When You Least Expect It.

[Imogen Slaughter] A pub. Inside the music plays, which had suddenly seemed too loud, the atmosphere thrives, which had seemed too hot.

Imogen has carried her tumbler of scotch outside, the music pouring out with her. One free hand moves through the pockets of her jacket, roaming until she finds her cigarette case and zippo. Her addictions in hand, her dark eyes lift, scanning the somewhat populated patio.

The kinwoman weaves through the population, finding herself an empty corner near an empty table. She does not sit, instead setting her tumbler on a railing and opening her cigarette case.

She lights up like a professional. Fills her lungs with poison, turning her head away to watch the street as she exhales grey smoke from her lungs.

[Sparrow Turner] There is a pub, and there is music outside. There is music outside because the doors open to let the occasional patron out and the live music seeps out into the night air.

The music escapes when a second figure enters the

A second figure who, at that moment, was thirsty and needed to wash the oil off of her hands. Sparrow doesn't really know how to fix a car, not at all, but she can pop the hood and look like she knows what she is doing. She's good at that. Not that she's a particularly good liar, but in a city the ahroun's found that if you don't say anything at all you aren't really ying much. She was a decidedly more outgoing person when they came here.

A little more subdued, now, a little more pensive, now, but still herself. And still, almost to a fault, a little girly.

She makes her way into the pub and the crowd parts when she makes her way to the bathroom. The benefit of rage- no lines.

[Roman Turner] His cousin headed for the inside of the pub, for the bathroom. God it seemed like she had to go all the time. Maybe she was pregnant? Maybe she had the shits? Maybe he was going to have to stop putting chocolate Exlax in the ice cream for a while till her stomach evened out? Naw.

So as Sparrow headed for the john, he broke off to wait outside. It was as he waited that he spotted Imogen. After a moment he made his way towards the kin and quietly spoke.

"'Eve'ng Miss Doctor Slaughter. Mind if I join ya?"

With a touch to his brim.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen glances over at Roman, her gaze cool, her body half turned away toward the street, where she had been looking.

A moment's pause while she fits her cigarette between her lips and takes a deep drag. Exhales. "It seems you already have," she observes.

She picks up her cigarette case, a battered bronze thing, and flicks it open, offering him a fag.

[Kora] The patio is open to the street, and there's a young on the street. She's tall, with a long-legged gait and a lean presence that seems - predatory in the proper light. In any light. In the streetlights now, in a dark alley, on a warm summer day in the park. Her hands are in her pockets, her hair is pulled up behind her head, twisted on itself and held in place by its own weight more than the broken pencil used to secure the knots. Dressed casually, in a black camisole, jeans, and Doc Marten's, she fits into the vibe of the neighborhood - superficially, at least.

Underneath, she will never fit in.

"Doc, Roman" Kora greets the kinswoman from the edge of the patio, seconds before she simply climbs over the barrier separating it from the sidewalk. The motion is not as elegant or easy as it could be. Bare arms show off what could be kindly termed a farmer's tan, and the pink, puckered skin of a healing injury disappears beneath the neckline of the garment. The new skin is tight and shiny, mostly hidden beneath her clothing.

[Roman Turner] He touched his brim as he gave Kora a polite greeting.

"Howdy Miss Kora. I was just asking Miss Doctor Slaughter if she would mind if I joined her."

His attention shifted back to Imogen.

"I asked if ya minded if I joined ya, Ma'am."

[Sparrow Turner] She is decidedly too girlie to be a full moon. When she comes out of the bathroom, she's inspecting her chipped nail polish. The rage is unmistakable, but she wears her clothes, her hair, all of it with this strange sort of bohemian chicness that... it works. Her personality and the outward rage clash visibly. Her legs are long, though soon enough she'll be the shortest person in her sort of impromptu patrol group. Sparrow is taller than the average woman- five and a half feet tall. Boots, tan skin, light eyes and dark hair.

She's wearing a skirt. Do ahrouns get to wear skirts? there's bracelets on each wrist, some woven, beaded, metal. All of them meticulous and permanent accessories.

