Balance Without Fault] [folks, it was pointed out to me that kieran was the only uktena in town, and ergo the default uktena alpha. if anyone has him in AIM, call him back in!]

[Gina McClaren] *Gina'd come home late, but that hadn't stopped the pikey from being in the kitchen and underfoot since early morning. The more time she spent at Jenny's elbow, the more likely it was the saintly blonde would let slip the secrets to her cranberry oat-muffins. As folks file in the Strider pickpocket finally emerges from the kitchen, long hair bound in a messy loop off her neck, floury hand marks on the dull black of her skirt, tank top askew, a smudge of icing sugar across a caramel shoulder. She hops up on a stool near the back, as far removed from those of her tribe as she can get. God knew her voice would carry if she had anything to say in earnest. Those she knows get nods of recognition, and a worn smile.*

[Carter Roth] Carter is present, but he remains close to the exit his hands deep within his pockets and his eyes wary and mistrustful, he didnt know what this was all about and he didnt like it one bit.

But he was here, as a test of himself and a test of the garou, to see what they were up to. He couldn't very well pass up that now could he.

[Carter is here, but I may not be going to be on and off]

[Rosie] The certain Bone Gnawer kinfolk finds a seat near or by or somewhere in the vicinity of Hunter. She sits: quiet and unobtrusive.

[Amunet Knezevic] Amunet made her way in quietly, several minutes before the meeting was to start. She's in her own jacket, and the iPad has been left at the condo. She remembers very few times in her life when she has been this nervous. When so much has been riding on a single night.

Moving to the far side of the room, she finds a spot where she can watch the comings and goings, back against the wall to protect herself from surprises. Her eyes flicker around the room as it populates, but the only one they rest on more than a second or two is her sister.

[Holden] A grizzly bearded Fenrir takes a seat out of the way, he doesn't suppose he will have much to say so the distance does him well.

[August Grant] Oh good! Someone to watch the baby! August likes Jenny - afterall, they spent a lot of time hanging out in the kitchen when August lived here..

The young woman gives Jenny a smile. "Of course.. I didn't have anyone else to watch her.. Thank you. Tell Reuben she might be hungry.." Ella gets a kiss on the side of her head and the baby is lifted from her arms and offered out to the kin.. a moment later, the diaper bag is also offered out.

[Starla Navarro] There is a painted Unicorn that has joined the others, Starla following on Rain's heels easily, ducking her head down as she finds a seat next to her tribe mate. Dark head lifting to look around, skirting her eyes across the room at the faces that were familiar and not; the freckles dance across the bridge of her nose and her left cheek. She tucks her hands in her lap, leaning to the side to nudge Rain's shoulder with her own.

[Kyle] (Not going to post for Kyle unless he has something to say or someone asks him questions other wise he's just doing his usual watch and listen routine :) )

[Bridget Geroux] The Canadian Fianna kinfolk finds herself at this gathering in her usual state of confusion. She doesn't look quite like she knows what's going on. However, she doesn't appear to be under the influence of anything. She wears a simple black maxi dress, gathered at the waist by a beat-up leather belt, a hunter green jacket covering her bare shoulders, and of course her combat boots.

Bridget finds a place to sit where she can stretch her legs: she knows she'll probably want to fidget if the Rage gets a bit much. She also wisely follows Izzy's lead by getting herself a small glass of whiskey. She returns and smiles at the few here she recognizes and is on good terms with: Hunter, Gina, Kyle, Sarita. The Fianna kinswoman does her best to control the feral urges to move around while surrounded by so much Rage.

[Kora] A cool spring evening; spring already, light lingering in the west far longer than she had remembered. The heavily pregnant Fenrir - eight months, perhaps more? - pushes past the private party signs, into the familiar restaurant interior. Her hair is twisted into a loose braid, strands pulled free by the wind. Kora is slower than she was; careful of her body. She walks with her shoulders pulled further back to balance the weight of her stomach. Which is all the more evident when she strips off her winter coat and sets it aside on a coat tree, wrapping a hand-knitted scarf around it in a winding pattern.

She finds her way among her kin, but does not take a seat. Instead, she remains standing at their back, her feet shoulder-width apart, her arms crossed - below her breasts, above the swell of her stomach. There is an expectant tension in her spine and shoulders, and a firm set to her jaw.

[Derek Anderson] Derek came in, dressed in pants and sweater, his kind blue eyes looking around. He bowed respectfully to Balance Without Fault, did the same for Lukas and walked around, greeting those he knew a little with a nod: Hunter, Amunet, Gina, Matthieu and Jackson when the last two arrive.

He nodded and smiled slightly at Sarita when he see her. Izzy received a grin when he pass her by "Hello Detective"

His attention then was on August and Rain, offering htem a warm smile and walking to them "Good evening ladies, I hope you're doing well"

[Danicka Musil] [I'm totally making Damon post Danicka in with Lukas. I'm in the middle of eating. :p ]

[Wyrmbreaker] Punctual, Lukas arrives moments before Balance lays down the protocol for the meeting. And not in his own car but in Danicka's, riding shotgun while scarfing down the last of whatever dinner they went out to. Looks like lamb-stuffed cabbage.

Getting out, anyone looking out the windows can see him stepping out of her car, buttoning his overcoat against the wind. He moves ahead to get the door; she laughs, running a few steps after him, which makes him turn around, which gives her the opportunity to lean up and wipe a dab of tomato-based sauce from his cheek. And kiss him.

Public displays of affection out of his system, Wyrmbreaker is somber and dignified, walking in the door. He sees that his wingback chair is taken, the other cleared away. He goes to sit by the bar instead, where Danny hovers with a nervous grin.

"No drinks here tonight, Mr. Wyrmbreaker. Grand Elder says all the food and alcoholic drink is to be served in the kitchen. Nothing but ice water here."

Lukas huffs a laugh under his breath. "Not a problem, Danny." He takes a seat on a barstool, shifting one a little closer for Danicka.

[Matthieu] Matthieu arrives on time, even a little early. Ever the peacock the lovely Silver Fang arrives just in time to display the finely crafted suit that he has doubtless poured six months of your average man's salary into getting each and every thread just right. His entrance was as much a display of his tribes divine right as it was a display of his own natural beauty. Not only was he the representative of his Auspice on the council now but he also stood as Alpha of Harrier's grace. He was a living representative not only of his tribe but his house as well. Ever regal and dignified. His skin was smooth and pale and his hair looked as if it had been kissed by the golden rays of the sun itself. Falcon's child carried with him the legacy of a house, and the history and hopes of an entire nation.

He listened to Balances without Fault and nods in agreement with the rules. He was here to listen, and to speak when it was needed. Tradition would be the focus of his reasons for being here. Support of tradition and remembrance of ancient ways. His blood ran hot with the memories of a past tens of thousands of years old. A creature of the modern world and yet still firmly grounded in the wisdom of eras ling since passed.

He keeps his eyes forward most of the time. However, when he is finally seated his eyes do drift somewhere to the back. His eyes drawing in to focus on the Strider kin hiding in the back. Pausing to give his own acknowledgement of her presence. His eyes take the time to wander, perhaps linger, and the act brings a slight smile to his lips a smile which might or might not be shared by the both of them. None the less... His eyes were hard pressed to pull themselves away, and in fact he didn't see any reason to draw them away until the meeting officially started.

[Joey] Joey enters with Hunter and his kinswoman, but once they're through the door departs their company to sit closer to the rest of the auspice council. A smile is offered to those she recognizes, dim compared to what it used to be, an upward nod to Balance Without Fault, and Lukas.

Once she's settled, she seeks out Hunter, meets his gaze, and grins.

[Kieran Mondblume] *He looks a little bit intimidated, all things considered, as he walks into the meeting. He finds a place to sit. His shirt is a lovely shade of light purple; his jeans are black. His flip-flops, a lovely shade of maroon. Lukas' words make his head swivel, and his eyes widen. Food? No... ice water. He slumps slightly, disappointed, as he waits for everything to begin.*

[Balance Without Fault] [Sorry for the confusion - "no drinks here tonight" was spoken by Danny, bartender kid NPC kin! I'll try to keep all my NPCing in this name.]

[Delilah Marciano] Back of the room, quiet as a dormouse; the Glass Walker makes an appearance. Dark hair gathered up from her shoulders, she sits alone at one of the tables in the back of the room, whichever was closest to the front. The phone in her hand muted as she set it on the table, dressed in dark charcoal pantsuit with red pinstripe. Silvery gaze focused on those around her.

[Kieran Mondblume] ((Ahh hell. *smacks forehead* My bad.))

[Balance Without Fault] When everyone has settled, Balance Without Fault picks up the magic eightball and speaks again.

"Okay, let's come to order. Some of you might be wondering why this meeting was called. The reason is simple: over the last month, there have been more rumors and murmurs of kin discontent than in the past five years. Furthermore, there's been a troubling trend toward Kin thinking of themselves as separate and distinct from the Garou when we are all part of the same Nation. I wanted to dispel the rumors, clear the air, set a basic infrastructure down, and move on from tonight as a re-unified force.

