[Imogen] The day is cloudy, cool but not cold. The rains from yesterday are finished for now, and a few people have wandered out onto the streets to enjoy the Spring temperatures.
There is an open-air market in a small courtyard, surrounded by buildings with various shops. In the winter, it is nearly empty, except for a few hardy vendors selling knitted goods. In the summer, it is packed with carts with fruits and vegetables, cheap jewelry, and summer clothing. In Spring, it is wedged between the two. Vendors selling knitted goods, the remains of their winter wares, a few vendors with their trinkets, some hothouse fruits and vegetables. There aren’t many pedestrians here, but there are a few.
She is one of them – a slim, slight woman in jeans and a leather coat in the shade of chocolate. Vibrant, flaming hair, and pale skin contrasting with dark eyes.
Pure breeding hanging heavily in the air, dug deeply into her skin and bones.
[Colton Lowry] There were a few rare occasions that found Colton out among the living, breathing masses of mankind. Though few and far between, today was one of those times. Unlike some Garou, the blond scrawny kid did not avoid people because of a wealth of Rage – his own being very low, a soft bass chord beneath a current of calmer strings.
Today, right this moment, he’s hungry. His hair looks to be either wet or greasy, a fact that darkens the shade of it by degrees. Brown eyes are set against tan skin, his complexion free of blemishes or scars. This one is young – 17 or 18 and that’s being generous. His hoodie is black, his jeans are a faded shade of blue denim and the bottoms that hang over his worn out sneakers are frayed severely.
At present, he’s eying a cart of tomatoes. At least, that’s what he was doing until he caught sight of the slight woman with the flame red hair. His mind (and eyes) dart from the tomatoes to the woman. With empty pockets and a stomach threatening to growl meaner than any dog…his eyes slowly float back to the cart and it’s wares.
[Imogen] She feels the weight of a gaze, but by the time she’s turned, Colton’s attention has returned to the tomatoes. Normally, she would merely look away – an attractive woman, familiar with the gaze of strangers.
And for a moment, she does, picking up an orange and weighing it in one hand, before her eyes are drawn back again. Those eyes narrow, briefly, her mouth drawing into a thin line.
She turns back, and pays for her oranges – three of them, put into an unlabelled white, plastic bag, weighing it down. She pays in cash, and with exact change.
As she steps away, her gaze moves toward the stranger again – studying him without bothering to hide it.
[Colton Lowry] She’s watching him. He can feel it…the crawl of her intense gaze along his profile. He doesn’t become self-conscious but he does grow slightly irritated, a fact that is expressed by the shifting of his weight and the pinching close of his brow. Imogen grows her fair share of rubberneck glances. Even the merchant selling the vegetables and fruits in front of him is taking a moment to appreciate Imogen’s cool exterior.
It’s then, as the man behind the stand levels his eyes on Imogen, that Colton manages to snag two smaller tomatoes. They’re shoved quickly, deftly, into the front pocket of his hoodie.
[Imogen] Imogen’s mouth twitches, slightly as Colton steals, then the expression smooths, gone like a glassy like after the ripples fade.
She turns, and heads away, her heels clicking softly on the cobble stones.
The entrance to the courtyard is through an archway between buildings. She steps through it and out onto the sidewalk, her gaze flicking up toward the sky.
Rather than continuing on, she comes to a stop on one side. She slides the loops of her bag up her forearm, and slips her hand into the opening of her purse. A cigarette case is retrieved, a cigarette removed from it.
She lights up, her attention half cocked toward the courtyard she had only just left.
[Colton Lowry] When he looks up, Imogen is gone. A small part of him feels a sort of satisfaction that Imogen hasn’t caught him – or so he assumes. The vendor looks at Colton suspiciously but says nothing because something about the young man just felt off. When the scruffy blond kid turns to go, the man is relieved. So what if it caught him a few vegetables or fruits.
Colton doesn’t expose his stolen goods until he feels he’s safe from prying eyes. Unbeknownst to him, he’s following in Imogen’s wake. Immediately when he hits the entrance to the courtyard his eyes are scanning for somewhere to bleed into over across the veil to the other side.
