[Quinn] To her credit, the kinswoman doesn’t simply break down into a weepy, teary mess when asked a surprisingly personal question. It’s obvious, though, that it’s affected her. It’s also obvious that she’s trying to pull herself together. After all, if she wanted to cry the night away, she wouldn’t have gotten out of bed this evening. Or she would have, if she’d tapped into her bottle of scotch all over again and became too drunk to care.
She came out, though, to listen to the piano and try to be normal.
Howard leaves in search of mistletoe, and Quinn rubs at her eye with the heel of her hand, accepting the joint with the other. She sniffs before she takes drag, and she holds it, blowing it out just in time.
Because when Patrick asks her if she’s okay, Quinn looks at him like he’s grown a spare head and his skin has just turned chartreuse. Suddenly she laughs. It’s not a full kind of laugh of mirth, it’s not even quite the sort of laugh Patrick might have heard before, while working on The Winchester or in some other space. But she laughs all the same, and she turns so that she’s more settled into the corner of the sectional.
“No,” she says, because there’s no point in lying. “But, I’ll be alright.” And if she believes in it hard enough, it’ll come true, right?
Just then, the wild-kin makes her appearance. Quinn herself is looking better than when she got up. Her hair is still an unruly mess tied back with elastic, of course, but color is returning to her cheeks slowly. Dressed in a t-shirt and lounge pants, she looks like she literally just rolled out of bed.
“Hey, Bridget. Merry Christmas!” she says with a flourish of the hand holding the joint.
[Ivers] Last night, Howard had had an actual sprig of mistletoe that he had been carting around with him. It was used to accost quite a few of the Kinfolk staff members at the Brotherhood of Thieves, and it made its appearance when he was out busking prior to his ultimate destination: the Winchester. At some point it was taken from him, and when he returned to the Brotherhood today, he found a spare twenty minutes in between episodes of substance intake to craft the Mistletoe 2.0.
He’d either purchased or found silver pipe cleaners, paper and markers. The colored and cut-out approximation of the plant is close enough, the artistic quality good enough that it actually looks like what it is he was going for, but the berries are not red. Either he thinks he’s being cute, or he can’t tell the difference between the two colors, or Patrick told him ‘Yeah sure man mistletoe is blue.’ Whatever happened, the mistletoe secured to the end of a pipe cleaner stalk has blue berries instead of red.
He wanders out of the hallway, silent, almost solemn, his eyebrows lifting when he notices Bridget. His outfit tonight isn’t as wild as some of the ones the feral kinswoman has spotted him in–black Converse, pin-striped pants, a neon pink t-shirt advertising a bar in Florida–but he’s still wearing his sunglasses. A moment to look around, and then Howard holds the stalk up like a torch and strolls into the center of the room.
“I had to make do,” he explains, lifting the abomination for demonstrative purposes.
[Patrick Llewelyn] To say that Patrick seemed taken aback by Quinn’s reaction was too strong a descriptor; but certainly his sandy brows draw together as if he cannot quite understand her laughter and what precisely she was trying to accomplish with doing it to his face on one of the rare occasions that he asks after, well, anyone.
On another night, it might just have sparked his Rage; but he can glimpse enough to see that when she finally says no, but I’ll be alright that she isn’t toying with him in his slightly unbalanced state; that she means it. It must satisfy him, or he’s distracted by the appearance of Bridget, or it’s the sight of Howard striding into the room like a torch-bearer at the Olympics.
Patrick drops his head; scratching his fingers over his scalp.
“Keep that away from me, man.” He says; adopting the pose of the man in thought; his elbow on his knee; face turned to one side; cigarette still in hand.
Yes, he’d completely informed Howard that mistletoe was blue — with a straight face, to boot.
[Bridget] And just as suddenly, everything’s right again. Funny how that happens with Fianna. And there’s nothing to chase away sorrows like… marijuana and mistletoe? Sure, why not. Bridget makes her way over to Quinn without being asked, puts a genuine warm smile on her face, and gives her kinswoman a hug. Because she looks like she needs it. The embrace, if not shunned, would be warm, whole-hearted.
Honestly, Bridget feels more connected now than she has in months… maybe like she could see this finally as another home. The joint captures a glance, and she grins.
“C’mon now, it’ll be alright.”
Howard’s mistletoe draws her attention. Blue? seems off somehow. Was the hipster being ironic? Bridget laughs again.
[Quinn] On another night, she might have sparked his Rage. On another night, Quinn might not have laughed in the first place. To her, though, it’s such an odd question. There she sits on the sofa, unshed tears dripping down the back of her hand where she wiped them away, her nose just reddening at the promise of a good cry. And Patrick asks her if she’s okay.
He doesn’t rage at her, which is in everyone’s best interest. It’s Christmas, and though they don’t know each other well, they are among Family. It should be a night of celebration, not a night for tears and sadness, or anger and rage.
Howard makes his triumphant return, and Bridget crosses to sit beside her. The hug is not shunned, but rather leaned into, and Quinn smiles, offers Bridget the joint.
Looking over at Patrick, she says, “You realize saying that means he’s probably going to use it on you first, right?”
[Ivers] Keep that shit away from me, man.
Patrick really ought to know better by now. They’ve been not only packmates but friends for nearly four years. The first time he met Howard, the kid was high as a kite and heckling people coming in and out of, of all places, a bank from across the street. Telling him not to do something only increases the odds that he’ll do it anyway; not because he has a compulsion to do the exact opposite, but because Howard does whatever the hell Howard wants to do so long as the chances of someone else being hurt are as slim as they’re going to get. Most of the time, what other people tell Howard to do doesn’t match up with his intrinsic motivation… so he just doesn’t bother even pretending to listen.
You realize saying that means he’s probably going to use it on you first, right?
The Theurge is moving even as Quinn is issuing her warning, twirling the mistletoe back and forth while whistling “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” When he gets to the couch he doesn’t go straight to the female whom he’d offered the diversion in the first place, or the one who he would probably find a more creative excuse than mistletoe with whom to lock lips, but his brother.
“Come on, Patsy,” he says, climbing onto the couch not next to but on top of the Galliard, “it’s fuckin’ Christmas.”
He’s got to be expecting to get hit. That’s usually what happens.
[Bridget] With two quick puffs of the gladly given joint, Bridget holds it out to return to Quinn. She holds it in as long as she can before Howard makes an ass of himself, acting like a total fruitcake with his packmate. The clinging kinswomen watch in amusement, and while one issues a warning, the other just grins ear to ear.
Watching two good looking men kiss is sort of hot, after all. But the moment is comical, so she releases the smoke with laughter.
[Quinn] She probably shouldn’t say it. Maybe it’s the marijuana, maybe it’s the hangover. Maybe it’s just the need for a diversion. Quinn leans a little toward Bridget and says, “You don’t happen to have a camera, do you?”
[Bridget] [Addendum]
[Bridget] “No, no I don’t, sadly,” she replies to Quinn.
[Quinn] “That is really too bad,” says the slightly older kinswoman, and she sounds genuinely disappointed. It’s all in good fun, of course, this ribbing of the packmates. It’s also playing with fire. So far the Garou have been alright with their kinfolk, have treated them almost like equals. But they still have Rage, and they still have tempers. Still have triggers that could be set off at a moment’s notice.
Ordinarily, Quinn might care and try to tread carefully. It’s always the quiet ones, after all, that explode the most violently when they explode at all. Tonight, she throws caution to the wind.
And gets ready to start taking bets on the winner of the impending scuffle.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick ought to know better.
He really, really should. But he’s a) more than slightly intoxicated and b) completely convinced that Howard, being, well, Howard would not stop to torment him before he could exact kisses from the females in the room. So he’s still in that same slightly bend state when his Alpha doesn’t just lean over him; but climb on top of him; he recoils, which just makes it worse and before he knows it has Howard draped over him demanding a kiss and calling him Patsy.
God, he hated that nickname.
“You’re right,” he says, as if Howard had just blessed him with insight and takes up his beer bottle; there’s about two mouthfuls left and they are promptly poured over Heir of the Ruined Day’s head. Then he gets pushed backward off the sofa.
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Merry Christmas, baby.” He says; through a mouthful of smoke; reclining once again.
[Ivers] [Theurge Skull vs. Coffee Table: THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE] [B]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 6, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Ivers] [Ow!!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 5, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Night’s Reprieve] Howard is being an idiot, Night’s Reprieve is silent, judgmental, and leans in the doorway.
All is right with the world.
“Merry Christmas.” His gruff voice. He seems disappointed that the coffee table didn’t leave a bigger dent in Howard’s head.
