[Quinn] The Winchester. It’s not as old as the building it’s housed in, but it’s old enough. Old enough to remember the death of other members of the Nation. Old enough to remember the death of Family.
Tonight, there’s a sign on the door declaring the bar closed for a family affair, which means it’s even quieter than usual. Other than that, it appears that business is as usual. Tom is in tonight, wiping down the bar after the last of the mortal customers takes her leave. Wendy clears the last table, and in the back the sound of The Winchester’s cooks cleaning up and bickering can be heard. Quinn is behind the bar with the redhead, counting down the till. After that, the bar is clean, and it’s empty, and the mugs and glasses come out.
It’s time to celebrate the dead.
[Hunter] It has been awhile since he stepped foot in here and the memory of that last visit seems distant and surreal. The whole circumstance under which that moment took place was pointless. At the time it seemed honourable, it seemed noble and the right thing to do for a friend who shed his blood beside him in battle. Things change. Any reason for why he did what he did became meaningless the minute that Howard Ivers stopped breathing.
And not because he no longer had a friend to stand up for, but because of how trivial the whole thing was to begin with. Death puts things in perspective. Howard would hate to think his death was useful in any way.
He halts outside, looking in through the window with a cigarette in his hand, a worn Zippo in the other. He hesitates, he mulls it over, he bites his lip and takes forever to come to a decision. He should be here, it’s for Howard, but he doesn’t do so well with these things. Hunter said his goodbyes long before Howard Ivers was in the ground, he said them in a clearing in Tekakwitha with Howards blood all over his body.
Tonight is for Howard. It can be said as much as anyone likes, but it doesn’t make it any more the truth. Tonight is for those that grieve the loss of Howard. He’s up in the stars, in the homelands, getting his groove on with a lover who left him like he left the Chicagoians. The last thing Howard Ivers cares about is his wake.
That doesn’t make it any less important.
It’s this thought he carries when he makes his way through the doorway. He wears his fitting brown leather jacket, a clean pair of jeans, his boots and a simple white t-shirt. This is about as dressed up as Hunter Matthews gets. There are no stains, there are no rips or holes in his clothing.
He stands inside the entrance, eyes scan the room.
[Quinn] Funerals and wakes. They’re never done for the departed, only for those left behind. They offer a kind of comfort, a way to say goodbye and let go. They help create a sense of meaning, despite the fact that there’s rarely ever any meaning in someone’s death. So this isn’t for Howard. Howard is dead and gone and far away in the Fianna homelands by now, no doubt causing a ruckus in death as he did in life.
This is for the people left behind. The folks that work at The Winchester remember Howard. Those with a mind toward grief have dealt with it by now and moved on. It’s been weeks, after all. And, since none of them had a reason to hunt down Taggart and beg permission to attend his Gathering, this is their way of saying goodbye in their own way.
Glasses are set out, drinks poured, and the first round gone by the time the double entry doors open and the Alpha of the Vanguard spills inside. Quinn looks up from behind the bar and smiles, nudging Tom, who gets a glass.
“Hey,” Quinn says, motioning him over to take a seat on one of the bar stools. “Glad you could make it.” She’s dressed as usual in layered shirts and jeans and boots, her dark hair loose over her shoulders. “We only just got started, do you want to do a toast?”
[Hunter] The smile is returned, reaching up into his eyes despite his discomfort or hesitance to step back into the Winchester. Once inside he wonders why he even thought about it at all, it is warm, it is homely and just generally feels like a nice place to be. Hey she says and motions him over to seat which he is all too happy to dump himself down on.
Elbows get lifted, pressed against the bar top and he accepts the glass from Tom or Quinn, whichever ends up giving it to him. “Hey,” he finally says with the release of breath and a little contented sigh. “Glad ta’ be here too.” His eyes drift up and around what he can see of the bar from his stool, like reacquainting himself with an old friend except for the fact that he has only stepped foot in here three times or so.
Would he like to do a toast?
He blinks, thinks about it for a moment and then nods. This is what people do at wakes, they make toasts to the dead, they share stories and the like.
