Encounters…

Well, she said gross. Given her tone, the quiet wondrous undertone, she seemed more impressed with the disturbing wounds than anything. From an artistic perspective, it was interesting. All colors and textures and ick. The body reacting and healing was a disgusting thing indeed; for her part, she was impressed.

“So,” she started, “I’m going to assume that I missed something, as that you look like you’ve been attacked by an awakened cheese grater.”

A pause, and then a slight grin. The kind that came to children when they had a new toy.

“Want me to fix it?”

“I wish it was so simple,” he says. “There was taint at the edge of the bawn. Pretty bad. Ten banes in all, large and small. A group of us took them down, but … that they were there at all was unacceptable and dangerous.

“I’ve called a warmoot. If the Wyrmfoe agrees, we’ll gather as a Sept and trade notes. Discuss plans.”

Then, as she asks if he wants her to fix it, the Glabro tilts his head at her. A beat. “Oho,” he says, softly. “Someone has a new Gift.” The edge of his mouth turns up, showing a glimmer of canine tooth. “Let’s see it.”

Of all the backwater polack cities in all the world, why the fuck am I here? It’s written across his face as the white and blue striped cuff of one arm is adjusted under the jacket, along his wrist. The physicality of his is evident, he’s strong, wide at the shoulders and at the very least would not be a man from whom one might expect clumsiness. The light beige color of his jacket matches the pants, matches the belt. He’s spent some time trimming his beard and the haircut he’s got cost what a starving family makes in a week. This is a man with style, if not for the light snarl on his face as he walks through the brotherhood door he’d easily be called attractive, though he’s no Michelangelo sculpture to be sure. His hair and eyes are dark, his nose betrays him as Roman, perhaps Calabrian, bred pure in a very human way.

And not at all in a way that Garou might recognize.

He stands tall at the back, aloof in that east coast way that seems automatically affected this far away from the Atlantic. He swaggers, like he owns the room all the way over to the bar, where he sits with the same authority and raises his hand in the air, high above him. Fingers snap impatiently. “Yo.” A look is thrown down the bar from Jennifer, with no small bit of vitrol. “Can I gedda jack, honey? T’ank you.” He bites his lip and stares again at the mirror behind the bar like he’s got something under his skin that itches to get out.

“My god.” As the drink arrives. “D’ whole city this dead, cupcake?” His accent is noticable, even a little acerbic on the ears. That lovely garden state twang only the northern counties can love. A hundred dollar bills is peeled from inside a money clip produced from the jacket’s chest pocket. The glint of steel is seen and gone like the pages of a flipbook going by. The paper is placed forcefully and directly into the woman’s hand. “Jus’ keep ’em comin’.”

“How long do you think it’s been going on, or was it something sudden? What do we know thus far?” because she wanted to know. The theurge pushed her hair back out of her face.

Sounded like someone had a new Gift. “I do,” she said. Then? She looked at her guinea pig/injured packmate and got on to doing what she needed to do.

The theurge got up and headed over to bridge the gap. Couldn’t exactly fix him if she didn’t make contact.The theurge looked at his injuries- there were plenty, thanks to the radiation- so instead, White Eyes laid a hand on Lukas’ side and said something. It was something reverent, something focused and self-assured. No bargaining, no uncertainty. Just focus.

(spending a gnosis point, Mother’s Touch for the win)

Regeneration is hard work. His skin is burning hot; he’s sweating; he’s been eating and sleeping and resting and eating all day. When the Gift begins to gather, to conduct from her fingers to his body, he can feel his natural regeneration accelerating beyond belief — the maddening itch of a body healing far too fast, far too well.

Burnt skin flakes off. New skin grows. Fibrous processes snake across the gape of bite wounds, across the lesions and the sores; fresh tissue spontaneously regenerates on the scaffolding of collagen. Muscle reknits. Skin closes over.

When Mrena is done, Lukas is more or less as good as new — though the hair will take a little longer to grow back. He touches the bare pink skin where a weeping sore used to be. The last of the itch is pulsing away, and he looks at the Theurge with a savage, toothy smile.