[Ivers] KRAK!
Howard gets a decent bump on the back of his head courtesy of his brother tossing him off like the pest that he is, smacking his head hard enough that it will leave a decent-sized lump on his scalp but not hard enough to split either the skin or the table itself. Rather than affecting outrage or actually seeming to feel the pain at all, the Theurge bursts into laughter, mighty fucking pleased with himself.
“Oh Jesus,” he croaks, arduously returning himself to an upright position on his newfound chair before shaking his head like a wet dog. Beer splatters the tabletop around him but isn’t flung far enough to hit anyone on the couch; miraculously, he hasn’t dropped the Mistletoe 2.0. “Fuckin’ Grinch, man.”
[Bridget] Since Quinn didn’t reclaim her joint, Bridget takes another hit, holding her breath. Patrick dumps beer on Howard and knocks him onto the coffee table, which succeeds at catching his fall but not at collapsing or giving under his scrawny weight.
Bridget links arms with Quinn to stay vertical under the comical weight of the situation. Howard has a hard skull, and it would take more than a coffee table to crack into it. Maybe Howard would be pissed about it, but he knew what he was getting into. Just in case, Bridget makes sure Quinn takes back her joint before drifting over towards Howard and Patrick.
But then, he laughs. Raucously. Bridget collapses on the couch and gently nudges the Welshman in the side.
“How do you two not end up killing each other?”
[Rory] Rory is not much for social niceties. She never has been – she is far too shy, far too quiet, far too…. Rory. But she is also hungry, and with the resurrection of the toaster on her last visit, has already paid for her meal. Much to so many of her Kins’ dismay, she always, always pays for her meal. Somehow.
So, the sandwich – roast beef, it looks like – and fries that she’s balancing on the plate in one hand, and the beer in the other, she is set to enjoy. Upstairs, so as not to set those downstairs more off than they are with the force of her Rage, thick enough to choke even under Luna’s half-darkened face. She climbs the stairs, and hovers behind NR where he leans against the door, not quite making it into the room, though she hears the krak of skull against table, and the laughter that follows.
She chews her bottom lip – there are more people up here than she expected – and considers turning right back around again..
[Quinn] Howard climbs onto Patrick, Patrick pushes him back, and Howard takes a nasty tumble into the coffee table. He laughs it off, Quinn at least doesn’t even bat an eye. This actually makes the room feel more like home than it has since the kinswoman has arrived.
This is what Fianna do. They drink and they party and they fight. It’s a rowdy bunch to be a part of, and Quinn is no exception.
Bridget links arms with her, and Quinn just laughs, mouth spread in a grin that might have seemed impossible a few minutes ago. When the blues singer gets up, Quinn just leans back.
“You guys are nuts,” she says affectionately. “Hey, Night’s Reprieve. Merry Christmas!”
[Patrick Llewelyn] The Fenrir is at the doorway after all this; leaning and judging the Caldera boys — business as usual, really. Patrick nods up at him, which apparently suffices for his hello and then Bridget is collapsing beside him and giving him a nudge in the side; that close to the Galliard; she can smell the beer and aftershave and smoke hanging off him like a second skin.
To say nothing of the constant press of his Rage.
He extinguishes his cigarette and drops it into the empty beer bottle; then turns his head to answer the singer; his mouth reluctantly quirking up in one corner. “It’s a constant battle, I won’t lie to you.”
[Ivers] “He loves it,” Howard pronounces, hauling one stem and then the other up onto the coffee table to sit cross-legged, the untied laces of his sneakers dangling over the edge of the table. A beat, and then he points towards the Godi with sharp accusation written into the tendons of his hand. “Oi! This tiny-nippled git keeps stealin’ my fuckin’ lighters!”
[Bridget] There is suddenly an influx of Rage in the room that makes the stoned French Canadian turn around in her spot at the couch to notice. There’s the Fenrir she recognizes from before, and a red-headed wonder she hasn’t. Bridget quirks a smile and turns around again, sinking into the couch to get comfortable. Her eyes aren’t puffy, but they’re glazed. She giggles a bit, watching Howard writhe around a bit.
And like Quinn, Bridget also feels like this is home.
[Night’s Reprieve] “Hello Quinn.” He replies, nodding his head to her and looking her over briefly to make sure she hasn’t been mauled to death by the wyrm today. Maybe they take a day off on christmas too, maybe the spirals are all dancing around their christmas tree right now fighting over who has the most gifts and which ones are biggest.
And Rory is there, no not dancing around the spiral tree, but in the common room. Or at least almost in the common room. NR swings an arm past her shoulders and nudges her in with a smile before following after her.
“So, what are we smoking and drinking? And has anybody raided the kitchen yet. I’m starving.”
[Night’s Reprieve] “My nipples are of adequate size Howard.”
(lol)
[Quinn] Quinn also notices the redhead behind the familiar bulk of the Godi. She actually shifts in her seat, leaning to the side and craning her neck to get a better look. If she happens to catch the Ahroun’s eye, Quinn smiles and gestures for her to come join them.
“Whatever we can get our hands on, I’m guessing,” she answers regarding their indulgences. “And they’ve got a pretty nice spread down there, hon, you should definitely check it out.”
[Ivers] “‘Adequate size?‘”
As if this is the most outrageous thing he’s heard all night.
“If you’re a dwarf, maybe! They’re fuckin’ miniscule! It’s like they can’t handle the cold so they’ve retracted into your chest! Christ!”
With that, he makes pincer movements with his left hand in the direction of whoever is still holding the joint.
[Rory] NR sweeps an arm past her, and she flinches. It’s just a little, but it is unavoidable, though she manages an apologetic smile up at him, briefly, before she scoots into the room, ahead of him.
He asks if anyone has raided the kitchen, and she looks down at her plate, while her belly gives an angry grumble at her lack of speed in putting that sandwich where it belongs. It’ll have to be angry a moment longer though, as she offers her plate, quietly. Despite the renown that she holds, she has yet to challenge for rank, and all are above her – even Night’s Reprieve.
And then they’re all talking of nipple size, howard loudest of all, and she does what comes natural – she blushes, bright red, and ducks her head to hide behind her curls. She scoots to the side, finding someplace out of the way, so that she can slide down a wall tos it on the floor, where she waits to eat until sure NR does not wish anything from her plate.
[Night’s Reprieve] Night’s Reprieve frowns, looks at Howard and seems to be contemplating something. He lowers his hands, lifts up his shirt and pulls it up to his shoulders so he can peer at his nipples.
“What are your nipples like Howard?” He pauses and frowns again. “Are you sure there is something wrong with mine?”
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Oh, dude!” Patrick throws his hands up and grimaces at that.
“Put them away.”
[Bridget] At the mention of food, some of the furniture kinfolk and helping hands of the caern bring up some food for those that linger. There’s ham, french toast, disassembled deli sandwich parts for sandwich making, fruit, and random Christmas sweets.
Bridget yanks a plate of french toast, ham, and some rum balls. Meal of champions, for sure. Suddenly, there’s a spat brewing over nipple size. Bridget reaches over to poke Howard in the chest in the approximate area of his nipples.
“Put your money where your mouth is, shit-talker.”
[Quinn] “Whoa-kay,” Quinn says when Night’s Reprieve lifts up his shirt to show off his upper body. Er, his nipples.
“Yes, Howard,” Quinn says, leaning forward, wrapping her hands around her ankles and grinning impishly at the Theurge. “Let’s see ’em.”
[Rory] Rory – well, rory is already blushing. But as the conversation continues, she dares peek up at NR’s nipples, glances at Howard, and the red deepens. It’s not hard to imagine that blush goes clear to her toes, either.
As to why, that’s anyone’s guess.
[Ivers] Howard twirls around on the coffee table–jerkily, considering he has his legs crossed and has to propel himself with a hand–to face his accuser head-on. He lets that sharp, barking “HAh!” of a laugh go when he sees the Keeper of the Land displaying his nipples for all to see.
“There’s nothin’ wrong with ’em, I just can’t fuckin’ see them!”
At which point there’s a duet of name-calling and goading. He grunts when Bridget’s finger hits his chest, and he takes a theatric drag off of the joint before handing it back.
“I’m not takin’ off my shirt unless someone validates this poor bastard’s–” He waggles the Mistletoe 2.0. “–existence either before or after. My nipples are very shy.” A beat, and then another wild gesture towards the Godi. “Not as shy as his; they don’t try to fuckin’ hide when they’ve got an audience.”
[Bridget] Bridget looks at Quinn with an impish grin in return. This grin could mean one thing: she’s thinking of something that could get her in trouble. She leans over to her kinswoman and whispers something while they’re all being loud.
