[Roman Turner] The sound of a lawnmower mingled with the sounds of the city as he pushed the mower back and forth in the little strip of land that was laughingly called a yard. Grass spewed out the side. The motor sputtered and choked on the thick damp grass, coming out in clumps. And with the stink of the city came the smell of fresh cut grass mixing in there to add a bit of spring.
A hat rest back on his head, barely balanced there. It wasn’t the beloved Stetson, but somewhere he had managed to find a straw cowboy hat. The toes of his boots were turning green and grass clippings clung to the legs of his jeans.
[Imogen Slaughter] A bleak, grey, cool day. A bleak area of the city.
She walks down the street, avoiding garbage put on the curb to be ignored, and eyeing loitering men on the corner, their pants low on their rumps. What once looked like a crumpled and deflated garbage bag near an alleyway mouth turns out to be a homeless man, asking in a cracked voice for change.
She is a bright spot – her hair, her pale skin, her elegant poise. She gives money to no one and carries a small folded paper bag in one hand. She tosses it aside into an overflowing garbage can as she passes it.
A block later, there is a Garou with a straw hat and a lawnmower. pushing it back and forth over his small strip of land. The kinwoman comes to a stop on the edge, her gaze flicking from the grass to the Garou wryly.
“Bit early fer cuttin’ grass, isn’t it just?” she says, raising her voice to be heard over the roar of the motor.
[Roman Turner] He’d pulled a weed to chew on and it stuck out the side of his mouth, bouncing along as he pushed the mower. Chestnut hair turned deep brown where it mingled with sweat on his brow. Big ole sunglasses hid his eyes because, well you had to look cool while cutting the grass and it was hard to look cool pushing a mower instead of riding a tractor like a real man!
It wasn’t till the woman appeared, till that spot of red hair caught his eye that he stopped, letting the mower stall out.
“Sparrow said gotta cut the weeds. Said we ain’t gonna lose our pride cause we are in the city where folk don’t care. Said, even weeds gotta be cut.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyebrow arches slightly.
“And do you always do what Sparrow says?” she enquires, mildly.
[Sparrow] It’s not that she wears pants, or even shorts, when she’s at home. No, on the contrary. Sparrow wears skirts, even when at home. Just… shorter skirts. Skirts that were meant for Target shelves years and years ago. Things that have seen better days, but she doesn’t really care about. Something white, that stands out against the fact that her legs are tan and she’s not wearing any shoes.
Same wirethin burnbarks around her ankles, something that stops and separates the tan, but that’s their there nor there.
“Missed a spot,” is all she says to Roman.
The female grins, playful, but something brewing under the surface. The moon’s waxing towards full. That homeless man, the living refuse, the one that got thrown out didn’t sit by Roman and Sparrow’s place anymore.
And do you always do what Sparrow says?
She arches an eyebrow at that, too.
[Imogen Slaughter] (ahem. Sorry, but Imogen wouldn’t have said that with Sparrow right there. I’ll repost)
[Sparrow] (no no no! Wait wait I like it!)
[Sparrow] (i’ll hold my post!)
[Imogen Slaughter] (ack! okay. *grin* she really just needs to show up like … a second or two afterwards!)
[Sparrow] (okay! I’m holding my post and will rephrase in a minute!)
[Rory] There’s no telling why she’s on this side of town, she simply gets around more than most. Perhaps she was at the caern, or doing something at the brotherhood, or merely taking a walk and got lost and ended up here. There’s simply no telling. She simply walks. And walks. And walks some more.
It’s warm today, and her jacket is tied around her waist, cinching her t-shirt [clean and newish] around her slender form, her jeans [likewise] clinging to her long legs as she walks, the flats she wears keeping her steps near silent. Her fingers, slender yet strong, are wrapped about the straps of her backpack, and she picks a street at random to walk down…
…which conveniently brings her toward the location of the sound of the stalled out motor of the lawn mower, and the familiar form of the Doctor, who speaks with a stranger.
[Roman Turner] “Let me tell ya something. I’m a gentleman. I was raised all proper. Where I come from, a gentleman don’t pick fights with a Lady because she will make his life a living Hello.”
He tipped his hat back further, looking to make sure Sparrow wasn’t standing right behind him and Imogen was setting him up.
