[Imogen Slaughter] The pub bustles with a Friday evening fare, men in business suits, their ties undone, their suit jackets falling over the back of their chairs, pounding back the beers or the shots, and talking louder as the night goes on.
She sits alone at a booth, her small size dwarfed by the large benches, though she sits centrally in one, and there is no drink opposite her, indicative that she is alone. She is recognizable, Imogen. The hair, the skin, the dark dark eyes. The slight body, the perfect, straight posture. Her pure breeding – though even without that heady waft of ancestral memories, she is easily memorable. It is not only Garou who notice her.
There is a glass of wine in front of her, a small carafe that indicates the purchase of a half-bottle. It is red, deep and refractive, like rubies.
On stage is an artist, playing her guitar, singing into the microphone, low and quiet. Imogen’s eyes is not on the surroundings – not the business men nearby, one or two of whom had offered a few speculative glances, but instead on the artist, her fingers gently tapping the bowl of her glass in an absent, but perfect rhythm.
[Michael Carroll] Servers move through and around the Friday night crowd with practiced ease, delivering drinks and plates of bar food to their high-end clientele. The patrons are almost never as graceful in the midst of this careful dance. More often than not two or more customers end up bumping gently into one another as they try to move from the bar to their tables. In a less upscale establishment this sort of contact would occassionally end in a verbal confrontation or even a shoving match. Of course, this is not that sort of place, and accidents are met with an sheepish grin or a distracted apology.
One man seems to move even more smoothly through the controlled chaos than the wait-staff. Michaels pace almost never slows as he makes his way towards the lone Kinwoman in the booth. He seems to predict the motions of the people surrounding him, his sharp gaze alerting him to even the smallest movement that would force a change of course. In moments he is standing beside Imogens table with drink in hand. Once there, his murky green eyes are drawn to the stage, to the performer and her guitar. He remains silent, not wishing to break the spell of her music.
When the song is finished he taps his wedding band against his glass three times as applause. “She’s a lovely voice. May I join you, Doctor?”
[Imogen Slaughter] When Michael approaches, and comes to stand near her booth, Imogen is aware of it, her gaze flicking briefly toward the Garou, resting there a moment before turning her attention back, her gaze unreadable as she sets her eyes back on the songstress. She takes a sip or two of wine through the song, before setting it down in time to clap, her fingers tapping the heel of the opposite palm. The sound is sharp, perfunctory, but soon her hands lower, picking up her wine glass as the Fianna speaks.
She turns her head, looks up at him, and then tilts her head slightly toward the booth opposite her in acquiescence or agreement, it’s hard to tell.
“Karen Sellers,” she says, lifting her chin to the woman who is on stage, absently tuning her guitar, the thickest string droning as she changes the key of one of the strings. Michael’s musician mind is perhaps familiar with it – the drop-D tuning and he fills in this fact immediately.
“She’s been around a few months or so.”
[Michael Carroll] At the tilt of Imogens head he slides easily into the open seat, twisting himself just enough to continue watching the performance on stage. Another song begins and once more he is silent throughout. Music hath ways…or perhaps the black space in the sky where the moon should be is the more likely pacifier. Either way, the Fianna seems entranced. His expression changes openly with each change of chord; he is a man who tries to experience music rather than listen to it.
“In Killarney there was a pub…lot smaller than this one…” His spoken thoughts are punctuated with a sip of whiskey. “Used to put on live music nearly every night. The acts weren’t all as talented as this young lady, but they all loved what they were doing. I always envied them for that.”
[Imogen Slaughter] The music starts again and Michael is silent – Imogen for her part is content to keep it so, her attention returning to the music. When there is another break and the Fianna speaks again, the kinswoman turns her attention back, her gaze touching him evenly, directly while he speaks.
“Bars ‘ere aren’t much like tha’,” she says. “Folk music in America is a commercial genre, just like just about everything else.”
A beat, “There are a few places yeh can go, though. They ha’ jams and th’like. Though,” her eyebrow arches as she lifts the wine glass, tilting it slightly so the liquid slides along the walls of the bowl, the legs slowly sinking down after it, “I don’t know how productive that would be wi’ one o’ yer particular – persuasion.”
[Michael Carroll] Michael shakes his head, the smile he offers not quite reaching his eyes. “No, probably wouldn’t do well in that sort o’ situation. It’s a nice thought though.”
The subject quiets him for a moment. He simply stares into his glass, his eyes distant as he takes a walk through memories and dreams. Things that are out of reach forever, no matter how hard you pursue. But in the prescence of company is no place for that sort of morose behavior. So the young Garou heroically pulls another smile on his face and turns his gaze to his drinking companion.
“Do you prefer to drink alone then, Doctor? Or has some fool stood you up?”
[Imogen Slaughter] The kinswoman is a sharp contrast to the Garou who puts on a heroic smile for the sake of his drinking companion. She has not smiled once, her expression not so much dour as restrained. Thoughts, emotions pass beneath the surface of her skin like shadows moving beneath the water. One cannot always recognize it is merely by the symptoms of its presence.
He asks if she drinks alone, or if she’s been stood up.
“Pot callin’ the kettle black, isn’t it just?” her eyebrow lifts, and now her mouth curls, the expression more of a smirk than anything else.
[Kora] The patter of rain against the windows, the door, is mostly lost underneath the sounds of the singer, the hushed tapestry of conversation, glass against door, metal against porcelain, servers and lovers and business associates just starting the slow unwind at week’s end. It’s there, though – spring rain, cold and insistent, some flush of pent-up energy behind the clouds. When the front door opens, the scent of rain just – washes through the open space – a subtle, metallic wave, fresh, somehow, after the long arc of winter.
The front door swings open. A pair of middle-aged women duck out, hesitating under the narrow shelter of the awning, pulling on coats, frowning up at the damp skin, the raindrops on the went sidewalk. Leaving the door open long enough that the wash of rain-scent is married with a current of cold air. Long that the newest patron just ducks in through the open door, stamping water from her heavy boots.
The hood, yoke, and shoulders of her heavy gray sweatshirt are dark with rain. She’s already shaking off the hood, unzipping the jacket, peeling the damp cotton from her frame. Rage is enough to forestall the usual intrusions humans visit upon pregnant women. It is enough to forestall the sharp look some stranger gives her as she steps into the bar to order a drink. The bartender serves her quickly enough, sliding a soda across the counter. She swipes a bar menu from the edge of the counter, and tips her head toward the bar proper, picks up both soda and menu from the bar, and begins winding her way through the the floor toward Imogen’s booth. Just once, her attention stops – sharpens – on the singer on the stage.
For the most part, it is level on the kinswoman, and her companion. Her goal clear, unerring.
[Michael Carroll] Now he actually laughs, a mirthful sound loud enough to do his Tribe and country proud. Before answering, or in addition to, he lifts his glass in a mock toast and takes a long drink. The tumbler is drained in set on the table with a bit of flourish. “Yes, I suppose it is. T’ be fair though, I haven’t been in town that long. Don’t have as many potential drinking companions.”
[Imogen Slaughter] “I didn’t feel like I needed my night enhanced,” the way she handles the verb makes the positive connotations questionable, “by a fool.”
Kora cuts through the crowd, her gravid form more fluid than one might see from a human. There is a difference in the way all Garou move – this is no different. It is, however, slightly unfamiliar in pregnant form, and briefly, catches Imogen’s attention, but only subtly.
“Kora,” she greets the Fenrir, sliding over to give her space on the booth – this may be commentary on her familiarity with the other, despite the reservation of her greeting.
“Ha’ you two met?”
[Rain McKellar] It’s a rainy night, which means it’s warm enough to rain, which means it’s maybe warm enough to bring the year to spring’s doorstep. Or only just so close as to glimpse sight of it across the last expanse of winter. The young woman has the collar of her jacket turned up in a practiced defense against the weather, her head bowed just slightly such that the cape of her hair catches the dampness before it strikes her face. She is not carrying her voice beside her in a hard black case tonight. No!, this songbird has come to hear another sing, to rest her throat and her breath; to remember something.