[Night’s Reprieve] Night’s Reprieve mumbles an apology to patrick and peels down his shirt again, covering up his man-chest. But Howard isn’t complying, he is waving something that Night’s Reprieve can only guess to be some form of plant vacuum cleaner accessory and claiming his nipples are shy. But not as shy as the Godi’s.
“Okay well, Howard. What do you think can be done about shy nipples? Perhaps a spirit to blow warm air on them.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick stands up abruptly; and probably sends Bridget wobbling down into the spot he’s vacated. “I need at least two more beers to handle this.” He proclaims, and starts to maneuver himself in the direction of his room where he has, apparently, stashed a number of the bottles.
He’s scratching at his blond head as he goes; and casts his eyes over at the blushing red-head he doesn’t actually recall having met. “Hey, you want a beer? You look about as excited as I am by this nipple parade.”
[Rory] She gives NR another 30 seconds or so, to claim anything off her plate, and when he continues to discuss nipples instead, she tucks into the food like she hasn’t eaten in a week. Her timing, of course, is perfect…ly awful, as that is when Patrick decides to ask her a question. She peeks up at him through her lashes, then lowers her gaze respectfully, before lifting her own beer.
“Thanks.”
It’s not exactly turning down a second one, of course, just pointing out she has one. And she doesn’t say anything else – Rory’s not much for long speeches, ever.
[Quinn] Bridget leans in to whisper something, and Quinn tilts her head at her. Before she can try for more information, however, Night’s Reprieve asks for help with shy nipples.
So the last thing Patrick hears from the older of the two kinfolk before he disappears to find beer is a muffled, “Oh my god he said ‘blow,'” just before she dissolves into a case of the giggles.
[Night’s Reprieve] His stomach grumbles. It is rather loud, and the frown that follows seems full of concern.
“I’m hungry.” He declares. “I think–” He pauses. The girls are giggling, Night’s Reprieve looks like someone just slapped him in the face with a bucket of red paint.
“I’m gonna..–”
“I need..”
“Excuse me.”
And he steps swiftly from the room towards the stairs.
[Ivers] Despite his best efforts, Howard can’t stop himself from laughing at what Night’s Reprieve’s solution to his shy nipples turns out to be. The others have to have lost count of how many times he’s informed someone that what they’ve just said is gay this week alone, let alone since he arrived in Chicago earlier this month. This is longer than they thought they’d decide to stay here; it was a whim, something they thought up while under some state of chemical influence.
He loses the battle when Quinn starts giggling.
“I dunno,” he says, through his own snickering. “I’m not gonna be the one to ask a fuckin’ wind spirit to blow on your nips, mate, that’s fuckin’ gay.”
[Bridget] Quinn’s giggling is infectious, and considering they’re stoned, it’s not surprising that Bridget joins in. Bridget collapses into a fit, leaning into her kinswoman. This bonding thing, is working out well. Too bad Night’s Reprieve looks like he just stepped into a puddle of FAIL and emasculated himself.
Howard’s ironic lecturing on the nature of things that are and are not gay makes the Canadian laugh so hard that she breaks into hiccups.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon comes up the stairs whistling softly, and his usual outfit is marred by a green velvet coat with fluffy white lining and a matching pointy hat. Seems someone went out of his way to be festive for the evening, though his usual dark clothing can still be seen underneath. His backpack is slung over his shoulder and his attention slips across the room as he whistling the tune to “White Christmas”.
He enters the room with his head held high despite the silliness of his outfit. The full moon makes his way to a table and tosses his backpack right down before taking the time to look around at the others gathered for the little get together.
[Rory] Rory blinks as NR makes his escape, and looks over at the giggling threesome, before simply turning back to her plate, and taking another bite. Or three. Followed by a swallow of beer. Or two.
[Ivers] [THE WHEEL OF FATE
1: Simon
2-5: Bridget
6-9: Quinn
10: chase after Patrick]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2
[Quinn] “Oh, no, don’t!” Quinn says, and from her seated position on the couch leans forward with arm outstretched toward the Godi, like she could actually manage to stop him from alllll the way over there. She doesn’t quite stop giggling, continues like she simply cannot to save her life, but she does try. When it’s obvious the thoroughly embarrassed Fenrir cannot be stopped, she leans back and loses herself to the giggles all over again.
Reaching up her hands to her face, she scrubs at the lower half, and looks around the room again. It’s a good thing her hands were already over her face, because that’s when Simon makes his way up into the common room. One look at that outfit and the kinswoman is trying and failing utterly to keep her laughter contained.
[Ivers] About the time Simon is thumping up the stairs, Howard has lost interest in hollering after the Godi. Bridget’s timing is rather fortuitous: she bursts into giggle-induced hiccups as Howard is whirling around to do Christ knows what, and that just happens to catch his attention.
It also puts his back to the Shadow Lord, which isn’t all that fantastic a prospect.
Howard climbs onto the couch next to Bridget, then says, “Here.” The Mistletoe 2.0 is pushed into her hand, his own forcibly closing her digits around it if need be. “Here, here, that’ll… this totally fixes hiccups.”
[Bridget] Her head floats above in some invisible ether swimming through the room when Howard moves too quickly into Bridget’s personal space. She has no time to flinch or move back when he climbs onto the couch in Patrick’s old spot to hand her the awful pipe cleaner ornament. A smallish giggle is interrupted by a HIC. Her head bobs a tiny bit with the movement. Her French Toast is forgotten, abandoned on the table.
Simon’s adorable elf costume garners a look from the kinfolk. Howard clasps her fingers around the pipe cleaner representation of what Howard thinks mistletoe looks like. She holds it up to the light, squinting at it.
“What am I–” HIC “–supposed to do with this?”
[Patrick Llewelyn] The Galliard pushes open the door to the sound of riotous laughter and giggling from the Common Room. He shakes his head; laughing soundlessly with more than a touch of grim reflection on the occurrences and pulls his tie from over his head. This gets tossed in the general direction of his bed and he’s unbuttoning his navy shirt as he reaches for one of the beers sitting on the desk that seperated his side of the room from Howard’s.
There was, truth be told, not much between them but that Patrick’s was littered with sheet music and his guitar sat against the wall on his side; on the floor beside it were his clothes; a duffel bag and what looked like a stack of recently given CDs; if the wrapping paper around them were any indication. Shirt unbuttoned to reveal a plain wife-beater beneath; the tale-singer pushed open the bedroom window an inch and sat on top of the desk.
He tapped out a cigarette from one of Howard’s many packets left scattered and took a swig of beer.
Apparently, Patrick was in hiding.
[Rory] one drink becomes two, becomes four, and Patrick still hasn’t returned, and Rory, well. she’s sort of invisible too, despite all of her rage, and the high color that stains her cheeks, and her beer is dangerously empty… and here’s Simon in his elf costume, and Howard is forcing a mistletoe on Bridget, and…
Well… it’s suddenly too much for the redhead, and she decides breath of air might be necessary, and so she stands, and after a moment, heads down the hall – conveniently following Patrick’s former path. A beer’s even better than fresh air, after all.
She pauses in his doorway, loitering for half a second, before she lifts her almost empty bottle, and asks softly, with that same shy little grin, and lowered gaze. “….another?”
[Patrick Llewelyn] He’s got a six pack there; and there’s at least another three bottles slowly growing warmer as the seconds tick by so he can’t exactly claim he has none to share when his shy little red-headed tribes-mate pokes her head in the partly open door and inquired after another.
Patrick; leaning against the window-sill lighting a cigarette; shakes out a match and glances over at Rory. “Hey,” he encourages her entry with a jerk of his head and the vague sense of amusement at her following in his footsteps out of the party scene. “Sure, knock yourself out.”
He grabs one, and holds it out to the Metis, smoke running from his nostrils.
[Rory] She looks back over her shoulder toward the party in the other room, and that kills any hesitation she feels about stepping into the room that houses the Calderas. She does so respectfully, though, and moves with a quietness that is at odds with the force of rage that surrounds her.
She looks around a moment, then chooses a relatively clean spot on a bed to sit, before setting aside her first bottle, and reaching for the offered second. In exchange, she offers her plate, still not quite meeting his gaze, hiding behind those curls.
“Fries?”
[Ivers] What is she supposed to do with this.
