[Rory] 123 not me!
[Casey Steward] Five hours…he hadn’t been off the plane for five hours and already Casey was wondering why the hell he had chosen to come to this city…hell this country. Home would have been better, that green Isle he hadn’t seen in years would have been a sight for sore eyes, but a paycheck and the chance to keep traveling…well the rest they say is a bloody history.
His things were already tucked away in the hotel near the airport, and he had already managed to get himself lost, he wasn’t used to cities lately, he was used to the open sands of the desert or the mountainous regions of afghanistan, not these skyscrapers where you couldn’t get a damn view further then thirty feet infront of ya.
He walked along, dressed as he had arrived, a dirty dust stained sand blasted leather jacket held over his shoulder by one calloused hand, a black T-shirt that said “Press, tell me everything.” and a pair of faded, jeans.
“Wher tha bloody hell di I en’ up now?” He says looking around. “A jus’ had ta leave ma damn GPS in the pack.”
[Rory] It’s hot, and muggy, the threat of rain thick in the air, the promise of storms all but written out in the sky. Bronzeville isn’t the best areas of town on the best of days, and today is not anywhere close to the ‘best’. There are couples arguing, kids fighting, thugs on the corner dealing, the promise of violence thick, tasted in the back of the throat as a moment of dread even under the waning moon.
And then there’s Rory. There is no one that dares threaten her, and she has the bench at the bus stop all to herself. Her rage is thick in the area, pushing more than one person into a wide berth about her, for all the fact that she is the calm in the center of that storm. She is seated, bare feet pulled up under her, long legs folded ‘indian style’ with freckles and pale skin visible due to the cut off shorts she wears. Freckles also dot her bare arms, her chest/shoulders/back – and likely everywhere else as they disappear under her tanktop. Her hair is a fiery beacon of curls, hiding her face as she works on the contraption in her lap – some metalic gizmo she pokes and prods and works with, ignoring those around her.
Until she hears a voice wondering where he is. She peeks up through her curls, and then does a double take, head tipping curiously as she watches him.
[Casey Steward] The man stops and examines the street signs not far from the bus stop, his hands rising and then falling as if the man were frustrated. “Ya tink tha people woul’ design these place’s with a wee sense of style an sanity! But naaa tha woul’ be to easy.” He says loudly as he looks up and down the street.
Of course, being Bronzeville, there isn’t a taxi cab in sight, at least not one you would want to get into except on the bravest of dares, so he takes a moment to pause there, as if deciding which direction to go, which direction to take. He looks back behind himself, as if thinking maybe…maybe he should just try to retrace his steps.
[Iona McNevin] ((Keep going, I just need to handle this phone call))
to Casey Steward, Rory
[Rory] She chews her lower lip, absently, and watches. Her fingers never quite stop moving along the little gizmo in her hand while she does so, either. It’s clear he’s lost, just as clear as the heroes that sing in his blood. She lifts a hand, fragile looking fingers rubbing absently against the side of her nose, before she finally dares a soft…
“…lost?”
Her voice and word may be soft, but it carries well enough to it’s intended target.
[Iona McNevin] Iona had seen what Rory made for Lukas and his mate. She was very impressed by the work, and thought about it. She had found notes in her room about the Umbral forge Bleeding Heat had given Iona permission to build. Iona nearly had it done, and she thought, perhaps, Rory would like to use it now and again.
After asking around a bit, she found that Rory like to spend some time Bronzeville to find things for her craftings. Only problem was, and she found out last niht, that the wolf was hard to pin down by scent. So Iona was travelling on foot, checking alleyways and whatnot, to find the metis.
[Casey Steward] He almost didn’t hear call out to him, that much was obvious as he was muttering under his breath about someone’s mother as he tried to decide which way lead back to the hotel. But then her soft, almost timid word reaches his ears, and the man turns towards the red headed trueborn who sat on the bench. The first time he’d really focused in on her and he smiled at her.
“Come now lass, surely ya know tha we Irish have an astounding sense of direction and mappin. I’m na lost, I’ve simply had a brief turnabou tha’s got me briefly disoriented. Mind ya, if you’d happen ta know yur way ta the Hilton, tha woul be a big help in puttin me back on tha trail.”
He says with a grin as he steps towards the woman a friendly, almost rackish look on his face, until he hits that rage and balks slightly. “On tha shores an tha fields..” He declares as he feels it, and then looks at Rory. “Well ain tha somethin.”
[Rory] He turns to look at her, and smiles. Rory does something very few trueborn do – she blushes. Not only that, but she ducks her head again to hide her face behind those fiery curls, as she absently messes with what turns out to be a little battered music box in her hands.
She peeks up at him again as he speaks of his sense of direction, then asks for help anyway – which has her pointing absently in the right direction until he stops and stares at her with something different in his eyes. Her smile is shy and timid, much as she is… and she acknowleges what he feels, and what she sees in him in a simple word…
“…hi.”
Single words are easier.
[Iona McNevin] Iona was closing in slowly. Checking out the ara Rory and Casey were now in. She was a bit frustrated that Rory had no scent. Made tracking for this Ragabash a bit more difficult. Every once in awhile, Iona would call out down an alley, as she did near them.
“Och! Rory! I be needin’ tae talk tae ye, lass!” Her Irish strong, a mix of american born in an irish community.
[Casey Steward] “Well Hallo there lass.” Casey says as he hunkers down into a squat not all that far from Rory, his eyes watchful and gauging, it was obvious he knew precisely what she was the look on his face said it all, but at the same time he seemed slightly confused, but then how often did you see a warrior of gaia blush except in the most exposed of circumstances.
“Ma name is Casey, Casey Steward, is a pleasure ta meet ya miss…” He trails off waiting for a response as he looked her over, looked over what she had in her hand…which draws his attention ever so briefly before he looks back into Rory’s face, watchful and careful.
[Rory] She tips her head slightly, as she hears someone call her name, curiosity [….worry…] crossing her face briefly, until she see’s the one who’s calling for her. Then it’s something else, entirely. […shame…] and she ducks her head, her eyes finding the safety of the little box again.
He sinks down to be more on her level, and her blush deepens, as she peeks at him through the fall of those curls. He waits patiently for her to supply her name, and in a moment, she does so, lips curving into the slightest of smiles. “Rory.” The same one Iona is calling for…
She pokes her finger on a sharp bit, and hisses lightly, before plopping the offended finger in her mouth, sucking on it absently as she turns the box over and finds the bit of a screw that bit her. She digs in the front pocket of her pack where it rests against her thigh, and comes up with a small screwdriver, which she promptly puts to use, getting the screw out, and aligned more correctly before she screws it back in – all done with a absent attention to detail.
Most of her attention is on him. “New?”
[Iona McNevin] It’s a momet or two beforeIona notices those fiery curls and she smiles. That hair she recognized from last night. And that pack as well that the ahroun was using to hide herself behind. She tucked her hands in her pockets of her worn jeans and made her way over. With all the humidity, she wore a white tank under a black one. This way, everyone could see the tattoos she bore. On her right forearm, a beautiful stag. On her left, a Celtic tribal tattoo that hide the glyph of Ragabash very well, but noticeable to garou and the like. She had her blonde hair pinned up in a black hair claw.
She moved up and waited til there was a moment to interupt the two. She gave Casey a smile and a nod.
[Casey Steward] “Rory aye? Hell I knew a few Rory’s bach home. Lovely ladies all of um, seem’s is a wee bit o a trend.” He said with another smile as he scratched his chin. “So ya say tha the place is tha way…I knew I was on tha right track.” He says with a bit of a self appreciating smirk just as Iona appeared.
He watched her approach, and easily noted the tattoo’s that covered her body, and felt the slight tingle of Iona’s rage next to the relative inferno of Rory and he seemed suitably surprised.
“Well i’ll be daft an knackered, this is somethin of a surprise.” He say’s as Iona smiles and nods to him, her goal obviously Rory at the moment though, and he stands there and waits, waits to see what happens.
[Rory] He compliments her as easily as he breathes, and that blush deepens, spreading across her neck, her shoulders in a way that’s makes it certain she is capable of an whole body blush were it to continue. He reckons he was on the right track, and she runs her fingers over the screw she’d fixed, satisfied it won’t bite someone else. She flips the little box over, and her fingers move across it as if with a mind of their own. Talented and confident, she deals with the box with an ease and confidence that she clearly doesn’t have in social situations.
Iona joins, and Rory peeks up at her, than lowers her gaze, instantly […submit…], green eyes hiding under lowered lashes, the better to hide her [shame] worry. “Iona.” An introduction, and invitation to speak, both.