"With that in mind, let's hear from the kin first. What exactly are your concerns or complaints at the moment?"

He tosses the eightball toward the first kin to call for it.

[Adamidas] Adam slips in and, for the time being, keeps her mouth shut. She doesn't draw attention to herself, or the fact that she left the bathroom with a pop and keeps herself quietly nestled in.

[Balance Without Fault] [For latecomers who missed it, this was BwF's protocol post --

"Welcome, everyone. Thanks for coming. Here are the rules tonight: one speaker at a time. He or she who holds the magic eight ball," and he holds this aloft, "speaks. No one else.

"Keep a respectful tone, particularly to those of greater rank. For those of equal rank, the Auspice Council holds precedence over the Tribal Alphas. For kin, those with renown hold precedence over those without.

"In case of dispute, we will not go to challenges because of the mixed crowd. A Philodox will be called upon to mediate. If mediation fails, I am the final arbiter.

"Anyone violating these rules once will be given one warning, and one only. After that, you're out of the meeting, and your viewpoint will be disregarded. The staff has kindly set up refreshments in the kitchen. If you feel yourself getting hot under the collar, go get a drink and come back when you're calmer."]

[Amunet Knezevic] [Dibs, unless anyone is going to claim it?]

[Balance Without Fault] [whoever types fastest, man.]

[Balance Without Fault] [and on that note, since we're a scene of twenty-seven right now -- let's try to keep posts short and snappy. i know i'm one of the chief offenders here, but i'm really going to try to keep responses to

[Joey] [yeah that's pretty short!]

[Amunet Knezevic] "Balance Without Fault Rhya." Deep breath, Ames. "My name is Amunet Knezevic. I am that one that placed the notice on the board, and the one who has been organizing the willing kinfolk. I believe that this in part may be the cause of the perception of discontent. I would like to clear up any confusion, as our intentions may not be as clear as they should be."

[Balance Without Fault] [okay, i changed my mind -- go ahead and call dibs if you have a longer post to type so you don't lose your chance. but i'm gonna say you have 10 min from the time you call dibs to get it out, just to keep things moving!]

Balance nods. "Let's hear it."

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[She says she's almost done, it's a biggie!]]

[Danicka Musil] The Happy Couple -- and frankly, they are, however smirkingly saccharine the nomenclature -- comes in together, but they leave their more obvious public displays of affection at the door. Danicka is wearing a knee-length gray skirt and knee-high black heels, beneath which are a pair of stockings that extend a little higher than the boots themselves. Her peacoat is doffed when she comes in, hung over the back of a chair no one is using that's been shoved over by the bar. Underneath is a casual, gauze-thin sweater of seafoam green, laid atop the hint of a camisole. There's a white applique in some abstract pattern to one side of chest of the sweater, but all of this is just [window] dressing.

Danicka Musil is not the most renowned Kinswoman in Chicago. Not by far. But she is the most renowned Kinfolk here. The Garou, if they ever mention her to each other, if the spirits ever talk about her, don't talk much about how many fomori she's killed or that one time she shot a zombie or so forth. She's known to be brave, to be a Good Kinswoman. Mostly, she's known to be wise. Granted, when she comes up, it's hardly even by name. Garou call her Wyrmbreaker-rhya's mate. And they say that Wyrmbreaker-rhya's mate is clever, isn't she? Oh yes, I've heard she's a bit of a bright one.

It's childish. It's condescending. But that she is known to be anything at all beyond the mate of an Adren who has not yet given him a child, and that her reputation is solid as a Good Kin is impressive at all. She can't cast rites, she can't learn gifts. She can just be... a clever little thing. Good job, Wyrmbreaker. Now stop dicking around and knock her up.

When the magic 8-ball is first offered to the kin, it's Amunet -- rightly so -- who reaches for it. Danicka, perhaps there just as a show of support for her comrades, perhaps just because she's supposed to be there and she's obedient, turns her eyes towards the Strider she met with last night, her murky green eyes interested. Thoughtful.

[Amunet Knezevic] "My intention is to gather the interested kinfolk in a network that will help the Trueborn, not work against them. Among the first concerns that are being addressed are training and information."

Her eyes flicker to Sarita, then back to Balance. "It is necessary for us to be able to contact one another easily, not only in emergencies but in everyday circumstances where one of us may need another's expertise. One of the first projects will be a listing of the kin and their contact information. This will be heavily guarded, not because I don't want the information to be accessible but because I understand the danger of this type of thing getting into the wrong hands. Cordelia and Jackson have volunteered to begin this process, and to make sure that the information is secure."

Our second focus is going to be self defense training. We are human, at the end of the day. We can't count on the Trueborn to be our protectors when they have a war to fight. Carter has extensive self defense training, and he has offered to run a boot camp of sorts for those who are interested. As with everything that we are working toward, it will be voluntary. I don't want to force any kin to join us, or accept any sort of training except for the third focus."

She stops for breath. "I would like to see every kin trained in basic first aid. This accomplishes two purposes. Should any of us be injured, there will likely be someone close by to help. Again, we are human. We don't heal ourselves, and we are out in the world. The dangers that we face come not only from our enemies, but from the people that we are surrounded with every day.

I've seen an amazing number of Trueborn that are more than willing to step up and heal a kin that is injured. This is honorable, but wasteful. Again, we are at war. We could be attacked at any time, and should that happen, which of the kin would be responsible for sapping a Trueborn's gnosis by being healed out of panic or unnecessarily. Prepared kin are kin that are not a drain on the Nation's resources."

Her fingers run in her hair nervously, and she licks her bottom lip before continuing. "I've been in a Sept that was attacked. I have a clearer understanding of what happens than some of the kin do. I watched kin die, because no one was able to triage them. I watched kin die, because they had all become complacent and lazy and spoiled by well meaning Trueborn. I have friends here. I don't want to see the same thing happen again. That is why I've made this move. That is why these three goals are my first"

[Balance Without Fault] "That's all well and good," Balance replies as the eightball comes back to him, "and I'm glad to hear you're trying to organize the kin. See to it that the Warder has a list of these kin and contacts as well. Areas of specialization, too, if possible. We had something like that for a while, but the parties responsible for its maintenance drifted off.

"Regarding self defense and basic first aid -- that sounds like a wise investment. We've got a few kin who are accomplished physicians. You might want to get their input. As for self defense, Imogen Slaughter's known to be a crack shot. Izzy Montoya and Derek Anderson are both with the police; surely they know how to handle a gun as well. You might want to seek their services as well.

"But all that aside -- Amunet, you've told me everything that's working. Or that you want to be working, at least. I'm asking why I keep hearing murmurs of discontent."

[Amunet Knezevic] "Some of the kin that have shown interest are not content, Rhya. Trueborn have become accustomed to dictating to us, and the kin have become accustomed to allowing it. Not only here, but other places where several of the new kin have come from, bringing their biases with them. This has bred discontent. I am in no way suggesting that we should be treated as equals. The fact is that we are not. I would suggest though that we are kept informed, so that when decisions are made and passed down, they do not seem arbitrary and dictatorial. Your kin are willing to work together with the Trueborn, Rhya. We just need a path to follow."

[Balance Without Fault] Balance Without Fault considers Amunet a moment. Then he sweeps a glance around the room.

"I don't want to put you under a microscope this early in the night, Amunet." Maybe that's a joke. The half-smile says it is. He raises his voice, "Let's hear from someone other than Amunet. Kinfolk of Maelstrom, this might be one of the few or only times in your life that the Elder Council and the Tribal Alphas of an entire Sept are gathered, silent, with open ears -- waiting to hear from you.

"If you've got issues, bring them forward."

[Jackson Montgomery] [[DIBS!]]

[Izzy Montoya] She hadn't intended to talk. In fact, she hadn't intended to make a sound at all, but at that, she snorts. Audibly. But that is all, as she starts the ritual search through her pockets for her cigarettes and lighter. she finds both - but doesn't put them to use other than to keep her hands busy.

After all - smoking inside is against the law.

[Jackson Montgomery] He stands, perhaps unexpectedly, and goes to claim the magic 8-Ball. "I think, if I can speak to this, that a lot of the reported discontent is simple due to the fact that some of the initial ideas being brainstormed are coming out and they aren't even formalized yet. And some Garou have been volunteering their involvement...which is great. There's been an impression that this is quickly becoming Garou vs. kinfolk, and that's not the case.

"The thing is, when a lot of Garou get heavily involved in this, even in the planning stage, it belies the fact that it goes right back to the idea that the kinfolk are relying on the Garou instead of standing on their own. I've been talking a lot with Amunet about this, and we've come up with some good ideas. And at no point are we trying to push this into two separate factions. But the old saying goes, too many cooks spoil the soup, and there are a lot of kinfolk even as it is with very different viewpoints. We absolutely plan to make this a thing where we're all involved in the same mission, but we need an actual plan in place for what we're doing before we start implementing that and integrating it with the Garou side."

