[Imogen] It is a cool and grey spring night, the air damp with the promise and memory of rain. In the forest, the world would be rife with the smell of damp earth and bark, of fresh budding leaves and wakening grass. Here, there is the smell of soaked concrete, of stagnant ground, the muted smell of drugs - a whiff of pot, or perhaps a hint of crack. The stench of exhaust fumes, spilled oil, poorly maintained cars.
And now, with Imogen Slaughter near the church, the smell of cigarette smoke. She sits on top of the picnic table outside of the Last Watch's packhouse, her feet on the bench. A cigarette dangles between her fingers. it is overrun with weeds and concrete here. There is an oil barrel that smells of a long put out fire. Above, there are no visible stars - and even if the sky were clear, it would be difficult to see.
She's in jeans, a sweater that with only the night's ambient light can only be described as dark. A cigarette burns between her fingers, and casting an orange light over features as she lifts it to her face and inhales. When she blows out smoke, the wind chases it away.
[Kora] The grounds of the chuch are wrapped about in weedy overgrowth. Ornamental trees imported from China or Japan, engineered grasses hearty enough to worth through minutes cracks in concrete, the sort of invasive vines that crawl over any surface, winding up the trunks of solid trees, coiling through the canopy until they've chocked off all light to the leaves of the host.
And on, and on.
The vines are all green, but the trees are still bare, stark against the industrial buildings beyond, on the solid gray stone of the church proper. The chainlink fence sags beneath their weight, rusting silently away.
The scents of the city are familiar, dampened. It's the tobacco that cuts through, immediate, sharper against the cool night air. One of the doors to the church swings open. Even in the periphery, it's clear that it is Kora. No one else in the back looks as if they've shoved a beach ball underneath their shirt. She's careful on the steps, as she has been unable to see her feet for months now.
"Doc." Kora murmurs a greeting when she's close enough to speak without lifting her voice above its usual level. "Cold for a picnic, yeah?"
Closer, and it's clear that she's carrying a bottle of beer, tucked between her fingers, which are wrapped around the shape of a cardboard mug.
[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists faintly, the expression illuminated by the faint and orange light of her cigarette cherry, just before she fits the filter between her lips. She inhales, deeply.
"True," she says, her words wreathed in smoke, "but after a Chicago winter, s'not too cold t'smoke." Her eyes flick briefly toward the beer bottle in Kora's hand.
"That's fer me, I assume?"
[Kora] "Naw," Kora returns, briefly, shifting her grip on the neck of the bottle, releasing it from her right hand into her left as she comes up alongside the picnic table and setting the dark bottle down beside Imogen as she does so. In direct contradiction to her denial. "I was thinking I might use it as a lure, yeah? What Fenrir can resist a beer."
The creature's curving mouth twists in a weary sort of smirk as she lifts her cardboard mug upwards in a faint gesture of toast. "Clearly it hasn't worked."
She is dressed for the cold in an oversized sweatshirt, a dull, heathered gray that reads lighter than in the evening gloom. The shoulders are damp from earlier rains. Somewhere above, the moon is slivered. Waxing.
It's easier during the small moons. To sleep; to think. To relax, but she hasn't sleep well for a solid month, maybe more, and that exhaustion finds its way to her features - a certain darkness smudged beneath her eyes, a certain laxity in her expression.
It's spring. Season of renewal. Season of death. April is the cruelest month.
A brief, moving glance at the kinswoman's profile. Then, " - how's the lab coming?"
[Imogen] She makes a brief sound of amusement. "'nd 'ere I thought it was 'Fianna' that fit tha' stereotype." She takes the beer in one hand, holding her cigarette between her lips with the other, as she uses the picnic table's edge to knock off the cap of the bottle in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Slowly," she says, glancing briefly toward the house, looking tired and dilapidated even in the dark, "Been focused for a bit on what's happenin' around the caern. Or at least th'things I've seen, plus some," her mouth twists, suggesting the irony behind the word, as it applies to her, "humble requests."
A beat.
Would yeh mind asking Patrick and Roman?"
"But," she says as she frees her cigarette from her lips, lifting the beer instead, "I made a list t'day o' all th'repairs needed.
