Prequel to a Blizzard

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Ack! People! :] *goes type something*]

[Roman Turner] It was damned cold (winter was lasting forever) and it was snowing (again). It had gotten to the point that walking had become more a feat of slip-sliding-mountain climbing. Now and then he tipped his head, sending snow sliding off the brim of the hat he wore. Snow made it hard to tell if the hat was black, gray or white speckled at times. A black/white/gray blend scarf was wrapped around his face, covering the lower part to keep the cold air out of his lungs. Snow clung to his shoulders and the collar of the lamb wool lined coat he wore. Ice and snow coated several inches of his jeans where it had come up over his boots. Times like this he felt like a black beetle crawling over mountains.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Cabrini Green is one of those areas of the city where you hear sirens so often they stop being something you concern yourself with. Local residents hear them and barely glance up from what they're doing, where they're going. Cruisers with flashing lights are as common place as gunfire. The percentage of times its a fire arm going off in the Green versus a car back firing are sadly one sided.

Tonight, there's no moon.

The sky, already overcast is darker than ever and drifts of snow fall from above, only becoming visible as they hit the soft yellow glow of streetlights; littering the roads where passing cars turn it to sludge. Outside an old, crumbling house, there is activity. Two squad cars are parked out front; wipers aimlessly cutting against the fall of snow on their windshields. Yellow tape flutters as its rolled across the front porch of what had no doubt once been a serviceable unit built for a struggling family.

A body is being carefully carried down the steps toward a van; the snowflakes peppering the black body-bag.

Across the street, half masked by the dark night, and the shadow of an overhanging store front; Patrick is observing the goings-on; face inscrutable. There was a young man, hand-cuffed, sitting in the backseat of one of the Police Cruisers, and from inside the building, lights blazing came the muted wailing of a child.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen stands, small, redhaired, amid the throng of police activity, her skin washing blue and red with the siren lights. The snow catches in her hair, and her hands are gloved in latex, flexing slowly as she speaks with a tall, burly officer.

There is no deference in either of them, though the officer beetles his brow as he stares at her, like she were an enigma he cannot quite figure out. Or perhaps as if what she said was a mystery.

The doors to the van slam shut, and Imogen turns her head briefly to glance toward it, reaching out of habit to take a clipboard handed to her by the body removal personal, a pen in her left hand to scrawl her name, careful to keep her gloves from brushing against the sheet.

[Roman Turner] When the fact that there were flashing lights up the way finally sunk in to his musing about what to have for supper and just how cold his toes were, he slowed down. Imogen sort of stuck out like a zit on Fairy Princess's face. Meaning she was hard to miss no matter her surroundings. The other reason he slowed down was he didn't want to get that close to the cruisers. No sense in standing out when his instincts leaned towards sticking to the shadows most times.

[Patrick Llewelyn] For once, Patrick was wearing gloves to keep his fingers from the cold; they emerged from the pockets of his jacket when he notices Imogen -- though with her breeding, it was not so much noticing as locating by sight -- he straightens, the Galliard and moves further into the light cast by the building; the cars.

The flashing lights on the squad car paint his skin red and blue in alternating patterns.

When Roman comes along, slowing at the sight of the crime scene; the Fianna's attention is drawn to him. There's a flicker of recognition; he was a member of the Last Watch; he'd been at the pack house last night when he spoke to Kora, when she invited him to get to know her pack.

He nods briefly at the Gaian, and steps off the curb to walk closer; his boots crunching over snow and ice. "Hey, man." His breath misted before his face, and he rounded his shoulders against the cold; turning toward the angry buzzing voices. "Been watching this for a while. Heard the gunshot; someone screaming."

The blue eyes flicked toward the kid in the back of the car.

"That guy waving his arm around; pointing it inside the house."

[Roman Turner] He slowed further when Patrick came out of the dark and started towards him. He too recalled Patrick from the previous night. He recalled his Alpha's message that Patrick would like to get to know them, run with them. So out of politeness he pulled the scarf down so Patrick could see his mouth move when he spoke, resulting in a white mist with each word.