[Balance Without Fault] Balance Without Fault's eyes swing immediately to Izzy. When he gets the eightball back, he tosses it toward her.

"You sounded like you wanted to be heard, Izzy. Let's hear it."

[August Grant] August shifted in her chair. It was slightly uncomfortable for her to sit in the same position for too long these days. A slender hand rubbed at the side of her belly - perhaps where a persistent foot was intent on kicking her. She didn't say anything.

No matter the extent of her past issues with this Sept.. in her mind, all were resolved as well as they could be at the moment. And, given that her cheating, lying, deadbeat, no good, s-o-b of a former mate had fled, she was a happy camper. Her gaze did shift to her tribesmate as he stood, however.

[Nash] Oh crap when did he get here.

Nash, who most here don't recognize but for the breeding that pegs him as one of Fenris's Kin, slips in quietly as Amy is discussing her desire to see Kinfolk trained in first aid. He works his way around the room to stand near Kora and tries to get his happy ass caught up while his player does paperwork.

[Kieran Mondblume] *He watches, back and forth. From Amy, to Jackson, and then to Izzy. Waiting, really, curious about all of this.*

[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow, ups both her cigarettes and lighter into one hand and still catches the 8ball with a negligent ease. There are some things that become inherrant when one works in a male dominated workplace - like catching random objects being thrown at her.

She waits a moment, then two. She doesn't look to Kora for permission as some might. She looks to no one - which is not unexpected from anyone that knows her in anyway at all. She is, and always will be, her own person. He wants to hear it. So he does.

"It's bullshit. You sit there and say you want to hear, you want to fuckin' listen, and it's all fuckin' bullshit. Not a one of you give two shits about what we do or don't do, unless it directly involves you. Not a one gives two shits about what we might have to do for you in our jobs, what we might have to compromise in order to save your fuckin' asses in a world you think you're above - even while declaring you want to fuckin' save it. Not a one of you.. not even Kora, whom I've grown to respect, did shit all when I was beat by one of you, imprisoned here of all fuckin' places, and sent to work with injuries so severe that half my department wanted to come after whoever had fucked me up with guns blazing. Not a one of you gives two fuckin' shits - and this is all a fuckin' sham."

He hears it. Both barrels.

She points at Amy. "That bitch has been lookin to get her goose cooked since she got here. And the latest scheme? Good god. she's gonna get us all fuckin' killed. And likely not by the enemy. Discontent." she snorts again. "I won't fuckin talk for anyone else - and don't you dare speak for me either, I can get my ass beat all by myself - it doesn't matter what you say here. In the end - you all will do what you want, and I'll do my fuckin job just as I always have, and do a goddamn good job of it. I'll cover my ass, your ass, everyone's ass who I can manage to cover - but don't expect me to believe that - for one fuckin second - you give a good goddamn what happens in the world we have to travel through every goddamn day. You don't. You haven't yet - and one night won't make it so."

To her credit though - not once does she raise her voice. If anything.. she sounds... tired.

[Danicka Musil] [Dibs!]

[Balance Without Fault] "Keep your tone respectful," Balance says evenly. "That's your only warning."

That's all he says for now. He lobs the eightball toward Danicka.

[Gina McClaren] *Restless as Striders were wont to be, Gina hops down from her stool, sashays into the kitchen, and fetches herself a couple of deep-fried wontons filed with hazelnut chocolate and cream cheese.
She pads back into the room midway through the detective's speech, and settles on her stool once more.

Izzy finishes up, and Gina's expression darkens a moment.

Then the detective has to use those finely honed reflexes again in short order. As a pikey whistles sharply then overhand tosses a wonton to the weary Fenris kin. Whether in agreement or simply in a bid to get her to cram it - only the guttersnipe herself knows.*

[Nash] Nash claps a few times after Izzy finishes. Not a purposefully sarcastic Slow Clap, but it is a bit on the slow side anyway. He seems to be favoring his right wrist. It lasts a few seconds, and then he stops at the Grand Elder's warning to keep a respectful tone.

[Hunter] Holden wanders through the room to stand next to Nash and the other Fenrir. He gives a nod to the equally tall man from the north [south] along with a grin of approval.

[Hunter] [OOPS]

[Izzy Montoya] She catches the wonton. Easily.

And manages not to point out that she WAS respectful. For her.

[Danicka Musil] Everyone in the room is free to judge according to their own perspectives what it says about Danicka that when Balance Without Fault lobs the 8-ball at her, she doesn't even try to catch it. She actually flinches somewhat out of the way, and it's Lukas who snatches the thing out of the air, handing it to her. Some will call her oblivious that she doesn't seem chagrined or embarrassed as she takes it from him. She's a slender sort, not remotely athletic from the look of her.

Sometimes Garou hear of what she's done to minions of the Wyrm, see her, say, Her?

Holding the ball in cupped palms, she speaks up for the first time, her tone clear and level. She addresses Balance Without Fault. "A lot of what Detective Montoya just said is true. Amunet, as well. We aren't... like you," she says, though in a tone that suggests even she realizes how weak that statement is, how far it falls from encompassing the truth. "No matter how much we care about our families, about the world we live in, or about the war -- and I think all of us do care, though to wildly different degrees and in different ways -- we don't form ourselves naturally into packs. We are not asked to give everything, a hundred percent, to fighting this war. For Garou, the war is everything. Anything else is marginalized, because it has to be.

"For Kinfolk," she goes on, "it's the opposite. We live our lives. I go to school, Detective Montoya goes to the precinct, August feeds and diapers her children, Gina dances, we all... have a life. The war, however important it is to us individually, often comes as an intrusion to the rest of who we are and what we do."

Danicka quiets for a small pause, clears her throat, but doesn't give up the 8-ball. "Sometimes when we get hurt, Garou come running. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes when there's a fight on our doorstep, we have to fight it because there's no way to run fast enough. Other times we have to give it up as though that's the natural, only course of action." Another beat, this one for effect more than to breathe. "The truth of what Detective Montoya says is this: most, if not all Garou, spend the majority of their time focused on things that have nothing to do with us. We are expected to carry on by ourselves without them, unless they show up. And if they do show up, usually without warning and sometimes even without need, we are expected to drop everything to obey them.

"-Rhya, all of us have our own prejudices and biases and differing levels of committment -- as well as angst. All of us care. But the discontent comes when we are kept to the sides all of the time, then told to shut up and submit the moment a garou ten or twenty years our junior shows up and acts like they're our protector. I think what Amunet and her alliance are trying to do is to increase our involvement so that at least the marginalization is lessened. But the discontent is already there. The frustration. The affront, frankly."

She stops there. She could go on. But she's talked a great deal, and she silences for now.

[Bridget Geroux] [Dibs]

[Danicka Musil] [Other times we have to give it up and let the Garou fight for us as though that's the natural, only course of action. GAH!]

[Kora] Nash comes in; the Skald gives him a side glance. It lingers a long moment longer than it otherwise might; then her attention is back on the center of the room. The thin cotton of her extra-long tunic pulls over her shoulders, muscles bunching with a subtle tension, mostly withheld. Her long braid swings down the dip of her spine. A faint lift of her chin, watching Holden weave through the room to join the tribe; a brief glance in Gina's direction follows after, before her attention returns to the center of the room, following the movement of the eight-ball to Danicka. Once, she shifts positions. Widens her stance, leans further back, relieving some of the unending pressure on her spine. Uncrosses and recrosses her arms.

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget sighs when it comes around her direction, careful to look at the eight ball when she holds it up. "Balance Without Fault Rhya, thank you for putting it in the light that we are all a part of the Nation. My name is Bridget Geroux. I know that every Sept is different, and I don't have any expectations, but the Sept I am from is much smaller. We know each other well, and there is structure. Here, I don't see the unity. I see reluctance, pain, anguish, and I see anger and pride disconnecting us from one another. Kin from kin, kin from tribesmen... and I wouldn't presume to understand what goes on among Garou, but if that same disconnect exists on that level... it worries me."

"And despite the recent bonding efforts to organize the kinfolk, I see a disconnect there as well. It's a great idea, a great application, a wise and honorable action, but even with the application, I notice those same destructive traits. Just last week, I noticed a separation when a well-meaning Garou was not trying to interfere, but possibly trying to bridge gaps between Garou and kinfolk within Amunet's... organization, fellowship. Whatever it will be called. And the way she jealously guards it and some others have just jumped on without gauging the situation seems too much like a Jonestown situation to me."

Bridget takes a breath, exercising great efforts not to swear or fidget. "Maybe this is my own experience, but since I've moved here I have never felt more disconnected to my tribe despite my attempts to bridge gaps. At what point should I just go about my business, despite everything my father taught me? I'm... going to open myself up here and speak as truly as I possibly can, but it hurts me to have such a tentative relationship with the other Fianna."

