Thicker than Water

[Imogen Slaughter] Overcast but warm, the sky promising rain, one which will feel more like Summer than Spring. She stands outside of a coffee house, her back brushing, but not leaning against the wall, a cigarette in hand, a to-go coffee cup in another.

Though it is past seven in the evening, she is still dressed for business. A knee length skirt, a white blouse and a cloth jacket that skims past her knees, open over her slim frame. Her hair is bright and brilliant in the grey late evening, her skin a pale and almost luminescent hue.

She lifts her cigarette to her lips and fits it between, the ember flaring as she sucks in on the filter. Her eyes move absently over the sidewalk and street, roaming almost habitually. Smoke exhales from her nostrils as she waits.

A phone call brought her here, waiting. Helen to her. The details are vague, but one imagines, the connections of family was mentioned. This was Imogen's choice of a meeting place - rather than her work, rather than her home.

She smokes, and she waits.

[Helen Moore] "Imogen?" The woman had approached along the side walk. Dressed in a dress, worn just above the knee, and a wrap jacket that was left undone, her heels had clipped softly across the pavement. Her hair, a tussled bunch of blonde to white-blonde sat as neat as a bunch of curls could be styled. Helen was tall and slender, with pale eyes. A lip ring seemed at odds with her pretty, almost elegant, features.

[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyes move and fix as Helen calls her name, approaching. A measured nod answers the question, as she lowers takes one last drag of her cigarette before crushing it out on the ashtray - taken from a nearby, unoccupied patio table - balanced on the window sill.

"You must be Helen," she says, turning her head away to exhale smoke into the wind, before stepping forward, and offering a cool, pale hand.

"A pleasure."

There isn't much to mark the women as family. The hues of their skin perhaps. Otherwise, with her pale skin, eyes and hair, Helen is almost ethereal, spun of glass rather than solid skin and bone. Imogen is a study of contrasts. Her bright hair contrasts her pale skin which in turn contrasts with her dark blue eyes. She is petite, small boned. Helen likely exceeded her height around fourteen, if not earlier.

There isn't much warmth to Imogen, no passion that her vibrant hair might suggest.

[Helen Moore] Being that she wore several inches of strapped heels and was already five foot eleven, Helen is taller then most people, but feels like she's towering over the small, petite woman before her. Because of this, she creates a little distance, which is still polite enough, where she shakes the others hand with a warmer smile.

"Nice to meet you," she says, as though it really is.

"I hope you haven't been waiting too long." It's now that she looks around, takes in the coffee house and the general street, and notices the to-go coffee in Imogen's other hand. She could probably do with a coffee herself, or at least a tea. Green, if they have it.

[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly. "Not too long," she says, lifting her coffee for a sip.

A tilt of her head toward the coffee shop, "Did you want a drink?"

A Briton herself, Helen can hear the Cornish lilt to Imogen's accent, a certain way she handles her vowels and consonants. It wars with a more educated accent, as if, perhaps, someone had tried to stamp the regional sound from her voice, but never quite succeeded.

There is music in her voice, a warmth to it that does not echo in her disposition or tone. Still, she follows the rhythm of politeness very well.

[Helen Moore] "Actually, yes." She's smiling again, something that comes easily. It's nothing large, but small, and almost always reaches the surface of her eyes. "It's been a long day."

Moving past Imogen, she went for the door, pausing to ask, "Are you coming in? I'll only be a moment." Considering that Imogen's was to go, Helen would do the same, taking it as indication that the other woman was on short time. It was something Helen understood well enough.

Either which way, she'd move inside the coffee house to go and order herself a tea to go. She had hers with half a sugar, keeping in mind her waistline.

[Imogen Slaughter] She tilts her head toward the door, a silent answer to the question. She would come in.

Despite the to-go cup, Imogen takes a seat while Helen makes her order, sipping her coffee absently while her attention turns out toward the bay windows, watching the infrequent passers-by.

When the blonde crosses the cafe to come to her table, if necessary, the redhead invites her so sit. When she has, she picks up her coffee cup again.

"So." The preliminary to cutting to the chase. "What can I do for you?"

[Helen Moore] There's no need to ask her to sit, she does so, pulling back the chair and sitting down on her own whim. Her cup is left on the table, giving it some time to cool, and allowing her hands free to pull off the small purse she wears on a thin strap across her shoulder. This, too, is placed on the table, out of the way.

Looking up, she studies Imogen's features and the distinct lack of warmth or invitation. There's certainly a difference between playing the part of polite society and enjoying the company of others. Helen is the latter of the two. It's another contrast between them.

So as Helen crosses her long legs, shifting her knees to one side in the process, leaving room for the other woman's beneath the table, she gets down to the point. "We're cousins, somewhere along the line." She doesn't get into specifics, it doesn't really matter since Helen wasn't making a big deal of it. "I thought it might be nice to have a quick word, let you know that I'm in Chicago for a time."