“I uh.. I mean I didn’t know Howard that long, only bout’ a month but we were friends. I got a lot’a stories in that short time, one though.. well it involves our lovely bartender here.” He grins, saluting her with his glass of whatever she chose to put in it. “We was sittin’ around the kitchen at his pack house, shootin’ tha’ shit. Talkin’ bout girls n’ how fucked up the war is, the usual shit. Anyway, he tells me that he kissed Ms Quinn here.” He offers with raised eyebrows and a dramatic sense of seriousness that far outweighs the situation. There is a long pause before he continues calmly.
“N’ I fell over laughin’ and he says to me that hey, I don’t think she’s into dudes cause she didn’t want none’a me. And I mean, how could anyone resist such a fuckin’ fine specimen as Howard Ivers right? So I says to him, well I kissed her too and she didn’t seem ta’ mind that much.” He has no problems with embarrassing the bar owner obviously.
“So he gets this stupid fuckin’ look on his face, you know that look, the one where he’s about ta’ come up with some horrific fuckin’ idea. He looks at me and he goes, Well… if I kissed her… and you kissed her.. And I tried ta’ fuckin’ stop em honestly, then he just lays one on me! Kisses me right there.”
An patron, unknown to hunter – though they all are – asks him what he did in response to that.
“Well I fuckin’ headbutted him didn’t I? Knocked em clean out.” He laughs. “That god awful fuckin’ moron. I miss em’.”
A pause and he raises his glass.
“Here’s to pretty girls who went to our heads.”
[Rory] Rory has only ever been to the Winchester once, just long enough to see Hatchet was back in town and to gratefully hand over the care and keeping of Kinfolk over to him. She doesn’t even remember how she heard about tonight’s wake, but only that something nagged at her this morning, reminding her that she had someplace to be, something to do. the hows and whys aren’t important – that she’s here, is.
Howard meant something to her, though she’d never say it, which is no real surprise as she hardly says anything at all. Regardless, she slips into the establishment, trying to do so silently, unobtrusively. It fails, as she is destined always to stand out, to be noticed, much to her eternal dismay.
Tattered jeans, a tattered t-shirt under a warm jacket, and a knit cap that tries and fails to keep her curls contained. Along with her backpack, she also has a guitar case slung over her shoulder. She hesitates just inside the door, chewing her lower lip absently, nervously, before she hesitantly takes another step inside, and starts to make her way toward the bar.
[Quinn] Hunter has no problems embarrassing The Winchester’s owner, who listens to his tale with her mouth quirked in a smile. In the process, he announces to her employees that she was kissed by not one, but two of Chicago’s Garou population. With the first revelation, they all look to their boss with something like disappointment on their faces, each to varying degrees. All Quinn does in return is shrug. It’s Wendy who asks what Hunter did next, and who laughs when Hunter says he knocked Howard clean out.
“To pretty girls!”
They’re just lifting their glasses when the doors open. With only other Fianna or other folks who knew Howard expected to arrive, most of those at the bar of course turn to look and see who’s here now. And who it is is a young woman with vibrant red curls spilling from beneath a cap. Quinn hasn’t met Rory yet, doesn’t recognize her for who she is but what. Lifting her free hand, she encourages the young woman to come join them at the bar. “Hey,” she greets warmly while Tom pours a drink. It’s waiting at an open seat for Rory. “I’m Quinn,” says the owner, getting that business out of the way.
[Hunter] Hunter takes a long gulp from his drink, a smile still in his lips when he places the glass down on the bar top. Something grabs his attention though — more like someone — and he spins on his stool to witness Rory emerging into the bar. He has seen her, once or twice, she was at the graveyards when they buried Howard. She did not look happy.
He encourages her over along with Quinn though leaves the talking to the two of them until introductions have been made.
“Hey Rory.” He says to her. “I’m Hunter, we met briefly. Alpha of the Vanguard. Come have a drink, share a story if ya’ want.”
[Rory] Rory nods, as Quinn introduces herself again. She stands out, but she is often forgotten, and it was a brief meeting as it was. Rory is well used to fading into the background, striving to be forgotten – so much so that it doesn’t bother her in the least to not be remembered. After all, that night? Howard was the center of attention.
He was always the center of attention.
She slides onto the open barstool, and slides her pack off her shoulder, tucking it against the bar at her feet with a metallic clatter – its far heavier than she makes it look – and slides the guitar from her shoulder to sit on the floor, the neck leaning against her thigh. She doesn’t quite meet their eyes when she looks at them both. She reaches up and tugs off her cap, curls springing free, sliding into her eyes, along her jawline.