It takes a minute before he sees Imogen. When he does, his eyes narrow and his shoulders slump slightly. There’s a pause to his steps, his body half turned toward the red head.
[Imogen] Imogen blows cigarette smoke as Colton sees her, her head half turned away. the smoke catches in the wind and scatters.
“Ha’ a fondness for tomatoes, then, do you?” she asks, lifting her cigarette back to her lips for another hit.
[Colton Lowry] His jaw is shaped perfectly – it’s what most would consider a square jaw. He’s attractive in as much as a teenager can be considered attractive. A hand rakes back through his hair casually. “Look if you’re gonna tray ‘n make me pay for it…” He begins, squaring himself to either fight or run from the firm speaking Imogen. “I’m hungry ‘n I ain’t got no money…”
[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, smoke pluming from her mouth, “No,” she offers this immediately, the important detail, the one that will keep the Garou from running.
“I don’t care if you steal or not,” says the woman, older than him, though with the gift of genetics that would make her age hard to determine. There is no grey in her hair; her skin is smooth and unblemished.
“New then, are you? to Chicago?” Her breeding is a sharp, contrasting note to his rage, mild though it is.
[Colton Lowry] Colton is young – both in being a man and a Garou. He has not yet picked up on the threads of good breeding. He can feel, sense it…not quite smell it…but the sensation of what Imogen is and what she represents fills him up. His muscles twitch, his jaw tightens and clenches. His mind begins to process the information while listening to her speak.
“Uh huh.” He says, his lack of people skills more than apparent. A dirty lock of blond hair falls into his face and he cuts the darkness of his eyes toward Imogen. “Who’re you?” he asks, his body shifting marginally to face the red head. Still, there’s a careful distance maintained between the smoking kinwoman and the Godi.
[Imogen] “My name’s Imogen Slaughter,” she says, her gaze more direct than he might expect from a human. Even now, young as he is, as low on rage as he is, he is accustomed to humans shifting nervously in his presence. To looking away, to finding reasons to be elsewhere.
Rarely do they look directly at him the way Imogen does.
What she is touches her voice, the way she moves her head. The way she stands. Even the way she lifts her cigarette is infused with memories of her ancestry. It’s her hair, her bone structure, her eyes. There had been heroes with hair like hers. Eyes like hers. The skin had been pale before it had been darkened under a pale British sun, then washed red with blood. Torn by claws.
She considers him, quietly, lifting her cigarette absently back to her lips. The ember flares as she inhales, filling her lungs with smoke and poison and nicotine.
“There’s a reason I stopped and am talkin’ to you. Ha’ yeh figured it out yet?”
[Colton Lowry] Colton regards Imogen with quiet uncertainty. His muscles betray him and express how much he’d like to run, to find a place where his body could be devoured by another world where Imogen couldn’t go. With his hands inside of his hoodie’s pocket he holds onto his tomatoes lightly.
“I c’n feel ya.” He says quietly, head lowered to look at the toes of his once white but now dirty and brown with mud sneakers. “I just got here. In Chicago.” His tone of voice is immediately defensive. ” ‘ats why I ain’t been ta see no body jus’ yet.” His accent is 100% Southern. It’s hard to place exactly what state – though it doesn’t have the southern aristocracy of the Carolina’s or Georgia. His is less refined – the kind of voice you’d find in a trailer park in Mobile or Kentucky.
[Imogen] He’s looking at his once-white shoes, so he cannot see her reaction as he says, I can feel you. Had he been looking, he might have even missed it. A tightening at the corner of her mouth, barely more than a flicker.
By the time he looks up again, it’s gone. The woman speaks with a British accent – though much like Colton’s southern, it is hard to place exactly which country she might be from. Some have gone so far as to wonder if she might be Australian. It is not the Queen’s English, with which she speaks, but something more burred, clipped in places and softened in others.
She can recognize nothing from Colton’s accent except that it is Southern, and even that, truly, she can do so well because of her association with others from that part of the country.