The door pushes open again, and it takes a moment for her to step inside and blink a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the change in light and temperament of the space around her. No low hanging miasma here, no, but the accompanying din of the press of so much humanity settles like a cotton blanket, like snowfall over everything. It washes over her, overtakes, then breaks into layers of conversation and sounds that can be resolved to eating, drinking, merriment. And above all that, under it, through it is the sound of the young woman’s voice from the stage.
The kinswoman stands a little to the side of the entryway, rocked up onto her tip toes to see through the crowd and to that platform. She bears no breeding or Rage to mark her entry as anything other than mundane. Here she can hide; or so she thought. There is Rage in the room; it will find her soon enough.
[Kora] “Doc,” the Fenrir greets the kinswoman, dark eyes flickering towards Michael, remaining there for a long, steady moment. “We haven’t,” says she, breaking the look with a brief, narrow twist of her mouth and a lifting look towards Imogen. “Not yet.”
The Fenrir is tall, physically assured and seven months pregnant or more. She puts down her soda, the flat, laminated bar menu beside it, then hangs up her damp cotton jacket on the hook at the booth’s edge before folding herself into the booth space. There is enough room for her, but it is a close thing, with the prominence of her late pregnancy. Dark eyes – the color uncertain in the imperfectly lit pub – are set in a pale face, defined by sharp angles – blunted by the weight gain of pregnancy – but still clear underneath her skin. Her mouth is generous, quick-moving, the softest thing in her face.
“I’m Kora,” she says to Michael, in a rich, low voice once she has taken her seat. There’s no breeding to mark her tribe, but the fair skin and blonde hair speak well enough for her. On either wrist, she wears twist of knotted twine and leather bracelets, and a dark, narrow twist of leather encircles her pale throat as well. A old iron ring pierces the inner cartilage of her left ear. There’s no matching adornment on the right, just a old piece of worked metal the size of a child’s finger bone dangling from it like a charm.
[Patrick Llewelyn] People don’t coo over his Alpha’s stomach the way they might were she entirely human because Kora’s Rage suggests it would be a mistake to get so near to her. Even pregnant, heavily so, the Galliard poses that unnameable level of threat. It’s in the way she moves; the way her eyes move over her surroundings; a million tiny nuances that read i am a danger to you and yours.
So, if she does such and in her state — by which most mortal standards would consider weakened — we can only begin to imagine how it is when her pack-mate; younger by rank but more potent by energy alone follows her inside after a few moments. Patrick had lingered to smoke the rest of his cigarette and the scent clung to his skin with the rain as he eventually pulls open the door for departing revelers — revelers who stop and glance at him; who exchange glances and scurry beyond arms reach.
In his leather jacket and jeans, with more layers of black beneath, the Fiann did not stand out so much but for what made him unnatural. He was a good looking boy — a man more precisely yet his face still carried the traces of his teenage years in it — with a head of dirty blonde hair and a set of strikingly blue eyes. They were very decidedly the shade, with no traces of anything but vibrant; bright blue.
A familiar wash of breeding finds him before anything else, though he can sense Kora without considering, a brush of stark energy at the back of his mind; the Fenrir’s essence for lack of a better descriptor. Patrick rolls up behind Rain, and the hairs on her nape rise as the Fiann’s presence — and voice — close on her.
“Rain.” Simple, quiet. That was Prayers to Broken Stone. He inclines his head; offers a hand to guide her through the crowd. “This way, c’mon.”
There’s a certain degree of trust being requested there, the Fianna certainly seems sure she’ll accept.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen glances up from their booth to Patrick and Rain approaching and says, with tones of mild resignation: “We’ll need a chair.”
[Michael Carroll] “Michael. A pleasure.” The Fianna motions at a passing server for a refill, noting the approach of Patrick and Rain with nothing more than an arched brow. “Is it your first child, Kora?”
[Rain McKellar] It has to seem strange to anyone around them. Patrick’s presence commands a certain amount of feral attention, the lizard-like depths of the human brain respond to that predatory instinct with something akin to thoughtless fear, echoes of times when their ancestors were hunted in the darkness, roosted from their dwelling places and safe havens in the middle of the night. To see the young woman turn, to see the way her smile stretched and blossomed for the man (Monster. [Friend?]) beside her would be worrying. Moreso worrying when she, against the better counsel of her own reptilian and thoughtless mind, places her hand in his.
“Hey Patrick,” she says, as they wind their way toward the table of Nationals. Her fingers squeeze his gently in greeting. They’re cold from the outside temperature. That smile will soon be extended to the table of faces both familiar and new, with the same unspoken resonant warmth, inclusive, captivating and genuine.
Being the lesser of the gathered, Rain waits on introductions but that waiting doesn’t keep her from glancing about the table, or unworking the buttons on her coat.
[Kora] The Fenrir makes a brief, narrow noise in the back of her throat. Surprise sketches itself across her pale brows; they rise in twin concert over her dark eyes and she fixes him with a steady look across the table. Then, she acknowledges the question with a twist of her shoulders, glancing away, following the line of Michael’s glance toward Rain and Patrick. “Yeah,” she says, quiet, ” – it is.”
And nothing more on the matter.
“My packmate,” she tells Michael, dark eyes touching on Patrick, lifting her chin by way of greeting. “Patrick. And Rain, our kin.”
Her nostrils flare with a mostly withheld laugh, then. And the curve of her generous mouth deepens at the edges, a softened counterpoint to the animal flash of light over the surface of her eyes. “Pull up a chair, yeah?” she says to Patrick when they’re close enough.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Rain,” she greets the kinfolk, deliberately, as the younger woman waits for the introductions, taking her perceived place in order. “Patrick.”
A flick of her eyes toward Michael, before lifting her chin to indicate him. She is a woman of compact gestures and subtleties. She does not speak more than she must. “Michael,” she says, her gaze shifting to Patrick, “Yer family member I told yeh about.”
[Rain McKellar] “Nice ta meet ya,” Rain says, extending that good will across the table to Michael. He may note, perhaps in passing, that her gaze never quite rose to meet his, but that it was a practiced and subconscious thing.
The kinswoman shrugs out of her coat, revealing a pale pink sweater and a pair of comfortably broken in, dark washed blue jeans. There’s a thin gold chain at her throat that suspends a small gold heart, inscribed on both sides, but this trinket barely more than a flash of color against her pale skin tonight. Not at this distance.
“Good to see you again, Dr. Slaughter,” she adds, her smile broadening a bit for the other kinswoman. There’s warmth enough in her to breach the cold, aloof stoicism in Imogen’s carriage. Sooner or later, Rain would break through and they’d be properly friendly. She just knew it.
For Kora and Patrick, though, she has an aside as they all get settled. “Either of you seen Starla ’round home lately? I keep missin’ her. Her schedule’s gotta be worse than mine.”
And if Rain keeps to the side of the gathering that places her nearest Kora and Patrick, perhaps it will be excused. She has a certain familiarity with Last Watch’s packmates, seeing as she shares space with them, lives by them.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Holding a True Born’s hand must be an interesting experience.
Putting her hand and though it is unspoken it must be said, trust, in that of a creature who, one must attest, could rend her limb from limb should his self control be stripped from him must be an exercise in deliberate application of willpower. One must think I am not afraid of what this person can become, and just let go.
Oh, if only it were that simple.
Patrick’s grip is cool, but dry and he gives her hand a little return squeeze before ceding her over to her own use of it as he fetches chairs without comment; obliging, that one. Or just obeying command — who knew. Either way he settles himself before he settles his eyes on first Imogen, then Michael. Who, with his breeding cannot have escaped the other Stag’s notice — there’s a flicker of amusement in the Galliard’s eye as he reaches over to grasp the other man’s wrist — not hand — and say with surprising candor.
“Thought I smelled the stench of another one, welcome to the fray, man.”
[Michael Carroll] The handshakes go around properly. When he takes Rains hand it is with care; rather than grasping her hand, he delicately holds her fingers. “A pleasure, miss.” He grins broadly in response to Patricks greeting, returning the arm-grab firmly. “Thanks for the warm welcome. Always nice t’ find another cousin. You drinkin’?”
The question has an obvious answer as far as Michaels concerned. Once more he flags the server, motioning for a round of drinks to whoever shows interest.
