Go For a Hunt

[Hunter] It's almost ten o-clock in the evening.

Though who can really tell when the weather is behaving so horrendously. The day starts off dark, turns slightly grey and then disappears into blackness again. It must be difficult for the workers, the every day people, sitting in their offices and missing the brief periods of sunlight on these cold winter days.

It is warm tonight, or at least warmer than usual. There is no frost on the ground though the grass looks damp, no frost on the benches of Grant Park and there is even the occasional stroller wandering by. One of these is Hunter Matthews. Everyone else is wrapped up like they are preparing for the day after tomorrow except Hunter. He wears jeans, blue and turning grey with oil stains, boots, a white t-shirt and an open dark brown leather jacket. No scarf, no hat, no gloves.

His hair looks messy, like he just woke up or has been rubbing his hand over it a lot. It is explained when he comes into view, with his palm at the back of his head and the other pulling a cigarette from his lips. He puffs out smoke and his green eyes shift rapidly around the area. A path, a nothing between something. Trees, bushes, but mostly just barren grass and skeletal remains, surround the pathway. There is a singular bench on this small stretch of the park.

A familiar face, a familiar shade of hair. A familiar scent of breeding.

"Imogen." His voice sounds like it's it's wavering on the edge of madness but never quite going either way. His eyes look it too.

[Imogen] The temperature hovers at freezing. After most of this month, and the month before, it nearly feels warm. Living in a city with such extremes of heat and cold makes one truly appreciate just how relative changes in temperature are.

The night is dark and overcast, the full moon a smudge beneath a layer of clouds. A faint mist that cannot quite be called snow or rain falls, luminescent in the park lights, and sticking to the skin, a faint film of chill.

Imogen is running, but not the way prey does. She runs in the strange peculiarity of humans, the run for exercise, for adrenaline, for sweat and exertion. Leggings, running shoes and a wind-proof, water-proof jacket, half open over a sports shirt beneath. Her breath mists in the air, her hair pulled back by a covered elastic band, a haphazard bun, which momentum and exertion have begun to uncoil. Strands are free getting into her face and eyes, and brushing her neck.

She sees him and slows, early enough that she can walk the final half dozen steps toward him. He sounds like a tightly coiled spring, and the tension reflects in his eyes. Imogen lifts a cold, bare hand to her face, brushing back strands of hair as her eyes lift to the sky, the moon, and then back again.

"Hunter," she greets him in kind.

[Hunter] Her eyes lift to the moon, and Hunter doesn't bother to follow that look, he knows that she is just doing the math. But as her eyes shift back to him she sees a quirk in his lips, a lifting in the corners.

"Small world."

He looked her over when she first rounded the corner. If she were paying attention she might have noticed his gaze lower and rise and finally settle. Up this close those though he just studies her face and his hand that fell from the back of his head now gestures towards the bench. The offer is plain, would she like to sit?

The cigarette gets puffed on once more and then discarded on the ground.

[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists, but there is little humour behind it. "I'm told," she says, "that I ha' a homing beacon. It's rather inconvenient, all told."

She shakes her head slightly at the offer, rubbing her hands together before she pockets them. She does not quite stretch, but keeps her muscles active, subtle tensions and releases, a slow shift of weight too infrequent and controlled to be mistaken for fidgeting.

She has a graceful way of standing, of moving, a controlled grace that does not quite suggest a warrior or a dancer. Simply someone who knows one's body intimately, confidently.

"Out fer a walk, are yeh?"

[Hunter] The only reply to her comment about being a homing beacon is a hmmph that escapes his chest more than his mouth. But Hunter is perceptive, or so it seems he is tonight, because it's only a moment or two after she declines the seat that he's pulling off his jacket leaving him in only a t-shirt even though the temperatures hover around freezing. There are scars on his arms though nothing too dramatic. A few on his forearms and then some nastier looking ones that peek out on his biceps beneath the sleeves of his shirt.

"For a run actually."

He grins at her, not many people go running in jeans and boots. "You comin'?"

[Imogen] She gives him a narrow eyed glance, one that does not seem to judge his attire, but the offer. An offer from a Garou, on a full moon.