By the time she's put herself into working order, she realizes there's... Roman's in (note to self: don't let him drive again), Kora's there... and... so is Imogen. large blue eyes blink once, twice, and se approaches.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's camisole is of fine thin silk, a rich blue colour beneath a tailored black blazer. Her purse sits on the railng. Her jeans are expensive, her shoes brand-name. Her hair is up, pinned and clipped in place, an illusion of artful disarray. It is merely use of her hair's natural properties. No strand will ever be perfectly tamed.

She too fits the vibe of the neighbourhood, the swanky styled pub. The yuppie crowd. It is her remoteness that sets her apart; first her isolation as she chose a corner by herself to smoke her cigarette, had come out alone with her drink. Now, ironically, the company that surrounds her sets her apart. A boy with a stetson, a woman bristling with rage. They do not quite fit here and now, by association neither does she.

"Kora," she greets the Fenrir before taking another drag of her cigarette, her eyes narrowing as she turns her gaze Roman's way.

A brief pause, then a vague flick of her fingers in dismissal as she picks up her half drunk scotch. "Stay. It's fine."

[Kora] "Hey kid," Kora replies, low voiced. It is noteworthy that she does not bother to correct him regarding her name any more. Even the Fenrir knows when a fight is futile. This one is. "You want a drink?"

Her voice rises to include Sparrow in the question as the Ahroun returns from the bathroom, skirt swishing around her legs, her bracelets clinking as she walks. Almost, one expects the ever-present jingle of one of those Indian anklets, the song of bells with every step Sparrow takes. Except: the crowd opens around her, and Kora will never see her as anything but the warrior she is underneath the illusion of the girl.

They respond, Sparrow and Roman, yes or [i]no[/i, and then the Fenrir catches open the doors back into the pub, letting out a wall of sound as she disappears inside, the heat and the crowd, the music and the noise crowding around her, as she picks her way to the bar.

[Roman Turner] He never turned down a drink. Though his metabolism ran higher than a human's, he could still get a good buzz going and pretty darned fast if he worked on it. Heck, he even offered to go with Kora to get the drinks. Leaving Sparrow and Imogen to make nice with each other.

[Sparrow Turner] You want a drink?
"Something cheap and domestic," she replies.

And now, she's left with Imogen. She needs to make nice, or at least make... well... something. Make some acquaintance with Imogen that didn't involve a fence and a few traded glances.

"What are you drinking?" she asks, because it is obviously not something cheap and domestic.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen watches briefly as Kora and Roman depart before turning her attention to Sparrow.

"Laphraoig," she says, picking up her tumbler and taking a measured sip. "S'a brand of scotch." She lifts her cigarette back to her lips, taking a deep drag.

A moment's consideration, she offers the tumbler to the younger girl with an arched eyebrow.

[Kora] Roman shadows Kora through the pub, this kid wearing a Stetson that brings him to within an inch or two of her full height. They are an odd pair. There's nothing rural about her, from the Doc Marten's to the braided leather bracelets, to the coil of find blonde hair in a heavy twist at the nape of her neck, to the quiet surety of her voice - suburban American, that, without the midwestern regionalisms shading Roman's speech.

The waitresses in the place might have avoided her all night, but the bartender cannot ignore her when she fits herself in between a half-drunk businessman leaving impressive tips and a couple making eyes at each other, driving the former to the restroom and the latter to a table. Their exchange is quiet. Sparrow asked for something cheap and domestic and Kora obliges her on the domestic point, at least. After a minute or two, there are four pints drawn on the bar. One dark, bitter. One a rich red, and two lighter, though one of them seems a clear, rich amber, while the last is swirling and occluded.

Kora takes two, and gestures for Roman to take the other two after her. Then, the pair begin weaving their way back through the bar, toward the patio.

Outside, Kora sets down her two beers on Imogen's table, and gestures for Roman to do the same. "They've Goose Island on tap, here. I picked up the stout, the Irish red, the pale ale, and the Heifeweizen." - she announces to the group, picking up the pale ale for herself, then gesturing for the others to claim their own glasses.

