The Little Police Car That Could.

[Kora] There's a full moon tonight, bright enough that it casts silver shadows where the city's lights are not so bright as to drown it out. Here, along the docks, close to the water, away from the office towers, one can almost see them. Closer to the water's edge, there they are, laced with dark and light. The Caern - that old derelict, wholly unremarkable from without - is bordered on two sides by the dark lake, removed from the brilliance of the central city. Sorrow watched her shadow move in front of her during the brisk walk from there almost the whole way here.

--

It's a Wednesday night, the dinner rush is over and the pub proper is far from crowded. Humans find reason to avoid the otherwise warm and welcome brewpub on the full moon, without ever knowing why. That gust of chill - the promise of coming frost - swirls in every time the front doors open. The interior is warm and welcoming, a polished wood bar, dominates the center of the room. Kora is seated on one of the stools with a good view of the front door, leaning over a glass filled with dark liquid and ice cubes, this making passing conversation with the bartender.

[Frost] Frost slides out of a black sedan and stands there a moment looking over the lake. She's a little nervous but is a champion when it comes to suppressing undesirable emotions. Something about the area appeals to her, calls to her blood and the moon on the water... the moon... on the water... her head tilts upwards and she stares at her. Luna. The symbol of lunacy and lycanthropy. She recalls her mother once warning her about lunatic werewolves. Good night to be doing this Frost. Well, it's a bit late to call and say let's talk on the new moon. Afterall, it's family. She'll have to learn to deal with their quirks and there's no better time to start. She presses a tab on her key chain and the car locks itself and blips once, then she strolls on into the bar.

[Cordelia] Jee-laaa- she had told her. It came with a little gibering in Spanish and English and pronouncing her name like it had a ch instead of a j. Her evil plan had come with lots up puppydog looks and please you need to come out. Why are you in Chinatown all the time, come out pleeeeeaaaaase?

Obviously, it had worked.

Cordelia has started to succeed in her attempt to acquire friends. Actual friends. Friends that lack rage and don't run the risk of eating her head on a bad day. She catches the door for Tsi'la, and calls bac. Attire was comfortable. Jeans, a grey tee shirt. She threw her hair back in a ponytail; her glasses are absolutely atrocious. But, the ridiculously tall, ridiculously well bred lady doesn't seem to notice, or care. Just a ball of geeky confidence.

"The food is amazing, trust me," she assures Tsi'La.

[Kora] There's music quiet in the background, and a banked fire in the fireplace. The scent of fresh baked bread and fresh brewed beer fill the place. Underneath the music, that hint of conviviality that aways seems to fill a pub like this one. The clink of glass, silverware against porcelain, the jumble of voices, a half-dozen conversations undergirded by laughter, that rising tide of awareness that comes as one's blood vessels open up with laughter.

The door opens and Frost walks in. She has a moment to adjust to the change - the shadows are different here, softer and deeper, the lighting deliberately flattering, soft and warm instead of pale and cool outside. The Garou she is here to see is seated at the bar, looking almost like another girl, like a human girl, twenty something, out for a drink before working on a term paper, or heading for a late shift at the Quickee Mart. The light in here flatters her pale complexion, catches out the differing tones in her pale hair - not just the hoarfrost but the honey and amber. Light flashes across the surface of her eyes - and in that brief, sure moment it is clear that she is inhuman, animal underneath her skin. Impossible to call her pretty now, with the wolf so bright in her - but sleek, yes, healthy as they always are, alive.

Kora gestures Frost to join her at the bar, lifting her chin, tilting her head to the stool next to her as she reaches to snag her hoodie and clear away a spot for the kinfolk. "Hey," she says, when the other is close enough to hear, "the beer's brewed on premises, really excellent stuff anyway you go. Prefer the pale ale myself, but the Octoberfest," a hint of a half smile, wry, " - would be a pretty appropriate choice. If you're hungry, everything on the menu is good. I figure we order down here, get drinks, then head upstairs for a bit of privacy."

- which tells Frost something about the place, without need for further explanation.

[Tsi'la Yanisan] She's definitely not sure about all this. She hasn't been back here in near two months now. Hell, she didn't even want to be leaving the safety of her little corner of seclusion.

