Joss | Connections [James and others]

At some point she’d tripped over a crack on the sidewalk and wiped out pretty hard. Alright but for a few more scars on her guitar case and the knees of her jeans scuffed, she dropped the Questing Stone that she had spent the previous night crafting and heard but did not see it topple into the gutter.

Fuck, she thought, but had the better grace to keep it in her skull.

Now, she’s cooled it a bit. Dime Bag isn’t running like a bat out of hell anymore; she’s moving quickly, yes, but now that she doesn’t know where she’s going and the buildings have gone from shiny to shitty she has to be observant. She has to keep an eye out for someone familiar, or safe. She has to–

–pay attention to the scent of pure breeding when it passes her by on the street. Or when she passes it by. Or when it’s coming down out of the window of a building on a ladder. Dime Bag sniffs a few times to be sure she is not imagining things, then turns around and walks back toward the redheaded Fiann kinswoman.

Sarah herself is a young woman, maybe even a teenager, standing 5’8″ and proud of her height. She’s lean but not bony, and her hair, the color of corn silk bleached in the sun, is constrained to bilateral braids resting on her shoulders. She has eyes the color of a wine-dark sea, and based on the tone of her skin she has spent the late spring almost exclusively outdoors.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” she calls up. Her voice twangs with Midwestern influence. She waits until Imogen either stops on the ladder or hits the concrete before she says, “I’m looking for a guy named Oscar Taggart, you know him?”

Why was she here, anyway? Granted, she was on her way through to meet with a potential model, a girl she met on the street who had a look she was interested in. She should’ve made the girl come to her, instead, to the office space she rented in the city, but the girl had said she didn’t feel comfortable going out that way.

A blur of movement catches her eye, sees a girl in front of her screech to a halt to wait for a woman…climbing down a fire escape. She stops where she is, unsure of whether or not to continue forward.

The wind picks up, carrying with it a name. Oscar Taggart. Taggart was the only name by which she knew her tribe elder. Could they be the same person?

The weight of her scene case drags her arm down and she hefts it, resting the edge of it on the ladder’s rung as she turns to look over her shoulder at the unfamiliar woman. The redhead’s eyes narrow, her attention sharp. Focused.

“I do,” she says. “But I can’t exactly say where he is presently.”

A pause, while she appraises the woman a moment longer, then returns to descending the ladder. When her feet reaches the final rung, still some distance from the ground, she twists around, lowering the heavy stainless steel case. “Take this a moment, will you?” Her accent is European. She’s been mistaken for Australian. From time to time, someone gets it right and guesses her to be English, though she never grew up with the Queen’s accent in her ear.

Assuming that the Garou does, Imogen turns back to the ladder, lowering herself from the second last rung by her hands. She dangles for a brief second, then drops, her knees bending to cushion her fall. A hand lifts to her hair, pushing back strands of fire as she turns to face the unknown.

She’d been about to say something else – but Liadan just inside her line of sight pauses her. A lift of her chin indicates the second stranger. “Do you know her?” she asks.

They all seem tense, to some degree or another.

When the Englishwoman returns herself to the loving embrace of gravity, the blonde hands off the case and turns her head to regard the brunette’s approach. Sarah studies her for a moment, then turns back toward the shorter woman and says, “Naw, I’ve never seen her before. I just got into the city a few hours ago. I’m with Taggart’s group, I’ve been gone awhile and I’m trying to find them. You got a guess where I could hypothetically find him if he were sleeping or staying out of trouble? Or… sleeping?”

Since Taggart seems to have trouble staying out of trouble.

She’s been spotted by the other redhead. The woman is small, but holds herself with dignity. She is, to Líadan, more than a little intimidated. This doesn’t stop her from taking those few steps forward with the intent of passing the duo. Keeping her brown eyes down, tipping her head to keep rain for splashing her glasses despite the lowered hood. She doesn’t know why the redhead was just climbing down the side of the building; she doesn’t want to know.

As she gets closer to them, she feels it, the tug of the Rage, not as intense as Taggat’s, nor many other Garou she’s met, but it’s still there. She doesn’t know if she should stop, doesn’t know if this girl will bring trouble to Taggart. She looks innocent, but then…so had that Black Spiral Dancer.

“Listening in?” she enquires, though without raising her voice. A mere passer-by might miss it entirely. She raises a finger briefly to Sarah, a ‘just a moment’ kind of gesture.

She’s right beside the petite woman when she asks the question. “Listening in?”

Líadan stops, turns her head to regard the much smaller woman. There’s a significant difference in their heights, but despite that there’s something about the other woman, an intensity, the way she carries herself, that intimidates Líadan.

But Líadan handles high maintenance models for a living. She may be intimidated by this small stranger, but that doesn’t stop her from speaking her mind.

She shifts her stance so she’s facing her. “Not on purpose. Maybe you guys shouldn’t be holding a pow wow in the middle of the sidewalk.”

A tilt of her head indicates the direction that Liadan had been headed.

“Have a brilliant night.”

“Why thank you so much, gracious lady.”

She nods her head to Sarah, to whom she hasn’t spoken, just to be polite. Then she turns on her heels and walks determinedly away. She has better things to do with her time than verbally spar with strangers.

“Yeh might find him or at least word of him in this place called th’Brotherhood of Thieves,” she says as if the altercation hadn’t just occurred.

A pause. “But I suppose if yeh’ve only been here a few hours, you’re not likely to know where that is, are you?”

Though she is the Trueborn of the temporary trio, she has also just arrived. She does not know the political climate or the makeup of the Sept. She has not reintroduced herself to her own pack, even, and so she keeps her mouth shut until the testy redhead has walked away from the resolute redhead, and then she shifts her guitar to her other hand and looks back to the Englishwoman.

The Englishwoman who answers her question, finally, and Sarah’s eyebrows lift as if to help her absorb what is being said. Truth be told she’d been distracted. The older woman supposes the Garou is not likely to know where that is, and Sarah laughs a short-lived laugh before saying, “I suppose I could ask real nice and hope you know.”

Though she is the Trueborn of the temporary trio, she has also just arrived. She does not know the political climate or the makeup of the Sept. She has not reintroduced herself to her own pack, even, and so she keeps her mouth shut until the testy redhead has walked away from the resolute redhead, and then she shifts her guitar to her other hand and looks back to the Englishwoman.

The Englishwoman who answers her question, finally, and Sarah’s eyebrows lift as if to help her absorb what is being said. Truth be told she’d been distracted. The older woman supposes the Garou is not likely to know where that is, and Sarah laughs a short-lived laugh before saying, “I suppose I could ask real nice and hope you know.”

Hatchet — occasionally called Taggart, rarely called Oscar unless people want to get punched — takes as naturally to rainy weather as sunner, windy as still, brutal as calm. It’s not that it’s all the same; it isn’t. He remains the same though, in attitude and mood, regardless. Can’t have it otherwise or he’d be even more of a pain in the ass to deal with on the road than it is already.

Was.

Been a long time since he’s been on the road, at least a long time for him. It’s been six months since he saw Sarah, five months since he came here, three months since he took the title of Truthcatcher, god knows how long since he sat in a guitar shop with Imogen Slaughter giving her a blank look when she mentioned John Lennon, told him about the Beatles.

