What Tribe Do You Hail From?

[Imogen] It's warm today, the sky clear. The day had been gorgeous and the night is similar, the streets filled with people who have come out to enjoy the good weather before autumn full descends and worse, winter comes.

She steps out of the door of the coffee shop, exiting it, to-go cup in hand. She moves sideways, letting the door swing shut with a gentle ring of bells, and steps beneath the awning of the shop, out of the way of the passing pedestrians. Her eyes touch them absently, habitually as they pass her, and she sets her coffee down on the bay window ledge, reaching into her purse for her cigarette case.

She's a slight woman, well below average height, her body lean and tight beneath her business suit, which is navy blue (blazer, slacks) and light blue (camisole) respectively. Her features are delicate and carved, her eyes dark. Most striking is her hair, a brilliant shade of red that rarely occurs in nature.

She opens her cigarette case to remove a cancer stick, setting it between her lips, and lighting up, filling her lungs to the brim with her first drag. Her eyes remain on the passers-by, at once absent and direct.

[Frost] Ah, a 3 day paid weekend. She's already out of the suit and into the grunge. Her sturdy boots are easy to see given her perch on a wall across the street from the coffee shop. Black levis and loose, green cotton peasant blouse offer comfort in the pleasant weather. Perched on the wall beside her is an empty paper cup. Evening caffeine fix done. Her blonde hair is almost white, a contrast to the red-head across the street. For the moment, Frost is simply people watching. Mentally profiling the passerbys from her perch on high. The redhead gets a long, speculative look.

[Imogen] It is instinct, perhaps - intuition, to humans. Or maybe merely coincidence. As Frost's speculative gaze rakes over the red head, Imogen's attention turns, lifting to the wall and meeting the blonde's eyes. It is a directness that is not found in less confident people. A directness that can, at times even border on rudeness.

Even from this distance, Frost can see the red-head's eyebrow arch.

[Frost] The corners of her lips curl into a cocky grin as the slight woman notices her and lets her know that she's noticed her. No shrinking violet that one. What the hell. She gives her a wave. Afterall, she's new in town. Why pass up an opportunity to make a friend?

[Imogen] The eyebrow lowers, then contracts slightly, an action mirrored by its partner. In the end, Imogen, not the friendliest of folk, nor yet someone given to socialization with humans, merely offers a nod, before she lifts her cigarette again to her lips. The ember flares in the darkness; Imogen fills her lungs with smoke again, then lowers the fag to tap cigarette ash.

The door to the coffee shop opens and a young man steps out, talking over his shoulder to a friend behind him. He isn't paying attention and runs smack into Imogen with his coffee and his solid body, rocking her on the axis of her balance.

She has comfort in her form - regains her balance easily with only a step to the right on her heels. This is not the issue, so much as the cascade of coffee that comes from a poorly placed lid and a sudden jolt to the carrying arm, soaking her blazer.

"Bloody hell."
"Oh my god, I am soooo sorry."

The first, of course, being the redhead, the second, the man, blushing furiously. A flurry of activity begins - the man, blurting apologizing as he dabs at her arm with the small serviette which had been wrapped around his cup, Imogen, trying to quell the tide and snatch the white thing from his arm, and his helpful friend, running to get more napkins.

"No," Imogen's voice is quiet, firm as she takes the napkins from him. "It's quite alright, I'll just remove th'jacket." Her accent is distinct, though not easily identified is British, as it lacks the Pims'n'Ponies sound of the Queen's English. "Really." Already, she's slipping out of it.

"Are you sure you don't want me buy you a coffee? Or - or a drink?"

The kinwoman offers him a strained smile. "It's quite alright, thank you."

Not much later, the young men have disappeared, with the coffee-spiller groaning as he rubs his face, glancing once over his shoulder before heading down toward the nearest bar, and Imogen is wiping the remnants of coffee from her arm, the skin slightly reddened from the cascade of hot coffee. Her arms are defined, as one who spends hours at the gym might have.

What is of particular note, however, is the tattoo snaking around her arm - the shape of it, even if it is unfamiliar. Every kinfolk has seen at least one or two glyphs in their lives, even if they do not know what they mean. They learn the shape of them, and though this was done in ink, it is clearly meant to mimic the markings that would be made by claws.

