An Unwelcome Visitor.

[Imogen Slaughter] He finds her by rite of the question stone. Perhaps it is a stone in true that he uses, tied to a string and tugging him in the right direction. Perhaps he uses a needle and string, perhaps he uses a compass.

Either way, it does not get him past the locked front door of her building or the security guard, so he must do that himself. The condo building is one on a campus, facing the lake, just a few blocks off a main street. Far enough to be quiet, close enough to be convenient, and a view to boot. A unit here likely costs more than some might see in their life times.

Her unit is on the ninth floor, which is carpeted and dimly lit from below, lights along the runners, with scones offering upward illumination in the spaces between each unit's door. The doors are far apart, mostly, noting sizable floorplans.

Her door then, the ninth floor. He knocks. A few minutes later, the door opens, but only part way, Imogen's foot pressing up against the back as she regards the Garou, expressionlessly through the gap.

"I assume there is a good reason for this," she says, mildly. In the background, music plays, strains of Ella Fitzgerald.

Summertime ...
and the living is e-ea-sy.
Fish are jumping
And the cotton is hi-iigh.

[Ruarc o'Conaill] Locked. Security guard. In the end it had been easier to slip in through the webbed image of the spirit world, climbing it with claws and following that tug and guidance. A peek through the thickening gauntlet to make sure it was clear and the Fianna seemingly stepped out of a shadow, staring into a polished metal mirror. That had been the easy part. Well, it was likely to be the easy part.

Finding the right door had proven a little harder. The rite wasn’t that specific but a bit of walking back and forth, dangling the blue stone from the thin leather cord had finally gotten him to the right one.

When she opened it, he let out a small breath, perhaps relieved it had been the right door. Of course, now he was facing a kinfolk that was for all intents and purposes more frightening then the spiral they had faced down together before.

“Did’nae t’ink th’ guard was like’n tae let me in if’n I asked.”
His voice is a deep baritone, and not an unpleasant one. The rage swelling of him however is perhaps not quite so nice, yet Imogen had faced far worse for longer to be sure. Yet the tall Fianna at her door seemed almost nervous yet the same.

He is dressed simply, as he had been when they last met, when he had ridden in the car with her to and from the factory. Simple blue jeans. A dark grey linen tunic with a V neck. Tattoos showing at the edges of the shirts arms. Black and grey and blue’s in twisting forms. Perhaps she would recognize the Celtic shapes. Perhaps not.

“Ye be a hard lass tae get ‘n touch wi’ ye are.”
His dialect is thick and a mix of the northern Irish and Scottish. A country fellow.
“Even ye cousin was’nae none tae sure if’n ye be reachable.”

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen does not answer him. She merely lifts an eyebrow.

[Ruarc o'Conaill] Ruarc gives a shrug of broad shoulders and goes on.
“I was meanin tae seek ye out afore, but t’ings got busy.”

He takes a breath and releases it slowly.
“Can I come in, o’ will ye have a pint wi’ me down at th’ pub?”

His hands in the pockets of his jeans and he watches Imogen. It seems he has no intention of leaving her in pace for the moment at least. He does not look the part of a Fianna. His dark hair in a wide Mohawk style, shaved at the side with only a touch of red in it. His eyes are a stormy blue and grey and the scruffy whiskers on his lip and chin carry only slightly more of the red in it.

[Imogen Slaughter] The redhead regards Ruarc with a regard that shows a thread of - well, something. It is too subtle, too slight to catch. Several seconds of silence pass.

"No," she says finally. "I don't think so. Is that all?"

[Ruarc o'Conaill] He frowns a little but does not seem to wither away just cause she shot him down. What sort of a Fianna would he be if he gave up so easily after all?

“Imogen, I’m new tae th’ city an all an ye be th’ most spoken o’ kin in th’ city an’ o’ me own tribe at that. But if’n t’is be a bad time, I’ll wait.”
He gives her a look and a slight smile.

“But I’m nae like’n tae give up. I want tae know ye cause I t’ink ye got stories tae share wi’ young buck like’n meself. So if’n it takes me waitin around til ye got time fer me, then I guess I will.”

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's breath exhales sharply, as if it were a laugh, though is not amused. "'Of me own tribe,'" she echoes in a savage mimicry of his accent, so far from her own. Imogen's accent is English, though it is not refined. There are Cornish undertones to her voice, and he might guess at her birthplace anyway, simply by her name, by the blood in her veins. "Of course."

Her grandfather had been a well known warder of a Southern Sept, a Fianna among Fianna and Silver Fangs. He died bloody, he died doing his duty and his death, is said is one of the reasons that the caern of Men-an-Tol still stands today.

Her lineage can be traced back centuries. Her family is a name known, and in the lower parts of England, some might even be familiar with an Imogen Slaughter, though not in the way the Chicagoans are. The black sheep of the family, the rebel. Her great aunt's shame.

"I don't even recall your name," she says, her mouth twisting, "and I don't give a damn how my so-called stories might enhance your education. You Garou can keep telling them or making them up, or whatever it is you do. It has nothing to do with me.

"And I want nothing to do with you. Good-night."

[Ruarc o'Conaill] ”Ruarc.”
And his brows raise slightly but he is smiling. It is an open and genuine kind of smile. Not very forced which goes almost right against the feel of rage within him. By all rights he should be snarling. Yet there is a balance to him. A force of will excersied with great care.

“Ye be a hard sell Imogen, but luckily I be stubborn in me foolishness I be. Im nae lookin fer a teacher o’ a mate o’ whateve ye be havin ye issue wi’.”

He tilts his head slightly to the right those eyes focused on her. An animalistic motion with the way his eyes remain fixed on her. Curiosity of an animal, not of a man.
“I be here tae get tae know ye. If’n I wanted tae her ye legend I be sittin at the feet o’ the sept an’ nae be at ye door. ‘Sides… Helen be like’n tae be given me grief if’n I don’t at least try tae make good wi’er cousin.”

He draws in a breath and releases it slowly.
“A chance in th’ space o’ a pint. If’n ye still be set I will leave ye alone knowin I tried an’ failed.”

[Imogen Slaughter] She lets him finish, silent, though her mouth twists faintly when he mentions Helen, some internal, sharp-edged humour.

When he's done she shifts her weight at the door.

"Good-night," she repeats, and shuts it, turning the deadbolt to lock it.

[Ruarc o'Conaill] ”Tomorrow then?”
Asked through the door. She can hear the low deep chuckle of the tall Fianna. If she watches through the lens she would see him stand there for a moment, thoughtful almost and then head towards the shadowy part of the corridor once more.

So that had not gone as smoothly as it could have. Of course, Ruarc is a stubborn and willful creature. If first you fail, then try and try again. Perhaps he would try it when she was actually in the pub instead. He could ambush her with the pint in hand. It’s a bad idea as any other.