[Imogen] She makes a brief sound of amusement. "'nd 'ere I thought it was 'Fianna' that fit tha' stereotype." She takes the beer in one hand, holding her cigarette between her lips with the other, as she uses the picnic table's edge to knock off the cap of the bottle in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Slowly," she says, glancing briefly toward the house, looking tired and dilapidated even in the dark, "Been focused for a bit on what's happenin' around the caern."
"But," she says as she frees her cigarette from her lips, lifting the beer instead, "I made a list t'day o' all th'repairs needed. Or at least th'things I've seen, plus some," her mouth twists, suggesting the irony behind the word, as it applies to her, "humble requests."
A beat.
Would yeh mind asking Patrick and Roman?"
[Kora] "I'd think that they'd only stir themselves for whiskey. Whiskey," she continues, her mouth tightening briefly against some internal discomfort. Nothing extraordinary; the usual sort for a woman in her condition. And that is practically all she is. A woman in late pregnancy, the discomforts of which are complicated by the urges of rage and a caged wolf's dreams. "I might add, specific to the country of origin. Patrick is allergy to whiskey that contains vowels in the name."
She breathes out a low sound, a soundless laugh, brief and narrow over the lip of her coffee mug. "You need any help with that shit, let me know, yeah? It seemed more your alley than mine, though." The stuff around the Caern, she means.
Then she takes a sip, glancing at Imogen as if she imagines the kinswoman might produce the mentioned list here and now. "Not at all," she returns, " - probably some things behind the walls you can't see, too. I'll send them your way, yeah?"
[Imogen] "The Welsh," Imogen says on the breath of an exhale, "are perhaps a little over patriotic. Comes from bein' bordered by England. Yeh need a certain amount o' ... obsession t'keep yehr sense o' self, I think."
She takes a swallow of beer, nodding slightly as Kora confirms she knows to ask should she need help.
"Oh I imagine so," Imogen says with a faint smirk. "Not particularly a builder, am I? All I know is tha' if water leaks in, I've got a problem, and if it's crumbly and should be hard, tha's likely not right either."
[Roman Turner] He materialized out of the dark, one moment not there, then the next there he was. Kora likely felt him drawing near right before he showed himself.
"Evenin."
Polite as always one hand reached up to lift the Stetson from his head with a polite nod to both.
[Kora] "Still, I've not seen him wandering around with a leek in his hat," returns the Skald, shifting to rest a hip against the splintering wood of the old picnic table. The scent of her hot chocolate mingles in the cool night air - heavy and sweeter than the ashen background of Imogen's cigarette or the usual barren scents of the neighborhood. "Seems like a bit of selective patriotism to me."
A brief noise, back of the throat by way of agreement with the good doctor. "I am not completely certain I'd use the proper side of a hammer on a nail," she returns, when Imogen agrees that she's not particularly a builder. Then Roman comes out of the darkness. The light's spare out here; pitch shadows deep against the flanks of the stone church, brighter where the reflected glow of the city's lights filters down from the clouds above without obstruction. Kora watches the shadow of movement as he lifts the stetson.
"Roman," a lifting of her chin toward Imogen. " - doc's been working on a lab. She's got a list of repairs and other things that need doing. I told her you and Patrick would give her a hand, yeah?"
[Roman Turner] The first little flicker of thought in his head with the word Lab, was Meth. After all, the part of the country he came from was called the Meth Capital. It was nearly impossible not to trip over a Meth Lab because the drug was so damned cheap and easy to make.
Quickly that thought flickered through his brain and right out when Kora mentioned a list of repairs.
"Sure thing. I'd be pleased as punch to help."
[Imogen] "And thank Christ fer that," Imogen says. "Leeks rot."
Imogen takes a deep inhale from her cigarette, reaching down to pick up a small notepad from beside her hip, tearing off the sheet to pass it Roman's way. "S'mostly leaks and th'like," she says, "Some rottin' wood. Th'big thing I need - somehow - is fresh water into preferably large sinks. Yeh tell me what I need and I'll purchase it." A wry twist of her mouth, as she lowers the cigarette to tap ash toward the ground. "So far, I know tha' I need 'large sinks'."
[Roman Turner] It took a few turns of the body and some shifting of his body to make out anything on the list after accepting it. Finally giving up and folding it to put in his pocket.
