Alright?

[Kora] Except for the city's array of lights, the sky would be a desolate iron gray, the color of the north sea in winter, reflecting a storm drenched sky. Instead, a sickly bank of orange clouds clots the strip of sky visible between the listing brick buildings. Fat snowflakes drift down in spiraling patterns, melting whereever they hit the wet ground.

The street is mostly empty on the chilly gray night. Pedestrians hurry between their destinations with their heads down, hands tucked firmly in the pockets of their winter coats, moving briskly to conserve whatever warmth lingers from wherever they've been to whereever they're going. The El rattles over squat brick buildings, gleaming reflections of neon signs running like moving water over the darkly reflective windows of the half-empty cars.

A few hopeful shopkeepers stay open later now, even here in Chinatown, imagining that holiday shopping might drive a few more dollars their way. Most of the ordinary shops are closed, now, shut tight. The "Oriental Massage" parlor on the corner and a pair of take out restaurants on the block are enough to keep foot traffic brisk here, and a specialty tea merchant is illuminated in his picture window, measuring our Darjeeling for a hipster in black trenchcoat and heavy, black-framed glasses.

In the shadow of a filthy and overlowing dumpster behind a cheap dim sum restaurant closed by the health department for violations so repeated and egregious that even the usual bribes could not sway the health inspector - blood gleams against the asphalt, dark against the wet black. There is a wet snap back as the unnatural thing collapses inward, brought down somehow by its own weight, all the way to the ground.

The alley is quiet now, except for the short, harsh sounds of someone breathing. Someone trying to catch their breath after a burst of all-consuming exertion - so brief and furious as to be practically anaerobic, like the 100 yard dash.

[Imogen] Imogen's breath is harsh in her lungs, but she can barely hear it over the sound of Sorrow's breath, which softens, if the Garou returns to her human form. She is further down the alleyway, the thing's body between her and the Garou. Her gun is in her hand, and she can feel the heat of the metal as she presses it against her knee, as she lay her other hand on her knee, bending forward briefly. Several strands of vibrant hair slip forward, hanging from the temple in a twist of unruliness.

Her eyes touch the ground, slick with grime and detritus, and now, a slow moving stream of blood. There is a drain behind her. Imogen straightens abruptly, stepping out of the way, reaching beneath her open coat to slide her gun into its holster.

Her ears are ringing, but she cocks her head just the same, listening for sirens.

They are in a part of town where people prefer to assume the sound of gunfire is backfire. Or perhaps, where people have stopped calling at all. Chinatown, like most of Chicago has a lovely veneer but a seedy underbelly. She lifts her hand and pushes back her hair, bringing with it, the smell of gunsmoke, as the kinwoman flicks her gaze toward the Garou.

"Alright?" she asks.

[Linus] (Skip me, I will come in once a bit of time has passed)

[Kora] Sorrow fights with her hands now; fights in her greatest warform - looming so massive that she could easily pulling down the rusting ladder of the listing fire escape with a singular swipe of a huge handpaw. There is a moment of disorientation as she snaps back to her human skin and the laws of physics - conservation of matter and all that rot - are turned on their head by the darker, seedier, wilder truths of the broken universe.

Human now, all that mass displaced in an instant by a rush of vaccuuming-abhoring air, she leans back against the rough brick of the closed restaurant, hands braced on her thighs, looking up at the sky. Her breath comes out in short, sharp little puffs of air. The jacket she was wearing earlier is gone, shredded. What's left is a t-shirt and a blood-stained thermal that is fitted to her frame, loose at the shoulders, tighter now at the waist.

There's no moon visible in the sky, just that oppressive bank of orange-stained clouds. She's looking up all the same, as if she might find some grace there, some relief from the concrete, from the brick and the asphalt, from the constriction of it all. As if she might find it anyone: that moon, sense it through the haze of light pollution and the scrim of winter clouds.

Snowflakes spiral down, melt against her skin. She tongues her mouth, experimentally, then straightens, putting her full weight on her left leg, experimenting with the right, where a dark stain, wet stain spreads against her worn jeans.

"Yeah,thanks," she says, with a grimace not for the pain but for the fucking dysfunction of it, the unnatural way her muscles pull against each other. "I will be." Dropping her dark eyes from the sky to the alley, with no more than a glancing look at the thing now empty in the middle of the alley, she meets the kinswoman's gaze, flickers a look up and down the woman's slight frame.

"You?"

[Imogen] Blood has sprayed along her throat and that blood is not hers and there is a tear in her blouse, a fine line of blood beginning to darken the edges and that blood is hers. It's barely a flesh wound, a long scratch that goes from navel to hip and could have eviscerated her had -

she doesn't remember, actually. She remembers the stark clarity of feeling her clothing tear and the claw that touches flesh, she remembers every single bullet she fired (nine), the frustration of the one that missed entirely. But she does not recall, precisely how it was that she was not disembowelled. Sorrow had attacked in time, or she had jumped back or the beast had just missed or -

it doesn't matter.

She parts the tear in her shirt to regard the wound, her jaw tightening, though her eyes appear almost clinical in their regard, then lifts her gaze, her hand wiping at the blood she can feel drying just beneath her jaw.

"Brilliant," she says, infusing the word with wryness in a way that very few can.

[Kora] The dumpster that half-conceals them from the street has not been emptied in weeks. The contract is up, the bill remains unpaid. Neighbors sneak their own trash in, and now the ugly metal box is quiet literally overflowing with odds and ends - a stiff roll of carpet juts out like a cigar, and a sagging recliner lists in the shadows, the stuffing torn out, peeled away by those strange birds that migrate to Chicago for the winter, from some great vast north, nesting in the leeside of highrises, in the soffits of crumbling old frame homes, in the forgotten attics of murdered men.

Stranger than all that is the corpse collapsed between them.

Impossible now to say if it ever was human, just a twisted mass of flesh, with the long arms and foreshortened legs of a proto-human and deformities so egregious one wonders that they could ever have been concealed by the flimsy, makeshift cape settled over the dead flesh, now.

"Yeah?" - this is quiet, too. Her breath is back in her lungs, back in her throat and it sweetens her voice, makes it human, makes it ordinary. Just a hint of thickening remains - the cold, the wind, the co-mingled scents of deep fried eggrolls and the dead-thing's own moist scent of organic rot - the shredded flesh underneath its ragged claws.

There's something sharpened about the look Kora gives Imogen, though - a glint of light across discs of her eyes, a sort of moving surface tension that has her both still and aware.

The moment pulls out, then breaks. Kora wipes her bloodied hands on the thighs of her jeans and crosses to the corpse on the ground, sinking slowly to her haunches, jaw set against the malfunction of her quariceps, the way it pulls wrongly against the set of its insertion, limiting her body's movement.

[Imogen] Imogen does not answer immediately, merely meets the eyes of the Garou without flinching. A muscle in her jaw moves, but it is the only expression of her tension. There is a sort of restrained challenge in her regard - as if daring the Skald's sharpened look to find fault or flaw.

The moment tightens, then snaps. Kora wipes her hands on her jeans, and Imogen turns away slightly, her eyes scanning the foetid ground. After a moment, she finds it. A dark blue scarf where it had fallen free - no, she had torn it off when it threatened to become even the slightest hindrance. She can smell the warmed leather of her gun holster and feel it faintly at the small of her back. This has a strange nostalgia - reminding her of winter, the way a certain smell might or a particular sight.

She leans forward, her body slightly turned to accommodate the slice in her skin, plucking the scarf from the ground. She turns it over between her hands, her nostrils pinching in distaste before she finds a relatively clean bit to wipe at her throat and just beneath her jaw. She then crosses the alleyway to near where Kora is crouched, her profile slightly awkward for her damaged muscle.

She studies the body for several seconds, one hand absently pressing against her side, deliberately staunching the seepage against her blouse - the only bandage she has for the moment. Then, wiping her hands clean on the soiled scarf, she says, "I'll go get my car."

Her hands lift to her jacket and begin to do it up.

[Jesmond Krutova] Chinatown at this time of night on a freezing Tuesday evening is not where you'd expect to find someone like Jesmond Krutova.

This was not to say that the diminutive brunette was inept at defending herself against any such beasts (like that which Imogen and Kora had just felled in an alleyway) that might cross her path but rather that she seemed well out of her usual routine to be emerging from one of the few stores still open at this hour; though judging by the tiny Asian man hastening after her to flip the sign in his door around that was about to change. She was carrying, pressed to her chest as she re-wound a scarf around her neck, a bag of Chinese herbs with the insignia of the store stamped to the front.

The Shadow Lord Kinswoman's coat was black, and the collar and sleeves were worn out, ragged. The hem needed attending to at the base; peeking out from beneath its folds were her work blouse; the simple uniform given to Nurses at Mercy Hospital. Her pathway would lead her toward the alley where the Fenrir and the Fianna stood conversing post battle, but her breeding would alert them to her far before she noticed the pair of them.

[Kora] Ahead in the alley - there some musk of danger, and a pair of moving figures. Not the usual darkness - not the Vietnam vet who reclaimed that abandoned barcolounger beside the dumpster as his own, and plays out - nightly - some long forgotten battle against some long dead men while drinking himself to oblivion, not the pair of leggy girls, too young to be so old, too old to be so young who normally haunt the entrance.

"Thanks doc - " Kora says to Imogen, directly and simply as she reaches for what seem to be the - well, ankles, of whatever the broken thing was. "I'll get it out of line of sight and get started."

Sorrow's hair has come loose, spills down her narrow back like a pale flag. Whatever she used to hold it back snapped with her shift, and now it catches the light as she moves, makes her almost human, almost ordinary. From a distance, Jesmond could pretend that she was just some girl on her haunches on an alley, that the sheen of wet on her hands was from the drifting snowflakes, the dirty water pooling in the broken asphalt after the afternoon's pounding winter rains.

Then she looks up, sharply over her shoulder as Jesmond's footsteps ring out on the pavement. Some new alertness enters her body language, and the illusion of girlishness is banished before it could be fully formed. The look is shrewd; she senses pure breed in a physical way, nostrils flaring as if she could literally smell whoever owned Jesmond's blood in the air around her.

A smear of blood mars the pale skin of her cheek, darker stains are shadows against her strong thighs. She is crouched on her haunches, shoulders forward, thighs drawn up, one hand against the pavement for balance, the other on her knee.

"That woman," To Imogen, quiet. " - know her?"

[Linus] The air ruptures somewhere in the darkness of the alleyway, where eyes and light make themselves known only when absolutely necessary and only within certain occupations. People like to forget about the dark spots and for those living in the city of the True kind and nature, it pays to know most general locations and their B.C.S. For instance, a dark alley was less conspicuous than the kitchen or closet of a diner as Superman entrances were very 60's but rooftop Batman methods made themselves popular everytime you looked down over the city with a scowl and some brooding.

The air ruptured, as was being said and the thinned out Godi is staring around with a vague sense of exhaustion under his eyes. Exhaustion and irritability. His clothes are a mesh of hoodies, one under a smaller other, with a black half-coat who's sleeves had been permanently rolled up. One hood is up while the other above it is down and over one shoulder. The cargo pants and sneakers are new, dark and relatively unremarkable.

"You two are hard to-"

He skids slightly in the muck of the fallen thing, hand roaming out to plant on the wall and catch himself from plummeting into the mess with a growl and flutter of Rage. The alley stinks and he snorts loudly. Wetly.

"...Hard to find." He wipes beneath his nose with the back of a gray felt and fingerless glove, flicking the excess onto the nearby wall. His eyes flick to Imogen (reflex and breeding) than on toward Kora (Concern and Instinct) with swift abandon.

"Immediate needs?"

[Imogen] Jesmond's footsteps ring out and Imogen's hand slides beneath her jacket again, hitching the hem of it up to give her clear access to her weapon. This is more than preparation, more than security. The tension of the muscles of her arms, the cock of her shoulder are all clear indicators of her intention.

Had Jesmond been human or unknown to her, Imogen's weapon would have been drawn. She might even have fired. She's done it before.

But Jesmond is not human and she is not unknown to her and Imogen's hand slips away from the butt of her gun. "Yes," she says.

"Kinfolk, though I don't recall the tribe. Not Fenrir." She has more details than that, but they are hardly pertinent; Jesmond's former sept, Jesmond's former mate.

Linus skids through the gauntlet, coming to a stop with a remonstration that becomes immediate duty. Imogen's body tightens like a bow - though she does not reach for her weapon, casting the Fenrir Godi a restrained glance.

"It's a bloody way-station," she observes, resigned.

"I'll go get my car." Let Kora prioritize. The body disposal over the Skald's own injuries (and Imogen's too, perhaps, though her silence on the subject is telling).

She starts out of the alleyway - a path that will put her directly in front of Jesmond. "Bit o' a mess out there," she says. She recalls that the other is a nurse, and therefore does not bother warning her away from it. "If yeh'd like t'pitch in, I ha' gloves in my car."

[Imogen] (err. bit of a mess in there.)

[Kora] Immediate needs? asks Linus, and Kora shoots him a look. The gleam in her eyes is animal, but the familiar shape of her generous mouth could only be considered - well, wry under that starched shadow of wary alertness demanded by the strange place and the equally strange company.

Her hair is loose, her own hoodie - undedicated - is shredded, in pieces scattered around the alley. A dark t-shirt and stained thermal, the old jeans and familiar goddamned Doc Marten's are all that remain of whatever she wore before. The air is brisk, cold enough that that her cheeks and nose are red, and only the afterburn of her rage, the spike of blood through her dilated arteries keeps her warm.

"We need to get rid of Junior, here. The doc's bringing around her car. Give me a hand, would you - " and then a glance back at Jesmond, as Imogen confirms that the woman is known, if not her tribe. "Shadow Lord - " Kora supplies, when Imogen qualifies the woman's identity as simply not Fenrir. Then she's turned back again to the corpse, grabbing one of the thing's nameless limbs with a gesture toward Linus. "Doc's bringing the car around. I want him a bit more concealed before we start disarticulating the joints."

[Linus] Linus first reaction to the figure is something akin to disgust. Nothing of refusal there though, more just a healthy consideration for the Wyrm's various ministrations on humanity. Gnostic sensibilities kicking in with that soulful cringe at the centre mass, obscure, abstract and vaguely metallic over the solar plexus. He crouches low to the ground and circles either wrist of the thing, eyes lifting back up to Kora, waiting for her signal to begin to heft.

"You people-" Grunt. Lift. Heave. "-really like getting everyone's hands dirty, I see."

He huffs, nose crinkling slightly even as they shift the body in the direction Kora wants to go. Linus is careful to take a wide stance, so as not to slip in the constant leak of fluids from the frame in question. His eyes remain thin, as if to open them to too much light might hurt or cause discomfort.

"Where's your disposal site anyway?" More grunting and sliding about. He isn't exactly the largest of fellows, mind you.

[Jesmond Krutova] Jesmond's footsteps slow as she registers the fact that there is activity ahead of her, and that the woman emerging from the alleyway is someone she knows, by name and by virtue of having worked beside her on at least one prior occasion. The paper bag in her arms is shifted, and the dark-haired Kinswoman peers at Imogen in the manner people did, when they were confirming identity.

"Doctor Slaughter," she greets as if it were the most amiable meeting imaginable, and then her eyes chart to the alleyway at mention of the mess. "Of course, is anyone hurt?" By anyone, it seems fair to imagine she includes Imogen in that cluster, her eyes lingering on the traces of blood on the redhead. When she is what she approximates as near enough, Jesmond leans over and sets her bag of groceries down.

Her figure, amongst all the muck and grime is that of a tall female with pale skin and dark, dark hair. She looks at what the Fenrir are wrestling with; and wordlessly rolls the sleeves of her coat upward. "Jesmond," she informs them then and carefully navigates her way around the wet ground. "How may I assist?"

The gore apparently did not deter her; but then, her own figure faintly housed the scent of antiseptic and old blood, worn into her shoes; her blouse. This was not the first scene of bloody chaos she had borne witness to.