[Iona McNevin] “There ye be, Rory. I be lookin’ ahl ova fo’ ye.” She smiled to Rory. Unlike most garou, she was not cruel to metis as most are.
Her eyes went to Casey, and she offered her hand. “Aye, hello. Like she said, I’m Iona.”
Then she looked to Rory. “I need tae be askin’ ye something, lass. If’n thah be alright.”
[Casey Steward] The man listened briefly, and watched the situation play out before his eyes, the stronger woman…or at least the woman that felt stronger to him, was acting downright shy, timid, submissive to the smaller and entirely less ferocious ragabash. He mused on that for a few moments before the one named Iona reached out a hand and offered it to him.
He looked at it briefly before standing up from his hunched position, rising to his full height of 5’9. The hand that reached out and took her’s was calloused and worn, from what though…who knows. “Aye goo’ ta meet ya Iona, ma name is Casey.” He says as he pumps her hand a few times before letting it go.
The woman then turned her gaze back to Rory, and asked her if she could ask her something, which made Casey smile to himself, people were sometimes just too damn polite for their own good.
[Rory] She’s aware of the way Casey watches her, aware of his confusion, aware of how it must all seem, though she seems incapable of changing her reactions. Iona wants to ask her something, and she closes her eyes briefly and takes a slow breath… holds it… and then nods as she exhales. Just a slight nod, though it sends her curls bouncing.
She doesn’t quite look up… not at either of them, using the little music box as an excuse to keep her gaze down as she goes about resetting screws and tinkering with the innards of the little thing.
[Iona McNevin] Iona hunched down by Rory so she could see the other Fiann’s eyes. “First off, I am sorry abou’ last night. Fo’ listening in, an’ fo’ his reply. Ye looked vera … devistated by his answer. Buh whah I wanted tae be askin was, I got permission tae be making me own forge. I was wonderin’ since I saw whah ye made last night, if’n ye would like to use it, wheneva ye wanted. Maybe we could work together sometime.”
[Casey Steward] Casey stood by, silent as the two women talked, this was a learning experience to be certain, he’d seen plenty of Garou talk and chat and threaten and cajole, but never american trueborn, even if they might hold similarities and tribe to those from back home.
Iona, the blonde talked of a forge, of building and smithing, of heat and fire and metal…she certainly didn’t look the part. But then you never did know. Rory didn’t look the part either, but with that ruined music box in her hands, he could imagine it just a little bit more, though hardly anywhere near as epic as the word ‘forge’ made things sound.
[Rory] Iona does her best to find and meet Rory’s gaze, just as Rory does her best to keep her own lowered respectfully. Her teeth worry over her lower lip, and a tremble works its way through her as Iona apologizes, and reminds her of what was done and said last night. She presses her lips together, and blinks rapidly in hopes of keeping the tears from forming – and mostly succeeds, and murmurs softly, achingly so. “I shouldn’t have tried. I have ro night.”
She doesn’t seem to notice the switch in her words, hearing only what she intended to say, instead of what she does. Her brow furrows in confusion though, as Iona mentions a forge… “…forge?”
Something new, it seems.
She steals a glance at Casey, and then back to iona, before finding the safety of the battered box again, instead.
[Iona McNevin] “Ye had evera right if thath’s what ye heart desired.” Iona gave Rory a smile. “Buh aye, a forge. I saw ye work, an’ was vera impressed. I thought, if ye had a proper place tae be makin’ ye things, ye’d like tae join me when tha forge is done.”
She looked up to Casey, noticing his looks. “I work as a blacksmith tha city. An’ I have been wantin’ tae make me own forge since I was a wee lass. I thought me friend Rory might like a place tae work as well.”
[Casey Steward] “Good ta see tha ol custom’s alive an well then.” He says in response to Iona’s explanation though he still seem’s somewhat skeptical as he looks her over, leaning this way and that as he stuffs his hands in his pant’s pockets, it seems he’s trying to imagine the woman infront of a hot forge all day.
“Don bite ma head clear off lass, but ya jus’ don’ seem tha…..build for tha job.” He says innocently enough. “No tha I don believe ya a course, I’m sure I’d not wan ta be on tha other end of tha ‘ammer.”
He then looks back to Rory and shrugs towards Iona. “Sound’s like somethin of a sweet deal there Rory, don ya thenk?”
[Rory] Iona says she had every right, and Rory just shakes her head. She has no rights. She is built for battle, nothing more. She had forgotten herself, for a bit, in some areas, but has been reminded, in no uncertain terms..
She is metis. A mule. Bad. Wrong. Wasted potential. Worthless for anything other then to be commanded in battle. Lukas had broken her heart – but her will was stripped from her years ago. She has no right to even hope to be touched again…
She rubs absently at her nose again, and instead concentrates on the idea of a forge. She’s never seen one, instead using brute strength and a delicate artists eye to make her things. She’s curious, and it shows in the hesitant way she finally nods. Sweet deal indeed, one that has her admitting softly… “Sever neen one.”
[Marc de Vogue] A car passes them. Perhaps not a noteworthy thing normally, except this sort of car? It is never seen in an area such as Bronzeville normally. A silver bullet of a thing, sleek lines and more horsepower then could be good for anyone. The soft rumble of the engine speaks of german craftsmanship at its very peak. The second noteworthy thing? The brief glimpse of the driver as he in turns spots the small crowd on the street. A flash of blonde hair. Third, the car actually slows, then makes an (illegal) u-turn and pulls to a stop on the opposite side of the road.
The door opens, and Marc de Vogue steps out. A tall lean young man, just into his twenties. Dressed in a black silk shirt and tailors slacks. Expensive leather shoes that could probably feed a good sized family around here for a week if not more. His wealth is almost as evident as his lineage. In him flows the blood of Heroes, kings and lunatics. Mixed with a confident bearing, it makes him striking indeed.
Car door closed as he turns to look at the group with a small but radiant smile (like the sun at noon) and there is no doubt in his step as he moves towards them. His voice carrying the rolling soft accent of the French, but with schooling from the finest British institutions.
“Maintenant c’est une agréable surprise. “
His gaze goes to Rory, then Iona, then Casey. Clear blue-green eyes fixed on each, looking each over top to toe before moving on to the next, until it returns once more to Rory.
“Rory, my guardian angel. It is good to see you again. Who are your dashing friends?”
[Iona McNevin] She listened to Casey and just had to laugh. “I be alot stronger than ye think, ser. An’ I be workin a forge since I was nah buh 10 years old. Maybe sometime I will be showin’ ye some o’ me work.”
Then she looked to Rory, and she had seen that look before. She gently reached up and touched Rory’s cheek for a second. “Just see ye know, I dinnah see ye like the othas. An’ when I finally be gettin’ the forge done, I want ye tae be the first tae see. Aye?”
[Casey Steward] “Wee bit o a callin than ain’t it?” He says as Iona tells him about just how long she’s been involved in forging, in pounding iron and steel into shapes, and forging one’s will and imagination into something tangible….not really Casey’s usual bit.
The Iona continued to try and give Rory encouragement to make her less…withdrawn, something had obviously happened between them and others, and it was certainly something to look into later.
Then the fancy car rolled by, full of its fine leathers and master crafted parts and Casey couldn’t help himself but sigh and look unimpressed. When the man got out…it didn’t help much either, a frenchman…great, just what he wanted to see today.
The tall blonde haired man speaks french, probably trying to be impressive, Casey just retorts in the same language. “Aye, I’m sure it is for ya.” Before starting to rummage through his pockets.
[Rory] She bites her lip as Iona touches her, trembling as she tries not to flinch away, expecting far worse than the gentle touch. She wants her to be the first to see it, and Rory nods…
…and then blushes like crazy when Marc suddenly appears too. It’s shyness, embarrassment, and a deep shame knowing what happened last time she saw him… especially with Lukas’ words still ringing in her ears, cutting so deeply into her soul.
He asks who her friends are, and she reaches up with trembling fingers to tuck her curls behind an ear – an exercise in futility as they simply bounce free again. “Iona.” one, and “Casey.” the other.
[Iona McNevin] She leans in and whispers something to Rory, before standing when the new garou approaches. She gives Marc a smile and a nod. “I be Iona.” In her thick Irish accent.
[Iona McNevin] Whispered “Ye ahr a beautiful woman, Rory. Ye dinnah need tae be shy around me. I would neva raise a hand tae ye like othas would.”
to Rory
[Marc de Vogue] ”Indeed it is.”
Marc directs that smile at Casey, seemingly not noticing the others tone, or just choosing not to. Hard to tell with the French. Marc moves up to them, seemingly unbothered by the heat of rage that flows so freely around the true-born.