[Roman Turner] He was indeed all country from his boots to his stiff dark blue Wranglers to that Stetson. He kept the brim of the hat down low, shadowing half his face because he knew darned well he wasn't suppose to be in here carrying booze at his age. Kora indicated the two mugs she had left for him to carry and carry he did. He didn't know one drink from another, but when they set them down and the claiming came, he took the stout because, well he rather think himself stout than girly-fied.

[Sparrow Turner] Laphraoig sounds neither cheap nor domestic.
She takes the tumbler, and takes a sip, because it seems like something that one is supposed to drink.

Sparrow Turner is no stranger to drinking. As a matter of fact, she is something of a seasoned professional when it came to things like kegs and cases and standing in fields, shooting the shit, and drinking. Sparrow was almost homecoming queen, once. Beat out by a blonde cheerleader girl who, later, ended up being the homecoming king's baby momma. Sparrow was no stranger to drinking, and she was no stranger to the concept of a shotgun wedding.

"How's Laphraoig compare to other scotches?" she asks as she hands it back. More cultured than she seems-

Because a girl can read cosmo and get all she wants out of life. If Cosmo had a section on fighting the wyrm, it might be the perfect magazine. (they have an occasional article on mother/monster-in-laws, that seems to be close enough). By then, Kora is back, announcing her beer choices. She nods, and waits for a minute, "I have never had Goose Island."

She was no stranger to drinking, but she was a stranger to drinking something that wasn't, essentially, only made for getting shithoused.

[Kora] "Cheers," Kora offers to Roman as he chooses the stout, clinking her glass directly against his own. Shooting a brief glance at the kinswoman she offers the same gesture, minus both the clink and the word. She offers it wordlessly, just lifting the glass in the slight woman's direction before claming one of the teak chairs scattered around the patio, and snagging another with a twist of her foot and ankle under the leg, dragging it towards them for someone else's use. Roman, or Sparrow.

The street is quiet, here. Music backgrounds into the warm night, radiating out from the windows and doors of the pub like heat, more physical here than audible, felt more than heard.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is standing against the railing, and the Garou begin to occupy the empty table nearest her. She is the slightest one there, the smallest, shorter than even Roman, much to his continued delight. Her cigarette is in her mouth when Sparrow passes the scotch back, and she lifts her hand - glass held between her fingers to pluck the cigarette out, holding it at an angle over the glass.

"S'one o' the stronger flavoured scotches," she explains, off-hand. "Tastes a bit like peat. Fer more detail, yeh'll ha' t'become a scotch drinker," her mouth twists faintly. "I won't bore you with the details."

Kora offers her a wordless toast, and Imogen tilts her glass in the Fenrir's direction, unsmiling.

"Become quite a gathering, hasn't it just?" she observes, angling her glass to sip her scotch. Inside, loud, live music stops and the crowd cheers.

[Roman Turner] He clinked glasses with Kora and saluted Sparrow and Imogen.

"Here's to dirt in your eye. And if the description of that there drink tasting like Peat is anything to go by, here's to drinking dirt too."

He took a long swig of his drink before helping Kora with the chairs. One he pushed towards Sparrow, then went to grab a third chair to haul over and plant himself in.

[Sparrow Turner] She takes a beer, whatever's left- probably something light (because she wouldn't know what to do with the red one).

"You can eat dirt, you can drink dirt, you pay fifty bucks to sit in mud at some places around here... it's amazing, the things you can do with dirt."

A sigh.

"Unless it's with our lawn. I don't know what is with it, but it i dead Roman, what did you do?"

[Roman Turner] "I went on vacation with Kora. Dang Sparrow, why are ya even worried about a lawn that ain't our's? We don't own the place. That ground is so gone it ain't gonna grow nuttin unless ya start tilling it and mixing some peat and manure in it for starters."

He took another drink, draining another third of the drink in his glass.

"Besides, been spending more time at the church than there anyway. Ya ain't never hardly around."

He put the side of his fist against his mouth to cover a belch.