He still walks like a wanderer though, all long strides and rolling hips, footfalls light because turning your walk into a heavy-impact workout is a bad plan if your walk is going to cross state lines. And when he comes around a corner and sees a yellow-headed girl with a guitar case talking to an instantly recognizable redhead, his heart jumps into his throat as it has time and time again in the past six months. It’s not her, he tells himself. And then Weasel bites his finger.

It’s her.

The sound he lets out is nothing short of a whoop, a holler of unadulterated joy, and then Sarah and Imogen find themselves in the unfortunate position of having roughly two hundred pounds of Fiann barreling down the street towards them.

“I ha’ no right t’tell you where that is, either,” there is something faint in her voice – reluctance, or maybe even regret. The conversation has no further continuance as the sound of primal joy causes her to still, then turn her head to catch sight of Hatchet hurtling toward them. “I believe he has found you,” she says, a little wry.

Careful consideration of the situation makes it clear that it is not Imogen that the Fianna is rushing toward to hug (former tribal relations be damned), and the kinwoman steps out of the way, surrendering the Gnawer to the Philodox’s glee. Her stainless steel scene case lightly bumps her thigh as she moves.

Even before he opens his mouth and lets that sharp wallop of mirth leave his throat and launch itself down the street, Sarah can recognize the tall blond with the solid build and the scruff and the long hair, that walk, that stride. She knows him. She knew he was near but he didn’t know how near, and here he is tearing ass down the sidewalk towards them.

“Oscar!” she keens, literally dropping her guitar case and letting out a little shriek of happiness as she abandons her conversation with Imogen in favor of racing down the sidewalk toward her Alpha and friend, literally hurling herself into his arms. As she leaves the sidewalk she wraps her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his thighs, squeezing him like an anaconda and exclaiming, “There you are!!”

Now he is in jeans that fit better and are newer even if they have a mended tear over the left thigh. The sweater is gone and has been replaced — at least for today — with a black t-shirt, but he still has on those ever-familiar black boots that have seen so much of the country that he has joked many times about Awakening them and seeing what they have to say.

He’s been eating regularly. His hair is lighter, his skin darker, and she can feel the strength in him when she launches into his arms. He catches her up out of the air like this is what he was expecting, and truthfully he was. His arms close around her waist and tighten there, squeezing her against him so hard he is all but vibrating from joy and tension both. Just about anyone seeing them would think: lovers. Or, with a slight glance at the shapes of their faces, the curves of their lips, the similarity in how their bodies react to greater amounts of sunilght, and realize: brother and sister.

Which is true. But not in the way they’d think.

“You’re here,” is all he can say, tucking his head against her neck and shoulder.

Then again, perhaps one can blame it on the stiff British upper lip.

She sets down her scene case, flexing her fingers to restore blood flow to the tips and stiffened joints. The rain has stopped – she pushes back the hood from her face, thumbs hooking damp strands from her cheeks. She watches the street rather than the embracing packmates – her attention habitual, scanning.

She’s here.

“I had to take a damn train, Hatchet,” she laughs, unhooking her lower legs to drop her feet to the ground before his but not releasing his shoulders. “A train!”

Pulling back to look at him, she’s absolutely radiant with happiness. Her eyes are glistening. Sarah was always the most emotional of the three of them. This is not to be mistaken with the most human. Her upbringing and her life after her Change did not exactly set her up to identify as “human.” But she bleeds the same and breaks the same and by god she cries when she’s hurt and happy both.

“Come introduce me to your friend,” she says, grabbing his larger, stronger hand and pulling him back towards the Fiann kinswoman.

He allows her legs to swing free but does not let go of her waist, keeping her a couple of inches off the ground and holding tightly to her all the same. That tremulous energy hasn’t left him, that near-to-breaking quivering of his physicality. He is somewhat like a dog who is all but pissing itself at the return of human beings to the house, only he is not a tame canine and Sarah is not his owner or handler but his packmate. But if she interprets his shaking as intense, overwhelming relief, she would not be incorrect.

And yes, it has been half a damn year since the last time they saw each other, but they have been parted before and he has not seemed so overcome with emotion. There are no tears in his eyes — truth be told even Sarah hasn’t seen him cry in the years she’s known him — but that doesn’t mean he is unemotional. He fits the stereotypical mold of the Tribe quite well: often drunk, passionate, and usually loud.

Unlike, for example, the Fianna-turned-Fenrir that he is being drawn to again. Hatchet finally loosens his hold on Sarah and nods, taking a deep breath and turning towards Imogen after he sets the blonde down on her feet once more. His pale eyes spark a bit. “Imogen,” he says to Sarah, and: “Sarah,” he says to Imogen.

He looks down at Sarah, his eyebrows hopping up. “How come you never told me about the Beatles?”

It’s an oddity, really, when one gets a wiff of the trace purity in her veins, or is touched by the tug of her rage, or is told who (…what…) she is. When one things Fenrir, when one thinks Garou, when one things Godi, they do not think ‘…smiles a lot.’ More often or not, they think ‘Crap. Crazy ass rage machine.’ and that may well be true, but that remains to be seen. Right now, there’s just a young lady of average height, of average weight, of considerably un-average piercings, multi-colored dreads and physical bearing, traveling along the same walk that contains two garou and a kinfolk.

Her skirt – yes, skirt – sways with her movement about her legs, length almost touching the top of the hiking boots she wears. The skirt and her sweater are a soft array of earthy colors, and first glance one thinks ‘hippy’ – on second one things ‘weirdo’ and if there’s a third? Joss just meets it with that easy little grin.

Disconcerting.

(She is so much more than Average.)

At the comment about the Beatles, then the rejoinder, Imogen smirks faintly. “I’m sorry to inform you that he’s been enlightened,” she informs the newcomer a little mildly. “I’m rather impressed he lasted this long.”

The tall, broad-shouldered Fiann throws up his hands at his sides, as though he is at a loss. “I nearly cried like a big fat baby when I heard that song. Made me think of you. I know how to play it now. Oh, and one of the guys — the John one — he did all this other stuff on his own?”

His pale eyes widen a bit. “Some of it’s really weird.” And then his eyebrows hop up, his expression shifting like it’s being constantly cast and recast, molded and reshaped by some unseen sculptor. “Some of it’s really good, though. There’s this song ‘Imagine’ — okay, it’s kind of overwrought and repetitive, but apparently it’s, like, hugely famous.”

“Oh, you didn’t!”

She’s rather impressed he lasted this long.

“Yeah, well,” Sarah says, lightly yet with a slight sardonic edge that is meant to be comedic if only by virtue of the fact that it contrasts with her country girl appearance, “Hatchet’s special.”

At which point Hatchet launches into his diatribe on ‘Here Comes The Sun’ and “that John guy.” Whether she’s just feigning or whether she actually isn’t listening to the poor guy can’t readily be told. Sarah’s always been a little easily distracted. It comes with having been born under a new moon. He chatters, and Sarah’s eyes wander, and her nostrils flare as she inhales the scent of Fenris.

