[Grace] Java Dave’s was home to some of the best muffins and worst poetry in Chicago.
grace had come here because her stomach dictated that she needed something to eat, and her reason dictated that place with this many people would be a wonderful location to study human behavior and social posturing in groups. There was a woman she learned about recentlynamed Jane Goodall; she went among the gorillas and studied them in their natural habitat and observed how they interacted with each other.
grace had discovered the joys of television today, though it did little to compare to the real thing.
So, like that poor woman and her gorrilas in the mist, Grace was at a coffee shop, listening to what appeared to be the worst poetry she had ever heard. Grace hadn’t heard a lot of poetry, but what she had heard was muich better than this. Carlotta would not be pleased with this. Not at all. Attire was comfortable, and for now she was blending in quite nicely. Jeans. A sweater, a coat that had seen better days. She’d brushed her hair today, and for now she was keeping her mouth shut.
A young man, maybe nineteen, sits next to her. Nice jeans, shirt with a witty saying across the front, and smells to strongly of soap for Grace’s comfort. She deals.
“Hey,” he offers.
“Hey,” she replies. It sounds a little awkward, but not terribly so.
“Are you going to get up and read anything?”
“No.”
“Aww, why not, you look the creative type.”
“You read earlier,” she tells him.
“I did, Ode to Summer Skies and Tuesdays,” he replies.
“That was… genuinely unpleasant,” she informs the male.
He laughs. She rolls her eyes.
“I’m Jake.”
“Grace,” she replies.
“Don’t I get a last name?”
“No,” she says and takes a drink of coffee. Then, rather firmly, with a rather hard look and half a growl, “now git.”
“Can’t I have a phone number?”
“Four-two-three-zero-seven-eight-five.”
She picks seven numbers, then he leaves.
[Hatchet] He’d warned her.
Well, that isn’t true. Hatchet never told Grace in Grant Park what would happen to her if she wandered about Chicago by herself without escort. Like many orders, he’d simply given them without suggesting consequences. She’s not a Cliath, but nor is she an untrained cub. He would hope those consequences would be implied.
Oh, well.
The night has him showing up at Java Dave’s not because he’s slinging a guitar around or searching for coffee. He’s there because it’s on his way to the Brotherhood from wherever he was before, and he’s cold, and this place is warm. People flutter away from spots by the door when he walks in, and the tension level rises inexplicably and suddenly concurrent with his arrival. Hatchet pretends he doesn’t notice, and walks over to the counter to get some coffee, digging a few dollar bills out of his pocket. Coffee is a dollar fifty here. It’ll keep him a bit warmer til he gets to the Brotherhood, since a long time ago he gave away the coat he had and the hoodie he’s wearing isn’t cutting it.
Even his Rage isn’t cutting the way the frozen air feels when added to the icy wind coming off the lake. It burns inside of him, twisting and biting at the edges of his vision, but he keeps himself from making eye contact so that he won’t end up smelling the acrid stench of fear rising off of whoever is unlucky enough to catch his gaze.
They give him coffee. And he turns. And he sees…
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, and walks over to Grace, his brow furrowing.
[Grace] Hello Hatchet.
She had thwarted a college student who had wanted her phone number, who keps looking at the green-eyed Fianna cub with amorous eyes and a twitterpated expression. She’d dressed him down, or maybe some guys just liked it when women looked irritated with them. And Grace? She wore it in a way different from others in a place like this. She had the figure of a runway model, which was to say she was tall and had no curves to speak of. this was not the point; grace was aware of who and what came out of the coffee shop due to superior positioning and her intentions.
Which was when she saw Hatchet. Her stomach turned, and Grace suddenly found her coffee cup very interesting. Look how glossy it is. Look at the cappuccino; isn’t it a strange word for a frothy, vaguely pleasant beverage? He comes in, looks at her, and heads over.
Goodbye freedom.
