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.