“Know who you need to see, do you? Where t’go, ‘nd all o’ that?”
[Colton Lowry] “I reckon I kin find it.” He says, standoffish immediately without a second thought. There’s no real want to get in close to Imogen and befriend her…but he isn’t exactly running away either. His weight is shifted from one foot to the other and slowly his eyes cut a path back up to Imogen’s face. She’s looking at him so forwardly – without hesitation or concern. A look of utter surprise can’t help but register on his youthful face.
“I’m sorry m’am…” He says, his hand leaving the pocket of his hoodie to comb back through his in need of a shower hair. “I don’t know exactly ta who I’m ‘posed ta speak. Guess I could find the main…ground of it all on my own…but I ain’t too sure on who I need ta see…”
[Imogen] The lack of want to befriend Imogen in Colton is also mirrored in her. When she speaks, it does not seem to be out of kindness or friendliness. They are merely questions, asked as if by rote.
Her gaze cuts away, looks down the street, then up it. There is no one in hearing distance, and a glance toward the opening of the market shows one person approaching. She lets him pass, an older man with large bushy eyebrows and an equally bushy moustache, casting a glance between the youth and the woman, half pausing, as if wondering if Imogen is being harassed, then with a decision born of fear, which will not sit well with him later, simply turning his back and shuffling on his way.
When he’s gone from earshot, she says, “I’m Kin, not Garou. It doesn’t matter to me if yeh haven’t said your hellos to the proper parties. S’not necessary to apologize.”
She taps cigarette ash toward the the grey, puddly sidewalk. “But since we’re both here, I might as well point yeh in the right direction, if I can.”
She looks away, studying the nearby buildings, a few moments taken in silence, before she turns back to look at him. “What’s yer tribe?”
[Colton Lowry] Colton would have immediately pegged Imogen as Fianna – and that was only because of the hair and something within her that spoke more of that tribe than any other. He himself is a hard book to read. His hair is dirty blond, his skin lightly tan. His own breeding is faint, his features lacking the tell tale signs of his tribal blood.
She asks a question and his head whips round left then right to see who might be near or eavesdropping. Seeing no one once the bushy brow man is gone he steps in a half a foot closer and levels his eyes on Imogen’s face. It isn’t a means of intimidation – or at least he doesn’t mean it that way – it’s more from a strong sense of pride.
“Fenrir.”
[Imogen] (gah, sorry, this thing didn’t refresh!)
[Colton Lowry] (lol, that’s ok)
[Imogen] Kinfolk cannot feel breeding – and Imogen knows, for reasons not apparent, that the visual cues are not always perfect. She asks, with no real idea on what the answer might be. She has not asked his name, and even if she had, it would have given no idea of ancestry. There are no Caucasian Garou particular to the southern United States.
When he answers, full of pride, meeting her gaze (and it should be noted her eyes do not waver), and offers her a single word, a line forms between her eyebrows, there, then gone.
“Your Jarl,” she says, deliberately, her voice even, “is a Garou named Kemp Oates. He and his ha’ moved recently, but I believe they favour the neighbourhood of Bronzeville.
“There’s a high rankin’ Garou o’ yer tribe as well, named Decker Rohl. His pack occupies parts o’ Cabrini Green,” she continues, naming borders which have changed, unknown to her.
“Other Garou o’ yer tribe that I know are Kora, Joe and GutSong. Any o’ them can point yeh in the right direction.”
[Colton Lowry] Her eyes ….do not waver. Perplexed he chews on his bottom lip for a moment and then nods. His Jarl…a ranking Garou…Kora and GutSong…the names are committed to his memory and once he’s sure he has them at least somewhat solid in his mind he nods again. “My name is Colton…Colton Lowry…” And since Imogen is Kin he doesn’t go forward further and rattle off his deed name or auspice.
“If ya don’t mind me askin..” At least someone, somewhere, taught him manners once. “…what’s yer story…I mean, ya say yer a kinswoman…but I ain’t never seen a kinswoman stare one of us in tha eye like you do.”