"The kid in the back seat was out front waving his arm and pointing at the house and they put him in the cop car for that? Who did the shooting then? And how come Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am is out here? She doing a clean up?"

He shifted from one foot to the other.

"Cold out here, I swear it never warms up here."

[Bridget] Just down the street in the midst of the snow storm of the century, violence hadn't ceased. The few people out on the street are huddled against the whipping winds and blinded by the snow.

For some reason, this doesn't stop the Albertan from going where she wants to go. Or maybe her mission was that important. Maybe she got stranded somehow. Regardless, she walks down the street huddling into her own coat, hands shoved into her own pockets. She barely notices the Rage over the flashing lights and snow.

Bridget gets nearly within reach before she stops and gives each a once over. Patrick, Roman, then Imogen across the street. She stops, shivering, and shuffles closer to Patrick and Roman... not terribly close, but close enough.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick has to talk louder to be heard over the wind, it buffets the back of his head; wraps around his body and were he any less of a solid, immovable obstacle it would probably propel him down the street, too. The Fianna draws his hood up, and answers the No Moon.

"Think he came out after doing the shooting, not sure. Cops rocked up and took him into custody. Then Imogen showed up, and they went in; brought that poor bastard in the zip lock bag out." The Fianna shrugs a shoulder; and then twists as the wave of breeding of another Kin draws his focus. Bridget shivers up alongside them, and the Galliard's eyebrows crawl upwards; they're dusted with snow.

"Out for a leisurely stroll?" He drawls; then nods at Roman. "This is Bridget."

[Imogen Slaughter] Across the street, Imogen shakes her jacket free of snow where it has accumulated in the folds of it. The jacket is black and too large over her frame. "CCME" it says on the back in lurid yellow letters.

There is a gathering of the blood nearby, and once, it appears like she might have turned her head to look at them, her gaze resting there, briefly still. Then her attention turns back to the conversation she is in. Moments later, she re-enters the house.

The body removal van (Samson's Funeral Home, it says on the side) pulls away from the curb, its lights flaring to life as it starts down the street.

Two police officers remain outside the car occupied with the alleged offender, alternately keeping an eye on him and smoking a cigarette.

[Roman Turner] "Folks are crazy in this city."

He started to shake his head, the motion turning to a firm planting of one hand on the crown of his hat to keep it from becoming airborne.

"Boy howdy, colder than a Witch's ti..."

Bridget turned up and Patrick was introducing her, which broke off the crude comment Roman had started.

"..tea cup." "Nice to meetcha, Miss Bridget."

He nodded his head, still shuffling from foot to foot.

"I was thinking it's a mite bit cold to stand out here gawkin."

[Bridget] Folks sure are crazy. Imogen works at whatever it is that she does: Bridget's only met her once. She doesn't do anything but shiver as they say hello, but she does nod her head.

"Yeah, it's damn cold. I wonder if there's a dive open around here somewhere."

[Linus] There's a shiver in the sky.
Something that probably quakes the clouds and shakes the horizon, but mortal eyes are not privy to in the darkness of the above mingled with the blind of City Illumination (safety/sanctuary), but it is there. A quiver that pushes and gushes winds up and down streets, knocking over cans not already frozen to sidewalks and slashing bits of detritus into corners and alleys.

The Air is feeling charged this evening. Not simply playful but fierce. An insistent lover, a powerful passion, a heart breaking in the shrillness of tone. At once malevolent and oddly promising. Not a threat, but a promise.

* * * *

He stands in the Church belfry, squinting into the snowfall. The winds been vicious up here, but he's hunched in one corner, hands tucked under armpits and face sunken into a scarf so thick only the eyes peek out between it and the black cap he's got on. He's wearing two pairs of long johns and staring at the Tarps stapled to the Roof. He had made sure they were taut and with as little give as possible, ensuring the wind couldn't get much of a hold but...

...That was normal wind in the Windy City. This...

...the Sky opened up.

CRACK ooooooommmmmm...

