Imogen Runs Armed.

[Imogen] The temperature has risen, and after the cold winter days and nights, it feels almost balmy at 40'Fahrenheit. Chicagoans undo their jackets and loosen their scarves. They even leave their gloves at home.

Imogen runs with a few less layers than usual.

The park is not deserted, it has strolling lovers, one or two walking their dogs on leashes, but Imogen has found a particular stretch along the lake which is rarely frequented by pedestrians. The water is too close, the wind a little too brisk. It tugs at her hair, loosening it from the messy and coiled bun at the nape of her neck. It slides through her clothing and chills her skin. She wears only leggings, a sports tank and a zip-up sweatshirt, done up to half way.

Her skin is pale with the cold, and her breath inhales/exhales in time with every stride. She has earphones in her ears, a small compact MP3 player clipped to her sweatshirt, pumping something through the tiny stereos.

[John] This does seem balmy compared to what they're used to. The tourists bundle up for a cold they don't realize is relative, and the natives believe that with the snow melting and the paths clear, it's time to break out the sandals and the short sleeves. They can tolerate this, they think, and if they can survive winter in Chicago they can survive anything.

John can survive more than any human in this city, yet he is not quite so blind as to believe that simply being able to endure a bit of biting air and snow accompanied by lightning makes him invincible. He is hardly invincible; he is tough to kill, but even the mightiest of their lot will perish eventually. No one is immortal.

He's walking through the park in his typical outfit, scruff venturing into beard territory, the heaviness of his Rage keeping what stragglers and pedestrians are around far away from him. His hands are in his pockets and he's paying minimal attention to his surroundings.

After the events of the past week he is well and certain that even the safest of places aren't even remotely safe. It grants him a strange sense of security, knowing this. It keeps him alert.

[Imogen] She is a white moving ghost through the black corpses of the trees, her attire showing between the trunks and along the path she's chosen.

Pale jogging gear, pale skin and brilliant hair and were it not for the sheer visceral solidity of her past time of this moment, she might actually seem ethereal.

Instead, with her pumping blood and quick-breathing, the sweat chilling on her skin, she is very much in a physical body indeed. She sees John in the distance, like him, aware of her surroundings. It takes another dozen strides to recognize him, then another dozen before she begins to slow to a stop, walking the last few steps. Her breath does not mist the air, which after a winter such as theirs is something of note.

She pulls a waterbottle from its webbed receptacle trapped to her side and takes a drink, slowing to a stop as she approaches the Modi, her eyebrow arching.

"Out fer a walk, are you?" she asks, the edges of her voice rough with exertion.

[Patrick] He'd never really owned gloves to begin with.

It is a small thing, this neglect to buy the appropriate clothing for the weather, but in a (relatively) new arrival to the city itself, it speaks as much for a sort of defiance as it does unawareness of just how damn cold it was going to get. Patrick had steadfastly refused to buy gloves even though his fingers froze more often than not. He borrowed them, but he didn't have any of his own.

Tonight, it's warmer and he is not out of place to be neglectful in possessing them, or to have his leather jacket unzipped; standing as he is close to the water. The wind is brisk, it runs fingers of breeze through his hair, and ruffles it back from his skull; it chills his skin where its bare to the elements and sends a spiral of smoke burning backward into the path of any poor soul attempting healthy habits such as exercise behind him along the walkway.

The Galliard has no earphones to block out the world, but he does carry a heavy black guitar case with him, resting against one foot. There are old, peeling stickers adhered to it, and while the instrument within has changed; is his former pack-mate and Alpha's; the case without is Patrick's own; worn and dented.

Wind carries voices to him, and the curl of smoke is not the only scent on the air recognizable to him; the Fianna's head turned slightly, profile suggesting attention to something besides the water before him.

[John] Even with the wind being as brisk as it is, the distance between them being as close as she can tolerate--and it is, he comes no closer than is absolutely necessary, not so much innately aware of her discomfort as he is respecting that she is mortal, she is comparatively fragile, and she would not appreciate him being inappropriately close at the moment--he can smell the mingling of cold and sweat on her skin. John keeps his hands in his pockets, they being only a small fraction of the means he uses to communicate with the outside world, and watches her as she sips her water, lifts her eyebrow at him.

