Speaking of the Weather

[Imogen Slaughter] It is unseasonably warm for mid April, but there has been much of this year which has been unseasonably warm. The sky is overcast, blotting out the stars, and there is no moon to cast any illumination.

She sits out on a patio, one of half a dozen others, a cigarette held loosely between her fingers as she turns the page in a book, a half eaten meal of a sandwich and salad pushed aside, near a half-finished glass of wine.

The air smells of cheese grease and thick rich dough, a smell which intensifies when the neighbouring pizza place's door opens, admitting patrons or permitting them exit.

Her nostrils flare faintly as the breeze shifts, thickening the smell another layer. She will not likely patron this restaurant again.

[Kora] There is a thigh-high wrought iron fence all the way around the restaurant patio. It is not intended to corrall the patrons in or impede their movement, though it has that secondary effect. Instead, it serves as a clear barrier between the customers and the sidewalk foot traffic, the homeless kids who work the street, the shuffling veterans with old wars still livid in their eyes, stuffed into layers of ruined clothes soiled with scent, shaking empty cans at passers by.

One of these - a wild-eyed, wild-haired man of indeterminate age, with ruddy cheeks and a blunt, vein-filled nose is sitting, at present, directly against the gate, planning to grab for Imogen's half-finished sandwich and perhaps whatever tip she might tuck under the plates should she leave before the waiter has returned. He stiffens, though - shakes his head, his low, constant slipstream of word salad becoming more agitated when Kora walks by, pauses, not missing the breeding - not missing, either, the familiar face, the first she's seen of the kinswoman since the rite.

The creature stops at the fence, leaning so that the iron-work digs into her left thigh. "Doc - " she calls out, low, lifts a chin toward the spare seats at the table, " - mind if I join you?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Doc, the familiar appellation turns Imogen's head.

Imogen fits her cigarette between her lips and draws the smoke deep into her lungs before making a faint gesture toward the chair, a wordless go ahead.

She turns her head as she exhales smoke, lowering her cigarette to tap its ash into the ashtray. She looks up again in time to see Kora pulling out the chair and taking her seat.

"How are things?" she enquires in lieu of a more traditional greeting.

[Kora] "Quiet enough," Kora allows, her voice low, the smoke from Imogen's cigarette drifting in a pale stream away from her, illusorily solid where the light from the interior windows shines out, illuminating it. She is dressed in her dedicated clothing - the PIXIES t-shirt, the old jeans, the heavy black boots solid her feet, shanks laced firmly up her calves. The night is warm, faintly humid - an echo of summer too early in the year - and the city's scents are thicker for it, rich and rotten in the back of the throat.

Seated, she leans back, casts a glancing look at the doctor's profile, then looks past her, toward the dark of the street, the pattern of traffic movement through the downtown artery, the glimpse of the park in the distance, evident between buildings, and the lake beyond. "Feels like summer out here. Weird, you know? Winter to summer in one giant step." There is a thoughtful pause before she continues, lower, her dark eyes returning to the kinswoman's profile. " - what about you?"

[Colt Montgomery] He walked down the path, Exotic ostrich skin Nocona boots crush the small stones on the asphalt. low-rise, deep indigo rinsed jeans look expensive, finished with fading and whisking to enhance their appeal. His steele colored long sleeved burberry classic fit shirt was left unbuttoned revealing the bleached white tee shirt that fit snug across his chest, his body chiseled, the outlines of his well defined muscles visible.

He stands six foot three, dark curls hidden beneath the straw cowboy hat that sat low on his brow, an iced coffee in his hand, his stomach growled, it was over due for some food, the street was lined with options~

[Imogen Slaughter] "El Nino," Imogen says, an absent reply to Kora's commentary on the weather. "They say it's been an El Nino year. Makes it warmer."

The conversation is deliberately casual. Mundane.

"Well enough," a few seconds later, Kora asks how she is in return, and Imogen answers, lifting her cigarette back toward her mouth. There is a pause as she takes her drag. She closes her book absently, setting it face down.

Her mouth twists faintly, a smirk which does not quite reach the eyes. "Enjoyin' the weather."

