[Imogen Slaughter] They are a mismatched group, the Child of Gaia, the Fenrir and the doctor. A teenager, a twenty-something blonde, a redhead in her thirties. They have no obvious connections, at least not to a human who might look at them. No reason to ever associate. No possible point of conversation.
In the human world, they would have never known each other. In this world, however: The kinwoman, slight and slender, carries, incongruously, a bucket. It does not make her stand out - at least no more than she might otherwise.
Imogen is not particularly a woman suited to these surroundings. Though she wears plain attire, jeans, a corduroy jacket, a nondescript dark blue t-shirt, her skin is too pale, too fine. Her hair is too vibrant. Her body is too well cared for, and her spine is too straight.
She would stand out anyway.
The rage of the Skald does nearly as much as Imogen's poise and beauty might. The rip-snarl-shred of burning ozone, the weight of it on a Garou on the night of her birth-moon.
Poor Roman - well, his youth makes him stand out. That and his stetson hat. Not much call for those here in the Windy City.
Imogen speaks, with rapidly unravelling patience, a cutting glance directed toward the Ragabash Child of Gaia.
"The bucket is not that heavy, I can manage it just fine on my own."
The bucket contains the remains of a rag, turned red and grimy with things better left unmentioned. A copper-and-salt smelling crud has gathered at the bottom of it along with a slime of dirty water, still pooled from when the bucket had last been dumped out, a few blocks away.
[Casey Steward] Casey took the paper and pocketed it, with a smile to Iona. "See ya round smithy." He says with a lightheartedness towards his own Tribesman before turning his gaze back to Rory and Marc who sat upon the bench now, forcing the woman to begin to.....not breath?
Casey shook his head and gestured to Rory with his right hand, the hand with the smoke in it. "I think ya migh be wan'in ta be standin up there lass an give yur self some aire before ya dun go an pass out on us." He says honestly, trying to get the woman a bit more comfortable.
He takes a moment at that to look around, and notices three other people of note, the man in his hat, the woman beside him....and the blonde, but nothing seemed out of place, so the man turned back to Rory and Marc, and took another long drag from his cigarette. Before speaking once more.
"I mean...less tha's your kinda deal o course."
[Roman Turner] "I know ya can carry it, I can see ya carrying it, and it ain't right. What's wrong with a man being a man and helping a pretty lady?"
He rolled his eyes with a look to Kora for help, infact behind Imogen's back he mouthed.
"Do something, will ya?"
Meantime he kept pace with Imogen, just itching to take the bucket from her.
"Ya showed your muscles Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am. I see them bulging and all lady nice and all, now it's my turn."
[Kora] Sorrow's rage is nearly incandescent tonight; no matter her will, no matter how easily she wears it under ordinary skies, under ordinary moons, on ordinary nights, when she was shadowed by the rage of her tribesmates. Tonight - it is bright and it is heavy and it is liquid, a slow-moving liquid, mercury. Roman cuts a glance behind Imogen's back and mouths at Kora; she looks back at him, her dark eyes sheened with reflected light from the streetlamps.
Do what - she mouths back at him, exactly?
Kora stands head and shoulders taller than Imogen, and a good head taller than the young Gaian. She is does not cheat her height, not does she shorten her stride, but she is walking slightly more slowly than she might were she alone. Her hands are in her pockets, and she cuts that sidelong glance only once, just briefly, meeting Roman's eyes without offering him aid in his quest to be a gentleman cowboy helping a pretty lady carry a bucket of blood and solvent residue through the streets of a depressingly impoverished neighborhood, toward a particular bus stop where an equally oddball trio have gathered.
"The city's running limos, now?" she asks, when she marks Marc's vehicle near the bus stop. Her pace slows from a distance, and her attention sharpens. On this night, under this moon, her attention is almost a physical thing. To Imogen, to Roman, "I've seen the redhead at the full moon; the others, though - "
Her rich voice is laced with suspicion. There is blood under her fingernails. There is blood between her toes. Otherwise, she's clean.
[Marc de Vogue] ”Nonsense.”
His gaze goes to Casey for a moment, offering the man a smile.
“I know my people would never let me live it down if I did not offer you at least something. Now…”
He looks back to Rory, offering her that dazzling smile that is like the sun.
“Tomorrow, remember where the car dropped us off last time at the hotel? Meet me there in the lobby tomorrow, say around noon? I am looking at a more permanent residence, but until I find one, I still have a room there. A friend told me of a place with a good view that serves excellent lunch. “
“Let me treat you to a meal, and we can talk further about this. I would not want to disappoint my people, and I hope that you will give me a chance at the very least.”
He places a well-manicured hand on Rory’s knee, fingers tapping gently as he smiles.
“I shall leave you to this... pleasant young man now, unless you want a ride somewhere?”
Marc stands up, stretching to his full height of 6’4, looking to Casey, then to Rory. Then the others draw near, and Marc finds his attention drawn. Kora, Imogen and Roman, and on the other side, a busty blonde straight out of a mans fantasies. they are all given the top to toe look, appreciative smiles for all of them (including the young cowboy, Yum!)
[Rory] She blushes bright as Casey points out her lack of breath... and blushes. Of course. As always. It really does seem to be her default reaction to just about any situation. "...I'm ok. Shus... jy."
And completely messing up her words, though she doesn't notice it at all.
He asks if she remembers the hotel, and she nods, her color deepening. She remembers. And finally she simply gives in, as she doubts he'll let her turn him down at all. "Alright." She'll meet him tomorrow, and they can talk. She can't risk his disappointing Ms. Katherine anyway... she's already a disappointment to Lukas.
He stands, and she follows his gaze toward the three coming down the street - The Doc, the boy who's mower she fixed, and Kora. A brief meeting of the gaze, and quick lowering of her own. Submissive, always.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen casts Roman a glance full of narrowed eyes. A look cool enough to crack snow. "You will find that life is full of disappointment and hardship," she informs the Ragabash, ignoring the obvious sidebar occurring behind her back.
"Start by accepting this one."
Kora speaks of things marginally more important than bickering with a teenager, and the kinwoman's gaze flicks toward the fancy car, then the gathering of Garou and kinfolk.
"Rory," she supplements. The redhead. "I believe. As fer the others, I've not met them."
[Fiona Sullivan] The street is filling up quickly, sweltering with the presences of wolves that begins to send the sheep running. If any normal human, beat it the random drug pusher, vagrant or wandering prostitute had thought to step out onto this particular stretch of sidewalk, they will quickly encounter the unknown forces that growl quietly at them from behind human masks. An instinct in the back of their minds will keep them away, sending them turning on spiked heel or boot and walking off into another direction, or seeking another route as they made their way through the neighborhood.