[Imogen Slaughter] Her mouth twists slightly, dry, wry. “And so, where you come from, gentlemen don’t sully their tongues wi’ th’word Hell, is that it?”
[Roman Turner] “You are a Lady. Ain’t proper unless you are in church and speaking of Hell and Damnation.”
Let her chew on that one a moment.
[Sparrow] It’s not that she wears pants, or even shorts, when she’s at home. No, on the contrary. Sparrow wears skirts, even when at home. Just… shorter skirts. Skirts that were meant for Target shelves years and years ago. Things that have seen better days, but she doesn’t really care about. Something white, that stands out against the fact that her legs are tan and she’s not wearing any shoes.
Same wirethin burnbarks around her ankles, something that stops and separates the tan, but that’s their there nor there.
“Missed a spot,” is all she says to Roman.
The female grins, playful, but something brewing under the surface. The moon’s waxing towards full. That homeless man, the living refuse, the one that got thrown out didn’t sit by Roman and Sparrow’s place anymore.
“What’s this about Hell and damnation now?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s eyebrow arches, and she flicks a gaze toward Sparrow as she speaks.
“I believe I’ve just been lectured for my bad language,” she observes.
[Roman Turner] For a moment a ghost of a smile threatened to come out. There was a twinkle in the denim blue eyes and then he was rolling the weed from one corner of his mouth to the other.
“No Ma’am. I wouldn’t take to lecturing a Lady.”
[Rory] Her steps slow as she nears, the leggy Fianna with the shock of red curls that just can’t be missed doing her best to cling to the shadows, to pass without notice. Her steps are steady, her rage a force that sucks the breath out of the air, the moon growing toward full, and tugging her inner heat with it…
…though she is as calm as a summer’s day, controlled without thought, even as she ducks her head to hide her curious gaze as Imogen is… or isn’t… lectured for her language.
[Roman Turner] His posture suddenly changed in a way Sparrow was familiar with. It was that fake laziness that always told her he was suddenly very alert. One finger pushed the tip of the hat up and in a very deliberate move he turned his head and spit. Roman didn’t spit as a rule, but he did when tipping his cousin off. It was something they had developed in childhood. It said….spit…take a look in the direction I just spit in. And like normal, she would use lecturing him for spitting in front of a Lady, as an excuse to look that way.
[Roman Turner] What he was indicating was something, someone with enough rage to ring his bells, slinking about in the shadows.
[Sparrow] “Using bad language on my lawn, offending my sensitive sensibilities. I’m wounded Imogen, I’m hurt.”
She grins, and places her hands on her hips. She’s a happy camper today, or so it seems.
“What brings you out to this neck of the woods?”
She caught that change in posture, looked at Roman and a brow raised. Her attention on him. She looked at him, ran her tongue across her teeth and looked in the direction that he spit.
“Dangit, Romi, that’s just gross…”
look down the way… who was that?
[Roman Turner] “Well it was a weed. I weren’t gonna swallow it.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Sparrow’s display of good natured offence merely results in a cool gaze from the so-called Fenrir kinfolk. The joke is not shared.
She might have answered the question, but Roman spits and Sparrow reacts. Whether or not Imogen recognizes the theatrical note in the interaction or not, it draws her attention to Rory, hanging back some distance.
Her brow furrows. “Rory,” she says. “Come here.”
[Rory] Come here. It’s a command, for sure, and instinct has a heavy hand, and before Rory even registers it completely, her feet are answering, and carrying her toward the Doc and her friends. She chews her lower lip absently as she approaches, sneaking a peek up at Roman, at Sparrow, and then to the safety of watching the one she knows.
As she approaches, there’s a shy smile, a duck of her head, a soft… “Hi, Imogen.”
Some phrases are easier than others.
[Roman Turner] Roman was in his mid teens, 16 to be exact. While he was taller than Imogen (which felt absolutely great) he was a couple inches shorter than Sparrow. Chestnut hair mostly covered by the straw hat. He was wearing a dorky tourist tee shirt that said. I a big red heart Chicago. Jeans so dark and stiff they could be nothing but starched and pressed Wrangers.
[Imogen Slaughter] The red-haired kinwoman levels a gaze on the younger cliath.
“I can’t imagine it’s wise to be hangin’ back like tha’, the way things are.” She is not a woman prone to compassion.
“She’s part of the Sept,” this to the other two, before making a vague hand gesture between all three. “Someone needs to start introductions.”
