She Shows Up in the Strangest Places

[Slaughter] The bar is a hole in the wall - or maybe it just has a hole in the wall, which it does, a gap to reveal the skeleton beneath, clearly visible between two booths. Someone has put clear plastic over it, and it billows with some draft which has made its way through the dry wall. For the most part, the patrons ignore it. It gives the place a certain amount of personality. Same with the smell of beer worked into the wood, and the bar tender who has no sense of common courtesy.

Or so you can tell yourself.

In either case, Imogen sits alone at the bar, a bottle of beer in hand. She's already dismissed several attempts at conversation with the near-denizens of the bar. It had left several worn men shrugging with a 'whatever' attitude, but one or two frowning darkly into their beers. It has also left Imogen alone, able to turn to face the small stage with its terrible sound system and its single musician singing into the microphone, his fingers plucking at the guitar strings like they were extensions of him.

"The sun fell by nine was hidin like a pearl
gas pumps in a high way dumb
the hands of one kind sir
and she rolled in like she owned
the whole damn world
but all he say was the country in the girl

but she knew the city she had tricks
he'd never seen
'boy you sure look pretty,' he said
and she licked her lips clean
and her hips moved like invitations
and city girls got no patience."

He's surprisingly good for his surroundings. A steady voice, a mastery of rhythm. For the most part, the musician does not get the attention he deserves.

But Imogen, she is paying attention.

[Ivers] [If you haven't seen it yet, here's stuff that would be in his Dramatis if he were approved!
http://www.chicagodusk.com/index.php?jove=gallery&picture=7148]

[Ivers] The vast majority of people, upon climbing out of a freight train and stumbling into a new city, would be looking for a warm meal and a bed that isn't crawling with fleas or other assorted bugs as soon as their transport arrived. They would have decided that it was late, that they were hungry, and they had better things to do than go trolling the streets for diversion.

These two are Fianna, though, and by the time they arrive in Chicago they've managed to empty the contents of the bottle of alcohol that had been stashed and sober up again. Without a place to stash their belongings they walk down the frigid sidewalk with bags in hand, guitars on their backs, looking for all the world like a couple of unwashed vagrants who might have stepped out of the 1950s, who would likely fit in better in New York than Chicago.

New York isn't the city they picked seemingly blind off of a goddamn map though, so New York isn't where their ultimate destination happened to be.

To say that they enter the bar with any degree of quiet or respect is about half true. Patrick doesn't burst through the world as though he's going to fade into oblivion if he doesn't make as much noise as he can. His Alpha, though, gets along with spirits because he seems to understand them. He's like a ghost some days, rattling around to remind the world that he's still here.

So, he throws open the door to the bar, letting in a burst of cold air propelled by the force of his entrance. There's not much to say about him, physically: he's tall and skinny and has a mop of curly brown hair he's tried to contain with a fedora. He smells like smoke. When he speaks, it isn't with a distinguishable accent. He could be from anywhere.

"Jesus Christ, man," he gripes to the man next to him, louder than is absolutely necessary, "this place smells like a Billy Joel song."

[Kora] There's always a back door in a place like this. One that opens onto an alleyway, down a long, badly paneled hallway that leads to the curtained restrooms, and then out - past a vintage pay phone - into the dim confines of a poorly lit alley. Someone left a stinking armchair before the door, the upholstery littered with cigarette burns. Now and then, a regular disappears out back for a smoke, or the bartender sends someone to the storage room that can only be accessed through the alley. Or a regular comes in, as if the back door were a shortcut from some neighborhood development.

Or: as now, a stranger. The blonde woman is dressed down, in worn jeans, old boots, a cotton hoodie for warmth, the hood pulled up enough that the shadow shrouds her features. Her hands are in the pockets of her jeans, and it shows in the way she moves - that hint of constriction at the terminus of her otherwise long-legged gait - that she's holding back.

The scent of winter clings to her face and hair, and her nose and cheeks are tipped pink with cold. Inside the bar, where the narrow paneled hallway opens into the room proper, she pauses, her head canted aslant as if she were listening to something no one else can hear.

The chorus comes 'round and she lifts her chin, looks directly at the musician on the narrow stage, a faint frown creasing her brow - half a step from recognition.