[Colt Montgomery] ~he spotted some sunglasses that must have fallen out of someone's purse, he bent down and swept them up from the ground, he looked around to see if anyone around looked like they might have dropped them, he walked over to a man near the cafe~ "Howdy, I think someone might have dropped these, maybe from your cafe"

[Kora] "You may be," Kora avers, her voice low. " - but if the trend keeps up, I'm not looking forward to summer."

In the junkyard. That will be hot.

She cuts a glance at the spine of Imogen's book as she puts it down, dark eyes narrowed to pick the title out against the glare over the gloss of the cover, then gives up. Asking, instead, " - what're you reading?"

The kinswoman and Skald sit out on the patio, on the darkened street. Kora is ordinary enough - tall and blonde in well-worn, well-fitted jeans from some mass-market store several seasons old, and a concert t-shirt that declares her love for late 80s indie rock. Or Edmund Spenser. It is likely the former.

Her hair is pale; dull in the darkness, without lights to pull out the colors, to make it shine - twisted at the back of her neck, secured by a pair of rubber bands and a yellow No. 2 pencil with teeth marks on the shaft. Her skill is similarly pale - northern coloring, awash above the black t-shirt and washed out jeans. She has long limbs, long arms, long legs, and sits casually back, without a meal or drink to occupy her, watching the street.

She doesn't miss Colt; she can sense his breeding. "They're mine," her voice rises in volume if not in pitch as Colt walks up to the startled busboy on the patio. There's no similar sense of heroes singing in her own blood. " - you want to join us?"

[Colt Montgomery] ~he heard the womens voice, those hazel eyes land on the girl who it belongs to, he flicked the tip of his straw cowboy hat and walked over to the table, his hand palm up with the sunglasses laying in it~ "Here ya go, might need those in the mornin, hopefully not and umbrella" ~he smiled politely between the two, and then pulled out the chair~ "Thank ya, I'm trying to get my barings in this city" ~he noticed the skald as well~ "Just been here two days now, I'm Colt Montgomery"

[Helen Moore] She had been in the pizza place, not far from where they were. They had decided to eat in rather then take it away, but when the place became full of patrons, Roman had left. She had insisted he take the rest of the pizza with him, packed away in a box and had watched him go. Helen stayed in the restaurant for another ten minutes after, drinking water from a bottle as though it could purify her of all the grease she had just ingested. She had wanted something vegetarian or a little gourmet, but a teenage boy had wanted something else entirely.

Leaving had her walking past the gathered Garou and Kin on the patio next door. Although it was cooler now then it had been when she first arrived, it was still warm enough to make her feel like the buttoned blouse and the skirt she wore was still too much. It felt like summer out, and the recent rain had made her feel sticky. The grease in her belly wasn't improving her overall sense of well being, either.

Blonde curls, stylish clothes, and a height that models envy, the Fianna Kin headed towards her car parked further down the street.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is a contrast to Kora. Her hair vibrant and red, her eyes dark, her skin luminously pale. She is slight, slender, without the same wiry strength to her own, lean frame. She sits poised in her chair, a half finished sandwich and mostly finished salad set aside, a glass of wine near by, and a cigarette in hand.

She has breeding, herself. Pure blood that speaks of heroes and glorious deaths. Of a bloodline of leadership, promised beneath her skin. No rage, though. Not a drop.

She turns the thin book over, letting Kora see the title. She is reading Shakespeare's King Lear.

The suddenly approaching Garou draws her attention, her eyebrows drawing together as he speaks. Imogen's eyes shift toward Kora when she speaks, one eyebrow cocking upward.

It remains up as Colt introduces himself. The kinswoman does not return the favour.

[Kora] Sitting up, leaning easily forward by extending her middle spine, Kora reaches for the sunglasses - which are not hers - with her left arm, and plucks them easily from Colt's hand, palming them and setting them thoughtlessly aside on the table. She isn't carrying a purse, though perhaps she has stowed one underneath her ironworked chair.

"Good to meet you, Colt," her voice is low, distinct and direct. Her dark eyes are steady on him, across the table, over Imogen's book and half-finished meal. There is a small smile on her expressive mouth - even at its most neutral her mouth curves, just - which does not quite reach her somber eyes. "I'm Kora." She does not introduce Imogen.