“Hi.” her voice is soft, but she looks like a frightened deer at the thought of sharing a story… but the drink, that she wraps her fingers around, pulling it close like they might change their mind and take it away again.
[Quinn] [whoops, -I- forgot Quinn and Rory already met, Quinn wouldn’t. delete that last sentence!]
[Rory] [*L* no worries – it works.]
[Quinn] Christmas night, Howard was the center of attention. Quinn remembers tearing up on the couch, Howard offering distraction and delivering beautifully. She should have realized then that there was something there, something that might have prepared her for that day at Caldera’s packhouse, but she didn’t.
It would be easy for most to forget the pretty redhaired Ahroun after a night like that, and it’s true, Quinn hasn’t thought much of the Fianna’s once-leader. Though Quinn doesn’t go to any length to assure Rory that she’s not forgotten, she remembers her, as much as she can remember anything. She remembers that she’s quiet, can guess from that and by her singular word of greeting that she’s reluctant to be in the company of other, louder members of their tribe. But she’s here, which has to mean something.
Maybe the generous application of alcohol will open her up. Quinn can hope, and only hope. Rory’s body will break down the alcohol almost faster than the Ahroun can get it into her system, but she’ll find her glass is never empty, anyway.
“You know,” Quinn says after that last toast. Waving the hand holding her own drink, she says, “Howard wasn’t the only one who thought I was a lesbian. Is it my clothes?” She looks down at her shirt, which today is grey and depicts &+960;, but with eight eight stems, beneath whcih reads OCTOPI. Looking back up to Hunter and Rory, both, she wordlessly invites opinions.
[Hunter] “I’m Biased.” Hunter grins, tips his drink back and looks over her clothing while he does it. “Who else thought’cha was a lesbian?”
[Rory] Rory tips her head, and studies Quinn, as if the question has serious consequences, like it’s the most important question of the ages. She doesn’t get the joke on the t-shirt. It makes no sense to her, though it may be because she cannot read it.
She lifts the drink and takes a healthy swallow or four. In recent months, meeting those of her tribe (and certain kinfolk not of her tribe) has introduced her to the wonders of alcohol. It doesn’t necessarily make her any less shy (with one exception) or any less likely to speak up, but she does enjoy the different tastes and textures of the things she’s tried since that first glass of wine so many months ago.
It may seem like she’s going to answer the question, when she leans forward, but what comes out is a quiet confusion, instead. “….lats whesbian?”
[Quinn] Hunter’s grin is answered with a smile and Quinn’s glass lifted in gratitude. While Rory contemplates the question for the ages, she answers Hunter with, “A Fenrir I met when I first moved here. He thought I was with Rain, d’you remember Rain?” She knows he’s seen the Child of Gaia kinfolk once, the night the topic of hug debts was under discussion, shortly after Night’s Reprieve’s death. That doesn’t mean he remembers the sweet songbird.
She takes a sip of her beer, and almost chokes on it when Rory speaks up at last. Quinn looks at the Ahroun and smiles with brows drawn. It’s a look very appropriate for tonight’s theme, as it was one Howard saw often on the kinswoman’s face.
“It’s, uh. A lesbian’s a woman who loves other women.”
[Rory] She tips her head slightly, and contemplates the answer as it was given. She furrows her brow and gives the answer some thought. Then, she nods, slightly. “Oh.” Even if there’s still some confusion written in her gaze. She’s not quite sure of mechanics there, and how it would work, but then again, Rory isn’t allowed to love anyone, she isn’t supposed to care.
She’s not supposed to do a lot of things.
She lifts a hand, fingers pale and fragile looking, and rubs at the side of her nose. Then, in all honestly, asks. “So.. dou yon’t?” to clarify, and all.
[Hunter] Rory looks confused, and to be honest the mechanics of lesbian sex are rather confusing. Hunter knows about them though, as only a male can know about them, like some ancient myth that the elders pass down over burning barrels on the streets while they pass around bottles of cheap whiskey in brown paper bags.
His hands make scissors.
He slides them together.
And nods his head.
Oh yeah. Not even joking!