Her body is lean and tight beneath her attire. She is a slight woman, athletic. A body that she pounds into tightness, into muscle, into litheness. A body which she gives no quarter, much as she gives anything else. She is no Full-Blood and no warrior. She does the best she can with what she's got.

After a moment, her shoulders move a fraction of an inch. A barely visible, almost dismissive shrug. She tilts her head in the direction she was headed, no answering grin, and picks up her pace once more.

[Hunter] He stretches once, twice, leaving her to push on ahead for a few seconds before he catches up. And he most assuredly catches up, not that Imogen is bolting off down the path, but she is a fit woman.

The jacket is held in his right hand, and he jogs with her to his left. He doesn't breath harshly or seem particularly stressed at all by this exercise, but she knows what he is. She shouldn't expect him to.

"Why'd'ya run so late at night?"

[Imogen] At this moment, early into the run, having had a break, she breathes easily. She keeps a steady, brisk pace, the pace of marathoners and athletes.

He asks a question, and she casts him a sidelong glance. "I work long hours," she says. "Sometimes, this is th'only time I have."

Several footfalls pass in silence. "Besides," she adds, "s'better when there are fewer people."

[Hunter] She works long hours, she's a forensic .. whatever.. She has to do her running late at night, and apparently she enjoys the solitude. Hunter just smirks, flicks her one of those sidelong glances back but doesn't say a word on it for now.

His breathing isn't practised; he doesn't have a pattern down or anything. He just breathes in and out through both his mouth and nose and a warm glow comes over his cheeks as his blood begins to flow.

"Fuckin' tell me bout it, get fuckin' cabin fever this time'a cycle if I don't get out. But then when I do..there is people ta deal with."

[Imogen] Her earlier statement had been without rancour, or a pointed glance. It was almost off-hand, careless. He points out something similar to what she had just stated, and she casts him a glance, and several more strides pass in silence.

"I would think you would go hunting," she says, her gaze forward.

[Hunter] "I did, last night. Took down'a Naugh." His words turn contemplative. "People say they was kinfolk once." He pauses there in silence, brings his empty left hand up to scratch once at the back of his head then flicks a glance to the stag beside him.

"Hard ta' believe."

[Imogen] Her blood is stag's blood, but she seems to defy most stereotypes. Fianna are passionate, mercurial. She is cold and reserved.

Still, her hair is red, brilliantly so and her skin is pale. Her accent may be British, though it's been known to be mistaken for other nationalities. New Zealand, Australian. She has a particular burr that makes it hard for Americans to place her.

Her breathing is deliberate, measured by her strides, rhythmic, even if it is a little more laboured now. Her pace does not alter. "I don't know what that is," she says, "but given what humans and full-bloods can be turned into, perhaps it shouldn't be such a stretch o' the imagination."

[Hunter] He can sniff her out by her blood, so he assumes, he doesn't know what she is really. Nature vs Nurture. He doesn't know her life to think of her as anything other than the breeding that surrounds her.

Hunter on the other hand is a common mystery when it comes to simply looking at him. No breeding, no obvious signs of any particular tribe, at least not when he walk as a man. He smells clean, looks clean and his clothes are functional and fitting without the price tag.

She doesn't know what that is and the truth is Hunter doesn't know much better.

"Thing could fuckin' -- pick a war-formed up in one hand -- laughed even when I ripped its throat out -- Shit is fucked up."

He breathes deeply between each burst of sentence then a second later seems perfectly relaxed again.

"Probably go out again tonight, what bout' you? Any plans?"

[Imogen] He can sniff her out by blood, and therefore assumes. In her own way, she allows these assumptions. She offered no tribe at her introduction. When opportunity had arose for clarification, she had ignored it.

So, Fianna she is.

Her muscles move beneath her clothes. Running is ever so much more than simply the movement of calf muscles, the manipulation of thigh muscles. The core engages, the back. The arms move. The rhythm of breath works its way into motion. Strands of hair have dislodged themselves from behind the dam of her ear, or perhaps come loose from their binding. They fall from the temple down her cheek. They rim her peripheral gaze with fire, disrupting her sidelong image of him with red and roan.

"Going back t'work, aren't I just?"

[Hunter] "Where's the fun'n that?" He asks her and takes a few long strides in front of her. He turns around, starts jogging backwards so he can watch her.