"This is all perhaps touching on the path Amunet spoke of, but I wouldn't presume to speak for anyone but myself. I'm not good with a gun or first aid, but I know how to survive in the wilderness with nothing... I know how to work crowds, to work a public social setting. I know I'm not useless, but I feel that way when it comes to the Nation when my offers and talents are dismissed so quickly and without regard to its usefulness. I know how to stand well enough on my own, and I've done as much as I can to contribute... but I feel as if there is no point when I'm told to stay inside, discouraged from doing what I'm good at, and still held at such a distance. It's all too condescending."

Bridget looks to Izzy now, then sighs. "In a lot of ways, I feel exactly like no one gives a damn whether or not we all rot, what we have to go through or put up with and barely even a hint of recognition, if any of that even matters. I feel like many of us are just a bunch of wild things kept in guilded cages. If you keep any living thing from doing what it's supposed to do, that's not a life worth living. I don't know what else to do but be discontent when I'm expected to stay out of the woods, don't go make music or connections, don't spend so much time out in the world doing what I do. I can follow orders, do what needs to be done, but I'm not a machine."

[Balance Without Fault] [dibs!]

[Balance Without Fault] "I want to take a moment to clarify the purpose of this meeting.

"Jackson, I heard you about needing to get the kin coalition in order before plugging it into the grander framework of the Nation. I agree. Bridget, Izzy, I've heard from you both that the way things are going in the coalition are not optimal at the moment. But we're not here to discuss the kinfolk coalition alone. We should address it more thoroughly, and we will -- in a moment.

"We're not here to discuss how Garou interface with the world, either, Izzy. We're not here to change the way Garou and kin interact, because that -- as Danicka points out -- has been set for thousands of years. As you yourself have pointed out, it won't change in a night.

"As much as you may feel downtrodden and unappreciated, realize that every last Garou in this room, on this planet, will die before age thirty. And they give this sacrifice so that you have a human world to interface in, just as you sacrifice your job and career and human life to support these Garou. The sacrifice goes both ways. And while you might not like it, we are in the end Gaia's army. There is a ranking order, and it is dictated, ultimately, by our renown.

"But I digress. What we can do, what I want to do here tonight -- specifically, without speaking in broad terms and vagueries -- is to address points of discontent amongst the kin. I have specific incidents in my mind that I want to discuss, but I want to hear from the kin first.

"If nothing else, no matter how she brought it up -- Izzy has noted some sources of discontent for herself. For that, I thank you, Detective Montoya.

"She Who Offers Sorrow, your kinfolk has raised an complaint about the way she's been treated in the past. She says she's been beaten and unfairly imprisoned. See to her concerns. If you decide her past punishment was just, then so be it. If it was unjust, make amends as you best see fit.

"Before we move on to other topics, are there any other specific grievances the kin wish to bring forth?"

[Rain McKellar] [Dibs, please!]

[Danicka Musil] Her eyes flick to the Grand Elder when he brings her up, gives at least one interpretation of what she said. She doesn't ask for the 8-ball again though.

[Balance Without Fault] [erp. "will MOST LIKELY die before age thirty." seeing as how BWF is like... 45.]

[Carter Roth] [Dibs after Rain]

[Jackson Montgomery] [["You're all gonna die before 30...except me. For I am Elite."]]

[August Grant] {Very short dibs after Rain + Carter}

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Sarita could be accused, often, of not taking things seriously enough. When your deed name is "Echoes of Laughter," it's a natural course of people's thoughts on how you will react. She's stayed quiet here, sitting near her Alpha and watching...listening. She doesn't give anyone a particularly strong reaction when they speak. Amy gets a slight smile; Izzy a little frown. The others, she remains even-tempered, thoughtful.

The Strider is doing her best to listen and learn. She's not even tapping her toe to some sort of tacky dance pop crap.

[Rain McKellar] The girl who rises to claim the magic eight ball next has nothing in her blood that calls out to her Tribe. She has no renown among them. Cloistered as she is with the rest of Unicorn's kin, this gives some suggestion as to her allegiances.

Catching the eight-ball is only part of the struggle, here. And before she addresses the Grand Elder, her glance slides sideways to the Fenrir Jarl. Her shoulders square, and she calms herself a bit.

"Mr. Grand Elder, sir," she begins, and her voice rises easily above the gathering. Unexpectedly warm. Captivating, it calls attention to her in ways that might surprise them.

"My name is Rain McKellar, and before I was kin to Unicorn's chosen, I was Lost." She says this plainly. "The places I have been treated their kinfolk much differently than here, and I appreciate that you have called us together and allowed us to air our concerns.

"I have no complaints about how I have been treated by my Tribe, nor by the pack that I live with. My Family has been good to me, perhaps better than they should have been by some of what others have said tonight. If I can help in any way, so that kindness and shelter can be extended to others, please let me know."

Here she swallows and looks down at the eight ball for a moment.

"If I have any complaint it is that, in the intention of being helpful or showing their concern, some True offer up conflicting information. I am concerned about the thing that is hunting Kinfolk. I would like to know, plainly put, what best I should do to protect myself and to help your war efforts. If this has already been communicated to the Tribal and pack Alphas, then I will seek answers with Mr. Roman or Miss Kora."

She walks across the circle to hand back the eight-ball.

"Thank you for your time, sirs and madams."

And then Rain retakes her seat.

[Wyrmbreaker] [Quick dibs. And sorry, Lukas is pulling rank to get it for a sec!]

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker, who has thus far sat quietly except to catch the ball for Danicka, raises his hand after Rain speaks. The eightball comes his way.

"I can answer that for you, Rain. The specifics of what kin should be doing is up to each Tribal Alpha. Obey whatever order they give you. As a general rule, I'd strongly suggest getting to a place where you're protected by the Garou of your tribe. If there's no such place available to you, come to the Brotherhood.

"As far as I'm concerned, you can chance it on your own if you really don't want to move. But I don't suggest it."

Carter's hand is up. Lukas tosses the eightball his way.

[Bridget Geroux] Seeing as her concern over being told specifically not to do what it is she does, what she's good at, was basically glossed over, Bridget goes and gets herself something to eat. She needs to gather her thoughts for a second, fidget as she needs to with all the Rage in the room, before the Fianna kin can take her seat again. There's a lot to think over.

[Carter Roth] Carter had had quite enough at this point. If no one would take up that magic 8 ball and speak the voice of the malcontent then he would. He strode forward taking the eight ball for himself and turned to face the garou who were gathered all powerful, all alpha's or elder's in their right and he held the eight ball in one heavy hand as he spoke.

"I refuse to be ruled by those who will not see me as their equal." He lets those few treasonous words sink in as he looks across the garou, his eyes falling upon kin in equal measure. "In many places, by many of your kind we are treated like Chattel, little more then servants waiting to be used. I will not argue that here I have seen generous activity that would enrage the masters of these places for that you should be praised. But it is not enough." He shakes his head slowly.

"Unlike the detective, who will stand and do her duty even as she knows your disregard for the kin who work tirelessly beneath your gaze. I will not, not without equality." He pauses. "Without it, we are susceptible to every monster of your kind, every garou who believes we ARE nothing but here to serve your whim. Tell me why we should accept our lot as it stands, tell me how it makes sense that such actions continue unabated against those you call your allies, your lovers, your friends. Is an ally told to be silent because you do not like his tone? Do you force a friend to become the mate of another simply because of what lies within their veins?" He lets that settle there, lets it hang, many knew of such instances, quite often they were regular occurances.

He takes another moment to look about. "We are all capable, we are all skilled in our own ways. But we are marginalized, we are shunted aside till we are expected to serve and we will hold our tongues and be greatful for it. I will not." He looks at Balance Without Fault. "You have said yourself that these things will not change, that they have existed for thousands of years, change it, if you hold to any future that means something for all of us...change it. You wished to hear of discontent, there it lies."

Carter lets the 8 ball go then and he takes his place against the wall once more. His gaze even and suspicious as it was when he first stepped forward.

[Matthieu] [If I can I'd like to call Dibs after umm August!]

[Kieran Mondblume] *He is waiting, listening to all of the opinions, and he is starting to look a little concerned.*

[Nash] [Dibs are for the weak! (I'm sorry!)]

Nash doesn't bother with the eightball. When he speaks, after Lukas and Carter have gone, he has a heavy Southern drawl. His voice isn't terribly loud, and like Izzy, he sounds tired.

"Kinda telling, ain't it?" he asks. "You got two Kin waiting to talk but a Trueborn can just butt on in?"

[Balance Without Fault] [BWF takes the eightball!]

[Izzy Montoya] She says nothing more - but she does step to the side and light up that cigarette after all. Someone can call the cops if they've got a problem with it.

[Amunet Knezevic] "Because we are NOT equal!" She snaps it, then falls instantly silent again.