Then her path shifts, and she slides up to the bar, snagging a stool close to Imogen's. "Doc - " she says, a wry twist to her mouth as she gestures to the bartender. " - you show up in the strangest places."

[Slaughter] Imogen turns slightly as Kora snags the stool beside her. She is unsurprised,

[Slaughter] (GAH!)

[Ivers] [Best. Post. Ever.]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] There's at least a little more to the man that steps inside a beat behind the Theurge.

Tall, blond, blue-eyed and broad across the shoulders; if anyone where to make guesses off hand about Patrick Llelwyn's heritage most wouldn't instantly go with that of the Fianna. Child of Gaia, perhaps. Or even Fenrir with those eyes but no, the breeding rang true for those of their kind to sniff out. He's got a jacket on, and its paired with road-worn jeans, a guitar case strapped to his back and his fingers resting around the straps of two heavily overcrowded duffel bags.

Howard, the slighter of the pair who just erupted through the doorway, notes the bar smells like a Billy Joel song; his pack-mate takes in the scene, and dusky eyebrows rise. "What would you prefer," like his pack-mate, there was no determinable accent, "Justin Bieber?"

Patrick's eyes trekked to the bar; and he nudged past Howard to start toward it.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [where = were, I CAN SPELL SOMETIMES IT'S FUN]

[Slaughter] (but you do handle conditional clause, of which we are proud! ahem.)

[Slaughter] Imogen turns slightly as Kora snags the stool beside her. She is unsurprised, and unperturbed; though this is the first time she fully turns toward the Garou, it is not the first time she's aware of her.

Her mouth twists slightly, and by way of explanation, tilts her head toward the stage. "I heard this bloke was someone to hear," she says. "Thought I might check it out."

It is now that Ivers sweeps in, speaking loudly, though the words are lost over the distance. Still, Imogen's gaze is drawn to him and the other behind him. The kinwoman is redhaired, pale skinned. She is dressed informally, but it still does not take away from the ever present formality of her posture. At first glance, someone might mistake her for a dancer. It does not take long for sharp eyes to realize her grace is more visceral than that.

She's dressed in jeans, a plain blue sweater, her jacket still worn despite the warmth of the bar.

"Speaking of folks showin' up in odd places," she says, lifting her chin to the two approaching Garou, the corners of her mouth turning almost imperceptibly downward.

[Ivers] He actually thinks about it. For someone whose IQ is just barely high enough to be considered average, there is a light in his eyes that speaks of some sort of mental capacity that goes beyond Find The Next Wyrmling And Kill It. The quickness with which his thoughts occur belies the shallowness of the thoughts themselves; Howard spends maybe three seconds actually considering whether he'd prefer Justin Bieber to Billy Joel, but he does consider it, which may lead his packmate to wonder what sorts of wonderous things he could accomplish if he did this with the rest of the decisions he has to make on a daily basis.

"Hell," he says, starting forward, "I'd fuck Justin Bieber."

Unlike the man next to him, the dark-haired, dark-eyed youth isn't carrying his guitar in a case, and it doesn't have a strap that was designed for the purposes of weight-bearing either. Cheap rope is secured to the body and the neck, letting him sling it around. When they get to the bar he drops his duffel bag, hauls the instrument over his head, and sits it on the bar next to him. His arm goes around it, holding onto it like he would a date, and as they wait for the bartender to notice them--or, rather, pluck up the courage to approach someone who feels like Patrick does--he looks around the room, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"Heyyyy..."

Whatever he was going to say is cut off by the bartender approaching him on his guitar-loving side.

[Kora] Imogen turns to indicate the strangers now entering the front door. Beside her, Kora is wholly unremarkable to Garou senses. There's no pure blood in her veins; her heritage is stamped in her mind, but not on her features. She's just another bar patron, with a tall glass, clear liquid sparkling with a twist of lime in front of her on the worn wooden bar. There's a physical ease about her, some sort of animal alertness that finds its way into her body languge - the subtle back and forth between the kinswoman and the blonde suggests - even from a distance - that they are acquainted, and speaking in low tones.

"The blonde's Fianna blooded - " Kora murmurs, in a voice low enough that even Imogen needs to strain to hear it, dark eyes flickering over the pair of strangers, touching on their instruments before she cuts a look back to Imogen. "I've not seen them before." A brief pause as she studies the pair in more leisurely depth. Her eyes are sharp, dark blue discs cast in the shadow of her hood, framed by pale lashes. The pink is fading from her skin as she begins to thaw in the (relative) warmth of the hole in the wall.