[Imogen Slaughter] Rain offers a brilliant smile, one sure to melt some of the coldest hearts. “Been a bit, hasn’t it just?” the question is rhetorical, and the kinswoman does not wait for an answer. On stage, the songstress is saying she will be taking a break before coming back. The first set is over, with another coming up.
Imogen takes her last swallow of red wine, glancing at the waiter as she sets the glass in reach for him to pick it up without leaning over Kora, preserving the personal space of both.
“Yeh ha’ Buchanan?” she enquires mildly, an eyebrow arching. With the affirmation, she says, simply, “I’ll ha’ that. Neat.”
Beyond that, the conversation moves around her.
[Kora] ‘”Hunter called,” Kora informs Rain when she asks her aside about Starla. “Said that she’s had some human troubles. He owes her, so he was giving her a hand with them. I did not ask the details,” she finishes, a lifting glance to find Rain’s eyes even if she cannot precisely meet them. “But she’s well, I expect she’ll be back when all this is finished.”
Then she twists her mouth into a narrow sort of expression. Inserts, ” – he’s drinking for me.” in response to Michael’s question to his tribesmate, Patrick, and tacks or an order for an appetizer basket when the server squeezes up to the table and takes the order for another round.
Imogen orders Scotch, then. Kora shoots her a sidling glance, mostly shadowed by her pale lashes. Breathes out her enjoy with a flared breath and picks up her Coke. Dark in the glass, ice cubes swimming into focus as the drink moves in her hand. The sweetness fills up her senses, but there’s no complexity. Nothing to savor. Nothing but corn syrup to relish, and even then it’s not a proper draft – just a shot of syrup and carbonation from the bartender’s nozzle.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick’s sandy brows rise and his eyes — cutting briefly toward Kora and the edge of his mouth rising in reaction — issues a curt laugh under his breath. “Right, I’m the designated drinker for the evening, I almost forgot.” Imogen orders her chosen brand, and the Fiann taps the table twice.
“Penderyn for myself,” he gestures at Michael. “and my Cousin, let’s show him how the Welsh brew whiskey.”
[Rain McKellar] Rain asks for a beer, whatever’s on tap, oh, surprise me, and for a glass of water without ice. She’s young enough looking that most servers and tenders will card her, and pour over her out of state license more carefully than they necessarily need to. There’s enough Rage at this table tonight that no one wants to linger to see to the formality of checking legal ages. Rain knows it; she doesn’t even move to free her license from her wallet. Instead she says her pleases and thank yous, smiles a little bit, and the question of whether she’s officially reached twenty-one or not goes unanswered for another night.
Unless, of course, anyone at the table wants to set her straight about beers. Or whiskey. She’s open to suggestions, as long as they aren’t of the I brewed this myself and cloudy milk-glass bottles variety.
Hunter is mentioned, and Rain stifles the habit of avoidance long enough to lift her gaze to meet Kora’s.
“Oh….” she says. A telling little syllable when paired with the delicate purse of her mouth; the cant of her head just so. Rain can’t keep much from any of them, but the Skald knows her well. “Eve runs with Hunter’s crew now,” she says. It’s all she says. It says enough.
[Michael Carroll] He snorts as the drink orders are made and delivered. “Oh I’m sure the Welsh make a fine whiskey. But how are they at drinkin’ that same whiskey?”
The challenge…and it is a challenge…is directed at Patrick. Of course. Michaels dark green eyes fix on his Tribesmans face, the corners of his mouth turned are sharply upward in a wry grin. His glass is lifted just below his nose as he samples the aroma of the Penderyn. One sip, just to get the flavor.
And then the glass is drained. Some would consider it a waste not to savor such a fine drink, but as far as Michaels concerned…pride is on the line.
[Janis Ian] She’s… exiting the restroom, it seems like the best place to come from. People need to use it right? She plucks her way around the tables, casting a curious eye over the tables, pausing behind a group of men or two, checking to see if they run with girlfriends or so. When one caught her attention she flashed him a rather feral grin that made him do a double-take.
The Rotagar shakes her head, huffing out as she pauses by the bar to pick up a beer – some import thing. Once in hand, she steps away to present herself to the gathering that’s collecting at the tables. Kin and Garou – all connected in some way. Auburn hair was bound up away from the pale contours of her face in a ponytail, stray wisps escaped to fall across her eyes. Her attire casual, a pair of Dickies pants tailored to fit a woman’s hips, a long sleeved tee shirt rode snugly against her frame and the leather blazer she always wore along with her motorcycle boots.
She slides into somewhere at the back of one of the Garou present, tilting her beer bottle up in greeting to Kora, and then casts a quiet eye to the others.
[Izzy Montoya] There are any number of places that one would expect to find Izzy Montoya – and almost all of them serve alcohol. So perhaps the only surprise is that she should, tonight, choose the same pub that others have. It’s almost certain that she would have chosen one with far less – shall we say – presence had she known of this evenings clientele, but some things simply can’t be helped.
Things like this: she has a presence of her own. Tough, take no shit, get out of her way or suffer for it, answer the question and don’t lie to her, a woman on the rise in a male dominated field. In short: she’s a bitch. And dded to that, there’s her blood. Songs of heroes, hearbeats filled with victory, all sung through her veins. She stand out in a crowd, even when she’d rather blend.
Some things can’t be helped – like the thirst for a good whiskey. She pulls open the door, and tugs it closed behind her, pausing to let her eyes adjust to the light. She brushes the water off her coat – leather, of course – and finally moves inside, in search of an empty table.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen watches both Fianna drain their whisky without hesitation, her eyes narrowing slightly, her brow furrowing. The reaction is brief, transient. It clears, she smirks, picking up the whisky.
“If yeh both ha’ the money t’make it to round ten,” she does not mention their stamina, “I am going to find another table.” Imogen, for her part takes a measured sip, tasting it before she swallows it.
[Kora] “Give her the seasonal,” Kora inserts when Rain asks to be surprised by whatever’s on tap. “The Pepe Nero, if you’ve got it on tap, yeah?” A pause. ” – and I’ll have a glass of milk. The Coke’s flat as Illinois.” The server walks away with her most specific and diverse order of the night, casting a nervous glance back over her shoulder when she’s far enough away that she can breath again.
Then her attention drops back to Rain, “I’ll have Roman check in with her,” she informs Rain in a quiet aside, glancing up once with a twisting half-smile as Imogen threatens to find another table. “That mean you’re not joining in the challenge, Doc? I’d love to see you drink them both under the table. ”
She glances up as Janis joins them, lifting her chin in a gesture of acknowledgment to the red-head, then glancing around the table. They’re getting a bit more privacy now, as the people closest to them find reasons to move. Izzy will not that the only empty table is directly next to the booth around which the Nation seems to have gathered, for an impromptu moot, of sorts. “Janis,” still looking up, over Rain’s dark head, then a glance around the table. “You know everyone?”
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick shrugs out of his jacket as if this were some pre-drinking ritual. The hoodie beneath it was equally as dark, the sleeve-ends worn in. It seemed as if he owned little that had not, at some point in its existance, seen a great deal of wear and tear. Perhaps there was much to be read of that about the man himself as he flexes an arm.
Picks up the glass with theatrical flourish; toasts Janis when he spies her and then, naturally, challengingly, Michael.
“Game on, brother.” He says, and slams the liquid back; turning the glass and setting it down on the tabletop. There’s a easiness to Patrick tonight; the moon is gone, and his Rage low enough for his typically taciturn demeanor to thaw, and allow him this rather reckless play with drink.
Imogen is going to find another table if they make it to round ten. “Nonsense,” Patrick contradicts, “you’ll be right here with us, Imogen. You’ve got the tolerance in your blood, too.” Kora chimes in, and Patrick nods. “See? It’s expected of you now,” a beat, he sighs.
“There’s no option. Next round you join.”
[Janis Ian] “Kora.” She inclines her head to the Jarl, then tilts her head to cast a rather devious smile towards the Fianna as the men begin their drinking tournament. She shifts her stance, brushing against Patrick’s back as she leans over his shoulder to see what the Fianna’s drinking, smirking as he toasts her.
“Afraid not, Kora,” she replies, “Though, seems I ‘ave missed an opportunity to drink the lads under the table.” The brogue in her voice is easy to place, accentuating her tone of speech. She straightens, tipping the beer back, her eyes cutting towards the door to glance at Izzy briefly, then returns to the table.