Shoulders fall, and she offers half a smile, back teeeth more exposed than the front. Half of an uncomfortable grin- something, she has learned, that translates out no matter what form she’s in. If she had a tail, it would be tucked for a seond. Grace, however, does straighten up. instead of keeping her hand-in-the-cookie-jar posture, she straightens up.
She heaves a very human sigh at this.
Hello bawn.
Whatever the deed was, she was going to own it.
“Do you want to sit down for a moment?” Words are coming much faster now. Less hesitation, more confidence and comfort in the language.
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] The ’47 Chevy pickup in is rusty aqua blue, finally pulls into a gas station on the MM. A sudden ‘burp’ from the truck just after the engine dies, and the driver’s door opens. The blonde steps out, in jeans, a lightly dirty white ribbed tank, and blue flannel shirt over it. She payed and filled her tank, but the rumble in her stomach made her grumble a bit.
Once the truck’s tank was full, she put it in reverse and parked it near the air/ water station, and locked it up. She didn’t mind the cold too muchm but she pulled an old army green military jacket from the truck bed toolbox. She started pulling it on as she made her way up the Mile to find food and drink.
[Hatchet] It’s… difficult to miss Hatchet. He is distinctly inhuman, even when dressed like one, wearing the body of one. He cuts a swath through the coffee shop without meaning to, without needing to mean to. There isn’t a mortal in this place who can bear his presence — yet he pretends like he can’t see it. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way that they look at him, the way they whisper, the tension that makes his own temper a bit more thin than is perfectly safe.
If they had any idea what he really was, they wouldn’t whisper. They’d run. If they had any idea how strict his control really is, they still wouldn’t feel safe. There’s a surreal quality to him, with his golden skin and his pale eyes and the striking lines of his face; they want to look at him. And they’re afraid to be in the same room with him.
He stalks over, carrying a mug of black coffee, and he’s yanking a chair out from across her and sitting down in it before she manages to force that smile onto her face, before she can ‘offer’ him a spot. Hatchet sprawls into the chair, taking up as much space as is necessary for his frame but little more. He does not attempt to fill the room with his masculinity or his strength, and frankly: he does not need to. He leans back, coffee on the table, staring at Grace.
“You are henceforth not only under my protection and guardianship as a member of our tribe,” he says evenly. “I am your mentor, and until you complete your Rite of Passage you will be accountable to me. This,” Hatchet continues, his voice rather clipped, “should be both an honor and a shame to you, as a Half Moon of my rank and concurrent renown has chosen to teach you… but in part only because even no other of our kind has seen fit to step forward and accept you as their student, or been willing to reveal themselves as such.”
He picks up his coffee, takes a sip. “The fact that you are, once again, wandering around Chicago without an escort is a problem. I’m going to have to think about what to do about it. Try not to worry about it.”
He takes another sip.
[Grace] [Per+empathy- what you thinkin’, mister mentor man?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 4, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] The door to Java Dave’s swings open, and Iona steps inside. She didn’t have quite as much Rage flowing off her as Hatchet persay, but she had a goodly amount. She didn’t bother to look around realy, and headed straight for the counter. A coffee ordered and a deli sandwich on the side. When it was all ready, she moved to a table with food and drink, and sat down. She pulled a small silver colored flask from her jacket, and pour some of the contents into her coffee before slipping it back in her pocket, and somewhat relaxing.
[Grace] She tries.
She really, really tries to catch what he’s thinking about, about how much trouble she’s going to be in when they get back to the Brotherhood, or what’s going to happen. He tells her not to worry too much about it; she doesn’t just accept that fact. he calls it “our tribe.” It makes her smile more genuine; Grace, when she’d put some damned weight on, might be a little prettier than striking. Right now, she’s harsh lines and sharp angles.
She is watching him, though. Grace is watching the Philodox with intent, at the lines of his face, taking in inflection and purpose and moving on things that aren’t just intuition. He’s a philodox; this was not something said out of frustration or impulse.
He’s thought about this.
“If given other options, would you teach me anyway?” Not impulsive, but damnably curious. She muses over this, then chooses her words carefully. Her voice is low, whatever they’re saying isn’t going to travel too far, “are there many of us here?”