“Well, it looks like your trip wasn’t for nothing,” he says — an understated sort of gratitude. He stands up, and standing, sheds his brutish guise; returns to the form he was born to.

And it’s back to business. “I don’t know how long it’s been going on. I haven’t been at the caern often lately. But Maelstrom was pretty adamant that we get rid of it asap, so I assume it wasn’t there very long. I didn’t have a chance to look realmside. Umbraside, it looked like some sort of toxic spill into the river. The banes weren’t growing any larger though; they were simply there. So my guess is something else, maybe something or someone realmside, transported the taint here and dumped it into the water.

“I’m hoping when we gather up the Sept different people will know different things, and maybe together, we can piece together what’s going on. It’ll also be good to get everyone on the same page and let the Wyrmfoe weigh in on what we do next.”

There’s a rather strident voice downstairs, and Lukas cocks his head in the direction of the stairs. “Sounds like we have company. Might be a human who doesn’t know when to let up.”

Oh that’s why we’re here.

His tongue pokes at the inside of his lip, it’s not a motion of nerves though but one of some unseen annoyance poking at him like knives it seems. His drink isn’t sipped and enjoyed but thrown back quickly so half of the fiery liquid drops down his throat. The man is large but not incredibly tall, in fact he’s very average in that regard, clocking in a maybe two inches shy of the six foot mark. But his presence in a room is every bit as unnerving as the Rage closing from upstairs. It’s simply not supernatural. “Jesus H. Christ.” He bemoans absently. “Four hours I’ve been in this city and not a goddamn one’a’ya can tell me where’s a good place t’score a decent Galamad,” If it wasn’t clear he was from somewhere in or around essex county his bastardization of the word calamari proves it beyond reasonable doubt.

“I mean, is dere even a freakin’ wop in dis city?” He laughs at his own joke, a chuckle over the smile that sucks down more liquor. The sum of money though has made him at least important enough to serve again directly, even if he’s not addressed with anything more than an upturned eyebrow.

Looks like her trip wasn’t for nothing.
“Wouldn’t be gone for a week and not come back without something useful,” she said.

Back to business. Mrena listened and nodded, the theurge was intent on her packmate, shaking her hand off slightly and wiping it on her jeans. Lukas was fixed, yes, but she was still listening, still logging away whatever it was that her packmate relayed to her.

But then? There was someone downstairs. And Mrena remembered that she was dirty. And now, had some of whatever Lukas had been leaking on her hands. While the dirt was okay, the latter was not.
“Suppose we should make an appearance. I’ll be down in a minute… figure I could use some food, too.”

He starts toward his room; pauses, turns, balance cantilevered. She’s his packmate. She knows him well enough now that she knows he moves differently when he’s injured and when he’s hale and whole — that he holds himself more stiffly and more regularly in the former case, and possesses a certain animal assurance, something like grace, in the latter.

“By the way,” he adds, “are you around tomorrow? I want to pencil myself in for a Rite of Binding lesson.”

“S’a matta, toots?”

His lips drop at the corners, an deep frown running like a half moon along his face. “Whatever.” More whiskey thrown on hot temper can only start an alcohol fire on the bar of the brotherhood of thieves.

The lady seemed to think about this, going through her to do list and then? Then Mrena had a decisive answer. “I don’t have much going on. I’ll be here after noon so…” she trailed off.

Well, she didn’t really trail off. She put the ball in his court. The theurge seemed excited, pleased even. Progress. She was going to get to teach something; White Eyes was in her element. “I look forward to it. I’ll be sure to be about.”

He’s a little more charming this way, a little less abrasive. One wonders then which might be the act. The too smooth man who’s asking after Jennifer Coltrane or the affable but prickly character who appeared only a second before.

Maybe both.
And probably neither.

But see she can, even if she’s watching the floor and her feet mostly. She ain’t like to be noticed much, see?

She ain’t one to take no charity neither, which is the most likely reason she slips through the back door and instead of snagging something as she’d been assured would be fine, she makes her way through to the bar instead.