“Casey…”
A nod offered to the man in passing before his gaze goes to iona, and that smile widens just a fraction.
“Iona. An island of beauty in the midst of such dark surroundings. A pleasure.”
Marc offers her a nod as well, respectful. There is breeding in the young man. There is a self-confidence and a strength of personality that makes him stand out in a crowd. It is hard to dislike the man. But there is no rage in him. That is clear. Not a true-born, but a kin.
His gaze turns to Rory then, and his head tilts just a little.
“It is good to see you again Rory. I am glad that I spotted you here. After you saved my life the night before…”
His smile widens a bit more and he looks to iona.
“You should have seen her, risking life and limb to save me from two beasts who had an unhealthy interest in myself. She was magnificent.”
His gaze returns to the fiery red-haired metis.
“I wanted to let you know that I am alright, and now that I am come to my senses and no longer in such frightful disarray, I wanted to make it up to you properly.”
[Rory] Iona whispers, and it has Rory blushing deeper than before, if possible. And then Marc starts in and she’s clearly flustered, her hands trembling as they work with the little music box in her hand, before giving up and simply hugging it to her chest.
He speaks of her rescuing him and she shakes her head slightly, her curls shimmering in the low light as she denies that she was anything close to magnificent, a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She peeks up at him, and then drops her gaze again, submitting even to the kinfolk that stand before her – at a complete loss for words…
[Fiona Sullivan] (places?)
to Casey Steward, Iona McNevin, Kora, Marc de Vogue, Rory
[Rory] (all kinda surrounding Rory who’s seating on a random bus stop bench. :) She’s not uncomfortable with that AT ALL. hahahaha. )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Iona McNevin, Kora, Marc de Vogue
[Iona McNevin] Iona felt around her pockets and pulled out some paper and a short pencil. To Rory, Casey and Marc, they all receive a slip of paper with her number on it. “I be needin’ tae get back tae work on tha forge. Should any o’ you need me, just gimme a call.”
She kisses the top of Rory’s head, trying to make her feel better, then heads out, waving to them all. “Have a good evenin’ tae ye ahl.”
[Casey Steward] Casey seems distracted his eyes upon his personage as he rummaged through his coat pockets, he either misses, or ignores the other man’s nod as he pulls out a lighter, and a single, bent over looking cigarette which he sticks between his teeth and goes to light it, having to flick the miserable little lighter five or six times, shaking it a few times as he swears in gaelic under his breath, before the thing finally caught and ignited the tip of the dilapidated cigarette.
He snorts, and then coughs when Marc makes mention of Iona being a beauty in a sea of darkness…not because it wasn’t true…but because the man had heard the line just a few times before from french tourists going after Irish beauties.
“Aye nae heard tha one before, I swear all people can do is compare the lassies to Island’s which aint tru at all nae true at all..” He says more to himself then to anyone else as he watches the trueborn talk, and the frenchman waggle his tongue, he then takes a drag off the cigarette before watching Rory fold in on herself, and shake his head.
[Casey Steward] “Wee bit o a callin than ain’t it?” He says as Iona tells him about just how long she’s been involved in forging, in pounding iron and steel into shapes, and forging one’s will and imagination into something tangible….not really Casey’s usual bit.
The Iona continued to try and give Rory encouragement to make her less…withdrawn, something had obviously happened between them and others, and it was certainly something to look into later.
Then the fancy car rolled by, full of its fine leathers and master crafted parts and Casey couldn’t help himself but sigh and look unimpressed. When the man got out…it didn’t help much either, a frenchman…great, just what he wanted to see today.
The tall blonde haired man speaks french, probably trying to be impressive, Casey just retorts in the same language. “Aye, I’m sure it is for ya.” Before starting to rummage through his pockets.
[Casey Steward] “Good ta see tha ol custom’s alive an well then.” He says in response to Iona’s explanation though he still seem’s somewhat skeptical as he looks her over, leaning this way and that as he stuffs his hands in his pant’s pockets, it seems he’s trying to imagine the woman infront of a hot forge all day.
“Don bite ma head clear off lass, but ya jus’ don’ seem tha…..build for tha job.” He says innocently enough. “No tha I don believe ya a course, I’m sure I’d not wan ta be on tha other end of tha ‘ammer.”
He then looks back to Rory and shrugs towards Iona. “Sound’s like somethin of a sweet deal there Rory, don ya thenk?”
[Rory] (watches Casey’s instant replay. hahaha.)
[Casey Steward] [Sorry bout that…had some technical difficulties:P]
[Casey Steward] [Bottom most post in the most recent]
[Marc de Vogue] He accepts the slip of paper from Iona and nods. “Thank you Iona.”
Then watches her interact with Rory before leaving. A thoughtful look as he watches her go. His voice is low when he speaks again.
”It was a mere play of words on the meaning of her name, not some island in specific, and nothing but truth when regarding her beauty.”
The tall young kin retorts to Casey.
“I have never been to Ireland myself, but I do hear it is quite lovely.”
His gaze goes back to Rory, and then he shrugs his shoulders and takes a seat beside her on the bench, head turned to look at both Casey and her with just a slight turn of his head.
“Anyway Rory. I do not know how your people deal with matters such as these, but for myself, it would be unthinkable not to show my gratitude. I have been wracking my brain to come up with a fitting thing since we parted ways last, but I have not yet found anything suitable that would show my gratitude.”
[Fiona Sullivan] Just what the city needed – more blonds with rage.
Fiona moves along the sidewalk, the scuffed soles of her boots eating up pavement as she walks, a predator’s grace revealed through the sleek, yet muscled curves of her frame. Head held high, blond hair falling across her shoulders to curtain the sides of her face. Bright green eyes swimming along the terrain to drink in the details of the city, of the buildings and street signs, mapping out her location in the back of her mind.
Bits of flesh are exposed to the cool air, the dull gray sweat jacket riding up the flat plane of her stomach when her arms lift upward, allowing hands to brush over her brow as fingers comb hair out of her face. Freckles paint across her cheeks and nose, sun-kissed skin burns hotly as if still radiating from the sun’s warm on a summer afternoon. A constant broil of heat always surrounding the woman.
Motion flits across her peripheral, a gathering of people at a bus stop. Nostrils flare as she breathes out sharply, sucking in a deep breath and holding it for a second before releasing it again. It causes the silhouette of her chest bound tightly in a tee shirt to bounce as it rises and falls when she exhales.
[Rory] Iona hands her a piece of paper, and she glances at it without comprehending what it is other than vague shapes in a certain order. A phone number, likely. She simply tucks it into the front pocket of her backpack, and then falls very. very. very. still as Iona… kisses her.
she blinks, and then ducks her head again, that blush creeping along her skin, her freckles standing out in sharp relief of the sudden color under them. She hugs the music box tighter to her chest, and tries to remember how to breathe as she’s left alone with not one, but two pure bred kin nearby. Then Marc sits down next to her and… well.
Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover it.
She swallows, hard, and peeks up at him, before a quick look includes Casey as well, and then she finds something very interesting about her… knees. “You don’t teed noo…” She would have helped anyway, and she doesn’t understand why he wants to pay her back.
[Imogen Slaughter] They are a mismatched group, the Child of Gaia, the Fenrir and the doctor. A teenager, a twenty-something blonde, a redhead in her thirties. They have no obvious connections, at least not to a human who might look at them. No reason to ever associate. No possible point of conversation.
In the human world, they would have never known each other. In this world, however: The kinwoman, slight and slender, carries, incongruously, a bucket. It does not make her stand out – at least no more than she might otherwise.
Imogen is not particularly a woman suited to these surroundings. Though she wears plain attire, jeans, a corduroy jacket, a nondescript dark blue t-shirt, her skin is too pale, too fine. Her hair is too vibrant. Her body is too well cared for, and her spine is too straight.
She would stand out anyway.
The rage of the Skald does nearly as much as Imogen’s poise and beauty might. The rip-snarl-shred of burning ozone, the weight of it on a Garou on the night of her birth-moon.
Poor Roman – well, his youth makes him stand out. That and his stetson hat. Not much call for those here in the Windy City.
Imogen speaks, with rapidly unravelling patience, a cutting glance directed toward the Ragabash Child of Gaia.
“The bucket is not that heavy, I can manage it just fine on my own.”
The bucket contains the remains of a rag, turned red and grimy with things better left unmentioned. A copper-and-salt smelling crud has gathered at the bottom of it along with a slime of dirty water, still pooled from when the bucket had last been dumped out, a few blocks away.