[August Grant] August swallows. Did she really.. really want to go after that? Geezus christ - she was rather surprised when there wasn't fur flying.

Once the magic-8 ball was gently -passed- in her direction, the young woman stood. She cleared her throat just a little, trying to work up the courage to speak in a room full of this many important people. She never quite looked the Elder in the eyes, but.. was looking somewhat towards him, maybe at his feet. {oooh.. where'd you get those shoes?}

"Rhya.. s.. since you wanted to know about the discontent from us.. I figured I should mention mine. My mate, up and left me for another, knowing full well I was already carrying a second child for this nation. His child. He left with me with no one to protect me and my cub. The mere fact that no one at the time thought this a grevious act was insulting. It bred resentment.. and.. until I found allies within my tribe.. " she motioned to those seated near by, "I wasn't at all content. Things have resolved at this point and I am fine with my lot in life. But things like that - ignoring these big giant world tearing apart events - is going to drive a wedge between us."

A brief pause. "That is all.. thank you for your time.." A hand smoothed her sweater over her belly and she again took her seat, passing on the ball.

[Starla Navarro] Starla's head snaps up, she turns and twists in her seat to stare right at Amunet, her eyes narrowing on the kin that snaps out her words. The corners of her mouth flatten into a thin line as she glares at her.

[Balance Without Fault] [this comes before August -- sorry, but BWF would immediately react!]

Balance Without Fault snaps his fingers for the eightball. He confers briefly with Kora, gets a name, speaks.

"Stick to protocol, Nash. You too, Amunet. Next time you two step out of line, you're out.

"In case you missed it the first time around: don't speak without the eightball. Rank and renown takes precedence. In the event that rank is equal, the Auspice Council takes precedence over Tribal Alphas, who take precedence over the Garou, who take precedence over the kin.

"And I'm sorry, Carter, but there is no equality in the Nation. We are not a democracy."

It passes on to August.

[August Grant] {Damn, my bad - my screen didn't refresh. Augusts posts AFTER BWFs}

[Gina McClaren] *Gina makes a noise in her throat thats something along the lines of a pissed off gurgle. Fingers scraping through her hair and across her temples as her head falls backwards in utter frustration. Talon hands coming away from her scalp and settling on the bar with some force. *

[Danicka Musil] [Dibs, when... okay I'm not sure what the list is for dibs, but! Put me on it!]

[Delilah Marciano] Delilah eases out of the chair she sat in, her hand drops to the phone sitting on the table, picking it up and stares down at the screen for a brief second, and then tucks it away inside the inner breast pocket of her suit jacket. She is tall, only because of the advantage point her heels provide her, she stands with shoulders squared back and chin tilted up.

The woman doesn't exactly command authority, but there is a coolness in her demeanor. A calm, collected disposition that expresses patience, clearly her gesture to stand, instead of sit idly and listen meant she had something to say. She is an unknown face, a stranger to the kin that have served this sept in the past and now in the present.

[Calling DIBS!]

[Rain McKellar] Rain's arms are crossed low over her middle. Her expression is somewhat anxious, but when she looks up to August as the other Gaian speaks it is with as much support as she can muster in this tense environment.

[Carter Roth] Carter frowns deeply at Balance Without Faults words and he shakes his head, an angry look flitting behind his eyes.

[Balance Without Fault] -- and the eightball comes back to Balance.

"I'm sorry to hear you've been so ill-used by your former mate, August. Tell us the name of this Garou so that we all know his dishonor."

The eightball goes back to August.

[Dibs list is currently: August, Matthieu, Danicka, Delilah.]

[August Grant] "Paul Kellogg. He seems to have .. left.." She'd rather use the word fled.. "the city." And once again, the eight ball is passed on.

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget stands at the doorway, listening to the conversation while munching on part of a sandwich. The tightness to her muscles and the smirk on her face expresses her discontent with the line of conversation. She takes a glass of ice water over to Carter and leans against his side. She offers the frigid beverage to the other kin, the corners of her mouth turning in a slight smile, an expression that simply says: here.

[Kora] Kora listens as Rain says her piece; her arms tighten when Balance Without Fault directs her to see to Izzy's complaint. The look she gives the Grand Elder is direct, her expression ironic, but not wry. When Carter speaks, the heavily pregnant Fenrir audibly rolls her eyes (seriously, Nash can [i]hear/i] it). She flashes him a look when he speaks up. Except for the obvious tension, the expression is quiet, animal, unreadable.

[Starla Navarro] Starla clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, shaking her head. She looks over her should at Kora, catching the eye-rolling expression of the Jarl. She turns back in her seat, shifting closer to Rain and draws a comforting arm around the kin's shoulders, hugging her.

[Jackson Montgomery] [[Add Jackson in after Delilah]]

[Derek Anderson] Derek listened, standing near Rain, August and Jackson. He owuld have loved to stand with people from his tribe but Sasha and Katherine weren't there, Gabriel wasn't invited and he didn't rally knewMatthieu except glimpsing at him at the loft the other night.

He looked relax, hands in his pockets. He had nothing to say about all this really. He has been well treated by his Tribe, other Garou and kinfolks he has met. Well Remy was a jerk but even then, it went pretty ok when he met him. He knew some people had problems with Garou, that some had bad experiences in the past. He wasn't one of them. Maybe it'll come, maybe he'll be like Izzy or maybe not. But for now, his life was good.Maybe he didn't need much, or maybe it was his upbringing, butr he was..ok with the way things were.

Simon's Return

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon arrives at the Church in his usual manner. Three heavy knocks on the large door echo through the central chamber. He was looking rather strained, though this was expected considering how close it was to his Moon. He stood outside waiting patiently for a response.

[Sorrow] The door opens some minutes later. Kora stands there, dressed in jeans, her heavy black boots, and a long, thin cotton tunic taught over her stomach. She's heavily pregnant now, approaching eight months, and the weight of it robs her of some of her native grace. Two inches wide, the creature flicks him a look, up and down.

"Simon," she says, opening the door another inch, but no more than that.

[Simon Zahradnik] "Kora... I came to check in. Since I told you I would get information out your way and all. So here I am."He says with the hint of a smile showing as he looks around. It was warm out tonight, warmish and wet. Simon was feeling relatively okay in those regards, the miserable weather of the last few weeks was finally fading away.

[Sorrow] "The last time you were in my territory, Simon, you left in a rage vowing not to return. You refused my no-moon's advice and took it as an offense, when it was fairly meant, swearing up and down that you had been so badly insulted by my packmate that you should have the right to return insult for insult in my hall."

The Fenrir says all this evenly, her dark eyes level, the door still open three inches. "Were you speaking in the heat of passion, Simon? Or am I still meant to remember the ring of your outrage when you speak?"

[Simon Zahradnik] His eyes narrow slightly when he hears this."When last we spoke a member of your pack had opted to call me a fool for the fact that I risk my life out there on a nightly basis in the name of this sept and Caern. I am sorry if this upsets you but I for one thing happen to take great pride in what I do in the name of my pack, my sept, my tribe, and my nation. I am sorry but the lives of those who have died in the name of a cause, your packmate so happily denounces as a foolish affair, mean too much to me."

"You don't look a soldier in the eye and tell him what he does is stupid Rhya. So yes I took offense to the words of your packmate... As a man who has stood, and even fallen, beside members of this pack I felt entitled to a little more respect than I was being shown. Not one member of this pack stood up in my defense so I defended myself Rhya which apparently did offend your no-moon Rhya. I am sorry if I took offense, but the fact that I must sit still and be ridiculed in your territory for behaving as is expected of a Full Moon without recourse or defense from a pack I considered to be friends does leave a bad taste in ones mouth."He says back to her.

[Sorrow] The door does not budge open. The Skald remains framed within the three inch opening, dark eyes fixed on Simon. There's a certain patience evident when he begins in again.

"You disrespected my territory, you disrespected my pack, Simon. Then you threw a tantrum and vowed to never return. Not three weeks later, here you are, and yet I am still supposed to remember and empathize with your outrage?"

[Sorrow] transcript!
to Sorrow

Fiona

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

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

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

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

"His organs were reversed, in other words."

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Michael Carroll] "Oh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mused softly.

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

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

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

[Imogen] (eating dinner!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nudged Fiona for support.

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

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

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

"Are ya the tour guide?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Imogen] Imogen regards Fiona with something resembling resignation.

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

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

No one would dare say she waddles.

"Kora," the kinswoman greets her.

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

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

"This here is Princess Fiona."

He introduced Fiona to Kora, nudging the girl closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Kora] (Add - )

"Because this is an insane coincidence."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear world, she cannot see her toes.

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

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

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

(Thanks for the RP!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harrow.

[C.J. Nash] His arrival would not be a surprise if he had left some sort of note any of the times he had come past in the last three days. When one is capable of sensing the strength of a Kinfolk's ancestors, of telling how far down the lineage the great heroes stand, the purpose of a purebred man's arrival on the front step can't be too great of a concern.

