[Hunter] A coffee shop, Hunter is outside. He actually had to grab a chair and take it out to one of the few tables out there because the weather is so shitty that nobody in their right mind would want to dine outside today. Hunter does though, because it means the people inside can feel more comfortable. The weather doesn't bother him too much. There are no other chairs out here, no other people, just Hunter. A news-paper in front of him and a coffee-to-go in his hand being raised and lowered occasionally as he peruses the news.
He looks out of place here, to be certain. Worn, dark, mahogany jacket. Jeans and boots. There seems to be some form of black cotton sweater beneath his jacket today, maybe he's feeling a little cold for a change?
He sips, he reads, he rustles.
[Imogen] Imogen passes him by, though not without a glance - she sees him, to be sure, a brief regard, a flick of her gaze toward his newspaper, another glance toward his coffee cup, a faint smirk. Then, she reaches for the door of the cafe and pulls it open, stepping inside.
The door shuts behind her. Hunter is alone again.
Inside the cafe, Imogen walks to the counter and waits in line. She cuts a slender figure, her back straight, her posture perfect, the lines of her thigh-length leather coat tailored to her body. In her slacks, with her brilliant hair pulled back from her face, she could be any other business woman in the city. A stranger, unknown.
Her blood, the familiarity of the features, that momentary smirk betray that.
She gets her coffee in a to-go cup, pays for it in cash. Her change is returned to her handbag, and the kinswoman starts outside. Her purebreeding is in the air, her scent of cigarettes and city and soap. Her heels click softly on the ice-and snow covered stone patio as she walks to Hunter's table and sets her coffee down.
There is no chair for her to sit in, but she has no intention of staying anyway, slinging her purse from her shoulder to her forearm, and reaching in to retrieve her cigarettes as she speaks. "I thought yeh should know yer Veil is protected," she says, retrieving a bronze plated cigarette case, a zippo. She flicks open the former, and removes a fag, fitting it between her lips.
[Hunter] He looked up when she spent into the Coffee shop, watched her move through the door and maybe even spent a little while looking at her back through the window. Then it was back to his paper, and it's how she finds him when she exits the place.
There are fresh lines of stress in his visage, stubble along his jawline, hair messy and unkempt. He looks like he hasn't slept in days and if she gets the impression that his Rage is wearing thin on his senses then she wouldn't be incorrect. When he speaks he does so briefly and he does so without his usual embellishment -- as if he would rather not show his teeth unless he has to.
As if he would rather not urge his nature on.
"My Veil? Oh, ya' talkin' bout Simon's little adventure?"
[Hunter] He looked up when she spent into the Coffee shop, watched her move through the door and maybe even spent a little while looking at her back through the window. Then it was back to his paper, and it's how she finds him when she exits the place.
There are fresh lines of stress in his visage, stubble along his jawline, hair messy and unkempt. He looks like he hasn't slept in days and if she gets the impression that his Rage is wearing thin on his senses then she wouldn't be incorrect. When he speaks he does so briefly and he does so without his usual embellishment -- as if he would rather not show his teeth unless he has to.
As if he would rather not urge his nature on.
"My Veil? Ohhh." He looks down at the paper, folds it in half and pushes it away from him. "That." Obviously there has been a lot of other things going on if he forgot about that incident so easily. "Thanks.. I don't.." He frowns, lines creasing his brow, lips pressed together and then? He simply repeats:
"Thanks."
[Imogen] "Don't mention it," the words are spoken on a breath of smoke, as she exhales her first drag, turning her head to blow it away from the beast. A flick of her attention back toward him, a glance down then up, though it is a review completely devoid of sensuality. Details only.
A pointed glance at his to-go cup, "Yeh look like yeh should be drinkin' decaf."
[Hunter] "Rather bite my own fuckin' foot off." Is his reply to her, decidedly more Hunter-esque. Set with a scowl, though he puts the cup down on the table.
"I'm sorry John made such a mess for ya'. That awful bastard. Shouldn't be causin' any more problems -- least not round here anyway."
[Imogen] Her eyebrow arches upward sharply as he colourfully retorts to her remark, lifting her own coffee cup to her lips, her other hand maintaining a hold on her cigarette.