After that he’s looking at Quinn, his hands return to his glass. “Yeah Quinn, you don’t like women?” He asks, innocently, trying to hide a grin. Failing.
[Quinn] It’s a very good thing that Quinn didn’t get that glass up to her lips before Hunter decided to give a gestured demonstration of the mechanics of girl-girl love. Tom was not so lucky, and the sound of someone choking on their beer comes to their little trio from the other side of the bar.
Quinn just looks at the Ahroun. The collected Rage of both Full Moons should set her teeth on edge, and if it does, the kinswoman shoulders it well. Though not immune to it, she is used to it. It’s easier when the moon steadily darkens toward nothingness, and they’re just sitting at a bar, talking about lesbians.
So it’s easy for her to look at Hunter Matthews, look at him like he’s crazy, like she can’t believe the lengths some people go. Her blue eyes roll toward the vaulted ceiling, and she shakes her head.
“Not like that,” she answers firmly. And nods. “Not even a little.”
[Rory] She watches Hunter’s demonstration, and that seems to deepen the confusion, but in reality she waits for Quinn’s answer instead. When it comes, most decidedly on the side of no, she does NOT like women like that, Rory nods. She accepts it as it is, as truth, because she has zero frame of reference, in all reality.
“Ok.”
She offers a shy little smile, and then lifts her beer again for another few swallows. Then something occurs to her, and she tips her head the other way. “…mo den…”
Howard would be thrilled his wake has turn into Sex Ed for the Shy Metis…
[Hunter] Not like that Quinn says, and although Hunter already knew–.. well I mean.. she could swing both ways.. — he still nods his head and takes a sip of his beer to hide the grin in his lips.
Then he hears what Rory has to say. Rory talks funny, it is true, she mixes up letters. It takes him a moment to figure out what she is trying to say but when he does he looks amused. Eyes flick to Quinn and then back to Rory. He offers in a very gentle reassuring voice.
“Do men what?”
[Rory] She looks flustered, and so does the first thing she can think of – mimics Hunter’s hand gesture for lesbians, and then blushes bright red at her own audacity…
[Quinn] Hunter isn’t the only one looking askance at Rory when she says mo den… She looks at Hunter, brows lifted in question. The kinswoman isn’t adept at hiding things. Her confusion reads as plain on her face as the headlines of a newspaper.
The Gnawer gets it, asks for clarification. Rory blushes bright and mimics the scissoring action. Quinn shoots a glance at Hunter and smacks his arm, as if Rory’s discomfort were in some way his fault.
“They can, I suppose?” she says, thoughtful. Unlike Hunter, Quinn isn’t familiar with the opposite sex and their sexual practices amongst their own gender. She has to think about it, and come up with her own theories. Blue eyes turn to Hunter, and she grins. “You’re the expert on same-sex coupling, Hunter, what do you think?”
[Hunter] Hunter is laughing. He can’t help it. As soon as Rory made the scissoring motion he just cracked up and so he probably deserves the smack from Quinn that he gets. He doesn’t bristled with anger or anything of the sort, he even looks more amused and flicks eyes at Quinn, showing the mirth dancing in his emeralds.
“Hey hey..” he begins. “Let me just say, I’m no fuckin’ expert aight? Specially not when it comes to dudes and.. well.. you know..” he makes the scissoring action.
“I think though Rory..” He tries to say as seriously as possible, though the effort put into it doesn’t do him much good. “That uh.. it’s more.. well.. ”
A pause.
“I don’t think..” the scissoring action again. “would cut it, s’all.”
[Rory] She wrinkles her nose, confused, and lifts a hand to rub at the side of her nose again. She watches as Quinn smacks hunter, then as he laughs at her, flushing bright as she ducks her head to hide behind her curls.
After a minute or two, she finally just says “Oh.” And she works it out somehow in her mind, but in the end decides she’ll just ask Ray. He’ll explain it. He never makes her feel stupid for asking either… “Ok.” She nods, and lifts her beer up to her lips, and drinks deeply.
“Loward haughed at me. Because I couldn’t woke smeed without coughing.”
[Quinn] Hunter laughs, and it earns him another smack on the arm and a pointed look at Rory, who is attempting to disappear behind her curls. The object of tonight was not to make anyone feel awkward or left out, but to be Fianna and celebrate the life of one of their lost.