Taint, though, possession, mental deterioration are not announced along with the fact that one's distant relation was a minor hero. These are the sorts of things that paranoid warders and guardians have to consider when they welcome a stranger into their fold.

It's mid-afternoon on a dreary yet comparatively balmy March day when a battered yet returned-to-rights early-90s Ford Ranger growls down the street where it had originally broken down earlier in the week. A tall, long-haired man whose age falls into that wasteland in the middle of his thirties steps out of the cab, flicking a cigarette to the asphalt and blowing a thick plume of smoke into the air.

He regards the looming, antiquated church with wariness on lupine features, then coughs and slams the truck door. Easy, long-limbed strides carry him up the walkway to the stone steps, slowing only to give him a moment to observe the yard before he continues on.

A knock sounds on the timeless doors, and he stands with his hands behind his back. That's how he is when whoever answers the door, answers.

[Kora] Wood, banded in iron - those doors, set deep in a wide portico. The ragged overgrowth that surrounds the church is starting to come alive again. Some of those bare-armed bushes have nubs of soon-to-be-sprouting leaves. In places the sere, dry grass is greening until the ragged hummocks of last year's dead tangle. The sidewalk and wide steps are clear of both weeds and debris. A few half-melted patches of snow refreeze in the shadows at the side of the steps.

It's cold tonight; not bitterly cold, but still winter. Enough that he can see his breath burst out of his lungs when he coughs. Some minutes after CJ knocks, the doors to the church open. Two inches at first: an impression of a woman in the sliver of visible interior - the sheen of light across a dark eye, a moment's recognition - not of him, but of the blood under his skin; the sense of solidity and strength it gives him.

Then she opens the door fully. Old as the place is, the heavy door's hinges are well-oiled, silent. The huge structure is mostly dark inside. The light of a lantern is visible about twenty feet in, lighting a nest of blankets on one of the derelict couches scattered underneath the choir loft. Beyond that, smaller flickers from kerosene lamps mounted to the columns lining the nave. There is the suggestion of space beyond her, vastness - light near the half-ruined (slowly repaired) ceiling - orange light sweeping in through the clerestory.

It's hard not to look up in a space like this, no matter how ruined. And it's easy to pray.

"You're new," says the blonde, a narrow, quiet twist to her mouth. A certain wryness that makes mockery of her own (rather obvious) observation. Tall, pale-skinned, long-limbed - seven months pregnant, or more - unbalanced enough by her stomach that she's developed the beginnings of a pregnant-woman-waddle. "I expect you're looking for me." She tips her head back toward the couches; the nest of blankets and book she had abandoned to answer the door. There are coolers under the make-shift tables, and a pair of pizza boxes atop one. "C'mon in."

[C.J. Nash] The kinsman who shows up on Kora's doorstep is dressed in a manner that leaves little room for negotiation as to his chosen profession: though he doesn't wear a badge on his hip, he wears black boots and tan slacks and a pressed button-up shirt underneath a black leather jacket. His face sports several days' worth of stubble, the majority of it gray whereas the hair on his head is a light blond; his eyes are a light green, and he holds himself in a fashion one would expect from a military man, or a police officer, someone for whom order and disciple is paramount.

He's slipping, though. His spine isn't locked, his jaw isn't set. He moves fluidly rather than stiffly. It's been a while since he was in the service; he looks as though he's rapidly approaching forty if he hasn't hit it yet, and given his scruffy jaw and jaw-length hair, one wouldn't expect him to find much use for churches.

Just like one wouldn't expect the leader of the Fenrir Nation to be a tall blonde heavy with child.

He doesn't bat an eye, though, give him that.

"Yeah I don't mean to take up too much'a your time, ma'am," he says, stepping forward when there's room for him to do so. The license plates on the Ranger are obscured by distance and angles, but his accent announces it for him: he's somewhere from the Deep South, likely Mississippi or Alabama if the drawn out drawl of it means anything. "I don't know if I'm passin' through or not."

A beat, and he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.

"Take it you're Kora?"

[Kora] "Mmm," she returns, the sound a supple sort of agreement. She's leading the way back toward the couches, straight shoulders pulled back just a few degrees past neutral, as if that might help her support the weight of pregnancy. Her pale hair is half-loose, pulled back into a loose twist a the nape of her neck, secured by a chopstick she stole from some storefront Chinese restaurant.

"I am. Fostern Skald, and Jarl, as you've heard." She pauses by the tables, then bends over - carefully - lifting open one of the coolers there, glancing back over her shoulder long enough that he can see her the supple, edged twist of her curving mouth as she shoots him back that look. "And it's just Kora, yeah? Kora Eyjólfsdóttir if you want to be formal about it, at least in private.

"You want a beer?"

If he says yes, she unearths one for him from the half-melted ice inside.

[C.J. Nash] His eyes are on her by virtue of the fact that she, while carrying a child, is still the predator of the two of them. Heavier than the weight of her unborn heir is her Rage, resting over the exchange like a veil. He doesn't shrink from it, doesn't become a hopeless wreck in her presence, but it tempers things, brings a sharper focus to their interactions.

The threat of frenzy is a powerful motivator. Negative reinforcement has kept many a kinsman alive. Even bearing such a burden as the one she does, Kora Eyjólfsdóttir can still succumb to frenzy.

He is hardly frozen from fear. As Kora opens up the cooler in preparation to serve her guest, the kinsman pulls a white business card from his billfold and returns the leather instrument to his pocket.

She offers him a beer, and he considers.

"Since you're down there already..."

After she unearths the bottle, he moseys on over to where she is, exchanging the beer for the card. Printed on its surface is a wealth of information that goes beyond his breeding and his accent, but doesn't tell her anything about what he thinks he's doing here or how long he suspects he'll be.

C.J. Nash
Certified Legal Investigator
8035 Tanner Williams Road
Mobile, AL 36608

Tel: (251) 432-3520
Fax: (251) 432-3528


"A little bird-spirit," he says, as the exchange occurs, as she reads, "told a not-so-little Godi there's a Trueborn around these parts shares blood with me. Now, this is news to me, but he went on to say it's a she and she ain't got a name the spirit recognizes. Led me to believe she's a Cub. Spirit was mighty insistent but the Godi couldn't tell me why, so I hightailed it on up here to look for her."

[C.J. Nash] [!!!]

[Kora] (!!!!!!!!)

[Harrow] [Private scene?]
to C.J. Nash, Kora

[C.J. Nash] [Psh, no. Get in here.]
to Harrow, Kora

[Kora] (Oh gosh,
I'm going to stop talking to Damon. Hah. Get in here!)
to C.J. Nash, Harrow

[Harrow] You drive and drive until you can no longer tell the difference between road and dream. Highway and truckstop nightmare, fingers shaking as you seek to light just one more cigarette, shoulders hunched against the gaze of strangers. The moon demanding that you howl on up at it, let loose that fire that burns in your belly, to find sweet surcease from that fever, to let it loose, to let it all slip from your tightly gritted hands. But no, that ways lies madness, bodies rent and torn, the humans up in arms, so you play it cool, you drive and drive and pause only to dig the dirt out from under your nails.

The feel of the faux leather steering wheel beneath your callused hands. Stale beer on your tongue. Hair grown greased with night after night on the road, no shower, no cleansing balm. Face stubbled. Shaking and shivering. Riding that demon down that unhallowed road, racing even as the Abyss opens up behind you, yawning to let you slip back down its ribbed and hungry maw. Driving to beat the devil.

Don't underestimate the things that I will do.

Church building, hallowed ground. Banded doors, steeple high against the night. Truck pulling up to the road before it, engine idling, fingers drumming. Watching. Listening. Heart doing its erratic heathen dance in the confines of your chest. Deep breath. Deep breath. Here we go. Yanking up the parking break despite the damned level plane of the road. Door kicked open and out, boots on the broken asphalt. Deep breath. Faint tincture of rancid rage riding on the night air.

Up the path. Toward the portico, the recessed doorway. Pause. Scabbed knuckled fist raised, and then pounded, one two three. Not knocking, but punching, cracking against the ancient wood. Hard enough to shiver the portal, but no intention to shatter. Stepping back, arms crossing over his chest, chin lowered, huffing, waiting, gaze slanting to the side to watch the street.

Waiting.

[Kora] Straightening, she pulls out a pair of bottles from the slurry of ice and water in the cooler. One of them is beer, a Goose Island stout, dark as pumpernickel bread. The other one is rootbeer she drinks not for flavor, but for the remembered feel of the long-necked brown glass bottle between her fore and middle fingers. It's not a twist-top bottle, but she hands it to him anyway, without an opener, reaching to take his business card in the same gesture.

"Alabama," she murmurs quietly, the pad of her thumb sliding thoughtlessly over the text. Her rootbeer is left on the table then, as she tucks CJ's business card into the worn pages of an old passport, the US seal in embossed in faded gold on the blue cover. Then slides the passport into her hip pocket, glancing back up at him, dark eyes clear, intent on his features in the dim light of the ruined church.