“Wow,” Sarah remarks, mostly to Imogen who had been here a moment ago when the unnamed redhead had passed through, “is this a mainline for breeding or what?” She turns to address both of them: “Know her?”

Sarah speaks and Imogen’s attention moves first to the blond woman then away toward the indicated. Her gaze rests there a moment, briefly thoughtful. She draws a breath in slowly before speaking, “No. But I don’t know most o’ the Sept.”

She pushes her dreads back over her shoulder again, letting them fall heavily down her back, before hands return to her pocket. And still? That little smile lingers on.

“Evening.” is all she says though, once she is close enough to not be shouting.

Hatchet is special, Sarah says, and he just grins maniacally, his eyes glinting with a mirth that belies that screaming grief that Sarah felt coming from him not very long ago. Not long enough ago. He’s stalwart and tenacious, he’s able to take a lot of punishment without so much as flinching, and it takes him eight years or so to get drunk, but what Sarah had felt across their totem link had been unlike anything she’d ever felt from him before.

Wouldn’t know it, to look at him know. Except that Sarah can pick up what Imogen can: the last time either female was around Hatchet, he was not so…intense. The moon is barely there, or will be when it rises, but even so, it’s noticable. Always a bit sharp, a bit hard, now it seems like Hatchet is on the knife’s edge of Rage. He’s still in control. His control is firm, almost always has been…but Half-Moons should not feel the way he feels.

He is, as Sarah lets her eyes wander, looking at Imogen with a slow blink and a tip of his head. “Of course he’s dead,” he says, somewhat flippantly, as though he’d assumed this even before finding out the facts. At Imogen’s response to Sarah’s inquiry about Joss, his eyes flick to the Fenrir, then to the Kinswoman, then to his packmate again. “Imogen’s mated to this Adren Fenrir whose pack left the sept…like…” he shrugs, “whenever ago.”

Hatchet gives Joss a nod when she walks over. “Your thoughts on the Beatles: overrated hacks or significant contributors to the musical history of the planet?”

Tonight, though? He was glad for the work. He needed the money, and it was something that he could do without freaking out.

He’d already gotten the package, and was carrying it inside of an old REI backpack slung over one shoulder. The outfit for the occasion was a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Simple. Serviceable. Something that didn’t mark him as a target, though he had a hard time avoiding attention to matter what he did. Regardless, he looked a bit like a college student who’d come down to the public housing to slum it and…score some drugs. Which was half correct, at least.

The last person in the world that he’d been expecting to see… was Oscar Taggart. Not surprisingly, then, when Aidan rounded a bend in the sidewalk and saw the little group up ahead, his own steps suddenly came to a halt. Green eyes blinked. His mind went oddly still.

It’d take a moment for the gears to start working again, at which point he found himself trying to decide if he ought to approach them… or turn around and go right back the way that he came.

Hatchet does not actually answer the question as to whether or not Joss is familiar – Imogen’s gaze flicks between the two at the Fianna’s facetious question.

“Planet’s going a bit far, I daresay,” she observes before reaching into her coat pocket, retrieving a bronze plated cigarette case and accompanying zippo.

What she doesn’t say is that the MP3 player was a gift, and came pre-loaded from a friend, and she never changed it. She wouldn’t have the faintest idea how too, if she were to be completely honest. Her eyes shift to each of the ladies in turn, and than back again. They – the eyes, not the ladies – are a brilliant blue and intelligent, and that smile lingers in their depths as she speaks.

“But, if pressed, I should think that the Beetles served their purpose – whichever it was – well.”

And he grins broadly at Joss’s answer to the question, opening his mouth to respond only to suddenly stop, blink, and look over his shoulder. He spies Aidan and no instant change comes over his bearing, but its obvious that he has noticed the man. He elbows Sarah gently and nods in Aidan’s direction.

“You know that thing where we’ve never claimed Kin because we’ve, you know, never been in one place long enough for it to matter?” The follow-up to that should be obvious, given how well Sarah knows him, but just in case it isn’t, he goes on: “That’s Aidan. And he’s ours.”

“Boy, you sure know how to pick ’em!” Sarah crows. When Hatchet jostled her she rolled with the blow, leaning heavily to one side without allowing his bony joint to leave her ribs and then returning her frame perpendicular to the ground. Now she is appraising the painfully attractive and painfully Fianna kinsman.

Imogen reaches for her cigarettes, and Sarah takes a deep breath as the full weight of her weekend settled on her. While the rest of the country was planting flowers and sailing boats and watching Star Trek, Sarah was trekking across a state line and enduring public transportation. She wasn’t meant to sit still for eight hours straight. She wasn’t a human.

“You need to show me where y’all are sleeping,” she tells Hatchet. Turning to Imogen, she says, “I mean, you were real nice to even stop and talk to me when I was hollering at you like that, but it’s kind of crazy far from Missouri and if I have to ride one more bus I’m going to go ballistic.”

Probably an exaggeration, but she is governed by the moon, after all.

Turning to Hatchet, she says, “I gotta take my medicine.”

He knows exactly what Sarah is referring to.

For a second there, he felt a little bit like a pure-bred dog getting shown off and inspected. This was… not a feeling that he was entirely unfamiliar with. He’d been seriously considering backing off when Taggart had noticed him. He should have known better than to think that the garou wouldn’t recognize him instantly. Hell, Taggart could apparently follow him across the city by smell.

Wasn’t much to do at this point but be sociable, so he offered Sarah a polite smile as he walked forward to join their little motley group. Green eyes darted briefly around at the other faces present, taking in what he saw with a curiosity that was almost conscious. Anything to keep his eyes off of where they really wanted to be.

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise.” He directed that at Hatchet, finally glancing up at him with an enigmatic look.

Then, idly. “This is th’green, right? Which means, the folks I’m lookin for should be round here somewhere….” it’s almost as if she’s talking to herself, musing really.

“Who are you looking for?” the kinwoman enquires, her voice low, modulated.

At this time of night no one had any reason to come to his nightclub, and therefore he could afford a bit of meandered wandering through Cabrini-Green. It did, after all, border his pack’s territory.

The Sandman was wearing nondescrept clothing: jeans, t-shirt, and boots. He also wore his black fedora to shade his eyes from whatever vestigals of sunlight still remained at this hour, however it better served a purpose in keeping thick, long ebony hair from his face.

As James came upon the group of folks chattering, two in particular he recognized. Hatchet and Imogen. The latter brought a smile – she was a friend. The former made him quirk an eyebrow.

Still, no matter. In the Galliard’s hand was a green bag of potato chips. But not just any potato chips, for these were the delicious ambrosia of the gods: Lays Sour Cream & Onion.

She had not heard what Hatchet said earlier about Imogen’s mate, thus does not put her together with the Kinfolk of the Stories and Songs that she’s heard over the past years. In fact, she doesn’t seem to expect her to know who she is talking about at all.

This is unlikely. They both know it. But he says it anyway. When Sarah mentions medicine, however…

…oh, he knows. His eyes glint a bit, not with displeasure but interest. There’s something sharp in his eyes, sharper than it was a month ago, or six months ago. And it’s visible now, with the approach of the slim Fianna who he can track (has tracked) across the city before. His very blood calls to him in a way, but that isn’t why his eyes are that much more intent when he turns back to Sarah.