“Well,” he says, his voice acquiring an academic air that is almost monotonous, one eyebrow briefly visible over the top of his sunglasses, “in America, people use this fuckin’ plant called ‘mistletoe’ as an excuse to run around extracting kisses from people, and in South Africa it’s a well-known fact that snoggin’ cures hiccups, ergo…”
[Bridget] Oh, is that what it’s supposed to be? the Canadian looks at it speculatively, holding it still in the light. She quirks her eyebrow, observing Howard’s fabulous craftsmanship. After the lengthy moment, she places it atop her head, crosses her legs, and imitates a meditative pose with her index finger and thumb touching.
“So,” HIC “Ugh… Why’s it blue?”
[Patrick Llewelyn] Unlike his pack brother, Patrick was more conventionally handsome. While Howard’s charisma was unmistakable, his broad-shouldered Galliard had his own brand in his quieter, far more stoic demeanor. His hair was cut short for ease of care, and his face lacked the facial hair to suggest he was much older than his early twenties; if that.
His eyes were a very intense blue and made meeting them either something of a shock, or a rather enjoyable experience depending on Patrick’s mood, and the phase of the moon. Of the two of them, though, it’s the shy Rory who came out on top when it came to innate Rage.
Maybe that intrigues Patrick; he certainly seems interested in the manner she avoids his gaze, though he bends over and accepts some fries in exchange, holding them up as if in toast. “Thanks,” he says, and devours them; following this up with an introduction; of sorts. People were beginning to fathom just how unlike most Galliards he was after they bore witness to him trying to do anything but sing.
“Patrick, ‘m Howard’s pack-mate, people like us call me Prayers to Broken Stone. Howard will call me anything, but you can typically ignore it.” He breathes smoke out away from her.
[Quinn] What’s she supposed to do with that, Bridget asks, holding the crafted item up like an invitation, and Howard explains.
In South Africa, snogging curse hiccups.
“Bullshit,” Quinn laughs, unfolding her legs and pushing herself upright. Whether or not Bridget goes in for the kiss or not, Quinn isn’t going to stick around to find out. “I need a shower. Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone,” she says, looking back over her shoulder at the couch.
She heads for the hallway, her steps only slightly unsteady. The Shadow Lord gets a smile and a wave and as she passes the door to room 3, she looks in and offers them a wave in passing, as well. After a brief stop in her room for a change of clothes and her shower kit, she heads into the bathroom for a shower.
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon catches sight of the pair seated with Howard rather quickly. He even notes Howard and the fact that his back is turned on a Shadow Lord, of all things, kicks instinct in. It’s Christmas, and Howard isn’t that bad! So Simon chases back the instinctive urge to pounce and stab the man in the back that genetics instilled in the young ‘Lord and instead he wanders up behind the man quietly. His bottle brought in and settled near his shoulder as Simon flanks the Theurge.
He greets the ladies present with a charming youthful smile.”Greetings ladies.”He lets his eyes stop on Bridget for a second or two before peeking down at Howard as he leans in behind him.”Howard.”He says in a pleasant enough tone to all present before grinning a little and looking down at Howard.”Isn’t it in Africa where they also believes sex with Virgins cures HIV? I dunno if local folk remedies are always the best thing for ya. I hear Albino Organs treat all manner of illnesses out that way.”He was teasing when he said this or at least his eyes said this much.
[Rory] Whereas most Fianna women she has known (admittedly few) Rory is completely unaware that she could be considered stunning in the looks department. That is, if one liked green-eyed, freckle covered, thin and barely curvy redheads. In fact, she was blissfully unaware of any use for her monkey skin other than to hide the fact that her only REAL use was to kill things. Quickly. Often in one bite.
She kinda likes the other uses, now. But that is a different story – and one she does not tell Patrick.
In fact, what she does tell him, is short, and careful. “Rory. Tongue Twister. Mull Foon.” …and all fucked up. She doesn’t seem to notice though, as if she hears what she intended to say, rather than what she did.
She used to finish that with ‘bogeyman’ but as she is the last bogeyman standing, she leaves it off tonight. There’s a flash of something undefinable, but it is gone just as quickly as it touched her eyes.
Howard has called her many things too. She doesn’t tell Patrick that, either. Instead, she works on finishing the rest of her sandwich.
[Rory] (Whereas – no. Unlike, yes. God, learn to proofread, Lessa!)
[Ivers] Howard doesn’t jump or scream when Simon sneaks up on him; his eyebrows drowsily lift before he ends up scowling at what comes out of the Ahroun’s mouth. His speechlessness lasts for a grand total of two seconds before he’s pointing at the other Garou as though he’s about to drive him an impressively important point.
“A: you’re an ignorant twat,” he says, and then quits pointing. “B: it’s fuckin’ science, mate, not… whatever the fuck albino organs are. Here, watch, I bet you five bucks she quits hiccupin’.”
Wherein he leans in and kisses Bridget neither on the cheek nor for the perfunctory half-second the traditional mistletoe kiss is supposed to last. Given that this mistletoe is blue and made out of paper and pipe cleaners, it’s not exactly conforming to Christmas industry standard anyway.
[Night’s Reprieve] Night’s Reprieve emerges back into the room carrying a plate of various meats and vegetables. He has a turkey drumstick hanging from his mouth and a large pitcher of beer in his other hand. He casts a glance around the room.
The drumstick falls from his mouth.
“..No.”
[Bridget] Quinn abandons Bridget to be all alone with the leprechaun hipster and the elf-costumed Wyrmfoe. But, she’s stoned and there’s mock mistletoe on her head. So it’s not all bad. Her glazed eyes follow Quinn off to her hallway exit, then drift to Simon, then to Howard. Both of whom she inspects longer than necessary.
And despite Simon’s sudden delving into the realm of CREEPY, Bridget either doesn’t notice or she’s too busy drooling over the newfound attention of these two. Several hiccups go by during all of this.
“Ne fonctionne pas,” she mumbles.
[Bridget] [Adendum, jove did not refresh]
[Bridget] Then, like magic, the mock mistletoe works shortly before being knocked off her head by the movement. She blinks twice before she realizes what’s going on, then closes her eyes, and returns the gesture. It’s rather nice despite Howard doing it partly as a pissing contest. It does get her pulse to pick up a bit.
But it doesn’t cure her hiccups, which makes her giggle again.
[Patrick Llewelyn] He notes the tangled words, but doesn’t mention it.
There are various reasons behind why he probably doesn’t. The most probable is he’s too drunk, and probably a little too stoned, too if he’d been partaking earlier to pay that much attention to the spoonerism. The other possibility is the amusing theory that the human brain can and will in fact automatically interpret words either spoken or written as long as there are some common elements left in it by which to do so.
So the Galliard’s brain perhaps hears Null Foon as what is sounds like to Tongue Twister’s mind as she speaks it; Full Moon. Either way, he just nods, and tacks on to his own. “Galliard, believe it or not.” He raises his eyebrows and swallows down the taste of smoke and fries. The giggle halts for a brief moment or two in the common area — and then begins anew.
Patrick scruffs a hand over his neck.
“Reckon they’ll pass out soon?”
[Night’s Reprieve] The girl is returning the kiss. Night’s Reprieve looks decidedly awkward. Slowly he bends down and picks up the drum stick off the floor, he thinks about putting it back in his mouth but after flicking another glance at the two kissing Fianna he decides that would be unwise. It gets placed on the very edge of his plate.
His shirt now has turkey on it, lovely.
“I’m..” He tilts his head staring with fascination at Howard and Bridget. “Wow.”
“I need to clean up.”
And he turns away and heads down the corridor, stopping to place his plate in his room.
[Simon Zahradnik] He laughs a little and shrugs his shoulder before lifting the bottle to his lips and tipping it back.”Still pretty fuckin’ badass that you lived in Africa anyway. I thought they killed our kind out that way without question but what would I know ignorant twat and all.”He says as he leans against the back of the couch to watch the kiss with a little grin of his own taking shape as he glances between the two of them.
“Wow that was a pretty sweet hiccup cure.”He adds as he kneels down and leans against the back of the couch.”I totally wish I had Hiccups right about now.”He says before reaching down to Snatch the Mistletoe up in one hand and examine it, tossing it over in his hand before shrugging and glancing at first in Bridget’s direction and then in Howard’s direction. Oh how his eyes seem to Sparkle when he glances in Howard’s direction and he slowly lifts the Mistletoe up and over his head.”Then again why wait till I have Hiccups?”He asks Howard, his grin never once slipping from his face.
[Rory] She tips her head, curiously, as he states his auspice as something she might not believe. She, despite what she is, still retains an odd innocence, a belief that things are as she is told them. If he had said he was a philodox, she would believe him. If he said he was a theurge, and could dance on water, she would believe him. He is her better by virtue of his birth – she would believe him.