[Sparrow] “You should have, you don’t eat enough vegetables,” she chastises Roman easily and conversationally.
Soon enough, the other redheaded female came over. She is a relatively nice looking young lady, and… she looked at Rory. Someone needed to start making introductions. She offers a hand to Rory, and she’s all sorts of comfortable. Afterall, she’s standing in front of her house talking to relatively random redhaired strangers.
“Sparrow Turner. Resistance, Child of Gaia, Cliath, Full moon,” she says. The bracelets on her right wrist jingle and sit rather comfortably. Metal. Glass. Wood. Beads. Twine. You name it, she’s probably wearing it.
[Roman Turner] He tipped his hat to Rory, touching the brim.
“Howdy Ma’am. I’m Roman Turner. If that don’t get your Cogs to turning, then wait for the next new moon , it might click then. Course I’m young[i/], low in the [i]ranks, so not so well known. But as Fate would have it, Fate it IS we seem to be in the same place this evening.”
[Roman Turner] (( Ha! I knew I would screw that up!))
[Roman Turner] He was all proud of himself, making a puzzle out of it.
[Rory] She’s not a woman prone to compassion, and Rory is not one that’s known to expect it. Instead, she expects far worse than Imogen has ever given her. Teeth worry over her lower lip again, as she peeks up at Roman – who she stands eye to eye with, height wise – and Sparrow. Her gaze drops instantly again.
Submission. Automatic, instant, and honest.
“Ok.” A hand is offered, and she hesitates a moment, before unwrapping her hand from the strap of her pack, and slipping it into Sparrows. Her grip holds hidden strength, but it’s not shown off. if anything, her fingers look delicate, fragile…
Looks are so often deceiving.
“Rory. Tongue Twister. Cliath mull foon. Fianna.” She doesn’t seem to notice the switch in her words, the twist given in something of a verbal dyslexia, as if she hears what she intends to say, instead of what she does.
Then she tips her head slightly, and listens to Roman’s introduction. He called her ma’am – and she blushes, even as she puzzles the rest of it out and offers him a shy little smile.
[Sparrow] [skip me, loves, my mom came home!]
to Imogen Slaughter, Roman Turner, Rory
[Roman Turner] ((Fuck me, I had to ask Mei what the SWITCH was, because I didn’t see it! LOL! ))
to Imogen Slaughter, O o, Rory, Sparrow
[Rory] (*LOL* hurray for autocorrecting brains. *L*)
to Imogen Slaughter, O o, Roman Turner, Sparrow
[Roman Turner] He grinned and in a lower voice said.
“Well, I suppose that makes me a Mew Noon.”
Then he winked with another touch to the brim of his hat.
[Sparrow] It seems to dawn on her finally, “do you guys want anything to drink? Or do you want to come in? You’ve been standing outside and I’ve not done anything to be a good host.”
Even if they are sudden guests.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen does not take part of the introductions. After all, she is known by all parties.
She retrieves a crumpled cigarette pack from her jacket pocket, her bic lighter. She lights up, her dark eyes flicking toward Sparrow.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she says, simply. “I doubt I’ll be stayin’ long.”
[Rory] She blushes, brighter than before. She may have heard what she intended to say, but clearly she’d messed it up, and as he teases her, she wrinkles her nose and lifts a hand to rub against the side of her nose.
But there’s a slight difference, but only for Imogen, as she has known the metis for a while. Rory doesn’t slump in shame when he teases. Not this time. She does blush, she does keep her gaze lowered, but she does not hide in shame of something she can’t control. Sometimes it’s the small victories that mean the most.
Sparrow offers them drinks, and she shakes her head, her curls bouncing about her shoulders. “Mo, na’am. Thank you.”
Then, curiously, she peeks at Roman, and then to the lawn mower, and offers shyly “Sounds rough. I fan cix that…”
[Roman Turner] He looked from Rory in her bright red face to the mower and worked around the mixed up words.
Don’t do it Roman. Oh Lordy, don’t do it. You can do it boy. Just hold your tongue. Mind your manners.
His face flushed as the internal argument started. He damned near vibrated with the battle going on.
“That would be right nice…..”
He started choking, infact hard enough to bend over double, gasping out.
“…right nice.”
It took him a good bit of coughing before he straightened and bald faced lied.