She's such a sucker for puppydog eyes. And she really wants to have friends that aren't run off, so in the end, she had agreed, and come out to Brohos.

She's dressed clean and crisp as seems to be common for her. Today though, instead of a dress, or a skirt, it's slacks. Thin and simple comfortable ones, so not to be uncomfortable under the eyesore of a boot on her left leg. Her hair is brushed and shining, and left to hang free down the back of her baby blue silk shirt with the long sleeves.

She smiles over at Cordelia, speaking with the heavily native accent of her own. They really were quite the amusing pair, if nothing else for their accents and trying to understand eachother. "Oh yes... I have been here before.... but..." She gives a gentle smile and a soft shrug as she gimps her way after Cordelia. "I have not been back in some time."

[Frost] She's in her street clothes today, black stretch levis that hug her hips and disappear into industrial curb stompers that lace up the calf. A black Metallica t-shirt sports a dark marionette and announces Master of Puppets, just visible under the black leather duster that's hanging open. The warm lighting gives her platinum hair a tint of gold, offsetting the striking contrast. No jewelry tonight, and she hasn't bothered with make up either. A what you see is what you get sort of woman when she's not at work. Her boots give a soft thud on the wood floor as she makes her way over to Kora, nodding to her suggestion. "Octoberfest sounds good and..." she looks at the bartender. "What ever the house specialty is for dinner."

[Kora] The bartender pulls out a pint glass, and Kora corrects him easily, tapping her index finger on the polished wood. "Make it a tall, yeah? And send our meals upstairs. I'm tipping and she - " this is all in a quiet, familiar undertone, " - is family." There's an easy curve to her mouth that belies the predator underneath. She flashes that half-smile to the bartender as he returns with Frost's Octoberfest - the tall glass, no dinky pint this - and then slides down from the barstool on which she had been seated, hoodie in one hand, her drink in the other, a handful of bills left behind on the bartop by way of payment, leading Frost through the bar, back toward the kitchen and the stairs leading to the common area upstairs.

Cordelia and Tsi'la will see them - too tall women, blonde-haired, dressed casually. Both are wearing solid black boots laced up the calf over jeans. Frost's are black stretch Levi's like a second skin. Kora's are merely worn, indigo faded to sky, the seams washed white, the fibers showing, except where the blood has soaked into stitches, so deep it cannot be scrubbed away. A black concert t-shirt - PIXIES in white letters across the front - over an old thermal that has that luminous sort of white born from liberal application of bleach - complete the look. The thermal adds bulk under the t-shirt, but otherwise she's lean, that predatory ease to her step.

- and they disappear together, back through the kitchen, then upstairs to the private quarters.

"The staff here are mostly kin," Kora informs Frost, speaking freely once they're upstairs, navigating around the empty common room, tilting her head to indicate the doors, the dark corridors leading away, " - and they offer rooms to Garou and kin who want them. Sort of - " and here, a faint quirk of her mouth, this hint of irony underneath, " - like a hostel for werewolves. We can speak freely up here, since no one but Garou and acknowledged kin are allowed."

She picks a seat, the elbow of the couch, carefully balancing her drink, and gestures to Frost to do the same.

[Tsi'la Yanisan] She looks over at Cordie as the other kin's phone goes off, and the barrage of spanish ensues. She chuckles, and winks. "I will be inside Cordelia."

There's an off-step soft thump from her boot as she makes her way up to the common room, and the movement is slow but steady. She crests the stairs, and starts moving towards a seat, hands coming down to smooth at the slacks lightly along the way. The two tall ladies are given a glance, and a warm, friendly smile if not a little reserved. She's unsure about being here, that much is easily read on her. But this is where Cordelia wanted to go, and the woman was right, truly. She can't stay cooped up in Chinatown and hide away from the world.

[Frost] Frost thanks the bartender, sees that Kora has picked up the tab and moves after, observing her from behind as they make their way through the back to the private area. Wolves only. What a strange thought. No fangs, no claws, no service. She grins to herself. Everything about her companion screams predator, and Frost finds that comforting in a perverse sort of way. It reminds her of home. As they enter the commons she notes Kora has taken the high ground and deems it unwise to select a seat what would sit her higher than the other woman, and yet, sitting on the couch just below her doesn't suit Frost, so she drags a big overstuffed chair around and settles into it with her beer, leaning back and propping her feet on the rejected couch cushion, legs crossed at the ankle. "So... here we are."