[Izzy Montoya] The only empty table is the one next to the Nation.
Naturally.
There’s a brief tightening at the corner of her jaw, but there is no other show of hesitation, irritation. Instead, she simply moves toward said table, and lifts her chin in hello to Kora, Imogen, Patrick – the other’s included by proximity, if not directly.
She slips her coat off, and hangs it over the back of a chair, before settling to sit in it, so that the leather serves to hide the bulge of her weapon under her blouse at the small of her back.
“Evening.” The only verbal greeting.
[Rain McKellar] Kora saves her from a nondescript evening of Bud Lite and watching the boys get hammered. Now she’ll have something better to drink while enjoying the show. It says something, perhaps, that the girl is wise enough to temper her intake with an equal measure of water, and to stay out of the Fianna’s reindeer games.
Rain lifts her pint to the challengers, but her modest sip announces that she will not be joining into this madness. Under the table, Rain’s knee bumps Kora’s a little. It’s just a casual thing, a reassuring (for Rain) bit of touch in the swell of Rage around them. If she holds her pint glass a little more tightly than needs be, the Skald will know why. Rain is subdued around this much roil and anger, even when the moon is hidden.
“When ya’ll start singing,” she says, in a sweet and honeyed drawl, “I’m callin ya’ll a cab.” This brings her glance up to Izzy, and that smile broadens again in recognition. Rain waves a little, before turning her attention to the newer of the redheads.
[Michael Carroll] The “next round” Patrick mentioned is already on the way, signaled for by the Ragabash and multiplied to account for the crowd that has joined the table. “Here’s the game lads and lasses: first one to quit pays for the drinks. Every last one o’ them. Good stiff drinks only, no mixers. Vomiting is allowed if you come back to the table and continue drinkin’, but frowned upon. Especially if y’ don’ excuse yerself.”
[Imogen Slaughter] The kinswoman’s gaze flickers briefly toward Kora when she speaks, then to Patrick as he alludes to her blood, to their family relation. There is no overt response to it, merely a steady, even regard.
“I don’t think so,” she says, steadily, a hard edge threading beneath her words.
It recedes a little as she takes another swallow from her tumbler, setting it down evenly, “but by all means, enjoy yourselves that way, if yeh must.”
[Daoi Gladecu] *Pubs. She liked drinks, and she perfered not to drink with rats underfeet, or a rude person telling her that her face looked like a cut up pussy. Gotta love red neck drunks. So she wandered into this one. With a black cane with a gold wolf’s head and a limp.
Daoi wasn’t an overly attractive woman. She could have been the girl next door until her face turned and the damage of claws was shown to go from her forehead only to disapear under the collar of a white blouse. Leaving one grey eye drooping. Her hair was dark and cut short, it swayed like a curtain with each step as she used her cane to lean on and walk. She was dress in jeans and a white blouse. A well made black pea coat on her shoulders keeping the chilll off.
The first thing that hit her though wasn’t the smell but the familar trickle of rage. It almost made her skip a step with supprise. Jesus…this town was chock full of them. And they said the nation was faltering in producing true borns. They lie, obvioiusly they have been breeding like rabbit. Angry bity clawy rabbits*
[Janis Ian] Janis is vying for a seat if there is one available, her eyes casting to Rain as the little Gaian can no longer keep up. She drains the rest of her beer, setting the empty bottle down on the table that cleared out with the increase rage that’s gathered around. She quirks a red brow at the other ragabash in the group, grinning from ear to ear now.
“Deal me in.”
[Kora] “Janis,” Kora says, meting out introductions in a circle with a moving gesture of her glass – of milk. Whole milk, full fat, opaque in the gleaming glass meant for draft beer. The flat Coke remains on the table. The server is not eager to get close enough to the table to pick up empties. “This is my packmate Patrick,” a tip of the milk glass, “Rain,” ditto, “Doctor Slaughter,” ditto, “Michael,” again, the milk moves. “And Izzy,” a gesture toward the detective as she reluctantly takes the table nearest them.
“This is Janis, everyone.” The circle complete, Kora sets down her glass of milk firmly on the table and reaches over the next round to tip open the paper napkins covering the appetizer platter. Michael then offers the rules of the game, and Kora gives Rain a sweeping look, a subtle bump of her knee back against the kinswoman’s. “You’re exempted,” from the rules of the game, Kora – well, directs. A twist of her mouth, deepens into a full-blown grin as she shoots Imogen a look. “Like the Doc and me, yeah?”
Then, across the table to Patrick, Michael, both. “Doc’s a badass, man. She could kick your ass; she just chooses not to. Cards close to her chest and all that.
The crowd Daoi notes around a booth in the dining room of the pub is a strange one. The pair of Fianna men – and Fenrir woman – drinking whiskey, laying out the rules of their constant. Imogen with her bright red hair, slight and straight-backed, made of moonlight and iron will. Kora: tall enough, sharp enough that she looks up every time the front door opens, watching directly from the booth toward the door now, pulled out of the immediacy of the group by her attention directed toward the door. Sharp-featured, soft-bodied, what is visible of it. In the third-trimester of pregnancy and drinking milk while the rest knock back whiskey like shots of tequila in a cheap border bar.
[Rain McKellar] Rain can’t afford to be the only one at the table without drinking in her blood (an uncle that bootlegged moonshine doesn’t count), without the Rage to burn it off and not suffer the morning hangover. Rain can’t afford to let her slight frame and leanness bordering on hunger destroy what little savings she has pulled together in her months at the church.
She nurses her beer, well aware of her limitations, and when it comes to handing out a second round she simply smiles and waves one hand in a No gesture.
“This game’s a little too rich for me,” she admits, with a shrug, and an upward cast of her eyes. All very what can you do. Then: “Nice ta meet you, Janis,” and a smile for the woman who is opting into the drinking game.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick is a man with an eye for detail, and an ear for the minutiae to someone’s words. He has a musician’s ear, after all and like those other of his kind its hard to ignore certain things when another speaks. The hard edge woven into Imogen’s voice as he mentions their shared blood — and it’s not the first time he’s noted it when he’s said such things — gains her a curious level of attention from the son of Stag.
For a moment, there is little to detract his attention from her face; he studies it, head tilted a little to one side.
Then, after a beat; his gaze flits away and finds Izzy Montoya. She too receives a moment’s pause; the vague suggestion of mirth donned around his lips and Patrick’s eyes drop back to Michael. Who is laying out the rules, you understand, of the entire game. Patrick shakes his head a little, a hand scuffing back through his blonde hair.
“If you’re getting up to vomit, you’re giving up the challenge, man. Ready?” The Galliard adopts the stance of a man about to engage in a fierce arm wrestling match and throws back another shot; his nostrils flaring as the liquid burns down his throat.
[Daoi Gladecu] *Daoi looks at the table with the garou and kin around it. She meets Kora’s attentive eyes for a moment. Her lips twich up at the corner and she gives a slow nod to her. Curiosity was in her eyes, but she knew better than to approch a wolf’s den without an invite. Teeth were sharp, and personalities paranoid. Not that she could blaime them, she’s experimented on some of the things they fight. But even in a kinfolk the urge to be pulled into a group is strong. Even if it was with pointy toothed rabbits.
She looks around and considers. Instead she makes a small sound in her throat and goes to the bar to order something first. A drink often helped sooth social interactions. Speically with herself*
[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow, slightly, at the name of the game, and the stakes thereof. Then, when all others would bow out – she smirks. And here, her gaze meets Patricks, and there’s a quirk of a brow, unexplained.
A moments pause, then. “Deal me in.”
Someone has to make a show for the kinfolk. She reaches over to their table, and grabs one of the shots, lifts it slightly, and slams it back with all the ease and practice of a lifelong drinker. Not an alcoholic – see. She doesn’t have a problem. She drinks, gets drunk, falls down. No problem.
[Michael Carroll] “Born ready.” The shot is cleared quickly, and when the poor girl assigned to this particular section passes by Michael signals once more. “Better bring the bottle, girl. It seems the contenders all want a shot at th’ champ t’night.”