“Sarah, this is Aidan, one of two Kinfolk we’re to watch over — they’re both named Whelan, no relation — and Aidan, this is Sarah, my long-lost packmate, who –” he stops halfway through slinging an arm around Sarah’s shoulders, looking up at James’s approach and giving him a nod of greeting. He looks back to his own Kin, his own pack, and adds: “We were just about to go to the Brotherhood and move Sarah in.”

There’s a beat of a pause. “You want to…um. Come with or something?”

She tilts her head slightly in the direction of the approaching.

“There’s one.”

She clicks open her cigarette case and pulls free a coffin nail, her gaze moving briefly again toward the Fianna.

A battered black guitar case is sitting on the ground amidst the conglomeration of bodies, waiting to be picked back up and carried home.

“Hiii, Aidan,” Sarah says, unable to reach out to shake his hand because her right one is amicably around Hatchet’s waist. They could be biological brother and sister, with how free they are with each other. One who knows Sol has to wonder if the two girls are the same way with each other. “I would go with ‘Come with,’ ‘Or something’ just sounds boring.”

“Suppose I’d better come with, then.”

His smile was easier as he glanced at Sarah, and for all the world it seemed like his response had no more meaning behind it than any person who’d just been invited to hang out with any other person. Relaxed. Easy.

Hell, maybe even charming, as that familiar little glitter of emerald searched out the girl’s eyes and held there for a moment.

He said absolutely nothing about the fact that he had $1,000 worth of assorted drugs that didn’t belong to him in the bag that was strapped around one shoulder.

Stepping up to the group, finally close enough for speech without raising his voice, the Galliard offered some of his chips to the flame-haired woman at his side. An eye went to Joss, then, as he stared at her hard for a few moments. “…Joss? Th’ fookin’ ‘ell’re ye doin’ ‘ere? Figgerd ye was still chasin’ tha’.. th’fook’s ‘is name?”

A light shrug as James moved to give the smaller woman a hug. He knew her, that much was obvious, but from where might of been lost on the majority. Eyes turning to Aidan and Sarah, he nodded pleasantly. “Evenin’ tae ye,” he said to them both.

Her scene case is on the ground by her feet. She turns away to pick it up. “I need t’get on,” this explanation is more for James’s benefit than anyone else’s. “Ha’ a good night,” the farewell, however is more dispersed, for no one in particular.

By now it’s a quite a gathering. She must step around them to head toward the sidewalk, stainless steel case in hand.

…including the hug she gives James, easily moving to meet him halfway. There is nothing halfhearted in her hug, but rather the genuine affection between friends – even as she feigns irritation. “I was NOT chasing him. He was chasing me, and he never did catch me, I’ll have you know.” She pulls back and cups his face for a moment, pleased grin playing across her lips. “Tell me you still owe me a beer or ten. Lie to me if you have’ta.”

And she winks at him, before she steps back once more, and her hands find their way into the pockets of her skirt. She looks between Imogen and James, and as Imogen heads off, her eyes widen and she looks up at him. “Was that… her?” The infamous mate to Silence, of course.

He gives Sarah a squeeze, but his eyes hesitate on Aidan for a moment, thoughtful. A small line appears between his brows for a second, then fades as he nods in a northeasterly direction. “Let’s walk, then, we’re wastin’…what little daylight is left. Let’s –”

Evenin’, boyo catches his attention. He looks over at James and lifts his eyebrows, but the look on his face is one of profound amusement. “Evenin’, lad,” he says back, as though he’s restraining a laugh behind the words. It’s good-natured, or seems so, but then he lets go of Sarah and crouches to pick up her guitar case. “C’mon, then. Dime Bag’s been hauling ass for Gaia knows how long and has yet to taste Reuben Coltrane’s brew.”

He starts to walk, thrusting one finger into the air and bellowing: “Onward!”

Cackling, he kept one arm around Joss and nodded. “Aye, t’was ‘er. Ye know, th’only thing I’m thinkin’ Decker be ‘fraid o’ is ‘er.” Another laugh here as he shook his head. He’d seen Imogen in battle before, how ruthlessly efficient she was. Even if James might possess abilities that the flame-haired Kinfolk never would, she was one he hoped he never had to face.

“

As she leans back, she lifts heavy dreads to let them hang back over the bench, swaying with their weight as she settles comfortably. She crosses one knee over the other, and smooths her skirt over her thighs, pulling her mp3 player from the pocket of her skirt, she hits the volume up a little, though she only has one earbud in her ear.

To the naked eye, she is simply average. Average height, average looks, average… Then there are the piercings, the dreads, the sharp clarity of her blue eyes, the smile that seems to linger even now as she hums absently along with her mp3. And lets not forget the little things – tiny reminders that she is not human after all…

The toe of her hiking boot bops in time with the music in her ears, and she waits. Patiently. For the promised beer.

Not ten yards from the bus stop there’s a buzzing and twin beeps when the blackberry in the pocket of a simple black sport coat with the tiniest off white stripes is withdrawn and answered. “Then tell him to get his ass down here, I don’t care how busy it is tonight it’s three hours past settle up time.” There’s a pause, the man speaking is in his mid twenties but there’s a stress to him that makes him seem much older. He could be a manager, a banker, maybe a trader on the city’s large commodities market. That’s completely believable if he’s the one telling you too, he’s got a penchant for gab that’s even audible over the phone. “Because Jimmy, if your boy doesn’t show and then I don’t hear something from you then i’m gonna have to either come up short or reach into my own pocket. Look, no look Jim, Jim.” He’s getting inside of whoever he’s talking to’s sentences. “I-I know and it’s tough on both of us that way, but if it’s not taken care of it’s a problem for everybody and not just a problem for you. Capice? Good. Tonight then. Ok. Give the Wife my best.”

Click.

“Fucking polacks.” He’s nearly laughing, a defense mechanism. Dark humor in the face of a hangman’s gallows. Something isn’t right. He’s bred, and impeccably so. Only not the kind of interest to Garou so much as their human counterparts, ones who have affinity for their own tribes and nations. Of spiritual heritage he’s got none, property of the first tribe who found and stamped him.

Jackie Castellano sits down beside her on the bench as though he owns it and heaves out a sigh containing all the day’s stresses.

Make that property of no one.

Cackling, he kept one arm around Joss and nodded. “Aye, t’was ‘er. Ye know, th’only thing I’m thinkin’ Decker be ‘fraid o’ is ‘er.” Another laugh here as he shook his head. He’d seen Imogen in battle before, how ruthlessly efficient she was. Even if James might possess abilities that the flame-haired Kinfolk never would, she was one he hoped he never had to face.

” ‘Old th’ thought, lass,” James said as he stepped off to take a piss behind a dumpster, his bag of chips forgotten for now. It was almost empty anyway.

Coming back from the alley, James stepped over to Joss and flicked her shoulder.

Then she’s flicked on the shoulder. “It’s about time! Didn’t they tell you to shake it more than once is playing with it?! That’s got to be the longest piss on record, even for the likes of you…” She has not lost any of her playfulness, despite the things she’s seen, the things she’s done, the things…. shiny shiny spirit things… wait, what?