But not here, not now. Not even when Fiona was coming up one direction towards the bus stop and slowing down, not when Kora and Roman were flanking the small red-haired woman that carried a bucket filled with blood and solvent residue.
[Roman Turner] He could easily vanish behind Kora with his smaller height, that and his ability to blend in when he wanted. Still Roman walked next to Imogen, making faces at Kora behind Imogen's back. Mouthing.
I don't know.
Feeling helpless because the pretty doctor was so danged stubborn she reminded him of a particularity stubborn mule, albeit a pretty mule.
Kora mentioned the people ahead and the limo and for a few seconds Roman looked that way before muttering.
"I seen lots of limos in this city, danged fools ain't got no sense when it comes to pollution and fuel consumption. As for the folks, I think I seen one of them before, ain't seen the others."
[Marc de Vogue] (Limo? Bah! That is no limo! Check the gallery for a visual. )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Roman Turner, Rory
[Roman Turner] "Life is full of disappointments, but sometimes life is sharing a load and helping those we care about with something simple, like carrying a dang stinking bucket."
Adding sweet as American Honey.
"Ma'am."
He even had the gall to smile cheekily.
[Kora] (That car looks like a limo to my character! :) )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Marc de Vogue, Roman Turner, Rory
[Roman Turner] ((Poor pimp-mobile! LOL! ))
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Marc de Vogue, Rory
[Casey Steward] "Aye lass, I gathered tha much, but ya really shouldna..." He pauses mid sentence and then shakes his head. "No ma place ta say I suppose, ya do wha ya wan'." He says with a shake of his head before he put the smoke back in his mouth and took a moment to look up and down the street once more.
It looked like they were being corralled, three from one direction, one from the other, he'd seen this situation more then once, hell more then twice, he'd seen it far more often then he cared to. So he backed up, and kept backing up till his back met the wall behind the bus stop and watched as they came. Not much he could do at the moment about it.
His eyes are...admittedly drawn to the blonde who walks alone, it was hard not to be even if his own innate journalistic testicles were itching, warning him of approaching danger, or maybe it was just the heat.
[Rory] She really shouldn't.... and she closes her eyes, and swallows hard, and suddenly unfolds her legs to stand. "...i shouldn't. I know... sorry..." Some words are easier, and then come in a rush as she clutches her little music box tighter to her chest, and grabs her pack in her other hand, and takes a step toward the alleyway, where she knows she can simply disappear...
She shouldn't.
She can't.
She's not allowed...
But there are others coming, and she hesitates, not wanting to leave him alone to face them... torn by indecision, she shifts her weight from foot to foot, green eyes bouncing from Marc, where he's getting into his car, Casey who's put his back against the wall, and the others - Fiona, and the Doc and Kora and Roman...
[Kora] "In a neighborhood like this," Kora returns in response to Roman's concern about pollution and fuel consumption. " - someone driving a car like that is asking to be jacked." Her voice is still low; it's a cool night, and the presence of Garou has driven away any humans who might've considered this bus stop. They've moved on, wandered further down the street to some other stop; decided to take the cross-town rather than the express. Decided, perhaps, that they do not need milk for the baby tonight anyway.
Kora is dressed with perfect practicality, in jeans and a black t-shirt, in shit-kicking boots, her pale blond hair drawn back from her features in a loose knot. Look: her hands are in her front pockets, but they are curled into fists. She swings her legs easily, a long stride slowing now as the trio approach Rory and Casey and Marc on the bench.
"Rory, yeah?" says Kora, her gaze dropping back to the mule in the center of the shifting ink blot of Garou. She lifts her attention over Rory's shoulder, marks out Fiona; the wariness has not left her body. Instead, a flicker of a look at Marc. If he looks her top to toe again, she'll bare her teeth.
Humans might call it a smile.
Wolves would call it a warning.
[Rory] (adds)
Her flight is brought to a speedy halt as Kora mentions her name. She nods, and keeps her gaze lowered, never liftin farther than somewhere along the Fenrir's jawline.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is the slightest of the trio. The one without rage, the one with a heavy dose of pure breeding, her blood singing of Fianna memories, and history.
She adjusts the fall of her coat as she approaches, her step easy, restrained, even.
"Hello Rory," Imogen greets the Metis easily, but not kindly.
"New friends?"
It is not that she did not hear Roman's dig about sharing a heavy load. It is that she is now ignoring it entirely now that they've approached the other group. The bucket remains hers.
[Fiona Sullivan] Fiona stops dead; all movement halted with the growing presence of other wolves. Thick lashes flutter low over green eyes, a shiver runs through her body, raising bumps along her flesh as it became feverish. A slight tick forms in the line of her left jaw as the muscles tighten, teeth gritting together. The softest of growls break loose from her throat as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck raise up.
It is a warning of sorts, a threat issued out in the direction of Kora and Rory. It did not matter if the blond Fianna was the stranger wandering into another's territory. Her heart begins to hammer wildly in her chest, blood pulsating in her veins as her breathing grows labored. The flat planes of her stomach dipping in with each flare of her nostrils as air exhales out of her nose.
She blinks once, slitting her eyes to pass them over the other's ignoring Roman as he didn't present the biggest threat to her. The two male kin pulled into her line of sight as she focuses on Marc first - snorts softly, then to Casey and snorts again.
[Marc de Vogue] The gathering of Rage made Marc look around. But not nervously. No, if anything, it made him stand a little taller, made that smile widen just a bit more, as if he enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the dark sensation it washed over his skin as it set his nerves on fire. He drew a deep breath, eyes closing for a moment, and then he shakes his head a little.
When his eyes open, he seeks out Rory, and that smile is as warm and friendly as always for the metis, as if she was the center of the universe. It is a strange thing for the shy creature to be under such appreciative focus.
“I will see you tomorrow for lunch.”
His clear eyes go to Casey as he puts his back to the wall under the assault of rage.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. Next time, I certainly do hope you have found some manners to be civil, even to strangers who have done you no harm or insult. I would think that is the least one could expect in company such as this.”
“Goodbye Rory. Take care of yourself.”
And with that, the young silver fang moves over the road, away from the rage and the sensation of it. He opens the car door and slips in. The engine starts with a low growl before settling into a muted roar. Marc looks back to the bustop, to the approaching people, then offers a slight wave of his hand, aimed at Rory before he takes off, peeling away from the curb and vanishing down the street.