There is, of course, a long and drawn out conversation resulting from that request. The old We’re not allowed to do that, sir and We’ll make it worth yer while routine…you know the one. This one ends as they typically do…a respectable amount of cash is traded for an exemption to the rules. Bar law.
“Ok, gettin’ up t’ vomit is right out. But I say if y’ got the sack to do it at th’ table an’ keep on drinkin’, you’re in…”
[Imogen Slaughter] Patrick studies Imogen for a moment in open curiosity. Imogen, for her part, evenly meets his gaze. There is a subtle, almost invisible challenge there – to the set of her jaw, to the steadiness of her regard. It is almost shocking, her stoicism in the face of rage, even when surrounded by it on all sides.
Then he looks away. Imogen returns to her drink. She allows the conversation to swirl around her, her gaze lifting briefly when Kora’s attention shifts, coming to rest sharply on Daoi and remain there for several moments. Her brow tightens, her dark eyes moving briefly to look at the Fenrir Jarl, an eyebrow arching.
A moment later, she takes another drink and looks away from the scarred woman.
It is only as Michael speaks that the doctor speaks again, “Havin’ been the first person here,” she says swirling her drink in her glass, “I do not think it’s impolitic to say this is ‘my’ table. There will be no vomitin’ at ‘my’ table, not while I’m sitting at it.”
A brow arches to the contestants, glancing to each in turn. There is a sliver of a smirk – a glint of humour in her eyes.
“If any o’ yeh ha’ a problem, yeh can find another one.” Not that there is much free now. Friday night is now in full swing.
[Patrick Llewelyn] At this, Patrick’s brow creases. “Actually, on that note, maybe we should have some glasses on standby for emergencies. Myrick, my brother took me drinking once when I was about sixteen.” It’s the first time that the Galliard has ever, really, spoken about his family, and it pieces together parts of him.
That he has a history all his own.
Family stories, and siblings.
“He set a pitcher of beer in front of me,” the blonde mimics just such an action, looking down at his hands, then up again, “two shots of whiskey and one empty glass in case I wasn’t up to the challenge, yet.” There’s a subtle play of remembered rage contained in the Galliard’s voice; a certain energy, if you would.
[Michael Carroll] “If y’ only have enough in y’ for one glass, you’re not drinkin’ enough.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Who says I only filled one?”
[Michael Carroll] “Oh. Fair play, then.”
[Imogen Slaughter] “Drink yer bloody drinks.”
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts at the comments about drinking, and vomiting at the table and such, but she makes no comment. She does, however, follow the gaze of Kora, Imogen, toward Daoi briefly, before she brings her attention back. The boys bicker, and she says nothing, just shakes her head, slightly, and waits for the next round.
[Rain McKellar] “I’m with Doctor Slaughter,” Rain chimes in but her voice fades away when Patrick raises his. It’s the verbal equivalent of stepping aside for a more practiced and renown storyteller. There’s something in the way her attention shifts to him immediately that bespeaks a quiet kinship, an interest that goes deeper than a casual acquaintance.
Like she had said about his brother, once: They might have been friends.
The girl lifts her pint, sips from it with restraint. There’s tension building between her shoulder blades, it’s pulled her posture a bit straighter.
“Y’know, even in the backwater nowhere I’m from it’s considered rude to backwash at the table,” she tells them, pint glass tipped a bit, suggestive of a minor point of order, brows lifted not in challenge but in gentle rebuke. “I’d’ve hope your folk would make a better showin’ than down home Georgia boys.”
[Kristen Burke] The newest Fianna stepped through the door. Perhaps she was led here by the spirits to meet the gathering of Stag’s tribe. Some present she had seen before, even talked to. However, she still did not really know any of them.
She walks to the bar and orders a beer then turns to study the various people there as she waits for the drink. She has a medium sized bag hanging from her shoulder that looks to be filled with quite a variety of things.
[Janis Ian] Janis and Izzy deal in to start on the third round, they are going to need a lot more alcohol. Michael secures them a bottle as Janis worms her way into a chair as she waits for the next round. She shrugs off her jacket, laying it back across the chair. She dips a hand into the pocket sewed into the inner lining of the coat and feels for the wad of cash that’s there.
“I’m good for the money.” She quips with a glance up at the current topic of conversation and just clucks her tongue at the pair of Fianna boys. “Tsk.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] “That’s peer pressure right there,” Patrick says without rancor at Imogen’s remark. “She’s actually encouraging this display, Michael.”
Patrick begins to pour a new round of shots for the gathered.
“Bottoms up.”
[Daoi Gladecu] *she watches them quietly as she downs a drink. She whispers to the bar tender to send one of their better bottles of whiskey to them. She pays for it right there, but doesn’t let them start a tab.*
[Kora] “I’m not carrying you home, Detective,” Kora warns when Izzy asks to be dealt in. “If they drink you under the table, yeah?”
The remark stills. Kora’s dark eyes fall to Izzy briefly, then rise again, tracking Daio’s position in the back, finding the woman’s back by the haze of breeding around her as she goes to a bar for a drink meant to smooth out social interactions. The Skald’s gaze is straight, steady, watchful; it flickers away again when Patrick mentions his brother.
“Do I want to know what the glass was for?” Kora inserts the question sinuously after Patrick begins his story, cutting a glance to Michael when he replies. She makes an I’m pregnant and you’re turning my stomach face like a spasm across her generous features, then glances back at Patrick, stopping long enough to close her eyes, to set her mouth against her rising gorge.
Which rises fast enough that she has to put the back of her hand to her mouth, strain to swallow it down. She shakes it off, breathing directly through her nose and mouth, shaking her head to clear it, eyes narrowing as she looks for the slender thread of Daio’s breeding again in the crowd. When the kinswoman turns around, the Skald jerks her chin toward the group. Oh, hey. It’s an invitation.
[Izzy Montoya] Kora declares that she’s not carrying her home, and Izzy does the unthinkable – she laughs. It’s brief, but there. “Yeah.” Agreed. Subtle the underscore that she won’t need it. After all, Kora said if they drink her under the table, and the Fenrir has not lost a drinking contest yet. Of course, it’s normally against her coworkers, and not Fianna, but well. Someone must drink for the Fenrir.
She reaches for the shot as Patrick says bottom’s up – waits until he’s drinking before there’s a quite aside. “Not the first time you’ve said that to me, is it now…”
What? She never said she’d play fair..
[and – I have to pick up my son from work. Assume Izzy keeps up until I get back? Shouldn’t be too long – the pick up, than a fast food run.]
[Michael Carroll] “Well, if the doctor says it’s ok wi’ her…” He takes the shot and lifts it to eye level, his brow arching. “We meet again.”
Koras reaction recieves an apologetic grin. But before the apology can be vocalized, Izzy gets in her cheap shot. Michaels eyes are as wide as his mouth for a moment, the grin breaking into outright laughter. “Oh, I like this girl, she came to play…”
[Daoi Gladecu] *She takes the bottle of whisky in one hand and starts to limb over to Kora and her invitation. She smiles and nods to the preggnant garou as she approches slowly so as not to startle anyone*
Hello.
*She says to Kora. Her voice is soft with just a bit of a slavic accent*
You’re group seems to be having a good time…I hope they don’t mind that I’ve brought more fule for their fire?
*She wiggles the bottle in her good hand as she leans on her cane*
[Kristen Burke] She gives Daoi a small wave and a smile. She doesn’t know the group, however. So she makes her way with her beer to a table and takes a seat. Then she simply pulls a sketchpad out of her bag and a pencil case out of which she selects a few pencils and begins to draw, glancing at the group from time to time.
[Janis Ian] Janis rolls her head from side to side, looking over at the boys and then to Izzy as she offers the kin a smirk. She reaches for the shot as Patrick calls bottom up. She takes one of the glasses that’s poured out, raising it up to her mouth to down it back. Brown eyes cutting to Kora with a click of her tongue against the back of her teeth.
“No worries, Kora, someone’ll see to it the Detective gets ‘ome. No guarantee she won’t ‘ave a ‘ang over afterwards.” There’s a glint in her eyes, “Don’t suppose ye miss the fun eh?”