"I'll give it a good look over when I got some light to read by. And yessum, if ya want large sinks and don't have em, gonna need em and plumbing. What size is large to ya? Like wash tub size? Ya got a material preference? Stainless, fiberglass, composite?"
[Kora] "Could change it out every week. Make soup of the leavings," Kora returns, mouth twisting briefly wry. "Though it would be a bit of an absurd look for a warrior." Then, she takes a drink from her hot chocolate and sets it aside on the picnic table, quiet as Imogen and Roman discuss the finer points of sinks and water. The night air is getting cooler, so she tugs up the hood of her sweatshirt over the crown of her head and slides her hands into the kangaroo pockets, over the great swell of her stomach, and rocks back on her heels.
[Imogen] "Hm." Vague agreement to Kora. "Pale green is not particularly war-like, no."
And then her focus is on Roman. Her mouth twists slightly. "Large," she repeats. "I'll get yeh measurements from the morgue, shall I? As fer composition, it doesn't much matter, so long as its not likely t'leave trace evidence on anything and won't take on stains."
[Roman Turner] Always aware of Kora and the impeding birth, there was a big part of him that constantly wondered if he would be there when she decided to give birth. Would she call him with a touch of her mind across the link? And most of all, how much longer did he have to wait? It was like being a little kid waiting for Christmas.
It finally sunk in they were talking about leaks and soup and stink and it made his brain do a stutter-stop.
"Stainless then, the others are porous."
"You want big sinks to make stinky green soup in?"
[Imogen] "No, I need large sinks t'fill industrial sized pots wi' water t'boil bones and t'wash large items in them so I can look at 'em without th'blood and gore. Or mud and mock."
She seems rather off-hand about the entire thing.
[Kora] "We were talking," Kora paces away from the picnic table, then. " - about Patrick's allegiance to Welsh whiskey. Leeks are the national symbol of Wales. They won some battle against Britain in a field full of leeks, I think."
Restlessness comes to the forefront, this energy that is both high-frequency and fundamentally impotent, that spikes through the stretched muscles of her gravid frame, that bathes the back of her mouth without outlet. The ground is compacted out here, the weeds trampled down from long wear and Kora paces within that box, over the broken pavement to the edge of the worn down grasses. The clear area is framed by the desiccated husks of last year's growth of grass, which shivers with movement as she walks by.
"One had nothing to do with the other, yeah? It was a - " not a joke; her shoulder curls in a subtle gesture. " - just something to say."
[Imogen] "It's for St. David, actually" Imogen leans back, picking up her beer bottle again, drinking deeply. "Patron Saint o' Wales. Supposedly, he ate only bread, watercress and leeks - then later, when the Saxons attacked Wales, the Welsh soldiers wear leeks in their hats so they could differentiate. And beat th'Saxons back."
She sets the bottle down, picks her cigarette up from where she balances it on the edge of the picnic table. "March first is St David's day. The Welsh wear leeks then."
The edge of her mouth twists up. "There's usually a contest t'see who has the longest, largest one."
[Roman Turner] For several long moments he was still. If they could see his eyes in the dark here, they'd of seen a blankness like his brain shorted out. In truth, Roman had no idea what a Leek was. In his brain the word was Leak. With that in mind, what he got out of it was, Patrick swore allegiance to Welch (the jelly brand) whiskey (which had to be grape flavored cause that was the best of Welch's jellies in his head). And his country's flag was a picture of a big ole leak, maybe like that story with the dike and finger thing? There in his brain a mighty war was being fought (with Garou of course) and everywhere water was squirting out or dripping from every available surface. It was a mighty, wet battle.
Imogen's added information just made it worse. Folks running around eating bread and watercress (whatever that was) among the leaks. Maybe they drank from the leaks like water fountains? But the hat part, all he got was a picture of hats with drips and squirts coming out of them.
Man Patrick came from some weird place for certain.
"Oh...I see....Okay....big sinks to fill big pots."
He nodded faintly as the battle sogged on in his brain.
"Ya know, it might be just as useful for ya to have a shower basin put in the floor with a big ole spigot to fill big ole pots. Or we could do the sinks and put one of them industrial faucets that fold out from the wall for use like they got in some of them restaurants."