[Kora] "Indeed -" - Kora returns, this faint huff of breath flaring her nostrils, the subtle suggestion of wry laughter, just withheld, subsumed beneath the surface of her skin, made brighter by the way her rage burns, a steady constant with the moon so full. She's controlled, though, easy, with the sort of confidence that is as human as it is lupine, settle into her skin, self-assured. "I should get the official stuff out of the way. We've met, you know my name. In the Sept where I was raised, the kin called me Kora Eyjólfsdóttir, but that sort of address - " the patronymic she means, the formality of it - "isn't necessary here, unless you prefer the formality of it when we're alone. I'm Jarl of the Fenrir of Chicago, though there are few of us here now. A Skald, if you know the auspices. My pack claims territory just north of here - which is open to all, and particularly to our kin."

The faintest pause as Tsi'la comes upstairs. Kora looks up, over Frost's shoulder, her dark eyes gleaming in the shifting light, that animal sheen - the hint of the wolf inside her - and then, incongruously, smiles right back, this sure, easy curve of a wide, expressive mouth, quick-moving, alive.

"As Jarl, I claim all the tribe's unmated kin. While you are in the city, your defense is my responsibility, your punishment my sole right. If another Garou gives you offense, threatens or chastises you, you will bring the matter to me and I will stand for you. If you are threatened, I will defend you as I would my own mate." This is quietly spoken, but Kora hides none of it from Tsi'la. She can smell the young woman's blood, sure and strong underneath her skin. Now, though, her eyes remain on Frost, the other young woman's face, briefly dropping to her wrists, now bare of the bracelets she wore the first night they met.

"I'd like to know more about you, though. What you do, what brings you here, where you come from - "

[Tsi'la Yanisan] Her eyes glance over to the other two ladies. Though she makes a careful point to stay out of the conversation. Clearly it's tribe matters, of which is none of her business. There's some snippets though, snippets picked up on that one can't help but to hear.

This makes her eyes turn down to her lap quickly. As if the rage bubbling through the room on a full moon from a Get wasn't enough, though it's not as burning across the skin as some she's encountered. It's at least tolerable. But the name, and the station... that is a slightly different matter. Her brows knit together softly and she keeps her eyes on her lap, her lips puckering just a touch.

[Frost] She takes this in, reserving the unfamiliar terms to ask over later so as not to break the flow of dialogue. A slight nod here and there shows she's listening. Her eyes flicker to the others briefly as they come up. She knows precious little about the garou in general. Her mother had told her that her real education would begin when she was finished with college, but they didn't live long enough to complete that education.

I'm Anise Carrington, although most people call me Frost. I'm originally from California. I graduated from UC Berkley with a degree in criminal law and then joined the FBI. Both my parents were killed in a skirmish on the Mexican border while I was in Quantico. Didn't really want to go back to an empty house full of memories and unanswered questions so I put in for Chicago, and I got it. I've been here about two weeks. Figured I'd hook up with the family and maybe learn a bit more about my heritage."

[Imogen] She comes up through the back, eschewing the walk through the main restaurant, the walk behind the counter to climb the stairs.

So - she parks in the alleyway, climbs the back stairs - and the a few minutes later, the kinwoman walks into the main room, dressed in business attire despite the hour. She wears a leather coat, one hand in her pocket as she scans the room. Her eyes touch Tsi'la, unfamiliar. The only benefit of this place is - even without rage to guide her, she can judge that the other is of the Blood.

Her mouth twists wryly - before moving away to settle on Kora, Frost. She walks their way, one hand moving freely, the other remaining pocket-bound.

[Kora] "No way - " Kora says, this twist to her mouth, bemused, her eyes gleaming with humor. "FBI? That's - " a pause, brief, " - that's fucking brilliant." Her curses are rare, which gives them that much more buoyancy. "We have a few kin on the Chicago Police Department, but - " she sits forward, then, her drink on her thigh. Softly, " - the FBI. I don't think I need to tell you how useful that can be to use." Then Kora sobers, dark eyes quick on Frost's face, this shrewd, aware look that does not devolve to become obstrusive.