[Casey Steward] Casey took the paper and pocketed it, with a smile to Iona. “See ya round smithy.” He says with a lightheartedness towards his own Tribesman before turning his gaze back to Rory and Marc who sat upon the bench now, forcing the woman to begin to…..not breath?
Casey shook his head and gestured to Rory with his right hand, the hand with the smoke in it. “I think ya migh be wan’in ta be standin up there lass an give yur self some aire before ya dun go an pass out on us.” He says honestly, trying to get the woman a bit more comfortable.
He takes a moment at that to look around, and notices three other people of note, the man in his hat, the woman beside him….and the blonde, but nothing seemed out of place, so the man turned back to Rory and Marc, and took another long drag from his cigarette. Before speaking once more.
“I mean…less tha’s your kinda deal o course.”
[Roman Turner] “I know ya can carry it, I can see ya carrying it, and it ain’t right. What’s wrong with a man being a man and helping a pretty lady?”
He rolled his eyes with a look to Kora for help, infact behind Imogen’s back he mouthed.
“Do something, will ya?”
Meantime he kept pace with Imogen, just itching to take the bucket from her.
“Ya showed your muscles Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma’am. I see them bulging and all lady nice and all, now it’s my turn.”
[Kora] Sorrow’s rage is nearly incandescent tonight; no matter her will, no matter how easily she wears it under ordinary skies, under ordinary moons, on ordinary nights, when she was shadowed by the rage of her tribesmates. Tonight – it is bright and it is heavy and it is liquid, a slow-moving liquid, mercury. Roman cuts a glance behind Imogen’s back and mouths at Kora; she looks back at him, her dark eyes sheened with reflected light from the streetlamps.
Do what – she mouths back at him, exactly?
Kora stands head and shoulders taller than Imogen, and a good head taller than the young Gaian. She is does not cheat her height, not does she shorten her stride, but she is walking slightly more slowly than she might were she alone. Her hands are in her pockets, and she cuts that sidelong glance only once, just briefly, meeting Roman’s eyes without offering him aid in his quest to be a gentleman cowboy helping a pretty lady carry a bucket of blood and solvent residue through the streets of a depressingly impoverished neighborhood, toward a particular bus stop where an equally oddball trio have gathered.
“The city’s running limos, now?” she asks, when she marks Marc’s vehicle near the bus stop. Her pace slows from a distance, and her attention sharpens. On this night, under this moon, her attention is almost a physical thing. To Imogen, to Roman, “I’ve seen the redhead at the full moon; the others, though – ”
Her rich voice is laced with suspicion. There is blood under her fingernails. There is blood between her toes. Otherwise, she’s clean.
[Marc de Vogue] ”Nonsense.”
His gaze goes to Casey for a moment, offering the man a smile.
“I know my people would never let me live it down if I did not offer you at least something. Now…”
He looks back to Rory, offering her that dazzling smile that is like the sun.
“Tomorrow, remember where the car dropped us off last time at the hotel? Meet me there in the lobby tomorrow, say around noon? I am looking at a more permanent residence, but until I find one, I still have a room there. A friend told me of a place with a good view that serves excellent lunch. “
“Let me treat you to a meal, and we can talk further about this. I would not want to disappoint my people, and I hope that you will give me a chance at the very least.”
He places a well-manicured hand on Rory’s knee, fingers tapping gently as he smiles.
“I shall leave you to this… pleasant young man now, unless you want a ride somewhere?”
Marc stands up, stretching to his full height of 6’4, looking to Casey, then to Rory. Then the others draw near, and Marc finds his attention drawn. Kora, Imogen and Roman, and on the other side, a busty blonde straight out of a mans fantasies. they are all given the top to toe look, appreciative smiles for all of them (including the young cowboy, Yum!)
[Rory] She blushes bright as Casey points out her lack of breath… and blushes. Of course. As always. It really does seem to be her default reaction to just about any situation. “…I’m ok. Shus… jy.”
And completely messing up her words, though she doesn’t notice it at all.
He asks if she remembers the hotel, and she nods, her color deepening. She remembers. And finally she simply gives in, as she doubts he’ll let her turn him down at all. “Alright.” She’ll meet him tomorrow, and they can talk. She can’t risk his disappointing Ms. Katherine anyway… she’s already a disappointment to Lukas.
He stands, and she follows his gaze toward the three coming down the street – The Doc, the boy who’s mower she fixed, and Kora. A brief meeting of the gaze, and quick lowering of her own. Submissive, always.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen casts Roman a glance full of narrowed eyes. A look cool enough to crack snow. “You will find that life is full of disappointment and hardship,” she informs the Ragabash, ignoring the obvious sidebar occurring behind her back.
“Start by accepting this one.”
Kora speaks of things marginally more important than bickering with a teenager, and the kinwoman’s gaze flicks toward the fancy car, then the gathering of Garou and kinfolk.
“Rory,” she supplements. The redhead. “I believe. As fer the others, I’ve not met them.”
[Fiona Sullivan] The street is filling up quickly, sweltering with the presences of wolves that begins to send the sheep running. If any normal human, beat it the random drug pusher, vagrant or wandering prostitute had thought to step out onto this particular stretch of sidewalk, they will quickly encounter the unknown forces that growl quietly at them from behind human masks. An instinct in the back of their minds will keep them away, sending them turning on spiked heel or boot and walking off into another direction, or seeking another route as they made their way through the neighborhood.
But not here, not now. Not even when Fiona was coming up one direction towards the bus stop and slowing down, not when Kora and Roman were flanking the small red-haired woman that carried a bucket filled with blood and solvent residue.
[Roman Turner] He could easily vanish behind Kora with his smaller height, that and his ability to blend in when he wanted. Still Roman walked next to Imogen, making faces at Kora behind Imogen’s back. Mouthing.
I don’t know.
Feeling helpless because the pretty doctor was so danged stubborn she reminded him of a particularity stubborn mule, albeit a pretty mule.
Kora mentioned the people ahead and the limo and for a few seconds Roman looked that way before muttering.
“I seen lots of limos in this city, danged fools ain’t got no sense when it comes to pollution and fuel consumption. As for the folks, I think I seen one of them before, ain’t seen the others.”
[Marc de Vogue] (Limo? Bah! That is no limo! Check the gallery for a visual. )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Roman Turner, Rory
[Roman Turner] “Life is full of disappointments, but sometimes life is sharing a load and helping those we care about with something simple, like carrying a dang stinking bucket.”
Adding sweet as American Honey.
“Ma’am.”
He even had the gall to smile cheekily.
[Kora] (That car looks like a limo to my character! :) )
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Marc de Vogue, Roman Turner, Rory
[Roman Turner] ((Poor pimp-mobile! LOL! ))
to Casey Steward, Fiona Sullivan, Imogen Slaughter, Kora, Marc de Vogue, Rory
[Casey Steward] “Aye lass, I gathered tha much, but ya really shouldna…” He pauses mid sentence and then shakes his head. “No ma place ta say I suppose, ya do wha ya wan’.” He says with a shake of his head before he put the smoke back in his mouth and took a moment to look up and down the street once more.
It looked like they were being corralled, three from one direction, one from the other, he’d seen this situation more then once, hell more then twice, he’d seen it far more often then he cared to. So he backed up, and kept backing up till his back met the wall behind the bus stop and watched as they came. Not much he could do at the moment about it.
His eyes are…admittedly drawn to the blonde who walks alone, it was hard not to be even if his own innate journalistic testicles were itching, warning him of approaching danger, or maybe it was just the heat.
[Rory] She really shouldn’t…. and she closes her eyes, and swallows hard, and suddenly unfolds her legs to stand. “…i shouldn’t. I know… sorry…” Some words are easier, and then come in a rush as she clutches her little music box tighter to her chest, and grabs her pack in her other hand, and takes a step toward the alleyway, where she knows she can simply disappear…
She shouldn’t.
She can’t.
She’s not allowed…
But there are others coming, and she hesitates, not wanting to leave him alone to face them… torn by indecision, she shifts her weight from foot to foot, green eyes bouncing from Marc, where he’s getting into his car, Casey who’s put his back against the wall, and the others – Fiona, and the Doc and Kora and Roman…
[Kora] “In a neighborhood like this,” Kora returns in response to Roman’s concern about pollution and fuel consumption. ” – someone driving a car like that is asking to be jacked.” Her voice is still low; it’s a cool night, and the presence of Garou has driven away any humans who might’ve considered this bus stop. They’ve moved on, wandered further down the street to some other stop; decided to take the cross-town rather than the express. Decided, perhaps, that they do not need milk for the baby tonight anyway.