She takes a second, and concern starts to slip in. Uncertainty starts to slip in, “Carlotta’s not here yet.”
Not their tribe. Not his problem, but she’s concerned none the less. Brows are knit, mouth is closed, and she’s looking at him for answers. The door opens, her gaze shifts, but she turns her head more to listen than to actually look.
When she does look at Iona, the cub purses her lips and looks back at Hatchet. Brows go from knit to raised.
[Hatchet] “I don’t know who the fuck Carlotta is,” Hatchet says blithely, instead of answering her first question. He sips at his coffee, eyes flicking over to the doorway as Iona comes in. He recognizes her immediately as one of their own, her lineage hinting at a history only a Galliard of their kind would know in detail but that the rest of them appreciate on instinct.
So he watches Iona from across the room while a young woman gets up and reads a poem about looking at her reflection. It is, though Hatchet doesn’t know this and isn’t listening, the fourth such poem tonight. Even though his eyes follow the unknown werewolf, he goes on sipping his coffee and talking to the cub quietly. The cafe is noisy enough and the focus is on the stage enough that they can converse with at least some modicum of freedom. Not much, so he keeps his tone low and private, but he doesn’t bother speaking in much ‘code’.
“There are other options, Grace,” he goes on. “Just not very good ones, for you, now that Curata’s passed.” He doesn’t say that flippantly, emptily. The man was his packmate once. His brother by tribe and by totem, regardless of how the latter relationship ended. “The only one of us of your moon is still young, and the only other one of my rank just lost two of his pack in one fell swoop and is rather scarce, anyway.”
His eyes track back to her, pin her like a butterfly as his head cocks to the side. “Why? Would you like to wait in the bawn until another Fiann decides to take over your education? Because I assure you, if you’d rather that, I can speak to the Warder about it.”
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] Nom nom nom, sip sip, add more liquid from the silver colored flask to the coffee. Iona was well aware of the pressure of Rage somewhere nearby. But she couldn’t pinpoint it with people around and some god awful poet up on the stage.
She stopped momentarily to take off her jacket, and shove the sleeves of her flannel shirt up. She had no qualms hiding the tattoos on her inner forearms. On her right arm was a tatt of a stag. On her left arm, was a celtic knotting that hid the ragabash glyph in it.
Once she was comfortable again, she went back to her meal.
[Grace] “My… intention… is getting lost in translation,” she states.
“I want to learn from you. Do you want to teach me? Why? Is it out of necessity? Is it a desire? Is it a calling? What do you look for in a student?”
She’s obviously been practicing, because questions that sounded so strange before were coming rapidfire. He looks at her, and she is stuck, but doesn’t flail. Doesn’t thrash or seem displeased or give any indication of discomfort.
After a long, long silence, she speaks again.
“I am trying to understand you.”
[Marni] (Shh. nothing to see here!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]
[Hatchet] “No, Grace,” he answers patiently, “your intention is not getting lost. I know why you were asking.”
Hatchet doesn’t say anything else for awhile, drinking his coffee because it’s scaldingly hot, because he’s bitterly cold still, because it actually tastes better than what Jenny makes. “Pick one question, and ask it.”
[Grace] “What do you look for in a student?”
[Lukas] One after another, would-be poets take their turns in the spotlight. Most are rather bad. A few are good.
It’s debatable if Lukas pays them any attention. He’s here for another purpose entirely. As he enters, he’s pocketing — of all things — a yo-yo. It’s raining outside again. The umbrella he folds is dripping wet, and black. Most of what he wears is black too: black flat cap, black wool overcoat. Black gloves. Clearly, he has no problem with looking like the stereotype of a Shadow Lord:
dark.
His tone is polite, though, when he approaches the counter and orders a mocha cappuccino, an almond biscotto. When they’re served up he takes his food and drink and proceeds rather directly to Iona’s table.