Looking back at Rory, she frowns, eyes darting here and there when she says, “…woke…smee OH. Smoke weed?” she asks. With a wave of her hand, she adds, “It just takes practice.”
[Hunter] Another smack, another grin. But his laughter falls silent at the pointed look from Quinn. There is talk of weed and trust the Gnawer to come prepared. His hand reaches into his jacket and he pulls out a small plastic bag with something decidedly green in it.
He puts it on the bar between him and Rory.
“Practice makes perfect.” He smiles with a silent offering, a raised eyebrow. There is something strange about this weed. Rory can feel it, Hunter can feel it. He will make sure to mention it to Quinn if they decide to smoke it. It feels.. lively..
[Rory] She blushes. She knew she was mixing up her words, simply because she always does. There are always looks of confusion while folks figure out what she said, though she herself hears only waht she intended. Something so simple, with the potential to mess up absolutely everything, always.
Then, Hunter says practice makes perfect, echoing Quinn – and unknowingly, Howard’s- belief too. She ducks her head, hiding a little grin, before she nods, slightly. “Howard said tat thoo.”
He also said a lot of other things to the redheaded metis, 90% of which she will decidedly not be sharing. The smoking weed story was safest, was all she will tell of the odd friendship that was all to brief, yet no less intense for it’s brevity. She reaches for the baggie, touching the green with fragile looking fingertip, before she pulls back and digs around in her pocket, coming up with a battered lighter she places on the bartop next to it.
[Rory] .
to Rory
[Quinn] Howard said that, too. Quinn smiles at that, and it’s all for Rory. Of the three of them, it’s obvious the Ahrouns knew him best, or at least spent the most time with the Theurge. They have the memories, and the stories. All Quinn can do, really, is offer them the comfort of her presence, and of the alcohol she serves. Glasses are refilled, and Hunter places a baggie of green down on the bar.
The kinswoman can’t tell that something’s different about this, that it’s not your ordinary weed. It’s stronger stuff, will probably knock her off her feet with the first puff. She looks from Hunter to Rory, who produces a lighter.
Which just leaves something to wrap it up in. Quinn looks around behind the bar and finds her bag. Her player doesn’t know anything about these things, so let’s just assume that there’s a viable reason for Quinn to have rolling papers in her magic bag of tricks. Peeling one off, she says as she sets it down on the table, “Well, in honor of the deceased, I say we light up.”
[Hunter] Quinn shuffles around, she produces a paper and Hunter grins at her. They should light up, indeed.
His eyes flick between Rory and Quinn, then he reaches out for the baggie. He is meticulous in the way he rips it all apart, into tiny little pieces, spreading it out along the length of the paper in a thick line of little weed crumbs. He rips a corner off the paper packet, rolls the bit of cardboard into cylinder shape and pushes it in at one end. Makeshift filter.
None of this takes him very long, he seems practised at it to some degree though he doesn’t smoke anywhere near as much as he might have done when he was younger back in LA.
“Now before we smoke this, thought ya’ should know, it’s awakened so…” He looks at Quinn. “Me n’you gonna be fuckin’ gone if we ain’t careful.”
He holds out the joint to Rory and pushes the lighter along the bar towards her.
“Wanna do us the honors Rory?”
[Rory] She watches as he prepares the joint, green eyes following each movement, and how quickly he does it. Then he slides it over to her, and the bites her lower lip, anxiously. It takes a moment, and then she reaches out timidly for the lighter, the joint, as if expecting one or both of them to snatch it away and say that they were just kidding, ha ha ha the mule gets nothing… When they don’t, she peeks up through her curls, and offers a little smile.
She lifts the joint to her lips, and sets flame to the other end, lighting up. She exhales the first drag quickly, before taking a deeper one and holding. She passes it along, and manages only to cough a little bit. She’s been practicing somewhere…
[Quinn] Both women watch Hunter work, one more intently than the other. Resting her elbows on the bar, she leans forward and waits.
Rory gets to do the honors of lighting up and taking the first drag. When she only coughs a little, Quinn smiles. “See? You’ll be a pro in no time.” It’s her turn next. Like Hunter, this is something she’s practiced with, but was done more in her sordid youth than in her adult years. The last time she smoked was at Christmas.