A quirked brow only has to many mappings in his memory, and yet he can think of a half dozen incongruent times when he has seen Dr. Slaughter do the same thing. It's puzzling, but he doesn't allow his confusion to drift onto his face.

Compared to times when the moon is not pressing at its bindings overhead, John looks different. An understandable simile would be that he seems as though he has a fire in the pit of him, that he's burning up with the need to kill something. That look reminds humans of serial killers. He looks deranged, yet he is in control of himself tonight.

Any sudden moves, though, any flare-ups of emotion could send him careening into a madness from which he wouldn't recover. The threat of Thrall is something he has only heard of in anecdotes, and yet every month the knowledge that it could happen stamps him down.

She asks if he's out for a walk about the time one of her tribesmen comes into view. John nods, the question requiring no further elaboration, and then a question of his own comes over his face. It's dark, and she's out running. He looks in part concerned and curious, and after he points to her, he moves his arms in a running motion without involving his legs.

[Imogen] John's gaze shifts to Patrick and so too does Imogen's attention, turning her head so she can look over her shoulder at the Fianna visible in the distance. John can only see her face in profile, the slash of the jawline, the curve of a cheekbone, the blade of her nose. He sees a tendon move in her jaw.

Patrick can only see her from a distance, though with that hair and height and frame she is easily recognizable. Still - too far to see her expression. She may have inclined her head in greeting, she may have done nothing as he turns back.

John gestures asking a question in put together charades. Imogen's mouth twists slightly.

"Fer exercise," she says, interpreting, rightly or wrongly, the purpose of his question.

[Patrick] The distant Fianna doesn't move much past turning his face a little to read the faces of those he can sense, as much as he can see in the distance. He turns back, and adopts the pose of a thoughtful smoker; the hand rising to his lips, exhaling more poison into the air and descending to his side. He remains quite fixed where he is for several moments longer before bending to scoop up his guitar case; and trudging along the mouth of the water toward the pair.

Imogen's hair marks her more firmly than John, but the other's Rage is enough of a beacon for any like Patrick; as well as the combined breeding of the two. He will not reach them for another few minutes still; but as his outline grows more solid it is evident wherever he's come from it had required the man to dress accordingly. There's a collared shirt beneath the jacket, and his jeans are newer than the ones he's typically seen in.

The boots however, are just as scuffed as ever.

So he comes along, Patrick, breathing smoke and noticeably feeling the moon passing toward his own phase. It's a tightening around his eyes, a shadow falling across his mood.

[John] For exercise.

That doesn't seem to elaborate anything. John frowns, the effect somewhat comical given that he looks absolutely flummoxed by what she's told him, as though he'd asked her where she bought her top and the answer was To stay warm. He scratches his head, returning to his mental drawing board, then gestures around them. It's dark. The moon's out. The fingers of his left hand waggle, the visual equivalent of an Umm, and he holds his hand over his eyes. It stays there for a few seconds, and then he appears to abandon the effort.

[Imogen] The truth is, she thought both meanings were possible - and she chose the one that lead to the simplest conversation, not the one which was most likely.

So, when he elaborates it does not take much for her to understand.

"S'the only time I can get out sometimes," she answers, even now, her breathing slowing. She begins to stretch, but it not ostentatious. Her body flows easily into subtle motions that stretch her shoulders, her legs, her lower back. It is the legs which are the most obvious - as she bends a knee, and grips her ankle behind her with one hand. First one, then the other.

By now, Patrick has closed the distance and Imogen takes a half step back, changing the one on one conversation into the dynamic of a trio.

"Patrick," she greets him, glancing down at the cigarette for a beat. "Don't suppose yeh ha' a spare."

[Patrick] "Imogen," he replies, absorbing her attire in one brief survey without remark; his eyes passing to the ever-silent Modi. "John," the latter gets a nod and the Galliard spares a moment to set his case down on the ground beside him; leaning it against the cradle of his legs like it were an overtired child needing his strength to remain standing.

Straightening; he ventures with a hand into a pocket of his jacket; remarking idly: "I like that you combine your vices with your healthy habits." A pack is tugged out, and he offers her one; then the other Garou, and follows it up with a flick from his lighter, his other hand holding his own lit cigarette.