[Imogen] He introduces himself – and though she did not ask for it, she inclines her head slightly and replies, “A pleasure.” Though whether she means it or not is suspect.
He asks her for her story and explains why. Imogen’s mouth curves into a smirk, as she taps cigarette ash from her cigarette. “I’m a Kinswoman wi’ very bad manners, I suppose. It’s a rather dull story.”
She lifts her cigarette to her mouth and takes a final drag, before flicking it toward the gutter. The butt spins, end over end until it lands on the street with a splatter of sparks and dies.
“Listen,” she says, turning back, her words wreathed in smoke, “When yeh get t’yer holy place,” the caern, she means, “or meet wi’ any o’ yer tribesmates, ask them about the Brotherhood. They ha’ a place to wash, sleep and eat for Garou, and as far as I know, don’t ask fer anythin’ except tha’ yeh don’t leave a mess fer them.”
A tilt of her head toward the market behind them, “Better than stealin’ tomatoes.”
[Colton Lowry] “I met a guy up in Spokane…” It almost sounds like the beginning of a very bad joke. “…tol’ me if I was comin’ over this way to check out that place. Might be good for a shower.” And it does look as if he is in desperate need of one. “I doubt sincerely m’am that yer story is borin’.” Imogen didn’t look boring to Colton – if anything she looked dangerous and he was certain she had a lot of stories to tell that weren’t even remotely boring.
“Ya got an extra one of those?” He asks, nodding toward the cigarette sailing end over end toward the gutter.
[Imogen] “So I hear.” She doesn’t offer to show him, though she directs him to others who might. “S’ a good place t’meet others o’ yer kind as well, though I don’t know o’ any Fenrir that favour it.”
He asks for an extra cigarette and she arches an eyebrow, before reaching into her purse to retrieve her cigarette case – battered bronze, and matching zippo. She opens the former and retrievers a fag, hold it out with the zippo in long, slender fingers.
“Bit young to smoke, aren’t you?” she enquires, dryly.
The cigarette is likely a better quality than he has ever had in his life. It’s not often a street urchin has the opportunity to smoke a Dunhill.
[Colton Lowry] He takes it with hands that speak of hard, manual labor. His nails are dirty, as if permanently stained by car oil or grease. The cigarette is sniffed, placed between his lips and then lit. Her lighter is returned to her. “Thanks.”
The first draw from the Dunhill pinches his brows together again. Eyes narrow and he looks at Imogen and then back to the cigarette as another puff is taken. “These sure ain’t Marlboro’s…”
Imogen comments on his age and the fact that he may be too young to smoke. For the first time since they run across one another, a flicker of a smile dares to dart across his lips. “Ain’t gon’ kill me.”
“Fenrir don’t favor it cause we don’t like no one carryin’ our own weight.” This is stated matter of factly. Colton is very wary of his surroundings. There’s a very conscious effort made to watch who ventures too near them. He doesn’t seem to like older men very well – each one that passes draws a very threatening glare from the young kid. Police cars also strike a chord within him that tightens the muscles in his body to a rigid state – though that might be because of the stolen tomatoes in the pocket of his hoodie.
[Izzy Montoya] Izzy is not one to frequent farmer’s markets. It flies in the face of her chosen lifestyle, where all things edible can be contained in a take out box or three, and leave her zero reason to cool. Mostly because she fails so utterly at it most of the time. Then again, Izzy has been doing an awful lot of things that she has not done before over the past few months, and not all of it willingly. This, however, is. Because it’s her job.
She’d been inside, talking to a vendor who happened to be the last person who saw her most recent Victim alive. She had taken notes, and then – with a nod gracefully accepted an orange out of the bag that was offered – they wanted her to have the whole bag, but she declined, only giving in with the single ripe fruit before she bids her goodbyes.