(It is 4 am, time for the Swede to sleep! Thanks for the scene!)
[Roman Turner] "Hey, Lawnmower fixer! Howdy Miss."
He touched the brim of his hat with the shadow of a nod to Rory before he turned his attention to the others gathered here. What an odd collection. Of course with his boots, dark blue stiff as a board Wranglers and the tee that nearly matched eyes the blue of faded denim all topped by the stetson, he probably looked just as odd to them. Sweet sixteen and as out of place looking in the city as they came. Fresh scrubbed face that had nothing but peach fuzz on it and a bit of flaking blood along the jawline that he'd missed earlier. He was a little less than five and a half feet in height, making it easier to slip behind Kora and go unnoticed most times.
The car was soon claimed and pulled off, leaving one less to keep an eye on, which was good considering the way one seemed to be rumbling in her chest.
[Casey Steward] Casey chuckled and shook his head at the frenchman as he told him to find some manners. "Oh, I got plenty in stock for tha likes of others, jus no for tha likes o ye." He says as he waves to the man, over exagerating the motion to add just a hint of sarcasm to his voice as the kin climbs into his fancy car and takes off.
His eyes then go to Rory, who had tried to slip into the alley and then to those around them. He expected much the same show and he smiled in her direction, encouragingly. "Buck up lass, I don't think they gonna hurt ya. They ain't the enemy righ." Its a question just as much as a statement, and he hopes she answers it quickly.
Especially given the look the blonde was giving him, he wasnt quite certain if he should be excited, or terrified. But he pushed off the wall somewhat...it never paid to appear preylike around predator's after all.
[Kora] Rory bends her head low, Rory shows her throat, Rory offers the Fenrir utter submission without a thought - to avoid another beating, to live inside the boundaries defined by her station, by her breed, by her birth. Kora looks down at her, her fine mouth drawing flat across her the sharp planes of her pale face, curling at the corner in response to this submission, and not pleasantly. Then Roman pipes up, and touches the brim of his Stetson; this is all a sketch in the corner of her peripheral vision, but it is enough to draw the sharp line of her attention upwards.
Sidelong, as Marc slips into his "limo" and waves with particular directness at the mule, before taking off down the street.
"If so," she says, appending to Imogen's question as to whether these folks were friends of Rory's, " - that one should find a ride more appropriate to the neighborhood, or he's going to make himself an easy target for the cursed ones. You," her dark eyes cut to Casey then; the tension remains in her frame; it sharpens her gaze and makes her skin seem all the paler. " - wouldn't be quite that foolish, would you?"
Another flick of a glance toward Fiona, all but growling down the street. Kora squares her shoulders, but says nothing to the stranger, and does not approach her.
[Rory] She watches Marc go, and then Imogen says hello, followed by Roman, and both get the shyest of little smiles. She answers Imogen with an introduction of sorts. "Casey." and a point toward the car. "Marc." It answers Casey's question - at least those three are friend.
But the other...
But of all of them, it is Fiona that gets the most sudden and unexpected reaction. She growls. She dares growl and threaten in the streets that Rory calls home. She drops the backpack at Casey's feet, and takes a step toward the other Fianna, her hands held loose and light at her side.
A low snarling growl starts at the base of her throat. She is Bogeyman. This is HER place. She stands her ground. THIS is a different Rory. This is the warrior, the full moon, the antithesis of the shy retiring hiding woman of a few moments ago. This is the Garou [uncomfortably] nearing Fostern.
The low growl rumbles up into a single word as she takes a step forward on the street of her territory, deliberately making a point.
"Mine."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen arches an eyebrow slightly, as Marc departs, at Casey's shot in the other's direction. The bucket she carries has a certain smell. Anyone familiar with blood would recognize it. One does not easily forget such an odour.
Imogen, too, turns her head to look at Fiona, growling down the street. The kinwoman's gaze narrows, resting upon the Garou's frame.
Rory steps forward to guard her territory. The eyebrow arches higher.
[Fiona Sullivan] The shyness that had been displayed in Rory vanishes all of sudden. Where she shows instant submission to Kora, it changes suddenly as Rory adheres to the blond's threat and rightfully stands up to protect what is hers. An eyebrow arches high atop Fiona's brow, surprised at the change. She rolls her shoulders forward, head lowering slightly to tilt her face to the side at other Fianna.
Green eyes on Rory, and to Rory alone. Tension bleeds out of Fiona as quickly as it had sprung, she crinkles up her nose, the slightest of smirks peeling at the corners of her mouth.
"Yours." She says simply.
[Roman Turner] He had no idea what the hell was going on. The growling, the sudden standing up and claiming and, oh man, folk sure were weird here. Yup, this was the time to do what he did best. He had slipped in closer to Imogen, on the other side from her shooting arm. He knew better than to get in the way of that of a woman and her sidearm. And he looked towards Kora, taking his cue from her.
[Casey Steward] Casey had seen the switch in the shy redhead like a thunderbolt, one moment all was calm and quiet, the next there was a flash, and things might start burning..or exploding. The man's hand went quickly to his coat pocket. But then Fiona accepts and the tension bleeds out of her, not rising to the challenge.
He then turns his gaze on the much, much closer Fenrir who stood over him, asking him if he was anywhere near as foolish as the man in the fancy car and he shakes his head with a smile. "Nae lass, I know how ta blen in an disappear like fog on the banks in tha early morn."
He says as he gestures to his dirty, sand blasted leather coat, worn out jeans, and a black t-shirt which reads 'Press! Tell me everything!' He does his best not to look worried, but he hadn't been this close to this many trueborn since he'd left Ireland.
[Kora] There is something strange going on here; something strange and primal - and the odd little trio, the redhead, the young cowpoke, and the feral, twenty-something blond are not part of it. They stand apart, arrayed oddly, watching as the sports car zooms off into the night, its brake lights winking against the darkness. Imogen holds a bucket of blood. This goes unremarked by all. Roman darts from the kinswoman's right side to her left, knowing where she holds her gun. There is a moment of sharpening tension; Rory goes from utter submission to a feral snarl of challenge. Fiona - backs down. Or something; crinkles her nose and smirks.
In the space of those spare moments, Kora took an unconscious step or two forward, putting herself between both kin - Casey and Imogen - and the Garou facing off. Then the subtle challenge is over and Kora looks back down, sidelong, at Roman.