It’s unusual enough that anyone would approach her like this, unflinchingly, unhesitatingly. Even more so that they would set their fare down on the table across from her, unbutton their coat, shed it over the back of the chair, and sit. If it were not for the unmistakable breeding of the Shadow Lord across from her, what he does would be inexplicable.
Lukas is, however, undeniably Garou. And Shadow Lord. Permission is neither sought nor required. He takes his flat cap off, scuffing his black hair with his free hand. Then the gloves come off, and the scarf, and all the while his pale eyes are scanning Iona’s face with open curiosity.
“You must be Iona,” he says finally. “You look exactly like Gregor McNevin.”
[Marni] The Mag Mile on a Friday night – Marni quickly has discovered that this? is the place to be. Especially with one who can think of nothing better than the shiniest shiny that ever shined, and dozens of arms and stands and counters to pluck them off of. It’s also a damn good way to get a little bit of cash for a sandwich not dug out of the dumpster. Not that there’s anything wrong with that..
Well. Not for her, anyway.
In front of a coffee shop, the cute little raggie accidentally bumps into the very VERY pretty young man who’s dashing off to his date, and so frazzled and nervous he doesn’t notice the fingers slipping deftly into his back pocket, plucking his wallet free without him being any the wiser. Marni murmurs her apologies and he hurries past as she turns toward the shadows to thumb through the cash in the wallet quickly. No one carries much in the way of Cash any more – but she scores a twenty out of the pile, and a couple ones, just enough to last her a while, and so that he likely won’t notice it’s gone. The $22 she tucks into her pocket at the same time as calling after him.
“Hey! Hey! You dropped this! Here!” Now it’s his turn to be flustered and thank her profusely before he dashes off… none the wiser.
The bell on the door of the coffee shop dings, and enter one curly-haired ragabash. REAL coffee, sandwich and soup – all HOT – here she comes…
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] She looked up, before Lukas finishes getting his order, and before he even makes it to her table, she’s kicked out the chair for him, like she -knew-. She manages to wash down her sandwich with a swig of her spiked coffee. His commet is returned with a chuckle. “Aye, I be hearin’ that alot as I grew up.” She looked him over caefully. “Ye be lookin’ familiar. I know ye, do I?”
[Hatchet] His eyes go occasionally to Iona, though most of his attention is on Grace. When Lukas enters, Hatchet looks past the cub at the door again. It interests him, keenly, that the Shadow Lord goes straight for his tribesmate, his eyes lingering on the two of them as Lukas doffs his cap and sits down.
“I’ve never had one before,” he answers Grace. “I have no set criteria. Next question.”
[Lukas] “I knew your father,” Lukas replies. “Briefly, when I was still in training.”
The Shadow Lord’s things are arrayed in front of him. Coffee. Biscotto. Gloves and scarf and cap. All of it within arm’s reach, laid out on the tabletop and on the chair beside him.
“He sent a letter ahead saying you were in town.” He regards Iona for a moment, eyes faintly narrowed, perceptive. “I don’t remember you at all,” he confesses; only it doesn’t bear the air of confession, only statement. “Then again, you would have been about eleven or twelve when I was at Stark Falls.”
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] “Ah, that might explain it all.” He accent wasn’t as strong as her father’s. But being around her family growigup, she picked up some of it. “So ye were at Stark Falls too? How odd it is to find someone all the way out ‘ere. And mah dad sent a letter? Figures. Took me ages to let him cut the strings to let me leave. So when do I get a name from ye?”
[Grace] “… what’s the purpose of the wyrm pole?”
This was an odd question. It had nothing to do with their actual line of con versation, but her eyes didn’t leave his general viscinity. A shadow Lord came, a Bone Gnawer came, and the cub was singularly focused on the philodox in front of her. She crossed her legs at the ankle- a gesture she had seen several times and was now intending to immulate.
She’s asked this before, though. Her posture, straight and somewhat forward, does not give much indication of this.