[Kora] "All hands on deck - " returns Kora, with that quiet hint of irony that has matured since she was a teenager. The direct look she gives her brother across the corpse is open and surprisingly good-natured. A lingering hint of dark eyes framed by her familiar pale features, the straight nose and generous mouth that must have made her (nameless) modi father look bruisingly sweet when he smiled. " - and all that rot."

Then with the heaving. The dead thing has some impossible sort of specific gravity that seems heavier than lead, some investment of metal into flesh, some concealed weight admist that bulbous flesh. Beneath the make-shift cloak - made from a pair of black flannel blankets stapled together, it wears a vintage wrestling t-shirt and misshapen sweats with a high school logo on the thigh.

These are the only human things left of the corpse. Vestigal memories of what-it-was that disappear as the pair of Fenrir thud it down in the deeper shadows of the overflowing dumpster.

"The doc has a few," says Kora, quietly, to Linus' question. "One in these old freight railroad tunnels, out in Bronzeville. I don't know if there are any closer." She straightens then, dark eyes tracing Jesmond's path as she picks her way down the wet alley and sets her groceries aside. "Kora," says the Fenrir, by way of introduction. Cursory tonight, as there is work to be done and Jesmond is, in the end, still a stranger. Lifting her chin toward her brother, she offers, " - and Linus. Keep a watch out, would you? Make show no one lingers, watching. And no one interrupts us while we take care of this."

There's blood on her hands, on her cheek, dark stains on her thighs.

[Imogen] She has not cleaned herself perfectly of blood. Traces linger between her fingers, a smear of it along her jawline, a shadow of it at her throat. Still, she stands straight, her body unbowed by pain, and if she favours one side, it is not debilitating.

Imogen arches an eyebrow at the question, "Something was killed," she said, "Fortunately it was the other side. I don't believe anyone needs human medical attention."

With that, they part ways, Imogen toward her car, and Jesmond, deeper into the alleyway.

[Linus] Linus is listening as Kora speaks but his eyes seem to be registering Jesmond's hands to her sleeves, rolling them up with some sort of intention. It's only as she stares down at the body with something akin to frankness that Linus' features seem to twist with...well something indelicate. He might well have said something had Kora's orders/suggestion not crept in. Linus is not the sort of keep quiet, expressively or vocally but in this he seems satisfied and returns his attention to the body without responding to Kora's introduction of him.

"Should probably burn it." A pause, glancing at Kora again, a systematic scrutiny of the blood and places. The boy's knowledge of medicine was mediocre to pathetic but then, that was for Healers. That was for doctors and nurses.

"Looks like a War aspect." He nudges at the body, distended, engorged muscle and metallic endurance. "Any projection? Fluids or mental? Suggestions? Get at your goat or the Doc's at all?" A pause. "Angry? He make either of you angry?" A glance past Kora and Jesmond, toward the distancing Doctor Slaughter and back again.

[Linus] (annnddd I'll be back soon. Gotta go grab some food.)

[Kora] "The blood was hot," returns Kora, quietly, glancing out over her shoulder at the mouth of the alley. She's in shadow now, brighter only where the light glazes her hand, her pale hands as she holds them out, turning the long fingers over, and under, examining tips the way a human woman might inspect a recent manicure. An angry flush of red - a first degree burn - is the only legacy of that hot blood except for the drying stains. " - burned a bit, but I think it was just the body's internal temperature, not acid, not some caustic. Otherwise - "

Here she glances up, catches the edge of her brother's attention, meeting his eyes in the shadows. She is conscious of her body, standing straight through the spine, shoulders leveled - not as lithe, perhaps, as she was - but otherwise nearly ordinary. "no. Nothing mental. More like a boiling kettle, that one - " Then she nods vague agreement to his suggestion. "Cleanse what we can, then we'll burn it. Help me with the shoulders, will you? We need it in manageable pieces, small enough to fit in a garbage bag."

[Jesmond Krutova] Jesmond weathers the Godi's stare the way she did all; that was, she pretended that it was not occurring, and raised her face to examine the Garou's twisted expression with a semblance of something politely inquisitive, as if she were awaiting more commands to come from the young man. A pretty woman, the widowed Kinswoman did indeed possess a frankness to her scrutiny of the corpse at their feet.

It was not to say she was devoid of feeling about who or what it might have once been but that she was capable of setting any very human reactions to one side and get the business done of whatever needing doing. The Jarl requests that she keep watch, and Jesmond, her hands at her sides, nods once and turns to move and stand poised at the end of the alleyway; looking out and sliding a phone from her pocket as if she were merely waylaid by the necessity of making a phone call.

[Kora] (I gots to sleep. :) I've got a few minutes and I'm going to go pay my bills online but then I'm going to ask y'all to... write me out or just assume kora's hanging around in the background!)
to Imogen, Jesmond Krutova, Linus

[Jesmond Krutova] (No worries, hun! :) )
to Imogen, Kora, Linus

[Imogen] (I, uh, am pretty much in the same boat. Maybe Imogen and Kora go off to burn the body? it doesn't really require everyone. *grin* which will let you guys keep playing!)
to Jesmond Krutova, Kora, Linus

[Kora] (that works perfectly for me. (grins) meiling. I think we can leave them to each other's tender mercies!)
to Imogen, Jesmond Krutova, Linus

[Jesmond Krutova] (hahaha, YOUBITCHES. *grins* Kidding, s'all good!)
to Imogen, Kora, Linus

[Kora] (nini, y'all!)

[Imogen] (MWAHAHAHAHAHA

...ahem.

*flees!* Thanks for the RP! have fun!)

[Roman Turner] Light spilled out the windows of the old church, extending welcoming warmth to those that braved the cool temps and what lay within the church. Now and then the sound of hammer blows echoed through the place mixed with the strands of music from the radio. He'd found a local country station so he could sing along when he knew the words. Shadows bounced off the walls, cast there from the lantern.

"Hand me another one."

He glanced back over one tee shirted shoulder towards Rain, nodding towards the two by fours stacked along one wall. They were working on framing in another wall. A carpenter's apron was tied around lean hips, the front pockets bulging with nails. The hammer was shoved in the loop at the hips of carpenter jeans that were stained with paint here and there from previous work. Tonight there was no hat, he was indoors. Tonight it was a chestnut mop of hair he brushed back from his eyes as he held out a gloved hand for the board.

[Rain McKellar] There'd been a morning, sometime in the weekend, when Rain hunted him down and asked seriously if he had a black shirt she could borrow. She'd been in slim black jeans and a tank top, rubbing at her arms to keep them warm. Her hair had been tied up in a knot at the back of her head, not even threatening to spiral out and spill over her shoulders. She'd looked impatient waiting on his answer. She'd looked better. There was some spark of warmth beneath her smile, now, that didn't wait to be beckoned forward. There was a little press of personality that brightened the corners of her eyes.

She'd gone out that day, all in black and with her guitar in tow. She'd come back late, late into the evening and crashed hard. Rain had been smiling. She'd been happy.

Now they're framing in the wall and he's singing along with the country music station. Now and again, he might catch her smile warming to something like friendship. And given enough time, she might just sign along. Rain knows some of these songs better than he does. There's a chance, slim but ever present, that a particular track might come along and stop her in her paces, catch her attention away and steal it up for a moment, breathless. There's a chance that something of Rain's might come out of that radio, not that she'd tell him why the boombox got her attention for a moment and not that it'd be her voice singing on the airwaves.

She'd sold them to make ends meet, that's what she'd told Harmony.

The girl hefted another board for him, brought it over and handed it to Roman. Her smile hasn't abated. It's still warm, like the lantern light. It's wholly different than when he'd met her.

"Here ya go," she says, as the board finds his grasp. Once he had it firmly, she wandered back to the stack to get another. "How long have ya'll been workin' on this place?"

[Roman Turner] He'd given her that black shirt she asked for, giving her a choice of two, one was a button down long sleeved shirt, the other had been a black tee he bought after moving here "I (a heart) Chicago" across the chest. The times she joined in singing he'd grinned like a fool and tried to harmonize with her, even did a few two step moves. When "Nothing but the radio on" by Gary Allan came on, he even did some Cha-Cha steps, grabbing her hand and trying to get her to dance along with him.

She asked a question later as he took the board she fetched and as he lined it up and stretched up to tack it in place, he replied.

"Been working on it since I joined up with Miss Kora, on about July this summer past. Sparrow was suppose to help, but she went back home."

[Rain McKellar] She'd chosen the button up, and she'd rolled the arms up at some point during her day away. The I Heart Chicago printing would have been a bit conspicuous for what she was off to do, and that? Well, if he'd asked, she'd tell him she'd gotten a crew job. And if it worked out, it might be steady money through the holidays.

That had to be good news, right?

If Roman couldn't find the harmonies, the Rain could let him take the melody and work her voice around his. She was pretty good at this singing thing, which would explain that guitar that followed her around most days. She hadn't played in the packhouse, just yet. When Roman grabbed her hand and tried to get her to Cha Cha along, Rain laughed and followed. She was a decent follow, not a great one. A little out of practice, but the rhythm worked its way easily into her bones, and she had heart (even if her form left something lacking).

"I didn't know you danced," she said, lightly and lilting. A pleasant surprise, now doubt.

About the packhouse:

"Seems a good project, though. Rebuilding home." There's approval in her voice. It's the sort of thing Rain could get behind, even if all she was doing, tonight, was saving him a handful of shuffling steps between the pile of boards and the section of wall he was focused on. "D'ya all work on it, or just you?"

[Roman Turner] "Mostly it's been me. I'm not all that great at it, but I'm willing to try and Miss Kora, she's too important to do things like this. Sparrow is gone, so that leaves me to do this."

He didn't say he wouldn't hear of Kora lifting things in her condition because Kora might hear him and beat the snot out of him.

"So how's that new job going? Do ya sing or what?"

[Rain McKellar] "It went well enough. I'm not performing, but I'm crew. It's nice to be close to that again. We set up the stage, speakers, mics, monitors, lights, all of that before a show and break it down after. Since I can play a few instruments well enough for sound checks, it helps. Crews are a bit like family after they work together long enough. My old one traveled together, too, kinda like gypsies."

She waggles her eyebrows a bit, obviously overstating her former vagabond ways. She also doesn't mention that it's bittersweet, crewing someone else's gigs. Rain's pretty easy to please, and at least this is honest work in a field she loved. (Loves.)

"I talked to Eve this weekend," she says. Just leaves it out there while she picks up the next piece of wood and brings it over. She's figured out the cadence of her footfalls in the space. There's this many steps, then a pause to pick up the wood, and that many steps back. It's like a rhythm, offset by his hammer blows. It's almost music, when you thread in the country songs. "And met Ms. August."

[Roman Turner] His hammer stilled for a moment, losing rhythm when she mentioned Eve, though in a moment it was going again.

"I need to have a little talk with Miss Eve also. How was MIss August? After what Paul said, I ain't sure if I should approach her or what. I was hoping to find the family elder here in the city to have a word with her about Miss August, but ain't seen her once since I been here. So I reckon that's another thing on the list."

[Rain McKellar] "I told her that you and Mr. Harmony might want to talk," Rain said, still about Eve. "She said you two sound like honorable folk, and she doesn't mind."

That's probably not exactly how it went, but it's close enough for Rain. That's how she remembers it, at least, but with a measure more sadness.

"Miss August's right torqued with family. She thinks ya'll left her and Ella out to hang with what Mr. Paul's been up to." Rain's voice is even, but she's bothered a bit by that situation. August's situation bothers Rain significantly more than her own. "Miss Jeela and I are going to check in on her now and then."

A pause, then Rain exhales a little. It sounds unhappily like a sigh.

"Did y' know she's expecting, again?"

[Roman Turner] For a brief moment something like anger and guilt had him holding still again before he pushed it down.

"Who's Miss Jeela and what's she expecting?"

August blamed family for her mating with Paul? That rattled his brain box.

[Rain McKellar] "Ah, no, Miss August is expecting another child," Rain clarifies. "I'm sorry. I wasn't clear. And Miss Jeela is kin, but I'm not sure to whom. I met her the other night with Miss August and Mr. Kyle. Mr. Paul was there, too."

Even Rain's voice frowned at this. Her dislike for the Bayou-born Gaian had grown over the past week. It was undeniable. She did not elaborate on why.

[Imogen Slaughter] The glow in the dilapidated church had confirmed the presence of the pack inside. Or, one packmate. Or, to be perfectly accurate (and we might as well be), one packmate and one stranger.

The music is loud enough that the creak of the old door is half hidden in the sound of music and their conversation. But sound does not obscure sight. The kinwoman is slight, her shadow expanding before her as she steps into the laternlight, her hair brilliant in the illumination, red, but more complex than a single simple hue. There is gold buried in there, a base of deep oak brown. Roan and rouge. It is not quite ruled by the clips and pins she has used to pull it up.

Her eyes are dark, even in this light which only gives enough illumination to reveal that they're blue, and they move briefly to Rain, resting there a moment, a copper brow stirring before it flicks to Roman.

"Sorry to interrupt." It's politeness, rather than genuine.

[Roman Turner] "Let me make sure I have the right of this. Paul and Miss August were together when you saw them the other night and she's pregnant already? Not to sound indelicate, but did she say who the father was this time?"

Then Imogen was there and he bent to turn down the radio a bit with a big ole smile.

"Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am! I ain't seen ya in a coon's age. This here is Miss Rain, she's Kin of my Tribe. Miss Rain, this here is Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am."

He brushed his hands off on the seat of his jeans.

"Come on in and have a seat."

With that he was gathering chairs, brushing the cheap plastic seats off for the women.

[Rain McKellar] Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am is a mouthful, even for someone with deep Southern roots. There's a lot of titles and honorifics wrapped up in that collection of syllables. It's the sort of thing that makes a girl Rain's age stop and stand a little straighter.

Not too much straighter though. She's already five and a half feet, which is a good size for a girl who's likely got an inch left to grow into throughout her college years. And tonight, unlike most of the others she's spent in Chicago to date, Rain is smiling warmly enough to bring her natural charisma forward.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," she says, opting for the honorific over the slew of titles. She offers a hand, once she's smoothed the dust and lingering splinter-shards off on the seat of her jeans. Her fingers are cold, but not icy. There's a slow, sweet drawl to the shape of her voice.

For a moment, Miss Doctor Slaughter's arrival has tabled the gossiping Rain had started in on with Roman. She doesn't answer his questions, just yet.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Dr. Slaughter will suffice," Imogen smirks faintly, giving Roman a narrow eyed glance, "Regardless o' what he says."

She turns her gaze to the girl - younger than she is, which is hardly unusual. Imogen is a woman likely in her thirties and seems to spend her time surrounded by teenagers and young adults, at least in matters that pertain to that of the blood.

Her eyes drop briefly to the offered hand, before she reaches out to take it. Imogen's grip is firm and cool. "A pleasure," she says, by rote. The kinwoman is not American. Even with those brief untelling sentences, it was immediately clear. She's been mistaken for all sorts of nationalities - everything from Irish to Australian. It's the kind of accent that always pleases a North American ear but is never quite easy to place.

Roman makes a production of finding chairs, brushing them off, and Imogen watches him, without moving toward it. Her hands are in the pockets of her coat now, drawing the edges up toward her body. She is ill-suited to this place; too expensive, too put-together.

"It's coming along, isn't it?" she says, her gaze moving over the building, over the floor.

[Roman Turner] Imogen commented on the work inside and he grinned ear to ear, turning to look at what they had just been working on. The wall was roughly framed in and with luck they'd get hold of some wall board before long.

"Yessum, it's coming along. I finally got hold of some singles and took care of some of the leaks. It needs a new roof, a complete tear off, but for now, roofing tar and mismatched singles will have to do."

He seemed completely immune to narrowed looks from Imogen, if anything it had added to his smile.

[Imogen Slaughter] Her gaze moves briefly to the roof as he speaks about it. "Are yeh goin' to be able t'actually do that?" she asks. "Remove the roof, I mean?"

Rain has been helping. Imogen makes no effort to do the same, though she does not yet take the chair provided.

