Grown Strong Because of It.

[Imogen Slaughter] The sign outside of the gym says it is open 24/7, though given the hour, it was not a provision she had needed today.

Imogen steps out, wearing a light cardigan pushed up to the elbows. She carries a gym bag over one shoulder, her hair up and tucked in a bun, tendrils of it coming undone from the coils, curling damply against her skin. She's dressed in a pair of jeans, a camisole beneath the cardigan.

An Aston Martin's parked on the street at a parking metre which requires no coin on a Sunday. It's sleek, low to the ground, its grill angry and menacing, the body shining black. It is the kind of car most people would never be able to afford in their life time.

The trunk pops up as the slight woman presses a button on the dongle. She steps up to it, slinging the bag off her shoulder and dropping it inside.

[Karl Gyllenhammar] The rotagar had been out, walking. Trying to burn off…something. The events of Friday night still hanging over him like a headmans axe. Garou are many things. Warriors not at the very least. They know how to fight an opponent, how to make use of their strengths, and their enemies weakness.

But what do you do when you cannot find a weakness? When no battle-plan you can make will be able to ensure your victory?

So it finds Karl walking the street, hands in the pockets of his well-worn leather jacket. Dark jeans and a grey tee doing nothing to make him stand out fo the crowd. Even the thig that is usually so strong within the No moon, the rage that keeps normal people from looking at him, even makes them suddenly remember that they need to be anywhere but here. Even that is just a spark in him now compared to normal.

It is quite possible that he would have just walked past Imogen, as he had so many others so far this day. Yet the Wolf In him reacted as he caught her at the edge of vision. Even if she had not been very clearly pointed out Friday night by silence, the breeding evident in her would have made him take notice.

The Rotagar stops dead, not more then 10 paces from Imogen, and his glacial eyes fix on her, as if studying.

[Imogen Slaughter] Her breeding is enough to stop most Garou in their tracks. It draws their attention. The weight of it, the compelling draw of it. Her blood reminds heroes of the past, and promises heroes in the future, born between her thighs.

She would have caught his attention anyway, even if Silence had never pointed her out - claimed her publicly, even as she left. In that context, her breeding adds another layer.

For she is not Fenrir, and even that is clear. It is her pale skin and bright hair. The way her eyes are dark blue, rather than glacial. She is not from the Northern tribe, but of one that a small island which was once the greatest empire of the world.

The Rotagar stops dead, not ten paces away. Imogen looks up, over her shoulder, her attention drawn briefly. Her gaze fastens on the Fenrir, dark eyes flicking down, then up again. Her breath exhales sharply, and she turns back, reaching up with a hand to bring down the lid of the trunk, the gesture firm, though the car's fine design simply absorbs the impact, soundlessly.

"It never ceases to amaze me," she says, taking her time as she straightens her cardigan about herself, before turning to face the other. "How many of you simply stand there and stare."

[Karl Gyllenhammar] She can see something in his face. A twitch perhaps of lips that was never fully allowed to evolve before it was crushed down. A smile? A sneer or a grin? Anybody’s guess so far. The shrug is quite visible however.
“You will have to excuse me. You make me curious.”

No further explanation offered, and no motion to stop his examination of her either.

[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyebrow flicks upward.

"I don't imagine you'll find out much by looking."

[Callie] *Some days are days for being alone, days when she sticks to the boundaries of what she half considers to be her territory. Some days she finds the drive to go further afield, out into the streets Chicago to walk and play and glean what kind of a living she can from the generosity of others, willing or unwilling. Other days something draws her to the Bawn, and the Caern at it's centre. Today she has walked, hour upon hour, and now she is making her way back through Lake View, heading home.*

[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”No. Don’t imagine I will.”

He draws a breath, pulling his left hand from his jacket to reach down to pat at his jeans. Not finding whatever he sought, he lifts it up and runs it through his buzzed, raven black hair before speaking again.
“Name’s Karl. You must be Imogen.”

A breath.

“I was…”
Whatever he was about to say, he doesn’t as something else, someone else, steals his attention. He finally looks from Imogen, only to fix that cold gaze on Callie. Recognition. A change of posture evident to Imogen. A slow roll of strong shoulders. Instinctual, as if to keep muscles warm and loose.

[Imogen Slaughter] You must be Imogen.