[Marni] She studies the menu at the counter, reaching up scratch at the back of her neck absently. At least she’s clean, this time around. Or, at least, relatively so, if a little rumpled from her chosen sleeping conditions. She chews her lip a minute and then with a grin orders a cup of the soup of the day, a mocha and a blt sandwich.
She pays, then rests her hands on the counter as the server gets her order together, and taps her fingers absently. Dark eyes sweep over the counter, curious, but her fingers just thump a little beat where they are, without moving. She already has one of those little silver toothpick holders anyway.
Soon enough her order arrives, and she turns with them, to scope out an empty table. Ah look – one right there next to Tall Dark and Delicious and his companion, which is exactly where she heads for no other reason than just ’cause.
[Lukas] “I was,” he confirms, “but I’m from New York City by way of Boston.” He picks up his coffee, sips, licks foam from his upper lip discreetly, with an animal’s quick ease, before he ever sets the mug down. “My name is Lukáš. Your father does seem very concerned about your wellbeing. I can’t remember — are you the only child?”
[Hatchet] “As I understand it,” Hatchet says, already indicating his uncertainty, “it’s a receptacle for trophies. It’s for the sake of bragging. It’s to offer chiminage to spirits of war and glory and… so forth.”
He shrugs one shoulder after sipping his coffee, setting the mug down. “So who’s Carlotta?” Her turn is over, it seems.
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] She rolled her eyes at the comment about her father. “Aye, his pride ‘n joy.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Lukas, aye? ye be a Lord then. I spent a great deal of time with them. It’s nice ta finally be meeting ye then.”
[Lukas] A nod. The Lord sits back in his chair, at ease, his free hand palm-down on the tabletop. “Ahroun and Fostern,” he confirms. Then, “Should he be? Concerned about your wellbeing, that is. Can you take care of yourself?”
No hint whether or not this is a joke.
[Marni] Empty table procured, she settles down on the far seat – this allows her to see Mr. Rage – there’s no denying the way it burns in him – and his companion, as well as Lukas and the Fianna he sits with.
Meanwhile, she digs into her late night meal as if she hasn’t eaten in a week. It’s not entirely true – it’s only been about 12 hours which is a lifetime in Gnawer-speak. Nothing like a warm belly to help her sleep tonight.
[Grace] “Is there any-” she stops, because she doesn’t quite know the word. She looks at Hatchet, and makes a medium-pitched sound. Half a whine, half something else. She taps on the table, as though this will help her come up with the word she’s looking for. Grace abandons this and continues on “-for honor or wisdom?”
Brows raise, lips upturn in a half smile.
He asks who Carlotta is. She perks up, brows raise and she lays both hands on the table. Eyes are wide, revealing precisely how bright green they are-the concept of their color, the shine and luster is entirely lost on her. Lips part, and she smiles, though tones are low and voice is even.
“Carlotta is my friend,” she proclaims, “cub, Thunder’s blood, from home. Storyteller. She gave me her iPod.”
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] She made a bit of a face. “Och, sorry, rhya. I dinnah mean any disrespect. As fo me dad? Aye, I kin take vera good care o’meself. He’s juss nah wanting ta see his little girl grow up. But his little girl is deadly with her axe, and twice as skilled with a forge.”
[Hatchet] The switch from words to whine doesn’t seem to unnerve Hatchet; he’s spent enough time in the company of lupus-born, or simply enough time as a wolf, himself, that he considers it just as carefully as he does her verbalized communications. She does question him again on the Wyrmpole even after he’s switched to asking her about her own background, and so he …well. Quite flatly ignores it.
“I see,” he says. “Why are you worried about her?”
[Lukas] Lukas’s brow furrows faintly. “I wasn’t aware of any disrespect,” he replies. A faint huff of a laugh, then. “Well, that’s good to know. Because if you did, I would’ve had to refer you to someone more willing to coddle weakness. I’m forbidden to do so.”
That was a joke. Not the statement before it, though. Not what he said about coddling weakness. That was utterly serious.