When his story is finished, her generous mouth twists, the expression subtle, a quirk of the corners, the right higher than the left. "We have a cub here, Gwen, yeah? She's a Forseti, or should be when she's ready for her rite of passage. Unless she renounces. Though I was pretty sure she had parents here. Kept pretending she was still in high school, you know. Like she could be a part-time werewolf.

"My pack-mate's training her. If you're looking for a reunion, I can have her back by morning."

Then: another knock. Not a knock - a punch, loud enough that it echoes inside, off the old stone walls. Bounces in the corners where the empty pizza boxes are left as an enticement to rat, before its lost just beyond, where the wooden ceiling of the choir loft ends and the space opens up, soars.

"One sec - " the Skald says, holding up a single finger to belay any further thought. Already walking back toward the front doors of the abandoned church. Her awareness is sharpened in that moment; something about the force of it has her pulling her shoulders back to neutral, has her walking like an animal rather than a woman in the last trimester of pregnancy.

The door opens silently: two inches. There's no blood speak for her; but the miasma of his rage sparks against her own, brings it up through her blood. Somehow she had shaken off that caged feeling from this night last - now it returns with her sharpened awareness, pulling open the door another inch as she flicks the stranger a dark-eyed look, up and down all at a go.

"You're not a Jehovah's witness." Her voice is low and rich, the accent ordinary, middle American. It's dark and she's visible in a three-inch slice. Pale face, dark gray sweatshirt over jeans, zipped half-way up. Tall and blond, chin high, eyes direct through that sliver of open door.

[C.J. Nash] He laughs at that, the sound muted and uncharacteristically respectful. Perhaps it's the religious aspect of the place, lessons ingrained in childhood: don't swear, don't run, don't laugh, don't hit your sister. Don't do these things in the Lord's house. He has that air about him though, a combination of backbone and bruises that suggests he didn't have that sort of upbringing. It's as though he knew what he was, what they were, from his earliest substantial memory.

He uses words like 'Godi,' for starters, doesn't have to ask what the hell a Forseti is. Speaks of the spirit world both as though it's a given part of their existence and something he can never entirely understand.

"She ain't mine to--"

At which point a slamming of a fist sound against the door, one two three, interrupts the conversation. Nash hadn't moved to open his beer yet. He doesn't startle at the sound, but his posture, his gaze, become sharp, precise, as he turns to look at it over his shoulder. She bids him to wait one sec, and he nods, eyes not leaving the door.

The angles of his face, the way his green eyes darken, that make one wonder if he isn't part wolf. With none of that animal attraction that some of the more primordial of their kind carry, it's just the intensity in his gaze in moments like this. His beer is forgotten without being cracked; he sets it down and moves slightly closer.

[Harrow] "You're not a Jehovah's witness," she says, and good lord no he ain't. He stands at her doorstep, looms, a rangy frame of flesh and bone, rawhide, the length of stubbled jaw, the lank black hair, the broad shoulders, the bony wrists. He's standing there, arms crossed over his chest, and even as she speaks he shifts his weight, drops his arms, then reaches up to cross them once more. Unable to stand still, to find peace, to embrace stasis.

He turns then, attention summoned by her voice, and his eyes brush her own, a sparking touch, a hint of veridian green flecked through with errant gold, eyes of a drowned god, shot through with red, a testament to a fortnight without sleep.

He might have been good looking once. Might have once possessed the youthful fire of an adonis, but now he is a herald of glory ruined, the sun glimpsed on the horizon through banks of endless fog, shorn of his corona.

Full blooded yes, and there is in his might and mien that which calls to her own blood, Fenrir, son of Ragnarok, child of Loki and Odin and Fenris all, though the apple has fallen far from the tree. He gazes at her, body half turned away as if loath to commit, and then bares his teeth to show her yellowed canines, a feral expression, annhilating that which might have been human in his bearing and form.

"Heard I could score a beer here," he growls, his voice a low rasp, uneasy energy, distemperate and dischordant. Pauses, and then tries a smile, an attempt that he rapidly abandons, turning to scan the road. Flashes a look back at her, "Safety from the night, surcease from the moon. You got a smoke?"

[Kora] "No," she tells him simply through the sliver of the door, one moment extending into the next in measured beats. The night air is bright with cold now, the sky covered with clouds. The city's background, radioactive glow does not intrude much here. They're cast in shadows from the broad columns, the thick planks of the old door.

Which she's opening now; a slit-second's thought, the calculation of it evident as she meets his eyes. Her own are lost in shadow, simply dark - shadows against the pale planes of her northern features. Sharpened cheekbones and jaw softened by a generous mouth that twists into something brief, wry - all too human when measured against his yellow-toothed grin. "I have that beer though. C'mon."

Lifting her chin with the last, a physical invitation, she opens the door wide enough that he can shoulder his way into the dark shadows of the ruined church, shutting the door behind him.

Her pregnancy was easy to miss through the ribbon of her frame visible through the crack in the door. It's impossible to ignore, now. The sweatshirt she wears was made for a much larger man. It sags around her shoulders, is shapeless over her chest. The sleeves are too long, and the waistband falls below her hips. It's just large enough for her stomach, though.

"You got a name?" she asks, when the door is shut, looking back and finding CJ's eyes; letting her own trace down him, taking in the alertness of his stance with that steady animal awareness as she leads the stranger seeking surcease of the moon back toward the ramshackle collection of couches and broken pews, folding tables and coolers, pizza boxes and sighing, gently deliquescing bean bag chairs.

The ceiling's lower here, wood, the choir loft above. Beyond, though, the space soars in ruined neogothic splendor, patches of orange-tinted night sky visible through the broken spires of the vaulted roof.

[C.J. Nash] [Ack, crap, don't wait for my ass to post! *Kinfolk in a room full of Garou dilemma*]

[Harrow] "I got a name," he says as he shoulders his way past her, rough swaying as he comes, into the ruinous sanctum. Leaving the night and toxic orange of the city behind, moving into this enclosed space, the walls pressing in close, breathing and throbbing about them, closing and constricting. He pauses to cast his gaze about the fastness of the church, chapped lips pulling back from his teeth as he does so, and then he fixates on the coolers, locks his gaze as a drowning man might his attention on a floating spar, and strides over, power and lost grace manifesting in that direct approach for but a moment before he sinks into a crouch, tosses back the cooler lid and salvages a bottle from the icy murk within.

Rises, turning to consider CJ now, and with a sharp whip of his hand he cracks the neck off the bottle, knocking it against the wall, spilling beer as it fizzes and spurts like blood from a severed aorta onto the floor. Raises the raw neck to his mouth, drinks, uncaring of the lacerations that appear on his lips and heal just as fast. The blood that mixes with the alcohol. Drinks, eyes moving from side to side as he considers each in turn, and when the bottle is drained he drops it to the ground, draws his forearm across his mouth.

"Name's Harrow," he says, and that rasp, that burned out wreck of a voice. Begins to prowl, moving about the confines of the church. He's easily six feet tall, but from his hunched manner, crouched as if to spring, he seems no taller than five foot something.

That pent up fury. That tension riding shotgun. Hands flexing into fists. Hands flexing into claws. Release. Deep breath. Release.

"I'm the vanguard," he says at last. "The eye of Rorscharch. The Samsarra Bastards here yet?" Takes another gulp from his beer.

[Linus] He'd been physical this time.
The fireplaces were lit and scouring the insides of their respective hearths. He'd been leap-frogging back and forth between each one, scooping out old detritus and scrubbing down several of the internal walls with emphatic even zealous desire. Sigurd's gift and a small munition depot of steel wool was ensuring much of the interior was gotten to without much issue or trouble. The amount of detritus and fuel that had been gathered and placed next to each hearth was minimal for the time being. He hadn't had much time to break the bits and pieces down since returning from Patrol.
Still, small piles had been constructed next to each hearth and with them the fires would burn into the night. He could tackle the garbage pile outside for spare pieces soon enough. His stomach warbled a complaint, the Godi's jaws clapping shut as he ducked out from the inside of the hearth, layered in a thick black film and spitting soot out onto the fire which crackled in response.

"Yeah yeah yeah..." It's murmured, left to hang behind him, a damp dish rag plucked up from the Kitchen counter to begin the steady process of wiping down exposed flesh. The clothes couldn't be helped. He'd just have to smell like a fireside for a while, until one of the Kin snuck his clothes into a laundry pile while he was sleeping.

The Godi creeps through the church on bare feet, cargo pants and thick black hoodie smelling of cinders and ash as he passes through the hallway and into the main Church interior, nothing but squints and a vague murmur on his lips. His first instinct is to regard Nash with something like recognition (and a curious perk of the brow) followed closely by the upswing toward Kora, the baby and onto the hunched over creature prowling a slow circle around the Church grounds. He pauses in place, gaze keeping Harrow for a moment before traveling to Kora with a question on his face.