"If you insist, though I don't believe that will help you sleep all that much."
He apologizes for John, and she studies him a moment, before inferring, "Gone, is he?"
[Hunter] A quirk of his lips, bitter humour but humour all the same. He looks rather like a petulant child, sitting there in his chair, grumbling. Crossing his strong arms over his broad chest doesn't do much to help the image. Still, the lines of worry and the grim manner of his appearance speak of something other than childish pain.
He nods his head.
"Gone," he parrots back to her.
[Imogen] It isn't in her nature to ask questions about Garou - not even Garou with whom she had a little more than a passing familiarity. So, this fact, plus Hunter's rather uninformative answer brings the conversation to a screeching halt. She takes another drag of her cigarette. He is vibrating tension, fatigue and mental unrest. In contrast, Imogen is as cool as a glacier, her gaze moving briefly away to look at the sidewalk and a passing car on the street.
Back again, she says, simply, "Noted."
She has been here for years. There are years-old marks on the wyrmpole to attest to it. Drawn-in-Blood is not the first Garou to leave; he will doubtlessly not be the last. Chicago's ever-changing face; ever changes.
"Leave you to yer paper shall I?" She is already stepping away, the question more rhetorical and a placeholder for a farewell.
[Hunter] [empathy]
[Imogen] (counter)
[Hunter] Hunter looks at her, really looks at her. It's obvious that he's watching her reaction, trying to figure out where that question of hers even came from. Is he gone? Yes, Imogen, he's gone. How does that make you feel?
Apparently it makes her feel like a brick wall made of ice, because that's about as much as Hunter gets from her. Still, it doesn't take away his initial question, if anything it makes him want to ask it even more.
"You know em? Didn't talk much bout' kin cept that damn Amy, she's gone too. Tried to steal my car n'they both bailed." He ignores her rhetorical question because it's just that -- rhetorical. He also ignores the fact that she's already stepping away too it seems.
[Imogen] He stares at her for a moment, to put it baldly. After a half second, she stares back - a steady, even regard, punctuated merely by an arch of an eyebrow, an unspoken question. In the end, he speaks questions, and she tilts her head in a somewhat dismissive gesture. "Some," she says. "I daresay I've met most Fenrir by now.
"And he stayed at th'church from time t'time."
[Hunter] "Oh.." Thoughtful, a hand rubs across his chin and he nods. "Yeah, I had em' hang about the church, hoped he'd maybe help smooth things out between mine'n'theirs. A gesture of solidarity or whatever ya' wanna call it."
He waves his hand to dismiss the thought.
"Don't matter now. Sorry if he was ya' friend or somethin'. Couldn't keep em' from losin' his shit. You can scram if ya' want, though I wanna hit ya' up about somethin' later. It ain't really a very public-friendly topic."
[Imogen] Imogen's eyebrow arches - before he has a chance to tell her she can 'scram if she wants'. "Rather odd gesture o' solidarity if yeh're not the king of England and John is not o' royal blood," she observes mildly.
[Hunter] "What's that even mean??" His eyebrow shoots up, his lips quirk.
[Imogen] His ignorance or perhaps the phrasing of it provokes amusement, a flicker at her lips, a smirk, not a smile.
"Hundreds o' years ago," she explains, "countries under truce would frequently exchange hostages in return fer peace. It was considered a guarantee o' good behaviour."
[Hunter] His face scrunches up, brows pushing together and eyes narrowing naturally.
"What's that got to do with anythin'? Ain't like John was'a prisoner'a war or somethin'."
[Imogen] She pauses briefly. "Never mind," she says without apparent irritation or exasperation. "I'm sure it was a brilliant plan."
She lifts her cigarette to her lips again for a deep inhale.
[Hunter] He sinks back in his chair, perplexed beyond measure.
"Was just like, hey, John can help ya' out cause all I seem to do whenever I'm round there is fuckin' kick up mud. So I might not be round there much no more? But that don't mean my pack ain't still friendly or whatever."
Another frown.
"Was it a bad plan?"
[Imogen] The question pauses her. The moment is not quite indecision so much as careful consideration. There is a genuine chance, in these moments that Imogen might simply say it is not her business, and move on.
Instead, this time, she does something a little different.
"Alpha, aren't yeh just?"