The busboy bustles past, and Kora watches him, tracks his passage until she deems that he is out of earshot. Then, back to Colt. "There's no Jarl, just now - but you should find Joe War-Handed to make yourself known to the tribe. I can get you in touch with him."

[Colt Montgomery] ~well would ya look at all the breeding and at just one table, how did he get so lucky, Luna must be shining bright for himonce more, he looked over at the red head with a smile, though he wrinkled his nose at the cigerette a bit, she didn't look old enough to smoke or drink, one was at least a bad habit~

"Pleased to meet ya Kora.. and I'd appreciate ya gettin me in touch with Joe" ~he'd been doing his darndest to meet the right people, he'd been told to check out the brotherhood, but nothing panned out. he looked over at the kin~ "Howdy"

~eyes back to the Skald and that rage, it felt like home~ "Do ya thinkin that waiter might come back and round me up a steak sandwich and a coke?" ~sometimes the rage was enough to keep the mortals at bay, he hoped sittin and chattin with two pretty lookin ladies might make him seem less menacing~

[Helen Moore] (ooc: gah. stupid thing.)

[Helen Moore] Having just left Roman, a country boy, she finds herself amused that right there, sitting with a bunch of -- wait, is that Imogen? Helen's feet slow their walk as she begins to pass by closer. A hand is lifted, perhaps to catch attention, as she called out, softly: "Imogen!"

[Imogen Slaughter] "Hullo," the kinwoman offers as she crushes out her cigarette, picking up her book from the table and purse from the back of her chair.

"A waiter should be by soon," a tilt of her head indicates the cash stuck beneath her plate. "He has a bill t'pick up."

The homeless man his hopes dashed of retrieving either the remains of Imogen's meal or her cash, has already begun to wander off.

"You'll ha' to excuse me," she says. "I ha' work to do." A flick of her gaze toward Kora. "See you later, I imagine.

Then Colt, "A pleasure to meet you."

Etiquette paid the merest of lip service, she gets to her feet. Helen calls her name, and Imogen turns slightly, glancing at Helen before exiting the patio.

"I can't stay, sorry," she says as she begins past the other, before casting a glance at the two Garou, "They're Garou, if you're interested in meetin' more o' the Nation. Fenrir."

[Helen Moore] She's not surprised that Imogen has to go, ahead. If anything Helen thinks the other may be avoiding her. That, too, wouldn't be surprising given their first and only meeting and their histories. "Of course. Keep well," she calls after the other woman.

Paused in the street, she looked up and over to Kora and Colt, considering her options.

[Colt Montgomery] ~he looked over at Helen, tipped his hat again and offered her a smile, well at least he knew what the red heads name was now~ "Evenin" ~he said to Helen.....he was just another good ole boy, fresh off the ranch, full of manners and pride of course~ "and have a good night Miss Imogen"

[Kora] "He's my Alpha," says Kora, her voice low, sitting up once more in the chair, pale arm hovering over the table until she finds and plucks the cheap bic left behind by the waiter from the last check from the edge of the table, steals an unused paper napkin. Then, leaning forward, she writes out both a phone number and an address. Her handwriting is neat and angular, not unlike her tall frame - the long limbs, the right angles of her elbows, the upright posture now, when she sits up, shoulders level - and hands him the napkin.

" - that's his phone number, though. We stay in a junkyard in Bronzeville, too. The address is there. You need a place to crash and don't like the Brotherhood for it," leaning back when he takes the napkin, "I'm sure you'd be welcome. It's not," a faint quirk of her mouth. Again, it does not reach her eyes. " - the Ritz."

An understatement.

"Night 'doc," the creature calls out, as Imogen stands and walks away. Her dark eyes track the kinswoman, Fianna to Fianna. Then, to Helen. "You'd be welcome to join us."

[Helen Moore] That settled it. She really couldn't say no when Garou have invited her over. With a small smile she made her way up to the patio and towards the recently vacated seat. Her small purse slips off her shoulder and is set down before her, fingers pushing Imogen's plate off to the side and out from beneath her face.

"Hello," the Londoner greets both of them, looking at one then the other to give each a nod. She offers her hand to the woman first. "I'm Helen." It's short as far as introductions go, but she didn't worry about heritage or last names, or even what Tribe she was from.

Colt would get an offer at a handshake too.