[Roman Turner] "May I offer ya a drink Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am? Heat up some soup for ya? We have a cook stove ya know. As for the roof? Sure, I know how to do it, it's a big job and ain't cheap, that's the problem. One man on this roof, it would take a solid month. It might also draw too much attention, so gonna have to talk it over with Miss Kora. Might be we will stick with patch jobs."

He brushed the chair off further, figuring he must of missed some of the saw dust because Imogen was still standing.

"Have I said it's mighty fine to see ya again?"

There was that goofy smile again.

[Rain McKellar] Rain tucked her thumbs into the back pockets of her jeans. She could do that now. Enough of the stiffness had left her back and shoulders for her body to be pliable and lithe again. It was something she was still celebrating, quietly and inwardly. The more Roman fussed with the chair, the more her mouth skewed toward one side in an unabashedly amused fashion.

"I can help," she says, gently. "With the money at least, now that I've a job. Not sure you want me up on the roof in all this rain and wind."

She watches Imogen, but not openly so. Instead Rain finds a patch of finished wall to lean against, leaving both Roman's carefully prepared chairs empty just now. On her part, she's lightly teasing the True. She's not quite sure that Imogen's teasing, though. She'd put money on Miss Doctor Slaughter being too good for sawdust and splinters.

(And Rain would understand that. Good clothes weren't for construction, after all.)

[Imogen Slaughter] "Patch jobs might be better," she says, her gaze lifted to the roof again, "this place is supposed t'be abandoned, after all."

Roman had earlier ignored Imogen's narrowed eyes. It seems that now, the kinswoman ignores the obvious fawning he makes over her. Do you want something to drink, soup, it's so nice to see you again. Rage or not, his is the kind of grin that can cause cold hearts to melt.

"I'm alright," she says to the offer of drink or soup, "At before I came by."

Her gaze lowers to the boy. "Sorry," she says, almost absently. "I've been rather busy." A pause. "I do need a favour, though."

[Imogen Slaughter] (err: "Ate before I came by.")

[Roman Turner] "Anything ya need, I am your man."

His face lit up with the words that Imogen needed something from him. That big ole smile was bright enough to light the room.

[Rain McKellar] She found Roman's attention to the other kinswoman endearing, or adorable, or some other fondly appreciative adjective. That good natured amusement remained, coloring Rain's expression faintly, touching the curl of the corners of her mouth or the edge of her eyes.

Imogen needed something. Roman's face lit up and Rain turned her attention fully toward her. They were both curious. Rain a little less avidly so, but that could be excused. She was new to town; she didn't know Imogen's name or reputation just yet.

[Imogen Slaughter] The corner of Imogen's mouth twitches imperceptibly, then stills, as she removes her hand from her pocket. In it, she holds a small toy car. A police car to be exact, one that appears to have seen much better days. Its wheels are raw and torn, its paint redone, possibly by hand. One of its sirens is broken, the plastic cracked, and sealed with what might be glue.

She studies the car for a moment, which makes an unlikely sound of sirens, and in the cup of her palm, impossibly tries to scurry up the heel of her hand to hide in the cuff of her coat.

"I was wonderin' if yeh could hold on to this fer me 'till tomorrow," she says, finally. "S'an awakened car tha' has took a likin' to me a while ago. Its creator is dead," she says this with a certain amount of bluntness, "and it sought me out. I normally keep it in my apartment, but," a slight shrug, "tomorrow, that's not possible."

[Roman Turner] When he stepped forward, it was slow and silent, even the floorboards didn't creak beneath his weight. And when he spoke it was a hushed sound.

"I'd be honored to. I'll keep the little fella safe and sound till ya come for him. Though odds are he won't be too thrilled to be away from ya if he done chose ya himself."

He extended his cupped hands to receive the little car.

"What's his name?"

[Rain McKellar] Usually Rain kept her distance from the odd things that life in the Nation brought across her doorstep. Usually, she'd stay across the room until the thing or person or worse had been handle. But a self-aware toy car? This didn't seem to phase her. She even pushed off the wall and wandered closer to get a good look.

"How long have you had 'im?" she asks, in a small hollow of their conversation, formed by someone's pause or someone else's taking breath. Her eyes flick down to the toy, then back up to Imogen's. Rain's first Warder was a Seer, often more lost to the tangible world than here in it. An Awakened car, so long as it didn't become Rain's charge, was sort of fascinatingly adorable.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's brow contracts faintly. "It's a car," she says, an eyebrow arching. "It never occurred to me to name it." Stark, the difference between the two and her. She says it. They say he and him, and want to know his name, and how long she's had him.

She passes the car over, with a sudden squawk of sirens and a frantic whirring of wheels, the little thing clearly distressed to be parted. The kinwoman's mouth tightens slightly, though it does not appear to be distress, more - a resignation, perhaps, or simply a reluctance.

"A few weeks," she says, "maybe a month."

[Roman Turner] He gently cupped his hands, curling his fingers so the car couldn't ramp up them and out to fall. All the racket had him leaning back a bit as he held out his hands to Imogen.

"Ya best tell him we ain't doing nothing ya don't want us to. Best tell him it's just for a short time. He's taken a shine to ya, that's a rare honor and blessing."

[Rain McKellar] Roman leaned back, but Rain leaned in. She peered at the little thing in his hands, with it's lights and sirens blazing and its wheels careening. She leans in enough that she can see it, even with the way his fingers curl to keep it safe.

Rain glances at the both of them, and then reaches in to touch her fingertip to its roof. As if touching it might make it a little more real to her, and also as if touching it may be incredibly fool-hardy and dangerous, or maybe, who knew, it might calm down a little (or start spinning in circles).

It was terribly fascinating, the little car that could.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen casts Roman an unreadable glance, her jaw tightening, a tendon flexing as it does. She watches, while Rain touches the car, watches as the lights all flash suddenly, the car's wheels whirring, though they go no where. The wheels are rough on Roman's palm. The little car has had a long journey or two (or ten) on tires meant for a child's toy, and therefore, no long journeys at all.

The car does seem to calm a little in the aftermath of Rain's touch, still rocking back and forth in the cup of Roman's palms.

Here is the point where Imogen is to offer consolation to ... a toy car. Reassure it that she's coming back for it. The reticent kinswoman stares down at the cupped hands for a moment, before leaning forward and saying, without any softness at all, "I'll come back and get you soon." A beat, her mouth thinning, before she adds, "It will be alright."

...

Imogen, frankly, is not the woman you want to care for your favourite pet, your child or your toy car.

[Roman Turner] "Now kiss him on the top and he'll believe ya. He's alive Miss Doctor Slaughter, and like all living things, he needs love, Ma'am."

He lifted his hands, waiting for the kiss.

"Ain't that right Miss Rain?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen has straightened by the time Roman speaks, and she casts Roman a black look, her eyes narrowing. "If it wanted love," she says, "it picked the wrong person to latch onto. Should it truly need a kiss, either one of you is welcome to oblige."

[Rain McKellar] Rain, God and Gaia bless her, glances down at the pitiful toy, then up to Roman, and then over to Imogen in a round-about expression of mild disbelief. She... knows better than to correct a True on spiritual matters but Miss Doctor Slaughter does not seem like the sort of person who would go around kissing toys, or skinned knees for that matter.

"I ...."

Imogen saves her from answering, so Rain's wide brown eyes swing back Roman's way to see what he might reply. Meanwhile, she pets the car's roof again, consolingly (She didn't mean it that way, honey).

Just once or twice.

When Imogen weren't looking.

[Roman Turner] "It is not asking for your love Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am, it is giving you all of it's love. It's decided to devote itself to ya and the least ya can do is to reassure it. It's a small gesture, Ma'am. Won't cost ya nothing but some dignity and there ain't no one here judging ya."

[Imogen Slaughter] Instead, Imogen holds out her hand to take the car back. "I'll find another way t'keep it out th'way, if you please."

[Roman Turner] The corners of his mouth twitched and before he could control it, burst in to a full smile.

"It would seem dignity is too high a price to pay for complete devotion. Just as well ya keep him with ya, he'll fret something awful if he's parted from ya. Good call."

Gently he opened his fingers, offering the little car back to Imogen with a whisper to it.

"There ya go fella, just what ya wanted."

[Rain McKellar] Incredulous. That's the best word for the expression that flicks across Rain's face when Roman whispers back to the car and surrenders it to Imogen. Miss Doctor Slaughter conjures up words like surrender and yield in Rain's mind. Roman doesn't just give the car back to her, no, that's far to simple a word.

Her hands find her way back into her pockets, and Rain wipes the amusement from her features. Mostly. She wouldn't be goaded into grinning by the broad smile Roman wore. Not just yet.

"I hope you find a good place for him," she tells Imogen. She almost corrects herself to say it under the weight of the kinswoman's un-amused expression. "Ma'am," is the addendum she settles on instead.

[Imogen Slaughter] She does not let him complete his point. If Rain has a highly evolved sense of a kinfolk's place in the world, it has likely been thrown asunder by these short moments. Imogen does not seem to abide by much of it: "Spare me th'lecture, Roman. Yeh aren't a theurge."

She takes the tiny vehicle back (which squeals its relief), and pockets it again.

Her head turns to glance at the half-done wall, her gaze resting there for seconds longer than it needed to. "I'll let you both get back to yer work, shall I?" she says, eventually, turning back. "A pleasure to meet you," this to Rain, as she steps back and toward the door.

[Roman Turner] "Don't need my lecturing Ma'am, I believe those squeals of joy say it all for me."

This is that point that if he had been wearing a hat, he would of tipped it to her. Instead he bowed his head as she started to leave and called out.

"Y'all come back, Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am. And remember, even those we reject, often have value."

[Rain McKellar] Rain rubbed her hands together. It wasn't frigid inside, but neither was it particularly warm tonight. If there was time, when Roman had finished sharing his viewpoint and before the other kin left, Rain wished her a "Good night, Doctor Slaughter."

All the same, the younger kinswoman is moving back toward the pile of boards at the edge of the lantern light and leveraging up the next one to bring back to Roman's work space. She stops and waves a bit at Imogen, or her back, or even her receding shadow. It's just polite, see, and Rain's a friendly sort.

"She seems nice," she'll tell Roman, once Imogen is out of earshot. It's pleasant and vague enough to shroud all sorts of opinions.

[Imogen Slaughter] Roman calls after her - and Imogen does respond or turn. She has exited the building before the sentence is fully finished, Roman's last words cut off as she steps out on the street.

Outside, a block away, she looks skyward toward a cloud covered sky. No stars and no moon to be seen here. After a moment, she reaches into her jacket pocket to pull out the car. There is nothing obviously poignant about this moment, she does not kiss it now, nor even stroke it. But she does lift it to her eyeline, regarding it steadily for several seconds, her mouth compressed, her jaw tight.

She returns the car to her pocket. In a few steps, she retrieves her cigarettes, and in a few more, she is smoking. Her car is a few blocks away, and she is back on her way home, the nameless police car safely tucked away in her jacket pocket.

[Roman Turner] "She calls me a bloody fool, or idgit, whatever it is, it is said with great fondness. I think though that while she is a Goddess set adrift on this world to walk alone, she is not the Goddess of Love or she would of kissed the little fella to reward him for his loyalty and sooth his concern at being parted."

He returned to working for only a few moments more before suddenly asking Rain.

"Ya hungry? I'm hungry. We could warm up some soup or go out for burgers."

And that's how the conversation went after Imogen left.

[Roman Turner] ((And now I need sleep something desperately. I think you both for the play.))

Out For a Walk

[Simon Zahradnik] Cold as hell, wet and fucking annoying. Simon was fine when it was stormy but when things got below freezing is when Simon got grumpy and annoyed. He wasn't a huge fan of the cold winter, and would much rather travel to where it is warm but that's hardly feasible with so many obstacles in the way. So instead he has to find some way to suck it up like everyone else and suffer through those long slow winter nights.

Tonight, he was simply out. No direction, no purpose in mind. He was simply out and wandering in search of something to break, or even shatter the monotony. Life has been slow and while some would find the startling lack of violence to be pleasant Simon was a Full Moon, and violence was as much a part of him as breathing was to others. Too long without a fight and a man is gonna start feeling cooped up and trapped.

[Bridget] The Witches of November have evoked themselves into being at long last. The pleasant Indian Summer vanished without a trace like a beloved missing child. The lake wind cuts through to the bone, making the Chicagoans hustle to and from cabs or wind-sheltered nooks between buildings. The Windy City comes into its own this time of year. Any non-native could easily blend in with a new-looking peacoat and scarf.

Bridget takes refuge at a small, yuppie cafe with "art-punk" appeal. She hovers over a steaming hot mug of coffee in an off-the-shoulder number in the same deep blue as a dress she once wore to Simon's apartment when the weather was more pleasant. A simple black cap covers her head while some thrift wool coat drapes over the back of her chair. She is quite visible from the window she has her back to. Her sweater tunic drops low enough on her shoulder that a familiar inked raven's head peeks out from the blue fabric and through a curl of hair. The inked raven would study the passersby if it were animate, watching out for his mistress' back.

For the moment, she's talking rather dismissively to a man loitering near her table. Her body language is stiff, annoyed. He leans too close. The Fianna kin says something he seems to think is a joke. She sips her coffee and turns to look over her shoulder for a moment. The displeasure is read clearly across her face.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon's annoyance was eased somewhat with the sight of Bridget. He recognized her instantly, memories still linger even if time goes on. Fondness is a pleasant thing for a full moon, especially when in ones life simply seeing someone again could be considered a luxury. He stopped outside the window and his smile grew until he caught sight of the tension in the kin.

His eyes then lifted to catch sight of the one causing the tension. The young man would be scanned with cautious eyes. There were two kinds of people in this world when it came to potential problems. There were monsters and then there were humans... Largely humans were to be treated a little more delicately. So leaping through the window and tearing the man's head off in a crowd of people is marked off as a possibility. Approaching, however, was not and in he went.

Dark hoodie zipped to the neck and pulled over his head as well as black jeans and boots. He wore a bandanna around his neck. It was a simple outfit, though unlikely the fashion statement Simon was attempting to make was not so easy to determine. He liked to call it his "Urban Ninja" look. What sounded like a silly name became not only practical but quite dangerous in the dark alleys and streets of this city. Everything about him was geared towards conflict, the nightly struggle that others found themselves locked in was far from nightly to him it was a reality every second of his life. There was no such thing as off duty, there was only fighting, and not fighting.

He was mean looking, and had this tendency to set most off simply by walking into a room, so when he approached the young man and reached out to pluck at the side of his shirt, it would naturally be taken as an invasion of ones personal space. In fact that is exactly what he was doing, entering into the man's comfort zone with the intention of helping him realize he was far from safe right now."Nice shirt. Where'd you get it?"He asks with a tilt of his head, his lips parting so he can gently tap that piercing against his tooth as he waits patiently for an answer. His stance was outright confrontational, he simply walked up and straight into the man's personal space. It was an outright and vulgar threat even if he wasn't exactly yelling or threatening!

[Bridget] The ease at which the Garou were drawn to kinfolk still surprises Bridget. It makes her wonder sometimes if she ever truly could get lost. Simon's presence relaxes that annoyance showing in the muscles of her shoulders once she spots the Ahroun. His Rage is something to behold. It would make anyone flinch... and he certainly has drawn the attention of some of the patrons.

Bridget's irritated expression turns to a honeyed grin. She's aware of the potential danger of the situation. The kinfolk turns to the stranger while she stands. "I said I'm not alone. Get lost."

Even though she's being dismissive, this action could actually save the guy's life if he heeds her. She squeezes past him and reaches for the Ahroun whose "Urban Ninja" fashion statement clearly clashes with this particular cafe crowd. The warmth of her fingertips attaches to his side while she closes the distance between them.

Stag's kin is more than comfortable around the young Shadowlord. Whether it is the dizzying rush of pheromones or some sort of half-feral understanding is uncertain. Neither seems relevant at the moment, when the hipster surrenders his "quarry" with a jealous muttering under his breath.