She glances at the door, and the common room beyond, and then lifts a shoulder in a slight shrug as she gives the question thought – as she does all things asked of her. As if it is important, and needs disecting before offering her opinion.
“Maybe. Will let gounder, first.” Howard is, after all, Fianna.
Her attention is drawn to the sheet music, the guitar, then, and she smiles, softly, partially lost in a memory. “Play?” a question of if he does – for which the answer is obvious – as well as a request that he would, and maybe if he would let her try, too. An awful lot, wrapped up in one single word, isn’t it?
[Patrick Llewelyn]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Patrick Llewelyn] Play?
His eyes follow after her own, he glances over at his guitar and raises his brows. “You wanna hear something?” He seems to debate whether or not he can be bothered shifting from his perch and then with another swallow of beer pushes himself upright.
“Yeah, alright. Help tune them out, hey.”
He shuffles over and grabs the instrument, adjusting the strap around his neck and hopping back up to perch on the edge of the desk. Then; strumming a few chords; Prayers to Broken Stone begins to play. He doesn’t sing for this piece, but allows the music to compose and dance from his fingertips instead. They glide over the strings with a surprisingly amount of delicacy, extracting from the finest of notes to the most brilliant and stirring chords.
The song is fast-paced, it spins and dances and wraps around the room; floating out into the common room. It’s a song of his home-land, of his own people; his own family. He’s focused while he plays, Patrick, and no amount of conversation from spectators pierces through as he leans against the guitar; at one with it. As melded to it as if they were at once forged.
[Rory] He asks if she wants to hear something, and she nods, eagerly. She hasn’t had anyone play for her since Ruarc, who taught her a song, or two. She still has his battered guitar in her room, plays when she is most lonely, or most filled with sadness at the lack of compassion of others. To hear it played like this, though… like this… is a treat. It is something she savors…
She sets aside her plate, empty now, and pulls her knees to her chest, hugging them close as she listens. Her chin finds it’s way to rest on her knees, and she lets the music spin and dance around her, carrying her away to the land of his people, his family.
Things she has never known.
She is lost in his song, much as he is while he plays it – nothing gets through. Not the conversations in the other room, not the laughter, not the party. There is nothing but Patrick and his playing, and the music that so easily stirs the soul…
[Ivers] Wow, that was a pretty sweet hiccup cure.
The Fiann looks between Bridget and Simon and back again, the expression on his face clearly discernible despite the face-obscuring quality of his aviators: it’s a combination between disgust and alarm, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that a Shadow Lord would sit still and watch a pair of Fianna kiss. Perhaps he had hoping the sight would make Simon vanish; Night’s Reprieve had gotten out of there mighty fucking fast, after all, and the Fenrir are not nearly as contentious towards Stag’s children as Thunder’s grandchildren are.
“You’re a fuckin’ creep, mate!” he says, laughing, taking his hand off of whichever part of Bridget’s body it had latched onto during the failed hiccup cure. He doesn’t try to snatch the Mistletoe 2.0 off of Simon’s head, but neither does he swoop in and try to give him a kiss, either. “What do I look like, a fuckin’…”
Howard turns back to Bridget, as if to consult with her.
“Whaddaya call a doctor what uses sexual favors to cure his patients, a herpologist?”
He gives her mere seconds to retort or contribute before he wheels back on Simon. A pause, a cant of his head, and then he considers.
“Y’know, you are awful cute with that fuckin’ thing bobbin’ over your head like that…”
[Bridget] As fucking hot as it would be to watch them kiss, Bridget catches an ear for the most amazing sound she’s ever heard in her life. Even better than the time she played for those gremlin spirits. Her head floats up there in that sound-filled ether. The chit leans back on the couch, watching the two of them, wild-eyed.
“That’s just…” She stops, hiccups. “Just… wow. Ten kinds of–”
It occurs to her vaguely that she’s actually saying this out loud, so she opts to say instead: “Joyeux Noël.”
[Bridget] ARGH fuck you jove.]
[Bridget] Nope, nevermind. Roll with it.]
[Simon Zahradnik] He shakes his head.”It’s a Herpetologist… And that’s a dude who studies reptiles. I don’t have a clue what a Herpologist is but the second I find out I will tell you.”He says with a little laugh before shrugging his shoulders and tossing the Mistletoe 2.0 Back at Howard.”Cute and Innocent too in my little elf outfit dontcha think?”He asks Howard with that brilliant smile never once leaving his face before shrugging his shoulders.”You don’t wanna kiss me? Fine… I can take a hint but it’s your loss man.”He says with a laugh before tossing the Mistletoe into Howard’s lap. He slowly stands and smiles when the sound of Patrick’s song hits his ears. His smile lifts and he looks towards the hall and then back at Howard.”Is that your Packmate? He’s good…”He says with a dreamy look in his eyes.”Maybe I should go kiss him instead? If ever there were a thing in this world that could turn a straight man gay it would be that song… Screw that Litany shit that boy can play.”
[Bridget] Simon’s completely confusing behavior stuns the Canadian completely. It shows. She has a complete What. The. Fuck. expression for about three seconds before it starts making sense to her. Memories of a club in Lake View flood back to her. Something spoke in her head to seduce him then and bring him to the basement, and she did her best… and he just… didn’t go after it.
Bridget, you are such an idiot. The inner dialogue commenses while the kinfolk sits upright, completly baffled by what just seemed to have happened.
Her eyes flick to the mistletoe on Howard’s lap. She speaks before he can say something horrid.
“I don’t think it works for those parts.”
Amazing. She no longer has hiccups.
[Ivers] Howard isn’t exactly desensitized to the music his brother is capable of playing, to the fucking heavenly music that is drifting out of Room 3 and into the common room like the first rays of light after a torrential downpour; more like it, he has been listening to his brother play for so long that it would take an atrocious performance, or the flawless rendition of a song that the Theurge holds dear to his heart, to get him to react. He hears it, and despite its upbeat tempo and stirring melody, it’s actually somewhat calming. The Galliard doesn’t play much music anymore, and when he does it tends to veer towards the melancholy or the downright depressing. This isn’t either, and a smile threatens to commandeer Howard’s mouth before Simon speaks.
He fumbles with the arts and crafts project when it’s tossed at him, coming nowhere near close to catching it. Simon’s standing has Howard lazily craning his neck to look up at him, but only so long as it takes him to reach Screw that Litany shit before Howard is looking back at the fire-eyed kinswoman beside him.
“You’re supposed to dance to this shit,” he says, taking her hand without snatching or grabbing for it; he’s more stoned than he sounds. “C’mon.”
[Bridget] (Dex+Athl)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 6, 7 (Failure at target 7)
[Bridget] Suddenly she’s being dragged out of her seat. And then that’s that. She’s being asked to dance, so she stumbles against her tribesman, corrects herself, and does her best to dance while stoned. She tries to start dancing, but she’s too distracted, too stoned, and keeps tripping over her own feet and leaning against her dancing partner. At least she doesn’t fall on her face.
“What are you doing?” she asks, looking down at her feet.
[Ivers] [Athletics+Dexterity: DON’T FALL DON’T FALL]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 6, 7 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Ivers] [LIKE A BAWS]
[Simon Zahradnik] A shrug of his shoulders and a sigh pushes past Simon’s lips when the song fades and he looks about the room. Things were unwinding, or perhaps fading out. He wasn’t about to go wandering out to hang out in peoples bedrooms that was invitation only shit.”I brought…”He trails off as he turns to face the two Fianna. His voice stopped when he caught sight of Bridget. She was stunning, as ever, her breeding was frightening and it called upon far more than just his attention. He could feel his heart racing and his skin searing when he got close to her but tonight she seemed to lack that sparkle.
He then looked at Howard. Once some months back he had held a conversation with a certain someone in which he had explained that sometimes girls like her make boys like him do stupid things. And he could already feel it, the searing fury that welled up within him at the Theurge offered out his hand. His hands balled into fists and his thoughts wandered to all the things he could do to the punk. Yet somehow anything he did would simply feel unfair… Howard was not a Black Spiral Dancer and that was where Honor came into play in his mind.”… Actually… Nevermind. Merry Christmas you two and tell Patrick I expect to hear his ass play something at the next moot.”He says to Howard with the tiniest hint of a smile.
His eyes go to Bridget a moment and he flashes a little smile and a nod of his head before turning and heading towards his backpack. He chocked back a growl as he snatched up his backpack and unzipped it. A couple small wrapped boxes do tumble out but he stuffs them back into the bag and follows it up with his bottle. His footsteps are soon enough carrying him towards the exit.