His hair is a chocolate brown mess, but it is kept cut short, at least it doesn't have the length to shoot out in all directions. If she's looking she can see the tension in his neck and shoulders, it was there before she first spoke tonight, will be there long after she has gone. He doesn't need a pretty kinfolk to make him feel tense tonight.

"You know." He begins and there's something of a smile in his lips though it's curled and snarling with that see-saw of madness she had seen earlier. "You ain't call me Imogen. Start thinkin' ma streets'r safe if ya' don't call. And I get so god damn worried when I think ma streets'r safe."

[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow arches as he begins to jog backwards, but she does not comment on his questionable decision.

She can feel the rage the way it seethes beneath his skin. It taints the air, charges it with electricity. It is a faint but uncomfortably familiar echo. A full moon on full moon night.

She exhales a breath sharply when he speaks, a sound which is not laboured breath, but a scoff. "If yeh're using me as your only marker, you ha' bigger problems than the vanishingly small possibility that yer territory is safe."

[Hunter] He raises eyebrows back at her and then slowly turns, falls back into place on her right. He bristles, she can almost feel the heat coming off him, could almost feel it fade away when he stepped in front of her.

"Was that a fuckin' joke? From you Imogen? I think that's the first fuckin' joke I've ever heard ya' say."

Considering the only other time they have seen each other was at the site of something very bloody and strange, it is not surprising that he thinks this is the first time she has joked.

[Imogen] Again, that exhale. This time, it might almost be a laugh. It must be rare for him to hear a kinfolk laugh in his presence in the full moon. When his blood runs high and he bristles even at a joke.

"More like a minor quip."

[Hunter] She... almost laughs. At him? With him? It is unclear. There isn't enough in it to determine direction or source, just enough to notice its presence. After a moment of thought:

"I'll take that."

He says the words and then laughs. A second ago he was bristling with Rage, now he's laughing through breath that is becoming faster the longer that they run.

"Have'ta take my fuckin' Quips when I can get em' with you."

[Imogen] Her mouth twists - it is a smirk, not a smile. The moment passes.

"In either case, I've not been tirelessly scourin' yer territory for you, so you will need to find yer prey on your own, tonight."

[Hunter] His laughter is gone, as quickly as it arrived, his jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed and he tilts his head towards her. His green eyes peer sidelong at the red head and he hesitates a moment watching the few loose strands of that vibrant hair float around her face. He takes a deep breath.

"Didn't ask ya' to find no prey with me."

His lips part and he licks over his teeth rather wolfishly.

"Was just fuckin' askin' ya what you were up to s'all."

[Imogen] Imogen's glance, in response to his sudden change in mood is measured. Even, unflinching.

"I'm referrin' to the fact yeh mentioned tha' you were hunting, and then thereafter, brought up tha' I've not called yeh with any details," she observes, her voice breathless at the edges from exertion, but still steady for all that.

[Hunter] He sighs and looks at her incredulously.

"Oh fuckin' c'mon it was a joke. Jeeze, I know it's the fuckin' full moon'n'all but can't a guy make a joke now and then?"

He sighs again, then shakes his head.

"We made a deal, you said you'd call when ya' had somethin'. You think I'm just waitin' by the phone for ya? I think you'll do whatcha' said ya' would and nothin' more."

[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow arches - a smirk flickering at her mouth again. "Perhaps you aren't very good at it." The question is arch, rather than coy.

They continue for some time longer, rhythm steady, their breathing unmatched. Their stride is too, most likely. He, with the heavy clomp of boots, and the binding whisper of jeans, and she, sleek in leggings and almost silent stride of sneakers.

"You're right," she says. "I will." Do what she said she would, and nothing more.

[Hunter] She is like a Howard Ivers that never has any fun. Like a beautiful female Howard Ivers, except instead of stupidity and bullshit to hide herself she uses wit and intellect and carefully chosen words.

That is until what she just said is factored into it. Hunter is right, she will do what was agreed. Howard never does what is ever agreed upon, as a rule.

Her comment about him not being very good at it gets little reaction out of the Ahroun, he just sniffs, nostrils flaring briefly and gives a shrug of his shoulders. It isn't until they've continued on in silence that her words come to light with her agreement of his thoughts.