A brief, assessing glance at Casey then. "That is rather more neighborhood appropriate, I grant." As if - what happened had not just happened. As if the thread of this conversation had been continuous throughout. Her humor is subsumed into her body; it does not read as humor, not on a night like this one. "You're okay here, right?" - she continues, a dark flickering glance at Casey, "because, if so," a jerk of her head toward Imogen and Roman. " - we need to get going."
[Rory] The other Fianna lowers her gaze, bares her neck, tilts her face, and the tension bleeds away. Rory is a contradiction - fearless, yet impossibly shy. Strong, yet instantly submissive to those she knows are of higher station [..everyone..], to those she respects, to those who are simply better than she is. Yet here, in the face of a new one clearly challenging her territory, who came up with a growl in her throat and clear threat - the rage in the lean metis is undeniable. She holds her gaze steady on the other as the smirk curves Fiona's lips, and tips her head, slightly.
"Mine." Acknowledgment, confirmation of Fiona's submission.
Then a simple demand. "Who are you."
[Roman Turner] Boy howdy he was ready to leave the Twilight Zone they had passed in to. From one trip in to the zone to another part of it, what a night. All he was waiting for was a change in body language that told him to make like a sheepherder and get the flock out of there.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's gaze moves to follow Kora as she steps between them. Little expression shows as she notes the protective, unasked for act. Merely stillness of the face, of the body.
Roman moves to allow the kinwoman a free shot, if it should become necessary, assuming that it would, guessing that it might. Two Fianna face off.
She watches the entire scene with an expression much like that. Remote, as if she were watching a play. Reserved, as if this did not affect her at all. She might even be bored.
As it is, Fiona acknowledges Rory's claim and Rory begins the usual: demands of name, rank, tribe. Imogen's heard it all before. Kora asks Casey if he's alright, and Imogen turns to glance at the kinfolk, her expression unrevealing as she waits for his answer.
[Roman Turner] "My turn to carry it."
Persistent is what he was. Barely speaking the words like he thought maybe Imogen would think it was her inner voice or something.
"Fingers gotta be getting sore by now and ya might need a free hand. Wouldn't want to splash yourself."
[Casey Steward] "Aye, Aye no worries here lass, ya can move on, you an your pals and yer...yer fine lookin bucket there." Oh he had noticed the smell of blood, but it wasn't a smell that particularly got to him anymore. He glanced briefly at the red liquid held within and then back to the faces of those around him.
"I'd certainly hate ta be whoever' tha all came from then. I bet he deserved it even." He says with a light laugh, not a nervous one, but one that was meant to disarm, to make others laugh with him. "Mayhaps sometime one a ye can tell me tha story."
He asks, before looking briefly over to Rory and Fiona, before returning his gaze to those around him.
[Fiona Sullivan] The blond does not move from her position, she does not raise her head any higher that it already is, nor does she level her gaze with Rory's. The other had become a contradiction - a surprise to Fiona, who in turn expected the redhead Fianna to simply back down. Her breathing quiets down as she swallows the desire for confrontation, the itch to fight. Shackling her beastly tendencies down with each intake of breath.
Her heart no longer thrums in her chest, no longer pulsates wildly in her throat. Rory demands a name. "Fiona Sullivan, Strength of Nehmain. Child of Danu. Full Moon. Cliath." it all rolls off her tongue easily, the main focus of her attention was Rory and not the others, they were only shadows that played at the corner of her eyes, their voices a whisper in her ear, though, she can't quite make out what they are talking about.
[Roman Turner] "It's spoiled fruit punch. Had a wild shindig a few blocks back in the back of a limo. Broke down, fridge went out, had to hike it. Can't leave the goodies behind, you understand. Though a good time was had by all. We gotta go. People to do, things to see."
Explaining the bucket in the weirdest way this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
[Kora] "Sure," Kora says, quiet, noting the man's breeding. She can smell it, sharp and nearly as pungent, as promising as Imogen's blood. She lifts her chin to his t-shirt, then, " - as long as you don't mean to print it someplace, I'll share it with you. You'll owe me a beer, though."
Then, with a faint, curling shrug, Kora jerks her head across the street, and starts around the pair of Fianna, giving them a certain berth. When Roman makes his offer yet again, Kora looks down at Imogen, at the bucket in the kinswoman's hand. "Give him points for persistence, yeah?"
[Rory] She tips her head, slightly, listening. Then nods. "Rory. Tongue Twister. Cliath Fianna Mull Foon."
She doesn't seem to notice her mistake in her words as she studies Fiona for a moment more, and then relaxes, and steps back, lifting her fingers to tuck her curls behind an ear, and moving back toward the others.
She catches Roman's explanation of the bucket and she wrinkles her nose, slightly. She doesn't apologize for the way she acted, as any of them would have done the same. She simply makes her way back to Casey, and her pack that is still resting at his feet, offering those leaving a shy smile.
[Kora] -- Roman's explanation of the bucket, though, draws the first edge of a genuine smile across her mouth. Kora barks out a sharp laugh; low, brief and sharp .
"What he said," she confirms, the suggestion of laughter still woven into the weight of her words.
[Casey Steward] "Nay, nay no publishin, sharin amongst folk maybe, but no publishin." He grins at the mention of beer and nods at the idea, lips briefly licked by a tongue as if in anticipation. "Tha sounds wonderful, canna wait ta see ye again." He says as she walks around and out, Roman gives his explanation, and Casey arches a brow before laughing.
"I giv ya poin's for tryin fella, but tis a wee bit harder than tha to fool tha press."
He says with light joviality before looking back to the two women who had been staring each other down. Rory was headed in his direction, and he bent to pick up the pack and offer it too her.
"So ya are both of tha Tribe than?" He asks lookin from Rory to Fiona in the distance. "Saint's alive tha's a coincidence."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen, too, smirks at the explanation of the bucket, which she has, one must note, not handed it over to Roman, despite his persistence.
She's said barely a half-dozen words since arriving. Of them all, it would appear, the kinwoman is the most reticent. From what he's heard, the Irishman can make a few guesses about her, should he so choose. The British accent is a many layered thing. The woman is from the south of England, her Cornish accent still ever-present in her voice. She is educated - an expensive education, to boot. There is a bit of 'pony and pims' to the way she speaks, though it is by no means perfect.
"A pleasure," she says toward Casey, though she had not offered her own introduction, stepping away, nodding to Rory in farewell. As she takes her leave, she offers Roman a bone - "Tell yeh what," she says, as she starts away. "Next time, I'll get yeh a bucket all fer yer very own. Alright?"
And with that, the trio takes their leave.
[Roman Turner] "I want a shiny new one, metal, not one of them plastic ones."