Something indescribable and quiet crosses her expression. Resignation, perhaps. It is barely a flicker, a shark beneath the water. She nods, but does not offer more than that - it was, after all, all that was necessary.

Karl is about to speak. He was - and his gaze shifts, Imogen, rather than prompting him, turns her own attention the same way, instinctual.

Body language speaks much among the Garou. The kinwoman does not carry herself like a warrior. She is not a paragon of physical prowess. Lean muscles creates definition beneath the fall of her clothing, but do not suggest bulk. Still, she carries herself with a certain poise, a certain grace. And she has an awareness of her surroundings that suggests she is well aware that she is not always - in fact, rarely - safe.

Her eyes touch on Callie, familiar. Her gaze flicks back toward Karl, a copper eyebrow arching. "Have you two met?"

Her reaction is not the same as the other's. She does not see the other as a risk.

[Callie] *It's clear that Callie has seen them too. She continues walking, neither hurrying closer nor delaying the inevitable. Just walking until she's close enough to read the situation . . the tension, the slightly stilted conversation. She nods in their direction, not yet taking the step of making what might be an unwelcome approach*

[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”Yes, by the water.”
At the graves to be more precise. He doesn’t take his eyes away from the other Garou. There is tension in the man with the frightening appearance, but it does not seem hostile. Just that of a wolf meeting another wolf at a place not expected.

Karl still has a lot to learn about the city, quite different from the wide open spaces of the north where he comes from.
“She is of my moon.”

The crescent moon is waning. Only a couple of nights until the new moon fills the sky with its terrible nothingness.

[Imogen Slaughter] The kinwoman's gaze flicks from Karl to Callie, then back again.

"And are yeh two merely goin' t'stare at one another?"

[Callie] *A shrug . . and Callie steps closer, across that last invisible boundary that marks her now as part of this mismatched group. Her copper hair is damp, curling at the tips where the ragged ends frame her face. That ancient, much worn, travel stained backpack is pulled tight to one shoulder, but in contrast to the last time they met, she smiles at Karl* hi . . how goes the challenge?

[Karl Gyllenhammar] He draws in a deep breath, holds it, and then releases it in a slow, deep sigh.
“Would you prefer if we sniffed each other’s behinds?”

He can’t quite keep wry amusement out of his tone. Then Callie speaks up, and Karl offers her a nod. He hasn’t taken his eyes from the other Garou, keeping Imogen at the edge of his vision.

“Hello. It is coming along. You gave me some things to try. IT might work out yet.”

finally saying more then a few words, it becomes clear that English is not his native tongue. A little bit to stylized in the way he speaks, an unplacable dialect that could come from almost anywhere in northern europe.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's breath exhales, something like amusement. "I think there may be another alternative," she observes dryly, and then Callie takes it, breaching the invisible boundary and approaching.

They are mismatched to appearance, but oddly connected. The Fenrir No-Moon, the Fianna No-Moon, and the once-Fianna now-Fenrir claimed Kinfolk.
So perhaps, not so mismatched for all that.

She nods to Callie in something like a greeting, and falls silent while a conversation begins. She slides her purse from her shoulder and undoes the clasp, reaching inside for a cigarette case and zippo, flicking open the former and retrieving a fag.

[Callie] *Turning the smile in Imogen's direction, Callie returns the nod . . the woman may not be true-born but she has acquired a certain level of notoriety, a degree of respect few kin are accorded. She speaks to Karl again* I hope it does . . but if you want to talk it through again, I'll be around . .

[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”I might take you up on that. Had a new one present itself a couple of days ago. It seems we are kept busy in this city. I hope you are well?”

Considering the tension in the man, he seems surprisingly willing to small-talk to the other Garou. He is still tense of body, but his smile, small as it may be, seems genuine enough. His gaze returns to the kin as she lights up.
“I was expecting you to be… Bigger.”

He offers that same smile to the kin woman, as his shoulders do another slow roll.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen glances up and over at Karl, her mouth obscured by her fingers, her cigarette, and the lighter's flame. She draws smoke into her lungs as she lowers the lighter, dropping it back into her purse. She turns her head to exhale her poison.

She is diminutive. On an average day, she might wear heels which adds a few more inches to her slender frame, but now, fresh from the gym, she wears ballet flats - that she is only an inch or so over five feet is undisguised.

Her eyebrow arches slightly as she absently taps the smallest accumulation of ash from the cigarette. "I wasn't aware my height was up fer speculation."