[Bridget] Per+emp)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 7, 7 (Failure at target 7)
[Ivers] [Oh, wait. I FORGOT HE HAS 2B I NEED TO SUBTRACT A DIE GAIA HELP ME.]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 8 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Ivers] “Yeah, alright, mate, I’m sure he’ll–”
Now, Howard and Simon started off on the wrong foot, yet on the one occasion their paths crossed and the Theurge wasn’t inebriated or stoned, they got along well enough that no blood was shed and no one left the room feeling tread upon or disrespected. Every other time since then, Howard has shown little to no interest in being civil to Simon. His derision, for what it’s worth, seems forced: there is never any genuine vitriol or dismissal in the way he talks. He says the things he does to wind up other people, and if they decide to stick around and withstand the treatment, fabulous. If not, then he diverts his attention elsewhere.
Not to say that Bridget is just here to serve as an amusement, that Howard is using her or that he wouldn’t be doing the same thing if they were alone. He may very well be, but his intent in attending to Bridget tonight was not to drive away the rest of the room. The curly-haired, fashion-deficient young man is inebriated in more than one sense of the world, and the last one left standing, in a sense, in the wake of his volcanic eruption of obnoxiousness upon the room is the kinswoman who turns heads and breaks sexually-confused young Full Moons’ hearts.
They’re trying to dance, but the song is too lively for their heavy limbs. Bridget keeps stepping on Howard’s feet, but by the grace of Stag they don’t go toppling to the floor in a heap. Simon tries to contain his hurt and anger to make a smooth exit; Bridget looks down as she asks what ‘you’ is doing.
Howard looks down too.
“If they answer back,” he says, “run.”
[Bridget] Bridget starts giggling like an idiot again. All her energy was spent on helping with the meal that the kinfolk downstairs were mostly enjoying. All her energy was spent on earlier in the week, on having nightmares, on the ups and downs of where she’s at in her life. And where she might belong. As she’s trying not to fall, Bridget glances to Simon. She thinks she sees something of anger.
But no. She’s too distracted. And he’s an Ahroun, full of rage. And Bridget is just a young, dumb kid anyway. Maybe not such a kid, but she’s definitely a bit naive.
“Merry Christmas,” she says in earnest, between bouts of giggling. “See you around.”
She accidentally leans back too much trying to look in Simon’s direction, which makes her lose her balance again.
She makes a small shriek and cries, “Merde!” Another fit of laughter from the Stag kin.
[Patrick Llewelyn] The song does go on for some time.
Patrick’s fingers could well be bleeding but for the fact he’s had calluses for years and knows how to use a pick. When he’s finished his song; he opens his eyes and looks over at Rory; breaking the spell his song had woven. He quirks the corner of his mouth and reaches for a new cigarette. Outside, he can hear Howard and Bridget doing what could well be anything, honestly.
He rises to his feet, and grabs a hold of his beer bottle.
“C’mon, Rory,” he’s all but daring her; and rubs the pad of his thumb over a string. “I’ll venture out and chance it if you back me up.” With that, looking like he’s been up to mischief with his unbuttoned shirt and red, flushed face Patrick emerges from his bedroom; guitar around his neck; beer in one hand and cigeratte in the other.
He looks Howard and Bridget over; then peers around.
“The Fenrir gone?”
[Rory] He breaks the spell, eventually, though it lingers about her, wrapping her in comfort and recent memory and the simple joy of something so well played. She could practice her whole life and never EVER play like that… and the shining adoration delight in her gaze says exactly that.
He says he wants to brave the common room again, and she blinks, before she nods, and stands to follow him out. Hes daring her, and she rises to the challenge – and though they look rumpled, it’s clear with anyone who has hearing they’ve not been up to mischief.
[…yet…]
She follows him out as silently as she slipped down the hallway, and peeks around him to see who’s left, one hand clutching her beer to her chest, the other tucked into her pocket.
[Quinn] Quinn leaves the bathroom, thoughtful and clean in a fresh t-shirt and jeans. She missed the music playing in room 3, missed the interaction between the costumed Ahroun, but she doesn’t miss much more. She makes a stop in her room to dump her dirty clothing into her laundry basket before heading back out again.
Rory may well be thinking the room has all be cleared out, but here it is, filling up again. Quinn stops in the doorway, her t-shirt declaring her to be a self-rescuing princess, her wet hair combed out over her shoulders.
“He’s in his room, I think,” she says to Patrick’s query before making her way back to the sectional.
[Ivers] Bridget almost goes toppling over, and it isn’t the sudden loss of ability to remain completely upright that makes Howard jolt alert but that shriek. He says, equally small but not as sharp, “Whoa!” and tightens his grip on her. They’d ended up in a bastardized waltz position, Howard about as adept in the art of ballroom dancing as a chimpanzee, and he does not deviate from holding onto her hip or her hand, doesn’t try to confine her in his arms, as ineffectual and easy to escape as they are.
She still jumps whenever he sits down next to her without warning. His Rage is so slight that it barely warrants mentioning; he can pass among humans without even trying. Patrick and Rory don’t have this luxury; on their worst days they present themselves to the world as unruly monsters, angry and hungry, barely able to feed a machine money or cross the street without destroying everything they see.
Patrick might have to stop and think when the last time he saw Howard angry was. He yells, constantly, yet while it is never out of anger, so far as the kinswomen of Chicago are aware he’s just the same as the rest of them; worse, perhaps, because he lies for no real discernible reason.
The music stops, and bodies filter back out into the common room, and Howard lugubriously lets go of Bridget. The mistletoe has been left on the couch, and there is no sign of anyone besides the two of them. Perhaps the silence is awkward, or else just heavy with everyone suffering from THC intoxication. Howard breaks it by indicating Bridget with both hands and announcing, “Your hiccups are gone!” Up in the air go his fists.
[Bridget] The two are not actually getting jiggy with it other than that their feet are trying to jig and are failing. Bridget collapses with exhaustion on the couch, likely beside her tribesman, the scrawny leprechaun hipster who has miraculously not gotten his teeth knocked in. Quinn, Patrick, and an unnamed redhead enter the room. It’s not a bad joke, insofar as being a Fianna family reunion is ever a bad joke.
The Pied Piper is in good spirits. This is how it should be. She missed this.
“Yes, a while ago. When a Shadowlord professed his desire to retrieve kisses from Caldera.”
Scandalous!
“It was quite a shock.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Good,” Patrick affirms to Quinn, and then when Simon’s name is brought up; the Galliard’s features darken: “I don’t like that guy, either.” Patrick offers his cigarette over to his Alpha, which of course, suggests he needs to lower those fists in the air and bumps into him purposely as he passes by.
“How’s the head?” He asks with little inflection; but when he turns, placing his weight on the arm of one of the sofas, there’s a certain gleam in his eye that reads to his amusement of earlier. “By the way, you smell like the floor of a pub.”
[Ivers] “Yeah, a shock for you.”
Howard wanders back over to the sectional, but returns to the coffee table he had head butted earlier as if returning to his throne, sliding onto it like a chair rather than climbing over it like some piece of jungle gym equipment. The fact that Caldera insists on paying rent to their Kinfolk has nothing to do with it: this is a communal space, sure, but Howard, as interpersonally destructive as he can be, as akin to a natural disaster as his actions, is actually somewhat respectful of things.
Either that or he is simply aware that if he breaks the damned table he’s going to have to pay for it.
Before Howard can launch into the myriad reasons why he isn’t surprised by Simon’s display tonight, Patrick asks him about his head, says he smells like the floor of a pub.
“Right?” he fires back. “Some tosser poured backwashed beer on me.”
[Rory] Simon has gone, as has NR, though the others remain, or filter back in with them. Patrick finds his way to the couch, where Bridget and Howard are, and Quinn joins the room as well, leaving Rory – as the unnamed redhead – to scoot around to some place out of the way, yet somehow staying close to Patrick and that guitar at the same time. This results in her sinking gracefully to perch on a beanbag chair, falling into the midst of it, and wriggling around until she’s comfortable.
And so she watches the play between brothers, through a curtain of her hair, hiding shyly out in plain sight.
[Patrick Llewelyn] “What a dick, hope you kicked his ass.” His brother throws back, idly.
[Quinn] Quinn lifts her chin up at Patrick and, her expression as blank as she can manage, says, “As the owner of a pub, I have to say that I’m offended, Patrick. Wounded, even,” she adds, holding her hands up over her heart and giving him a frown that curls up at the edges.