"Bitch. Enjoy."

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon shrugs his shoulders when the guy wanders off, and choses to completely ignore his question. He smiles a little and turns to face Bridget."Asshole didn't even answer my question... Is it just me or are peoples personalities just getting shittier by the year?"He asks with a little laugh before letting his eyes meet her own.

"You're looking good."He pauses to think about that."Not that I've ever seen you looking bad or anything, but still a girl deserves to know when they're looking good right?"He asks her with a soft little laugh. His hands gesturing to a seat before him."Mind if I join you since your friend ran off?"

[Bridget] Bridget meets his eyes and shrugs her own shoulders before reclaiming her seat. His comment about the guy being her friend provokes a mock-gagging noise. "Merde! Well, with friends like these, do you wonder why I go out to the woods so much?"

The kin gestures to the seat beside her and sips her coffee. The warmth is welcomed. Soon enough, some small indie-folk band starts to do a sound check, drawing the attention of those nearby from Simon's pervasive Rage. His companion doesn't seem to notice anything out of their little sphere, however.

[Simon Zahradnik] He grins."I wouldn't know... He seemed charming enough, certainly interested."He says with a little laugh as he takes a seat across from her. He caught the sound of the band setting up and his attention drifted away from her long enough to look them over. Soon enough his attention settled back on Bridget.

"How you been? Haven't seen much of you the past few weeks..."He wasn't worried about the girl more checking up. He liked to keep an eye on most of the kin though he did have a few favorites.

[Bridget] The Canadian eyes the Shadowlord from behind the coffee mug, possibly trying to get a read on him. He shouldn't be worried. She's told him more than once she cares more for living than the sacrifice for "safety's sake". If Bridget was the sort of spoiled kinfolk kept in a guilded cage, she'd certainly not be sitting here. As it is, the Fianna kin has adapted to city life about as gracefully as she manages mountian life, trekking her father's territory alone in the dead of night. It's not that Bridget is a foolish girl, but keeping her on a leash would be a bit like leashing one of their fanged kin.

"I am well. I found a new job, and I'm looking for a place out of Bronzeville. What about you?"

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon settled back in his chair to make himself as comfortable as he can be. Other than the occasional flicker of notice he didn't much appear to have any interest outside of his little world. No more than a man notices the goings on of the flies buzzing about in his kitchen. Certainly people were greater than flies, but their lives ratrely held any interest for Full Moon."New job? Where you workin'?"He asks just before a grin takes shape on his face.

"Lately I haven't been doing much at all. Strangest thing, as soon as November rolled around it's like everyone just dropped off the face of the earth. I wonder if there's something going on that I wasn't told about or something? I dunno some annual ritual or some shit I'm supposed to be taking part in but I'm too much of a lazy prick to be bothered with minor inconveniences or the like."He laughs a little and shrugs his shoulders."Weird month anyway... Otherwise I guess it's good right? I mean... Still here so that's the good part."He nods his head and begins to tap his fingers against the table, he was obviously itching for something to do. Young Full Moons were, in a lot of ways, not unlike puppies in that sense. Far too much energy for their own good.

[Bridget] A glance left, a glance right. The Stag kin has basically dropped off the face of the earth herself. Several times in the last few months, in fact. If she'd suddenly transformed into some xenophobic, prehistoric nomad, no one would be the wiser.

"Yeah. Is that your way of telling me to call?" She grins, but shrugs it off quickly. "No, I'm sorry. It's just been difficult adjusting to this place. It's so different... even among cousins. I got a job with the park service. For now, I'm just doing clerical work and maintenance, but in the spring I'll be at the center. I still have a couple music lessons I teach, but I think this will work out."

A moment passes. She wonders if he'll order anything, but doesn't say anything. "What have you been up to?"

[Sinclair] "It's called Thanksgiving," Sinclair says, when she walks over to the table Simon and Bridget are at. And let's be honest: it wasn't like they couldn't see her coming. She's noticable. It's her Rage. It's the sense of hunting one gets from the way she walks. It's the fact that she's a pretty blonde girl coming in from the cold. It's the fact that she beelined for their table and is now gripping the back of a chair.

"That's why most people aren't around," she says to Simon. "Mind if I sit?"

[Simon Zahradnik] He nods his head."Park Service? So is that what has you out in the woods so much? I should probably spend a little more time myself communing with nature I suppose but I suppose I'll always be more of a city boy. I mean familiarity and all right?"His head tilts after he asks this and he gives a little moment of thought before continuing."You're welcome to call me any time you like... Whether that is just to say you're still alive or whatever."He laughs a little to himself then he pauses and turns his attention towards Sinclair.

"Right Thanksgiving... Where white folks gather around the table and thank the almighty for having sent them the Indians to teach them how to survive the cold winters here in the New World. I always got a kick outta holidays and customs. Not that I celebrate much in the way of holidays myself."He then gestures towards a seat."Be my guest Rhya sit and join us we were just catching up and all."He says with a nod of his head before looking back at Bridget."Have the two of you met?"He asks looking between them both.

[Sinclair] "I love how you not only call all Americans 'white folks' when you're pretty damn white yourself, but you imply racism right before using 'Indians' to describe a totally different race of people." She shakes her head at him slightly. The moon's waned past her phase; there's no malice in how she speaks to him, which is blessing enough.

Without Bridget's input -- though it was hard to tell if the question was directed at her or Simon to begin with -- Simon tells her to go ahead and sit down, so Sinclair pulls the chair she's holding out and swings herself into it. She moves lithe, fast, easy. Simon moves like a brawler and soldier; Sinclair moves like an athlete.

Or an animal.

Then she turns her head and pins Bridget with her eyes for a moment, her gaze a cool, opaque blue. The sense that Sinclair isn't quite human is pervasive, regardless of the fact that Simon identified her as one of his own kind with the honorific he used to name her. The sense that Bridget is being looked at in the way that a beast looks at a potential meal, however, is hard to evade, or ignore.

"We haven't. Sinclair," she says, offering her hand to the woman.

[Bridget] The Fianna kin smiles at the blonde woman. She's seen Sinclair maybe twice before, but despite the sharp increase of Rage, the kinfolk doesn't shake in her boots, not even when the blonde draws her feral attention that way. Her father being a Galliard that even the humans liked to christen "Bear", she's simply too used to having to shrug that sort of thing off, or else she just doesn't have the same prey reaction as those around her. More like a wolf-kin born to the wrong mother.

"I used to walk the turf back home alone. I was raised in the middle of nowhere, I feel more comfortable there."
His last remark seems to smart somewhat. "Or whatever.... C’est le bazar," she mutters under her breath.

Bridget gets up and starts to slip out from her seat against the window. Thanksgiving is an American holiday; the Canadian one is in October, but neither means much to the French Canadian.
"Yes, we've met before once or twice. Hello again. I'm going to get a carafe. Do you two want coffee?" she asks, politely excusing herself momentarily.

The band starts to make introductions and more people pile in from the cold November air. Bridget doesn't quite wait for a full reply before moving away, since the crowd kind of jostles her in that direction anyway.

[Sinclair] That makes Sinclair's eyebrow lift. "Um, I'm pretty sure we haven't, actually. But good of you to tell me your name," she says, pulling her hand back as Bridget starts to get up and walk away. "Yeah," she says, when asked about coffee.

Bridget walks away, the crowd tugging her along like a leaf on a wave, and Sinclair gives Simon a look, lifting her eyebrows. Then, with exaggerated batting of her eyelashes, she props her elbow on the table. "So, like, is she your girrrrrlfriend?"

A falsified giggle.

[Martin] It's cold. It's dark. It's probably going to snow before the evening's over.

Time to go for a mother fucking walk.

Imogen has had something of a reprieve from Martin's random, frequently pointless text messages this week: his daughter, mentioned often but seen nearly never, was in town for Thanksgiving break. Not for long, being as she had to return to the land of the studious and responsible to prepare for an exam that she claimed was priming her for a migraine, but up until this morning she was here and present and keeping him relatively silent save for a text asking after the number of "patients" suffering from gastric rupture Imogen saw Friday morning.

They're walking down the hallway with the intent being to incorporate some fresh air into their existences--this, of course, means that at least one of them has lit a cigarette. Martin is idly flicking his ashes into the breeze as he rants.

"Not that I advocate keeping domesticated animals in an urban environment anyway," he's saying, "but are leash laws absolutely necessary? Harken back to when we were children... so, circa the early 1860s. Did we need laws telling people to keep their unruly mutts on leashes if they were going to let them out of their prisons long enough to have a bowel movement?"

[Martin] [So hey newsflash: I am an idiot. They are walking down the sidewalk, not a hallway. dafuq.]

[Imogen] Imogen is not smoking, for the moment. It's almost a statement of willpower - he lights up, offers her a cigarette, and she refuses. Even if she takes a cigarette of her own out, five, ten minutes later, it is on her terms, not her addictions.

Or something like that. Maybe she just doesn't much appreciate his dunhills.

She's dressed in jeans, a pair of subtle but expensive shoes, her coat buttoned closed. Her hair is up, and the wind tugs at it, slowly loosening strands from their pins. She wears no hat, though she does have a scarf, wrapped around her throat more for style than for warmth.

Martin is ranting, and then suddenly he stops. Several seconds pass before she stirs, turning to glance at him, "Oh, is this the point where I'm supposed to offer my opinion, then?" Her smirk twists her mouth.

She only answers about a quarter of his random text messages, as well.

[Simon Zahradnik] He grins a little."I wasn't aware "Slavic" people were welcomed in proper Anglo-Saxon communities. I mean sure we're white enough to sometimes live in a white community but not quite white enough to fit into your average country club."He says with a little chuckle.

"As for the Indians... Call them Native Americans, don't really matter. Whatever you call them it's not who they are, or who they were. It's a label we've attributed to once proud people... Just like your average white man wouldn't know the difference between a Czech or a Slovac. We're all just Slavs."He shrugs his shoulder.

He smiles just a little though he wasn't trying to be an asshole or a smart ass he was, however, defending his position since his elder decided to call him out. No point in taking a stance on anything if you can't back it up right?

When Sinclair directs the question back at him his attention shifts up to her and his smile grows."Friend..."He says as his eyes follow Bridget, there was deffinate interest there though he didn't appear to be showing any signs of possession."She's Fianna... She's cute, hot, and kin... Enough reason for anyone to want to keep an eye out for her. I like her if that's what you are asking."He says before peeling his eyes away from Bridget and returning them to Sinclair."I'm not going to poach anothers Kin away when they're not looking. Even if she wouldn't be a terrible kin to poach."

[Bridget] After pushing her way through the throng, Bridget returns a few moments later with a carafe and two coffee mugs.

"I'm sorry, I just caught the last of that. I thought we met a few months ago, but it must have been someone else. I'm Bridget. My father is Meuric Geroux, but we call him Bear. He is the storyteller back home."

The introduction is sincere and would be unusual if picked up if it wasn't drowned out by noise and other distractions nearby. She seems polite enough, save for the silver trinket around her throat, enscribed in Ogham-- in case her breeding wasn't clear enough. Bridget goes about it and fills the mugs before returning to her seat, oblivious to their conversation.

[Sinclair] "I'm just gonna nickname you 'Whitey' from now on," Sinclair says with a shrug. "Gaia help you if I witness your rank challenge, you'll hate me forever."

She cracks her neck as she slides out of the position she took up to question him about the Kinswoman. Turning her head around, she looks into the crowd of humans, scanning them as though looking for something. Mortals. Meatsacks, prey creatures, soft skinned and fearful. He tells her about Bridget, and if he needs eye contact to believe he's being heard he's out of luck. It doesn't mean Sinclair's not listening. She is.

"Yeah, I can smell her," she mentions, when he tells her that Bridget's Fianna. Hard to miss breeding like that. Hard to ignore. Even now she knows where Bridget is in that crowd, and it has nothing to do with interest or even protective instinct. She can just... feel her.

When he mentions poaching, though, Sinclair slides her head back around and perks a brow. Shrugs one shoulder. "Well, you know how it goes. The rules and protocols and shit. I think Rory's their elder right now, or something. I generally assume everyone knows better. I wasn't implying you'd poach, man."

And then: Bridget. Speak of the devil. Sinclair gives her a smile when she comes back. "Well. Maybe I have one of those faces." Not likely. But who knows. She reaches for the carafe from Bridget so the woman can sit herself down without holding something hot, but no -- Bridget is serving them. And Sinclair pauses a moment, but just thanks her when she slides the mug over.

"Where's back-home?" she asks, glancing into the crowd again. Briefer, this time. She looks at the band.

[Martin] That smirk doesn't do much to discourage him. Part of it has to do, likely, with the fact that Martin is one of those people who derives a great deal of pleasure from seeing what sort of effect his words will have on other people. What had Kate said? He pushes? Reactions that could be and are construed by people who the world does not instantly label Asshole or Prick or Douche Bag as indicators that the current behavior is not acceptable don't seem to do anything but fill Martin with the same sort of glee that likely came upon the Grinch when he ruined someone's day.

"Now, I'm a film critic, not a psychologist--" He has to stop to take one last drag off of his cigarette before they reach the cafe where he claimed earlier he was supposed to be meeting somebody. "--but I think that's what's supposed to happened in the course of a conversation when someone pauses and doesn't say anything for more than three seconds without making a pained expression that indicates a thought has occurred."

[Simon Zahradnik] He smiles back at her."Well I'll just have to make sure to approach Lukas or something then Rhya. Thank you for the warning"He says with a grin and a nod of his head. His hands come up to glide behind his head and his eyes are quick to snap back to Bridget. Indeed there was a degree of intensity in those eyes as he watched her, he didn't let his eyes, or senses in general, wander far from the woman. He didn't need to see her he knew where she was in the room at any given moment.

He'd heard Bridget's introduction before. He knew it well by now. After all it's not as if the idea of Poaching hasn't crossed his mind once or twice before and those eyes said that much quite clearly. It behoved a man to keep track of ancestors and the like... Especially living father sorts in the event they might find themselves face to face one day.

So he lets the two of them talk. He was happy enough just to watch for the moment. It would be rude of him not to allow his elder a chance to speak to the kin.

[Bridget] Indeed, Bridget serves them, but it's not a depreciating gesture so much as an attempt at etiquette awareness. The way she moves through the crowd, even when pushed along, is something resembling an animal.

"Alberta. They call the place Red Deer." She looks almost ready to divulge more, but the veil of caution draws over her expression. Simon clearly trusts her, but far be it from Bridget to lead anyone close to the bawn. Didn't she get in trouble for leading that mounty away to a dangerous gully instead of letting the fool stumble on the territory? Some things garnered Bridget's caution that were well-deserved.

"It's not anything like... well, I'm sure you know."

Bridget's attention goes briefly to Simon. She's certainly not oblivious to the intensity given with a Garou's gaze, but sometimes her control slips. The kinfolk bites her bottom lip, stares at her coffee for a moment and registers that sipping it would prevent her from saying anything at present. Tentatively, the hot beverage is sipped without adulteration of sweeteners.

[Sinclair] "No, not him, you gotta go to the Fianna. Lukas will be like whatthefuckyoutalkin'tomefer, only in fancy Lukas-talk," Sinclair tells him.

Yeah. Intensity. Attraction. Anyone else might feel like the odd man out, the third wheel. Sinclair doesn't seem to. She blinks, tips her head to the side, and quirks a look at Bridget. "What's not anything like well you're sure I huh?"

[Imogen] "I've heard rumours o' that as well," she replies, mildly.

She never seems to mean the smirk as discouragement. The expression, a sharpened twist of her mouth, comes more easily than a smile ever could. It denotes amusement, though more often than not, it seems like it might be amusement at the other's expense.

He pushes, Kate has said. It is a rather accurate statement. It is equally accurate to say that Imogen is a difficult woman to push.