And he was off with the other two, still chattering away.
"Good metal bucket lasts years, won't crack if ya leave it out in the winter and won't fade from the sun."
In the human world, they would have never known each other. In this world, however: The kinwoman, slight and slender, carries, incongruously, a bucket. It does not make her stand out - at least no more than she might otherwise.
Imogen is not particularly a woman suited to these surroundings. Though she wears plain attire, jeans, a corduroy jacket, a nondescript dark blue t-shirt, her skin is too pale, too fine. Her hair is too vibrant. Her body is too well cared for, and her spine is too straight.
She would stand out anyway.
The rage of the Skald does nearly as much as Imogen's poise and beauty might. The rip-snarl-shred of burning ozone, the weight of it on a Garou on the night of her birth-moon.
Poor Roman - well, his youth makes him stand out. That and his stetson hat. Not much call for those here in the Windy City.
Imogen speaks, with rapidly unravelling patience, a cutting glance directed toward the Ragabash Child of Gaia.
"The bucket is not that heavy, I can manage it just fine on my own."
The bucket contains the remains of a rag, turned red and grimy with things better left unmentioned. A copper-and-salt smelling crud has gathered at the bottom of it along with a slime of dirty water, still pooled from when the bucket had last been dumped out, a few blocks away.
[Casey Steward] Casey took the paper and pocketed it, with a smile to Iona. "See ya round smithy." He says with a lightheartedness towards his own Tribesman before turning his gaze back to Rory and Marc who sat upon the bench now, forcing the woman to begin to.....not breath?
Casey shook his head and gestured to Rory with his right hand, the hand with the smoke in it. "I think ya migh be wan'in ta be standin up there lass an give yur self some aire before ya dun go an pass out on us." He says honestly, trying to get the woman a bit more comfortable.
He takes a moment at that to look around, and notices three other people of note, the man in his hat, the woman beside him....and the blonde, but nothing seemed out of place, so the man turned back to Rory and Marc, and took another long drag from his cigarette. Before speaking once more.
"I mean...less tha's your kinda deal o course."
[Roman Turner] "I know ya can carry it, I can see ya carrying it, and it ain't right. What's wrong with a man being a man and helping a pretty lady?"
He rolled his eyes with a look to Kora for help, infact behind Imogen's back he mouthed.
"Do something, will ya?"
Meantime he kept pace with Imogen, just itching to take the bucket from her.
"Ya showed your muscles Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am. I see them bulging and all lady nice and all, now it's my turn."
[Kora] Sorrow's rage is nearly incandescent tonight; no matter her will, no matter how easily she wears it under ordinary skies, under ordinary moons, on ordinary nights, when she was shadowed by the rage of her tribesmates. Tonight - it is bright and it is heavy and it is liquid, a slow-moving liquid, mercury. Roman cuts a glance behind Imogen's back and mouths at Kora; she looks back at him, her dark eyes sheened with reflected light from the streetlamps.
Do what - she mouths back at him, exactly?
Kora stands head and shoulders taller than Imogen, and a good head taller than the young Gaian. She is does not cheat her height, not does she shorten her stride, but she is walking slightly more slowly than she might were she alone. Her hands are in her pockets, and she cuts that sidelong glance only once, just briefly, meeting Roman's eyes without offering him aid in his quest to be a gentleman cowboy helping a pretty lady carry a bucket of blood and solvent residue through the streets of a depressingly impoverished neighborhood, toward a particular bus stop where an equally oddball trio have gathered.
"The city's running limos, now?" she asks, when she marks Marc's vehicle near the bus stop. Her pace slows from a distance, and her attention sharpens. On this night, under this moon, her attention is almost a physical thing. To Imogen, to Roman, "I've seen the redhead at the full moon; the others, though - "
Her rich voice is laced with suspicion. There is blood under her fingernails. There is blood between her toes. Otherwise, she's clean.
[Marc de Vogue] ”Nonsense.”
His gaze goes to Casey for a moment, offering the man a smile.
“I know my people would never let me live it down if I did not offer you at least something. Now…”
He looks back to Rory, offering her that dazzling smile that is like the sun.
“Tomorrow, remember where the car dropped us off last time at the hotel? Meet me there in the lobby tomorrow, say around noon? I am looking at a more permanent residence, but until I find one, I still have a room there. A friend told me of a place with a good view that serves excellent lunch. “
“Let me treat you to a meal, and we can talk further about this. I would not want to disappoint my people, and I hope that you will give me a chance at the very least.”
He places a well-manicured hand on Rory’s knee, fingers tapping gently as he smiles.
“I shall leave you to this... pleasant young man now, unless you want a ride somewhere?”
Marc stands up, stretching to his full height of 6’4, looking to Casey, then to Rory. Then the others draw near, and Marc finds his attention drawn. Kora, Imogen and Roman, and on the other side, a busty blonde straight out of a mans fantasies. they are all given the top to toe look, appreciative smiles for all of them (including the young cowboy, Yum!)
[Rory] She blushes bright as Casey points out her lack of breath... and blushes. Of course. As always. It really does seem to be her default reaction to just about any situation. "...I'm ok. Shus... jy."
And completely messing up her words, though she doesn't notice it at all.
He asks if she remembers the hotel, and she nods, her color deepening. She remembers. And finally she simply gives in, as she doubts he'll let her turn him down at all. "Alright." She'll meet him tomorrow, and they can talk. She can't risk his disappointing Ms. Katherine anyway... she's already a disappointment to Lukas.
He stands, and she follows his gaze toward the three coming down the street - The Doc, the boy who's mower she fixed, and Kora. A brief meeting of the gaze, and quick lowering of her own. Submissive, always.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen casts Roman a glance full of narrowed eyes. A look cool enough to crack snow. "You will find that life is full of disappointment and hardship," she informs the Ragabash, ignoring the obvious sidebar occurring behind her back.
"Start by accepting this one."
Kora speaks of things marginally more important than bickering with a teenager, and the kinwoman's gaze flicks toward the fancy car, then the gathering of Garou and kinfolk.
"Rory," she supplements. The redhead. "I believe. As fer the others, I've not met them."
[Fiona Sullivan] The street is filling up quickly, sweltering with the presences of wolves that begins to send the sheep running. If any normal human, beat it the random drug pusher, vagrant or wandering prostitute had thought to step out onto this particular stretch of sidewalk, they will quickly encounter the unknown forces that growl quietly at them from behind human masks. An instinct in the back of their minds will keep them away, sending them turning on spiked heel or boot and walking off into another direction, or seeking another route as they made their way through the neighborhood.