" - you?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] It's not that he hasn't felt the presence of the Kinswoman, he'd have to be completely blind off his backside not to sense someone with Imogen Slaughter's level of breeding nearby but that aside from a cursory look as he feels her eyes briefly on him, he does appear terribly concerned, shall we say, by it. She's Fianna, surely, and at some point introductions would happen but he's in no great rush to ruin her night by forcing his presence on her any further than just being in the room does.

He knows how uncomfortable his Rage is; it's stronger now than its ever been.

Prayers to Broken Stone unslings the guitar from around himself, and sets it beside his stool as the barkeeper approaches.

"Jameson for myself and my friend, and keep them coming." He holds out cash between calloused forefinger and thumb, and his ID without being asked to show it; there's absolutely no doubting that the somber face staring out from the card was his own, it was exactly replicated in the face looking back at him across the bar.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [I'm sick of correcting typos. Doesn't, DOESN'T.]

[Ivers] [EMBRACE YOUR TYPOS]

[Slaughter] Imogen does not keep her eyes permanently fixed upon the Garou - she watches them for a few moments, then forces her gaze back to the musician. What may have startled them was the directness. Patrick likely rarely sees such a direct regard. Fearless.

She could not hide her breeding if she tried. She could bleed all the blood from her veins, and it would still be buried in her bones. Her ancestry is clear in her skin, her eyes, her hair.

Kora speaks, low, and the kinwoman tilts her head slightly toward her - a gesture of some familiarity. "No," she says. "But they're both Garou."

She offers this off-hand.

The song changes to something new, with the same sort of growling menace, the same pounding beat. Imogen's hand moves briefly on her thigh tapping out perfect tempo to the music, before she picks up her beer and takes a deep draught.

[Ivers] "Paddy," he crows, fumbling his passport out of the ass pocket of his jeans, which in fitting only further accentuate the awkwardness of his build, "are you trying to get me drunk?"

Whether or not that question is deemed worthy of any sort of response, the Theurge returns to looking around the room a moment later. It isn't the aimless wandering of a moment ago; he's oblivious to the weight of the women's gaze upon them, but once he focuses his attention on the world beyond his immediate influence, he senses the breeding of the slight redhead sitting with the blonde. Nothing about the blonde suggests she is anything like them, other than the fact that she's guilty by association.

Kinfolk hang out with humans, though, sometimes. He hangs out with humans, though, sometimes. Patrick understands the isolation and sacrifices one must make when one enters into this contract under duress, taken hostage by Rage, but Howard doesn't have this problem. His Rage is so low it's almost negligible.

This is desired in a Theurge. He's useless by choice, by omission of action, rather than by virtue of the heaviness of his anger. He doesn't scare spirits away.

"Oi." He elbows the Galliard, eschewing subtlety in favor of pointing out the females with a jerk of his chin.

[Simon] Rage followed Simon around like a really nasty facial scar or a missing limb. You know the kinda thing where rather than acknowledging another person's disfigurement they'd much rather just look away and pretend they never saw anything. Rage had that very same effect on people except in the case of rage it was more like that asshole who you know is an asshole who is totally gonna get up in your face and ask why you looked at him if you actually look at him. So rather than get yourself in that situation you look away and pretend he isn't there! Yeah that's rage... Just that annoying ever present thing that no one talks about but everyone knows is there because they can feel it choking the laughter out of the air.

Simon knew the affect he had on people and he showed it in the way he carried himself. I'm a little black fuckin' raincloud asshole, pay no attention to me! It would be a great slogan to put on his T-Shirt but he really didn't need it his stance said it all.

He headed through the crowd for a drink. He needed a drink... Why the hell else would he be here?

[Kora] Kora makes a sound low in the back of her throat; a swallowed sort of amusement. Light gleams across the surface of her dark eyes as she tracks the pair of Fianna - her regard as direct as Imogen's, and perhaps more lingering.

Maybe she's drawn to rage as moths are to porchlights, dreaming them the moon. Maybe, instead, there's a subtle sort of challenge there - inscribed in the steadiness of her regard, the evenness of her features, the stillness of a curving mouth meant to be mobile, easy. Generous.