[Kora] "Sounds like St. David had bad breath," Kora huffs quietly, still pacing a circuit around the picnic table, hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. There's a brief, wry twist of her mouth as she continues. " - and maybe a protein deficiency." Then she quiets again, briefly closing her eyes and looking out, away through the overgrowth toward the largely deserted street. The glance is blind. Blind but steady.
After a moment, she opens her eyes and continues walking, right back to her mug of hot chocolate, which is considerably cooler now than it was earlier.
[Imogen] "I think th'sinks wi' an industrial faucet would be best," Imogen says, either unaware or entirely ignoring Roman's confusion as to the subject matter. "Somethin' I can hook up a hose too, as well, if I can."
Her eyes lift briefly to Kora, following her with her gaze, her mouth twisting.
"He was a bishop," she says. "Religious men do all manner of strange things and it's considered holy by humans. I imagine this is the same."
[Kora] "I wonder," returns the Skald, quiet, lifting a glance to the kinswoman. Who is in profile now, pale skinned against the darker shadows of the muted night. The Fenrir makes another wry half-smile as she puts down the hot chocolate again, slips a cold hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt, pulled taut over her stomach, too loose at the shoulders and through the upper torso. " - if he was hearing some spirit across the gauntlet. Half-hearing it, yeah? Like paying chiminage"
A quiet noise in the back of her throat. "We keep the eyeballs of our kills for the Hrafn." A small pause, before she continues, unsure whether Imogen know sthe term, explaining, " - Fenris' ravens," with a glance back at Imogen. "They like eyeballs and shiny things. A place for their counterparts to roost over here."
[Roman Turner] "Humans have done a lot of things in the name of holy and religion, not all so holy when ya think about it."
He tried to make his awareness of Kora's restlessness as hidden as he could. In truth he would never know what it was like to carry a child, to go through so many bodily changes and restrictions before the wonder of holding that new life. Just as a woman might never understand that to some men, what women could do was near mystical to them. For a male Garou, it was something to worship. Kora was carrying, nurturing part of their future inside her.
So he was doing his best to appear as if he was completely involved in the idea of sinks and faucets.
[Imogen] Imogen shakes her head briefly. "I don't know, though I imagine there are more than a few tha' would say tha' someone like Hitler was hearin' the wyrm. S'not impossible, I suppose then, t'imagine tha' a human might hear from yer side as well."
She likely did not recognize Hrafn. They may mention it again, and she may not recognize it then - passingly familiar. Her wilful ignorane has faded some particularly over recent years, but she still plays the game - the distance between her and the Garou.
A glance at Roman, her eyebrow arching slightly. "So they have," is all she says.
[Kora] "Naw," says Kora back to Imogen, with a brief glance at Roman. "That's not what I meant. Not sides, you know? The wyrm versus our side. I think - I think most spirits that aren't corrupted just are. Some are pretty aligned to the tribes, but I don't think the spirit of watercress cares about being anything more than watercress. Coming up flush in the spring. Getting picked for tea sandwiches.
"So maybe some of that leaked over, yeah? Like an echo; a memory he couldn't quite place. Not so much the holiness as the specifics of it. Like he was listening to the essential place-memory of a stream cutting through his homeland, and so it was cress and leaks.
"I suppose a Godi might know if its even possible," she continues, with a quiet noise. "I like the idea of it, though. And the world wasn't always as calcified as it is now, yeah?"
[Roman Turner] "I don't get it. What's a watercress?"
The words leaking and flush and spring were once again all things to do with water in his brain and so just added to his confusion.
[Imogen] Imogen shakes her head slightly, crushing out her cigarette and setting the butt aside. "I wouldn't know," this to Kora.
Roman asks the question and Imogen glances at him, an eyebrow lifting. "It's a green plant," she says. "Grows in streams and creeks and th'like. Tastes a bit peppery."
[Kora] "You grew up on a farm, Roman - " Kora, a glance to Imogen, brief, then back to Roman. "You seriously don't know what cress is? I don't think I'd know what it looked like if I saw it growing," she continues, with a faint shrug. " - but I've never even been able to tell poison ivy apart from ordinary vines."
[Roman Turner] "Oh....green plant in streams. Heck, back home green plants in water means moss. Poison Ivy, I know, like say, Virginia Creeper. Dandelions and collard greens make good eating. But ain't never seen nothing no one in Kansas called watercress."