The sound was fuzzy but thick, pressurized and powerful. Fell like a gavel. He hunched lower, wincing with the sound. The bell beside him hummed and rang lowly and he reached out a gloved hand to place against the cold metal, murmuring softly.

"Fuuuucckkkkk...."

[Patrick Llewelyn] The blue-eyed Galliard jerks his head in the direction of a tiny building down the street; its windows still blazed in the stormy night; and wordlessly, he starts down the block toward it; his feet leaving a path behind him in the snow; indenting it with the imprint of his boot. As he draws near to the house; his eyes flit over the two Police Officers; the expression on the boy's face as he sits in the back of the car.

Frozen, eyes empty; staring forward with blood stained clothing.

The front door of the house is open, and Patrick catches a glimpse of red hair; bent to some task; examining a bloody wall. His jaw tightens; and Patrick hunches his shoulders against the wind, and carries on toward the tiny Cafe that dares to struggle on despite location; despite weather and the hour. It is empty save for a pair of women drinking coffee at a table in the corner.

Tiny booths and a counter all that seem to fit inside; as the Galliard pushes at the door; a tinny bell rings, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee is like a miracle.

[Roman Turner] "Home's just up the way. And heck, if ya got a mind for it, ya can even make a snow man in parts of it. Best of both worlds. Some of it's got some heat and some of it ain't."

There was a feel to the night that grated on his nerves. Patrick started down the walk and Roman made the suggestion to both Patrick and Bridget. Normally a moonless night brought out the devil in him, but tonight it felt more like the devil was standing behind him poised to stick him in the rump with that pitch fork of his. In other words, he had a powerful urge to be close to those he trust the most, Pack.

"Miss Imogen knows the way. She'll likely stop in when she can."

[Bridget] The Galliard wordlessly seeks out warmth, light, and coffee. His absence brings the chill of the wind back, the barrier now gone. Roman makes an offer to which Bridget nods and starts walking near the shoeprints in the snow. The hood of her athletic jacket beneath her other coat whips back in the wind and some of her hair lets loose of its bond. Bridget smirks and sets it back into place while crossing the street.

She gives a passing glance to the man whose life has been changed forever because he took the life of another. There is no feeling, just a fleeting glance before boots carry the kin across the street, up onto the opposite curb, and through the cafe door.

[Roman Turner] He cocked a brow at Bridget and Patrick as they headed for the Cafe.

"I'm gonna head for home. Y'all welcome to come along if ya get the hankering."

The way his nerves were singing, he wasn't fit for a cafe setting. Some kid kills someone and stands outside waving around till the cops came? Something was tingling through the air way above and all he wanted was Pack. Waiting to see it Bridget wanted an escort for a moment before he trudged up the street for the old church.

[Kora] Haven't been ignoring you guys - I just needed to deal with transcripts so I can do my journals. I need to sleep at a reasonable hour tonight, but I'm down for an hour or so. :)
to†Bridget, Imogen Slaughter, Linus, Patrick Llewelyn, Roman Turner, snowstorm, Sofie Janssen

[Sofie Janssen] The Kinfolk was heading towards the church, opposite to where all the buzz is happening down the street. Hunched against the cold, she walked at an quicker step. Her eyes were burning from the wind chill alone and she could feel the cold come right through he scarf wrapped over her mouth, threatening to freeze off the tip. While it's a good idea to have gloved hands in jacket pockets, she needs them out for her balance on the snow and wet. Her brisk walk is a set pace, rapidly eating up the ground towards the church.

She see's Roman approaching but doesn't stop as she calls out a quick; "Hey Roman," and continues up the path towards the steps. Even in all winter gear, swallowed up by jacket, hats and scarfs, he can probably make out who it is. Sofie's not easy to mistake for someone else.

[Linus] This shit is fuckin' hectic. Frost Jaws running around in the streets on the flip. S'like a god damn Nuclear Winter!

The totemlink fires to life with the Godi's frazzled nerves, synching with roman's own displeasure and tension. His tone is vaguely warped by the thrum of the air and it's haunted sort of presence. Like the monster that was the city, was squatting on a rock, clawing at the sky that raged and quaked.