And so it is, one Detective Izzy Montoya is making her way toward the entrance where Colton and Imogen are speaking. She’s tucked her notebook into the inside pocket of her long leather coat, and her hands are occupied with peeling the orange as she moves, dropping the peels into the bag it was given to her in. The smell of citrus fills the air as she does so, and she is intent enough on her task she doesn’t see Colton or Imogen for half a second after stepping out of the market into their current designated smoking area.
[Imogen] “Don’t mention it,” she says, taking the lighter back, then lighting her own cancer-stick, taking a long drag.
Her breath puffs the air in a silent, sharp exhale as he says it won’t kill her. Her amusement is in the form of a smirk, cool and calloused; twisted, “No,” she says, “I imagine it won’t.”
Like Colton, Imogen is aware of her surroundings. There are pauses in their conversation, with a passing pedestrian, or someone too close. She is not as tense in her surveillance as he is, however. Her vigilance is nearly habitual.
Her eyebrow arches at his matter-of-fact statement. “And the human who must shoulder th’price o’ yer tomatoes, I suppose tha’ doesn’t factor in, does it?” it’s not disapproving – though older than he, Imogen does not appear to be intent on lecturing. If anything, the question is wry – as if this were a conversation of academics.
[Imogen] (gah! stupid refresh, I didn’t see Izzy’s post. Sorry!)
[Izzy Montoya] (*L* no worries!)
[Colton Lowry] “I’m figurin’…two tomaters ain’t gonna kill ‘at man’s business. Sides…me or one like me prolly saved his or one a his’s asses at some point…kinda like karma? I jus’ got me two ‘maters outta the deal.” It’s hard to tell whether Colton believes the bullshit he spews or if it’s his attempt at dry humor.
Izzy draws in close to where Imogen is standing with him. The pair are sharing a cigarette but that’s about it. Their conversation is minimal at best. The woman and her orange are eyed suspiciously and Imogen may (or may not) take note of a shift in Colton’s posture: his spine is pulled straight, his muscles more rigid and tight. His is the lazy seeming yet calculated stance of an unsure predator. He doesn’t exactly square off toward Izzy but the closer she gets the more his eyes flash from Imogen to Izzy questioningly.
[Imogen] Imogen’s eyes move as Izzy comes in sight, touching the female cop’s face easily.
In front of her, Colton tenses, his spine straightening, his muscles bunching, and yes, the kinswoman notices.
As his eyes flash between the redhead and the brunette, Imogen answers an unspoken question. “Kinfolk,” she says, simply, without adornment, “One o’ yours.”
Her eyes move to the woman, as she lifts her cigarette back to her mouth.
“Detective Montoya,” she greets her. Introductions, she leaves for hte other two to sort out.
[Izzy Montoya] There are several things that can be noted about Izzy on first glance – the order of which is solely dependent on who’s doing the observing. First, is that everything about her screams ‘cop’; the way she walks, the way she dresses – and yes the way she talks, the way her eyes never quite quit searching an area, taking note of people, places, and how they relate to one another on an ever changing ass. Under that, though is the not exactly subtle pull of breeding that dances under her skin, telling the story of ancient Norse heroes and warriors, of battles won and lost, of Vahalla, and the warriors that rest within. There is no doubt that she is kin, and that she is Fenrir.
She nods as Imogen greets her, and adjusts her steps to move in tha direction. Colton gets a long, measuring look, as he all but squares off with her. In reply, Izzy simply peels a section of orange flesh free from it’s brothers and takes a bite.
A swallow, and she replies to Imogen first. “Dr. Slaughter.” before her gaze – eyes dark and sharp, accustomed to seeing way more than she is often suspected of – rests on Colton, as she smirks slightly around another bite, catching the juice that spills over her chin with the back of her hand. “And you are?”
[Izzy Montoya] (ever changing ass. Nice, Lessa. Ever changing BASIS. Someone needs a new keyboard…)
[Colton Lowry] Kinfolk. One o’ yours. Imogen’s words ring in his head as he process Izzy’s visage. He notes her hair (cop) he notes her features (cop) and like with Imogen he can see/sense her breeding (cop!). She’s peeling an orange and he wonders if maybe he should of stolen one of those instead of tomatoes.