[Imogen] "Perhaps it's mainly in Europe," Imogen says, absently, picking up her beer bottle and draining it. "I'd never 'eard o' poison ivy 'till I came t'the US."
Her mouth twists slightly as she quotes: "'Leaves o' three, leave it be'. Beyond tha', I doubt I could recognize it either. Fortunately, however," the poised kinswoman smirks, "I'm not much o' an outdoorsman, a fact that I am sure will shock you all."
[Kora] "I'm pretty sure they have watercress in Kansas, Roman. I think it's everywhere. One of the first greens that greens up in the spring." Kora returns, with a subtle twist of her narrow shoulders beneath the weight of her sweatshirt. The ghost of a smile curves her generous mouth.
"I know about it more from history and - " a faint, dismissive wave of her hand, indicating narrowly some other form of literature. Faery tales, maybe. Ancestor dreams. Eddas, poetic or otherwise. " - stuff. Came in before any crops did, yeah? So if you were starving in spring you could eat that."
Then, a faint snort for Imogen. "For someone who's not really an outdoorsman, Doc, you show up in some strange places."
[Roman Turner] "I'll have to ask Pa about it next call home. Though something ya should know about poison ivy. If one of us runs through it in our furry forms, we can infect ya with the oil that collects on our coats from the leaves. Also, if ya get it on your clothes, it can remain potent for up to five years, so ya want to wash any clothes right away that ya tromped around the woods in, careful not to touch them as much as possible till ya get them washed."
[Kora] They are outside at a picnic table so pretty visible when Izzy walks up. :)
to†Imogen, Izzy Montoya, Roman Turner
[Imogen] She smirks at Kora - "Sadly, the wyrm does not seem to respect my preference."
Imogen regards Roman in silence for several seconds. "I do not imagine tha' I will be petting either o' you any time soon," she says blandly. "And I frequently wash my clothes.
"However, I appreciate the botany lesson." The edge of her mouth twists up.
[Izzy Montoya] It's an odd occasion when Izzy stops by the pack house without really having any reason why... but this is one of those times. If asked, she wouldn't be able to articulate a reason why. Maybe she's lonely. Maybe she isn't. Maybe she just had a surplus of beer and was in the neighborhood... which is the most likely scenario, as she's carrying a brown paper bag, with bottles clinking inside.
She hadn't parked far, so the walk isn't long, especially as they are sitting outside. Convenient, that. A lift of her chin serves as greeting, as does her setting the beer on the table. "Thought you might need a refill."
Also inside, and pulled out first? An starbucks iced mocha, which she offers to Kora, instead of a beer.
[Roman Turner] He grinned to Izzy when she turned up like she did. Going so far as to lift his hat a bare inch of his head with a nod to her in greeting.
"Howdy Miss Izzy."
[Kora] Imogen's bland remark earns a twist of Skald's expressive mouth. Kora cuts a sideglance at the kinswoman, making another wry noise deep in the back of her throat. Petting indeed.
"It'd be nice," she says, a glance at the doctor, then Roman, the humor lingering in the frame of her mouth. "If we could schedule these things, you know? Like pistols at dawn. Then let everyone get back to their ordinary lives. And you could stay outta the damn woods."
Roman lifts his hat to Izzy, and Kora, Kora lifts her chin, dark eyes dropping to the bag with the beer. "Cheers," says the Skald, before Izzy has revealed the mocha. " - thanks." Then Izzy pulls out the mocha and ice accepts it, fingers sliding through the condensation frozen on the surface of the cup. "Everyone brings me frozen drinks, these days. Milkshakes and shit." That said, she lifts the cup in a gesture like a toast to Izzy before taking a drink.
"You working on that development stuff down by the docks too, Detective?"
[Roman Turner] "Now if they were really thinkin, they would bring ya chocolates and cookies too. Or better yet, baby gifts. I was thinking we need to hold a baby party thing for ya. Patrick and I could bake a cake and think of games for everyone to play."
[Imogen] Imogen makes a brief sound of amusement, picking up her cigarette case again as Detective Montoya enters. "Perhaps we can raise it at the next negotiation."