[Rain McKellar] When Kora rises, precipitously, Rain’s attention is pulled away from the drinking game and follows the progress of the pregnant Skald with a worried glance. But Rain doesn’t slide off her chair, yet; doesn’t rise beside her. The pint glass is half full/half empty. Her water remains, untouched, and she’s probably feeling that alcohol more than any of the others so far.
The songbird works at that pint steadily and slowly, and when anyone glances her way she smiles, thinly, with the corners of her mouth curling upward, and the levity of it all only just touching her eyes. It’s an uneasy thing. None of them would be mistaken if they assumed she would make her excuses soon enough.
For now, though, Rain leans her elbows on the table and watches the mayhem unfold with a sharp wariness of the people in which Rage settled, gathered like bright points at their centers of mass, emanated off them like starlight. She had an intense awareness of it, more than was strictly natural for a kinswoman of the Nation.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen has gone silence as the conversation runs around them, but at some point, her gaze lifts, scanning the crowd.
It eventually falls on Kristen. And there it stays, for at least a minute or two.
Then she catches Kora’s attention, gesturing her to let her from the booth, one hand holding the tumbler of scotch. A few moments later, the kinswoman, her blood singing with Fianna blood, walks toward the Fianna Garou and her sketch pad.
“I don’t suppose yeh’re drawin’ our table, are you?” She enquires, almost conversationally as she comes up to the table, setting the scotch down on the edge.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick’s eyes cut to Izzy, and he answers her friendly fire with his own. “Not the last, either, I aspire to hope.” He chinks his glass against her own with a nod and downs it; turning it over and laying it in front of him on the table-top. “Where do you hail from, anyway?”
This for Michael, apparently.
“God knows we’re spread around enough. England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland?” He’s ticking them off on his fingers. “I’m missing some, I know.”
[Kora] “They have pretty specific requirements,” Kora tells Daoi as the kinswoman limps up to them. An array of chairs have been added at the end of the booth, and the table is groaning with drinks, shot glasses, beer, flat soda with melting ice cubes, and all the rest. Actually, she stands up to tell Daoi this sliding from the booth with a certain sense of chivalry, steering another extra chair toward the table as she speaks. A glance at Michael, Patrick – a sharper one for Izzy, briefly – then back to Daoi. “Patrick demands Welsh. Doc’s drinking one of our forgotten presidents, but give those four,” a look toward the ones who’ve contracted for the drinking game.
” – another drink or seven and they won’t know the difference, I’m thinking.” There’s a moving, quiet humor in her voice. That fades, with a look from Rain to Daoi. “You’re new, yeah? Been to see Lukas yet?”
[Kristen Burke] She looks up at the woman who approached her and smiles, “I am. Would you like to see?”
She turns the pad for Imogen to see. So far it is only faint lines, little detail work, getting the general shapes of several of the people at the table without much shading getting as much as she can of their features quickly so that if one were to leave, she could finish from memory without needing the person there.
[Daoi Gladecu] *She waves at Kristen before turning back to Kora. Daoi chuckles softly and nods a thank you for the chair*
Then to them it will be entrusted.
*Her brows lift her good one high the other restrained by scare tissue*
Yes I’m a bit new…Lukas? I’m sorry no. Is this Lukas someone I should seek out?
*Daoi was polite and keeping her movements calm*
[Michael Carroll] “The Black Valley, right outside Killarney. Most beautiful land you’ll ever see, I’ll swear to it on my deathbed.” To emphasize his point the Irishman raps his knuckle against the tabletop, his wedding band cracking loudly against the wood. As the drinks continue to flow, and the conversation flows faster, Michael is finding it increasingly more difficult to control his accent.
“What about you?” Another shot.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Not particularly,” the kinswoman answers evenly, easily. She is a slight woman, pale skinned, brilliantly redhaired, her body taut beneath the lines of a business suit, a blouse, as if she had come here straight from work, regardless of the hour. “In fact, I’d like you to stop.”
[Kristen Burke] “Is there something offensive about sketching you?” Clearly puzzled though she does put the pencil down.
[Kora] “He shares your blood,” Kora informs Daoi, easing herself back into the bench seat of the booth as Daoi sits down, and donates her bottle toward the heavy drinkers at the table. There are two knots, now – Rain, Kora, and Daoi, who is thus far not joining in the drinking game – and the drinkers.
Kora’s attention sweeps away from Daoi just once, toward Michael when he mentions his home outside Killarney. Her attention deepens minutely; a glance at Patrick before her dark blue eyes sweep back to the Shadow Lord kinswoman. “He’s your leader, your protector in the city. You can get a message to him at the Brotherhood. Should probably make that a priority.”
There’s something attentive about Kora’s gaze; intent and aware. Poised for nuance. Her voice is quiet when she continues, casually, ” – been there yet?
[Rain McKellar] Rain shifts a little in her chair, glances over her shoulder to where Kora is talking with an unfamiliar woman. She doesn’t have the awareness of breeding that the True does, so Daoi is just an unfamiliar woman, with a bottle of something to share, and a cane with lupine adornment. The girl’s features are pleasant as she glances their way, looks Daoi over from head to toe in a clean sweep of her brown eyes. Rain’s hair is down and falls to the middle of her back, long and straight and also brown. There’s something pretty about her features, expressive, that bespeak a warmth that is somewhat subdued tonight.
Like a oil lamp turned down to barely a glimmer in the evening. Shrouded by soot and glass. Next her attention shifts to Imogen and Kristen. But Michael’s telling of far away piques her interest and pulls it back to the Fianna and their drinking game.
She finishes her pint and sets it with the other empties on the table. Rain pulls her water toward her. Unless someone puts another drink before her, that’s all she plans to drink tonight.
[Daoi Gladecu] *Doai take in the information that Kora pours to her and nods*
I’ve been to the Brotherhood, it’s where I met Ms Burke…
*She nods her head over to Kristen and Imogen at another table*
Thank you for the information, I’ll make sure to leave a note. I’m Daoi Gladecu by the way…
*She holds out a cool lean fingered hand to Kora as she gives her an introduction*
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Abertawe, Wales.” Patrick says with a faint trace of slur edging into his voice. No accent though, despite where he claims he was born. “My family emigrated out to the States when I was about one.” He picks up his next shot, and waits to see if the other participants have caught up to himself and his newly arrived Cousin.
“We breed like rabbits, y’know. Got three siblings. One Kinfolk, two fucking True Born before me.” The Galliard’s features twist in irritation. “So, you imagine, you got a brother who is born before you, on the same moon and does all the shit you’re meant to before you do an’ better to boot.”
There’s a dark chuckle.
“Though it’s fun being the black sheep to an extent. They expect me to mess up. My brothers do it,” Patrick leans back. “The world is ending, man.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Even in this nosy atmosphere, the kinswoman’s voice is clear, her accent pronounced. She is unAmerican, foreign, though most have a difficulty placing her nationality.
“I would say so, yes.” She answers, her hand covering the top of the tumbler where she holds it on the table. “Seeing as you did not ask permission, and had you done so, I would ha’ said no. So might the others, but yeh never ga’ them the chance.”
A beat. “Yeh should introduce yerself to the folks at the table. I know what yeh are, which means yeh know what I am,” her breeding is thick in her veins, it infuses every gesture she makes, and beats a drum beneath her words, muttering ‘Fianna, Fianna, Fianna’. “And likely everyone else o’er there.”
[Imogen Slaughter] (noisy atmosphere! not nosy)
[Izzy Montoya] (back! *catches up*)
[Michael Carroll] Michael nods in response and lifts his shot in a sympathetic toast. “Parents. They want the best o’ us, an’ expect the worst. Either way, they’re always disappointed.”
And down goes shot number…who even knows now? It’s really a stamina competition at this point. “I got a few brothers m’self, but I’m the only True. I envy yer freedom, at least the weight of your parents expectations don’t rest solely on you. I’m an ocean away and still have to hear from the Lady Carroll at least twice a week.”
[Janis Ian] The Rotagar’s the quiet one in the group. She’s made room for Izzy if the kin wanted a place to sit next to her. Her body caves forward, leaning in on her elbows as she picks up each shot to toss it back. Her eyes moving back and forth at the different conversations going on, most of her attention is on the Fianna as they talk.