The silence goes on another few seconds, before finally she says, "Sorry," not sounding apologetic at all, "I just can't get myself riled up about it. Or even waste breath on an opinion." They've slowed as they've reached the cafe. This is where their plans diverge. "But I'll tell yeh what - next time we go for a stroll, we'll avoid tha' particular park and it's horribly offensive and absolutely unnecessary signs that aren't even directed at yeh. And," she adds, as she reaches into her jacket pocket, retrieving her copper plated cigarette case, "should I so much as see such a sign in the future, I'll do m'best to distract you from it. Alright?" she arches an eyebrow, the smirk resurfacing.

[Kate] There isn't much, truth be told, that can discourage Ilari Martin once he was on a roll.

Katherine Bellamonte, of all people, knew this quite well. Whether or not the Half Moon (the exact measure of which was in the sky above, blotted by cloud cover) was the one he was intending to meet at the Cafe or not it is the tall blonde Silver Fang that appears along the sidewalk; standing out two-fold for the Rage that suffuses the air around her and the brightly colored black and purple coat she wears; the collar of which was turned up against the chill.

Honor's Compass wore boots and tights to match, and her elegant fingers were warm in gloves, a knitted cap drawn down over her golden waves. She had, of late, forgone the pearls that had once been her trademark in favor of a modest chain, her ears housing fine emerald drops that glittered when the street light hit them at the right angle. Her presence, and that of her pack-mates have a smile surfacing in the corner of the Half Moon's lip.

It grows, perhaps in tandem with the gleam in her pale eye as she scents not only the purity of other tribes, but one in particular. She does not slow, when she catches sight of the others, rather, her footsteps pick up speed, and she daintily hops off the curb and crosses the street toward the Cafe, the white scarf around her neck sailing after her like a flag.

[Bridget] "The sept?" She almost whispers.

A well-groomed man accompanies a red-head into the cafe. Neither are familiar, but she takes note. The inked raven on her shoulder would gawk and squawk at the blonde beacon of breeding crossing the street like a modern Conquistador... that is, if it were a real bird, or even the spirit of one.

"It's just different. Not just the size, but the ways. I've spent most of my life not fifty miles from that place, so this is..." She searches for the right phrase, "... A horse of a different color."

[Simon Zahradnik] He chuckles a little, apparently he was distracting Bridget. He could read her response to his stare well enough, and his eyes shifted away, back up towards Sinclair. He hadn't seen much of her around lately, not that it mattered she was a Galliard galliards do galliard things right? So it would stand to reason that they don't always run in the same circles and Chicago was a big enough city that a garou could walk for days without bumping into one of their own.

He wasn't speaking just watching her when the other two slip in. Martin, and Imogen were recognized instantly, how could he forget the pair? His smile never left his face as he watched them slip past."Imogen and... That guy who won't tell me his name."He mutters to Sinclair assuming she knew at least one of them. It wasn't until he tried to say their names that he remembered the man never gave his own out.

His eyes shift back to Bridget."Living so close? Or far away from the others?"He asks her curiously, smiling a little to himself as he begins to wonder how long it will be before the mortal crowd begins shuffling out.

[Martin] The filter disappears into the painfully tiny maw of the smoker's outpost parked by the front door, Martin sparing it a brief glance to make sure it isn't going to end up on the sidewalk before he blows the last lungful of smoke out the side of his mouth and twists up his brow as he listens to her. Imogen smirks when she's amused; Martin affects confusion. Or acquires a blank expression. Sometimes he laughs, but in his experience laughing at a full-blood will result in bloodshed.

So will mouthing off, but for some reason mouthing off is to laughing as lighting a fuse is to dropping the stick of dynamite into a fire.

"That sounds fabulous," he tells her, flicking his eyebrows and dampening a grin. "Listen--" He briefly punctuates his exclamation with a pointed finger. "Look both ways before crossing the street, don't accept rides from strangers, lock your door."

And there she is. His eyes flick away from Imogen, briefly.

"Katherine!" he calls out, without waving. As though she doesn't see him, or smell him. Looking back to Imogen, he says, "I'll see you later." Beat. "Try not to count the minutes until you hear my voice again, I know the days are so terribly long and cold without me."

[Sinclair] At this point, Sinclair puts her elbow on the table, peering at Bridget thoughtfully, chin in hand. Her brow is furrowed. It takes a minute for her expression to change, and it's entirely possible she's making more of a show of her fleeting confusion than absolutely necessary.

"Ah, well. Anything with its own spirit is going to be unique. There aren't two alike. They are all special, special snowflakes." Her eyes drift, too, following Simon's towards the two well-bred, elderly -- if you're Sinclair's age -- Kinfolk near the doorway, in or out of it. She just shrugs, and finds Katherine with her eyes. A change comes over her, subtle but there, a sort of ...solidifying, as though even by Kate's presence she's more centered. More of what she is.

Which may make her presence at that table all the more uncomfortable. What she is is not Bridget's daddy-bear. She's not an Ahroun who likes her. She looked at Bridget, who sometimes feels like a predator in the wrong skin, like she was considering whether or not to bat her around a bit before ripping her throat out. That's what she is. That's why talking to a kinfolk, even a polite one, is a challenge. That's why even though she looked at the drummer of tonight's band more than once, she doesn't intend to wait around to talk to him, or come back.

She excuses herself, thanking Bridget for the coffee she asked for but didn't touch, and gravitates toward her own kind. Always her own kind. Other wolves.

Stronger creatures.

When she comes out of the cafe she's still wearing the fingerless gloves and jeans and boots and sweater + hoodie + jacket combination that seems to serve to keep her Warm Enough, even if she'll never quite be Warm in this weather. She pulls her hood up, straw-colored hair sticking out from either side of her neck, and soon enough is moving alongside Katherine as though she was walking with her from the start, not meeting her in the middle.

[Imogen] Her eyes lower to the pointed finger, levelled in her direction. Her gaze moves to Katherine when Martin calls out, resting for a moment on the blonde haired Garou.

A few seconds later, those same eyes - dark eyes, narrow. "I shall do my ever best to manage," she says, her tone edged with sarcasm. For Imogen, it might as well be dripping. "Enjoy yer night."

With that, she glances at the traffic, and finding a break, crosses, headed for - well, wherever. Her red hair makes her easily visible for longer than most, but even so, it is not long before she is gone.

[Bridget] A moment passes where something in Sinclair's behavior rubs Bridget the wrong way. She doesn't feel filled with fear, but smartly says nothing and looks down. It's a mixture of surprise and some instinct she has that her human mind fogs the glass.

It's not too different from that night at the club when something decided to order her about in her mind like some plaything. And like a cornered cub, that complex mixture of anger comes from a reaction to knowing one is helpless and not being able to change it. Another reason keeping Bridget away from even the local sept. In the woods, at least the beasts wanting to rip your throat out weren't playing at the human teatime charade.

"Je m’en fou." The only thing she says is muttered into the coffee mug once Sinclair has left.

[Kate] Katherine, he calls out, as if she couldn't see him, or smell him (or find him blindfolded in a crowded room to get romantic) and she does smile a little brighter, it does grow and there is a flash of white teeth for a moment even as Imogen and her flaming hair are saying farewell.

Honor's Compass doesn't exclude that Imogen was present, she nods to her, and for a moment her eyes are steady there; they remain. Focused, contemplative before she looks back before her, and without much preamble nudges into her pack-sister as they walk along; shoulder to shoulder; blond against blond. It's often wordless, the way wolves greet one another and certainly were they in another form it's entirely possible there'd be some affectionate licking, or nipping at another's ear.

The other night, she had tugged on her Alpha's collar, he'd bumped her.

Pack linguistics, body language. Martin can see that easily as Katherine approaches with Sinclair at her side, can sense the unity between the two females even as the Silver Fang leans in when she's close enough to brush her lips against his cheek, to frame the other with a gloved palm for a lingering moment. "Meetings with Doctor Slaughter," she says lightly, her eyebrow winging upward.

"Should I feign concern?" Katherine smiles at him, her eyes shifting to Sinclair. "Sinclair, this is Ilari Martin, he has recently returned to Chicago." A beat, something not quite as amused slips into her tone. "As no doubt you heard the other night from Lukas."

[Simon Zahradnik] "Special snowflakes... Nice."He says with a bit of a grin. His arms were crossed before him, and his eyes followed Kate as she decided to join them as well. She was Sinclair's packmate, and he understood the bond between wolves enough that he didn't consider it rude or unpleasant or even unseemly for the wolf to leave the company of these two and join one with whom she belongs. In fact Simon expected it, so as she left he nodded his head."Take care Rhya."He says this as Sinclar leaves them.

His attention is quick to snap back to Bridget."So what brought you into town this evening?"He asks her, a slight tilt of his head. There was always danger in those eyes, every time one stood in the presence of a full moon there was a chance he might tear their head from their bodies. Then again wasn't that part of the thrill? It was like playing Russian Roulette cept not nearly as stupid.

He found himself watching Imogen leave, and his brow showed a hint of Curiosity. The older kin was always so... She did her job and yet she never appeared to want to have anything to do with their kind beyond that. Frustration, annoyance. or maybe it was just the simple fear of getting close to a group of people whose lifespans were short at best. He didn't let his thoughts linger long on the woman. She was a member of what Simon saw as "The Old Guard" which wasn't so much a derogatory term so much as a category. Those who have lived here and fought together for longer would hold stronger bonds it was only natural... Simon would never be a part of them, because no matter how hard he fought and no matter how many battles he won they would always look at him with the realization that one day he would replace them. In time the older Garou will die... And it would be the younger Garou who would be there to pounce on them and tear them to shreds when their strength and sanity faltered.

Respect would always be present but it would be hard to get close to someone who is, himself, a walking reminder of ones own mortality. Especially one who walks in such different circles.

[Sinclair] [Fyi! Sinclair went to Kate -- Kate didn't come to Bridget and Simon's table. They're aloooone now. *Wags eyebrows*]

[Martin] [There doesn't seem to be anyone around.]

[Imogen] (it is going to take me all night to get that song out of my head. I hate you all.)

[Martin] [Should be drowned out pretty easily... THE BEATING OF OUR HEARTS IS THE ONLY SOUND.]

[Imogen] (I WILL BOOT YOU, I SWEAR TO GOD.)

[Imogen] (it'll mess up your transcript!!)

[Bridget] [ROFL]

[Martin] [RUNNIN JUST AS FAST AS WE CA-AN]

[Imogen] (narrows eyes)

[Kate] [GET BACK IN CHARACTER BEFORE I GET THE HAIRBRUSH AND BEAT YOU.]

[Martin] [*meeps, types*]

[Sinclair] Your kinsman is all Lukas said to describe Martin. Thick skull. Idiot. Don't expect me to go easy.

This is what she remembers from the night she stirred, half-dreaming, hearing her packmates talking to each other in the dark silence surrounding her subconscious. And that's all she remembers. Some kinsman. Pissed Lukas off. And there were no more words about it that Sinclair recalls.

Yet here he is, being introduced based on that burst of Lukas's aggravation that Sinclair has neither questioned nor investigated. There's Katherine, near to her even as her delight with Martin's nearness leads to something a little more intimate than how she would greet... well. Any of the other troublesome Fang kin that have come and gone.

Her eyes aren't the piercing, penetrating blue of Katherine and Lukas's gazes. They're a softer color, summer-sky, even as winter comes down over Chicago. They're veiled, in a way, alien in their opacity. Intense. Hungry. She looks at Martin without lust, without anger, without even much interest, and still it seems like she's contemplating what he would look like if she peeled strips of his flesh away, whether the meat would be tainted or stringy or red and filling enough to eat as the weather gets cold and prey becomes scarce.

"So you two are fucking?" she says blandly, with a single slow blink.

[Bridget] Whatever it is got under her skin and remained there. What did it matter? Didn't she always plan on going back? Bridget has a purpose there, a job to do.

Something she said before: this is a bazaar. Of sorts. Bridget becomes aware that Simon is talking to her, but really all she wants to do right now is move. Not so much running as whatever came first: fighting, hiking, or any number of athletic activities. Something to chase away the cold.

The kinfolk watches Simon's mouth, imagining a number of things. She's seen his war form, been cowed by it (surely, as any would). She wonders for a moment what his teeth have torn apart. And as soon as the thought crosses her mind, she's alarmed by it and tries to shake it off.

"I'm sorry? Oh. I... uh... one of the bar owners I've played for asked if I'd been here. Told me there are shows on Saturdays. I'm not too thrilled, but it's better than my apartment."

She stares. At his mouth. There's not so much fear anymore as a drifting morbid curiosity, an intense distraction.

[Martin] That narrowing of Imogen's eyes does little to dissuade him. Or, it would have, had he been on a roll rather than concluding their time together. He was not on a roll. Or in a hallway. He is on a sidewalk, and being approached by two obscenely attractive women whose combined age probably comes close to his own. Their Rage is overpowering, and the gaze of the predacious beast walking beside Katherine is enough to make his stomach knot up and his heart start hammering.

It's a sensation that he not only spent half of his life living with, but seeking out when it was absent.

He pulls out his dwindling pack of cigarettes as the two females come into his sphere of influence but does not yet stick one between his lips. Brown eyes flick from Katherine to the unfamiliar sister and back again, a twitch of a Slaughteresque smirk tinging his lips as she asks if she ought to feign amusement.

"My dear, far be it from me to tell you what to do," he says.

And then the question. Are they fucking. Given how much rude shit comes out of his mouth on a regular basis, Martin has no room to be taken aback when he's met with similar treatment; and he isn't. He would be visibly and considerably more amused if he wasn't taking bets with himself on whether Sinclair would try to eat his head first or his intestines.

"I'm going to go ahead and assume you mean 'fucking' in the non-finite sense and not 'fucking' in the presently occurring sense and decline to answer that."

Good on him: he doesn't snipe at the girls' Alpha when he's not present to either defend himself or tear Katherine's kinsman's head off.

[Imogen] (thanks for the scene, everyone!)

[Sinclair] "So that's a yes," Sinclair concludes, and gives a small nod. She looks at Katherine, Martin apparently Dealt With in her brain. Categorized. He's Silver Fang Kin. He's Kate's to do with what she pleases. Fucking or not, and apparently whatever Martin said seemed to lean, in her mind, towards totally boning.

No mention, though, is made of Lukas, beyond what Katherine herself brought up.

Imogen and Martin and Their Three Happy Children

[Martin] The offices of the Chicago Sun-Times are close enough to Grant Park that an overachieving columnist staying later than is absolutely necessary because there is far too much material to type up and condense into idiot-sized bites to be done before the five o'clock bell rings at the end of this Friday afternoon, should he or she decide to, could walk the point-seven miles from the river to the park to take in the sights of the city going through its seasonal ritual of sloughing off its leaves. It's a gradual process, something that baffles children and entrances those for whom the magic of the world has slowly been replaced by cynicism and a profound disdain for just about everything that doesn't contribute to feelings of peace and tranquility.

Children are satisfied by things like bubbles blown into the breeze, like hot chocolate with marshmallows, like watching the same mind-numbing movie for the eleven billionth time. Adults have to try a little harder, and some of them decide that it isn't even worth the goddamn effort after a while. They give up. They become addicts to something, something that takes the edge off: they're addicted to nicotine, to alcohol, to cocaine, to work, to sex, to shopping, to God. There is hardly a person living in this city who doesn't need something in his or her life to feel as though completion isn't something just spoken about in movies and trashy literature with covers depicting washboard abs and ripped bodices.

==========

Hollering down the hallway "I'm going out!" is a typical occurrence at these offices. It becomes more structured as the day goes on, as deadlines loom in the distance and people's blood becomes too pure for normal levels of productivity to be sustained. The graying film critic who a select few of them remember having worked here back in 2009 before moving to Florida for whatever ungodly reason was the last one to yell this before slinging on his peacoat and heading out into the afternoon.

Sometime before the hollering commenced, one Imogen Slaughter, MD, received a text message that said "The Gage. Shh just come."

[Imogen] Imogen's gaze flicked to the screen of her mobile phone, its message upon it, and turned without a beat back to the nervous looking medical student who sat in front of her.

"I understand this job is unpleasant, but for the duration o' yer rotation 'ere, yeh must learn to cope with it. And vomiting in the biological refuse container is not a coping skill."