Kora is dressed with perfect practicality, in jeans and a black t-shirt, in shit-kicking boots, her pale blond hair drawn back from her features in a loose knot. Look: her hands are in her front pockets, but they are curled into fists. She swings her legs easily, a long stride slowing now as the trio approach Rory and Casey and Marc on the bench.
“Rory, yeah?” says Kora, her gaze dropping back to the mule in the center of the shifting ink blot of Garou. She lifts her attention over Rory’s shoulder, marks out Fiona; the wariness has not left her body. Instead, a flicker of a look at Marc. If he looks her top to toe again, she’ll bare her teeth.
Humans might call it a smile.
Wolves would call it a warning.
[Rory] (adds)
Her flight is brought to a speedy halt as Kora mentions her name. She nods, and keeps her gaze lowered, never liftin farther than somewhere along the Fenrir’s jawline.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is the slightest of the trio. The one without rage, the one with a heavy dose of pure breeding, her blood singing of Fianna memories, and history.
She adjusts the fall of her coat as she approaches, her step easy, restrained, even.
“Hello Rory,” Imogen greets the Metis easily, but not kindly.
“New friends?”
It is not that she did not hear Roman’s dig about sharing a heavy load. It is that she is now ignoring it entirely now that they’ve approached the other group. The bucket remains hers.
[Fiona Sullivan] Fiona stops dead; all movement halted with the growing presence of other wolves. Thick lashes flutter low over green eyes, a shiver runs through her body, raising bumps along her flesh as it became feverish. A slight tick forms in the line of her left jaw as the muscles tighten, teeth gritting together. The softest of growls break loose from her throat as the tiny hairs on the back of her neck raise up.
It is a warning of sorts, a threat issued out in the direction of Kora and Rory. It did not matter if the blond Fianna was the stranger wandering into another’s territory. Her heart begins to hammer wildly in her chest, blood pulsating in her veins as her breathing grows labored. The flat planes of her stomach dipping in with each flare of her nostrils as air exhales out of her nose.
She blinks once, slitting her eyes to pass them over the other’s ignoring Roman as he didn’t present the biggest threat to her. The two male kin pulled into her line of sight as she focuses on Marc first – snorts softly, then to Casey and snorts again.
[Marc de Vogue] The gathering of Rage made Marc look around. But not nervously. No, if anything, it made him stand a little taller, made that smile widen just a bit more, as if he enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the dark sensation it washed over his skin as it set his nerves on fire. He drew a deep breath, eyes closing for a moment, and then he shakes his head a little.
When his eyes open, he seeks out Rory, and that smile is as warm and friendly as always for the metis, as if she was the center of the universe. It is a strange thing for the shy creature to be under such appreciative focus.
“I will see you tomorrow for lunch.”
His clear eyes go to Casey as he puts his back to the wall under the assault of rage.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. Next time, I certainly do hope you have found some manners to be civil, even to strangers who have done you no harm or insult. I would think that is the least one could expect in company such as this.”
“Goodbye Rory. Take care of yourself.”
And with that, the young silver fang moves over the road, away from the rage and the sensation of it. He opens the car door and slips in. The engine starts with a low growl before settling into a muted roar. Marc looks back to the bustop, to the approaching people, then offers a slight wave of his hand, aimed at Rory before he takes off, peeling away from the curb and vanishing down the street.
(It is 4 am, time for the Swede to sleep! Thanks for the scene!)
[Roman Turner] “Hey, Lawnmower fixer! Howdy Miss.”
He touched the brim of his hat with the shadow of a nod to Rory before he turned his attention to the others gathered here. What an odd collection. Of course with his boots, dark blue stiff as a board Wranglers and the tee that nearly matched eyes the blue of faded denim all topped by the stetson, he probably looked just as odd to them. Sweet sixteen and as out of place looking in the city as they came. Fresh scrubbed face that had nothing but peach fuzz on it and a bit of flaking blood along the jawline that he’d missed earlier. He was a little less than five and a half feet in height, making it easier to slip behind Kora and go unnoticed most times.
The car was soon claimed and pulled off, leaving one less to keep an eye on, which was good considering the way one seemed to be rumbling in her chest.
[Casey Steward] Casey chuckled and shook his head at the frenchman as he told him to find some manners. “Oh, I got plenty in stock for tha likes of others, jus no for tha likes o ye.” He says as he waves to the man, over exagerating the motion to add just a hint of sarcasm to his voice as the kin climbs into his fancy car and takes off.
His eyes then go to Rory, who had tried to slip into the alley and then to those around them. He expected much the same show and he smiled in her direction, encouragingly. “Buck up lass, I don’t think they gonna hurt ya. They ain’t the enemy righ.” Its a question just as much as a statement, and he hopes she answers it quickly.
Especially given the look the blonde was giving him, he wasnt quite certain if he should be excited, or terrified. But he pushed off the wall somewhat…it never paid to appear preylike around predator’s after all.
[Kora] Rory bends her head low, Rory shows her throat, Rory offers the Fenrir utter submission without a thought – to avoid another beating, to live inside the boundaries defined by her station, by her breed, by her birth. Kora looks down at her, her fine mouth drawing flat across her the sharp planes of her pale face, curling at the corner in response to this submission, and not pleasantly. Then Roman pipes up, and touches the brim of his Stetson; this is all a sketch in the corner of her peripheral vision, but it is enough to draw the sharp line of her attention upwards.
Sidelong, as Marc slips into his “limo” and waves with particular directness at the mule, before taking off down the street.
“If so,” she says, appending to Imogen’s question as to whether these folks were friends of Rory’s, ” – that one should find a ride more appropriate to the neighborhood, or he’s going to make himself an easy target for the cursed ones. You,” her dark eyes cut to Casey then; the tension remains in her frame; it sharpens her gaze and makes her skin seem all the paler. ” – wouldn’t be quite that foolish, would you?”
Another flick of a glance toward Fiona, all but growling down the street. Kora squares her shoulders, but says nothing to the stranger, and does not approach her.
[Rory] She watches Marc go, and then Imogen says hello, followed by Roman, and both get the shyest of little smiles. She answers Imogen with an introduction of sorts. “Casey.” and a point toward the car. “Marc.” It answers Casey’s question – at least those three are friend.
But the other…
But of all of them, it is Fiona that gets the most sudden and unexpected reaction. She growls. She dares growl and threaten in the streets that Rory calls home. She drops the backpack at Casey’s feet, and takes a step toward the other Fianna, her hands held loose and light at her side.
A low snarling growl starts at the base of her throat. She is Bogeyman. This is HER place. She stands her ground. THIS is a different Rory. This is the warrior, the full moon, the antithesis of the shy retiring hiding woman of a few moments ago. This is the Garou [uncomfortably] nearing Fostern.
The low growl rumbles up into a single word as she takes a step forward on the street of her territory, deliberately making a point.
“Mine.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen arches an eyebrow slightly, as Marc departs, at Casey’s shot in the other’s direction. The bucket she carries has a certain smell. Anyone familiar with blood would recognize it. One does not easily forget such an odour.
Imogen, too, turns her head to look at Fiona, growling down the street. The kinwoman’s gaze narrows, resting upon the Garou’s frame.
Rory steps forward to guard her territory. The eyebrow arches higher.
[Fiona Sullivan] The shyness that had been displayed in Rory vanishes all of sudden. Where she shows instant submission to Kora, it changes suddenly as Rory adheres to the blond’s threat and rightfully stands up to protect what is hers. An eyebrow arches high atop Fiona’s brow, surprised at the change. She rolls her shoulders forward, head lowering slightly to tilt her face to the side at other Fianna.
Green eyes on Rory, and to Rory alone. Tension bleeds out of Fiona as quickly as it had sprung, she crinkles up her nose, the slightest of smirks peeling at the corners of her mouth.
“Yours.” She says simply.
[Roman Turner] He had no idea what the hell was going on. The growling, the sudden standing up and claiming and, oh man, folk sure were weird here. Yup, this was the time to do what he did best. He had slipped in closer to Imogen, on the other side from her shooting arm. He knew better than to get in the way of that of a woman and her sidearm. And he looked towards Kora, taking his cue from her.
[Casey Steward] Casey had seen the switch in the shy redhead like a thunderbolt, one moment all was calm and quiet, the next there was a flash, and things might start burning..or exploding. The man’s hand went quickly to his coat pocket. But then Fiona accepts and the tension bleeds out of her, not rising to the challenge.
He then turns his gaze on the much, much closer Fenrir who stood over him, asking him if he was anywhere near as foolish as the man in the fancy car and he shakes his head with a smile. “Nae lass, I know how ta blen in an disappear like fog on the banks in tha early morn.”