"Pity they don't cancel one another out." A brief suggestion of mirth.

[John] The Fenrir watches Patrick approach not with any menace or possessiveness but as though a comrade approaches. They've fought together twice now, and while the Fiann could stand to ask Bear for assistance in learning how to shoulder his wounds, he is a fiercer fighter than one who knew what his pack was like not even a month ago. John knows nothing of the Galliard's previous pack, and so that he is a fierce fighter has no more meaning or weight than it normally would.

He's Garou. It's expected that he be a fierce fighter. In John's mind, the suffix ... for one of Stag's never crops up. All he has is right in front of him: Prayers to Broken Stone is a boon. He returns the upward lift of his chin, the gesture saying Sup? without his speaking, and there is some idle yet tense curiosity at the way he handles his instrument.

The offer of a cigarette is, perhaps shockingly, taken. John is never seen smoking on his own, and he, to borrow a phrase from so many uninformed yet well-meaning humans, doesn't look the type. Then again, neither does Imogen. Maybe he's just doing it to impress her.

He holds the cigarette up for a moment after it's lit, the gesture the Modi's way of showing thanks when he cannot talk, and drags off of it somewhat gratefully. Never mind that his metabolism is so fast that he cannot become addicted to unawakened substances: it's cold as hell, and there is a sort of ritual in smoking that he appreciates.

[Imogen] Imogen smirks faintly, "This isn't about t'be the moment where the Full-blood lectures the Half-blood on her smoking habits, is it?" she enquires mildly, eyeing the flame for a moment before leaning forward to touch the tip to it.

"S'a bit hypocritical."

She takes her first deep inhale, filling her lungs with smoke and poison, before turning her head away to exhale. She turns back as the smoke begins to dissipate, lifting the fag in much the same gesture as John, "Ta," she says.

[John] [LIFTING THE WHAT]

[Imogen] (YOU HEARD ME.)

[Patrick] It surprises many, as it should for those who met the young Garou when he first made his appearance in the city, to hear of, to see Patrick fight. To glimpse in him some of what he has long protested against. War, violence, the need for it altogether. Of the sons of Stag much can be said in a disparaging manner, but there was, within their tribe, those that seemed genuinely to want to make some difference.

Whether or not Patrick's intentions were so noble, was unknown.

But he certainly appeared to be trying; joining a new Pack; becoming a member of the Sept at all in the wake of his Alpha's death. It had certainly threatened to undo him, anyone had seen that much and while he carried Howard's death with him in his expression on occasion when the name was brought up, and certainly in what seemed an increasing press of anger about his person, he was not overcome by the grief.

He had worked through it.
Was, working through it.

But then, death ought not to leave you untouched, when it was someone who mattered. Perhaps that sensibility in part explains his fascination; his concern about Imogen's profession. Still, that he finds her company enjoyable is evidenced in the mild manner he retorts her glib remarks with his own.

"God, no." Patrick breathes out; and looks away over the water. "I'd be the last person to tell anyone what they should be doing." To John, there's an added: "Sorry our Pool match fell through last night man, I think I scared your Alpha away with the threat of being beaten by a Fianna."

[John] The Galliard's apology makes the mute male attempt to crack a smile. He's amused, as much as Fenrir ever become amused, and it's expressed in a rush of air through his nose, but the effort of smiling is concealed by his facial hair. It keeps his musculature hidden, actually manages to make him look somewhat younger: John, for having the regenerative properties that he does, still appeared, upon first arriving in Chicago, to have spent most of his life outdoors. What skin is visible is weathered. His eyes crinkle when he makes a stab at smiling, even if his lips barely move. He blows out a stained breath, then tries to express his thoughts on his Alpha's pool ability without speech.

Pointing off in the distance to indicate Hunter, he follows the motion up by waving his free hand to wave away the sentiment, then pantomimes shooting pool. That done, he holds that same hand up in a thumb's down and makes a Pppbt noise with his tongue.

[Imogen] Imogen's attention flickers between each through a half verbal half silent conversation. She allows it to wash over her, smirking faintly at John's pantomime before flicking her attention toward the water, which is part frozen, part water slicked and cracking ice.