[Kora] "It's a local microbrewery," Kora tells Sparrow, who has never had Goose Island. "If you're used to budweiser, try the Heifeweizen. It's a German-style wheat beer. Sort of like a dessert wine, yeah? Just a little bit sweet. There's this sort of aftertaste of bananas in most of them, I've found."

Turning her head, she cuts a brief glances toward the glazed windows as the sound cuts out and the crowd noise rises, cheering the band. The creature's dark eyes linger there, perhaps on their distorted reflection in the windows. The Garou seated around the table, the kinswoman standing against the railing, smoking, apart from the rest. Kora cuts a look back, directly at Imogen then. "It has," there's a hint of watchful humor in the Skald's direct response to the kinswoman's rhetorical question.

Then Sparrow complains about the lawn. "You should let the grass go to seed," Kora recommends, her voice still low, the beer held up to her mouth, considering. "Give up the lease, maybe. Come to the church. Can shower at the Brotherhood." The faintest of pauses. "Or Trent's. Anyway, no point in mowing the lawn. Better to let grass grow as it wants to grow."

[Roman Turner] "I gotta say the only reason I like having the rental is cause it has a kitchen and a bathroom. I don't like the thought of hauling my clean clothes and soap to the brotherhood to use someone's shower and I sure don't want to go to your BF's home to bathe. It just ain't right. Why can't the church be fixed up for feeding and cleaning?"

They came from solid backgrounds. Never living like Hobo's before, but like descent folk. It was the thought of losing that one solid comfort that brought home the alieness of living in the big city.

[Sparrow Turner] "Probably should give up the lease," she remarks, "the neighbors have to be curious by now."

And by curious, we mean this: the neighbors are probably starting to wonder what is wrong with those kids. The crime's gone down, but realistically something about that Turner girl ain't right. Which, as someone from a small torn could tell you, not right was a completely different thing than wrong. She goes for the Heifeweizen.

"Ten four," she says and takes a drink.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen offers a slight smirk at Kora's comment, acknowledgement of the humour. She fits her cigarette back between her lips and takes a final drag before stepping forward to the table and leaning over to crush the cigarette in the ashtray in the centre.

She steps back, leaning back against the railing.

The conversation glides on about her. She sips her drink and turns her gaze outward, toward the street.

[Kora] Kora's dark eyes touch on Roman as he rejects use of Trent's home for bathing on the grounds that it ain't right. She's looking just down at him, over the reflective surface of her beer, the liquid gleaming in the light. "He offered his spare bedroom to me for the pack once before," the curve of her mouth tightens, as before in this context means so may things, "I don't think that has changed. He might be pleased to give us a hand."

Then, Kora lifts her drink to her mouth, glancing between them as Sparrow comments on the neighbors, their curiousity, all the things that change when Garou join the neighborhood. "I think the Church could be fixed up to be more habitable, yeah. Do you know anything about plumbing, Roman? And electricity. A working fridge would be brilliant."

[Roman Turner] "I'm handy and much rather work on a place than stay with a mated couple. Ain't no offense meant, Miss Kora, but a couple needs time alone and ya ain't alone with wolves in the house. Ain't no wall thick enough to keep us from hearing things we ain't suppose to hear and things ya really don't to be sharing with me, let alone Sparrow here. She's impressionable and might get the wrong ideas or something hearing all that moaning and groaning."

[Kora] "I wasn't suggesting," Kora says, with a certain, sudden asperity in her voice, this unstudied response to Roman's comment about what wolves might hear through the walls. There's a brightness to her eyes, and a hint of pink under her skin that suggests such talk goes rather beyond her boundaries of personal and pack. She's quiet, about such things. " - that you move in with him. Just that it's an option until we get the church fixed up.

"Though," the faint curve of her mouth chases away what tension opened there. "I'm glad you're handy. I am, assuredly, not. So I'll rely on you to tell me what's doable, yeah?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen glances away from whatever point of focus she's chosen to glance at first Kora, then Roman, her mouth twisting in a somewhat distracted smirk.