She brings her focus back to James, dropping her head back to look at him, the line of her throat bare and vulnerable, though it’s not so much submission as tease, and he damn well knows it. “So. I been looking all over this damn city for you guys. Found Evan, but he didn’t remember me. Heard ya’ll were looking for someone of my.. talents. So I got permission, and came.” Answering, at last, the question he’d asked earlier about why she was here.

Her voice is soft, soothing even, and accented – not thickly, mind you, but vaguely – of her state of origin, Minnesota.

Lonna had a certain affinity for bus stops now; she didn’t want to drive her car out on the north side because, well, she could very easily end up getting the thing stolen and chopped up and never seeing the poor, beat up Grand Am again. Lonna had a very nice stereo system; she wanted to keep it that way. Later, she might muse on how stupid this thought is; Lonna lived on the southside. She worked on the south side. Her life revolved around the south side, which was just as dangerous as Cabrini Green.

And yet, she was worried about her stuff getting jacked up on the Green as opposed to Bronzeville.

Let’s muse on this later.

So, whatever it was, it had the rather attractive Child of Gaia kinswoman on the street that night, making her way off to catch a ride. There she was, all long legs and blonde hair and unspoken promises. She was dressed comfortably. denim capris, white tee shirt, and about a bazillion little bracelets. She looked a little dirty; her tee shirt wasn’t pristine, her pants were paint splattered. Lonna must have been working on the north side today.

That being said, awfully late to be working.

Jackie flinches at the northern midwest patois almost instantly. It’s a reminder of his own exile, a bitter sore as he does though turn and regard the Moon Dancer getting his balls busted so thoroughly with a smirk. Then the woman gets a glance and the Shadow Lord isn’t paying too much attention anymore, he’s playing with his phone. It’s text messages it would seem, or emails by the way he taps thumbs across the blackberry’s keypad.

When his eyes do flick up over the top of the thing it’s worth a double take. The form not entirely swaying but certainly making a metronome of it’s hips is all too familiar. I go into my pocket tonight. 2 points to you. You have one day. The text message is sent and suddenly this Shadow Lord kinfolk is free tonight. “Miss Larson.”

He stands up to meet her approach. Smiling as though nothing out of sorts has happened in the last few days.

“Ye know, Joss, ‘s a frien’ I ‘ave tae tell ye this,” James said solemnly. “I kin tot’lly see down yer shirt.” Massaging her shoulders for a moment or two, he then came around the bench to plunk himself down languidly.

“Ev’n’s liken ‘s not worried o’er ‘is wee bonnie an’ wife,” he said with a shrug. “An’ ye know ye’re more’n welcome, luv.”

The difference in their accents can be startling. James had the voice of the rogue-charmer, with enough brogue to normally make him unintelligable to these Americans. Being of mixed blood as he was, it was little surprised that at times he sounded a mixture between Scottish as well as Irish, but for the Sandman he was Eire through-and-through.

Giacomo made his appearance down the block, and he quirked an eyebrow. An I-Tai, by the looks of the man. Until he came any closer, the man was put out of his mind for now.

Giacomo greets the new arrival, which gets an appraising eye from the Sandman.

James takes his place, flopping down next to her, and she laughs. “Well, I know you’ve always enjoyed the view. As for welcome, time will tell. I do not expect to be ushered in without paying my dues. I am young, but certainly not stupid. I have prepared all my life for this chance, however, and I intend to add an Eagle tattoo next to these.” By ‘these’ she means the small tattoo of two bats just below her collarbone, which he had a perfectly good view of just moments before. “Someday.”

To run with the Eagles of legend, to be Godi under Silence, the Fenrir of stories and songs, respected by many though he would tell it different, would say he cared not – who’s father ran her home sept with an iron fist and unflinching fury… that would be something worth pride, worth marking her skin once again.

Fuck being content. She was cautious. She was alert. And she was aware.

He smiled like nothing happened and, for her part, she tried to play the same. “Evening Mister Castellano.”

And God if she didn’t have a voice on her. The Sandman did, indeed, get an eye full. Lonna was gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous, she was iconic. Full curves and long legs; with hee’s on, she would be damned near six feet all. As that she was wearing tennis shoes at that moment, it didn’t seem to be a problem. She wasn’t towering over either of the males. She regarded the people at the bus stop as well; one was familiar. One was not. Both qere quite, quite intense folks indeed.

The girls is nervous when she sees the other kin and rightfully after the evens of a handful of nights ago. He offers reassurance of a sort though opens up a whole new set of fearful possibilities. “She’s not here.”

“You left some things.” A glance back again, if the other two were listening it might be obvious he’s being vague for their benefit. “When you took off the other night.” Took off and pushed out are here made out to be one and the same, again for the benefit of the two Raging death machines on the park bench that he may not be fully aware are what they in fact were born to become.

Another glance between Giacomo and Lonna, he flicked an eyebrow. Like Joss, he couldn’t blame the man for speaking with her, even if it was for perhaps not quite the same reasons. Reaching up with one hand he pulled the fedora off his head to set it on the Godi’s while he leaned forward to shake out his long, thick ebony hair that fell below his shoulders. A hairtie was produced from somewhere, and soon enough his locks were held in a loose pony tail.

For the moment he looked content to leave his hat where it was: on Joss’ head while he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Putting one to his lip, a match was struck and in a moment a thin streamer of pale smoke drifted up from the glowing-red cherry.

Indeed, they could be friends for decades, though it’s only been months, a year at most. He makes her laugh and despite their age difference he makes her feel comfortable. “Tell me the tree lovin bastard is at least is the same rank as us…” …wait, us? There’s a bit of news for him… “Else I lose all respect for you and be forced to let you drink me under the table again so that you can regain it all back again….”

She reaches up when he places the hat on her head, and cocks it to a jaunty angle, settling it more firmly, as if that’s where his hat belongs anyway, and she’s no intention of giving it back. Despite the fact she wears that long skirt, she lifts her knee and hooks her boot on the edge of the bench, sliding the material over her knee as she does so, in order to keep the world from viewing her all her business. It’s a natural move, comfortable, even graceful.

Meanwhile, her gaze continues to rest on Lonna and Giacomo -idle curiosity, maybe, mostly.

Like a mantra. Breathe.

She’s not here, and it was enough to make her relax, but not enough to make her look at him like she was a sort of silently irritated. They couldn’t have this conversation on the streets; well, they could, but there were rules about that. The blonde woman with the turquoise eyes and the paint-splattered shirt knew that. She looked at the people on the bench again; like Joss, her attention flickered out of idle curiosity.

Attention back on Jack, she spoke very, very quietly, and judging by her tone, it sounded displeased. More importantly, it sounded worried. Leave it to a Coggie to tinge her anger with concern.

She’s whispering. But these are not sweet nothings.
Not. That you could tell by the wide grin that he doesn’t shake off except to turn and glance at the others before moving one hand to stroke the side of one of the Gaian’s arms quickly.