But not here, not now. Not even when Fiona was coming up one direction towards the bus stop and slowing down, not when Kora and Roman were flanking the small red-haired woman that carried a bucket filled with blood and solvent residue.
[Roman Turner] He could easily vanish behind Kora with his smaller height, that and his ability to blend in when he wanted. Still Roman walked next to Imogen, making faces at Kora behind Imogen's back. Mouthing.
I don't know.
Feeling helpless because the pretty doctor was so danged stubborn she reminded him of a particularity stubborn mule, albeit a pretty mule.
Kora mentioned the people ahead and the limo and for a few seconds Roman looked that way before muttering.
"I seen lots of limos in this city, danged fools ain't got no sense when it comes to pollution and fuel consumption. As for the folks, I think I seen one of them before, ain't seen the others."
[Marc de Vogue] (Limo? Bah! That is no limo! Check the gallery for a visual. )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Roman Turner, Rory
[Roman Turner] "Life is full of disappointments, but sometimes life is sharing a load and helping those we care about with something simple, like carrying a dang stinking bucket."
Adding sweet as American Honey.
"Ma'am."
He even had the gall to smile cheekily.
[Kora] (That car looks like a limo to my character! :) )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Marc de Vogue, Roman Turner, Rory
[Roman Turner] ((Poor pimp-mobile! LOL! ))
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Marc de Vogue, Rory
[Casey Steward] "Aye lass, I gathered tha much, but ya really shouldna..." He pauses mid sentence and then shakes his head. "No ma place ta say I suppose, ya do wha ya wan'." He says with a shake of his head before he put the smoke back in his mouth and took a moment to look up and down the street once more.
It looked like they were being corralled, three from one direction, one from the other, he'd seen this situation more then once, hell more then twice, he'd seen it far more often then he cared to. So he backed up, and kept backing up till his back met the wall behind the bus stop and watched as they came. Not much he could do at the moment about it.
His eyes are...admittedly drawn to the blonde who walks alone, it was hard not to be even if his own innate journalistic testicles were itching, warning him of approaching danger, or maybe it was just the heat.
[Rory] She really shouldn't.... and she closes her eyes, and swallows hard, and suddenly unfolds her legs to stand. "...i shouldn't. I know... sorry..." Some words are easier, and then come in a rush as she clutches her little music box tighter to her chest, and grabs her pack in her other hand, and takes a step toward the alleyway, where she knows she can simply disappear...
She shouldn't.
She can't.
She's not allowed...
But there are others coming, and she hesitates, not wanting to leave him alone to face them... torn by indecision, she shifts her weight from foot to foot, green eyes bouncing from Marc, where he's getting into his car, Casey who's put his back against the wall, and the others - Fiona, and the Doc and Kora and Roman...
[Kora] "In a neighborhood like this," Kora returns in response to Roman's concern about pollution and fuel consumption. " - someone driving a car like that is asking to be jacked." Her voice is still low; it's a cool night, and the presence of Garou has driven away any humans who might've considered this bus stop. They've moved on, wandered further down the street to some other stop; decided to take the cross-town rather than the express. Decided, perhaps, that they do not need milk for the baby tonight anyway.
Kora is dressed with perfect practicality, in jeans and a black t-shirt, in shit-kicking boots, her pale blond hair drawn back from her features in a loose knot. Look: her hands are in her front pockets, but they are curled into fists. She swings her legs easily, a long stride slowing now as the trio approach Rory and Casey and Marc on the bench.
"Rory, yeah?" says Kora, her gaze dropping back to the mule in the center of the shifting ink blot of Garou. She lifts her attention over Rory's shoulder, marks out Fiona; the wariness has not left her body. Instead, a flicker of a look at Marc. If he looks her top to toe again, she'll bare her teeth.
Humans might call it a smile.
Wolves would call it a warning.
[Rory] (adds)
Her flight is brought to a speedy halt as Kora mentions her name. She nods, and keeps her gaze lowered, never liftin farther than somewhere along the Fenrir's jawline.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is the slightest of the trio. The one without rage, the one with a heavy dose of pure breeding, her blood singing of Fianna memories, and history.
She adjusts the fall of her coat as she approaches, her step easy, restrained, even.
"Hello Rory," Imogen greets the Metis easily, but not kindly.
"New friends?"
It is not that she did not hear Roman's dig about sharing a heavy load. It is that she is now ignoring it entirely now that they've approached the other group. The bucket remains hers.
[Fiona Sullivan] Fiona stops dead; all movement halted with the growing presence of other wolves. Thick lashes flutter low over green eyes, a shiver runs through her body, raising bumps along her flesh as it became feverish. A slight tick forms in the line of her left jaw as the muscles tighten, teeth gritting together. The softest of growls break loose from her throat as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck raise up.
It is a warning of sorts, a threat issued out in the direction of Kora and Rory. It did not matter if the blond Fianna was the stranger wandering into another's territory. Her heart begins to hammer wildly in her chest, blood pulsating in her veins as her breathing grows labored. The flat planes of her stomach dipping in with each flare of her nostrils as air exhales out of her nose.
She blinks once, slitting her eyes to pass them over the other's ignoring Roman as he didn't present the biggest threat to her. The two male kin pulled into her line of sight as she focuses on Marc first - snorts softly, then to Casey and snorts again.
[Marc de Vogue] The gathering of Rage made Marc look around. But not nervously. No, if anything, it made him stand a little taller, made that smile widen just a bit more, as if he enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the dark sensation it washed over his skin as it set his nerves on fire. He drew a deep breath, eyes closing for a moment, and then he shakes his head a little.
When his eyes open, he seeks out Rory, and that smile is as warm and friendly as always for the metis, as if she was the center of the universe. It is a strange thing for the shy creature to be under such appreciative focus.
“I will see you tomorrow for lunch.”
His clear eyes go to Casey as he puts his back to the wall under the assault of rage.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. Next time, I certainly do hope you have found some manners to be civil, even to strangers who have done you no harm or insult. I would think that is the least one could expect in company such as this.”
“Goodbye Rory. Take care of yourself.”
And with that, the young silver fang moves over the road, away from the rage and the sensation of it. He opens the car door and slips in. The engine starts with a low growl before settling into a muted roar. Marc looks back to the bustop, to the approaching people, then offers a slight wave of his hand, aimed at Rory before he takes off, peeling away from the curb and vanishing down the street.
(It is 4 am, time for the Swede to sleep! Thanks for the scene!)