[Callie] Nothing in this city stays still for long *she says, and though she doesn't lose the smile, there's a subtle change in the quality . . a slight narrowing at the corners of the eyes, a tension barely noticeable under most circumstance. As if to relieve it, she slides her fingers through that still-damp hair, taking it back off her face in one careful-careless sweep* Nothing. I'm sure Imogen will attest to that . . huh?

[Karl Gyllenhammar] The man makes a motion with his hand.
“I wasn’t referring to your height. But good to see you are not so literal about it.”

Again, he can’t hide that wry amusement.
“Just the way people mention you here, it is easy to get imagining. They all seem to look up to you.”

He glances back at Callie and nods.
“I have noticed. It is… to not put to fine of a point on it, different.”

[Imogen Slaughter] Both Garou speak to her. Callie makes reference to how long she's been in the city; that nothing is ever the same here. Karl mentions how others speak to her. How they look up to her.

A tension draws itself over her brow and she takes another drag from her cigarette and turns her head to exhale, creating a brief gulf in the conversation with her lack of response.

"I imagine yeh mean more th'Sept than the city," she says, casting a flick of a glance toward Callie. "I imagine a full-blood would know better than I would."

[Callie] maybe . . *Callie doesn't pursue it, lets it go as though of no importance. Instead she goes down a different route, especially seeing as they are still standing in the middle of the street* If you do ever want to find me, try Oz Park

[Karl Gyllenhammar] Karl looks between the two. It seemed they were both lacking their tongue’s. He did not know about Imogen, but Callie at least had more to say the last time they met. Perhaps, he figures, it is because of the strange mix of the Fenrir claim on Imogen, and her lineage. For the somewhat traditional Rotagar, it seemed at least as a possibility for their quiet.

“I take it the sept has seen its fair share of troubles in its youth. It has grown strong for it, but at a high price.”
He had figured out that much by himself, by watching the graves, so numerous in the caern already.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Has it, then." Imogen's voice is low as she takes another drag of her cigarette.

"I'm pleased to hear it."

She exhales the smoke and drops the cigarette to crush it out beneath the toe of her shoe. "If you'll excuse me," she says, pulling her keys from her purse and starting toward the driver's side of the Aston Martin.

[Callie] *The look she gives him is enough, heavy with some kind of emotion that she keeps behind her eyes, it never enters her voice when she answers him* I've been here a year . . that's all . . but how many of this Sept do you think have been here longer?

[Karl Gyllenhammar] He turns to look at Moira, raising a brow slightly.
“It was interesting meeting you Imogen.”

He watches the kin even as he answers Callie.
“I do not know, but the graves sing their own hymn, just as Maelstrom pulses with their sacrifice. It has grown strong in a short time, stronger then many sacred places ever become. I do not know the struggle personally… But I have sense enough to honor it for what it is.”

Perhaps words for Callie and Imogen both, who can tell with the No moons.

[Karl Gyllenhammar] ((Turns to look at Imogen, not Moira!))

[Imogen Slaughter] (!!!!!!!

THE FENRIR KIN OF THE SITE ARE NOT INTERCHANGEABLE YOU KNOW)

[Karl Gyllenhammar] ((It would be so great if they were! Imogen is HAWT!))

[Imogen Slaughter] "And you," Imogen answers. Though the Rotagar's words may have been meant for both, Imogen is no longer attending the conversation - or if she is, she is not reacting to it.

While the Fenrir speaks, she opens her car door, and gets inside. Moments later, the engine snarls as it starts, and the gears click as she shifts, then she pulls away from the curb, headed down the street.

[Callie] *She waves, just a gesture in the direction of the car and its occupant as they take off down the street, the faint trail of exhaust fumes and rubber hanging in the air in their their wake and the lingering smell of the dead cigarette butt at their feet. Imogen, as ever, making her presence felt. Finally she turns back to the other garou and gives that only half-serious shrug* that kind of sense is not always easily come by

[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”A hard earned lesson, but one well worth learning.”

The Rotagar looks after Imogen, then back to Callie.
“She is interesting. Distant, and some might call it aloof, but interesting.”

Then he shrugs and looks back to Callie.
“So where are you heading?”

[Callie] home *she says bluntly, as though it should be obvious . . as though home was really a place she had to go* and I should be going too . . you know where to find me if you do want to look me up