[Hunter] "That sarcasm?"
[Imogen] If there is an implied threat to his tone - she does not flinch. Merely shakes her head. "Verification. I don't keep track."
[Hunter] There was no implied threat, simply query. "Alpha, yea. Alpha ain't allowed to question his decisions?"
[Imogen] "Yeh're about five feet ahead o' me and in a completely different direction."
[Hunter] "Ain't the first time." He scoffs. "So where are ya' at then? I asked ya' what ya' thought of it n'ya stated the obvious. If ya' don't got no opinion on the matter that's fine."
[Imogen] "Hunter." The sound of his name is quelling. "I am not a full-blood. I don't even know yer pack's name or who is in it. Yeh may think it's obvious, but it's not me, alright?" The edge of her question is sharp, irritation briefly slipping to the surface before subsuming again.
"In any case," a deliberate sign of the shifting subject back to the purpose.
"I don't think it would ha' much effect. Yeh want to stop kicking up mud, yeh figure out how not t'kick up mud. Yeh want yer packs t'be friends or allies or -" a dismissive shrug as she lifts the cigarette back to her lips, taking a deep inhale, "whatever it is yeh want to call it, it's more than just one packmember having sleep overs at th'other pack's."
[Imogen] (it's not to me, alright?)
[Hunter] A grumble, a grunt, like rumbling reluctant acknowledgement that what she is saying is actually probably useful. He's silent for a long moment after that and when he speaks:
"I know. They annoy me like fuckin' crazy though, and vice versa I'd guess. You know me Imogen, least somewhat. I ain't the most patient man. I try to be, but it ain't come naturally."
He licks over his teeth then shakes his head.
"Don't matter now anyway, don't got no choice but to do it like that."
[Imogen] A particularly brisk breeze runs down the street, causing her to draw the open edges of her coat closer about her body, picking up her coffee for a deep drink of the warm liquid, dropping her cigarette to crush it out beneath a booted foot.
"D'yeh remember when I brought yeh the details o' what we'd found impacting yer territory?" she enquires, waiting for his confirmation before she continues.
[Hunter] He looks up, silent as if he's waiting for her to continue and then he nods his head.
"Yea, why?"
I've got a bad feeling about this.
-- Han Solo
[Imogen] "It sounded like yeh were tryin' to prove something. Your pack was good at this. Your pack would do this or that. Whatever yeh meant to do, or whatever yeh were thinkin', that was how yeh sounded.
"If yeh felt like yeh kicked up mud in tha' meeting, that would perhaps be why."
[Hunter] He bristles, she can feel it like a heat-wave coming off him. He isn't as in control as he usually is, in fact it's highly probably given the spirit that he follows now that he would frenzy in the heat of battle. Lips peel back and it looks like he might leap out of his chair and strike her down right where she stands.
A second passes and it fades away, he relaxes.
"I thought that might be the case." This time he does push up out of his chair and step away from the table but it's not towards Imogen, it's away from her. "I gotta go." Something about way he says it makes him seem like he's about an inch from snapping, that he isn't leaving for his sake. "Defiance by the way, my pack's name. Under Eagle, Joey n'Eve my only pack-mates now'that John's gone."
He turns to leave.
[-1WP!!!]
[Imogen] As his body coils, as he bristles, she watches him with an abrupt wariness of a near-animal. Her stance shifts, her balance centering, her feet shoulder width apart. She does not, however, prepare to flee.
Her spine straightens, and she watches him with her chin lifted. Watches him while he gets himself under control and gets to his feet - the tension in her spine ratcheting up.
He speaks again, and her jaw clenches - he passes her and she looks away, the tendons in her neck moving beneath her skin with reaction. He will interpret this, perhaps. He will likely get it wrong.
A second later, as he crossing the threshold of the patio, she speaks to him over her shoulder, "Goodnight."
She steps forward, picking up her coffee, her cigarette case from the table and crosses to the chair he's only just vacated. The memory of his rage hangs in the air like burnt ozone, clinging to the back of her throat as she breathes. Still, she sinks into the chair, picking up the discarded paper and shaking it open, mouth an immobile seam, the tendon in her jaw standing out in definition.
A moment later, she lights another cigarette.
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