"I'm sorry to hear about your parents," quiet this, somber and direct without quailing from the subject of their deaths. " - have you any other Garou relatives?" Tsi'la's expression changes, draws together when she takes Kora's name and tribe. That draws the creature's attention back to the kinwoman, alert, alive to the subtle shift of expression. "I don't think we've met," her voice lifts to carry to Tsi'la, " but you're welcome to join us if you'd like."

- and Imogen appears up the steps, after. Kora's gaze fastens on the slight kinswoman, drops to her hidden hand, then back to her mouth, twisted, wry. Something like that mirrors itself on Kora's mouth. "Doc. You've met Frost, yeah?"

[Frost] My father was also FBI, his partner was kin. Uncle George, although he's not really an uncle. Her gaze drifts back to the other two women as Kora invites them to join the conversation, then looks past them to Imogen... down to the pocket, back up to her face. "Evening, Doc." Then back to Kora. "But yes, I imagine between myself, doc and the other kin on the police dept. we could set up a very effective underground support organization."

[Imogen] Closer now, they can hear a faint electronic tone, tinny and staticky, the sound oddly somber and tired. "Kora," the greeting is returned, with a glance to Frost, "We have, yes. H'llo, again." The kinwoman's hair, a vibrant and brilliant shade of red is pulled back from her face in an elaborate braid which she's coiled into a chignon at the base of her neck. Even this effort is insufficient for its chaos. Instead, strands of hair have fallen free at the temple, escaping to fall into her eyes. She moves them away with gravity - tilting and turning her head with a gesture that speaks of easy habit.

Slight she is - and sharply contrasted between the blondes - Kora and Frost. Pale skin, dark, dark eyes, bright-bright hair. A slight, slender body. Her posture is perfect, her spine neutral, her shoulders back. There is grace in her, even when she is standing still.

Now that the wry smirk has faded, a tension has revealed itself at the edge of her mouth, a faint but ever present tightening.

"I don't mean to interrupt," the words she speaks, she speaks as if they are habit - not so much a genuine sorrow, but a knowledge that: this is what you say when you interrupt. "But I am hoping that you or someone 'ere can help with something." If Tsi'la has approached as she is invited, she is spared only a glance, before Imogen turns back.

She pulls her hand from her pocket, her fingers curled, before opening them, her palm flat to reveal what is within. A small toy police car, which has seen far better days. Its paint is chipped, worn away to the metal in several cases. One of its siren lights has been shattered completely, leaving the jagged edges of plastic. The wheels are worn nearly down to nubs, what plastic that remains, peeling. It whirs suddenly, making a near frantic sound as it slides back in the doctor's hand, beginning to slide up the heel of her hand toward her wrist and the safety of her sleeve. The one remaining siren lights up - then dies, making the same pathetic sound they'd heard before. Imogen's dark eyes are on the car - a tendon in her jaw bulging.

"I don't know if you recall Joss," the kin says - speaking to Kora, and not the others, relative new comers (though in her own way, Kora is a new comer herself; at least compared to the kinswoman), "but this was one o' hers."

[Tsi'la Yanisan] The movement draws her eyes, of Imogen entering. But at not seeing the face she was expecting, her eyes go back down to her lap. Fingers starting to idly pick at the trim of her leg brace. Thoughts play across her face, thoughts of a wandering mind that's horrible at hiding such things. Awkward circumstances, awkward situations. And an angry, tense moment between two true borns infront of her place of stay.

Her eyes flicker back over to the two blonds talking amongst themselves, about the time Kora's studying her. She straightens up, and pushes a polite smile to her face. She glances towards the stairs, then back to Kora and thinks over the invitation. Would be rude not to accept hospitality, and the kin is not one for such behavior. To strangers, anyway. She pushes up out of the seat and moves towards them slowly, hands smoothing at her slacks in what seems to be a nervous twitch. "No, we have not. Though I am aquainted with some of your people."