“There’s not a thing in the world that can do that.” At it comes off just like he said it. Bulletproof. Headstrong and confident it’s absolute truth. “If you wanna head in down here,” One thumb jambs down the block, “I was going to stop and have a drink. I could get you a ride so you don’t need to take the bus.” He explains, as she’s just seen him sitting at the stop.

“I was supposed to meet someone from work and he bailed.” He smiles. “His loss, right?” Except there are three layers to the comment and only the most obvious one is made available.

Sitting back on the bench his arm found it’s way to the back of it, behind the Godi’s shoulders. Any passers-by might think them a touch more than friends, but insinuate any of the sort to James and he’d give them a flat look. Then again, the two seemed to be flirting more than was necessary.

From all appearances Lonna looks like she’s ill-pleased to see this man, and if necessary he would of course step in should the need arise. However at the moment it doesn’t appear to. Should any choose to look, James’ t-shirt put some of his tattooing on display. One that would catch the eye of any whom were looking was the Fianna glyph intricately tattooed in a celtic band around his left forearm below the elbow.

She notes the way he watches them is more than her own idle curiosity, and she asks softly. “Friends of yours?” Then it clicks where she’d seen Lonna before. “She was with Evan the other night.” her voice softens, carrying no farther then the two of them -an intimate whisper, as it were… “I came upon ’em after a battle of some sort. They’d just finished cleaning up the mess.” Her brow furrows as she tries to put together the name with the memory.

Then again, free drinks were what started this whole mess. Free drinks and short skirts.

“yeah, well, you’re buying,” she said. Stated. Yes, she would have drinks with him, yes, she would enjoy his company. But, damned, she wasn’t going to pay for her own booze. She was about to turn around, offering a half smile and then she caught a look at something. Or, at the very least, she heard something, which made her look at James. Lonna looked at him, looked at his arm, and then she simply could not leave well enough alone.

And the lady- the amazon. The tall blonde who was as All-American as apple pie and baseball, said something in a language that was distinctly British Isles.

(aaand if you speak Gaelic, poke me!)

So sure she’s coming with.

A last wave to the Garou he seems to have zero interest in meeting and again from this straight posture and attitude that’s so confident and comfortable it’s as though the Lord has the world in one hand and a bag of krugerands in the other it would not seem to be he’s skitting away from some primal fear. He’s either kinfolk or deviled and it’s almost damned sure he’s stood eye to eye with their kind before. Outside of that reddish hue to his jaw on one side that looks to be the last fading paint of a bruise he looks to have come out unscathed for it as well.

Responding in kind, he merely winked at the tall blond as he looked to make sure Joss wasn’t coming for retribution. Amazing to see that a man that was almost 40 still played about as though he were a teenager.

Still, he then shuffled back towards Joss and shrugged. “Couldnae tell ye,” the Irishman said softly for her ears alone. “If’n she knows e’en th’n likely she’s one o’ ‘is people, but th’other I’m nae knowin’ t’all. I’m goin’ tae ‘ave t’ask boy wonder.”

Oh there will be retaliation. But not here. Not now. He’s forgotten what she is, for a moment – but he’ll remember soon enough, when he least expects it. To start a war with a Godi takes a brave man indeed… or a stupid one. Time will tell which he is. And he ain’t getting his hat back now for SURE.

Boy wonder. That amuses her, but mostly because Evan is a couple years her senior, she’s pretty sure. “Whoever she is t’him, he said she handled herself well. She wasn’t breaking down or nothing despite the bloodshed.”

A beat, than.. “What’d she say?”

After her response- something whole hearted and fitting [she seemed to come so naturally to it. A language that sh eknew, and knew damned well at that. A little out of practice, but for some reason it seemed to come to Lonna as easily as riding a bicycle.]

After awhile, she gave a little wave and headed down the street with the Shadow Lord.

“Here.” The two approach, he opens the door behind the woman and lets her in first. Eyes travel shamelessly down curves and assets clothes can’t hide so well. Inside the place is quiet, a neighborhood dive with a jukebox a couple of pool tables, a few tables in dark corners and a bar. All the essentials, covered.

“We can sit anywhere you want.”

“Sh’ mention’d m’ tattoo, an’ tha’ ye ‘ave fab’lous tits,” he said with a chuckle and nodded after Lonna, which he once again responded to in Gaelic.

She rolls her eyes then and shakes her head. “Compared to hers? I don’t even HAVE tits.”

Heartbeat.

“An’ I am not a dirty ol’ man! I’m ‘nly 38, ye silly git. Ye’re only ‘s ol’ as ye feel.” Then he looked over to take a bit of detail of Joss herself and merely shrugged. “T’each their own, love, but ye know.. I knew I caught ye lookin’ too.”

The Child of Gaia made her way to go sit at a booth. Her placement was strategic; to say that she wasn’t aware of her surroundings was a lie. She had to be. She was with a kept [Claimed] man. One that she was not, under any circumstances, willing to get a lung punctured for. The experience was good, but not good enough to get scars over that’s for sure.

he knew exactly what those curves looked like. Keeping her shirt on was, really, just a crime against humanity. Even if she was wearing a white shirt. Lonna’s eyes travelled over the pool table, a slight smile crossing her face. Just another dive bar, really, she wasn’t doing much.

“If they do mixed drinks I want an amaretto sour. If they don’t, well, I trust your judgment.”

The difference is her background.
The difference is her teaching.
The difference is her.

(And she just might be completely insane.)

She says nothing about finding out herself, as they both know they are all talk, no action when it comes to the two of them. She does, however, chuckle at being caught lookin. “When they’re RIGHT THERE, ya kinda notice.”

They are effectively alone once again, as alone as anyone can be on the streets, and the smile doesn’t so much fade, as slide into seriousness. “Any advise for when I meet Decker?”

“Speak yer mind plainly, an’ th’ reasons ye came. Decker’s nae one t’ ‘ave th’ patience fer long-winded speeches an’ pretty words.”

Might as well be the world to her, she’s never been out of her home state until now. “I’m eager to get to work, to learn of and commune with the spirits, to help maintain the defenses… there’s so much to do, I just wait permission to begin, permission to step over the territory lines.” She’s almost vibrating with the excitement of it all, the thrill of a new place, new experiences. After all, despite all she is, all she already has been – she’s still an 18 year old girl.

The bartender gets a couple of pointed orders at bottles the sit in front of a mirror giving the two rows the look of a sea of glass in back of the tender. A whole ocean of drunk that gives a mona confidence he might make headway through. He waits, Jams out another text on his phone and meanders back. This time there are drinks, four of them in his hands.

Two shots of expensive tequila, and amaretto sour and a rum and coke, doubled. the shots are pressed between fingers precariously and it’s a shock he makes it back with all four unspilled. But Giacomo Castellano has never has a problem with little things like manual dexterity one gets the notion.

“Here.” The shot and drink are slid her way as the man scoots casually into his side of the bar. “Look,” He says raising his own clear Patron up on propped elbow in the table’s center. “I’m sorry about the other night. Consider this you know…a peace offering.” If he seems stressed and she’ll note he does just a touch it’s entirely possible this isn’t the cause as he’s able to display an even smile when he raises the small glass between fingers like a small toast to…something.