She lights up, as the detective sets down the beers, taking out the iced mocha for the Fenrir Jarl first. Imogen inhales her first sweet drag of her cigarette. She smokes something European with a rather distinctive filter. It must be said, though, she never leaves the butts on their property. On the streets, sure, but here, each are pocketed and taken away.
She glances at Roman, her gaze moving briefly to Kora.
"If you and Patrick want t'play house," she observes mildly, "I don't see why Kora needs t'be dragged into it."
[Izzy Montoya] She opens her mouth to correct Roman, again, but stops, remembering what a mouthful he came up with the last time she did so. Instead, what comes out is "Roman." And a nod. Ahhh. Diplomacy. Or self-preservation. Either way, she puts up with the 'Miss Izzy' from him, where she likely wouldn't from anyone else. Someone might suggest a fondness there. That someone might then be glared at, and possibly shot. Izzy Montoya is fond of no one. Well, almost no one.
Which is neither here nor there. She pulls the six pack of bottles - good beer, too, not the cheap shit - and puts it on the table so they could help themselves, before she settles to take a seat on the bench. She takes one for herself, opens it, and drinks deeply.
She looks tired, still. She's not sleeping well, she's working too hard, she's putting too much effort into things that don't equal her taking decent care of herself - decent by other peoples standards anyway. She doesn't know how to be any other way. All or nothing -- she is Fenrir.
As for the frozen drink - "To be honest, it's all I could fuckin' think of while I was standing there with the beer. If you prefer something else, I'll try to accommodate." A gesture, there. Perhaps there is something to the rumors Izzy's developed a respect for the Last Watch after all.
To answer the question, though, she nods. "Put out some feelers - should get some information back from them soon."
She doesn't comment on the idea of playing games at a baby shower, though there's a faint arch of a brow, that falls into a huff of amusement at Imogen's reply.
[Kora] "Listen to the doc, Roman," Kora advises, with a brief, flickering look back at her young packmate. The look steadies, a moment later, is pulled into something strong, more immediate, more direct. Then, a cut away as she holds up her frozen mocha and takes a drink. Something close to relenting, though the ground given is small. " - if you're that eager to go shopping for kid's stuff, I'll tell Trent to let you know if he needs anything we don't have, yeah?" A shrug, narrowly formed, quiet. "After, I mean. Though if anyone finds a kid's toboggan with Viking horns - "
Back to Izzy, then. Kora shakes her pale head - shadowed by the confines of her sweatshirt's hood - just once, in the negative when she asks if Kora prefers something else. "This is brilliant," she says quietly, dark eyes steady on Izzy's face. "I appreciate it, Detective. I'm just looking forward to being able to indulge in more adult beverages when this is all over."
Then she nods again, steady to Izzy's mention of feelers, glances back to Imogen, her voice more quiet here. "You guys get a good response from the kin? At the meeting?"
[Imogen] "Better than I expected," Imogen answers, absently. "We'll see about results. S'all tha' really matters."
[Izzy Montoya] Kora will be looking forward to more adult beverages. Izzy nods, once, meeting Kora's gaze evenly as she lifts her bottle, slightly. "I'll buy a round, when ya can."
She let's Imogen answer the question about the meeting. Izzy's presence there was mostly silent, until she'd done the unthinkable and defended the Doc, and called the Silver Fang an asshole in the process. Now that? Was fun. But she knows the first was unappreciated, the second likely will get her ass kicked sooner or later, and she doesn't rightly care in either instance. The fact she kept her mouth shut as long as she did that night was a minor miracle.
[Kora] "I'll hold you to that," Kora to Izzy, wry, direct. Then, a glance back to Imogen, accompanied by a brief gesture with the frozen mocha. "Doc, you mind giving me a ride?"
[Imogen] Imogen shakes her head slightly, pinching out her cigarette as she gets to her feet, stepping off the picnic table. "I should 'ead home, anyway," she says, an oblique references to the late hour.
"Goodnight," she says to the other two as she picks up her jacket from the picnic table, sliding into it.
[Kora] (thanks for the scene guys, am so tired! nini!)
[Izzy Montoya] She lifts her beer in goodbye to Kora and Imogen, and then searches for her pack and lighter, lighting up a cigarette as they walk away.
[Imogen] (thanks for the scene!)