* * * *

He slapped the bell.

Heard it ring. Faintly. Then went for cover as another clap of fuzzy thunder, shouldered into the city from above. A mutter was erased in the sound, clambering down past the trapdoor and ladder and pulling it shut behind him. He slid, wet and snow speckled to the bottom a grunt erupting as he struck stonework and released the ladder with heavy gloved hands. He shakes himself out and grunts again, doffing hat and scarf while going in search of the Electrical box. The Lightning elementals he had put to work had gone psychotic with the building presence of the Storm. The Heaters had been in and out of working order for the last ten hours.

"...Fuckin' Umbral service- Where the Fuck is the Maytag guy when you need him?"

The Lights, what few they had, chose that moment to blink out. Prompting a scream from the Godi that went from inarticulate to a well crafted bellow of 'Aaakkkkuuuuuuuu!'. Luckily there were few bodies around just yet to be confused by the pop culture reference.

He struggled to find the zippo he used to light the candles around the Church, muttering to himself in the process.

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Ahem, sorry about that all. My internet was playing funny buggers. ]

[Kora] The snow's heavy enough now that the edges of the street are obscured. The wind rises, swirls it around like dust devils, temporary white-outs in the strangest places. The whole city seems darker with snow clotting the sky, obscuring the ordinary orange glow they've come to count on for visibility in a place like this. So: for a minute, or two, the figure down the block is just a stranger, hunkered against the wind, snow gilding the yoke of the dark wool coat, the hood of the jacket layered beneath it. Sofie may recognize her: a glint of pale hair coiled beneath the hood. Roman can feel her, her presence is an immediate thing in the back of his mind - a familiar tug.

Like the storms on the north Atlantic. Kora supplies. A brief vision of a flat, barren rocky shore, a gray horizon, the dark waters driven mad by the wind, lashing at the sheer cliffs, howling winds, snow melting into the tumultuous waters. Halfdan the Old charged the cliffs to retake the Skerries from the cursed ones in the middle of a storm like this.

The wind howls; she shoots a look up at the sky, braces herself against another wild gust. And admits. Maybe not quite like this.

[Patrick Llewelyn] The Galliard turns back; looking over a shoulder when Roman addresses the notion of heading to Last Watch's Church rather than the Cafe. Patrick nods, his voice half torn away by the growing storm. "I'll come back that way," and shouts something else that sounds rather a lot like coffee before trudging onward to the Cafe.

The Fianna Kinswoman follows his lead; and Patrick cuts a glance to her as he approaches the counter; bearing in with the snow and chill the warmer burn of his Rage.

"I'm gonna take some coffees back to Last Watch. They live in this old Church, think it'll ingratiate me to them more if I come bearing hot beverages," he gestures at pie on display beneath the counter. "And one of those, too. Make the coffees black and throw in some of those little milk... things."

The waitress, an older woman with a worn, wrinkled face stared at the Galliard for a moment; sniffed and turned to begin pouring cups. Prayers to Broken Stone dug in a pocket, and smoothed a bundle of notes on the counter.

[Roman Turner] "Ok meetcha there."

He called back over the wind.

"I think Linus has the need for company as much as I need to get back."

He picked up speed, then slowed a bit with the wave from Sofie and spotting/feeling Kora up the way.

Did ya feel that? I think I'm heading inside.

He questioned Kora as he high-tailed it for the steps of the church and in to the dark.

"What happened to the dag blamed lights?"

[Sofie Janssen] "Hey Jarl." Sofie greets her too when they all find themselves at the Church steps around the same time. She shivers a little, impatiently waiting for everyone to get inside before slipping into the dark along side the Garou.

Roman questions what's going on with the lights, but the answer seems obvious to her. She doesn't know the place is ran by spirits. Her gaze roams through the dark, over the flickering candles that Linus had put out. The Church looked kinda spooky on a night like this.

[Bridget] Bridget nods and looks to the mess, then back to Patrick. She takes a breath and sighs, ducking her head into the pie rack. Her eyes light up at something within. Optimistic, she peers at the overtired waitress behind the counter and points to some maple bear claw.