“Swallowed a bug.”
Swiping at his eyes with the heel of his hands, still bright red from choking.
“It sure ain’t a Deere, is it?”
Indicating the mower with a nod of his head as he tried to get himself under control.
“Sparrow won’t get me a tractor.”
[Sparrow] “Y’don’t need a damned tractor unless we’re tillin’ the block!”
That, well, was surprisingly… country. Twangy. Midwestern. Something that doesn’t come out often, but dear god when it did, it came out in spades. A full suit, full house, wins the hand, hands down country girl. All conversational and glee, she does a good job of hiding the fact that she is, at her core, not half as worldly as she can seem.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Less country star now, “this has been an ongoing debate for the better part of a week. he wants a tractor, I want… you know… a couch.”
[Imogen Slaughter] She is not much like these Garou. This goes beyond the obvious. Garou and Kinfolk.
It comes down to basic personality. To experience. To age. They are young. They are cliaths. And the gap seems excruciatingly wide of late.
She takes another drag from her cigarette.
“I don’t imagine that a tractor would even fit on this plot,” she observes, turning her head to exhale her cigarette smoke away from the gathered.
“Excuse me.” She turns to leave.
[Rory] She blinks at him as he chokes, shy and innocent, and completely oblivious to the internal argument he’s having with himself. Because he swallowed a bug, but tells her it’d be nice. It’s not a Deere, or a Tractor, for sure, but it’s a small engine, a small metal and oil and plastics and rubber machine, and that is something she understands.
People? Well, no. Machines though – they speak to her on an instinctual level.
She blinks at Sparrow’s outburst, and then offers that little shy grin again. “Will make it bun retter than a tractor.” The yard’s too small for a riding mower anyway.
She moves to the mower, and slips her pack off her back. it lands on the ground at her side with a clattering clink and thunk – no telling what all she has in there. She digs around inside and pulls out a small clothwrapped bundle, which, when unwrapped, reveals a set of small tools. And then, without any of the hesitation that is evident with people, she dives right into cleaning up and tuning the mower.
She understands engines. They make sense to her.
Imogen turns to go, and gets an absent wave from the metis, her attention caught and held by the grease and grime she’s gathering on her fingers as she works.
[Roman Turner] “Ya don’t need no couch if ya got a Deere. Come on Sparrow, it’s a Deere. Nothing runs like a Deere. And I can sing one of them songs for ya.”
He started dancing right there in the fresh mowed weeds. Step…step…shuffle..kick and turn. Kicking up clippings.
“We can take a ride on my big green tractor. It can go slow, or it can go faster.”
Imogen started to take off and he had to wonder what the “Excuse me” was for. Older women were stranger than younger around here. Though he quickly forgot about it as he tried to talk Sparrow in to two stepping with him.
“Come on Cuz, dance with me!”
[Rory] [hm… Dex+crafts, diff 6-2 for Mechanical Aptitude
…does she make it blow up, or fix it good? ]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 4)
[Rory] [oh come on, she’s better than that, Kahseeno! +1 diff!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 7, 10 (Failure at target 5) Re-rolls: 1
[Rory] [or not. *LOL*]
[Imogen Slaughter] (tsk. You tempted fate!)
[Roman Turner] (( Heh, i would of taken her word for fixing it in RP, ya don’t need to roll *s*))
[Sparrow] (skip me, dealing with the dog!)
[Rory] She works, oblivious to the dancing going on. And when she reaches up to turn it on again, it sounds good for a moment, than two – then? Then she gets a face full of oil as something breaks free and leaves her sputtering and muttering under her breath.
She doesn’t stop though -because she’s stubborn. And no machine will get the better of her. She digs into her pack for what she needs, and goes back to work on it again…
It takes a bit of time, but THIS time, when she reaches up to start the motor, it purrs like a kitten, smooth as silk, with an extra kick of power to the blades. It makes her smile, even as she tries to wipe the smudges from her face, and succeeds only messing her face up more.
“There.”