She had not appeared to be paying attention. Her sudden participation proves that perception wrong.

"I don't believe she was genuinely suggestin' that you and Sparrow stay in th'spare bedroom while she stayed wi' Trent in the other room."

[Imogen Slaughter] (oh doh!)

[Roman Turner] "Then why mention the spare bedroom and the invite for it's use for pack?"

He looked back and forth between Imogen and Kora.

"It brings us right back to, we haul our things around like homeless, borrowing a bathroom wherever we can find one if we give up the rental, right?"

[Sparrow Turner] "I think," she says, "it might be in our best interests to keep the rental for now, get the church livable as soon as possible, and once that happens we reevaluate the plan from there. It's not like, financially speaking, that's a real problem for us right now."

Says the woman who is in her early twenties and still gets an allowance from her parents.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Buy some fertilizer for the lawn, perhaps." Imogen suggests, her mouth twisting slightly, as she reaches down to pick up her cigarette case again, flicking it open to retrieve a coffin-nail.

[Roman Turner] "Lawn ain't important. Weeds grow just fine. It's too danged hot and dry to mess with if it ain't for productive growth and we got patrols and repairs that are more important."

He drained the last of his beer and rose as he drug the back of his arm across his mouth.

"Ladies."

He touched the brim of his hat.

"Pardon me, I'm gonna head to that shower we were debating."

[Sparrow Turner] She hands Roman the keys and gives him a look.

"Don't touch my presets."

[Roman Turner] Doing his best innocent look he took the keys and replied as he turned away to leave.

"No ma'am, my momma and your pa would beat the everloving daylights out of me if I touched anything of your's. Why Sparrow, I'm blushing down to my roots with the very thought that you would believe such a thing."

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon was a young man. Like the other young men that gathered here and there on a lovely Saturday evening like this. Even his tattoos, while lovely, didn't necessarily identify him as any different from the other young men out on the prowl this evening. His stance, while strong, and proud, wasn't much more confident than many young men, and the fact others got out of his way was no different than any of the other young Alpha males scattered about the area. There was something that stood out when that young man was a full moon, however. It was hard to catch but those who went looking would find it in the depths of their eyes.

Your average soldier returning from the war front would often carry that look in his eyes but even then it paled in comparison to the Full Moon. Many soldiers have killed, and many have even sacrificed limbs or worse to their cause. But the Full Moon has experienced so much more than the average soldier could imagine. He has stared into the eyes of horrors plucked straight out of the darkest of nightmares! He has faced down death, and loss as any soldier but unlike most soldiers he has payed the ultimate price. A soldier has the luxury of being able to simply lay down and die on the battlefield after he has fulfilled his mission but not the full moon. There is no rest... He must claw his way back from the jaws of death itself! Not even necessarily because he wants to but because it is what must be done. There is no rest for the living full moon. He has died a dozen deaths and still walks this earth.

He has had every bone in his body broken, he has seen his intestines, and had to hold them in so they didn't make a mess on the floor. He has tasted the blood of men and monsters and fluids far more foul. His memory is burned with thoughts and images most soldiers simply could not deal with. Yet he must. He must face each day, suck it up, and he must continue the fight because there are far more important matters at stake here. He is a Full Moon... He doesn't complain about his job he simply sucks it up and does it. He doesn't ask for a new job he accepts what he i here to do and he does it day in and day out.

Whatever that look is in those eyes... It is something only a very rare chosen few could understand. It sets him apart for them, it identifies him as one of their own. Well that and the purity of his blood! Good breeding really helps!

[Roman Turner] ((thanks guys and sorry to leave as ya bring in your first post Nick, but I am exhausted. Night!))

[Kora] Roman asks why she mentioned the offer of th spare bedroom; Kora cuts him a look, wondering if the question is rhetorical, or one of those needling sorts of questions a Ragabash asks simply to push and pull and find a way through to the roots of something. His features are guileless, though, and she snorts a half-laugh over the surface of her beer. "I mentioned it to say, he wants to be helpful, yeah? That I'm not offering you something on his behalf without thinking about what he'd offer. I think you're right, though. Keep the rental until we've got running water in the Church. Maybe even after.