When she draws close enough, but not too close, she stops and looks to the other two women before settling her eyes back on Kora. "I am Tsi'la Yanisan." Her voice is soft-spoken and gentle, and her accent is thick and native american. English is not her first language, but she speaks it clearly and fluent enough.

[Kora] "Detectives John Thornton and Izzy Montoya," Kora - a quiet aside to Frost, "I'll give you their contact information. Let them know you might be in touch with them. Ts'ila joins them, then. "Kora," the creature's dark eyes touch on the Uktena kin, lingering there briefly. " - Frost," a glance at Frost, then, wry, " - and Dr. Slaughter." Trust the Skald to supply introductions. Praise all the dark and hoary gods of the old North in just this momen that she isn't a Silver Fang Galliard, or that moment would have lasted half-way to morning. There's no regional accent to Kora's words, just the ordinary American accent, the neutral lilt of the suburbs.

Just now, though, her dark eyes return sharply to Imogen, the matchbox police car in the kinswoman's hand. This is just now new-come Kora is. This is the toll the city takes on the nation. This is how many bodies are buried under the cold, damp ground in the derelict Caern. "I didn't know her - she died just before I came."

She knows the grave, though.
Kora knows every last one of the graves, and well.

"I know her name, though. Her deeds. Gaze sharpening as it drops to the police car, her voice drops a minor fifth. " - what's that?"

[Frost] A nod to the names, committing them to memory as her eyes shift to the toy in Imo's hand. A sip of beer as she listens to the story of someone else's dead. Life is fleeting, best to live it loud.

[Imogen] A glance toward Tsi'la as she's introduced. "A pleasure," the kinswoman says, though she does not exactly mean it.

"It's a toy car," she says, stating the obvious, carefully picking it up with a sudden and agitated whir of tires and places it back in the centre of her palm. "S'got a spirit inside it or - somethin'. It was meant t'protect the -" - "Eagle's packhouse. Used t'break free and find me all th'time. I assumed it had - well. Died when she had."

The corner of her mouth turns down, then the tension eases, if only a little. "Apparently not."

[Frost] "Looks like it could use a visit to a tiny mechanic," she observes. "I don't know anything about spirits, but if that's its house... a nail file and a little paint..."

[Tsi'la Yanisan] She relaxes a tiny bit. No barrages of questions, all business. Business she can handle, and not something of her realm of expertise. So she remains quiet for now, and attentive. Eyes on the toy car for a long moment. Frost's words draw her eyes that way briefly, and she blinks. The corner of her mouth twitching a bit into a frown before it's pushed aside and her attention turns to Imogen and Kora. Something about spirits, yes, a toy that belonged to someone that's died.

[Kora] Kora breathes out, this sharp breath, somewhere between impressed and bemused, the note tinged with a certain alarum. The ice cubes in her drink are melting slowly, but she rises from her seat in the elbow of the sofa with enough motion to send them clinking against the glass. "I'm going to get Roman and see what's there," a moment of disconnect, that distant suggestion that she's communicating with her, that brief, sharp focus, the hint of concentration that lingers, then disappears.

Then, "I'm not sure I can make it stop, though," another glance at the car, " - release whatever's bound inside properly. If no one here can help you, give me a call after. I'll track down my brother and send him your way." Brief glances at Tsi'la and Frost. " - if you'll excuse me."

- and then she is going, going, gone!

[Kora] (thanks everyone for the scene! I have stayed up tooooo late once more because you are all brilliant. and I'm'a run to bed now that I have a reason. also. :) )

[Imogen] (Night! Thanks for the RP!)

[Tsi'la Yanisan] ((Ni ni! :D sweet dreams!))

[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow arches slightly as Kora leaves, but she says nothing, and does nothing as the younger woman departs.

Her gaze flicks toward Frost. "I'll consider tha'," she says, closing her hand over the small car, "but I'd rather set it free. There are no more Eagles to protect; its duty is done."

This is said evenly, carefully without any impression of emotion.

[Maya] Maya Nevskaja still dressed much of the time like some wandering vagabond.

Most especially when she had been spending a great deal of her time around the Caern of Maelstrom, sitting among the dead and discussing memories with the ancient and not-so-ancient spirits that frequented the Graves of the Fallen Ones, as she called them. The raven-haired female that therefore walks into the restaurant of the Brotherhood of Thieves turns some eyes if only because her clothing is dirt-smeared and so are her cheeks.