[Izzy Montoya] She keeps up, taking a spot next to Janis and the boys. She also ignores the sharp look given to her by the Jarl, instead tossing a negligent “We’ll see.” at Patrick’s returned fire. They discuss where they are from, and she says nothing. She does, however, listen. She always listens. Even through shot number…
Three, it seems. Down the hatch.
She likewise says nothing about her parents, or any siblings. It’s hard to imagine the Detective having any family affections, truth be told, and as no one asks, they’ll never know if she’d even tell.
She makes a face in the aftermath of this shot, but it ends with a huff of breath, and an ever ready smirk lingering across her lips. Someone might accuse her of enjoying this little showdown. She’ll never tell.
[Kora] The Fenrir looks up, over toward Imogen and Kirsten, dark eyes half closing with thought as she considers the pair. Then she drops her attention back to Daoi, her generous mouth settled into its neutral position, which makes her look as if she had just heard some half-secret joke whispered quietly into her ear. The kinswoman offers her hand, and there’s a moment when Kora simply looks at the offered hand, fair head canted in a wholly wolfish gesture, nostrils flared as if she were scenting the air.
The weight of her hair is pulled sharply back from her features, twisted at the nape of her neck against its own weight. Left against the nape of her neck, fine threads pulling over the fine weave of ther cotton tunic.
“I’m Kora,” the creature returns, belatedly reaching for Daoi’s hand. Covering any awkwardness with the too-human gesture by reaching for her milk. “This is Rain.” This time, she doesn’t interrupt the flowe of conversation by offering introductions around.
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Yeah,” Patrick returns with, an arm stretching out along the back of his chair. It’s an easy motion, suggesting he is a man at his leisure, but none should be fooled by it; by any of the True at their table. The alcohol will burn through their systems quickly, and they are still an implied threat; by number alone, if nothing else.
“You want some of mine?” He offers with a smirk; and pours another shot. “What is this? Five? Six?” He downs it. “I’m losing track and I like it.”
[Kristen Burke] “I do not see what is offensive about it. I do not sell these. It is merely practice. However, I will not continue.” She picks up the pencils, this time just to put them away along with the sketchpad.
“I am Kristen.” Said as she stands, shouldering the bag once more and taking a sip of her beer.
[Rain McKellar] At the sound of her name, Rain turns. This time with a bit more of a smile painted across her features, warm enough to lift the quiet distance from her eyes, cast it off like an unneeded shroud for a moment — and for that moment the warmth she carries is inclusive, extends to Daoi by virtue of Kora’s introduction. Rain is an open creature, and one that carries neither Breeding nor Rage. She is he odd one out at this gathering, if for that reason alone.
“Hey,” Rain offers, separating her fingers from her water glass long enough to waggle them at Daoi in greeting. “Welcome to the table of drinking, self-disclosure, and poor behavior,” she adds, in an aside, lightly enough if that joviality seems faintly forced given the collected temperments. Rain’s only just able to hold her composure at this table, and that strain is starting to show. There isn’t enough alcohol in her system to cover it; there would not be enough in her system at any point of the night if she had her way about it.
[Janis Ian] She’s new to the rounds, so there is some catching up to do. The alcohol isn’t affecting Janis just yet, her perceptions were still straight as she remains in her leaned posture, arms folded over each other. The fingers of her left hand hitch into the long sleeve of her shirt, clawing the sleeve over her right forearm to drag it up to her elbow.
A line of ink works its way down the inside of her forearm and the outside, runic glyphs that draw faded blue lines into the creamy pale skin. They twitch reflexively under the pull of muscles as she lifts each shot of whiskey when the rounds ends and begins anew.
[Michael Carroll] “Losin’ track? The track is lost, my friend. There is only the bottle and we brave souls now. Who’s pouring?”
He is leaning far back in his seat now, basking in the special warmth that only top shelf liqour can provide. Tonight will be fun, though tomorrow he will almost certainly suffer. With a lazy extension of his arm, he pushes his empty glass towards the center of the table. “The ladies at this table are too quiet. Yer not givin’ up already, are y’?”
[Izzy Montoya] It’s at shot five, that she slows – but only for a moment. She has been known to kill more than this on particularly bad nights, drinking straight from a bottle until she passes out. Those nights… well. Those nights were best forgotten, by any means possible.
Tonight is not one of those nights. She reaches for the shot, and there’s a tell tell slow blink, before she lifts and slams it back. Alright then. One figures there’s an average of 16-20 shots per bottle, so she’s got a ways to go still – if one assumes she can drink the better part of a bottle herself. She assumes she can. She can’t remember ever *not* doing so, though it’s a fact she can’t remember much past drink 11 or so on any given night.
Michael asks if she’s giving up. She snorts, and waves for another shot. “Ya’d fuckin’ like that, wouldn’t ya.” Mouth like a sailor, this one. Maybe she’s not a lady…
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s eyebrow arches, and her mouth curls, a smirk rather than a smile, “Honestly, it doesn’t matter t’me if yeh understand or not. Only that yeh stop.”
Kristen introduces herself, and the kinswoman answers briefly, “Dr. Imogen Slaughter,” before tilting her head toward the table, “they’re this way.”
[Janis Ian] Janis is a shot ahead of the Detective, and not showing signs of slowing down just yet. She did this exactly two nights ago to kill the agitation that rolled through her body. Tonight, she’s doing it to calm the noise that is growling in the back of her head, if she wasn’t here amongst tribe and kin, she’d likely be out trying to find someone to murder that she doesn’t know there whereabouts yet.
The sixth glass is set down, her cheeks sucked in as she tilts her eyes up to Michael, “We were just listening to ye lads talk to yerselves, seeing as that’s the best feature of Patrick.” Her nose wrinkles up, glancing at Izzy, “We aren’t giving up, are ye?”
[Izzy Montoya] .
to Izzy Montoya
[Kristen Burke] She doesn’t reply to the first part of Imogen’s statement, though she does nod at the introduction. “Nice to meet you Doctor.” She follows Imogen to the table, nodding at Daoi again and Janis. “Hello.” Then her gaze moves over the rest of the table. “I’m Kristen Burke.” She introduces herself with a smile to the group.
[Rain McKellar] And that’s as good a place as any to segue. The group around the table is larger than the available space, and Rain has been feeling the press of it, keenly, for the past half hour or so. She grins over at Kristen, and offers: “Hey, Kristen. You can have my chair.”
Before anyone can argue, the kinswoman is slipping out of it. She pulls a few bills from her pocket and places them on the table, enough to cover her pint and an apologetic tip for whatever server or buss boy is stuck cleaning up after the Family event.
“I’m gonna head out,” she says, to no one in particular. It is, perhaps, more aimed at Kora and Patrick than anyone else. Rain shrugs back into her jacket, slips her hands into her pockets.
[Janis Ian] It has finally taken the Rotagar this long to give Kristen any recognition, she hums softly at the “Hello.” that is directed towards her. She leans back in the chair, tilting her head back to look up at Kristen from an upside down angle, and grins.
“‘allo, darling,” browns eyes sweep up and down quickly before returning to Kristen’s face, “Nice to see ye… with more clothes on that is.” She offers the dark-haired woman a sly wink before turning to gesture to her drinking buddies. “Patrick, who’s shirt ye stole. Not sure on that one,” points to Michael, “And Izzy.”
[Kristen Burke] “Thank you….?” She leaves the end a question for Rain to introduce herself if she wants.
Then comes laughter at Janis’s comment. “Well yes, Ah thank you Patrick. I hope I did not stretch it out too much.” She grins then nods at the others as they are introduced as well, smiling at them all. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
[Rain McKellar] “Rain,” she supplies her name for Kristen, and her smile is warm enough to be truly gregarious. It would be warmer, if the table was a little less Intensely populated.
[Kora] “I’ll walk you home,” Kora says quietly as Rain rises. A glance toward Patrick, then Michael follows. There’s a brush of her (sober) mind against Patrick’s, a (new) (familiar) wordless thing, that. Awareness, acknowledgment. Something close to be well. So saying, she stands. Offers, “Night, all – ” to those remaining at the table, pulls out a passport from her right front pocket and slips a ten and a five – enough to cover her (non-alcoholic) drinks and appetizer platter – from the pages, and drops them on the table, soon returning the passport to her pocket.