--

Not much later, she stepped out into the cool autumn air, and pulled out her phone again, narrowing her eyes on the screen. There is a moment's pause, as she takes out her cigarette case, and removes a cigarette. Then, with the smallest of shrugs, she begins down the steps. It takes her longer than it would had she dropped everything and run - but one doubts he ever expected that.

It's a walk to South Michigan avenue. By the time she reaches the restaurant she is pale with chill, her black woollen coat closed over her body, her scarf a splash of colour at her neck.

She steps into building 'steps from Millennium park' as advertised. A well dressed young man greets her.

"I may be meeting someone 'ere," she says, her gaze flicking over the interior of the restaurant.

[Martin] Truth be told, he doesn't expect much out of Imogen. That is hardly a judgment on her, a sign that she is somehow deficient or lacking, that she has done anything unworthy of being relied upon. On the contrary: even when she hasn't wanted to, when it would cost her somehow, she has been there to haul his ass out of a phone booth or stitch up his head or keep him from wallowing by himself. But what it boils down to is, he does not expect that when he texts, or calls, or bangs on her door, that she is going to drop everything and come to him.

So, whether or not Imogen decides to leave work early and come down to have a drink with him, that is where he is going. He does not leave immediately after he sends the message. He has a paragraph to finish typing, a coat to gather, underlings to inform of his whereabouts and what to do if he does not call or return within a timely fashion. The likelihood of his ending up in a ditch somewhere is relatively high. Hence, he gives advance notice. There's a chance he'll get out in the fresh air and decide to blow off the office and go home. It's Friday, though, and he has to stick around longer than usual.

The syndicated columnists, the ones who have to pump out product every day or risk losing their spaces, fucking hate the film critics. It's mutual. The film critics think the syndicated columnists can't write for shit.

When Imogen gets there, there is no sign of the middle-aged Silver Fang. At least, not when she first arrives. She is in the breezeway for a matter of seconds, relating that she 'may' be meeting someone here. A moment later, he's walking in behind her, his voice arriving before the sight of him does.

"I don't know," he intones, "he's awfully unreliable."

[Imogen] Imogen casts a glance over her shoulder, a look of long-suffering wryness. The way someone looks at another, who thinks themselves funny or at least marginally witty, and is not quite willing to give them quite that much.

It is the only reaction he gets. She turns her head to look back at the maitre d' who is looking somewhat bemused himself, and the doctor says simply, "For two, please."

[Martin] For as long as that glance lasts--which, likely, is not long enough to do much more than result in a faint swiveling of her head--Martin has a mighty self-pleased grin on his face. He strolls into the restaurant, well beyond the means of most of the people who simply pass by on the street, dressed as though he's come from the office. Granted, Martin always tends to dress as though he's got someplace to be, as though there's a reason why he needs to be wearing expensive clothes that don't match his shoes. His shoes are make for hoofing himself from one end of the city to another.

It may very well take a few weeks to grow used to the fact that he is healthy, that he doesn't look like a reanimated corpse. Baby steps.

This place is appealing not only because it has an impressive list of libations, but because on that list of libations is a category devoted to drinks that don't contain a shred of booze. The maitre d' takes them to one of the only open tables left in the place. It's a Friday night, but it's early yet. They're open until two o'clock in the morning. The Chicago dining crowd is just getting started.

When they're seated, Martin shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over the back of the chair. He orders a grape soda and the poutine, keeping his banter with the server to a minimum. He's not rude, exactly, but he isn't his normal boisterous self. Their server is male. He must still be reeling from his Tokyo adventure with his coworker.

Once their server disappears into the kitchen, Martin says, "If I hear one more Aron Ralston joke today, I'm going to cut someone else's arm off." She probably has no idea what he's talking about. "Idiot out in Utah got trapped under a boulder and had to self-amputate his arm to escape to freedom. He's now an inspirational speaker. Danny 'Slumdog Millionaire' Boyle made a movie out of his harrowing story. Don't eat beforehand if you decide to go see it."

[Imogen] Imogen allows the maitre d' to take her brown leather jacket, slipping out of it to reveal her work attire, slacks and a blazer over a pale blue blouse. Her hair is pulled back as it always is, tendrils having escaped, as they always have.

She takes her seat, and orders the zucchini and olive ragout, and a glass of red wine. Despite the better pairing of genders (or gender preferences) she does not banter with the waiter, though that has more to do with her personality than any intervening circumstances.

He brings up Aron Ralston, and her eyebrow arches sharply.

"Americans will make movies about just about anything, won't they?" she observes. "Humans getting lost in the alps, and eating their comrades, now blokes cutting off their own arms because they couldn't ha' been bothered with a satellite phone."

[Martin] "I'll have you know," he says, "you can't blame this affront to human decency on the Americans this time. Boyle's English, darlin'. This is your people making movies about a mental incompetent getting himself trapped at the bottom of a ravine without modern technology to save his arm."

[Imogen] It's not often the good doctor is wrong and it causes her to stop, short, a small smirk flickering across her mouth. "Well, how should I know that? I don't even bloody own a television."

[Martin] Be assured, this incident is being added to the short yet growing List of Times That Imogen Slaughter Was Incorrect.

"Suuuuure, blame it on your Luddism. Next you're going to tell me you don't know who Lindsay Lohan is."

[Imogen] Imogen scoffs, "Don't be ridiculous. Lindsey Lohan made it to the papers. So did Paris Hilton."

[Martin] "It's a dying art," he says, "but to put your mind at ease, reviews of current cinematic releases do still appear in print media on a regular basis. Granted, they aren't usually accompanied by color pictures of their stars flashing their bare genitalia when exiting parked cars. We have to rely on other means to grab our readers' attention."

[Imogen] "Oh do they?" she enquires, her eyes on the menu as she appears to consider the next plate of her meal. "I must not have noticed."

She glances up, an eyebrow arching, "I tend t'avoid the 'soft' sections o' the newspaper."

[Martin] Their drinks arrive, the server carefully placing a small square napkin down before handing Imogen her wine. Martin cants his head at his glass, which is an artfully cylindrical affair much smaller than the sort found in diners and chain restaurants, and unceremoniously unwraps his straw.

"I'm telling ya, you're missing out on positively thrilling social commentary and gory dissection of the human condition when all you read are the obituaries and crime reports..."

[Imogen] "Sometimes I read politics and world news," she says, waving it away absently as she picks up her wine glass, twirling it gently to watch the drink swirl in its glass.

She takes her first sip, consideringly, then sets the glass down. "Besides, you can always fill me in, if I'm truly missing anything."

[Gwen Sullivan] The Gage was a fancy kind of place to be, right outside of Millennium Park. It was the kind of place that you had to have money and a nice blazer to be let in with a smile rather than a distasteful scorn. It was where people went on their lunch break if they worked downtown to get the cocktails they needed to get through their day, or where you went for a nice dinner to get away from the kids.

It sure wasn't the kind of place that opened its arms to the grungier, scarier people of the world.
There was a strict No Garou Allowed policy.
The only problem there was that Garou weren't inclined to follow policy that wasn't inscribed in the age old laws of the Litany.

By some twist of fate (heh), Gwen, Roman and Simon wound up together for another adventure. This time they'd tracked some abomination against Gaia, a wart-riddled toad-like thing that was leaving a trail of broken pets (and as of last night, one small child) in its wake, and caught it red-handed over the slumbering body of a homeless man. They'd chased it off before it had a chance to harm the drug-slumbering transient, and this chase had come to an end in the kitchen of this fine establishment's kitchen.

Perhaps they'd lost track of where they were? Maybe they got too caught up in the chase to realize they were running somewhere they shouldn't be. Thank goodness the sense of mind to stay in their human bodies had been present, because the chase had dipped out onto sidewalks once or twice, because Roman had been snagged by the back of the shirt, Gwen by her arm, and Simon had been straight up clotheslined by a particularly beefy line cook, one that put Andre the Giant to shame..

This was where the citizens of the Garou Nation all converged-- the fuss kicked up while the trio were being 'escorted' (that was putting it gently) out the kitchen and toward the front door. Andre the Giant had a hold of Simon, a stern looking average sized man was handling Roman, and Gwen was shuffling with a scowl and air of reluctant defeat with another cook's hand on her elbow.

In this place, who wouldn't notice this?

[Martin] "Oh, I will gladly--"

There's a commotion. This shouldn't strike him as strange as it does, but to put it into some sort of perspective: this kinsman, this purebred representation of the power and legacy of Falcon's chosen, the born leaders of the entire goddamn Nation, had lived a life of relative silence and stillness for eighteen months before returning to the battleground that is Chicago, Illinois. He spent a grand total of three months here. Black Spiral Dancers were killed, Fomori were run from, blood was shed. If it wasn't a fight from without, there was conflict from within. This place is not calm, is not a place to raise a child, yet they need the help.

So here he is. And as much as he wishes this were not the case, Ilari Martin has the rather unfortunate ability to recognize a werewolf for what it is. So when a small troupe of bodies is hustled out of the kitchen, it drags his attention away from the woman across from him not because it's inherently interesting but because the Rage tugs at his senses. An eyebrow lifts, and he takes a steeling slug of his soda before loosing a long, theatrical sigh.

"Shall we?" he asks.

[Imogen] Imogen, too, is watching the trio as they are frog-walked out of the kitchen and through the restaurant, to the murmurs of the patrons. Her brow furrows slightly, and her gaze flicks from them to Martin when he speaks.

"Yes," she says, her resignation more restrained as she picks up her wine glass and takes a healthy mouthful before setting it down and reaching for her purse and her billfold.

"I suppose we'd better."

[Roman Turner] He still had his hat on, a big no-no that his parents would surely have boxed his ears for but at the moment he was a little distracted. This place was so fancy he wasn't even countering the hold on him. Instead, his jaw hung slack, mouth open as he dug in his heels and stopped dead in the middle of the fancy joint.

"Woooooweee! Lookee here! I ain't never seen nothing like this. Now this is high on the hog!"

There he was in those danged stiff Wrangler jeans that looked like he steam pressed them every day. Cowboy boots, stetson, bolo tie and of all things, a full length black duster that was flapping around like the wings of an enormous crow with each movement of his body.

[Martin] Martin doesn't have much to collect. He keeps his wallet in his ass pocket, operating under the assumption that a stranger would have to be mighty secure in his masculinity to try and boost a piece of leather out of another man's ass pocket just on the off chance that he has cash or a signed credit card inside. His coat remains where it is, as though there is a chance that they'll be able to return to what it is they were doing before the Garou, none of whom the older kinsman has seen before, were forced to walk Spanish through the restaurant.

He approaches the six-person party not so much with authority as with confidence, which is quite easy for the average human being to mistake with the former. Any of the Garou can sense his breeding. It's not quite so remarkable as the Fianna kinswoman's, but it's there, marking him as one of the mad... as one of theirs, in a loose sense. Inserting himself straight into their path, the bouncers will have to stop or else run him the hell over.

Not that that would be a mean feat. He's hardly a feat of Gaia's engineering.

"I was wondering where they'd wandered off to!" says the kinsman, who's old enough to be any one of their fathers, to the largest of the men. "Here, you don't have to do that, I'm sure they can use their feet the rest of the way."

[Gwen Sullivan] "Dammit, kid, come on," the guy hauling Roman out gives his shoulders a shove to get him going again, shaking his head and frowning, doing his best not to make eye contact with the customers that gawked curiously at all the action. Simon, no doubt, is quite a handful, but sense will keep him from shifting in the middle of a crowded restaurant where everyone can see just to escape humiliation-- the moon wasn't nearly full enough to give his temper the fuel for that.

Gwen keeps trying to tug her elbow free of her escort's grip, but he continues to insist that she stay under his sweaty palm. He hated the vibe that these kids were giving him, he wanted them out fast and didn't want any risk of them going back to charging through the place like they had every right to. After all, there's this big beefy tattoo'd guy that made his throat tighten with anxiety, the boy dressed up like Oklahoma's own personal mascot, and the girl that was better suited to a drug party than a restaurant.

She wore a black wifebeater under a faded blue zip-up hoodie left unzipped, a pair of black jeans and similarly colored sneakers, and her hair (now dyed dark brown all throughout) was left down and tucked back behind her ears. She had a piercing in her nose, her upper lip, and her lower lip, and a relatively heavy application of mascara and eyeliner. She's more or less resigned to leaving, but actually snaps her teeth at the man when he seizes her arm again. "I said I'll go if you'd just--"

I was wondering where they'd wandered off to!

Gwen turned her eyes onto the pair that approached, immediately recognizing Dr. Slaughter, but having no idea who the fellow that was speaking was. Her brow furrowed, and she went still, even though the man took her elbow again, more intent on studying the new guy that was talking to the guy doing his best to handle Simon.

Andre the Giant blinks at Martin once, then speaks in a surprisingly intelligent, clear voice. "All these kids are yours?" Skeptical, to say the least.

[Imogen] It is hard to tell if Imogen had intended much the same charade or if she simply is quick on the uptake. Either is possible as she walks up - fixing them with a rather sharp gimlet eye.

Something Imogen is quite practised at; something Garou, one expects, are not used to from a kinfolk, particularly not from someone her size, at any rate.

She does not bother to say anything to them, instead turning to look at the larger man, offering sharply, "Ours. I'm sorry if they gave you any trouble they," and this she says with the skill of a mother making a pointed comment, "have a habit of getting into what they shouldn't.

"They didn't break anything, I hope?"

[Roman Turner] "Pa!"

The hat was snatched off and in the next moment he was grabbing Martin in a big ole hug as he rattled on.

" I swear we got lost. I mean, so we got a little confused and thought maybe the John's were through them doors. Then these here fellas got all touchy and ya know it ain't right for a man to be touching no teenage girl like these here fellas are."

That comment had him frowning at the man touching Gwen.

"I think that's called some kind of sexual deviant crime."

[Roman Turner] "Or is it a pre-vert?"

He actually had the gall to look at Imogen with that question before he sought back up from Gwen.

"Pre-verted, ain't it?"

[Martin] The sidelong looks and the attempts to figure out when it is that the warriors who are going to fight and die for Gaia got so damn young can wait until they're out on the sidewalk. Until then, Martin's being hugged by a Ragabash who couldn't be mistaken for his or Imogen's offspring unless one was willing to cite recessive genes or a forgotten tryst with the milkman or some other anomaly. He stiffly pats the kid's back as he rambles on about getting lost and the men getting touchy and the correct pronunciation of

"Perverted," he says. "Perverted. And yes. Yes it is." He extracts himself from the teenager's grasp, stepping back to look him over as if to judge for injuries or other unpleasantries.

Luckily Imogen either had the same idea or nothing Martin does surprises her anymore. He lets her handle the negotiations.

[Gwen Sullivan] "Pervert."

Gwen corrects him in the same sharp, sullen tone any teenage girl knows how to use and snatches her arm out of the man's hand, this time with an accompanying shove from the hand that wasn't being immobilized, thumping his fingertips with the heel of her hand as though she could hope to stub his fingers and, at the very least, irritate him further, make him wince and draw his hand away.

Well, he didn't yelp in pain or anything like that, but he did remove his hand and look relatively flustered. His hands dropped to his sides, and he opened his mouth to defend himself, but the big guy cut in instead. "Your boy's a liar. They came running in from outside, they didn't get lost looking for toilets."

One hand was still on Simon, just to be sure (he was the one that felt the worst, the most dangerous, he didn't want him unguarded until he was out the door and fifty feet from the premises), and he lifted his hand in front of him, palm out, to show he didn't want to hear any defenses or excuses. "But I don't care. I don't believe you, but I don't care. Just leave."

[Roman Turner] "Boy howdy, ain't he rude."

It was a statement, not a question and there was no doubt who he meant from the solid look he leveled on the big man. His voice dropped low and steely for a moment, just loud enough for the men to hear him.

"Y'all have fun with that mess in the kitchen ya left wandering around in there. He ain't gonna be half as polite or easy to evict as ya think."