"It's good to have a few places to go to ground."

Kora still pays the lease on a certain storage locker, at the front desk, in cash every month. Just the thought makes the Skald rather more passingly somber.

Imogen suggests fertilizer. Kora gives the kinswoman a passing look. "I didn't know you had a green thumb, doc. I'd go with, opening a dozen different seed packets and letting them go, see what grows. And let it. Though, the neighbors might appreciatethe fertilizer more than the world's most haphazard garden.

Roman stand, and Kora lifts her chin, "Night kid," as he slips past her, keys in hand. A glance at Sorrow, a query. "Your presets?"

[Kora] The quartet - now trio - are on the patio of a bar, whose signage promises live music every weekend. There's no one else out here, in the humid evening air. Sometimes, another smoker ducks out, sucks down a quick cigaette, then hurries back inside, telling herself that she does not want to miss the next set, or is concerned about losing her seat at her friend June's table - or whatever.

Three women, Kora the tallest, Imogen the purest, Sparrow Turner the most angry. There's an empty glass where Roman tossed back the remains of his stout, and still-full Irish red ale on the table where Kora and Sparrow sit. Where Imogen stands, smoking, apart.

Then: Simon, half-way down the street and Kora spots him, nudging Sparrow with her foot under the table. "Bone-Grinder," she says, tipping her head down the street to indicate the tattooed Shadow Lord. " - you ever met him?" The question is for both the kinswoman and the young Garou. Then, Kora offers this further identification: "Shadow Lord."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen shakes her head slightly. "I've not a green anything," says the blue-eyed woman. "Though I may ha' read somewhere tha' fertilizer helps things grow."

Kora's attitude changes and she indicates someone approaching from down the street. Imogen lifts her gaze to look, lifting her fresh cigarette to her lips, inhaling.

"A time or two," she says. "Always carries a baseball bat."

[Sparrow Turner] "Radio stations in the prius," she clarifies, "last time I let Roman drive my car, he set all of my radio stations to radio evangelical programs. It's like I was driving through Oklahoma. The time before that, it was mariachi music."

The look in her eyes, the way her mouth upturned slightly at the corner and just the hints of glorious irritation made two things clear: one, this is a minor irritation and two, it's so dang easy to mess with Sparrow. No wonder Roman does it it's in his nature as a younger cousin and possibly a ragabash. She looks across the bar, notices Simon and-

"Yeah," she says, "we fought together a couple times. Everyone took a real beating that night, but he had a solid plan."

She leaves out important details, the one about her walking off unscathed simply out of luck (resilience). She doesn't talk about the trophy, and she isn't bragging about the entire facts of the battle. She just takes a drink of her beer, and swallows.

"He's good people."

[Simon Zahradnik] His bat was more than a weapon it was his security blanket and comfort. His bat would never betray him, his bat would always be there beside him and while it might be used against him that would only ever happen if he allowed it to happen. It would be his own damn fault and for that reason he could do nothing but blame himself if indeed it ever happened. He kept it slung over his shoulder and his eyes drifted upwards towards the sky as he unwittingly approached the gathering of both garou and kin.

Sooner or later he notices the fact he's been spotted, and the sight of Imogen, Kora, and Sparrow brings a smile to his face. His path shifted ever so slightly to make certain he drifted in their direction. As much as rage could be taken as a curse it also had its blessings. The way people shuffled to get out of his path made his little walk all the easier. He didn't have to pay them any notice, he didn't have to push them out of his way they simply scurried about him like a wolf in a crate full of mice. They meant little to the full moon they were part of the problem, most of them anyway. He'd just as soon imagine they weren't there as look at them and have to address the fact that they are to blame for every problem that plagues their kind. no so much easier just to pretend they do not exist... Rather than admit what each and every garou knew in his heart to be true. They were pests, vermin, and parasites who needed to be controlled! Even those who believed otherwise were simply fooling themselves into believing something other than the truth.