Beneath the dark locks and tinges of earth, there were exotic features; the strong kind belonging to tribes of both Europe and beyond; the breeding of Fenrir with the softer suggestion of the Silver Fangs, hinted in the dark eyes, rimmed with kohl and in the full mouth. In the somewhat regal manner the woman moved, despite her appearance.

Despite, well, the fact that the Godi wore a necklace of painted bones around her neck and did not seem at all perturbed to be carrying a small pouch in one hand that smelled strongly of freshly turned soil.

[Frost] Good night Kora. Her phone vibrates and those with a sharp ear can probably hear the muffled buzz. She pulls it out and looks at the message. He couldn't wait until morning for that? She pockets the phone. I'm afraid I have to be on my way as well. Good to see you again Doctor. It was a pleasure meeting you Tsi'la. Maybe we can get together some time. Finally offering the woman a smile and a handshake. ((My bedtime too I'm afraid))

[Imogen] "Good-night," Imogen says, absently, pocketing the car.

Maya enters from the stairs leading down to the restaurant. The redhead's eyes fix on her, rest there a moment. A frown flickers, then fades. She draws a breath, then turns her head slightly to Tsi'la, "Kinfolk, are you?" she asks. Though she's apparently recognized the other, she appears to be content to let the Godi approach, herself. Or, perhaps not.

"Been in th'city long?"

[Tsi'la Yanisan] She takes the offered hand and gives it a gentle whisper of a shake, nodding softly. "Perhaps. I don't get out of Chinatown often, but if you get out that way I know a nice little place we could get some tea." She smiles gently, as gently as that handshake before looking to Imogen.

She chews on her lip, the thoughts there to offer something of assistance. Not directly, she herself wouldn't know what to do with it. And the last time she touched anything with a spirit bound to it... the damn thing bit her in the ass. Literally. She reaches up and scratches idly at her shoulder, frowning a bit.

Imogen's words blinks her out of the thought train, and wakes her up. She nods once, then twice. "Yes... I am Uktena born." She smiles softly, shaking her head. "Not overly long... I'm still learning many of the names and faces. It is... difficult to do with so many so spread out and changing so often. Now that the cast is off though I might be getting out a little more."

[Frost] "Sounds good, I'll look you up." Her handshake is firm, the hands a bit rough. And then she's off...
((Thanks for the game everyone. Good night.))

[Imogen] ( Thanks for the RP!)

[Imogen] (gah, she's so fast)

[Tsi'la Yanisan] ((lol yah.... was a bit strange))

[Imogen] Imogen, it seems, has already come to the conclusion that the other kinfolk cannot help her. She smirks a little as Tsi'la speaks. She is quietly-spoken, but that's different than soft-spoken. Her voice is merely low, but there is a distinct strength to it.

"I'm sorry t'say," she says, "tha' it does not get much easier o'er time. Folks are always spread out; and faces always change." In her pocket, the battered car makes a faint sound.

[Maya] For all that she was raised in a city until her First Change, Courts the Storms Eye was much more a Garou of the Wyld than the Weaver. Her time spent among the Fenrir at Storm Hammer is evident, and clearly, remained a strong influence on the way the Godi interacted with others of the Nation.

When she crests the stairwell, wrists and ankles clinking together in a dull musical accompaniment to her steps one of the first she spies is the flame-haired one known as Imogen Slaughter. The dark eyes remain there, her nostrils flaring for an instant as she breathes in the breeding. There is no ready smile on Maya's face that reads delight at seeing one she recalls, but rather the head tilt of recognition.

She moves closer, her little pouch attached to her wrist by a strap, it swings and granules of dirt escape with the motion.

"Imogen Slaughter, hello." Maya's voice was smokey, some might have considered it seductively so. Not likely the present Kinswomen before her, but it was thick still with her upbringing in Moscow. It clung to her words, and made them curious to hear. "It has been some time."

The dark eyes take in Tsi'a.

"Hello, Kinswoman."