[Roman Turner] "Hey, Lawnmower fixer! Howdy Miss."
He touched the brim of his hat with the shadow of a nod to Rory before he turned his attention to the others gathered here. What an odd collection. Of course with his boots, dark blue stiff as a board Wranglers and the tee that nearly matched eyes the blue of faded denim all topped by the stetson, he probably looked just as odd to them. Sweet sixteen and as out of place looking in the city as they came. Fresh scrubbed face that had nothing but peach fuzz on it and a bit of flaking blood along the jawline that he'd missed earlier. He was a little less than five and a half feet in height, making it easier to slip behind Kora and go unnoticed most times.
The car was soon claimed and pulled off, leaving one less to keep an eye on, which was good considering the way one seemed to be rumbling in her chest.
[Casey Steward] Casey chuckled and shook his head at the frenchman as he told him to find some manners. "Oh, I got plenty in stock for tha likes of others, jus no for tha likes o ye." He says as he waves to the man, over exagerating the motion to add just a hint of sarcasm to his voice as the kin climbs into his fancy car and takes off.
His eyes then go to Rory, who had tried to slip into the alley and then to those around them. He expected much the same show and he smiled in her direction, encouragingly. "Buck up lass, I don't think they gonna hurt ya. They ain't the enemy righ." Its a question just as much as a statement, and he hopes she answers it quickly.
Especially given the look the blonde was giving him, he wasnt quite certain if he should be excited, or terrified. But he pushed off the wall somewhat...it never paid to appear preylike around predator's after all.
[Kora] Rory bends her head low, Rory shows her throat, Rory offers the Fenrir utter submission without a thought - to avoid another beating, to live inside the boundaries defined by her station, by her breed, by her birth. Kora looks down at her, her fine mouth drawing flat across her the sharp planes of her pale face, curling at the corner in response to this submission, and not pleasantly. Then Roman pipes up, and touches the brim of his Stetson; this is all a sketch in the corner of her peripheral vision, but it is enough to draw the sharp line of her attention upwards.
Sidelong, as Marc slips into his "limo" and waves with particular directness at the mule, before taking off down the street.
"If so," she says, appending to Imogen's question as to whether these folks were friends of Rory's, " - that one should find a ride more appropriate to the neighborhood, or he's going to make himself an easy target for the cursed ones. You," her dark eyes cut to Casey then; the tension remains in her frame; it sharpens her gaze and makes her skin seem all the paler. " - wouldn't be quite that foolish, would you?"
Another flick of a glance toward Fiona, all but growling down the street. Kora squares her shoulders, but says nothing to the stranger, and does not approach her.
[Rory] She watches Marc go, and then Imogen says hello, followed by Roman, and both get the shyest of little smiles. She answers Imogen with an introduction of sorts. "Casey." and a point toward the car. "Marc." It answers Casey's question - at least those three are friend.
But the other...
But of all of them, it is Fiona that gets the most sudden and unexpected reaction. She growls. She dares growl and threaten in the streets that Rory calls home. She drops the backpack at Casey's feet, and takes a step toward the other Fianna, her hands held loose and light at her side.
A low snarling growl starts at the base of her throat. She is Bogeyman. This is HER place. She stands her ground. THIS is a different Rory. This is the warrior, the full moon, the antithesis of the shy retiring hiding woman of a few moments ago. This is the Garou [uncomfortably] nearing Fostern.
The low growl rumbles up into a single word as she takes a step forward on the street of her territory, deliberately making a point.
"Mine."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen arches an eyebrow slightly, as Marc departs, at Casey's shot in the other's direction. The bucket she carries has a certain smell. Anyone familiar with blood would recognize it. One does not easily forget such an odour.
Imogen, too, turns her head to look at Fiona, growling down the street. The kinwoman's gaze narrows, resting upon the Garou's frame.
Rory steps forward to guard her territory. The eyebrow arches higher.
[Fiona Sullivan] The shyness that had been displayed in Rory vanishes all of sudden. Where she shows instant submission to Kora, it changes suddenly as Rory adheres to the blond's threat and rightfully stands up to protect what is hers. An eyebrow arches high atop Fiona's brow, surprised at the change. She rolls her shoulders forward, head lowering slightly to tilt her face to the side at other Fianna.
Green eyes on Rory, and to Rory alone. Tension bleeds out of Fiona as quickly as it had sprung, she crinkles up her nose, the slightest of smirks peeling at the corners of her mouth.
"Yours." She says simply.
[Roman Turner] He had no idea what the hell was going on. The growling, the sudden standing up and claiming and, oh man, folk sure were weird here. Yup, this was the time to do what he did best. He had slipped in closer to Imogen, on the other side from her shooting arm. He knew better than to get in the way of that of a woman and her sidearm. And he looked towards Kora, taking his cue from her.
[Casey Steward] Casey had seen the switch in the shy redhead like a thunderbolt, one moment all was calm and quiet, the next there was a flash, and things might start burning..or exploding. The man's hand went quickly to his coat pocket. But then Fiona accepts and the tension bleeds out of her, not rising to the challenge.
He then turns his gaze on the much, much closer Fenrir who stood over him, asking him if he was anywhere near as foolish as the man in the fancy car and he shakes his head with a smile. "Nae lass, I know how ta blen in an disappear like fog on the banks in tha early morn."
He says as he gestures to his dirty, sand blasted leather coat, worn out jeans, and a black t-shirt which reads 'Press! Tell me everything!' He does his best not to look worried, but he hadn't been this close to this many trueborn since he'd left Ireland.
[Kora] There is something strange going on here; something strange and primal - and the odd little trio, the redhead, the young cowpoke, and the feral, twenty-something blond are not part of it. They stand apart, arrayed oddly, watching as the sports car zooms off into the night, its brake lights winking against the darkness. Imogen holds a bucket of blood. This goes unremarked by all. Roman darts from the kinswoman's right side to her left, knowing where she holds her gun. There is a moment of sharpening tension; Rory goes from utter submission to a feral snarl of challenge. Fiona - backs down. Or something; crinkles her nose and smirks.
In the space of those spare moments, Kora took an unconscious step or two forward, putting herself between both kin - Casey and Imogen - and the Garou facing off. Then the subtle challenge is over and Kora looks back down, sidelong, at Roman.
A brief, assessing glance at Casey then. "That is rather more neighborhood appropriate, I grant." As if - what happened had not just happened. As if the thread of this conversation had been continuous throughout. Her humor is subsumed into her body; it does not read as humor, not on a night like this one. "You're okay here, right?" - she continues, a dark flickering glance at Casey, "because, if so," a jerk of her head toward Imogen and Roman. " - we need to get going."