“Anyway, your da asked me to keep an eye on you, and I’m inclined to help out if for no other reason than that he used to sneak me spirit brews when I was a cub. You may as well run with my pack for the time. We follow Perun, which is rather an uncompromisingly Shadow Lord totem, so if you decide to join a different pack later on, I’ll understand.
“You should also know that a good portion of the city’s Garou, myself included, live in the Brotherhood. It’s not far from the Caern; I can show you later if you like. A kinswoman of mine set it up as a neutral safehouse for all Garou and kin. These days a pair of Stag’s kin run it. You can live and eat there; you pay what you can, however you can. If you don’t have money, maybe you can do some metalwork for them.
“My packmate, Katherine, has her own private residence as well. If you’d rather crash with her, you should talk to her about it.”
He thinks for a moment.
“Also, that’s your tribal elder over there.” Needless to say, all this has been quietly spoken. The way Lukas indicates Hatchet is likewise subtle — a meaningful redirection of his eyes, and then back. “His name is Buried Hatchet, and he’s a Fostern Philodox like your father.”
[Grace] “Because she’s not here. We were both supposed to get here,” she says, “and I’m here. And no one else. We did not leave alone. It’s been weeks.”
Displeasure. Obvious, unabashed displeasure from the ragabash.
[Hatchet] Hatchet stares at her for a moment. “I appreciate the slam-poetry style of talking you’re doing here, considering the venue, but it might be more useful if you explained how that happened. You didn’t leave alone, but you don’t know why she’s not here with you.”
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] “I ain’t got a problem with Lord totems. Mah auspice mentor was a Lord. Ye migh’ remember him. Viktor Tovarich…he was also called ‘Quiet noise’. I learned alot from him. So I ain’t got a problem there.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Brotherhood? Sounds like a good place to crash. I dinnah have a place right now. Was gonna be campin mah truck til I did.” She let him go on. Her eyes looked over to where Lukas indicated. “How…delightful.” She chuckled. “Just like good ol’ dad.”
[Marni] Quiet, quiet as a rat she is, just inhaling her soup and sandwich, watch and learn, watch and learn. She slips her pack off and settles back into her chair, pulling her feet up under her to sit crisscross applesauce, hanging her pack off her knee so it’s close and within reach. It clanks and clatters, and who knows what’s inside – it’s likely better not to ask.
She just keeps munching and watching…
[Grace] “We left Wyoming . The Master of Challenges died. Was killed- was murdered-” she clarifies, “-and it was not safe for us to say. Cocks the Hammer, Bitch- Frankie, stag’s blood, my moon, teacher- left with us to move us somewhere. We were supposed to come to Chicago… we were separated…”
She’s reaching for details, reaching for an explanation that may or may not be there. Details that were hazy and confusing and difficult. The memory was a strange thing, could falter, could be fallible. Reperssed, whatever you so desire.
“I thought they would have caught up by now.”
Was that shame in her voice? Discomfort?
“Frankie, told me to keep going.”
[Lukas] “Yeah,” with the sort of delighted surprise of someone hearing about an old, though perhaps distant friend, “I remember Viktor. Isn’t he a Cliath still?”
Nonetheless: “He’s a good Garou. A bit uneven. But you should meet him. Come on.” With that, the Shadow Lord gets up, leaving his coat and belongings where they are, picking up his coffee and biscotto instead. Iona (presumably) in tow, he makes a beeline for Hatchet and Grace’s table, arriving in time to hear the tail end of her story.
“Hatchet,” he says, by way of greeting.
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] She nodded. “Aye, he still is. But then Viktor was more for the jokes then fights.”
When Lukas got up, she shrugged, and followed behind, leaving her jacket at the table as well. She came up beside Lukas as he caled the other garou by name.
[Marni] Lukas and Iona leave their things at their table, and head toward Hatchet and Grace. She can’t help it. Her gaze is drawn to the untended items. Her fingers itch. itchyitchyitchyitchy She pulls her lower lip between her teeth. She even inches forward in her seat a little.
A quick glance toward the group over there.