"One of these, please. And another coffee to go," her voice is quiet, cheerful. Not containing the same bitterness as before.

Eventually, she raises up then bumps an elbow quietly into the Galliard's side. She looks back up at him, face full of humor, "I'll help you carry them. Is that what you're doing out here in this mess?"

[Linus] "The Fuckin' Breaker Went Shit Ape!"

It's the high-pitched gutter throat sort of hail mary reply one might expect from Linus in the middle of an Apocalypse run and he's forgotten to wear underpants. In otherwords? Stressed. The church is haunted by diffuse lighting come in from what few Stained glass windows are still operational and then? Only in parts and pieces where the glass was still whole.

It takes a few moments for light to arrive in the form of the Brazers lining the walls. Slowly, fire leaps into view, as Linus goes moving from steel globe to steel globe, illuminating the interior of the church with something akin to 'Mood Lighting'.

As the Light begins to spread throughout the interior, one can notice the odd stack of broken pieces of wood and furnishing that had been piling up as debris in the back of the Church. Left over from the clean up, most of it had been sent out into the Parking lot to rot and freeze and rot some more. Some of that had come back in and the odd Pyramid shape suggested a potential bonfire in the making.

Linus was wrapped in three blankets, a scarf and a hat. At least, that was as much of him as you could see. From somewhere in the muffled mess of wrappings a voice emerges.

"...Fuckin' Christmas without the gifts, fat man or cheer. Feel like someone slipped a live wire into my spine and punched me in the nuts..." A pause. "Hey Sofie..."

[Imogen Slaughter] When Imogen exits the house, the Garou have left, some headed for the church, others headed for a cafe. She is still in the presence of a large police officer, who is now asking her repeated questions in a steady staccato to which she replies with an even-toned voice. The snow continues to fall in thick and heavy swirls, and once or twice thunder rumbles.

Eventually, the conversation shifts to pleasantries. He checks to make sure she is fine to get home, she dismisses it with her customary poise.

When she leaves the house, the police car and its occupant as well as flanking police officers are gone. Within minutes, both she and the burly officer leave as well. The house is empty now, the only signs of the earlier violence, the yellow tape in front of the door and the tramped snow all around its tiny insignificant lawn.

[Kora] "Sofie - " is Kora's greeting to the kinswoman. There's snow on the steps tonight, accumulating slowly. When Patrick and Bridget arrive in the wake of the Fenrir, her packmate and her kin they'll see the different footsteps in the virgin snow, the way they sort of muddle around the doors, and the sweep of the wooden doors onto the snow covered portico. Inside, the air is nearly as cold as it is outside. The wind howls through the broken windows, makes the torches Linus mounted along the walls flicker like they had been mounted on the walls of some medieval dungeon.

"Knew we should've gotten some kerosene heaters. Carbon monoxide poisoning my ass," the Skald complains to her packmate, holding the door open for the rest of them. Thunder has her bringing her chin up sharply, tracing the dark line of the church's spine, way up there in the rafters.

"We solid?" she asks Linus, then Roman, another nod up at the roof as she circles to join Linus on the couches. Grabbing her own blankets from a pile. The roof is solid here, underneath the choir loft, but snow drifts through the sanctuary now in ghostly lines, sometimes falling, sometimes blown in.

[Linus] "Oh we fuckin' will be!"

He sounds like he's about to go Arsonist and truth be told, it's not far off from just that. The Bonfire pile in front of the Church's altar is sizable. Enough to challenge the rafters above. With so many holes in the roof, the smoke itself would have plenty of places to go, while most of the wind was too high to buck the flames much. Linus was already fiddling with his Zippo lighter and a small cannister of Zippo fluid, crouching by the pile of wood with something akin to zealotry in his eyes and shaking mitten covered hands.

[Roman Turner] He watched Linus for a few moments, his mouth hanging open before Kora's question finally sunk in and pulled him out of whatever had flitted through his mind.

"Dang, he sort of looks like a cross between the Hunk Back and a Mummy, both on speed after suckin on one of them helium balloons."