[Bridget] Why Caldera doesn’t like Simon in particular escapes Bridget entirely. But she keeps her mouth shut for now, looking between them. Quinn makes a joke that rouses a smile from her. The kinswoman is apparently done with conversation and is thoroughly engrossed in trying to pick at the syrup-covered ham like she’s actually going to eat something.
Maybe the marijuana has something to do with that.
[Ivers] Howard cracks a grin that enables Quinn to sneak in a retort. He looks over at her, the direction of his eyes, as usual, obscured, then tilts his hips to extract a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes from the ass pocket of his pants.
“You see what you did?” he asks, jerking his head towards Quinn as he wordlessly offers cigarettes to those remaining. “How could you be so fuckin’ insensitive?”
[Patrick Llewelyn] He holds one hand up, pick and all and points over at the bar-owner.
“The Winchester, Quinn, it’s a different matter, it’s,” he lowers his hand to the guitar and taps the side of it, then strums along to a made up tune. “Come one, come all, to the Winchester Pub, it’s floors a-gleamin’, it’s taps a-wash, you won’t find no man a-lyin’, when he’s been to the Winchester Pub, glassy of eye and loose of leg, they’ll be stumblin’ out brawlin’ from the Winchester Pub!”
He adopts a certain accent, more common to his Irish born counter-parts as he sings; and moves up to sing to the Fiann woman; ending the rendition with a wink.
[Ivers] “That’s exactly the sort of clientele she’s tryin’ to attract,” Howard says, drawing a cigarette out of the pack and sticking it between his lips. “The sort to get twatted and beat each other brainless.” A pause to light his cigarette and draw a breath, and then he asks, “What are you tryin’ to say, Llewelyn, the Irish are unruly drunks?”
[Bridget] “I should go to bed,” she announces finally.
The lithe kinswoman takes her paper plate once she’s midway done with her food and shoves it into the garbage. There’s plenty more food downstairs for the rest anyway.
“I’ve had a long day trying to get a bunch of free food for everyone.” Of course, by everyone, she means the sept members at the Brotherhood.
“I’m exhausted, tired, and a bit confused. Heh heh. But that might be the MJ speaking.”
The kinfolk gives a bow to her kinswoman, to the redhead she doesn’t know and hasn’t introduced herself. Bridget’s not one to press the issue. She looks to Howard and Patrick who are already bickering bonding, smiles, and gives a wave to Howard.
“Goodnight. Merry Christmas,” she says.
[Ivers] She’s exhausted, tired, and a bit confused.
“But very articulate!” he compliments, in his own assholic way. The kinswoman waves to Howard, and he returns the sentiment with his cigarette-wielding hand. “Night, darlin’.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Only 99.99% of them,” he confirms, then raises his eyebrow in what must pass for devilish amusement for Patrick. “It’s one reason I’m so delighted to be Welsh, man.”
Then Bridget is biding them adieu, and Prayers to Broken Stone raises one hand in salute to her. “Later, Bridget.”
[Quinn] The impromptu song leaves Quinn smiling broadly, the hands that were clasped at her breast rising up to rest beneath her chin, her head tilted up at the Galliard. Never mind that he’s probably just drunk and fooling around, it’s obvious that it pleases and flatters the kinswoman. Before she can comment, Howard speaks up about her clientele, and that grin of hers shifts to him instead.
Her blue eyes travel up to the ceiling and her nose scrunches in thought. “Isn’t that what you guys do every time you come in?”
Bridget’s abrupt departure seems to startle Quinn, he looks at her with concern. At the bow, she lowers her head. “Merry Christmas…” she says with a wave.
[Bridget] [ty for the scene everyone. night!]
[Rory] Bridget says goodnight, and waves – and Rory does the same, lifting her fingers to wave, but is still quiet. she’s watching, much as she told Howard she does on a nightly basis on the streets. She watches, she learns, she picks and chooses actions and things that help make her seem human, though she is anything but…
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Man,” Patrick says in lieu of very little; tucking his pick in a pocket and picking up his beer again; he swings his guitar around so that it rests over his back as if he were an old fashioned troubadour. “A couple more steady paychecks from the garage man and I might just have enough for that car I saw at the wrecking yard.
The frame isn’t so bad, if I pull off the broken pieces and beat it back into shape.” He takes a swig of beer. “We could actually get some wheels.”
[Rory] Patrick swings the guitar around and Rory’s gaze follows it, her fingers curling in her lap as if she could feel the weight of it against her fingers. She has the callouses of one that practices often, though she isn’t near as good as he has shown himself to be. If she had a jealous bone in her body, it would be for things such as that – the way he so confidently carries and plays his instrument.
He talks of cars, and she is lost in the conversation, knowing nothing of them, her mechanical genius working only for much smaller motors and things. So instead, she lifts her beer to her lips and takes a long swallow, before letting the bottle fall to rest against her belly again.
[Quinn] When the Galliard is left behind the wheel of the conversation, the topic shifts to vehicles. Quinn looks up at him, and over at Rory, assuming that Patrick is talking to his packmate more than either female in the room. “You don’t have to stay over there, you know,” and she pats the cushion beside her. “I’m Quinn, I–
Oh hey, that reminds me,” she says suddenly, looking back up at Patrick. “Can your garage get bulletholes out of trucks?” And she follows it up with a smile, her brows lifted and her impossibly blue eyes widened. Pretty please, because that will magically make the service available if Patrick says no.
[Rory] Quinn draws her attention from the guitar, and the brothers, and Rory ducks her head, hiding a shy little grin behind her hair – but she does not refuse the invitation. She climbs from the depth of the beanbag with something less than the grace she fell into it, and moves to join Quinn on the couch.
She is starved for attention, Rory – lonely in a way she has not ever felt before. She never knew what she was missing until Edwin took her in – and now, without him, she flounders a bit, ever withdrawn and quiet, now hiding an ache within her chest she can’t quite shake. Though nights like tonight help….
She’s Quinn… “Rory…” the name softly offered, then she falls quiet again.
[Ivers] “Give me that fuckin’ thing,” Howard mumbles, quietly, so as not to interrupt talk of cars, of all things.
He could not care less about cars if he were being paid not to care about them, doesn’t know the first thing about cars. An instruction to turn the ignition, for example, is as likely to have the engine stalling or flooding as it is to have it turned over. He could figure out how to change a tire if he absolutely had to, but steering and accelerating and shifting is beyond his comprehension. Sometimes he jokes that the only things they used vehicles for in Africa were to smuggle refugees and drugs; that never draws amusement from the people who hear it, but that never stops the Theurge.
That fuckin’ thing ends up being Patrick’s guitar. Howard doesn’t immediately start going apeshit on the strings, but plays a few chords at a decibel level respectful of conversation. That knock to his head occurring over half an hour ago, he isn’t as clumsy as he was right after being thrown into the coffee table, but his marijuana haze is thick and deceptive.
[Performance+Charisma: I LIKE ROLLING DICE]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 5, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7)
[Patrick Llewelyn] One of Patrick Llewelyn’s better qualities was his capacity to include everyone he was addressing (when he did speak) in the conversation, no matter their station as far as the Nation dictated. Therefore, he didn’t avoid or ignore Rory the way some other tribes, or auspices might have. He met Quinn’s imploring eyes, and he didn’t laugh off her question.
Sure, he could be a moody bastard, but he was a Galliard. Wasn’t that part of the package, then?
He frowns about it, actually, and where some other Garou might have straightened their spins and eyeballed the Kinfolk as if to say bullet-holes?, he thinks about it as Howard tries to extract his guitar from his back without aid and almost unbalances his pack-mate. Patrick lifts the strap over his head and passes it over to his Alpha with a vaguely concerned glance.
Then, back to Quinn: “Yeah, they totally could but they’ll ask questions, probably. Tell you what, though, bring it by after hours, I have a set of keys and I’ll clean it up for you.”
[Quinn] Some Garou might indeed raise a brow at least when their kinfolk mentions bullet damage to their vehicle. They might try to lecture Quinn on “safety first” and advise her to run rather than stand and fight. Her place is not on the frontlines, and shouldn’t be in the line of fire.
Patrick and Howard don’t, however. They’ve probably been here long enough now to know that this is Chicago. It’s dangerous for Kin as well as Garou. And judging by the fact that Quinn never came to either of them requesting supernatural healing, and the fact that she’s here tonight, smiling and laughing and (almost) crying, she came out of an altercation in better health than her truck.
She could tell Patrick that she’s not worried about questions asked or the answers she’ll have to provide. The damage happened in the Green, a fact that alone would likely earn her a raised hand and a Say no more attitude. Still, it would be infinitely preferable to avoid the whole mess altogether.