The fact that it’s awakened makes her wary, though. She holds it a moment, looks at Hunter with brow raised. Then she shrugs. No guts, no glory. The drag she takes is shallow, has her brow tensing, and then she passes it next to Hunter. Blowing out the smoke, she says, “Whoaholy crap.”
[goin’ afk for a bit, post around me!]
[Hunter] The joint gets passed around. Rory does exceptionally well considering her previous claim that Howard had laughed at her coughing. There is no laughter from either the Fianna kinfolk or the BoneGnawer Ahroun. They are all friendly smiles and silent waiting for now, soon there will be laughter though. It can’t be helped. That’s half the fun in it.
Quinn takes the joint and looks at it sceptically, Hunter can’t blame her, this shit is rough as balls. But she’s a big girl and she takes her puff regardless, uttering a smoke filled whoaholy crap.
Hunter doesn’t hold the joint between index finger and thumb, he just holds it like a cigarette, like he has done this far too many times to warrant a unique style. It is lifted lazily to his lips and he sucks on it, puffs twice then blows out a cloud of smoke. His eyes close up into triangles and his lips curve into amusement.
“Forgot how fucked up this shit is,” he says once he has caught his breath. The joint gets passed on.
[Rory] They aren’t laughing at her. She smiles, softly, her head tucked to hide it behind her curls, as she reaches for to take the pass from Hunter again. She inhales deep, holds it, and exhales again, her eyes closing as she feels the awakened weed work it’s way through her system. She sighs contentedly, something very few people have ever heard, and passes it again.
While they take another toke, she reaches down to the guitar leaning against her hip, removing it from it’s case, and letting the cloth cover fall to the floor. She lays the guitar across her knee, and strums it lazily, pausing to tune the strings carefully, like this is the most precious thing she owns.
Because it is.
She’s not good – she only knows one song, really, though she practices long and hard at the five chords she knows. She has experimented in putting them together differently, and discovered to her shock, it sometimes sounds like the music that Ruarc left her on her ipod to learn from. She’s practiced till her fingers bled, and then practiced some more.
All for tonight. She glances up, to make sure she’s not offending anyone, and then bends her head again. This time when she starts to play, a very decently passable Danny Boy results.
[Hunter] The weed has gone circles now, twice, back to Hunter and he holds the little of what is left in the joint while he watches Rory tune her guitar. It’s mellowing, his head feels lazy and his gaze turns to Quinn as Rory begins to sing but there are no raised eyebrows, no questioning glance. He just looks at her and smiles then returns his attention to the bard for this evening.
He has heard the song before, once or twice. It’s not really his thing, or so he would have thought, but he enjoys it. Sitting in his stool with his back up against the bar and incidentally to Quinn though she stands more between them than directly behind the Gnawer. Occasionally he glances at her over his shoulder and when the joint is finished he licks his fingertips then puts it out before placing it on next to his drink.
His drink which never seems to empty.. every time he or the Metis begins to near the bottom of their glass, they miraculously find it refilled by the kinswoman.
He raises it in salute at the end of the song.
“To Howard!”
[Rory] She doesn’t sing. She plays. She can’t sing – or rather, she refuses to try, because she cannot get her words straight, and cannot correct it because she doesn’t hear the mistakes. She’s smiled at, but she doesn’t see it, concentrating instead on placing her fingers correctly, hitting the chords, and strumming with careful timing, and a delicate touch.
The last note lingers, and then Hunter toasts, and she smiles shyly, sadly, tears in her eyes. She doesn’t look up enough for them to be seen, instead reaching for her beer and lifting it in toast. “Howard.” The word is soft, but no less heartfelt, as she takes a drink.
[Quinn] Despite how carefully Quinn drags off the joint, her physiology being different from the Gnawer and especially the Fiann means it still hits her more strongly. She feels giddy and lightheaded first. It doesn’t stop her making sure that glasses remain full.
Rory retrieves her guitar, tunes it, and plays. She’s no expert, her skill comes from hard work and dedication before natural ability, but the song is lovely all the same. Leaning into the bar, Quinn smiles. When Hunter looks over his shoulder at her, her eyes are for the redhead, but they glance to him occasionally.