Then back to the untended items. Coats. Gloves. Cap.
itchyitchyitchyitchy
Undoubtedly something good in the pockets….
Steady, Marni. Tall Dark and Delicious would not approve…
[Lukas] (sorry about the silence, btw — we’re trying to reconcile the unfinished forums post with this scene!)
[Hatchet] [Reposting with necessary bits removed!]
[Hatchet] “As I understand it,” Hatchet says, already indicating his uncertainty, “it’s a receptacle for trophies. It’s for the sake of bragging. It’s to offer chiminage to spirits of war and glory and… so forth.” He shrugs one shoulder after sipping his coffee, setting the mug down.
[Grace] “Is there any-” she stops, because she doesn’t quite know the word. She looks at Hatchet, and makes a medium-pitched sound. Half a whine, half something else. She taps on the table, as though this will help her come up with the word she’s looking for. Grace abandons this and continues on “-for honor or wisdom?”
Brows raise, lips upturn in a half smile.
[Hatchet] [Disregard repost. *L*]
[Hatchet] He winces at the name, sipping his cooling coffee, but does not laugh aloud. The last time he laughed at someone’s ridiculous deedname, a certain Bone Gnawer Ahroun broke his nose and nearly knocked him out with one barefisted punch in the face. Granted, Hatchet had laughed again, and healed, and then later shared a bottle of Wild Turkey with the man, but that’s beside the point.
“How did you get separated?” he asks simply, but then a wall of rage crosses the room to them and he looks up, meeting Lukas’s eyes for a moment and giving him a nod of greeting. “Wyrmbreaker.”
No ‘yuf’ on either side. Interesting, that.
[Lukas] Lukas looks from cub to Fostern as he’s pulling out a chair to sit. His brow furrows. “This is Iona McNevin,” he says, introducing the Cliath offhand, “from my Fostering sept. She’s one of Stag’s.
“Didn’t you get my note?”
[Hatchet] “Make yourself at home,” Hatchet says wryly as Lukas pulls up a seat, but there’s no malice in it. If it was meant to be pointed, sniping, those things are absent from his tone. He finishes off his mug of coffee and sets it down near the edge, away from Lukas’s now-claimed side of the table. He looks up at Iona and gives her a nod. “I figured that,” he says. “Hello, there,” he adds, to Iona herself. “Buried Hatchet, called Taggart, Fostern Philodox and Alpha of the Sentinels, packed under Bear.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, almost drolly. “An intense and overwhelming pleasure.”
But then, to Lukas again: “The one with the glittery heart stickers? Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?”
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] She gave a light nod to Hatchet. “Aye, tis a pleasure indeed. Most just be calling me Banshee, or Iona. Cliath Rag.”
[Grace] It’s like hitting a wall.
How did they get separated? It’s wondrous what the mind can do to protect itself. Fabricate facts, pull up information, file away details, and then fail to bring them up when someone else asks for them. The look isn’t blank, it’s the exact opposite. It’s genuine concentration- then frustration, then disappointment when she comes up with nothing.
“The spirits were active, we heard a noise, and I don’t remember much else.”
No need to go into too much detail. grace was different. While Iona and Lukas bled their tribal blood and heritage, Grace was something different entirely. Not quite half flesh.
Lukas comes by with Iona. They both get waves in greeting; it’s a little awkward, but not entirely foreign like shaking hands.
[Lukas] “No,” Lukas frowns at Hatchet, “the one Lila and I left. Explaining this.” He gestures at Grace.
[Marni] Temptation is not something she withstands well, and those gloves look mighty warm, and her fingers itchitchitch and she’d wear the HELL outa that hat and look so much cuter, and she finally…
…inhales the last of her sandwich, slips her pack back on, stands, and with a show of will, heads out of the coffee shop.
[Iona “Banshee” McNevin] Iona stops Marni as she goes by. “Right hand pocket o’ my jacket. Ye kin have them.” She made a motion to her army jacket.
[Marni] She blinks. “Huh?” and then just shakes her head as if she’s no idea what the woman is talking about, and dashes off.