She's smiling, lightly, as she adds; "Your name cropped up when I mentioned moving this way." Lifting a hand in a small wave (or stop) motion, her mouth took on a more wry twist. "Don't worry though, I'm not here to get under your feet."

[Imogen Slaughter] Helen mentions that they're cousins, and Imogen nods, interjecting, "I thought as much," she says, adding, "I recognized yer family name," before letting the other woman continue.

The Fianna kinswoman continues and as she says that her name cropped up, her mouth twists into a faint smirk.

"My name cropped up," she echoes wryly when the other has finished. "I can only imagine what was said."

She takes another sip of her coffee, leaning back a little, her own gaze coming to study Helen. Imogen's eyes are direct, dark and unflinching. Her attention is perceptive, as if every detail were laid bare for her to see.

A few seconds pass before the good doctor says, "Welcome to Chicago."

A pause, "There's a place called the Brotherhood, near the docks, on [redacted] street. The second storey has a place fer Garou and others o' the blood to -" a pause, indicating a careful word choice, "mingle. Last I checked, a bloke called Oscar Taggart lived there. He's o' yer tribe."

[Imogen Slaughter] "The highest rankin', I believe."

[Helen Moore] "Not half as bad as you think," she had said on Imogen's reputation.

While Helen's hair is curly, a little unruly, one can bet that she styles it for the day. Hair like that is frizzy in the morning and without good care. She dislikes the rain. Rainy days means head wear, because there's nothing worse then dealing with a blond afro, and there's a certain image to maintain. No-one would trust a sloppy looking stylist. Her eyes are pale, somewhere in the green range but its so difficult to tell with the hints of blue-silver, but there's speckles of faint brown near the pupil. They really are, ironically, eye-catching assets. Her clothes are neat. There's minimal make-up, no freckles, and the complexion is from a steady diet, not some powder puffs behind the scenes. There are plenty of details for Imogen to catch.

"Mingle?" The rest had been glossed over, acknowledged and absorbed but without comment. Imogen's choice of word has Helen's brows arching higher, and a trickle of amusement creeping into her expression.

But then, more seriously, she gives a single nod, dropping her eyes to her drink as she reaches for it, then glances back up. "Oscar Taggart. Best I introduce myself then?" It's a hint of a question, looking for suggestions. Chicago isn't her home town. Things could work differently here, and Helen relies on a distant relative to be kind enough to give her a nudge in the right direction.

[Imogen Slaughter] Mingle?

"Hm." The sound is affirmation. "S'ostensibly a place t'gather. Place fer them to stay, get a meal, a place where yeh can go t'find yer own, if you're so inclined."

The question draws a nod. "S'probably wise, if yeh intend to ha' anything to do with the Nation. They make a big deal about extendin' protection, here. And the full bloods like to know what half bloods o' their tribe are about."

[Helen Moore] That is not what had cropped up in her mind with the word mingle, but she finds herself nodding as its further explained to something far more innocent then Helen had imagined. Her long fingers had rested around her cup, warming the palm of it from the heat contained in the cup.

"I'll make a visit, then." It can't hurt. Fianna aren't the most unreasonable of Tribes, after all, and she's not here to make trouble or life harder for them. A simple move of career, was all, and hopefully that won't be an issue. She will stay out of the way. Her thoughtful expression passes quickly.

Comfortable, her other hand has looped across her lap, resting there gently; relaxed. "How long have you been in Chicago, Imogen?"

[Imogen Slaughter] A beat of consideration. Though the question is relatively simple, little more than small talk, the other woman seems to genuinely consider whether or not to reply, or perhaps, how much to reply.

"Six or seven years, I believe," she says, before simply adding, "A long time."

[Helen Moore] Nodding, she began lifting her cup towards her mouth. "Like it here?" It was just small talk. Helen was getting a feel for the place, and Imogen was the first she's came across - went out of her way to contact, in regards to the whole Nation part of life. They were cousins, even if strangers, and it was only proper that she had made this meeting. It wasn't out of obligation though; she had a general interest in meeting one of her relatives.

[Imogen Slaughter] Back home, Imogen was frequently known as someone's granddaughter, someone's grand-niece. Her branch of the family is a proud one, and not without reason. They carried the name, the wealth of ancestral blood, a hero in recent memory.

They do not know each other, really, but they have,at least, faint knowledge of each other's families. Imogen knows that Helen's family is from London. When she had lived there, she had not looked them up.

Now, an ocean, a continent away, in a land-locked state with people who speak with flat accents and eat giant food portions, they sit across from each other, Helen making small talk and Imogen answering each question as if it carried weight and meaning.

They are not much like, these two. What blood they share is thin and watered down.

She shakes her head slightly, "It's just a place to live," she says.

Her eyebrow arches up, "Like it here, so far, do you?"