[Tsi'la Yanisan] She smiles, nodding. "Oh yes, and it's a blessing and a curse. I'm just used to slightly different circumstance that would allow for me to be able to meet them more freely." She looks to the pocket, then over to Maya before returning her gaze to Imogen, but leaves the offer that came to mind aside for now. Somewhere in there apparently a lesson learned about offering too much.

Maya is given a smile, and a nod. "Hello"

[Imogen] Imogen regards Maya evenly. "So it has," she says, neutrally. "Welcome back to Chicago."

A glance toward Tsi'la.

"I imagine so," she says, lifting her chin to indicate the brace. "Broke it, did you?" Her hand returns to her jacket pocket.

[Maya] "I have given my oath to this Sept's spirit, it is mine to protect now, too." She says, without much in the way of preamble, perhaps her own way of interpreting what welcome back to Chicago required in the way of answer. As far as intimidating warriors went, Maya was not. She was, in actuality, quite petite, barely reaching 5'3 barefoot and being of a lean enough build that many mistook her for a Kinswoman rather than what she was.

Her Rage was minimal, and she did not seem particularly inclined to intimidate any around her, rather, she barely seemed to pay them mind at all. At present, she cants her head at the Uktena-bred one as her leg is mentioned and then turns and vanishes into one of the bedrooms -- there's some rattling, and after a moment Maya returns with an empty pot and sets it down on the coffee table.

Then the spirit talker pried open her pouch and poured its contents straight into it.

[Tsi'la Yanisan] She looks to her leg, then back to Imogen and nods. "Tumble down the stairs got me four breaks in it. It's pretty well healed now, I just have to get used to using it again." This doesn't seem to bother her in the least. Just simple fact. "You are a doctor, I heard?"

Her eyes follow Maya curiously, but she doesn't ask questions. Just watches. The gaze from the true born felt easily enough. She looks between the two women, and gives a soft smile. "If you two have business, I can go."

[Imogen] Were Imogen barefoot, she would stand shorter than Maya - but in the heels of her black pumps, they are perhaps on par. It is not often the kinwoman can look someone in the eye without looking up. She finds it unsettling.

She finds much about Maya unsettling - and little of it has to do with the woman herself, strange and distracted though she is.

"Have you then?" she says to Maya's reply. "Chicago's become quite the experience, lately. Yeh'll find much t'fight."

A glance to Tsi'la, a brief - succinct - shake of her head, "We haven't got business o' such. Stay, if yeh want."

[Imogen] (err. "We haven't got business as such" Makes much more sense!)

[Maya] Evidently, the Fenrir on her haunches beside the pair of Kinwomen plans to plant something in her little flowerpot. Or, she's simply making the transplanted dirt in her pouch a little more comfortable. Honestly, with Maya, it was hard to deduce what exactly the purpose of her actions were.

She rises, brushing her palms together brusquely and gives some soft grunt of agreement to what the Fianna-blooded one says. "We were connected once, through her mate's pack. I ran with the Eagles at Silence-rhya's request." If she has any inkling of what may have changed in her absence, she does not make light of it.

"Now I return and find much is different here, but then," her dark hair slides over one eye, masking it. She does not comb it back. "Who can control such things."

[Tsi'la Yanisan] Next to the two of them, she almost towers. It's an unsettling switch of perspectives. She's not used to having to tilt her eyes down to look at people. She's not short, by any stretch of the word, but she's certainly not tall either. At the moment, she's a giant. Even if all it is that makes her such is a few inches. The unsettling part is trying to consciously look at them, without looking down her nose. A visible effort there, maybe painfully so. Not that her demeanor or expression would suggest she did in the first place.

She smiles to Imogen, and nods. Whatever it is Maya's doing piqueing her curiosity enough to keep getting a glance that way. Taking in the words and nodding, but not really offering up much in the commentary.

[Imogen] The edge of Imogen's mouth turns down. "Indeed," she says, steps away from the coffee table. "Leave you to your planting, shall I?" A glance to Tsi'la, "A pleasure, as I said."

Maya might have been an ideal choice to assist Imogen with her little - stalker. A Godi, a Fenrir, someone whom she knows. Still, she does not ask for her assistance. The car stays in her pocket, to remain trapped as it is for another day - and likely longer.

"Good-night," and this to both.