A quick glance up, and she scopes out the tables, the booths, until she sees an empty one in the corner, and moves that way. Once here, she doesn’t pull down the hood, just unslings her pack and slides into the shadows of the booth, pulling her back after her.

It’s easy to forget she’s even there.

Fuckhead is one of the more common ones, though rarely to his face. Regardless though it’s the same quality that has him turning to look over the girl at the other end of the room who obviously is not trying to be noticed when she scoots into a nearby booth. And who if not for him would be doing a remarkably good job of it. His look is the discerning one not of his predator cousins but of the user of the common man, the one looking for the mark, the sucker. If he knew more of his tribe they’d likely love the way he can find in only a few glances and a couple of choice questions exactly what he can get from someone and how hard he’ll have to work to get it.

“View’s nicer down here.” His shakes his empty glass at the kinfolk behind the bar and slides it forward without so much as a look.

Then it’s time to count. She’s been here nightly since she got to town, and this routine is par for the course. Pennies and nickles and quarters and one crumpled bill soon hit the table, to be sorted and counted. Time to see what she can afford tonight.

The smallish girl begins counting a sad pile of change out on the table in front of her. And this is nothing if not an opportunity. When his drink is refilled he plucks it up by the rim and saunters over with that same unerring confidence. “Joo need some help?” His tongue clicks in his mouth while he stands adjacent to the booth’s table. One hand rests halfway in his pocket, wrapping back the bottom hem of his jacket on the side that doesn’t expose any steely protection hanging in a clutch on his side. The second hand holds his drink in front of him.

“There’s a trick ta countin’ money like dat, if you want I could show you.”

The drink is set on the table’s edge after another step and the olive skinned man raises an eyebrow the way of the urchinesque creature in front of him.

Her posture is horrible at the moment – as if she expects the stranger who shows up at the table to sweep her change into his hand and walk away. She falls completely still as he speaks, and the glance upwards shows a hint of dark eyes, and the line of her jaw, as a stingy bit of hair slips free, only to be shoved back into the hood again as she looks down.

“Kin count jus’ fine.”

Her voice is low, tired, but determined – her accent no where and everywhere all put together in a mishmash of Americana and bad grammar. Hard to tell where she’s been, though it’s clear she’s been around.

“Guess I’ll leave you to that.” His smile has faded, it wasn’t that big to begin with and now it’s just a warm ember on his face slowly fading toward being simply ash. He stops short of actually leaving though, raising his eyebrows over his glass while the light glints from a platinum watch band. “Listen, if dat’s where you’re down to I can pick the meal up for you.”

There’s no free lunch, not unless you take it. But most people never learn this.

“No kiddin’.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer but slowly turns back toward the bar and sets his glass down again, looking only twice back toward the booth as it’s refilled next to him. If he were paying more attention he might now note the person pouring it is no longer Jennifer Coltrane, but Reuben taking over for the time being.

She scrubs her palm along her jaw, which pushes the hoodie just little farther back, to show the line of her jaw, part of her cheekbone – which, at a glance, looks to be sporting a pretty nasty bruise. She tucks her hoodie back down, and waves over whatever waitress is closest. A few whispers, and she scoops all that’s on the table onto he waitress’ tray, and slumps back into her seat, with a mutter – soft, under her breath.

“No kidding, he says. Like it’d be a free fuckin’ lunch.”

“But I never said it would be.” He shrugs. “A favor’s just that. Something gets traded, y’know?” The grin continues on through his little soliloquy that’s matted thickly in a turnpike twang. “Maybe I’m just looking for a friend in a new place.”

“What’s so bad about ‘dat?”

“Friend. Right. Which is why you picked the ragged looking chick, hoping she’s got “desperate” written all over her face.”

She stepped into the bathroom, the first motion being one of practicality. Mrena washed her hands. She washed her hands because they were filthy. Because she had more than dirt under her nails, but realistically, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t because she was worried about getting her hands dirty, it was because she was more concerned with keeping her towels clean. No point in getting clean and then getting dry with something dirt-and-grime flecked.