Soon enough he had joined them. A smile to each of the women."Good evening ladies."He says as his eyes shift from face to face."Nice night out tonight..."He trails off as his eyes follow a young woman passing near him. It was a shameless glance, young and so full of pent up frustrations. Rage had this way of making these little matters all the worse... So he held no shame in those dark eyes of his only a proud smile as he returned his attention."I hadn't expected to bump into anyone tonight I guess this is a polite surprise."

[Simon Zahradnik] [polite = pleasant]

[Imogen Slaughter] "You get used to it," Imogen says, mildly, her voice revealing nothing of her own opinions of this fact. "Gatherin's o' the blood show up when yeh least expect it."

The kinwoman is standing, while Kora and Sparrow sit at a nearby table. She leans against the railing, a cigarette in hand, one which she taps gently to ash it, before balancing it on the railing's edge. A nearly empty tumbler of scotch sits at her hip. She picks it up, exchanging one vice for another.

[Kora] "Seriously?" Kora asks Imogen when she notes that Simon always carries a baseball bat. Her brows rise, in mild question, and she glances from the kinswoman to the Shadow Lord approaching them, once and back again. "He's full moon." This is a question, half-asked. Her voice doesn't rise, but her pale brows are already lilting upward suggestioning the query underneath. Which is somewhere between did you know and does his know that his claws are rather more powerful than his bat ever will be.

Sparrow says that they fought together, and Kora cuts a look at her, lingering, considered. "You'll have to tell me the story, yeah? Sometime soon."

"Evening, Simon," Kora greets the Shadow Lord, her dark eyes fixed on him now, drifting over his tattoos, lingering here, or there, before returning that glance to his face. "You're welcome to join us, yeah?" Then, a lifting glance toward Imogen, clear in profile now, her fine pale skin and her fine fiery hair and her fire, heady blood light a flame against the hazy darkness of the humid night.

"Does that mean, doc," her voice is quiet, soft even, in this moment. " - that you always expect it?" And her eyes are rapt on the stoic kinswoman's features, lingering on the shape of her mouth, the dark shadow ofher eyes.

[Sparrow Turner] "How're you doing?" she asks Simon like it's a legitimate question instead of a formality, "keeping out of trouble?"

This, however, seems to be more of a joke than an actual statement. Of course he isn't keeping out of trouble. She's does spend a little time to nod, indicate that yes, she would tell Kora the story. Not right now, obviously, but later.

[Simon Zahradnik] He nods his head back to Imogen and his grin brightens."If only those were the only surprises we had to worry about."He laughs to himself, it wasn't quite bitter just a little laugh at his own expense seeing as how it's just another aspect of the Garou's day to day."Groups of beautiful women should hang out in dark alleys and run down factories more often!"He adds before noting the Cigarette in Imogen's mouth."You know those things will kill ya right?"He asks her with a grin."I'm serious too! I once saw a guy choke to death on the things... Horrible, terrible tragedy for the poor guy."Wow you're on a roll tonight Simon!

He greeted the Kin with a smile. She was pretty, and... Curious. Which is partly why he found himself brightening up just a little when he caught sight of her. Most kin had this frightening tendency to bore the hell out of the full moon. Which wasn't to say that there was anything wrong with them it was more a matter of the Full Moons personality.

His eyes peel off Imogen slowly and he shifts his attention to Kora."Thanks I might stop in for a few anyway... A little break never hurt anyone!"He adds with a little smile before nodding to Sparrow."Well not getting caught anyway... Same thing... In a kinda chicken and egg kinda way."He laughs and nods back to the woman."I live and breathe another day so long as I can say that then I'm doin' pretty good right?"He had learned early on to set the bar low when it came to happiness.

Happiness for a full moon tended to be cheap, dirty, and as short lived as what could be expected to be a frighteningly short life. What joys he got out of life had to match the lifestyle... He expected he would still be around in 20 years but so did any other full moon. He knew full well he was on borrowed time and lived his life accordingly!