[Frost] Ohh... she saw that one coming from her perch. Not in time to give warning though. She tilts her head down a bit to hide the smile as the woman tries to fend off the man's assistance. When the jacket comes off her head comes up, pale blue eyes getting a fix on the tattoo. She drops off the wall, boots hitting the pavement. Frost tips the scales right at six feet and her features are distinctly Scandinavian. She waits for a car to pass then strides across the street towards the woman.

[Frost] (sorry, didn't realize I'd accidentally pm'd the post to myself)
to Imogen

[Imogen] (no problem! I was, uh. doing my nails.)
to Frost

[Imogen] (SUCH A GIRL)
to Frost

[Frost] *S*
to Imogen

[Imogen] Imogen's removed her jacket, and though it is not cold, it is cool. Folding the blazer over one arm, fitting her cigarette between her lips, she intends to pick up her coffee and head away - but a tall silhouette headed her way halts her. She turns her head - it's the blonde woman from across the street.

The eyebrow arches again, as the distance closes. Both women are in heels. Imogen, for her part, however, only tips the scales at about 5'4"; and that's with the heels.

"Yes?" she asks, when speaking is possible without raising one's voice.

[Frost] "That's an interesting tattoo," she says very quietly. "Perhaps we should get away from the door before another cup of coffee finds you." Gesturing her away from the path of commerce.

[Imogen] Imogen regards Frost silently for several seconds - her face instantly a mask. A tendon moves slightly in her jaw as her teeth tighten, then eases as she loosens them.

"I'm far enough now, I believe." For she has moved a foot or so over, further into the awning. "There aren't many who are interested in this tattoo," she observes mildly. "I can tell yeh aren't first-class. May I assume you are second-class, then?"

[Frost] "Second class?" She chuckles. "Is that how you view it? But, umm. Yes, you could say that. Hoping to hook up with the family. I'm new in town. Name's Frost," she says, and offers her hand.

[Imogen] "Knew what I meant, didn't you just?" the woman points out, a little wryly, though the curve of her mouth hasn't got much mirth.

She takes another drag of her cigarette, exhaling it as she lifts her coffee cup to her lips, swallowing deep. Multiple, simultaneous vices.

The hand is offered, and Imogen moves her coffee cup and cigarette from her right hand to her left, reaching out after a moment. Her grip is firm, but cool. "Imogen Slaughter," she says, offering first and last name to Frost's nickname.

She looks away for a moment - at the passing people, at the coffee shop door which has just opened and closed, letting out a couple, arms wrapped around each other in the throes of new love. After a moment, she concludes Frost's original suggestion has some merit, though whether her original intention had been this, or to merely keep Imogen from the flow of traffic. "C'mon," she says with a tilt of her head, indicating some direction, "Let's get away from these people."

[Frost] She gives an up-nod. Yeah, she got it. Or maybe it's to the idea of getting away from the busy little coffee shop. Frost offers a naturally strong grip. She's just built that way. Falling into step beside Imogen she lessens her stride out of habit to avoid making the shorter woman have to walk fast to keep with her. They are a pair worthy of note, a diminutive redhead and a towering platinum blonde. "So how are things in this part of the country? I've only been here a week."

[Imogen] She's quiet for a moment, as she leads Frost away from the busier street, taking a turn which sends them directly down a more darkened sidewalk, restaurants and retail bleeding away to residential.

"Seems like everyone's had a different experience," she says, which is not an answer that offers much. "Ha' you been able t'get in touch wi' others o' yer -" she pauses over her word choice, "family, as yet?"

[Frost] Purses her lips as she receives a non-answer, her eyes taking in the change of scenery. "No, not really. Met a couple people I thought were... well, likely, but we never got past dancing around the hints."

[Imogen] A few more steps pass in silence. "And yer tribe?" she asks, next.

[Frost] She lets the silence pass, not one to feel a need to fill every moment with words. It's a relief to be finally asked directly. Her voice is low, her words meant only for Imogen's ears. "Fenrir."

[Imogen] They are fairly isolated now - the street they are on is not quite deserted, but it's emptier than the last. There are breaks in the people who pass them, and its easy to speak without worrying about being overheard.