When Rory finishes, Quinn straightens, lifts her glass to join them in a toast. “Howard,” she echoes, and drinks.
Setting the glass down, she sighs, content. “Do you know any other songs, Rory?”
[Tabitha Reese] (Where are they?)
[Rory] [At the Winchester, all seated at the bar]
[Tabitha Reese] The Fury looks ill at ease as she makes her way into the building, moving to the side as soon as she enters in order to keep her back to a wall as she looks around the place slowly.
[Rory] She wrinkles her nose slightly, and takes another drink of her never emptied beer, and sets the mug carefully on the bartop again. “Lust jearning…”
But she does have a couple other songs that she can play passably well. Celtic in nature of course, because that is what Ruarc left her – an MP3 player with instructions and songs that she’s listened too near constantly since he left. It turns out that she has a pretty good ear, and can pick out other things as well. It’s amazing how many songs one can put together with five simple chords…
So she plays. She plays everything Ruarc taught her, everything she’s taught herself.
For Howard, she plays.
[…somewhere, he’s laughing at her…]
[Quinn] It’s difficult to enter The Winchester unnoticed on a normal night. Tonight, the bar is closed only to family, to remember and celebrate a fallen…brother? Friend? Heir of the Ruined Day was different things to different people. Regardless, they’re here to remember him.
So when the Black Fury enters, and tries to keep her back to the wall, she sidles over to the booths, and the bar’s owner, the pretty Fianna kinfolk behind the bar, smiles to her. Lifts a hand to invite her to join them at the bar. By now, she’s the only one left of the establishment’s employees still around. A glass is filled with beer, like it’s some sort of pre-established menu for the night (it is), and set before an empty bar stool.
“Hey,” she greets. Rory is still just learning, and Quin nods.
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The VW Bus pulls up outside the Winchester, Stephen Lynch’s “For the Ladies” cutting off only when the engine dies. The perpetually-grinning Strider–who tonight at least has the good sense to not be grinning while she attends a wake–slides out of the driver’s side and flicks the remnants of a joint away as she shuts the door. She comes around the van, looking the Winchester over as she approaches. There’s a bit of a smile but nothing more as she slips inside.
[Hunter] The toast is had, the brew is drunketh, and Hunter is high as a mutherfuckin’ kite. He shouts Howard’s name loudly in the toast and slams his empty vessel down upon the bar top. The tears aren’t missed, they just aren’t allowed.
“No crying here!” He says to Rory, then looks to Quinn, back to Rory, back to Quinn. “What are we gonna do about this? I think… yeah!.. you got another song Rory?”
And she does have another song. Excellent.
Hunter gets up to dance. Or what would be dancing if he didn’t spot another Garou wandering into the place. She is unknown.. wait.. no he knows her.. maybe.. He narrows green eyes on the Fury, squinting. It isn’t because he’s blind.. well it is sort of. Everything is a little blurry. “Hey!”
[Tabitha Reese] “Hey…” She looks Quinn over quickly, relaxing a fraction when she recognizes the girl from the gathering house. “Is this… I’m not sure if….” Her shoulders hunch a bit, hand jammed even harder into her pockets.
[Adamidas] No one knows where Adam comes from. Sometimes, people love each other very much. They do things. They have babies. Those babies become children like Alethea Adamidas.
Which means that children come from the depths of the umbra bringing god-knows-what with them. Today, she enters as she usually does.
With a loud pop and exiting the women’s room.
… It’s good to be Adam.
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She looks around once she gets through the door, getting the lay of the land. She recognizes Tabitha of course, as well as Rory who she met the other night and Hunter. Quinn she knows only very vaguely, and Adamidas she doesn’t know at all. They all get little nods though, with smiles to those she’s met before she’s moving toward the bar.
[Quinn] More people are entering the bar, including, thankfully for Quinn, her redhaired bartender, Tom. The tall Fiann enters almost on Sarita’s heels, waves to Quinn.
“I forgot…are you high?” he asks, brow quirked, and he looks at Hunter, then Rory playing her guitar.