[Helen Moore] "Chicago's ... " the way she pauses speaks volumes, so far she hasn't had the best impression of the city. Her lips purse, and although there's a hint of a smile in it, the way she tilts her head holds an apologetic notion. "- it may grow on me. Not as wild as LA." Which could be a good thing, truth be told.

Nothing, however, beats London. But it was America and a land of opportunity with the wealth of experience that she had yet to add to the notches in her belt.

She's sipped her tea now - quickly, to test the temperature and find it still scalding on the back of her lip. It's almost ready to drink, and the edge of bitterness was cut back by the few sugar grains stirred within.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists sharply. "If it does," grow on her, she means, "you'll have to let me know your technique."

A deeper swallow of her coffee. Imogen's drink has long since cooled. "In case Taggart doesn't tell you, you should know, th' Full bloods consider themselves at war, here. There's been quite a bit o' blood shed."

[Helen Moore] This makes her laugh, softly though. "I'll be sure to do that, " she promises, resting her cup back down on the table but not letting it go. Her fingers are warmer, this way. She wears no jewelry on them, no hints of rings or bands. There is a gold watch on her left wrist though, a dainty looking thing that makes her wrist look sharper boned around it.

But the mention of war and bloodshed is not a laughing matter and the mention of it has a small frown instantly appearing. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." It's not just something to say, but heartfelt. She wonders what it is that's happened, but doesn't want to know the specifics. It's part of life. In fact, she doesn't know what else to say, right then.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen wears very little by way of jewelry. Today, a gold chain glints at her throat, showing through the part of the collar of her blouse. She wears a stainless steel watch at her wrist, expensive, understated. Like Helen's watch, it is finely wrought.

Helen offers a heartfelt apology, and does not know what else to say. There might be a moment for awkward silence, only Imogen does know what to say and do. She shakes her head.

"I'm not saying it fer sympathy," she says, callously. "It's so you can watch yerself."

[Helen Moore] The tone is unexpected, though perhaps it shouldn't be given the rest of Imogen's demeanor. Still, it jerks Helen's reaction into something of a deeper frown and her lips purse a little with the brief, harder, line of her jaw. She lifts her cup again. "I would not think you were," she says on sympathy.

Her gaze diverts to the window. "I'll consider myself warned. Thank you." It wasn't warmer, like before, that thank you has lost that edge. Helen closed down.

[Imogen Slaughter] Her gaze lingers on the freshly shut face of her distant relative, studying it abstractly. With matching reticence, one might almost think them related. Might see it in the bone structure, in the shape of the eyes.

"Don't mention it," she says, outwardly unperturbed by the shift in Helen's mood. One imagines, given her disposition, that Imogen is used to it, by now.

She sips her coffee, her gaze turning inward as Helen's turns outward, Imogen's dark eyes scanning the coffee shop. Silence lingers, somewhat tight.

"When my name cropped up," she says, turning her attention back. "Did they mention that the Nation no longer considers us th'same tribe?"

[Helen Moore] "They did. But they also say blood is thicker then water." Helen's gaze had come back instantly - the moment that Imogen had spoke up on another topic. She's taken a second sip from her cup, and while it hasn't been long enough pass to drop the temperature of the tea much more than before, she drinks it anyway. It's not the first or the last time she would ingest something warm enough to feel it all the way to the stomach. By the way it sounds, Helen doesn't have any personal feelings on the matter. If she did, they're hidden well away from sight, currently. She's no longer wearing her friendly disposition on her sleeve.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen smirks, wryly, almost mirthlessly. "They do say that," she says, before pushing back her chair. "I should go."

She pauses, one hand on the back of her chair, the other wrapped about her nearly empty coffee cup.

"Listen," simply, like she might be about to say something else.

Instead, "Let me know if you need anything; I'll do what I can."

[Helen Moore] When Imogen rises up, Helen places her cup, slowly, on the table. She watches her stand and slowly follows suit. Clearly, though, she's not going anywhere.

"I will," she says simply in return. Time would tell if she would, until then, it's only on faith and social niceties. "And thank you for meeting with me, Imogen." It's more for the advice and the time taken out to do so. They hadn't really hit it off, even if Helen didn't have such expectations. It's still disappointing.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Don't mention it," the kinwoman says, for the second time in their meeting. Her fingers flick, briefly on the back of her chair.

"I am not particularly a family person," she says. "Both in the sense o' blood and the sense o' the Nation.

"It's not personal."

[Helen Moore] "I'm not taking it personally." Helen watches Imogen steadily. Her hands have clasped in front of her, and her shoulders are at eased, relaxed. "You don't need to explain yourself to me," she goes on to say. It wasn't her business how the other woman conducted herself, and she doesn't find herself wanting to know why or how she became the way she is, or whether it's a natural charm.

[Imogen Slaughter] The corner of her mouth twists up. "In that case," she says, "Have a goodnight."

She steps back and away, and heads for the door.

[Helen Moore] "You too." With Imogen passing, she moves back down into her seat and relaxes against it, giving herself some time to unwind and enjoy her tea.