[Imogen] He doesn't care, he just wants them to leave.

"Thank you," Imogen smiles - smiles, an expression strange on her face for anyone who knows her. It is not disorienting because it looks fake but because it looks so goddamned real and genuine, as if she were truly relieved. "I truly appreciate it."

The smile drops away as she fixes her gaze on the three. "Let's go," she says, jerking her head toward the door. "Now."

She grabs Roman by the shoulder, marking him easily the most loquacious of the group and forcibly turns him around before pushing him toward the door.

[Roman Turner] "Yessum."

A thrill had raced right through him when Imogen grabbed his shoulder. A thrill that went straight down, causing him to snap that duster closed right fast as a bright flush bloomed from the neck up across his cheeks like a sudden sunburn had hit him. It was sheer mis-placed teenage lust that had him dragging his feet just so she would touch him again.

[Martin] The smile Martin gives the Giant is forced, but it's just so damn pleasant, the sort of smile a long-suffering parent is inclined to give to anyone who has the pleasure of dealing with his progeny for longer than five minutes without throttling them. It's the sort of smile that silently assures the victim that once they're securely out of sight the spawn will be duly punished for his or her transgression.

But he knows better than to grab any of the teenagers and haul them out of there like they're actually his. He's never seen any of them before, doesn't know their names. Imogen handles the urban cowboy. Martin makes a swooping detour to snatch up their coats, keeping an eye on the other two stragglers until they're at the door.

[Gwen Sullivan] So Imogen seizes Roman by his shoulder and steers him out toward the door, Andre lets go of Simon, surprisingly without a shove or anything that would spark the Ahroun's Rage, but peaceably instead, with no hint of hard feelings or 'get the fuck out of here punk'. He just wanted them gone quickly, and he knew that angering any of those unruly, off-feeling kids would just prolong the entire situation.

The same went for the handsy guy accused of being a pervert. He tucked his hands into his armpits, anxious and shifting his weight between his feet, apparently lacking the resolve that the other two had. The guy that had been escorting Roman was already back in the kitchen. The other two stood to see them out.

Simon, with a snarl and some torrent of threats and promises of violence mingled together, headed toward the door after Imogen, and Gwen simply shoved her hands into the stomach pocket of her hoodie, ducked her head, and headed toward the door as well, waiting for Martin to grab the jackets off the table, waiting for him to get to the door as well. For some reason she seemed intent to bring up the rear.

[Imogen] Once Roman has stepped out the door (to his dismay, Imogen does not touch him again, though she does tell him in undertone to get moving), Imogen pauses at the threshold, holding the door open for the others to pass her. She keeps up the illusion as Martin passes her, then she follows, shutting the door behind them.

The front of the restaurant is glass. She gestures them around the corner.

When they're out of sight: "Do I want t'know?" a flick of her gaze around the group, resting longest on Roman, who has the most likelihood of answering her. "Or is it better I don't?"

Then, recalling herself, and the unfamiliar position as introducer, she flicks a glance toward Ilari, "Martin, meet Simon," the Ahroun, "Gwen," the goth-eyed, pierced girl, "and Roman," the bolo-tie, stetson hat wearing bow, with his coat drawn suspiciously in front of his body.

[Roman Turner] "Howdy Pa."

His smile was the height of pure impish youth at it's best when he turned it on Martin with a lift of his hat. He turned serious in a flash.

"They got a real mess in that there kitchen and it has nothing to do with the likes of us. If they'd just leave us be, we'd take care of it for 'em, but....well...."

He gestured at the alley they stood in.

"...here we are."

[Martin] At some point Martin hands off Imogen's jacket and climbs into his own. He doesn't bother buttoning it yet; it's a clear evening, and it's chilly, but it isn't the brutally cold sort of misery that he grew up with. The man has Russian blood coursing through his veins. Cold doesn't bother him.

Imogen takes on the dubious honor of introducing this crop of Garou to the kinsman, who looks between the three of them without appearing to make too much of an effort to remember which one's which. This will likely lead to him calling Simon 'Gwen' or Gwen 'Roman' in the future. This will also likely not bother him in the slightest, or be entirely accidental.

"Now, would this be 'a real mess' in the health code sense, or 'a real mess' in the affront to Gaia sense?"

[Roman Turner] "It's an affront to us and Her."

He included them all in the us with a twirl of his finger around the group. The her part was a discrete point towards the sky.

"We been chasing this thing all over the city and truth be told, we didn't notice we were coming in the back end of some fancy ole roadhouse."

[Gwen Sullivan] "The latter."

The teenaged girl that truly did look better fit to be hanging out in someone's basement smoking weed and watching her friends play Halo confirmed this grimly, hands in her pockets once more after she'd taken the moment to tug the hood of her sweater up over her head, so her hair was obscured all save for the bangs that swept over her forehead. She was clicking her teeth on her lower lip ring and glancing back over shoulder toward the restaurant, from the corner on which they stood.

"I wouldn't think it'd still be in there, would it? I mean, what would it hang around for if it was running from us? It'd be smarter for it to have escaped while we were distracted. No sense in staying if we could stake the place and flush it out once the doors closed for business."

Thank you for thinking out loud, captain obvious.

[Roman Turner] "It probably skedaddled on out."

He agreed and for the first time seemed to take a closer look at Gwen, blinking slightly in surprise when he leaned so he could see under her hood.

"Hey, when did ya change your hair color?"

[Gwen Sullivan] She looked at Roman, surprised apparently that he'd bother to notice what she did with her hair. Not necessarily because she figured he was the kind of guy to not give a damn (not that he should, really), but because no one ever did. It changed about as frequently as most kids' taste in music did.

"Huh? Oh, uh... last weekend, I think."

It wouldn't be a permanent change, she could very easily be a blonde by the end of the month.

[Imogen] She took her coat when it was offered to her, flicking her dark gaze toward Martin. "Ta," she says, pulling it on over her blazer.

A glance toward Gwen, "Not likely. They'd notice extra staff. Though tha' assumes it's sane enough fer rational thought.

"Regardless," she drew in a breath, "you aren't gettin' in there now, and I guarantee tha' if yeh go in after they close, yeh won't find it."

Roman peaked beneath Gwen's hood, and Imogen reached into her handbag, retrieved her cigarette case, flicking it open. She removed a fag for herself, and then tilting her wrist, offering the case to Martin with an arched eyebrow.

[Roman Turner] Surprise turned to a pleasant smile as he considered Gwen another long moment.

"I like it. And Miss Doctor Slaughter is right. If they notice it, they are gonna try and throw him out too. And like ya said Gwen, he probably done slipped out laughing his backside off while we were being manhandled."

[Martin] Martin doesn't answer his companion, in whatever capacity she fulfills such a designation, with words. She thanks him for the coat; he lifts his eyebrows in a silent You're welcome, then turns back to watch the exchange between the teenagers. Whether or not it would think it wise to hang out in a restaurant until it closes is the question. Imogen doesn't think so.

He takes a cigarette when it's offered to him, and says, without much mocking tone that typically accompanies his attempts to use words that came across the pond with her, "Ta." His lighter appears quickly, waking up Imogen's before he sets upon his own. An exhale, grateful for the nicotine, and he adds, "If it had the brains to evade the three of you rather than hurling itself blindly at your Gaia-blessed forms, I'd say it has the brains to slip out while you were otherwise occupied. Although..." Here he breaks off to address the doctor as though they're in private, as though two of the Garou's combined age being barely enough to dent one of the Kinfolk's grants them a cloak of invisibility when speaking. "If I ever start discussing the motives of the Wretched and I sound even remotely convinced of the possibility of what I'm saying making sense, please have me committed."

[Roman Turner] "Brains and fear can sometimes get all muddled up and confused."

For a moment he sounded like a soft spoken, southern Confucius.

[Gwen Sullivan] Her eyebrows lifted some, and the hesitant kind of surprise that crawled onto Gwen's face when Roman inquired about her hair was replaced by a small smile. "Ah, thanks." And the topic of hair coloring was passed over and the brief flicker-flash of a compliment, something she was finding rare in a world where she was nothing but an amateur without so much as a flashlight to guide her through the dark.

She nipped at her lip ring again in thought, looking from Roman to Imogen and Martin while they lit cigarettes, smoked, and while the guy she'd never met before that had posed as her father (he was nothing like Curtis Sullivan, mind you) rambled about the psyche of the bad guy and dipping into it.

There's a moment of quiet from the young Philodox, and she lifted a hand to tap at her upper lip ring with a short-clipped, blue-painted fingernail before she pointed at him, eyebrow raised in question.

"Frost and... spice. Is anyone else getting that from this guy?"

The poor girl, she still didn't really know how to handle breeding.

[Imogen] Martin reaches over to light Imogen's cigarette, but she lifts her own zippo in silent commentary, before thumbing the wheel and lighting up. She shuts the zippo with a snap, letting it drop back into her purse, as she inhales deeply, turning her head to exhale the smoke away from the Garou.

Imogen smokes a fine cigarette. She gets them from England.

"Noted," this to Martin before, "look," she says, "honestly, yeh can discuss the motives fer the rest o' the night. But it won't change th' fact it's likely gone, and it won't help yeh find him. S'why they don't teach Garou 'the Psychology o' the Tainted and Twisted'. At least, not as far as I know," she adds, arching an eyebrow.

"Are yeh goin' t'go after it, or no?"

Her gaze shifts to Gwen. There's a pause. "Breeding, I suspect."

[Imogen] (err. "It's his breeding, I suspect.")

[Roman Turner] The look he gave Gwen was sheer confusion, the furrowing of his brows a clear indication followed by.....

"He ain't gave me nothing. What kind of frosted spice?"

[Roman Turner] Imogen had asked if they were going to go after their quarry and he finally had the sense to answer her.

"Yessum, we'll have to see if we can pick up it's trail where it came out of the steakhouse and go from there. Or we can try sneaking back in through the back, but I got a feeling they are all riled up now and watching that back door a little better."

[Martin] Imogen smokes cigarettes that they don't sell over here. One would think that Martin would make more of a habit of poaching them from her when Dunhills cease to offer the same sort of experience, but surprisingly, he doesn't ask so much as he accepts when they're offered.

The matter of the sensation his breeding gives to the female Cub isn't remarked upon. Were she trying to smell him, then it would be cause for concern. This girl is younger than his daughter. Some effort of some sort has to be made to mind his language, regardless of whether or not she's old enough to fight and die for the cause. He looks like the sort of man who has children. There's a gravity to him, a sense of sleep deprivation that doesn't come from pursuing sins of the flesh and enjoying ample amounts of free time. He has gray facial hair. If the kids were to peg him in his fifties instead of his forties he wouldn't take it personally. That's what happens when one refuses to take care of oneself.

"Your odds of sneaking back in," he says, "are abysmally low. Eliminate that as an option. If I'm not mistaken--" This, coming from the man whose sister was a Theurge. "--the spirits that take over these things can be seen in the Umbra." He waves his cigarette hand as though to get rid of an errant thought. "Try peeking the next time instead of barging into a manned kitchen in the middle of the dinner rush."

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon looked around at the others and opened his hands to slowly crack his knuckles and fold them into fists. There was fury in his eyes, fury, and annoyance, and a slight look of hunger at the smell of food. He could feel a twitch in his eye as he stared at the building."I don't get why we even bother with games... If we've got a problem we deal with it right?"He asks while eying the building in the same way a man might size up a potential opponent.

"It's a good color."He says in response to Gwen's hair."I'd stick with it."He adds with another nod. Perhaps the single most important thing about being a badass was making sure you looked good while doing it right?

[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen glanced to Roman, and seemed to pause for a second, unsure of whether or not to be humorous before she smiled and tipped her head in his direction a little. "Kind of like Old Spice but less like deodorant."

Imogen gets a blink, then a bit of a frown and a nod. That damn breeding again. She had seen it all over the doctor but attempted not to comment, she seemed too upright, respectable, untouchable to have her scent and sensation commented upon. The girl popped her knuckles, one at a time, and looked up to Simon before jamming her hands back in her pockets. He'd started snapping his, that's what started her up. It was just like yawning, only it bothered people more.

"Thanks," as far as the hair color comment with. Apparently everyone like brown better than red. But her eyes flashed a little harder and she shook her head at the Ahroun's comment about dealing with problems. "We don't deal with problems directly if that's going to put a rip in the Veil. It's not a game, it's strategy. Granted we don't have a real plan just yet... But, man, we can't go charging after something through populated streets with claws and fangs out."

[Roman Turner] "See, she has sense in this, a taste for survival. And that why we play the game, survival of not just our own species, but as many innocents as possible."

His eyes were shadowed out here with his hat in place again.

"We got enough to deal with without confirming our existence so the governments of the world who would want to use us for their weapons and put us under their microscopes. How long before they freaked out and we went from predator to prey for the very ones we try to shield from our enemies?"

Only after responding to Simon did he respond to Martin with a polite nod of his head. After-all, Martin might be Kin but he was still an elder and when you were in your teens, anyone over twenty might as well be ninety.

[Imogen] Imogen's gaze moved over each Garou. She is still, her expression absent. Only a faint straightness to her spine betrays her tension.

"You need to find where it is, first," she says, "then yeh can make your plan. Otherwise, your plan will be useless. S'like scripting a conversation with someone else, before you even know how they'll react."

A glance to Roman. Briefly, a frown mars her brow - it's merely a line between copper eyebrows, a tightening around the eyes, then it's gone.

"I know a no-moon who was quite adept at tracking," she says, quietly. "I don't suppose you possess the same skill?"

[Imogen] (I knew a no-moon.)

[Simon Zahradnik] He nods his head."You're right we can't... That would break the veil but this is Chicago. Do you have any idea how many murders happen on the street every night? Between muggings, to domestic violence, to apparent suicides."He eyes Imogen."Folks like the doc here are probably scrapin' 'em off the pavement twenty four seven."He shrugs his shoulders.

"I never said anything about breakin' the veil. I talked about dealing with a problem... Combat the Wyrm wherever it dwells and breeds right? Just don't break the veil while doin' it. Also don't fuck each other while doing it... Unless you're a fury then it's cool cause that's two chicks so it's always okay."He reaches down to his belt and pulls out a knife, which is folded at the moment and fits neatly in his hand.

"Streets get dark at night... And pretty damn quiet and I am sure as hell no fenrir. I only fight fair when it involves those who have earned that right. Even then it's a tossup..."He laughs a little then peeks back towards Martin."Who the hell are you again?"

[Roman Turner] "I have some skill in tracking, but I got a long way to go before I could be considered an expert. And I got a gift that would let me find most if I know them, but it's a slow process."

He responded to Imogen. Then his attention turned to Simon again.

"And yes, combat the Wyrm wherever it breeds, but use some sense in there. For instance, we wandered in to the busy kitchen of a big ole place full of humans. We were in such a lather we didn't notice till we were right in there. If we had started the killing in there? It would of been so much worse than this momentary delay. And consider this, our prey runs from us, but what does he run to? Might lead us to more of 'em."

His smile was one of encouragement for Simon.

"Just think, a real party."

[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's lips part enough for air alone to pass through, this expression similar to going slack-jawed, as she stares at Simon while he speaks. Her eyes squint a little, disbelief swims over her face, and her head tips slowly to the side. Then, after a few seconds of quiet following up Simon's input, Gwen shook her head and lifted a hand to rub at the corners of her eyes.

"Oh my god..."

And she was choosing to leave the topic of Furies banging and it being okay because they were girls alone. She didn't want to have a philosophical debate about the Laws with this guy, he'd already moved on and was looking at Martin, asking who he was. The tribeless Philodox opted instead to turn around and look back toward the Gates. Again, she toyed with her lower lip ring, and piped up with a question directed to no one in particular.

"We have to track it as wolves, right? I know I can't smell as good this way as I do then."

[Gwen Sullivan] (The Gage*)

[Imogen] "I sincerely hope you all avoid your wolf form in Chicago." Imogen smirks as she lifts her cigarette back to her lips, "That would cause nearly as much trouble as a public killing."