“Curb yer eagerness, sweet’eart. I know yer itchin’ tae get t’work, but ye need tae walk a’fore ye kin run. I’ll take ye t’ Decker m’self – known ’em fer years now, longer’n any livin’ Eagle present, s’that should smooth a few things o’er. Trust m’, lass. Ye’ll get yer chance, but rushin’ ‘eadlong intae somethin’ wit’out knowin’ which way ye’re tae jump an’ land’s n’ so good.” James was a Galliard, true enough, but James didn’t live as long as he had by being rash or hastey. Not all the time, at least.

She just looked at the drink for the time being, her gaze focused on the drink in front of her for a moment and then back at him. It had been a long day, her shoulders didn’t slump but she was a little tired. Call it a long day, maybe she missed her nap or something. or maybe, possibly, it was a different kind of tired entirely.

“You said some really hurtful things, you know that?” she took the drink, and then? “I guess I accept, though.”

She raised her glass and took a drink. He seemed stressed. And she looked at him over the top of her shot glass, finished but not yet put down. The Child of Gaia put the glass down and then crossed her legs at the ankle.

“What’s wrong? You seem stressed.”

She knows he’s right, and knows it deep down inside the way she knows her own name, her own experiences, her own scars. When it comes to Decker, she will find a way to contain it, or he’ll think she’s nuts. “Already have folks askin if I’m headed to Headquarters. I ain’t yet.” A pause, then… “You thing you all would ever make it back there? I’d love to see Maelstrom…” just to see it… such an experience…

A soft, amused sigh as he shook his head. Joss lay her thigh against his leg, and his hand and most of his forearm came down to rest atop it, patting her on the knee as if to soothe her. As if anything needed soothing, at that. “Ye kin go tae Maelstrom if’n ye want t’. No one’ll stop ye – liken ‘s not e’en if ye did join us, they’d nae stop ye. Ye’re Godi, luv – ye’re needin’ t’ feel th’ power o’a caern. Why d’ye think we travelled all th’way t’ Storm ‘Ammer?”

He is stressed. There’s a discerning glance thrown across the table with the down-clink of a small glass. “Yeah,” Her legs cross beneath the booth and there’s a shift in the man who sits further forward at the nearby motion of legs. “Just, you know work.” The other glass, the larger one is taken in hand. It’s made strong, as he’d asked for it and the smell of booze assaults his nose as he passes it over the cola and one fifty one.

“One of our associate developers. This Polack, Jimmy Tycoski has a settle up date for the morgtages on the properties he’s flipping. He’s missed it by a week and now on his second chance he’s skirting me again. So now Ihave to go into my pocket to make things right with the company and go down in the afternoon tomorrow and go give Jimmy a piece of my mind.” His lips press together. That drink couldn’t be so deep he sees the bottom but brown eyes stare into it like they’re trying to see the table below the glass bottom.

“Hope I don’t have to fire the poor guy.” Double entendre, all of this, except the last, “he’s got a wife and kids.”

“I just don’t want to offend Maelstrom, to give them the wrong opinion. Should I go, they will expect that I sacrifice, and until I have been established on which path I have to take…” she did not say which path she wishes to take – as that much is obvious. “.. I just don’t think it’s right to risk offending a Spirit so great as that until I know.”

She lifts a hand to place it atop his hat on her head, and tips her head back to look up at the sky -what she can see of it beyond the street lights. “Guess I’ll have to start small, with a patch of roof atop the Brotherhood.”

Starting small, but oh, she dreams big.

He stops near the bus stop on the street keeping his distance from passer’s by. He pulls off the pack from his back and sets on the pavement. From the pack he takes a green canteen, unscrews the cap and sips some water. He sets it aside to pull out a compass, and a map. He looks up at the street light that buzzs, and pops overhead as he studies the map, and uses the compass.*

“May’ap ye ‘ave a point there – ye’d know better’n m’self, after all,” James said casually to the young woman. “Decker’d likely want tae know if’n one o’ Storm ‘Ammer’s ‘ere ‘nyway, but aye th’ Brotherhood’s a decent place t’ ‘ole up if’n ye need a place. An’ if’n ye dinnae find th’ place t’yer likin’, I kin find ye better ‘ccomodations.”

Marcus makes his appearance, dressed like he just rolled out of John Wayne’s The Green Berets. James cannot help but quirk an eyebrow, looking over the man studying the map. “Evenin’, soldier,” the Fianna said to the man. “If’n yer lost–” he said nodding to the map, “–may’ap I kin ‘elp ye.”

The lightweight took a drink of amaretto sour and then listened to his work-related woes.

Something about an associate developer. Someone missing a week’s worth of deadlines and then? Well, he hoped that he wouldn’t have to fire him. And he was talking in doublespeak, and she wasn’t sure that it was. Lonna had no reason to know that he wasn’t all he pretended to be. That he wasn’t, in fact, in real estate. As far as she knew, he was just another busy urban professional. It was for the best.

Guy’s got a wife and kids.

“Hey, maybe things will work out. I’m sure he’ll be able to make it up some way,” she said.

God, she was so naive it hurt sometimes.

Oh! Speaking of… she starts to say something, then is distracted by the arrival of Marcus, and she just waves what she was going to say away. She’ll tell him later. She falls silent as James offers to help him, and just meets his gaze with a smile when he looks her way.

None of these woes it seems can’t be fixed with a good drink.

The girl had frowned at the bruising below his cheek, the equally faint matching ones on his neck too. Looked for a moment like she was going to touch the olive colored skin there and stopped. After a little eternity of silence the motion is answered in more words. But not completely so. A hand glides to sit on top of her own and the professional [Criminal.] looking twentysomething shakes his head at her apprehensions about it.

“It’s fine. She’s just… she can play rough sometimes.” There’s a setting of jawline into crooked pose, a distant motion of masculine hand lifting from feminine and the marks are rubbed at by himself. “I’ll be fine.” Except I won’t be fine because there are goddamn monsters everywhere.

The funniest thought there right at the end.
I was safer in prison.

Couldn’t these Americans speak English? James thought as he nodded to Marcus. Some of them at least had a more garbled accent than his. “Aye,” James said, speaking a bit directly and slowly in that way people often used to those that were either real deaf or didn’t speak in the same manner as they. “What’d ye be lookin’ fer? Suren I kin point ye ‘n th’ right d’rection.”

“I know, he talks like he’s gotta mouthful of marbles, don’t he? Looking for somewhere specific?”

Marcus might be able to see, even with the dim light cast by street-lamp, the celtic tattoo mixed in among the ink that covered his arms. James wore a t-shirt, so at least this one still showed. It was the Fianna glyph, worked into a celtic knot and braid around his upper forearm below the elbow.

“Suren,” he said. “Ye’re ‘n what’s called Cabrini-Green, near th’ riverfront.” James wasn’t close enough to see it on the map, but it was possible he could point to the spot without looking with relative ease.

Right. Soledad. Time to come clean. He thought that he would be fine, and this was an existence that Lonna was surprisingly used to. And she could think about it. And she could pause and reflect and really genuinely think about. And for the moment, she had to look at him and remember that night and wonder, briefly, how much he did know. his hand rested on top of hers, and her brows stayed knit, and her head cocked to the side slightly.

