Joss | The Real Challenge [Imogen]

She is dressed in slacks, an expensive leather coat. Her shoes are black, high-heeled, the toes pointed. Her pale skin is unmarred, pure like porcelain. She has a brief case at her feet but no papers out in front of her – it’s too windy to work.

She has a coffee mug in front of her, the liquid stirring briefly as the wind passes over it, causing ripples on the milky white surface.

She has a single earbud in place, the other hanging around her neck against her sweater, the cord draping, weaving it’s way down to the little MP3 player that’s in the pocket of her skirt, along with her hands. Whatever she listens too speaks to her in some way, as she more dancing than walking down the street, the dark colored canvas slip-ons sliding to some beat heard only to her.

Ahead, a patio, with a figure she couldn’t miss if she wanted too – and she doesn’t want too. The smile aimed at the redheaded woman is warm, happy, and reaches her eyes as she gets nearer.

She leans forward, tapping ash into the tray provided, leaving a grey smear over the glass. As she straightens, Joss has come into view. The girl’s smile is not returned, but the redhaired Kinwoman watches as the Godi approaches, her dark eyes steady, narrowing as the wind blows smoke into them.

“You’re just all over th’place, aren’t you?” she observes when the distance has closed to speaking range.

“I got on the wrong bus…” her explanation as she shakes her head, sending several dreads to slide over her shoulder where she absently pushes them back again. “I’ve heard it’s the easiest way to find your way around – get lost and find your way home. Though this time it was an honest mistake. However…” and here that smile falls into place again. “… I could say the same of you – all over the place, I mean.”

She lifts the cigarette back to her mouth, the fag held scissored between her forefinger and middle, the filter fitting easily between her lips. As she lowers it, she gestures slightly down the street, using the cigarette to point.

“If yeh want t’get back t’th’Green, there’s a bus stop about two blocks away,” she says. “In front o’ a bookstore. Yeh want the number fifty-one.”

She looks down the street, to the bus stop indicated and nods with a grin. “Perfect! Thank you. I’ll probably peek at the bookstore too. I’ve finished Beekeeping for beginners.”

….she really is a bit odd, isn’t she?

“I’m a forensic pathologist,” she says, “Which is a doctor tha’ specializes in method and manner o’ death. Autopsies and evidence and th’like.”

She lifts her cigarette again. When she continues she does so with words wreathed in smoke. “T’a Garou what’s important is tha’ I work t’ward destroyin’ evidence tha’ might risk the veil.” Her mouth twists, a faint smirk. “And I’m very good at hiding bodies.””

She laughs softly at the ‘importance’ to the Garou, and nods. “I can see how that would come in handy.”

“But I’m fairly sure television has a twisted view of reality.”

But… “I had a friend, an EMT back home, who’d yell at the TV during doctor shows – because they always got it wrong.”

“I’m sure Henry will tell you that he agrees.”

It’s difficult, sometimes, to put all the pieces together, to come in new and figure out who’s who and what they do and how they fit into the dynamic group that are the Eagle’s Chosen.

A slight shrug, just a roll of her shoulders under her sweater. “I haven’t met Evan’s mate, either. After those two, I think I will have met them all, unless there are others I am unaware of – though Decker and Evan are keeping me pretty busy with things around the pack houses. Even fixed the hot water at the dock house.” Said with a proud grin, though it wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to manage. They thought Glass spirits could be prickly – Fire elementals tended to be a little hot under the collar.

“You’re very eager to join the pack, aren’t you.” It’s not quite a question, but an observation.

Her confidence is a quiet storm, brewing deep in her center, giving the glimpse of her Fenrir heritage more so than her smile, her presence that seems to be the antithesis of all stereotype.

“I know Decker thinks it is hero worship, and I won’t deny that is part of it. But what I said last time stands true – I don’t want to simply follow, I want to stand at his side, with the Eagles. I couldn’t let the chance slip by me. If we are to have any chance to win the war, we must be the strongest we can be. I can be stronger here, than at home, where rank and privilege overshadow the young, sometimes idealistic, Godi.”

For all she is, she is also someone quite comfortable in her own skin, her own place, with goals in sight. And also – a chatty teenage girl.

When she turns her head to exhale smoke, her head stays turned, briefly watching the passers-by. Her free hand rests upon the table in front of her. If Joss watches, she can see her thumb move, absently passing over a scarred furrow in her index finger, a long healed scar. It is a single gesture, then her hand stills.

Imogen turns back.

“Do you think what you’re doing now is proving yourself? Fixing Rohl’s hot water, doin’ other things tha’ Evan or he ask you to do?”

She gives the question a moment of thought, time that it deserves, before she answers. “Yes and no. It’s not just what they’ve told me to do – only specific asked was the water. Each protection that I lay down though, each deal brokered, proves that I am adept as a Godi, in my training. A willingness to do the grunt work is always necessary in an omega. What I do now is more than what they tell me to – it’s picking up the slack where others let things fall, seeing to the health and protection of not only the pack, but the Spirits that aid them – pulling things into a balance that will make for a stronger pack.”

She shrugs. “Some of the spirits are angry. They have been neglected too long. I work hard now, so that they are comfortable in dealing with me. And I’ll do it in stages so as not to be drained when called on for other work – it’s the smart way to do so, the only way.”

A pause, as she tips her head slightly. “I will prove myself able to fight when necessary, and I will prove myself adept in my Moon. I do what is necessary – including taking the lead when one of my Moon is needed to do so. We follow a Modi in things of battle, we follow a Foresti in things of law, and in things of spirit, the Eagles have been without a Godi to follow. I am that Godi now. It is what I was born to do.” a pause, and the easy grin returns. “If this includes little niceties such as hot water, then I will do those too.”

Still, she continues it, though there is little that can be gleaned from her voice, her expression.

“Show them what you are on your own,” she says, “that’s worth more than showing them what you can do for them.”

“Yes, ma’am.” a pause, and a soft chuckle. “This is the first time I’ve been on my own. It shows, I know. It’s the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced…”

“You’re young, it shows. You’re eager, it shows. Yeh see the Eagles as a great goal.” She crushes out the cigarette in the ashtray and leaves the butt at an angle in it. “It shows. S’probably more o’ an added challenge for you than anything else.”

But now, the smile is there as she listens to Imogen, the advice given is taken to heart, even as she chuckles. “There’s a writer – Goodkind – and through his books, even though they’re pure fantasy, is always one thread through it all, under everything. We can only be what we are, no more, no less. We’ll always be exactly what we are intended to be. We learn and grow and that ideal shifts – but we can only be what we are. Right now, I’m young, eager and idealistic.”

She nods, accepting and owning the words for what they are, threaded with determination under them. “Tomorrow, I may be old and grumpy – but each day I’ll strive to find my footing, and conquer the challenge I’ve taken to heart.” Sometimes, more than others, it is easier to believe she is Fostern. And then…

She laughs, and arches a brow. “Perhaps part of their challenge will be coming to accept one such as I – all young and perky.”

She picks up her coffee, drains it. “In either case,” she says, a tone of finality – she’s said all that she’s willing to, “best of luck.”

To be truthful, her tone is one of absentness. She wishes the girl luck without having much invested in it.

Imogen wishes her luck, and she smiles. “I appreciate the advise. Thank you.”

Invested or not, the time taken to talk to her is appreciated.

“Yeh have enough money fer the bus?” she enquires, an eyebrow arching.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her MP3 player again, and goes about unwinding her earbuds, before she looks up with a smile. “Have a good evening, Imogen.”

Still smiling.