"How about the three of you? I trust we're all good?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's gaze shifts to Kora at her question, the low-voiced inquiry, the steady gaze. Imogen does not flinch from the regard, and in fact meets it with her own. Silent, for several seconds.

Finally, her mouth twists, and she lifts her cigarette back to her mouth. There is no genuine mirth in her eyes.

It is then that Simon remarks that cigarettes will kill her, and Imogen's eyes move to him, her eyebrow arching slightly as she turns her head, exhaling cigarette smoke away from the group, her enjoyment unhindered by his prediction of her death.

"Thank you for the warning. It's one I've never heard before," she says. "Best rush to tell the medical community." She leaves Kora's question unanswered.

[Kora] Kora snorts, this half-voiced laugh that lingers in her body where it does not linger in her mouth, at Imogen's dry witticism. There's a shifting look from Sparrow to Simon and back again, as the former asks how the atter is doing, and the latter replies, parsing out his existance into acceptable fragments, where breathing and living count as well.

The Skald does not respond directly to Simon's allowances, though her dark eyes remain on his face as he speaks, watching the smile spread across his mouth, the faint way his eyes narrow with interest at the Fianna-blooded doctor. When the Shadow Lord finally arrives at how are we threedoing, Kora meets any look he gives her, and tells him, "I'm well," after a moments consideration that such a basic question, one of the building blocks of any human greeting, does not entirely deserve. "Thank you."

She thanks him as if she means that as well.

Then, lifting her chin in Sparrow's directly, fixing her gaze on the young Ahroun in tha direct way, she says, quiet, "You know, you me and Roman, we need to make this official. And soon."

[Sparrow Turner] She drops her voice and passes a few words to Kora. She looks at her, and speaks clearly. Calmly, but intently. There's something lurking there, an intensity beneath the surface that Sparrow hardly recognizes anymore. They need to make this official.

"When can we do this?" she doesn't ask to expand, or anything like that.

They have all of their bases covered. They can handle themselves, the dynamic works, "we'll have a patron before the next full moon."

Possibly sooner. But, it seemed this full moon liked deadlines.

[Simon Zahradnik] He smiles back to Imogen and nods his head."You do that... People deserve to know the true dangers of smoking."He reminds the doctor. She's got Ethics and the Hypothetical Oath and something something... Doctor shit! She knows all about it he doesn't need to run on and on about her duties and responsibilities or does he? His brow lifts a little and his eyes meet her own, a curious and almost suspicious glance. Maybe she forgot that doctors help people and do good things and he needed to remind her! Or maybe she's secretly an evil doctor? She'd make an awesome evil doctor! But for now he opts to keep his suspicions to himself. He doesn't want her to know he's onto her!

"So you do a lot of doctor stuff? Like delivering babies and autopsies and shit? Lifting fingerprints off bullets? Ever been to space?"What doctors go to space sometimes don't they? He couldn't possibly be this dumb could he? Well he IS a Full Moon... But then again he's alive STILL... So obviously he couldn't actually be that dumb! No more likely he was trying to be cute.

He shifts his attention back to Kora and Sparrow were they starting up a pack? Aww how cute this would be great, Sparrow was pretty touch as far as he had seen anyway!

[Imogen Slaughter] The doctor's eyebrow arches slightly at Simon as he runs off at the mouth. "I do believe that you may need to look up the definition o' doctor in the dictionary. Or watch an episode of 'ER' at least," she observes as she straightens from the railing. It is impossible to tell if she is joking - though guaranteed if she is, the joke is at Simon's expense. "'Gone into space', indeed."

Imogen drains her tumbler, stabs out her cigarette on the railing.

"I should 'ead in," she says to no one in particular. "Before someone sends a search party." Humans on the inside, then. Humans who may call Imogen friend, or at least acquaintance. A bunch of people, drinking and joking and talking of things that do not include the phrases like 'of the blood', or 'of my tribe', nor so clearly feels her breeding, though they doubtlessly find her attractive.

"Enjoy yourselves."

And with that, the kinwoman heads in, back into the loud music and vibrant atmosphere of the pub's interior.