"Why am I not surprised?" - that mask of stillness breaks as she tips another bemused look at Imogen's face, and her mouth curves upward at the rightmost corner. "It's like you've got a homing beacon - " she continues, without thought, and then - realizes that it is true. The thought stills her eyes on Imogen's face, and then Kora's sliding off the barstool, setting both booted feet on the filthy floor, glancing up as Simon enters the bar.

" - You know Simon, right?" Kora remarks, offhandedly to Imogen as she - circles the kinswoman, sidling up to the bar two seats to the kinswoman's right rather than her left, and taking herself consequently closer to the pair of Fianna.

She has a drink in hand, neither whiskey nor beer. A slice of lime floats amidst the melting ice cubes.

"Bartender," quietly, deliberately, she puts the drink on the bar. The hood of her cotton jacket falls back a bit further, revealing pale blonde hair, pulled haphazardly back from strong features. The sort that would be pretty, but for the animal underneath her skin. " - they're first round's on me."

Then, to the pair. " - new in town, are you?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] God, he hated that nickname.

Everything about it was patronizing, even the way Howard said it, who generally could get away with calling him a great many names most others wouldn't even attempt. It was what his brothers called him when they slapped him on the back and squeezed down with their beefy hands, just before they either beat the hell out of him, or gave him another rousing lecture on why he was the worst Galliard they'd ever laid eyes on.

If you weren't leading the chorus in some cheery number about the glory of the Fianna you had nothing particularly useful to offer; stories of dark times and the ways the war had all but obliterated them time and again had no place at his family's dinner table. In truth, it rarely had a place anywhere, so he forced it down and stuck to the platitudes that were common, and desired and the stories of valor and triumph.

"I don't need to get you drunk, Howie," he clinked his glass against the Theurge's with amusement riddling his voice. "You're usually already there by the time I try."

Next he's elbowed, and almost spills half the liquid down his chin; he doesn't glance in the direction his Alpha is blatantly indicating, but notes that he's noticed. Finally. "Yeah, I saw her when we first came in." When the Rage of the Shadow Lord rolls in like the thundercloud he is; Patrick's shoulders roll back, and he cracks his neck to one side; housing his glass beneath his lips for a moment as Kora sidles up and claims the expense of their round.

The blue eyes; brightly so, impossibly anything else sit with her a moment, and he nods.

"Couldn't be newer." He makes a study of Kora that is cursory, but lacks the leering force of a mortal man's stare. "I'm Patrick, this is Howard." Anything further, he seems ready to hand to the Theurge beside him.

[Simon] It doesn't take Simon more than a moment or two to pick upon the scents and note the presence of the others in the room. Each one had a familiarity though the two he had not met were familiar in the same way Imogen was familiar the first time they met. He didn't need the eyes, the eyes weren't nearly as necessary to the wolf as their nose and ears it was a tertiary sense which, at the moment, was geared towards procuring a drink anyway.

However once he had his drink he was quick to turn around and draw his attention towards the others. A slight smile appearing on his face, after all they were his kinda people right, as he approached the group. It was the night of a New Moon so Simon's rage wasn't as overwhelming as it could be. Which was likely a good thing especially when meeting new people might be involved.

[Slaughter] It's like you've got a homing beacon, Kora says. "I do," Imogen answers dryly, but without mirth, and her smirk might be mistaken for a grimace at these close quarters.

Simon enters, and makes a beeline for the bar, his face a black cloud. She watches him, before nodding to Kora as the Skald passes her by. "We've met, yes." Her words are brief, truncated. She is reticent, even by her standards.

She follows Kora with her eyes, then drops her attention to the empty stool between them. In the end, she chooses to remain where she is, her attention returning, for all appearances, to the music. The truth is, her attention is now split between the gathering of Garou to her left, and Simon, approaching on her right.

[Kora] Imogen's dry response draws the Fenrir's attention back to the kinswoman's features for a beat, and then two. The glance is stark, searching before it shears away, drawn back to the new Garou as Patrick responds to her.

Couldn't be newer - Patrick says, and Kora's mouth twists at the corners, though otherwise her expression is steady, is direct, is still both above and below - her dark blue eyes steady and unwavering.