[Roman Turner] ((Hunch, not hunk LOL!))

[Patrick Llewelyn] He pauses when Bridget offers to help and asks if that's what he's doing here, his expression best defined as uncertain. "Yeah, I guess." When they emerge back into the wintry night, it is not until they have trudged back past the crime scene house as its now considered in the Galliard's mind that he takes pause to study the myriad of footprints around its walkway, and cast a look at the woman beside him.

In the blasting snow; Patrick's skin is porcelain white save for the flags of color the biting wind has drawn on it.

"It isn't because I'm over Howard dying, it's just," he frowns. "I can't be alone any more; it makes it worse." A beat, he clarifies. "It makes me worse. Around them," eyes flash toward the Church up ahead. "I don't have so much time to think about him. Or any of it.

I can just .. be."

This said, Patrick starts walking again, right up to the footprints; the heavy wooden doors. The Cliath pushes his hood back; shakes snow from his hair. "I come bearing hot stuff," a beat, his eyes move to Bridget, voice neglecting inflection: "Also coffee."

A beat.

"And pie."

[Linus] "Coffee is for the Weak!"

The Zippo flicks, gleaming off a generous dousing of fluid over the base of the broken wood.

"Fire!"

[Sofie Janssen] Inside, she looks over to where the other Garou is. "Hi Linus," she calls back, amused at the tone of his voice and his general demeanor. The Fenrir is rarely quiet, she's discovered.

The thunder makes her jolt a little. Even though it's a storm, each sound is unexpected and it sounds louder here in the church where sound echos off the walls. Shutting the door after them, if it hadn't already been, she walks across to where the others are gathered, without heaters, and keeps herself tucked under the scarf and hat, now with her hands deep in her pockets.

She watches the wood and the sparking zippo, waiting to see if it's going to go up in a big whoosh and smoke them all out of the place.

[Roman Turner] He pulled the door open, waving the pair inside urgently.

"Come in it."

Swiftly closing the door behind them.

"I been thinking. I know that might come as a surprise. But we got Mr. Trent and I have some money coming in from my share of the ranch back home. And I was thinking, maybe someone can do some searching around on this here church. Maybe we can make an offer on it. Claim it as an non-denomination church so whatever name it's in doesn't have to pay income on it and can write off expenses. And maybe we can then do more obvious repairs without stirring too much interest?"

[Bridget] They trudge on following the snow and Bridget merely listens in the way she does when her kids open up to her. Sometimes, she's a wreck, sometimes she's perfectly stable. Or maybe it's a constantly changing mix of things. Either way, she smiles at Patrick even though he probably doesn't want to see it.

"Just be... words to live by."

They shuffle into the frigid church and Patrick bears coffee and pie while the kinfolk holds some of the pie, her own coffee, and her own maple bear claw. Patrick apparently offers her up in a jest, and laughter bursts forth from the dark-haired kin.

She quickly sees someone leaning over a fire, drowning it with lighter fluid. She smirks, sets the pie down, and shuffles over with a keen eye.

"What are you doing to that fire?" it's a statement, really. "That's going to burn out if the wood is damp. Got a newspaper or something?"

[Kora] "Do not burn out packhouse down, Linus." Kora warns, winding her blankets around her shoulders. She's still wearing her winter things, though she's stripped her gloves off and unwound her scarf enough to talk. Coffee is for the weak! declares Linus, and Kora shakes her head, reaching for one of the steaming mugs Patrick brings with him.

"Pie is for the Skald." She returns, after, flashing the Galliard a brief, curling smile. "I won't even demand ice cream. Thank you."

This isn't the first bonfire that's been built in the church. Kora burned her kinswoman, Cigney, here when the Warder denied her the right to burn the body in the Caern. There's a touch of watchfulness as Linus goes Arsonist. Then a glance at Roman for his idea. "We'd have to figure out who owns it. I wouldn't mind ensuring the deed's out there someone, but I don't want a name attached to this place that anyone could trace. And I know shit-all about that sort of them."