His hand cups the cigarette as his arm hangs relaxed at his side. It’s drawn to his mouth often, though, because hey …he’s not wasting a fine bit of tobacco like that. Izzy’s direct line of questioning only draws his lids to narrow over the brown of his eyes.
“Colton.” He says blandly, cigarette drawn back up to his mouth.
[Izzy Montoya] He narrows his eyes at her, and she arches a brow slightly. The smirk that rests easily across her lips is more amused than anything else, as she offers him the orange. Peace offering, maybe, or it simply looks like he’s hungry. “Pleasure. Want some?”
She repeats the offer to Imogen as well, even as her gaze remains on the kid. His rage is a subtle thing, pressing lightly at the senses, there for those who know all to well what it feels like, what to look for. Imogen mentioned she is a kin with bad manners. Izzy is not much better – and in some ways far worse than the doc – in that respect.
Another beat, and she sucks the juice from a wedge of orange, before she adds “Heard her say I’m one of yours as I walked up.” There’s something under the wording, some irritation with the ownership of the classification, though it’s very subtle and controlled. He’s a fucking kid, for crissakes. They get younger and younger every year.
And then. “So relax, kid. I’m not gonna arrest you for whatever it is you’ve done that has that guilty defiant look your carrying around.”
[Colton Lowry] She offers the orange and he eyeballs it and then Izzy again. His chest fills with air and he reluctantly takes it. ” ‘preciate it.” The orange is devoured slowly, each sweet taste of Vitamin C relished. He listens to Izzy speak, his eyes only moving to meet her own when she says he bears a guilty countenance. He sniffs, his tongue maneuvering to slip free a piece of orange from his back teeth.
“Yeah…ok.” He says, and continues to work on the orange. Colton is young. His face hasn’t had a chance to gain that weathered, aged look that even Garou in their twenties bear. His face is still youthful underneath his persistent scowl.
[Imogen] Imogen eyes Colton briefly, thoughtful, then turns her attention back to her cigarette, taking another drag.
“You here on business, then?” she asks of Izzy, an eyebrow lifting as she twists her wrist to cast a glance at her watch.
[Izzy Montoya] She finises her wedge of orange, and lets Colton have the rest, wiping her fingers off on her slacks before she begins the search for her own pack of cigarettes. This city breeds bad habits, and it’s a vice that she’s returned only since returning home. Once her pack is found – decidedly not of the quality that Imogen enjoys – she shakes one free, locates her battered lighter, and sets flame to paper and tobacco. An inhale, then an exhale as the lighter and pack is tucked away once more.
“Was, yeah. Had some questions for one of the vendors. Last to see a Vic.”
[Colton Lowry] Colton listens to the two women speak. He does not interject or ask questions (yet). The cigarette Imogen had given him earlier has found a home now in the gutter – alongside it’s brethren left there only recently when Imogen sent it sailing with a flick of her fingers. Now, he’s focused on the rest of the orange. Once that is gone he’s wiping his hands (because oranges are sticky) on the worn out, faded thighs of his denim jeans.
[Imogen] Imogen only nods, her mouth half hidden behind her cigarettes and fingers. She takes another drag from her cigarette and then flicks it, sending it in much the same direction as Colton’s, and hers from before.
“S’probably about time I was headin’ off,” she says, flicking a gaze toward Colton, “Welcome to Chicago,” she says without much warmth behind it.
A glance toward the homicide detective, “I’m sure I’ll be seein’ yeh shortly.”
With that, she begins to take her leave.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods as Imogen takes her leave. “Have a good one, Doc.”
She lifts her cigarette to her lips, takes another drag, as she turns her attention on Colton. It’s not an easy thing, being under her gaze, for all she is without rage to back it up. It’s no wonder she has the reputation she does, the ability to break suspects down with just a glare, so on and so forth. She’s too forward to have anything but a ball busting rep in her male dominated field.
“New, then? She give you the info you needed?”