Funny how that gesture could seem so lupine sometimes. His hand leaves hers after a moment. And he insists that he’ll be fine.

“So, uh, how long have you known about…?”

The Nation. The Garou. The fact that he was sleeping with a nine-foot-tall killing machine.

She doesn’t have a tribal tattoo – or even one that can be readily seen without peeking down her shirt, though her blood give hints of the who she is, of the tales sung of those who came before her. She’d help with directions – but she’s just as lost as the Marcus is, except that she has found at least one of her friends already.

Once he’s closer to James he looks to be of a mixed heritage. His facial features, bone structure are Native American, and his hair is dark black, but his eyes are icy frost blue, a mark of his mother’s people, Nordiac, a hint of purity in an otherwise normal stock mixed heritage. He looks to have spend a lot of time outdoors with his weather beaten look.*

Turning his attention back on Marcus, he nodded. “Thank’ee. ‘Ad it since I was a boy,” and at 38 years of age that was something that he was no longer. “James Wagner,” he began as he cut his eyes to and fro to see if any may be listening. The mere mention of Marcus having seen the Fianna glyph before, and the pure blood running through Marcus’ that was strangely similar to Joss’ he took a bit of a chance. “Sandman tae th’ Nation o’ Garou, Fostern Galliard o’ th’ Fianna, one o’ Eagle’s Chosen.”

There’s some thought here as though by speaking he pieces together facts from times uniformed toward now when he’s still uninformed but with just enough knowledge to make like hard on the Garou who might come across him. “She’s been showing me how the whole thing works.” Always she, as though by not speaking the Uktena’s name she won’t come crashing through the door and rip the both of them to shreds. “Half of it,” there’s another long drink. That rum and rum splashed with coke is getting low and he seems poised to get another, a slight buzz about his features, his speech. “Seems batshit crazy. And the other half I don’t want any part of.”

The lament of the lost kin, that.

Look.” and that’s what happens. Lonna gets looked at, her face, her womanly curves stared upon, remembered for uncovered flesh. “I mean it’s always good…you know all of it.” He doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. “But I mean we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Right?

In all truth they aren’t really doing the this in question right now, they’re jsut having a drink. He’s talking about work, she’s asking after his place in the Nation and outside of the talk of supernatural monsters this could merely be two good looking friends out for a drink. But drinks are things she can’t handle and he shouldn’t and those better angels are being drown in them.

She lifts a hand to the brim of her (stolen) hat as if she were going to tip it, old fashioned style, and smiles. “Joss Lehrer. Gossamer Wing. Fostern Godi.”

An eye cast to Joss – and damn it all if he didn’t mean to get his had back, even if it meant tackling her while she was in the shower for it, he nudged her shoulder playfully. Either the two were lovers or close friends. It was up to debate for many.

Stated. Because she’d been in the know longer than he had. She had managed to field this better than he had; Jack had yet to know exactly who or what Lonna had shot seven times that day. He had no clue what she had shot seven more times the day after that; she handled herself well. One wouldn’t be able to tell, of course, after she’d fallen into a ball of quivering, sobbing terrified that night Soledad had come by.

She stirred her drink idly, looking down at it and then back at him when he talked.

We shouldn’t do this anymore. Lonna looked down, and then took another drink. Was content to try and finish it off. For the most part, she’d done a good job. They both know she couldn’t handle her liquor- realistically she didn’t care.

“No, no we shouldn’t,” she said. And then? “So, how long were you going to wait before you said anything about her? Or were you just not going to?”

And honestly enough. “I wasn’t going to say anything if I didn’t hafta.”

“You want more drinks?” This must’ve been rhetorical as he stands at this point with both of the empty glasses and fishes for the clip of bills in his back pocket. A similar exchage to the first is made at the bar though this time the phone is leftbehind on the table and in less than five minutes he’s returning with two more mixers.

“Can you blame me?” The conversation picks right back up when the man returns. There’s a gift to the way the career heavy can speak, the gift of gab, a born salesman. “She’s…intense.”

She listens as he explains, and the brow lifts at the talk of the spirits sending him. “A noble quest, indeed.” She says it with a winning smile, as she shifts her position slightly, ending up with her head on James’ shoulder, knocking that fought for hat further askew as she watches Marcus. Despite the fact he is her tribe, James knows the area more, the lay of the land, even the Fenrir elder better than she does. So she lets him handle the questions, the explanations.

“These days most o’ th’ Garou ‘ere congregate at th’ aforementioned Brother’ood. Ye may find others o’ yer tribe there.”

An eye was cast down to Joss, and he smiled at her faintly. “Tired a’ready, luv? Ye want me tae go an’ tuck ye in?” a bit of a chuckle, here.

He wasn’t going to say anything if he didn’t have to. She opened her mouth to say something, and he asked if she wanted another drink.
“Sure,” she replied. Though, that wasn’t what she had intended to say.

She forgot whatever it was. Could she blame him for not saying anything? She’s… intense.

“She’s not intense Jack, she’s a born and bred warrior. Like… to the freakin’ max. They’re all like that,” she said. Then looked at the drink. “Well, maybe not all of them.”

She seemed to look at that amaretto sour a little longer than she had intended. And, for a moment, she looked wistful. And, for the time bein, that look was washed down.

A frown, again. He’s not a lightweight but he’s only having just enough color added to the drinks to make sure they aren’t completely clear. And while the girl wold be bombed at this rate before he would sway in his walking he’s at least got an unnatural warmth spreading through his ribcage and up onto his skin through blood vessels that open up just far enough to give the illusion of intensifying bodyheat. “That’s why I wasn’t gonna tell you.”

“Besides.” Wiping lips discretely with the back of his muscled hand after another long sip from the glass. “I’d only planned on it being a one time thing. Not my fault it was so…” He laughs at the whole thing it seems, letting the black humor take him and setting down the rum on the table. “Finish your drink, I’ll get you home.”

When James teases her about tucking her in, she laughs. “I can manage tucking myself in, I think. Just been a long trip, a long day. S’all.”

“Yeah, there’s good food there. What’s even better, there’s good beer too,” James said as he slipped an arm around the weary Joss. It was almost cute – as if a father looking after his daughter. Though James would choke on his very words, as his children could never be as ugly as Joss. The thought made him smile inwardly.

“Aye, it’s been a long day for me as well. Can you show him the way from here, love?” he asked the Godi. “I’m going to go report to Decker that you’re here, and then try and get some sleep before I start on patrol tomorrow.”

Lonna took another look at her drink, stirring it a little and then? Well, he said to finish her drink and so she did. Lonna was never one to leave one unfinished. truth be told, this is about the amount they drank when they first met. When she’d had trouble getting up the stairs, when she had been forward and made direct, tempting eye contact. And done more than that, too. But, well, that was neither here nor there.

“C’mon let’s go. Are you good to drive?”
Because I’m not!

The smile is impish, and full of mischief, as if there is no telling what might be wrong with said hat when he gets it back. She waves for Marcus to fall into step with her, and leads him down the street.