He says as he gestures to his dirty, sand blasted leather coat, worn out jeans, and a black t-shirt which reads ‘Press! Tell me everything!’ He does his best not to look worried, but he hadn’t been this close to this many trueborn since he’d left Ireland.
[Kora] There is something strange going on here; something strange and primal – and the odd little trio, the redhead, the young cowpoke, and the feral, twenty-something blond are not part of it. They stand apart, arrayed oddly, watching as the sports car zooms off into the night, its brake lights winking against the darkness. Imogen holds a bucket of blood. This goes unremarked by all. Roman darts from the kinswoman’s right side to her left, knowing where she holds her gun. There is a moment of sharpening tension; Rory goes from utter submission to a feral snarl of challenge. Fiona – backs down. Or something; crinkles her nose and smirks.
In the space of those spare moments, Kora took an unconscious step or two forward, putting herself between both kin – Casey and Imogen – and the Garou facing off. Then the subtle challenge is over and Kora looks back down, sidelong, at Roman.
A brief, assessing glance at Casey then. “That is rather more neighborhood appropriate, I grant.” As if – what happened had not just happened. As if the thread of this conversation had been continuous throughout. Her humor is subsumed into her body; it does not read as humor, not on a night like this one. “You’re okay here, right?” – she continues, a dark flickering glance at Casey, “because, if so,” a jerk of her head toward Imogen and Roman. ” – we need to get going.”
[Rory] The other Fianna lowers her gaze, bares her neck, tilts her face, and the tension bleeds away. Rory is a contradiction – fearless, yet impossibly shy. Strong, yet instantly submissive to those she knows are of higher station [..everyone..], to those she respects, to those who are simply better than she is. Yet here, in the face of a new one clearly challenging her territory, who came up with a growl in her throat and clear threat – the rage in the lean metis is undeniable. She holds her gaze steady on the other as the smirk curves Fiona’s lips, and tips her head, slightly.
“Mine.” Acknowledgment, confirmation of Fiona’s submission.
Then a simple demand. “Who are you.”
[Roman Turner] Boy howdy he was ready to leave the Twilight Zone they had passed in to. From one trip in to the zone to another part of it, what a night. All he was waiting for was a change in body language that told him to make like a sheepherder and get the flock out of there.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s gaze moves to follow Kora as she steps between them. Little expression shows as she notes the protective, unasked for act. Merely stillness of the face, of the body.
Roman moves to allow the kinwoman a free shot, if it should become necessary, assuming that it would, guessing that it might. Two Fianna face off.
She watches the entire scene with an expression much like that. Remote, as if she were watching a play. Reserved, as if this did not affect her at all. She might even be bored.
As it is, Fiona acknowledges Rory’s claim and Rory begins the usual: demands of name, rank, tribe. Imogen’s heard it all before. Kora asks Casey if he’s alright, and Imogen turns to glance at the kinfolk, her expression unrevealing as she waits for his answer.
[Roman Turner] “My turn to carry it.”
Persistent is what he was. Barely speaking the words like he thought maybe Imogen would think it was her inner voice or something.
“Fingers gotta be getting sore by now and ya might need a free hand. Wouldn’t want to splash yourself.”
[Casey Steward] “Aye, Aye no worries here lass, ya can move on, you an your pals and yer…yer fine lookin bucket there.” Oh he had noticed the smell of blood, but it wasn’t a smell that particularly got to him anymore. He glanced briefly at the red liquid held within and then back to the faces of those around him.
“I’d certainly hate ta be whoever’ tha all came from then. I bet he deserved it even.” He says with a light laugh, not a nervous one, but one that was meant to disarm, to make others laugh with him. “Mayhaps sometime one a ye can tell me tha story.”
He asks, before looking briefly over to Rory and Fiona, before returning his gaze to those around him.
[Fiona Sullivan] The blond does not move from her position, she does not raise her head any higher that it already is, nor does she level her gaze with Rory’s. The other had become a contradiction – a surprise to Fiona, who in turn expected the redhead Fianna to simply back down. Her breathing quiets down as she swallows the desire for confrontation, the itch to fight. Shackling her beastly tendencies down with each intake of breath.
Her heart no longer thrums in her chest, no longer pulsates wildly in her throat. Rory demands a name. “Fiona Sullivan, Strength of Nehmain. Child of Danu. Full Moon. Cliath.” it all rolls off her tongue easily, the main focus of her attention was Rory and not the others, they were only shadows that played at the corner of her eyes, their voices a whisper in her ear, though, she can’t quite make out what they are talking about.
[Roman Turner] “It’s spoiled fruit punch. Had a wild shindig a few blocks back in the back of a limo. Broke down, fridge went out, had to hike it. Can’t leave the goodies behind, you understand. Though a good time was had by all. We gotta go. People to do, things to see.”
Explaining the bucket in the weirdest way this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
[Kora] “Sure,” Kora says, quiet, noting the man’s breeding. She can smell it, sharp and nearly as pungent, as promising as Imogen’s blood. She lifts her chin to his t-shirt, then, ” – as long as you don’t mean to print it someplace, I’ll share it with you. You’ll owe me a beer, though.”
Then, with a faint, curling shrug, Kora jerks her head across the street, and starts around the pair of Fianna, giving them a certain berth. When Roman makes his offer yet again, Kora looks down at Imogen, at the bucket in the kinswoman’s hand. “Give him points for persistence, yeah?”
[Rory] She tips her head, slightly, listening. Then nods. “Rory. Tongue Twister. Cliath Fianna Mull Foon.”
She doesn’t seem to notice her mistake in her words as she studies Fiona for a moment more, and then relaxes, and steps back, lifting her fingers to tuck her curls behind an ear, and moving back toward the others.
She catches Roman’s explanation of the bucket and she wrinkles her nose, slightly. She doesn’t apologize for the way she acted, as any of them would have done the same. She simply makes her way back to Casey, and her pack that is still resting at his feet, offering those leaving a shy smile.
[Kora] — Roman’s explanation of the bucket, though, draws the first edge of a genuine smile across her mouth. Kora barks out a sharp laugh; low, brief and sharp .
“What he said,” she confirms, the suggestion of laughter still woven into the weight of her words.
[Casey Steward] “Nay, nay no publishin, sharin amongst folk maybe, but no publishin.” He grins at the mention of beer and nods at the idea, lips briefly licked by a tongue as if in anticipation. “Tha sounds wonderful, canna wait ta see ye again.” He says as she walks around and out, Roman gives his explanation, and Casey arches a brow before laughing.
“I giv ya poin’s for tryin fella, but tis a wee bit harder than tha to fool tha press.”
He says with light joviality before looking back to the two women who had been staring each other down. Rory was headed in his direction, and he bent to pick up the pack and offer it too her.
“So ya are both of tha Tribe than?” He asks lookin from Rory to Fiona in the distance. “Saint’s alive tha’s a coincidence.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen, too, smirks at the explanation of the bucket, which she has, one must note, not handed it over to Roman, despite his persistence.
She’s said barely a half-dozen words since arriving. Of them all, it would appear, the kinwoman is the most reticent. From what he’s heard, the Irishman can make a few guesses about her, should he so choose. The British accent is a many layered thing. The woman is from the south of England, her Cornish accent still ever-present in her voice. She is educated – an expensive education, to boot. There is a bit of ‘pony and pims’ to the way she speaks, though it is by no means perfect.
“A pleasure,” she says toward Casey, though she had not offered her own introduction, stepping away, nodding to Rory in farewell. As she takes her leave, she offers Roman a bone – “Tell yeh what,” she says, as she starts away. “Next time, I’ll get yeh a bucket all fer yer very own. Alright?”
And with that, the trio takes their leave.
[Roman Turner] “I want a shiny new one, metal, not one of them plastic ones.”
And he was off with the other two, still chattering away.
“Good metal bucket lasts years, won’t crack if ya leave it out in the winter and won’t fade from the sun.”
[Kora] (thanks for letting us crash the scene, guys!)
[Fiona Sullivan] Fiona has not moved. She watches quietly as Rory introduced herself before making her way back to Casey. She straightens up, rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension still built up. Her head sliding from side to side with a pop of vertebrae that rolls down her spine. Hands tuck into the pockets of her sweat jacket, an eyebrow arched as she swings her attention to the others.
[Imogen Slaughter] (thanks for the RP, folks!)
[Fiona Sullivan] (welcome)
[Roman Turner] ((Thank you and night!))
[Casey Steward] [Thank you! later!]
[Rory] That pack? Weighs considerably more than it looks like when Rory handles it, and it weighs Casey’s arm down as he offers it back to her. Rory picks it up as if it’s nothing, and slips an arm through one of the straps, slinging the pack around to her back.