[Linus] (Sense Wyrm on Harrow: Per 3 + Occ. 2)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Hunter] The knocking is plentiful tonight. Here comes another passer-by, stopping at the top of the steps that lead up to the front door of the church. A heavy fist; two heavy, dull blows and then the Gnawer waits. He has seen others simply open the door and walk in like they own the place; he has seen others make no attempt to announce themselves. Hunter has never been one of these people. He always knocks. He always waits.

When the door is opened they'll see him, green-steel for eyes and a firmly set jaw. But at least he has shaved; at least he doesn't smell like a corrupted funeral pyre.

[C.J. Nash] What he thinks he's going to be able to accomplish if the visitor turns out to be a rampaging madman, some twisted testimony to the power and perversion of the Wyrm, he doesn't exactly say, but that watchfulness doesn't dissipate once Kora invites the stranger inside for a beer. He relaxes, sure, but the flint in his eyes would suggest he's more projecting an air of zen-like calm than he actually feels it in his core. That metal weight holstered at his side does little to give him the illusion of preparedness, but when Kora looks his way, takes in his stance, he looks back at her.

Even as she is, she stands a better chance to survive whatever could come through that door than he does, but it isn't her the man seeking a daughter he's never met is concerned about.

None of this is spoken, though, so when the visitor comes barreling into the church, he gets the hell out of the way without hiding. He's near enough that he can still be spotted by those incoming, near enough that when he watches Harrow bite the neck off a beer bottle he has to bring a hand up to scrub at his jaws so it doesn't look like he's trying not to laugh.

He coughs, clears his throat, and here comes the kid from the motel room. Without teenage Modi blood all over him, there's no outward cause for alarm, but Nash actually manages to smell the sooty Godi before he sees him; turning his head, he returns that brow quirk without speaking. And then there's another knock at the door.

Thus begins that awkward moment where he attempts to extricate himself from the church without looking like he's fleeing. For now, he waits.

[Kora] There's a moment of distance, her attention drawn back, attenuated to insubstantiality. The look is familiar to anyone who knows Garou: dark eyes focused but just off to the side, the movement of her mouth so subtle that it looks more like an already-dying expression than the muscle memory of mouth and tongue as she pulls back her focus into herself. Linus appears among the marching rows of half-busted pews.

The creature cuts him a glance, just one as he appears. It's unerring. She knows where he is because she can feel him underskin; tied into her, wrapped around the fibers of her being.

"They're not here yet," her voice is quiet; low and rich but not velvet. It isn't that soft, see. There's steel beneath the nap. She's looking back at Harrow now, standing against the wall, surrounded by the shattered neck of the beer he drinks too quickly to appreciate the hoppiness. Bet the blood kills some of that anyway, the already healing lacerations on his mouth. A dark-eyed, flickering glance over him, up and down, and she's picking her way back to her abandoned rootbeer. "I wasn't expecting them." An undercurrent, that - still and dark-pooled.

She picks up the IBC bottle, long fingers draped around the (not-shattered) neck, but does not lift it to her mouth. "Your pack?" Then, when he's finished his broken beer bottle, she lifts her chin toward the cooler. "Have another."

A flicker of a look back to CJ, a supple twist of her mouth. "I'm laying odds that this one is finally a Jehovah's witness. Care to wager?" This as she walks back toward the front door, opens it a sliver, then opens it wider, "Hunter," she offers, verbally and mentally to her brother via their shared link. "C'mon in."

Her shoulders are pulled back from neutral, counterbalancing the weight of her pregnancy now. Underneath the feral grace of her animal self - she's developing the early stages of a pregnant-woman-waddle she refuses to acknowledge by word or deed. There's an underlying tension there; a certain sharpness that only her brother, maybe Roman can read in her, that comes from being nearly-locked in this form for a handful of days, and the gods only know how many more to come. "Help yourself to a beer. Meet Harrow."

[Harrow] Harrow rises to his full height, spine elongating, articulating, popping. He rises to his full height, and gazes at where Linus stands, before raking his gaze across the church, losing focus, losing intensity, so that when his gaze finally passes over Kora he's looking through her, distracted, looking inward. A subtle flick of his tongue over his lips, licking away the last of the blood, and then he shakes his head, once, twice.

"They're not here," he says, voice low, that undercutting shark rasp. "Fine. I'll keep moving. They'll catch up soon enough."

He ignores Kora's offer for more beer. Ignores introductions, recent arrivals. Moves across the church, out the front door, and toward his truck. Digging out keys as he goes, swinging them once twice thrice around his index finger before snatching them tight in a fist. The church left behind, but another pitstop, and then he's in the truck, lights flaring, gun roaring to life, pulling off into the street, going going gone.

[Harrow] [Thanks for the rp, guys.]
to C.J. Nash, Hunter, Kora, Linus

[C.J. Nash] [Thanks, Phil!]
to Harrow, Hunter, Kora, Linus

[Kora] (NIGHT PHIL! :) )
to C.J. Nash, Harrow, Hunter, Linus

[Hunter] nighty night!
to C.J. Nash, Harrow, Kora, Linus

[Hunter] And C'mon in he does. Hunter Matthews waits for her to step back and allow him room to enter before he steps inside. One hand closes the door for her -- one hand attempts to close the door but there is a Garou storming past and Hunter watches his exit. Clink, this time the door actually does close.

Beer was offered and beer he accepts by strolling on over to the cooler and fetching himself one. His head turns and eyes settle on the unknown Kinsman but he doesn't halt to say hello beyond the acknowledgement of his presence. This Ahroun doesn't crack open the bottle in his teeth, he pries it off like he would should he be using a lighter.. except he doesn't use one, just his hands.

"John's dead," he announces, more words lingering on his lips but being bitten back. He decides to take a swallow of his beer instead.

[C.J. Nash] Someone's dead.

For the second time in Linus's presence today, Nash makes the move to let himself out of the room without drawing too much attention to himself. He doesn't wave or thank the Jarl for her time or say anything at all, for that matter; he gives her a nod, should Kora look his way, but the expectation that she would is not present. That door barks slightly as he draws it inward, and then he's slipping out into the gray afternoon, leaving an unopened beer on the table and a business card in Kora's passport.

[C.J. Nash] [Thanks for the scene, y'all!]

[Kora] "Mr. Nash," Kora flicks a sidelong look at CJ, so controlled. Rigid through the shoulders and the spine now, exhaling a singular sharp breath. "You don't have to stay for this. Come back tomorrow and we'll talk."

Then she turns her full attention back to Hunter. Asks one, quiet question. "How?"

[Hunter] How?

Two days ago he would have answered that question in a heart-beat. Two days ago he did answer that question in a heart-beat. I killed him. Now the answer is not so simple.

"Wyrm.. I think.. m'not really sure.. He was..dead, but alive."

[Linus] Linus' attention flicks from the departing Harrow's back toward Kora. The sudden collective flicker of events happening in rapid succession do much to keep the Godi rooted in place and simply...watching as things unfold. Nash's departure is greeted with a brief glance that is both mistrust and concern. Moreso for the fact that Harrow had just left and the Metis creature was more of a threat then he was a friend at this juncture.

Then Hunter is entering with news of John. A brief moment of confusion wraps itself around the Godi's features before he's making his way slowly toward Kora and the Bone Gnawer, stopping just outisde of twelve feet to listen to what's to come.

[Kora] Here Kora cuts a sidelong glance at Linus; it's a passing look, the dark edge of her eyes, the faint softness of her profile. The curve of her cheek against the shadows of the church, her mouth curved beneath, flattening now, a certain tension in her frame - that deadly combination of rage and inaction, the feral drive underscoring both.

Linus can see the strain; feel it like a backlash against the shared system of their awareness.

"Tell me what happened," she instructs Hunter, dark eyes flickering over his features. "Start at the beginning, and go to the end." Her nostrils, flare, near the end.

[Hunter] And so he does.

They hear about how John became unstrung, how Hunter couldn't get to him before he severed the totem bond and left the city. Skip ahead two or three weeks -- the time-line is blurred -- Hunter followed blood from a car crash in Bronzeville and found John. The story becomes robotic the more times he repeats it and by now there is little expression in his tone. He repeats facts. John attacked and Hunter put him down instantly. Then he moved again, then he stood up when he shouldn't have, in his birth form, and attacked again.

An arm, in the end his entire head was removed and none of it slowed him. Hunter blew them both up in the wreckage of the car John had presumably crashed.

"There's nuthin' left." He adds sombrely.

[Kora] "He became - " Unstrung, Hunter explains, and this earns a frisson of something from the Skald. Her mouth flattens, and she listens to the story with a relentless sort of attention, darkeyed, straightforward.

In the end, all she says is, "Thank you."

[Kora] (sorry, I am so not in the zone for the scene. I feel awful, heh.)

[Hunter] [Don't worry!]