Imogen's mouth draws briefly into a line, then eases. "Yeh want Kora," she says, "She lives out in Cabrini Green at this abandoned church called 'Cabrini Methodist United'. Yeh can find it at - " she offers the cross-streets.

"I don't know o' any others; a lot ha' died or left." Her voice offers no sense of tone, be it sorrow or sympathy or even lack of interest.

"But I imagine there are more."

A beat.

"If yeh want to meet folks tha' are Garou or kin and t'be sure tha' they are, ask Kora where the Brotherhood is. If she's sure o' you, I'm sure she'll pass it on. Otherwise, I imagine she can acquaint yeh with other members o' yer family."

[Frost] She walks along, listening to the advice. "Kora. I think I've met her, although it was brief. Thank you, Imogen. Which tribe do you hail from?"

[Imogen] There's a moment - this pause, more distinct than a natural pause in conversation. "I don't hail from any o' them," she says, lifting her forgotten cigarette back to her lips, filling her lungs.

[Frost] That wins her a thoughtful look. "You must have quite a story to tell. My own family has been very insular. I've never known more than a handful of others and... they're all dead now." That last stated in a carefully neutral tone.

[Imogen] She must have quite a story to tell. "Not particularly."

Frost mentions her family, that they've been insular, that they are all dead. Imogen casts her a glance while lifting a hand to pluck the cigarette from her lips; she lowers it to tap a sheaf of ash toward the ground.

"I'm sorry fer yer loss," she says, deliberately formal.

A brief pause. "You'll find tha' the Garou here change quickly. Many arrive, many leave, many die. S'not just one tribe tha' runs the Sept, s'several, and what tribe might be most populous can change at a moment's notice or during a particularly bad battle.

"S'not much in th'way o' tradition 'ere, either. S'more modern."

The question Frost had asked before - so how are things in this part of the country? now answered, more or less.

[Frost] A slight nod to Imogen's comment on her loss, appreciative of her formal bent in that regard. She really hasn't had much time to mourn. Probably won't get time for it either. Such is life. And when you're not the one who's dead, you keep going. She arches a brow at the concept of a mixed sept. "That must make for some interesting politics."

[Imogen] "If there are, they keep 'em to themselves. They called a state o' war some months ago. I imagine that stifles much o' the potential angst."

[Frost] "And it's still active, the state of war?"

[Imogen] She nods slightly. They've completely left the hub of downtown behind, surrounded now by older houses on small plots of land, row houses, etc. Residents that would cost in the mere hundreds of thousands out in the country, and that, including acres of land, but here, cheek by jowl with one another, cost in the millions.

"So far as I know, they've not lifted it. So watch yerself."

[Frost] Good advice she muses. "I'll do that. So how is it that you don't hail from a tribe? Seems a little unusual."

[Imogen] Imogen shakes her head slightly, almost dismissively. She walks half a block before speaking, contemplating an answer, or simply telling the other to mind her own business.

"I imagine yeh ask one o' them, they'll gi' yeh an answer. Dependin' on who yeh ask, yeh might not get the same reply.

"I want nothin' t'do with any o' it. S'their words, not mine."

[Frost] She nods, taking the hazy reply to mean she's treading on personal ground. Reaching into her back pocket she pulls out a man's style wallet and fishes out a business card, offering it to Imogen. "Cell is on there. I really appreciate the help you've given me. Maybe we can get together some time. I'm a pretty good cook."

[Imogen] Imogen takes the card, turning away to slide it into her purse, and retrieve one of her own, handing it over.
Dr. Imogen M. Slaughter it says.
Cook County Medical Examiner's Office

The card offers an address for CCME, then Imogen's business number, mobile number and fax number. Her offer is a contrast to Frost's.

"Gi' me a ring if yeh need anything."

A pause. "Ha' a good night."

[Frost] The business card identifies her as Special Agent Anise Carrington of the FBI. The address is the downtown Chigago office. There's an email address and the usual 3 phone numbers for office, cell and fax.

She takes the card looking at it then tucking it into her wallet. "You too. Stay safe."

[Imogen] The card does not reach Imogen's purse - she had glanced at it and smirked, before handing over her own card. "Looks like we might be o' use to each other," she notes.

The rest continues as it had. They say good night. They go their own ways.