[August Grant] (So.. I was thinking if joinin’ ya’ll, if it’s still open of course – just having a spot of trouble figuring out just where you guys are. LoL. A little help?)
to Imogen Slaughter, Roman Turner, Rory, Sparrow
[Imogen Slaughter] (out in front of Sparrow and Roman’s pad in a rough side of town. Imogen is walking away)
to August Grant, Roman Turner, Rory, Sparrow
[Roman Turner] (( Farting around with the mower and doing the two step))
to August Grant, Imogen Slaughter, O o, Rory, Sparrow
[Roman Turner] Rory worked, he tried to talk Sparrow in to dancing and then oil spewed out in a cloud on Rory and sure enough, he was dancing out of range. When the mower went from sputtering and spewing to running smooth he cocked his head.
“Well now, it ain’t a Deere, but it sounds better. Thank you Ma’am.”
There came the tip of the hat again.
[Rory] She nods, slightly, satisfied, even as she reaches over to tweak something else, making sure it’ll continue to run steady and true. She cuts the engine, and settles back on her heels, and wrinkles her nose as she peeks up at Roman when he calls her ma’am again.
“Rory.” Just Rory. She’s not used to all that…
She folds her tools back up, making sure their clean and shiny, even while she still has smudges all over herself, and tucks them inside her pack. only then does she use the rag to try and clean herself up, too.
[August Grant] Why did she agree to come all the way over here again? The blonde woman nervously bit her bottom lip as she walked the streets from the El train to her destination, a residence not far away. Sure, it seemed like an alright idea this afternoon – but as the day wore on.. she became less sure about her mission.
She had come to check up on a client from work who they had been working with at the Shelter.. and had a file folder in hand. Her purse? Well.. that was safely left at the Brotherhood. She wasn’t about to tempt anyone. August was dressed simply, a pair of jeans, a tshirt and a jacket, which hid her little baby belly quite nicely..
[Imogen Slaughter] (and I’m out! thanks for playing guys! someone else put open in their tag. *grin*)
[Roman Turner] “Yes Ma’am, Rory, just Rory, Ma’am.”
[Sparrow] “No,” she says, rather exasperated and low, “I am not dancing, just no! Not just no but a lot of no.”
She looks down the way, noticing that… looked down the way. There was a blonde woman making her way down the street. Then, she elbows Roman. Not hard, just enough. It was punctuated with a look.
[Rory] She blinks and looks up at him, and tips her head slightly. He’s… odd. But she’s learned a lot in her years, usually with quite a bit of pain attached to it and one of those things is that sometimes, you just can’t change what people say or do, even if it’s affording her some form of respect she hasn’t earned.
So she drops it, and reaches with her rag to clean up the mower too, before she bothers getting the rest of the smudges off her face.
[Roman Turner] He got elbowed and grunted, looking to see what Sparrow was pointing to. The next thing out of his mouth was.
“What?”
[August Grant] August seemed to feel the gazes upon her, and hazel eyes shifted up. She offered a light smile – trying not to look.. a) like a target, b) out of place, or c) threatening in any way. Hands slid into the pockets of her jacket as she continued to walk.. perhaps a bit briskly..
[Rory] Roman is elbowed, and August starts walking faster, and Rory… looks up. That’s all. This isn’t her territory, it’s not her house, its not even her normal prowl. So she simply watches, quietly, and continues to polish the mower, and then attempt to get the grime from her face and neck.
[Sparrow] “Her name’s August, she’s one of ours, she’s really emotional right now, so please don’t say anything that’s going to make her explode into a fit of hormonal sadness,” she says.
She clears her throat and waves.
“August!”
[August Grant] She stopped, quite suddenly and peered towards the sound of the voice. It took a long moment for her to recongize the woman. Once the light blub went on, August smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Oh – thank god that there was at least one friendly face on this side of town.
“Hey Sparrow..” her direction changed and the young woman started heading their way.
[Roman Turner] He hissed beneath his breath.
“If ya know all that, why did ya call her over? What is Hormonal sadness? That contagious?”
Oh no, the woman was coming there way. And so polite as could be, he moved so the mower and Rory was between him and the oncoming Kin.
“Hormonal stuff coming.”
[Roman Turner] ((Gah….There=Their))
[Rory] She looks up at Roman as he moves behind her, and then to the woman he says is hormonal. A tip of her head, curious. It’s clear she’s not quite sure what he means… and she waits quietly for understanding.
[Sparrow] “August, hey, this is Roman and Rory. Guys? This is August.”
she smiles, and seems genuinely pleased to see her. She makes her way past the front and goes to meet the female. She isn’t wearing shoes.