It is still and unmoving. The ocean never freezes.

She is comfortable outside the conversation, though her attention is never fully moved away from the Garou.

[Patrick] Patrick doesn't fully smile, but then, he rarely does. His amusement is evidenced in the manner his pale eyebrows constrict, or rise together and in the small nudge of his mouth often at one corner. He breathes sharply as often as he laughs outright and he does so now; the chill in the air speaking for him; fog emitting with the expel of air from his lungs as he watches the Metis respond without speech.

"That bad, huh? Now I'm really sorry, I could have put money on the game and won big." The Cliath taps the end of his lit cigarette, and ash litters the wind. "Hunter's a good guy though," honesty was something Prayers to Broken Stone didn't shy from, even the blunt sort. He seemed to care little for how it might make others feel, sometimes.

He reaches up to scratch the edge of a brow.

"Y'know, when he isn't trying to elicit hugs from everyone. We fought together a bunch of times with my former pack." There's barely a grimace today, at the mention of the recent past. He looks outward, though. His eyes don't meet anyone's as he says it.

[Imogen] Imogen's gaze jerks back - she was, in fact, paying attention, simply offering them the illusion of privacy.

"Elicit hugs?" she echoes, her voice noted skepticism.

[John] 'Former' pack could mean only a few things. In any of the interpretations, the pack that was is no longer, either because it is missing Patrick, or because it had been obliterated. The Modi wouldn't ask even if he had a voice that made unnecessary the formless, grammarless gesturing and the perpetual facial expressions. It seems as though every thought this male has passes over his face, yet extrapolating from that that he doesn't think if it isn't on his face isn't entirely accurate. Some of his thoughts are buried, or beyond sharing.

Patrick isn't meeting his gaze, and Imogen isn't looking at him, so they don't see his reaction. He drags off of his cigarette when Imogen mentions the hugs, and John rolls his eyes, a sigh accompanying it. It isn't directed at her; this is Hunter they're talking about.

[Patrick] Patrick's eyes flick to Imogen, he nods, grimly as if they were discussing the Wyrm.

"Yes, Hunter has a need for physical embraces with other Garou as I saw evidence of last night." He takes a drag, raising a brow. "I begged off in exchange for beer. But be on alert, he might try his luck with you, next." His eyes shift to her back, noting perhaps, the lack of weaponry on her person while she exercised.

[Imogen] Patrick's gaze flicks toward Imogen's back and the kinswoman's mouth twists slightly. "I'm still armed," she says, but does not elaborate.

"But I'll do my best t'keep my eye out shall I? Try not to meet him alone." There is a deliberate grimness to her voice that is almost a joke. It may even be so, for a woman like her.

[Patrick] "Best to be vigilant against these hugging sorts." Patrick says in return, with little inflection. Feeling does then enter his voice with his next remark, along with a hoarser quality due to inhaling too deeply from his cigarette.

"Next thing you know there'll be hand-holding and the world will devolve into a state of chaos." Patrick's gaze flits to the red-headed Doctor with a suggestion of smiling; it is very slight, and more evidenced in his eyes than lips.

[Imogen] Her mouth twists faintly around her cigarette. "Somehow, I don't think that's likely."

A glance at John, silent now, doing whatever it is mutes do when they have nothing to say in a conversation. Look out over the water, twiddle his thumb, pick his nose, smoke his cigarette.

She takes another deep inhale before turning her head away to exhale.

"Well," she says, mildly. "Let you two be full-bloods, shall I? And do," her hand moves absently, an all-encompassing motion, "whatever it is that full-bloods do."

A glance at Patrick as she drops the cigarette, crushing it out beneath her running shoe, "I've a bloke yeh might want to meet. Yer tribe." Note the phrasing.

[John] That seems to be the end of John: he hears talk of hand-holding and his eyes go wide, as though Patrick has just launched into a graphic description of his last sexual encounter, and he takes a step back from the two of them. Cigarette held aloft again, eyes slow to return to their normal diameter, he walks backwards a few more steps, either actually wary of whatever Patrick just said or simply screwing around, and only when he seems certain that he isn't going to infect either of them with whatever he caught from hugging Hunter, John turns around and continues on his path out of the park.