[Rory] The other Fianna lowers her gaze, bares her neck, tilts her face, and the tension bleeds away. Rory is a contradiction - fearless, yet impossibly shy. Strong, yet instantly submissive to those she knows are of higher station [..everyone..], to those she respects, to those who are simply better than she is. Yet here, in the face of a new one clearly challenging her territory, who came up with a growl in her throat and clear threat - the rage in the lean metis is undeniable. She holds her gaze steady on the other as the smirk curves Fiona's lips, and tips her head, slightly.
"Mine." Acknowledgment, confirmation of Fiona's submission.
Then a simple demand. "Who are you."
[Roman Turner] Boy howdy he was ready to leave the Twilight Zone they had passed in to. From one trip in to the zone to another part of it, what a night. All he was waiting for was a change in body language that told him to make like a sheepherder and get the flock out of there.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's gaze moves to follow Kora as she steps between them. Little expression shows as she notes the protective, unasked for act. Merely stillness of the face, of the body.
Roman moves to allow the kinwoman a free shot, if it should become necessary, assuming that it would, guessing that it might. Two Fianna face off.
She watches the entire scene with an expression much like that. Remote, as if she were watching a play. Reserved, as if this did not affect her at all. She might even be bored.
As it is, Fiona acknowledges Rory's claim and Rory begins the usual: demands of name, rank, tribe. Imogen's heard it all before. Kora asks Casey if he's alright, and Imogen turns to glance at the kinfolk, her expression unrevealing as she waits for his answer.
[Roman Turner] "My turn to carry it."
Persistent is what he was. Barely speaking the words like he thought maybe Imogen would think it was her inner voice or something.
"Fingers gotta be getting sore by now and ya might need a free hand. Wouldn't want to splash yourself."
[Casey Steward] "Aye, Aye no worries here lass, ya can move on, you an your pals and yer...yer fine lookin bucket there." Oh he had noticed the smell of blood, but it wasn't a smell that particularly got to him anymore. He glanced briefly at the red liquid held within and then back to the faces of those around him.
"I'd certainly hate ta be whoever' tha all came from then. I bet he deserved it even." He says with a light laugh, not a nervous one, but one that was meant to disarm, to make others laugh with him. "Mayhaps sometime one a ye can tell me tha story."
He asks, before looking briefly over to Rory and Fiona, before returning his gaze to those around him.
[Fiona Sullivan] The blond does not move from her position, she does not raise her head any higher that it already is, nor does she level her gaze with Rory's. The other had become a contradiction - a surprise to Fiona, who in turn expected the redhead Fianna to simply back down. Her breathing quiets down as she swallows the desire for confrontation, the itch to fight. Shackling her beastly tendencies down with each intake of breath.
Her heart no longer thrums in her chest, no longer pulsates wildly in her throat. Rory demands a name. "Fiona Sullivan, Strength of Nehmain. Child of Danu. Full Moon. Cliath." it all rolls off her tongue easily, the main focus of her attention was Rory and not the others, they were only shadows that played at the corner of her eyes, their voices a whisper in her ear, though, she can't quite make out what they are talking about.
[Roman Turner] "It's spoiled fruit punch. Had a wild shindig a few blocks back in the back of a limo. Broke down, fridge went out, had to hike it. Can't leave the goodies behind, you understand. Though a good time was had by all. We gotta go. People to do, things to see."
Explaining the bucket in the weirdest way this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
[Kora] "Sure," Kora says, quiet, noting the man's breeding. She can smell it, sharp and nearly as pungent, as promising as Imogen's blood. She lifts her chin to his t-shirt, then, " - as long as you don't mean to print it someplace, I'll share it with you. You'll owe me a beer, though."
Then, with a faint, curling shrug, Kora jerks her head across the street, and starts around the pair of Fianna, giving them a certain berth. When Roman makes his offer yet again, Kora looks down at Imogen, at the bucket in the kinswoman's hand. "Give him points for persistence, yeah?"
[Rory] She tips her head, slightly, listening. Then nods. "Rory. Tongue Twister. Cliath Fianna Mull Foon."
She doesn't seem to notice her mistake in her words as she studies Fiona for a moment more, and then relaxes, and steps back, lifting her fingers to tuck her curls behind an ear, and moving back toward the others.
She catches Roman's explanation of the bucket and she wrinkles her nose, slightly. She doesn't apologize for the way she acted, as any of them would have done the same. She simply makes her way back to Casey, and her pack that is still resting at his feet, offering those leaving a shy smile.
[Kora] -- Roman's explanation of the bucket, though, draws the first edge of a genuine smile across her mouth. Kora barks out a sharp laugh; low, brief and sharp .
"What he said," she confirms, the suggestion of laughter still woven into the weight of her words.
[Casey Steward] "Nay, nay no publishin, sharin amongst folk maybe, but no publishin." He grins at the mention of beer and nods at the idea, lips briefly licked by a tongue as if in anticipation. "Tha sounds wonderful, canna wait ta see ye again." He says as she walks around and out, Roman gives his explanation, and Casey arches a brow before laughing.
"I giv ya poin's for tryin fella, but tis a wee bit harder than tha to fool tha press."
He says with light joviality before looking back to the two women who had been staring each other down. Rory was headed in his direction, and he bent to pick up the pack and offer it too her.
"So ya are both of tha Tribe than?" He asks lookin from Rory to Fiona in the distance. "Saint's alive tha's a coincidence."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen, too, smirks at the explanation of the bucket, which she has, one must note, not handed it over to Roman, despite his persistence.
She's said barely a half-dozen words since arriving. Of them all, it would appear, the kinwoman is the most reticent. From what he's heard, the Irishman can make a few guesses about her, should he so choose. The British accent is a many layered thing. The woman is from the south of England, her Cornish accent still ever-present in her voice. She is educated - an expensive education, to boot. There is a bit of 'pony and pims' to the way she speaks, though it is by no means perfect.
"A pleasure," she says toward Casey, though she had not offered her own introduction, stepping away, nodding to Rory in farewell. As she takes her leave, she offers Roman a bone - "Tell yeh what," she says, as she starts away. "Next time, I'll get yeh a bucket all fer yer very own. Alright?"
And with that, the trio takes their leave.
[Roman Turner] "I want a shiny new one, metal, not one of them plastic ones."
And he was off with the other two, still chattering away.
"Good metal bucket lasts years, won't crack if ya leave it out in the winter and won't fade from the sun."