Maija | in the park [Many]

He observes nearly unmoving, a situation he was rather familar with…perhaps it might be as the chinese wish for, an interesting time.*

Nessa whirls towards the voice but finds only a group of college students, frat boys so standard as to be interchangeable. The Shadowlord frowns and turns again, her eyes narrowing, as she scans again for the apparently invisible Edwin.

As he drifts past, his whisper is heard again.

“Dis way…”

The lopsided grin then ghosts once more, the ballcap periodically popping in and out of Nessa’s view, as Edwin leads the chase back toward the bushes. Just beside them, he stops and takes a seat on an unoccupied park bench…

Grinning the whole of the while he waits.

Occasionally, there are Russian curses, though she doesn’t Sound furious, per se.

Finally, he rubs her nose in her unchanging status as kinfolk one more time, as he waits at the bloody bench! She crosses her arms this time, fairly muscular arms attached to strong shoulders in the way of a gymnast, and walks over to him where he waits for her.

“You. Are bad man, Morr!” Angry words, from a laughing mouth. “When did you return?”

Though the grin is lopsided and in spite of Nessa’s anger, Edwin reclines with a thoroughly pleased look about him… As though he’d relished the chase for its own sake.

“Only jes’ now… Ain’t even figur’d where I’m stayin’ yet.”

A moment, before the ballcap is nodded in Vasily’s direction.

“Who’s yer fella?”

At this, Edwin rises from his wholly relaxed slouch and extends his hand as a valet or doorman might in the general direction of the tree where Vasily stands.

“Yer brother’s pack, huh?”

The shaded eyes move around within their sockets once more, even as his head remains stock still. Perhaps to see what measure of backup might be waiting for Vasily, just in case things got off on the wrong foot.

When he speaks, Edwin’s pleasant tone wholly belies his caution.

“Ya look good, by th’way. Time’s been kind.”

Nessa leads the way towards where Vasily waits, her hips rolling just a little with an eternally feminine movement, not waiting for night to completely fall to cover what Time has done to her guardian as well. The End Days are ripping great tears in the world, right through the garou and their kinfolk.
Literally, in Vasily’s case.

Then, as Edwin’s eyes take in Vasily’s scarred countenance, he nods in greetings. His eyes are drawn to the scars; it wasn’t likely too many people’s eyes would not be so drawn. Still, he makes no comment, no outward reaction or recoil.

“Yer Vasily?”

Edwin nods, that lopsided grin still resting on his lips.

He presented the perfect image of a man who could blend in any environment. His features, his build, his height, most everything about him save for the accented speech could belong easily to a hundred or more different people within any major meeting place within Chicago. Put a camera on him and he became a tourist. Give him glasses and he became someone else…

“How long you been here, if’n I may?”

The evening is growing cooler, chilly. Her arms break out a little in goosebumps, now that she has been standing still for a time. A step closer to both men and she can nearly feel the heat off them both. Garou make good space heaters.

Then, Edwin chuckles quietly at Nessa’s correction, or addition, to his answer.

“Yeah, whut she said…”

Then, his head tilts as he shoots Nessa an amused sideways glance.

“Don’t reckon I meant it dat way… But are ya really dat afraid of bein’ associated wit’ a feller like me?”

He shakes his head and chuckles quietly, at the thought, his eyes returning to Vasily.

He is dressed in faded blue jeans, black jungle boots, a black t-shirt with a white long sleeve long john underneath, and a black watch cap on his head. On his left wrist is a black band covering from the indention looks like a time piece.

He stops to looks around at the scenery taking it in, not in any particular hurry to get anywhere. Just being a tourist.*

“We have riches of our people in town these days. And…” She frowns, her face clouding some. “more of ours in the graves, one very recently.”

Then, after a few moments’ consideration, he adds more quietly…

“Name’s Edwin Morr… Leaves-No-Trace. You?”

Wordlessly, he slips his coat off and hands it to Nessa with an uncaring clunk. Beneath, the long sleeved tee shirt seemed scant comfort against the cold, but Edwin seemed largely unbothered by the chill.

He glances over at each new person who goes by or shows up out of habit, giving small sniffs here or there, finally stating* “… other comes…like Edwin and myself”

The journal holds 99% of her attention at the moment, as quick strokes with her pen give birth to the sketch, simple ink on paper, drawing from memory.

She’s working from memory, as quick strokes bring out the figure on the page, from the oversized glasses, the dark hair that doesn’t want to be tamed, and the sweatshirt falling off her frame – it’s a portrait, quick and dirty, of Wendy. Simplyt something to keep her hands busy.

Edwin considers for a few moments, then shrugs.

“A’ight, Nessa. Time fer you ta go home. Yer brother’ll thank me later fer keepin’ ya out’a trouble.

Where ya livin’ nowadays, anyway?”

She drops her feet to the cement, her journal falling against her thighs, as she continues to sketch idly, even as tension creeps up her spine, her shoulders, resting there as people walk by.

Edwin nods and grins that lopsided grin of his.

“So which way’s home fer you, e’sactly? Ya honestly don’t figur’ I’m gonna jes’ letcha roam as ya please, do ya?”

Edwin nods his head in the general direction of Bronzeville, and then starts walking Nessa home.

“Ya’d be smart ta consider someplace ya can hole up in if things really go south on ya… I’d almost recommend rentin’ an ol’ armory.”

Grinning that lopsided grin, he continues.

“‘Course, dat ain’t ta say it’s th’purtiest surroundings, but I reckon ‘smore functional den purty.”

The garou walks off into the darkness, and true to form, disappears without a trace.

*wave* Night!))

She doesn’t try to hide the sketch from him though as he moves past – and should he look close enough, it bears a startling resemblance to the woman he walked home last night. In fact, despite the roughness of the drawing, there is a talent there, and its easy to see the mousy bookworm taking shape under the strokes of her pen