“We need a front gate,” she muses
[Roman Turner] “Ya need boots cause around here there might be razor blades or needles in the weeds.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Sparrow about the used condom he mowed over. Instead he touched the brim of his hat and politely said in August direction.
“Howdy Ma’am. Guess you weren’t born in December, huh?”
[August Grant] Just because Sparrow made her cry.. once.. doesn’t mean she’s overly hormonal! Yeesh. She’s just.. pregnant. “Hi.. Roman.. Rory.” She smiled brightly. The young woman clearly had distinctive breeding, and Coggie breeding at that – slightly unusual. She was attractive and sweet natured. She definately did not belong in this neighborhood.. then again, her account balance indicates maybe she does.
As Roman speaks up, she laughed quietly. “Uh.. no, July actually. I think my parents forgot what month it was..”
[Roman Turner] “It happens.”
He indicated Sparrow.
“She was almost named Chicken Hawk.”
[Rory] She ducks her head, shyly, as she’s introduced, and lifts a hand to wave at August, even as she keeps her head lowered, hiding behind her curls. All that rage, and she’s so very, very shy. A contradiction, Rory.
[Sparrow] “And you were almost named Janice, only you came out with boybits.”
[Roman Turner] “My middle name is Janice and ya know it’s because granny and gramps were smoking the wild weed flowers and insisted they saw Janice Joplin in the corn field.”
[August Grant] August smirked. “Parents suck sometimes.. here’s hoping I don’t end up givin’ my little one a retared name. But then again – with Paul involved, who knows what will happen..”
[Roman Turner] “Little retarded one named Paul?”
He was lost.
[Rory] Roman’s lost, but Rory? Is lost completely. The conversation starts rapidfire between them, and she’s left speechless, and listening.
And people think what she says is confusing…
[August Grant] “No.. no.. Paul’s not retarded. I’m just hoping I don’t give my children silly names..”
[Roman Turner] “If Paul isn’t retarded, who is he?”
[August Grant] She just shook her head, smirking. “He is a member of this sept, and my mate.”
[Roman Turner] Well that left a lot out of the picture.
“Okay. Well nice to meet ya Ma’am.”
A smirk was nothing more than a nasty parody of a smile. He knew when to get a clue. Once more the hat brim was touched and he turned away to Rory.
“Hey, how ya feel about chicken fried?”
[Rory] She blinks, and then looks up at Roman, and tips her head again. She brushes her curls back and tucks them behind an ear, only to have them spring free once more.
“Chried Ficken? I like it.” Of course, she’d eat just about anything that didn’t move too fast, it’s true, but Fried chicken is a favorite, when she can afford it.
[Sparrow] “I don’t think you’ll name your kid something dumb. Just stay away from birds and ancient civilizations and you should be pretty fine.”
[Sparrow] [I’m sorry I’m so out of it, there’s a dog on my chest]
to August Grant, O o, Roman Turner, Rory, Spirits
[August Grant] “Duely noted.” A pause. “So, whatcha all doin’ out on this side of town? It’s a little sketchy around here.” She shifted the folder within her grasp and idly glanced down the street to where she had been going and were a few teenagers now lingered.
[Rory] .
to Rory
[Roman Turner] “Well I owe ya a chicken fried steak, how’s that sound? Ya fixed my mower, I’ll repay ya.”
When August asked what they were doing in the area, he looked over his shoulder and replied.
“We live here.”
[Sparrow] “We moved out here. It’s the kind of place that really needs a strong presence. Plus, look at it, doesn’t it just scream potential?”
She’s got that look in her eyes again. There is something distinct about Sparrow. There is something fanatical about her, briefly. Something that does not seem at all congruent with the ever-present rage. The pervading feeling of inspiration, of hope. This was a city who ate the hopeful. The idealistic.
Good luck trying.
[O o] (whee thansk for letting me spy! buhbye))
to August Grant, Roman Turner, Rory, Sparrow, Spirits
[Rory] She blinks suddenly, and looks toward the street, and in the direction of Bronzeville. It’s a look the others will recognize, that of mental communication between packmates. When she’s finished, she stands and slings her pack across her shoulders and she nods to Roman, with that same shy little grin.
“Ok, sometime. Tot go go. Bye.”
And with that, she takes off down the street, at a much faster pace than before, clearly answering a call.
[Rory] (thanks for playing!)