So Patrick suggesting she bring her truck around after hours earns him another winning smile. “Thanks, I will.” The smile gets turned on Rory while Howard actually doesn’t abuse Patrick’s guitar. Quinn folds her legs in front of her, wraps her hands around her ankles and lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “So what’s new with you, Rory?” she asks like they’re old friends and not total strangers until a few minutes ago.
[Rory] Rory’s gaze follows the guitar, of course, and thus her eyes rest on Howard as he starts to play. She does not look him in the eye, any more than she does anyone else. She watches his fingers as he works the strings into chords and melody, her head tipping slightly as she listens carefully. He is not as good as his brother, but still much better than her, though she’s spent hours upon hours practicing, using the mp3 player filled with lessons that Ruarc left for her.
In short – she’s impressed.
She chews her lower lip, absently, as she mimics the chords he strikes with her fingers along the denim of her thigh.
Then Quinn is turning toward her, and is asking her a question. It is a simple one, by most accounts, though Rory chooses to think carefully of how to answer, as if it is a test, rather than a question between strangers turned friends in the space of minutes. When she speaks, she reveals the reason for her careful consideration, when her words mix up and she doesn’t notice it at all. She knows it happens – yet has no control over it, try as she might.
She speaks softly, letting the music sooth the savagery of her very blood, in soft counterpoint. “Mot nuch.” Though Quinn wouldn’t know the difference. “Fixed the doaster townstairs. Ate a sniper trying to hill Koward.” and – believe it or not, a little joke. “Mave ge heartburn.”
[Ivers] [HOLY FUCK I HAVE TO GO HOME HOWARD SITS HERE AND PLAYS SOMETHING AMAZING BBIAB]
[Quinn] Nothing stops talk of cars like switching conversation partners before it can get started back up again. Besides, Quinn has talked to Patrick before, however briefly. Here sits beside her a stranger, another new person to get to know in this city. And, though she doesn’t know it yet, new family. Patrick is old hat, Rory is the new hotness, and Quinn is only too interested in what the quiet redhead has to say.
Mot nuch, she says, and Quinn tilts her head curiously, wondering for a moment if Rory speaks another language. Her other words, though twisted, make more sense and are easier to sort out. She even smiles at the joke.
“Man, those snipers, they’re everywhere. I took one out that was having a horrible time shooting at Night’s Reprieve.” She shakes her head with mock disappointment. “Not that I’d want him to get hurt? But that was just a travesty.”
Rolling her shoulders, Quinn quirks a smile at one Fiann, then the other. “Well, I think I’m going to bite off a chunk of that feast downstairs. I am starving.” Pushing herself up from the couch, she turns briefly to say, “It was nice meeting you, Rory. And if I don’t see you guys before you head out or go to bed, Merry Christmas.”
And with that she makes her way barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen.
[Rory] Quinn doesn’t make fun of her words, and Rory has been like this her entire life, so knows there is no hope at all that she said it correctly. That Quinn doesn’t laugh means a lot to the metis, though she’d never say so. (…or say it correctly if she did.)
Night’s Reprieve was shot at too, and there’s a flash of concern, though the joke is not lost on her either. She smiles a little – the same shy grin that gets hidden as soon as it appears.
“Nood gight.” she says, in reply, then watches her go.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick doesn’t seem offended that Quinn changes topics, or favors Rory instead of speaking further to him. They’d chatted more than once; he’d been by her bar and hammered nails in place for her; helped set up a small stage in one corner. Quinn had seen Patrick without his shirt on at least once; probably while he was working at the Winchester.
The guy was aloof, and strange and didn’t seem fussed when it was freezing outside if he was hammering and sawing things. So she knew Patrick had the build of a footballer, or some other athlete; he was lean, but there was a brute strength to him that spoke a great deal of what he was, and who he was to other Garou, if not to the human world. To their fold, he was just a guy with anger issues who hung around with a shady crowd.
But he was reliable; he got the jobs done he had to and he didn’t complain.
At least not aloud.
Quinn heads down to raid the food stores downstairs and Patrick merely nods; he slides himself backward on his perch and listens for a moment or two to Howard; perhaps mutely pointing out where he hits the wrong chord, or suggesting where he could tighten it up but mostly he’s content with silence until he catches sight perhaps, of Rory’s keen interest in the instrument.
“You play, Rory?”
[Rory] She is left alone with the brothers, one lost in his playing, the other playing instructor and friend, settling into his perch contentedly. She’s watching Howard play so intently, that she almost misses the question, her cheeks stained red when she realizes, belatedly, that she is being spoken too.
She shakes her head, slightly – then nods. Almost as confusing as when she speaks, though she attempts to clarify in as few words as possible. “Learning. Ruarc tas weaching me, but left. ge have me a music player, and gis huitar so I could practice.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] He frowns; the sort you did when a name surfaced in conversation you didn’t recognize.
“Ruarc? Was he a pack-mate?” He waits, perhaps to hear the answer, or turn his eyes to Howard’s fingers flowing over his guitar for a second to watch his rhythm before he focuses back on the Metis, and adds without much in the way of over enthusiasm or false reluctance; just … an offer. Laid out. There for the taking.
“If it’s lessons you want, me and Howard can both hold our own. I have some music books and things I brought with me from Boston,” the cigarette is taken up again, clearly these Caldera boys don’t govern much by health regulations. As he talks on, smoke flows from the corner of his lip, littering the air above him.
He coughs, briefly, the sound of the infrequent smoker.
“You’re welcome to come use ’em.”
[Rory] Was Ruarc a packmate? She shakes her head, curls bouncing over her shoulders as she clarifies. “Friend.” She would have packed with him, had she not been Bogeyman, had she not been so fiercely protective of her status in her own pack, had he not left.
They all leave.
A wave of sadness washes over her face, only to fade away again a heartbeat later, hidden away. She reaches up to rub the side of her nose, absently, before she looks up at him, briefly – without meeting his eyes. She never quite does that.
“would thike lat. Lessons.” Though she admits, softly. “No music. Ran’t cead.” Not surprising really, when the way she speaks comes into play. It’s hard to learn to read when you can’t hear any mistakes, recognize them, or make the words form any reliable sense.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Friend, she says and in such a way and with such a briefly acute sense of sadness to the words and to her expression that Patrick at once comprehends and does not press it. He just looks at her face, surveying it perhaps, memorizing it without doubt and nods a moment later as she notes she can’t read.
“No big,” he says, casting aside the idea of music sheets. “You don’t need to read the music to get it; you feel it, yeah?” He grins; a sudden, impetus thing that’s infectious for how rarely it appears on his face. “The music kinda gets inside you; and before you know it you’re playing chords and then songs.
I taught myself, mostly, my Dad helped a bit.” That could well be embellishment. “But yeah, we can teach you. Hell,” he points at Howard, then her. “We’ll form a damn band and play at Moots.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] [ahem, impetuous, that should read.]
[Rory] He says she gets it, she feels it, and she nods with a little smile. Nothing has moved her quite like that, like the night Ruarc took her out to celebrate some holiday or another, and they danced naked but for the paint under the moon, and they played until their fingers bled, and they howled at the moon until their throats were raw, and they drank until they remembered only flashes and woke tangled under the limbs of some tree or another – hung over and content. It started with music, always.
It is something she can express herself freely with, and not worry about it being misunderstood.
They’ll form a band, he says, and something akin to hope lights up her eyes, almost surpassing the surprise that rests there first. That he would include her – even in thought – is something special, something to be cherished. “…ok.”
Even if she’d be so nervous she might drop Ruarc’s guitar. (not hers – she never thinks of it as hers…)
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Nice,” Patrick confirms with no small degree of satisfaction and then downs the remainder of his beer in one foul swoop. He sets the empty bottle atop the table and leans back as Howard finishes whatever rendition he’d been working at and stands up to take a rather dramatic bow.
“Don’t even think about breaking her over the coffee table, rock and roll style,” he warns, and is rewarded for his efforts by the Theurge’s admission he needed to take a piss. Patrick glances at Rory, shakes his head and gets to his feet in his Alpha’s wake. Downstairs, things have quietened. Patrick grips his guitar by the end, and stamps out his smoke on top of his beer bottle to spare the varnished wood.
“On that note,” he says, somewhat dryly and gestures toward their bedroom, “I’m gonna crash. You wanna stay over, there’s beds aplenty I think,” he scuffs a hand back through his hair. “Or the couch, it’s not as bad as you’d think.” Whatever the little red-head’s decision; the Fianna bid one another adieu, and as he returns to his room — the distant echo of Howard burping emanates from the bathroom.
Fianna.