A flick of her eyes toward Simon. "The streets get dark at night, but it's Friday night. There are bars here and restaurants and folks just walking off the buzz, and on and on. I'm afraid you will not likely get a convenient isolation to neatly perform your killing. Furthermore, while the veil is important, so is protecting your identity. The police cannot arrest you, so don't give them a reason to try, if you please."

[Martin] Who the hell are you again?

Martin has been happily smoking his cigarette and withholding his commentary for the time being. Whether or not they're going to go charging after this thing isn't any real concern of his. He could offer to help, of course, but he can't fucking shift or cross the Gauntlet, and he wouldn't want to anyway. Imogen has seen him fire a gun exactly one time, and that exactly one time, he nearly had his arm torn off by a Dancer that had sent his roommate and Simon's tribeswoman running not due to her sense of self-preservation but because he'd yelled at her to do so before the thing had shifted heavier and higher.

No wonder Martin isn't too enamored with movies about idiots having to saw off their own arms to survive.

At any rate, the dark-haired punk with the fiery Rage is asking him who he is, and he raises his eyebrows as if to ask Excuse me? He could fire off his name rank and serial number, could give him the name of his mate, his sister, could tell him who his parents are. Not that he knows Simon is a Shadow Lord from looking at him, but... okay, that's horse shit. Simon has that look about him.

He doesn't answer. He keeps working on his cigarette.

[Gwen Sullivan] "Well then how the hell do we track it? It's not like it left bootprints clearly imprinted in the goddamn pavement, or knocked over trashcans recklessly every twenty feet when it left the building."

Her nose wrinkled with distaste at the entire situation, and her arms folded over her incredibly average sized chest, left hand cupping the opposite elbow so that her right hand could be lifted enough to twist and play with her recently dyed bangs. She didn't like the wait, the trying to figure out what to do. She was mad that they'd been stopped, mad that she was stupid enough to charge through the building like that rather than think to stop and go around. Mad at herself, mind, not at the other two. She wasn't responsible for their actions, only hers. Besides, weren't they supposed to be older and wiser and some shit? (Even though she was pretty sure she and Roman were the same age.)

It made her think back to two nights ago, how she was convinced of how sloppy her job on the kill was, how she was waiting anxiously, watching the news in the morning and reading the newspaper, expecting the story of a terribly mutilated by god-knows what kind of wild animal man found in a dumpster just off of Jackson Blvd.

But more than that anxiety? She was worried about what would happen since they let the little fuck get away.

[Roman Turner] "We're gonna have to use our noses and common sense I reckon. Let's go see if we pick up anything out back again. Who knows, we might get lucky. Gonna need it cause the rite I know would help me find one of you, but I know your names."

[Simon Zahradnik] "That or we stand around glaring at the building till our contempt finally brings it toppling to the floor."He laughs a little then shrugs his shoulder."No one ever said the job was an easy one right? No wolf form... No War form. Exercise restraint and subtlety... Don't be an idiot. Sounds like things we should all be able to handle let's go check it out."He says with a nod in Roman's direction before turning to look in Martin's direction. He watches the guy quietly for a second or two, before shrugging his shoulders and heading in Roman's direction to join him.

[Imogen] Her mouth twists despite herself as Simon speaks, "That's yer laundry list, yes. Best of luck," it is obvious she has no intention of joining them, "Roman," she raises her voice to be heard by the departing ragabash, "Do call me if yeh need clean up."

And she half turns away, taking another drag of her cigarette, a deep and filling inhale.

[Fire Claws] There were few parts of this scab that he found even remotely tolerable. The city was a rotting, festering cesspool of hatred and wyrm taint. It was poorly stocked with any game worth the kill, and those that he did hunt were not the kind he wished to feast upon. But there were other things worth hunting down, even if he had to suffer the indignity of wearing the monkey skin and enduring the overwhelming stench to do so, but he following her smell. He knew it quite well enough already, hunting in the woods along the stream made it all too easy to track. And he tracked it across the city, almost lost it among some of the overflowing dumpsters that lined the restuarant row near the park, but a quick detour from the god awful smell through the (relatively) cleaner park and he was back on it.

Her smell was not alone either, it was mixed with others he knew and some he did not. But he focused on the one smell he needed, the sloppy little girl that needed her head pounded in for being so stupid. And he thought that she was no idiot. Maybe he should re-evaluate that fact.

The southern wolf wore the skin of the humans rather uncomfortably, unsure of the whole dependant eyesight, standing so high from the ground and losing some of his grace and strength. Anyone who watched him move that didn't know, would think he was a sociopath looking for his next kill, waiting to abduct the next poor soul for his twisted experiments. He could not hide the predator in him.

"Pup"

When he called out from the end of the street, his voice was garbled, touched with being taught from someone from the mountain ranges along Tennessee or Kentucky. A slurred voice not used to such strange words.

"'Ere naw."

[Marni] Day 183.

...only 129308120910231234 more days to go. Or so it seems. She's beyond the point of even trying to hide the swell of her abdomen, not that she ever hid it to begin with. She is, after all, an irreverent little bitch. Just as the others - they love to tell it.

Right now, however, said bitch is far from little, having swallowed an ever growing watermellon back in May sometime, which she celebrates by eating even more than before. For two, you know. Which is why she's wandering here and now, with a giant slushie in one hand, and the messiest mess of hot dog in the other, which she's chowing down on with obvious delight.

Low, low slung jeans - so as to button under her belly - and an oversized t-shirt, under a light jacket that's unzipped. Well worn shoes on one end, and curls controlled by a knit beanie on the other...

And thus, Marni wanders, watching the group down the way, recognizing some, though not others. It doesn't make her quicken her step any, nor does she change her path. She simply moseys (doNOTsaywaddle!) in that direction.

[Roman Turner] "Lord knows we got glaring contempt down, I bet we could reduce that building to sand in just a few thousand years if we set our minds to it."

The duster's tails fanned out like a cape as he turned to take a look at Imogen with her calling out.

"Yessum, I surely will. Appreciate it."

He touched the brim of his hat with a finger in a salute that included Martin.

"Nice ta meetcha Mister Martin, sir."

[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen had opted for quiet after suggestions were given of how to track in human form- all of which seemed to amount to guessing and hoping for the best. Well, she didn't have any better ideas, so she couldn't exactly argue with them. She just hefted a heavy sigh and lifted her right hand higher, pushing her hood off her head and scratching the back of her skull with one hand while the other fell into her jacket pocket. Her shoulders turned to direct her along with Roman and Simon to finish the hunt, then--

Pup. 'Ere naw.

She stopped and turned to look up the street. She didn't know she was being called to, but sometimes when someone yelled 'hey!' you just reflexively knew they were talking to you. This was a case similar to that. She leaned back some, squinted up the street, and her eyes met Fire Claws's face-- but she didn't recognize it. She didn't know his face, his human body, or his voice. She couldn't smell him with a human nose to recognize his scent.

But he was there, staring at her like he was her dad or something. He may as well be pointing at the patch of sidewalk in front of him and tapping his foot expectantly. Her eyes squinted and she muttered quietly: "Who the fuck..?" But did not move.

[Simon Zahradnik] He walked with Roman, then paused to look in Gwen's direction and then in the direction of the man calling her."Roman and I will be in the back. Go ahead and invite him around back when you two are done speaking."The man seemed to be around her, he would assume the man was serving as her Mentor and he wasn't about to get between them even if they might actually need Gwen's help right now. Still they could live without her a minute or so. So he went with Roman to see what they could see.

[Fire Claws] His eyes focused on her and only her, dark brown eyes almost seemed to burn a hole through her as he stared her down. He almost looked like he was trying to growl at her, but the human throat just didn't seem to want to force out that noise. And the way his lip peeled back from his shrunken canines, well it didn't inspire nearly as much threat and fear that he was used to. But he was quite adament about dealing with her in less than respectable manner.

When she did not approach at his calling, he was near pissed now. The beast lapping at the surface to escape and reek havoc on anyone near by, let alone the poor little cub that had earned his ire. In a few moments he was annoyed enough to storm over to her, nearly looking to rip her head off.

"W'en I say com' ya com. Stoopid cub."

[Gwen Sullivan] Her eyes jumped over one shoulder to Simon and Roman who were wandering off, bewilderment and a half-assed cry for help somewhere that gray-blue gaze before she looked behind her, to Imogen and Martin who seemed prepared to walk off, go back to whatever conversation or date or what-have-you that they had had interrupted by the group of Garou. Everyone was moving away, and she was stationary, and this stranger with the muddled southern accent was charging her with his arms tensed, lip curled, and face solid with fury.

So what'd she do?

Why, she lifted her arms, hands curled into loose, haphazard fists, and spread her feet some to station herself more firmly on the ground. She turned bewildered eyes back onto Fire Claws now, her own body tight and tense, teeth gritted and heart thumping once more.

"Hey, pal, I've got no idea who you are, but you better calm your shit down quick."

[Roman Turner] He turned to regard the irrational Fenrir with a lift of brows.

"Pardon me, but to begin with, this here street ain't the place to air your differences. These matters should be handled in private. And add to that, she is with us at the moment on important matters. Now, if ya want to come along and help, you're welcome."

The cub had been with them from the start, he wasn't about to throw her under the bus. And just about them he saw Marni, so she earned a tip of his hat that invited her in.

[Fire Claws] (Rage check. You aint gonna talk to me like that biznitch)

[Marni] Roman tips his hat, and she smiles at him, shoving another bite into her mouth as she closes the distance between them - still moseying, mostly, as she watches Fire Claws and Gwen and their little stand off, flicks a gaze at Simon then away again, resting briefly on the Doc with a nod, and the man she's with is treated with a sunshine-y smile.

[Simon Zahradnik] Somewhere along the way his eyes drift from Gwen to Marni and then back to the others. He takes a moment to return his attention to the much more pregnant Marni and smirks just a little but he invites her over with a quick hand gesture. She wasn't of much use but she might be able to assist them anyway... Even if she couldn't likely keep up with them.

[Roman Turner] He looked at Simon, then back towards Fire Claw and Gwen, holding a hand out to the cub.

"I got prior dibs, Yuf. Unless you prefer to air your problems now instead of taking care of a threat to our kind? There is strength in numbers and wisdom in choosing the timing of your battles."

[Fire Claws] His rage seemed to surround him like a cloud of angry hornets, maybe she did not recognize the scent because she didn't want to face the truth or maybe the reason for tracking her down left a part of her brain within that room, however he didn't like cleaning up messes and then being told in monkey speak to.. calm his shit down. She might now however recognize that Simon was not the only truly intense beast so near. He didn't focus on the pitiful little cub now, but over to Roman.

"Dis.. fuc'up left... err... evidence. And 'er scent. Ain't clean up 'er mess wit'out teac'in 'er a lesson too."

He paused a second more, giving Roman a slightly quizzical look before looking back at Gwen once more. Snarling at her now.

"We ain't finis'ed."

[Roman Turner] He canted his head with Fire Claws' words.

"Wisdom rules out. When we are finished, ya can have your teaching moments, yuf."

His attention shifted to Gwen then.

"In all things, at this point in your life, remember respect. You are here."

He held his hand out down low.

"It will take time before you can walk at this level."

He held his hand higher.

"Understand?"

[Gwen Sullivan] Simon and Roman paused, and it was the Child of Gaia who moved over to her side against the stranger (..something familiar, though...) marching toward her like he wanted nothing more than to see her blood trickle in the gutter. Her arms were still up in defense, her own Rage prickling like the hackles that the human body didn't have, muscles wound tight and trembling occasionally from pent-up energy. Roman held his hand out toward her, and she glanced at it, blinked once, then looked back to Fire Claws...

..and went pale, only to shift gears and reverse with a drastic color change, now flushing red with embarrassment.

"What the hell was I supposed to do? Hang around so the unconscious bitch saw my face and screamed and gave the cops a profile sketch? Or go back when she'd run away crying and clean the entire place? And even then, what--.." She cut herself off before drawing too much attention, flushing even more and hunching up her shoulders, glancing briefly to the pregnant woman watching them while slurping on a drink, appearing bemused by the whole situation, then down, roughly level with Fire Claws's stomach.

"Jesus," she breathed out finally, and looked up to Roman's face when he started speaking again. "Yeah, but...," was her answer, and then she looked to Fire Claws again, into his eyes for another second and a half, before clicking her teeth together behind her lips and lowering her arms. "...Ah, Jesus," that name again, "...I didn't recognize you."

Truth in fact, he didn't look a thing like she thought he would. She imagined gigantic bearded mountain man, or something else drastic. Definitely less normal.

[Imogen] Imogen watches the Garou as they gather, as they interact. The aggression is clear, and her gaze moves between the groups and the few humans that pass them by, giving them a wide berth. Marni passed, and had been greeted by a simple nod.

Eventually, she takes the last and final suck of her cigarette.

"Let's go find somewhere that'll serve us," she says, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it out. "Gi' the Gage a try another night."

She flicks a glance once more at the Garou, something drawing her mouth tight before she tilts her head down the street and starts that way. They'll share a meal, he'll doubtlessly talk for most of it. Her wit is sharp enough for a match, for all her economy of words.

She'll wait for the phone call, and if she gets it, she will do what she sees as her duty. No more, no less.

But until then: dinner.

[Roman Turner] His voice lowered as he spoke to Gwen.

"You are a cub. Would you stand here arguing with your senior in rank like a child while our quarry runs further, or do your duty? Listen to me now. You will apologize and call him Rhya. He has every right to teach you a lession in respect and I have a feeling you will learn it the hard way. But for now, we are on the street and y'all will hold this till in a safe place. Regardless, at this point in your life Gwen, you need to walk on eggshells. Excuses and arguments are unacceptable. Ya don't even need to understand this, just believe me."

[Marni] Marni arches a brow, while shoving the last of the hot dog into her mouth, and wiping her hands along her thigh to clean them. She lets out a very indelicate belch, because she's ladylike like that, and simply watches and listens.

[Fire Claws] He didn't say anything when Roman spoke about respecting elders that have earned that right and that she would learn a valuable lesson soon. But just in case she didn't truly understand the message he gave her, the one he drilled in her head the other day, he gave her a quick smack up the backside of her head. A reminder that she was being stupid and should not do so again.

"Wat'ya 'untin? W'ere?"

[Martin] [THANKS FOR THE PLAY OMFG I'M OUTTIES]

[Roman Turner] Fire Claws smacked Gwen upside the back of her head and said something he didn't understand and once more Roman spoke low and urgently.

"Let me put it in terms you might understand. If you were a Marine, you would be a new recruit and he would be a Major that you just mouthed. If you were a child and you are in this case, you just spit venom laced excuses to your father, who will tan your hide because ya need it to learn your place. He is fully within his rights. You are a cub. We have all learned our lessons and you will learn your's one way or another. Now say the words, lower your eyes and show your throat."

[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's teeth clacked quietly on that barbell jutting through her lower lip while Roman talked, her eyes laying even with his cheekbones, meaning they'd dropped only a degree or so, considering that he and her were precisely the same height. Again, she drew a breath through her nostrils, exhaled it through barely-parted lips, and muttered, "Alright."

She was about to turn to Fire Claws, but he was already beside her and laying one solid hand into the back of her skull, and she was pretty sure that the throw of that hand had to have come from the hip for how sharp it was. By reflex she ducked way too late, hunching her shoulders and curling her hands into the kind of fists that had fingernails biting palms inside of her hoodie pockets. Her teeth clenched and she turned her head, scrubbing the underside of her nose on her own shoulder before lifting her chin once more to look at Roman, this time in the eyes, to listen to him as he spoke.

I get that, I do, but what happened to 'dealing with this later'?

But, despite that, she understood that, again, this wasn't the time or the place. She could argue her case later, maybe, or she could just let it slide and forget that she even had a case, or a side to the story. Rather she did what he suggested, flicking her eyes up to Fire Claws for a second before dropping them again, so that mascara-heavy eyelashes touched her cheeks, and tipped her chin to the sky for the Lupus.

[Gwen Sullivan] "Sorry, Rhya."