There was, however, and order to which Mrena took off her mothes. The shirt came off over her head, arms crossed underneith her and the dark grey sweater came off over her head. It was tossed to the ground; the theurge disposed of her shoes next. Pale grey eyes fell to the door into the bathroom; she could practically see little dirty footprints leading in. Tennis shoes were placed rather carefully by her shirt, with her socks next.

Mrena had to all but peel herself out of her jeans, though. They weren’t quite dry. The mud and dirt on them made them heavier than they had been normally. Coupled with the fact that they were already a little tight, it made removal difficult. They cling to her lower body stubbornly, hugging subtle but feminine curves.

The lady headed to one of the shower stalls, turning on the water and letting it start to warm up. Standing in the bathroom in her bra and underwear, she found herself staring in the mirror. Her face was dirt streaked, the contrast between dark and light made even more evident when she was a mess. The theurge looked at herself in the mirror with scrutiny. Brows furrowed slightly as she sought out whatever imperfections she may have had.

She looked down at herself, briefly. White Eyes carried herself like she had no faults. She presented herself as a creature beyond contempt. A creature that was unbreakable. A will that was indomitable. When she was left to her own devices, she saw the cracks.

Mrena was soft. She didn’t pretend that she didn’t see her own fault- denying one’s own weaknesses and simply ignoring their existence were two different things. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw almost deceptive innocence. She was soft. Her hips were gently curved, her cheeks rounded, her breasts full for her frame but not overly large. Mrena’s body was toned, but by no means was she considered athletic. On the contrary, at that moment, she looked at herself, sans clothing and bravado, and realized that she was delicate. She realized that her wrists were thin, that her skin was soft and smooth.

And while these were traits that fit her, it did not mean that they were always the best traits to have. Were she given the opportunity, Mrena would become a breathtaking woman. She would be nearly angelic, ethereal, simply unreal.

She was what she was. More spirit than woman. And walking a fine balance to be something complete.

There was a healthy cloud of steam in the bathroom at that point, and she turned to look towards her shower, reaching back to unhook her bra and slip it off. It was something black that hooked in the back. Funny, really, that she wore black underwear, or even wore it for that matter. There wasn’t the sort of stigma attached to color anymore, really, but it was what it was. It seemed almost out of place. Something that stood in stark contrast against pale, flawless skin. Her choice in underwear didn’t actually speak of necessity. It was something that was both form and function.

Because god forbid the Shadow Lord wear black lace anything. It was something lovely, almost teasingly so, because no one was actually around to see them. Except for her. Mrena saw her underwear and it seemed that it was strictly for her own personal enjoyment. The theurge let the black lace of her underwear fall. They had been something well cut, and something that wouldn’t really show panty lines. They traveled down toned thighs and eventually, were discarded into the pile of clothing on the floor.

She went ahead and looked at the little pile of her things before shaking her head. Mrena went off to go get into the shower at that point.

__

After a good fifteen minutes (that will not be discussed), the theurge came down the stairs and was off to investigate what exactly was going on downstairs. Who the voices were, what was going on, etcetera etcetera. Attire was something comfortable. Black pants. White tee shirt. Her hair was still wet. She put shoes on. They weren’t important.

“Gimme anotha one. Tanks.” He speaks to the tall blues man with no reverence for his position behind the bar, but instead in a way that might remind one of stories of Moorish conquerors of Sicily or the wars of Rome and Carthage. Mrena’s just making her way down at that point through the kitchen and she certainly catches his eye. “Well hel-lo.” Low to himself, though maybe not quite so discreet as he’d like. The words slur across the strangeness of his accent and for a moment he doesn’t simply stare but leers.

The thoughts one sees in little drama on his face are not in fact even close to approved for general audiences.

Leer worthy, indeed.

She watches a moment though, with a different type of notice – sharp, discerning, calculating, but not quite as one would think. In a moment, as if she’s posted a picture of he woman in her mind, she flips the notebook over to a new page, and again sets ink to pristine page.