[Colton Lowry] Izzy and Imogen are confusing to Colton. Not that he expects every woman within this world to be weak and unable to stand the presence and gaze of one of Gaia’s warriors – well ok, maybe he did sort of expect that. It was what he’d become accustomed too since his firsting three years ago. Now, both Izzy and Imogen have shattered what he had come to expect from kinfolk in general: timid meekness.
The redhead begins to part company and he nods at her. “Thank you m’am.”
“Told me ’bout the Brotherhood. Figure’n I can go get a shower.” He looks in desperate need of one – that and a good laundromat to wash his clothes in. “Told me ’bout a few of the folks I need to find and meet…”
“So…she’s a doctor ‘r sumthin ‘n yer a detective?”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly, taking in their surroundings more than she does the kid in front of her, though when she does look at him to answer his question, it’s no less direct than before. “Good. They have food there too. And Rooms – though there’s only one of us who actually stays there that I know of.” Us being Fenrir.
She reaches into her coat pocket, and pulls out a slim case that she subsequently opens, and plucks a card from it and offers it to him. The writing is plain, black on white, no-nonsense. Detective Izzy Montoya. Her division. Her phone numbers. “Yeah. CPD Homicide. That second number there is my cell – personal line – if you need something.”
As for Imogen. “She’s a forensics pathologist. Works in the morgue.” Not exactly what one would expect of the stunning redhead, is it?
[Colton Lowry] Truth be told, Colton wouldn’t know the difference between a forensic pathologist and a dentist. Chances are the kid isn’t school educated given he’s 17 now and firsted years ago. He takes the card hesitantly, uneasy at more her choice of profession more than anything else.
“Ain’t figure her for someone ‘at worked with the dead.” It’s said with a shrug as Izzy’s card is slid into the back pocket of his worn out denim jeans. “I ain’t gonna stay there…figure I can stay on tha’ otherside or …somethin’…” Other side meaning, likely, the Veil though he isn’t sure if Izzy is as educated on Garou terminology as Imogen seemed to be.
[Imogen] (thanks for the scene, guys!)
[Izzy Montoya] She nods. “You could. Or you could hit the holy land, and stay where there’s at least others to watch your back.”
Clearly, she’s up on her terminology. She’s been around for a long time, Izzy, raised in the Nation, in Chicago, surrounded by Fenrir. “There’s another place too, run by kin, but also using more mundane methods – but with a slightly different tactic. The Hill House – the woman who runs it can help you find a place to stay, find work if you can do it, and want to.”
She takes a final drag off her cigarette and flicks the butt into the gutter with the others, exhaling to the side as she tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Either way, I’m sure the Jarl can direct you in the right direction.”
[Colton Lowry] “Chicago’s got it some smart Kin…” He eyes Izzy warily for a moment then looks away, then back to the kin. “Mind if I bum a cigarette?” His eyes take in the detective, noting the way her breeding is written within her features. “Yeah I gotta find the Jarl…I jest got in the city no quite 48 hours ago…”
[Izzy Montoya] She smirks, amused. “That’s one way to put it. Some of the more… traditional… tend to have other words for us.” He asks for a cigarette, and she searches her pack down again in the multiple pockets of her coat, before handing him the pack and her lighter.
“I hear he hangs down in Bronzeville, or at holyland. Those in charge there can direct you better. He used to live in a storage unit, but I heard he moved on to a bigger place recently. Not sure where.” A beat. “The BroHo isn’t bad for temporary lodging. Crashing there for a couple days won’t hurt anyone.”
Though she’d likely stab anyone if she were forced to do so again.
Then, as an afterthought. “There’s a couple others on the force too, that you won’t need to worry about. John Thornton – he’s a Vice Detective – is one of us.” There’s something in her voice when she says his name, something familiar, almost… warm. “Then there’s Detective Vaako – he’s Fury. And Yates. Gnawer and PR man. Any one of us can be called on if you need our help.”
[Colton Lowry] (And now I get to be the idiot who forgot daylight savings time and people are here and I have to run, lol. BBS)