“Yes,” says the tall pretty Fianna kinswoman behind the bar. Quinn gathers up her belongings, shrugging into her coat as Tom heads back to grab something from behind the bar, as well. As she passes him, Quinn gives him a high five, which is actually more like a wrestler tagging in a teammate to deliver the finishing blow. “Close up for me, will you, hon? I’ll owe you so big.” Banter is exchanged, and Quinn leaves her bar, exiting out into the chilly winter night.
[sorry, guys, i’m falling asleep at the keyboard. Tom will be your bartender, info on The Winchester’s in my gallery. if you break anything i will find you! and i will wag a finger in your face menacingly! thanks for the RP and good night!]
[Rory] Hunter says no crying, and Rory does what Rory usually does – she blushes, and protests. “Not.”
Then she shrugs it off and plays what she knows while Hunter pretends to dance, but really eyes those that enter the bar. Quinn leaves, and Rory’s fingers soon fall still, having played everything she knows already. So she simply holds the guitar like it’s her only friend [..it is..] and drinks. Things are a bit fuzzy, thanks to all she’s partaken of tonight, but it doesn’t make her any more likely to speak when she doesn’t have too.
Though hunter is treated to one of her very rare smiles…
[Hunter] Quinn begins to leave, Hunter would be following her movements but he’s stuck looking at the new comers. Tabitha gets a once over, followed by Adam and Sarita.
“Sup ladies, Yo Adam! Hows my fav’ greek home-girl doin?”
But he catches flight of the Fianna kin disappearing from the bar and Hunter pauses to watch her leave. His gaze goes back to Rory just in time to catch that smile and he grins his own weed-induced one.
“Be right back, gotta’ check on somethin’!”
And he darts for the door.
[I gotta cook dinner!! might be back in a little bit!]
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She raises an eyebrow as Quinn leaves and then Hunter soon after. A little shrug and she takes a seat at the bar, orders a couple tequila shots. One gets raised, held there for a moment as if in a salute and then downed. After the rim of the shotglass is placed against the bar, she finally speaks.
“Well, I showered today, so I know it’s not me.” It’s meant as a joke, obviously. Only a certain kind of person jokes at a wake. Sarita is that kind of person.
[Adamidas] Hunter gets a grin out of her. She’s too young to be in a bar, and everyone in the city knows it. Adam is no longer the youngest garou in the city, but she is the youngest Fostern. She is the youngest theurge in the city. She is also one of the most experienced. If we’re going to get too technical, Adam was also there when Howard. died. (didn’t do anything. Didn’t do enough. Alas, alas. Woe is us.) She grins and parks it at the bar. She crosses her legs, she straightens her spine, she smiles like she belongs and she smiles like she’s joyous.
Because, you know, she is.
“How’s the party been? C’mon, we should be doing something. Pissing off that pretty Fenrir or something else that’s Howard-appropriate.”
[Rory] Sarita has a seat, and Rory looks at her, shyly, and rolls a shoulder into a shrug. She always has that effect on people, so the fact that Quinn and Hunter have sat with her this evening is something of a minor miracle, and something she’ll cherish – though she’d never admit it aloud.
She pulls up the cloth case for her guitar though, and goes about putting it away, carefully. She sets it on the floor, leaning the neck against her hip as she reaches for her never ending beer.
[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Hey, I’m all sorts of game, chica.” She grins at Adam. She may have toned herself down a bit, but she’s still Sarita. “I just got here, after all. And you’re right, this place needs a bit of livening up.”
She downs the second shot and turns, leaning back against the bar. “So what’s the plan then?”
[Adamidas] “How did you guys know him?”
She asks. Her attention doesn’t waver, but she catches the posture that Rory has. her always, always shy demeanor. She notices that Sarita is gorgeous, that she is appealing and sexy and downright lovely in her own right. Adam looks at the bar and orders a shot. the bartender gives her a look
She orders a Shirley Temple instead. Doesn’t matter that she’s a Fostern, she’s still a damned kid.
“We need stories!”
She says it as though Gaia herself commanded this.
[Rory] She waves off Tom when he goes to refill her drink again, and stands, tugging on her coat. She slings on her pack, and the guitar. She’s been here hours already, and her streets won’t patrol themselves. A shy look for those that recently arrived, and a wave of her fingers as she weaves her way through the tables toward the door.
A breath, a final goodbye, and she slips out into the night.
[night, ya’ll – it’s bedtime for lessa!]