It took a moment before she realized she was being leered at. It would take a moment longer before the recently showered lady would realize the implications. Mrena knew that she was many things- she knew that she was astute. She knew that she was observant. She knew that she was gifted, to the point of quiet, budding hubris [Oh, the things she has learned from Katherine Bellamonte.] but she did not realize that she was lovely.

Well hel-lo, he said.
Mrena took the opportunity to observe the male, briefly. the one who was rapidly becoming intoxicated, who seemed to be at her next destination. May as well go get a drink. A perch there was as good as anywhere. “What are you drinking?” she asked.

May as well ask him that.

“Want one?” There’s no waiting for an answer. Reuben grits teeth as again he’s snapped at with strong fingers. The middle and index separate, make peace and point down to the hard top of the bar. The universal sign for ‘two more’ and not even a colloquial sign for ‘please’. He’s entitled, certainly or at least must feel that way.

“Jack,” he lifts his hand to take hers if she’d let him, mustering some inner strength to keep the arm from swaying overmuch in front of him. The introduction is easy, cool but not entirely kind. A razor’s edge buried in the sweetest candy.

The waitress glances at the paper, murmurs something, and gets a shrug in reply. She moves on, the notebook is shoved aside, and Maija goes about the tedious task of opening all those little packets containing 2 saltines each, and adding them to her soup. It’s more filling that way, after all.

However, not the point.

Point was, she was looking at the male and making absolutely certain that she was comfortable. He offered her his hand, she took it and gave it a shake. Something professional, comfortable. Her hands were warm.

Jack, he said. For a moment the name made her regard him briefly, with scrutiny. Like she was picking him apart, like she was logging that bit of information, as if the name Jack was important for some reason. It was almost offsettling, really, to be the object of her full attention.

“Armstrong,” she replied. No first name, it seemed. Just a last name. No accent. Nothing but a voice that was neither string nor brass nor percussion or woodwind. An introduction that was only a quarter of the true story.

“Now how did I get so lucky?” She stares at him in a way that would make most people uncomfortable. Most people don’t make a living the way this man does however and most people haven’t seen some of the things he has. Jackie doesn’t flinch, he gives her a similar enough look right back. It’s obvious to anyone watching she’s certainly seeing more of him and he’s on his way to seeing pink elephants but the wider image is certainly mirrored. “From around here?”

The rest of the world, the forward drunkard and his new companion, everyone else fades. There is nothing but the attempt to fill a ravenous belly.

If she seemed to believe being small, having a delicate bone structure, being soft was a weakness? She didn’t show it. There weren’t cracks in the surface. There was no fault in her exterior; Mrena Armstrong was a creature beyond contempt. How did he get so lucky? She looked at the bourbon, then took it into one hand at took a sip.

She still wasn’t old enough to drink. but that wasn’t the point. She was old enough to fight a war; she was old enough to drink, damnit. How did he get so lucky? “Sometimes, things just work out that way, Jack.” she said. And she watched.

Was she from here?
“No, Boston,” funny, really, because she didn’t sound like it. She had failed to call him a fehckin’ re-tahd yet. Or call something wicked. “You sound… somewhere east coast… one of the “New” states. Like New York or New Jersey.”

Not that he needs to.

No, he’s paying his attention to the woman nearly ten years his junior. To say he’s leering would be putting it mildly, then again, he’s visibly drunk by this point one almost expects him to begin singing the dean martin tune he continues humming for a moment before remarking idly. “Beantown, huh?” He nods. “Been up there a time or two,” Whether he enjoyed the time he doesn’t say. Instead he just looks down to his watch very briefly. “Dere’s somethin’ about you.” His eyes narrow some. “Can’t put my finger on it.”

Normally one would think the words wouldn’t have actually come out of his mouth, but his overindulgence in the social lubricant has him speaking freely. Perhaps too much so.

…just before she turns, and makes her way out the same way she came in – silently, swiftly, and through the kitchen. This time it’s up the stairs to the nearest spare bed, where she uses her pack as a pillow, and with her tummy warm and closer to full, attempts to fall asleep, while her “roommate” snores loud enough to wake the dead.

It’s no wonder that she’ll be gone, again, by daybreak.