"I'm Kora - " she says, quietly, her accent American and nothing more. " - that's Simon," she continues, a glance over her shoulder at the Shadow Lord as her mouth sharpens into a still half-smile that doesn't quite meet her eyes. " - we're not new. Might be bit more privacy if we grabbed a booth."

[Ivers] Howard is well aware of the fact that Patrick hates that nickname, well aware of why he hates that nickname, yet he uses it anyway. Not frequently, but often enough that it's clear he's doing it on purpose. Knowing the reason why Patrick hates it isn't enough to stop him from using it; maybe he thinks if he does it enough that the Galliard will associate it with good-natured ribbing rather than heavy-handed reminders of how big of a failure he is.

Or maybe he's just a prick.

A grin splits his lips when Patrick returns fire. He lifts his shot, clinks, and tosses it back without rebuttal. It burns on the way down, but for as young as he looks he's either actually old enough to consume alcohol or he's got a damned fine fake passport. He opens his mouth and announces "Hahhhhh," as though he's breathing liquid fire, about the time that the blond joins them in their journey towards intoxication.

Smacking his lips, the dark youth claps down his now-empty shot glass and stuffs his passport back from whence it came. It's only because he has an eye on it that he takes his arm off his guitar long enough to accomplish this. After that task is completed he puts his arm back where it was, around the body of the guitar, his long, skinny middle finger tracing a pattern along its grain as he watches the exchange between his brother and the stranger.

Admittedly, his attention is on Imogen for longer than is absolutely necessary, but his staring is cut short by the realization that Patrick is probably waiting for him to do the talking. Fucker. Kora answers the question of who she and her Ragey friend are before she can be pumped for information, and Howard leans forward to stage whisper into Patrick's ear. Given how loud it is in here, it might as well be a normal whisper.

"She's buying us drinks and she wants more privacy." He steps away from the bar, slinging his guitar over his shoulder and stooping to pick up his duffel bag. His voice returns to its normal register. "They are much friendlier here than Boston."

[Simon] He approaches Kora specifically. Perhaps it was the deference or a secret hidden respect for his elder? Did it really matter? He could have just as easily approached anyone else but it was she who had his eyes as he moved to join them."Kora... Doc... And..."He looks at the other two and his eyes are slow to glance them over from head to toe. It was simple to welcome one into the fold.

Simon, however, was no fool. Someone had to be the mistrusting one, the one who did not necessarily open their arms to every stranger they met. They were in a war after all and they were fighting an enemy who would not hesitate to stoop lower than most could imagine. Simon, fortunately, understood their mentality and would have to stick around in the event they did not turn out to be as they appeared.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] It doesn't take long, really, to see which of the two Fianna is the comedian. In contrast to his Alpha's open candor, Patrick seemed almost stiff, unbending to humor in any form whatsoever. That, in part, might have been explained away by the Galliard's considerably high Rage, but in fact the Cliath's amusement was there all right -- it was just milder when set against Howard's.

His words, while never quite as loud as his brother's, carried equal amounts of bite. Right now, as the Theurge leans over to stage whisper to him rather than use their totemic link, the song-keeper's eyes remain with Kora; partly out of courtesy and partly because she's being spoken of and perhaps he's interested to see how she reacts, if she does in fact hear his pack-mate's words. He smiles, but as with the Fenrir's, its more the suggestion turning the corners of his mouth before he rises, taking charge of the bottle and glasses and stooping to collect his bags.

"Let's do it, buyer's choice of booth."

He looks to the Kinswoman again as he passes, his expression now belying something of mild interest that she hadn't be included in the introductions, yet she was clearly acquainted with the blond buying them a round. He's thumping his bags down beside the booth as Simon appears; and straightens to look at the Ahroun. "I guess this is the point where we introduce ourselves and the plot thickens," he exchanges a glance with Howard.

"Patrick Llelwyn, Prayers to Broken Stone, Cliath Galliard of the Fianna. This is my pack-mate, Heir of the Ruined Day, same tribe, same rank, but he fiddles with spirits." Deadpan, that.

[Slaughter] Imogen watches as the Garou head for the booth. As Patrick passes her, casting her a curious glance, the dark eyed kinwoman meets his gaze steadily, unflinchingly. When he looks away, so does she.

She does not move to join them, instead returning her attention to the music. At some point, throughout the night, when they look up, she is gone.

(sorry, must to bed! thanks for the RP!)