“Sorry.”
Shy, again. Though not quite so badly she’s forgotten to breathe. Yet.
[Casey Steward] He gasps as he lifts it, and looks slightly relieved as the woman took her pack. “Ack lass what are ya carryin in tha pack, a full suit o armour?” He asks as he chuckles and watches her. “You an Iona…both full o surprises aint cha?” He says with a grin as he looks past her to Fiona.
“Hallo thar lass, why don’ ya come on over an join us now tha no one’s plannin on killin no one?” He asks, the Irish accent rich and obviously native to the Isle itself.
[Fiona Sullivan] Only when the others are gone does Fiona move. Cautious steps taken towards Casey and Rory as she scrutinizes the other Fianna with another tilt of her head, “Quite the little switch aren’t ya, Rosie.” A hint of amusement purrs in her voice as she speaks out to Rory, green eyes drawn up and down as she looks her over.
And then, she glances at Casey, she is quick to pick up on his accent, trying to place just what part of the Isle it might fare from. “Just a little push. A wee bit shy and rose of the cheeks this one is, Rory was it, now?”
[Rory] She blushes, again and shrugs. “Sometimes.” Or at least enough metal things that she could likely make one. He invites Fiona over, and she makes sure she is standing to face her, somewhat protectively near Casey. Just in case.
Fiona calls her Rosy, and she ducks her head as if that could hide the blush. It’s no crime to be shy, and she has already proven that when the chips are down, she does not hesitate. She and Fiona couldn’t be more opposite – one bold and brash, the other near silent and shy. But she simply nods, confirming that it is Rory, not rosie.
[Casey Steward] The man smiles to Rory, and even more so to Fiona as she talks, while she is sussing out where he’s from, it sounds like an accent from around Galway, he is trying to piece together her’s as well.
“Aye she does seem ta have tha spark o fire when tha moment hits her don she?” He comments back to Fiona before smiling at Rory, reassuring her he isn’t insulting her, before he turned his brown green eyes back to Fiona and extended a hand as she drew close enough. “Incase ya didna hear it righ. I’m Casey Steward, good to meet ya Fiona, hell its a pleasure ta meet ya both, didna think i’d run aground o so many of tha Tribe so fast.”
[Fiona Sullivan] There is a stirring in the blood, one that Fiona can sense clearly inside of Rory. It is like a magnetic pull wrapped in the richness of Stag’s blood that flows through the redhead. The blond cannot ignore it, despite being drawn to it. Her shoulders roll back, straightening slight as if to posture. She gravitates closer to Rory, a brush of her shoulder against the other Fianna’s arm. She physically has to hold back the instinct that drives the blond to desire to be closer to the shy one.
Rory ducks her head at being named Rosie, Fiona tilts hers down, bending it until her ear brushes her shoulder and hair falls away from her face. The corners of her mouth pulling back into a wider grin, she speaks to Rory in a softer tone of voice now, it is more of a purr of words than a growl as before.
“Rory Rosie. Rosie Rory.” She singsongs, “Definitely a blooming rose with the way ya cheeks light up now ain’tcha, darling.”
Casey snares Fiona’s attention, she straightens up to look down first at his hand, and then up to his eyes. A blond eyebrow crooks upward, and she wets her tongue across her bottom lip. She rubs her left hand across the back of her jeans and extends it out to take his in a firm handshake, that is not ladylike at all.
[Rory] Casey’s comment isn’t taken as an insult, especially when he smiles at her… and then Fiona is moving closer, and Rory flinches slightly, tensing, ready to…. run or fight or something… even as the other garou teases her, singsonging in practically a purr. She can’t stop the blush, at this point, and her teeth worrying over her lower lip…
She’s closer, a shoulder brushing against her arm, the heat of her clashing with her own, even as she teases. It reminds her of how Ray teases her, a little. Of how Marc seems magnetically drawn to her. She doesn’t understand it, and it is almost… frightening.. for her, but she stands her ground… close to Casey just in case.
[Casey Steward] He shakes Fionna’s hand and then, boldly pulls her into a hug with a laugh and a slap on the back. “Aye come on now, ya really think all I got for a fellow Irish is jus a piss poor han shake?” He says squeezing her as he laughs before letting her go and looking over to Rory.
“Sounds like you got yourself a nick name Rory. One that fits the bill jus righ aye?” He asks with a chuckle as he looks between the two Fianna woman. “Tis a right red letter day taday wouldna ya say lasses? What a meetin of the blood, The Isle practically sings along the street’s at our tread.”
[Fiona Sullivan] Her eyes widen suddenly as Casey actually has the cojones to pull the blond into the vice of his arms to hug her and slap a hand across her back as if she were just one of the guys. He and Rory both, can see Fiona tense up. Her grip on Casey’s hand tightens slightly, before she releases it. Her hands rose to plant firmly on his shoulders to gently hold him at arm’s length, fingers digging into shoulders.
“Good aye, but ya need to watch that manhandling, love, might have found yarself without ya balls if’n ya not careful. Easy on the touching with the ragey ones, eh?” She releases him, shaking her head as her gaze swings back to Rory who is going to be quick to protect the kin.
[Rory] She blinks as casey hugs Fiona, and she reads the tension in the other Garou’s form, and starts to reach out a hand – quick indeed – until Fiona pushes herself back and tells him to be careful. Rory watches a minute more, before letting her hand fall again, wrapping around the strap of hr pack.
But that’s not to say she won’t dive between them if needed.
[Casey Steward] “Aye…aye your right, tha was abou as foolish as grabbin the bull by the balls, but…its been ages sine I laid ma eyes on a native daughter or son o the Isle. Ya can narry blame a man for such a thing.”
He feels the dig on his shoulders, and he doesn’t flinch, he simply nods, it was after all a momentary lapse. He watched the moment play out between the two women around him and he shakes his head. “Now loves, let’s no have another row aye? Wha’s say we all go and grab a pint, an relax an enjoy tha friendly company? I think we could all use it, my throat is parched from tha dry flight, an I’m sure tha both of ya could use one…my treat aye?”
He says as he gestures up the street to a random bar, it was always best to simply find the first, and the closest bar you could afterall…and it had been SO long since he’d been a real one.
[Fiona Sullivan] “If’n it has been so long since ya have been home, why not just hop a plane? It’s only an 18 hour flight after all.” She says it like she knows it, but then again 18 hours caged up on a plane doesn’t sound like something Fiona would do. She would hop the first moonbridge available.
Her hands fall back to her sides, crinkling her nose as she chuckles. She sidles up next to Rory, nudging her again with the touch of a shoulder. Her mouth drops close to Rory’s ear, “How about it, Rosie? Feel like a drink, I shall buy since its my fault for raising hackles at ya.”
[Rory] Casey offers drinks, and doesn’t flinch under Fiona’s grip – and Rory offers him that shy little grin, just before Fiona is close to her again. She’s nudged, and Fiona’s breath is warm across her ear as she too offers to buy. She flushes, warm color spreading over her cheeks as Fiona calls her Rosie again… and after a moment’s hesitation, she nods, slightly.
“Ok.”
[Casey Steward] “Because like all those in this wide world lass, we are kept from wha we truly wan.” He says with a smile. “My jailor is ma job, it shouldna surprise ya now should it?” He says as he finishes up the cigarette and butts it out on the heel of his shoe
The man watched as Fiona went and and leaned in close…ever so close to Rory and whispered to her. It was a pleasure to see that was for certain. The blonde and the Red head so close it was tantalizing. He enjoyed the show up until both of them agreed to the drink and then he waved generously towards the bar, bowing ever so slightly.
“After you then lovelies, tha ladies do go first a course…unless in this case tha Kin go first followed by tha True.”
[Fiona Sullivan] It is the nature of wolves to brush up along side each other, sniffing and nosing, vying for acceptance as they were social creatures. Now that there was no threat of a fight between the Fianna women, Fiona is closer to her feral side than her human, she noses and nudges against the other Garou, looking for acceptance now that she has displayed submission.
Rory’s shyness only encourages a bit of playfulness from the blond, and it might spark all sorts of ideas in the back of Casey’s mind. Fiona touched a hand to Rory’s elbow, cautious to see how far the other will allow the blond to test her boundaries when it came to physical contact. “Come then, loves.” Stepping off only when Rory moves, she follows the others to the bar.
[Rory] It is the nature of wolves to brush along each other, to vie for attention, to look for acceptance from one another. Rory, however, was raised in seclusion, alone, shunned for her desire to be close to someone, recently told she has no right to love, recently forbidden to see a man she cares for… Rory has been beaten for daring to reach for someone, she has been near killed for suggesting a ‘better’ was wrong, she has learned the hard way to accept what she is given, and to expect no more.