"Good." He says, and it sounds genuine not mocking. He breathes slower, calming some what. "You know, this doesn't have to be so fuckin' hard."

[Imogen] She glances at him. Through this, her attention, primarily has been forward. She pays attention to where she is going, what is approaching, and her surroundings. Her attention on him is brief, glancing and only periodic.

"Beg yer pardon?"

[Hunter] "This," he says, lifting his left hand and pointing his index finger from Imogen and back to himself. "You helpin' me out n'maybe me helpin' you out or whatever the fuck this is."

He rubs a hand over his face. She either doesn't even realise, or doesn't care, or he just doesn't know her well enough. (he really doesn't.)

"You fuckin' press ma' buttons is all. Shit. I mean I can't tell if ya' jokin' or fuckin' tryn'a pick a fight with me or what, so I just assume ya' jokin' because you ain't that fuckin' stupid."

[Imogen] Imogen exhales her breath, then slows to a stop. If he does as well, she turns to face him, her breath faster than its resting rate, her chest moving with its rhythm, her exhales misting the air. At first she does not speak, catching her breath or choosing her words, it's not easy to tell. "I don't want yer help," she says, "and the only reason I am helping you out is because its easier than subverting you and better than not doing anything at all.

"As fer button pushin', rest assured, you are not the first to say that to me."

[Hunter] He stops when she does and his breathing is slightly heavier than hers, his chest rises and falls dramatically beneath his white t-shirt. I don't want yer help, "Course ya' don't." He offers with a roll of his eyes but shuts up when she keeps talking, gives him the reasons why she is helping him.

His breathing begins to slow during the few seconds it takes her to say all that and she can feel his Rage sparking up, bristling, burning right in her face as he takes a step closer to her. It seems like every muscle in his torso is tensed, veins showing in his forearms and his now slightly damp t-shirt clings to him. She must have felt this increasing of physical presence and uncontrollable anger before so she must know what usually follows it. Hunter Matthews just stands there though with a curled fist and his lips pressed together.

"It is better." He finally says. "I'm glad ya' know that." He finds a silver lining.

[Imogen] Her mouth twists. There is a latent threat in the curled fist, conscious or unconscious, and a threat in the step forward.

Hunter is smaller than most Garou, but he is taller than she is. By over half a foot. By nearly a foot. Imogen is smaller than most teenagers. She is one of those people, who, when met, among the first thoughts one has is: My god, she's so small.

Her spine is straight, her shoulders are back. She stands like his height is meaningless, with an air of habit that suggests she stands this way with everyone.

"It's fairly obvious."

[Hunter] She seems unafraid, completely and utterly. This tiny woman. She barely reaches his shoulders and she stands there like he's just a school kid, just a bully, just a common street thug. Nothing to be scared of.

And that should annoy Hunter, that should make him angry because she isn't treating him with what most would consider respect. But he doesn't feel himself getting annoyed, he feels himself calming down. He looks at her and she looks right back at him and he tries to remember the last time someone other than a Garou could look him in the eye when he was feeling like this. A long time. Maybe never.

His fist uncurls.

"Ta' you - yeah, ta' me - sure, but not ta' everyone."

A pause.

"Come get'a drink with me." No smile in his lips. Some in his eyes.

[Imogen] She's still - unmoving. Her breathing has calmed, and the expansion of her ribcage is nearly hidden beneath the layers of her clothes.

The wind moves her hair. She is pale with the chill, as if her blood moved inward rather than out.

"Go fer a hunt," she says. "I ha' to shower and get back to work."

[Hunter] She's unmoving, and he is likewise. They stand facing each other and he asks her.. more like tells her to come with him and have a drink. She declines without declining and instead offers for him to hunt. It makes sense, he needs to hunt. He blinks huge emerald eyes at her and then narrows them before nodding and taking a step back, half turning.

"N'other' time then."

He moves as if to say something else but then just closes his mouth and starts walking back the way they had come. She can see him shrug back into his leather jacket and soon a waft of cigarette smoke billows past his shoulder.

[Imogen] Hunter starts back the way they'd come and Imogen picks up her pace again. He can hear her footfalls behind him as she returns to her path, without an answer or goodbye.