It only further confuses her when another slides up close, comes into her personal space, invades her bubble, and it is with gentle touches, and teasing smiles, and playfulness. It causes her to tremble, to wait for the next blow to fall, to wait for that first whitehot slash of pain that is sure to follow – and when it doesn’t, it causes her to stumble, to stutter, to fight to find something that is the same as what she knows.
She had accepted the submission from the other. She had protected her territory, that of her Pack, of the Bogeymen… but personal boundaries she doesn’t understand when it occurs, or even if it shouldn’t. Fiona touches her elbow, and Rory trembles under it, but she does not flinch away. She swallows, and then looks up at Casey, and then ducks her head, hiding that little smile, as she moves in the direction he indicates – though she doesn’t get too far ahead of him – or far away from Fiona.
[Casey Steward] Casey follows along at an amiable pace, this was a well practiced ritual this, a timeless tradition from the Isle’s hospitality and goodwill…well at least towards itself. He walked along with the woman as if they could be just out for a casual stroll with no particular destination in mind.
When they reach the bar, as it was barely a block the man pulls open the door and gives another almost sarcastic but good natured bow and a gesture inside. “After tha ladies.” He says before walking in behind them. The bar itself is as could be expected, somewhat run down, somewhat dank, and very dark. But there was a booth open, and it barely had any tattering in the upholstery.
Casey briefly broke off from the two ladies after gesturing to the booth and went to acquire the beer, a friendly greeting to the bartender as he slapped his hand down on the bar. He would rejoin them shortly.
[Fiona Sullivan] “Hey now…” Fiona purrs out, her voice growing soft, gentle in tone as she stays close to Rory. The heat that swelters around one Fianna clashes against that of her auspice mate, the swell of rage not something that can be easily ignored. Coupled with the women standing close together, they created quite a force that not many would want to approach, despite the beauty that each Fianna exudes all on her own.
Rory with her blushing cheeks, flaming hair and shyness.
Fiona with her bold, brassy ways, blond hair, and freckles (or boobs) take your pick.
Casey breaks away from them after escorting the Garou to a booth, Fiona collapses into one side, shoving across the bench to sit up against the wall. She pulls one leg over a drawn up knee and turns to look up at Rory to see which side the other sits at. Her gaze strays across the redhead for a second, catching herself as she stares too long and then promptly looks off towards Casey.
“Nice ass that one has would ya agree, Rory?”
[Rory] They are quite a contrast, even more so than Rory is a contradiction in and of herself. Casey breaks to the bar, and Fiona collapses on one side, and Rory is left to decide which side to sit on and she’s clearly… confused. She isn’t sure, and as a result she sort of… stands there, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She looks over at Casey, and then can’t help but take in his attributes when Fiona points them out, and she blushes, brightly.
“Yes.” Single words are easier.
She finally slips into the empty side of the both, thus leaving the choice of which side to sit on left up to Casey himself. Somehow, that seems safer.
[Casey Steward] The man took his time, chatting up the bartender, giving the man some decent conversation, he pulls out a bullet that he’d had put onto a necklace and flashes it to the man as he continues some tale as the bartender nods and readies the drinks for them. And it slips back inside his t-shirt when the tale is done, and the drinks are ready.
The man comes back to the table expertly carrying the three beers like its old hat to him. He spread the drinks out across the table, each pint gliding a stop right infront of each women…something practiced, or it was something he’d maybe done as a living. He took in the fact that the women had each chosen a side, and had left the decision on who to sit with up to him.
He took a moment, and then slid in next to Fiona, giving her space, but still coming close enough to raise his pint into the air so that they could all clink glasses together. As he raises his however, he pauses before the clink and speaks in gaelic. “Slainte chuig na fir, agus go mairfidh na mna go deo.”
[Fiona Sullivan] Fiona slouches in the bench, her eyes darting back and forth, across the bar to watch Casey and then over to Rory to skim over her. She stretches one arm on the table, laying it against the wall as she relaxes. Her other hand flattens across a denim-clad thigh, fingers drumming a quiet tattoo over the muscled limb. She gathers her thoughts, opening her mouth to speak just as the kin was making his way back to them, the beers skillfully handled as he sets them down.
She pulls her hand off her leg, reaching out to pluck up the bottle that slides her way, holding it up and waiting as Casey settles himself on her side of the booth. She tilts her head back, chin up, eyes half-closed to the little toast he gives. Chuckling, she nudges Rory under the table with the toe of her boot. “Tell me why ya so shy, Rosie Rory?”
[Rory] She does not seem surprised that Casey chose to slide into the seat next to Fiona. She is, after all, just a mule [wrong.bad] and when given the choice, she assumes she will not be it. So she expected him settle in next to the blond.
She wraps her hand around the beer as it is slid her way, her fingers warm, almost hot against the coldness of the brew. She lifts the mug when he gestures, and begins the toast, though it’s clear she doesn’t understand a word of it. She takes a careful sip, slow and measured, and in that it’s easy to see that drinking is also something new to her. So many things since coming to Chicago have been…
Fiona nudges her under the table, and Rory blinks, and then ducks her head, slightly. She wants to know why she’s shy, and Rory doesn’t really have an answer… stammering “I…I knon’t dow…”
[Ellie Carrol] There are people going out of the bar when she walks in. Her body moves very easily amidst the bustle of bodies squeezing in and out of the bar’s front door, her frame curving to meet the press of an arm or elbow or purse. It’s cool tonight and to shield her pale skin from a chilly June breeze, she’s wearing a worn jean jacket over a simple white tee shirt paired with faded jeans. A mass of dark auburn waves pools around her shoulders and down her back framing her face and taking away from her attractive features.
Once inside Ellie pauses after a few feet and scans the bar for something that could be a table or person or maybe nothing at all. After a few seconds she starts to move again, toward the bar.
[Casey Steward] He finishes the toast, and the the pint is brought to his lips, and several long chugs are followed by a welcome gasp of air and a light laugh as he first licks his lips, and then wipes away any remaining foam or excess upon the back of his leather jacket. The beer was then set down, and the man looked from Fiona, to Rory, both beautiful in their own rights.
He listened as Fiona tried to understand, to pry into Rory’s head and heart, and he couldn’t help himself but to smile as the woman responded in her stuttering, endearing way. “Perhaps she’s jus lullin us both inta a very false sense of security while she decides on somethin particularly horrific ta inflict upon us…like Karaoke or the macharaina.” He offers as his own theory, obviously joking.
The bar had cleared quickly…it really wasnt that surprising, not with the buzz of rage within the room, to others it was a deterrent, something to fear and run from…for a man like Casey however, it was the familiar tingle of home. When the new woman walked into the bar, and didn’t immediately find another bar to frequent, he raises a brow and briefly looks between the two women he was seated with, gesturing with a finger raised off the table towards the woman who wasn’t fleeing.
[Fiona Sullivan] It becomes difficult to keep her attention on just one person, as much as she would like to devote it there. Her eyes flick to any face that speaks, head tilting, body turning if it needs to, in order to face the speaker. Rory’s shyness only seems to make Fiona’s smile widen, causing the blond to straighten up in the booth. Her arm drags across the table away from the wall, curling inward towards her chest as her forearm tucks in when she practically lays across the table to gesture at Rory with the tip of her beer bottle.
Casey can feel the heat swarming around the blond, it is near-feverish on her sun-kissed skin. It makes her skin prick with bumps upon contact and the wet condensation from the bottle does not cool her flesh for long. She snorts softly, “Ya have got to know why… there’s always a reason.”
A blink, Fiona furrows her eyebrows together, taking a few swallows of her beer as she waits for Rory’s response and looks off in the direction that Casey motions towards. The new woman that enters the bar is unmistakable, if only for the fact she shares as much breeding as Rory does. It causes the Fianna to choke on her beer, sitting up straighter and swearing out. “Oh Sweet Mary Mother of God…”
[Rory] She shakes her head, slightly, the blush deepening. “Not always.”
She then looks up suddenly – but it’s not the purebred kin that has her attention, it’s something only she can hear. Her head tips, slightly, and her brow creases into a deep furrow, before her eyes widen suddenly.
“Cack palling. Got to go. Sorry.”
She takes a final swallow of her beer, then slides the rest of it over to Fianna, and then takes off at a near run, swinging her backpack over her shoulder as she goes, and intentionally giving Ellie a little nudge closer to Fiona and Casey as she moves by. A farewell gift, perhaps.
Then she’s out the door, into the alley, out of sight and gone…
[sorry, gotta work early! thanks for playing!]