“Or at least to the bus stop.”
[Kristen Burke] “Nice to meet you as well, Rain, and have a good evening.” Then she adds for Kora “And you as well”
[Izzy Montoya] Janis has seen Kristen unclothed – or with less clothing, and also with Patrick’s shirt on. Izzy arches a brow, slightly, as this information is filtered around, and in the end, she says nothing. She is not so drunk yet that Kora would have to prove her threat not to carry her home, so when the Jarl (…never hers, always THE jarl – though perhaps there is something in the fact that she at least admits that…)
“G’nite KoraRain.”
Mmmmm. She reaches for the next shot, and lifts it in a toasted goodbye…
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen comes in Kristen’s wake, tipping back her tumbler of scotch and draining it, setting it on the table with a steady click.
“Drive you all,” to Kora and Rain, reaching into the booth that Kora has vacated to retrieve her handbag, her jacket, shrugging into the latter and picking up the former.
“C’mon.”
And, to no one in particular, “Ha’ a good night.”
[Michael Carroll] When Kristen is introduced, he politely smiles and points at the bottle. “Name’s Michael. Drinkin’? Because the women talk a big game around here, but I see eyelids gettin’ heavy. I’m interested to see how a newcomer does comin’ in halfway down the bottle.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] Janis says something about his best feature, and he cants his head back and says with great and overdone fondness: “Thank you darling,” as if she’d just praised every last inch of him as akin to Adonis. He’s somewhere between his sixth and seventh shot but yet shy of getting up on the table with a lampshade on his head and reciting Shakespeare in Welsh for the masses.
Kristen approaches; is introduced and Patrick closes one eye, and points in her general direction.
“The Brotherhood, you ate one of my ribs.” How utterly obscure, “Nice to officially meet you. Officially I’m Patrick Llewelyn, Prayers to Broken Stone, and I run with the lady departing.” Kora brushes against his mind; feels the warmth of his increasingly drunk mind in return. “Jam session soon, Rain.” He instructs, and Imogen — ah, Imogen — she gets a slight smirk, curling the edge of his lip.
“That car still drives?” He calls, clearly impressed.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Different car,” Imogen answers absently over her shoulder.
Rain and Kora are treated to a trip in the Aston Martin, rather than Imogen’s rather dodgy Volvo (which, truth be told is no longer running). Leather, heated seats, an engine that growls, and gear shifts which change like silk.
She understandably does not do much more than drop them off in Cabrini Green, before taking off again – and does not stop for a single red light along the way.
[Kristen Burke] She nods at Imogen as the woman leaves, then nods at Michael and finishes off her beer. “Sure! How far behind am I?”
Her eyes move to Patrick as he gives the full introduction. She looks around the building a moment then adds. “Spirit’s Touch. New to the city. You play? What instrument?”
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Patrick is devastated and hurt she has not told him about the Volvo’s demise.]
[Imogen Slaughter] (Patrick can’t be devastated or hurt. She hasn’t told him yet.)
[Rain McKellar] [Good night, all you lovely people. And thank you for the scene!]
[Kora] (yes! thank you all. :) )
[Imogen Slaughter] (thank you everyone!)
[Janis Ian] People are starting to leave, Janis has slowed down her drinking. She looks around at those that remain, a couple more shots into the rounds and she’s slowing down herself. She tips her head to Patrick, offering the Fianna a slight smirk, and then leans back in her chair.
Nostrils flare out briefly, her attention distracted as she turns in the chair to dig through her jacket, pulling out a cellular phone to check for messages flipping it open for a second, huffs, then promptly puts it away before returning to another shot.
[Izzy Montoya] She… has kept up with Janis – remaining one shot behind her in the race to public drunkenness. Other than the flush that has warmed under her skin, across her features, Izzy looks none the worse for wear, either. Not only does she talk big game – but she holds her own, too.
Of course, she is still sitting. Lord only knows what might happen when she stands. Even money on the fact it won’t be for long, at least not on the first attempt.
However – she smirks at Michael. “Who’s eyelids’re fuckin’ droopin?’
Not hers, surely.
[Patrick Llewelyn] “I play,” Patrick says, sitting forward and unzipping his jacket all in one surprisingly fluid motion for his current level of intoxication. As drunk as he perhaps was getting, his body was well equipped, as were all those of Stag, to process large quantities of alcohol. As a matter of fact, they’d developed a Gift quite for this purpose — if you asked Patrick, anyway.
“Guitar. Acoustic,” he clarifies. “You?”
[Kristen Burke] She smiles. “I sing, mostly. I could pick out an easy tune on guitar but my voice is where my skill is.”
[Michael Carroll] Shot after shot will do two things: dull your senses and fill your bladder. And so, as the first bottle comes to a close, Michael slaps his hand on the table. “Alright, fill in a joke about a man and a horse, I will be right back.”
Without a second thought he leaps up from his seat, takes about two steps towards the bathroom, and freezes. A growl of amused frustration escapes his lips as he turns to regard the others in the drinking game. “I stepped away from the table. I just forfeited t’ have a piss. My family will never live down the shame.”
A small wad of cash is dropped on the table next to the Irishmans shot glass. “I’ll pay this time, but I reserve the right t’ a rematch. Next time in a proper location, where we can have a proper tale-telling contest. Now I shall slink away and hide from the pain of my loss. Til next time, my friends.”
And with that, he makes his exit…after making a quick stop in the restroom.
[Kristen Burke] A wry smirk graces her lips. Coming in at the end of a drinking contest and no one remembers how many in they are. At least that’s what she assumes by the lack of reply to that effect.
[Izzy Montoya] Michael moves to step from the table, and Izzy says nothing, but there is the beginnings of a smirk dancing across her lips. When he gets two steps away and stops, realizing what he’s done, she actually laughs. She laughs, and lifts the bottle to pour herself another shot.
“Shame.”
It’s all she says, before she lifts the shot and tosses it back. The Fenrir is still in it to win it, it seems.
[Janis Ian] The last shot glass hits the table with a dull thud. Janis sighs, stretching her tattooed arm above her head as the other falls to her lap, sliding back to grab for her coat. She pulls it up off the back of the chair, sliding her arms into the sleeve and looks at the others. “Contest o’er already.”
She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, pans a quick glance to Izzy, “Ye going to ‘old out for a while longer?”
[Izzy Montoya] She peers over at Janis at the question, and gives it some thought. At least, she intends to give it though, but what she really wonders is somewhat more muddled. She lost count at shot 7. She’s not sure where they are, or how much is left in the bottle. But she watches as Janis pulls her coat on, and then looks over at Patrick.
..hmmm.
….and pulls her gaze back toward Janis. A little smirk, as she nods. “Yeah. Patrick’ll get me….” a beat. “…home.”
[Janis Ian] “I ‘ave a couple of ‘ours til the sun’s up. I ‘ave some moon to burn still…”
She was going back out into the cold, the alcohol burning hotly in her veins. She wears no slur to her words, nor a wobble to her movement. She huffs out, rising from the chair that skids back across the carpet. Her head tilts, right hand lifted to press two fingers to her temple, saluting the Detective in farewell.
“If Patty doesn’t, I’ll find something ‘orrible to do to ‘im in ‘is sleep.” She smirks, her grin too full of teeth. A glance is spared to Kristen, she smiles and waves, “Tell Adara I says ‘allo, the next time ye see ‘er, Kristen. We should run sometime, the three of us.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] …who is busily crowing and throwing his fists in the air; chortling at Michael’s self-forfeiting. “He throws the game on his own head!” What a lovely display of drunken ones-up-manship there, son of Stag. Patrick thrums his hands on the table-top and is still chuckling, his eyes the clearest indication of just how drunk he’s getting — they’re dancing, quite befitting a Fiann, really.
Janis clucks her tongue and readies herself to leave.
“What,” he protests, looking between Izzy, Kristen and Janis. “A bunch of light-weights.” Izzy is still in it. “Well, minus the good Detective, here.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Never given up willingly before, ain’t fucki’ startin now..” She nods, and reaches for the bottle, to pour her and ‘patty’ another one.
She waggles it in salute to Janis, and chuckles. “G’night.”
[Kristen Burke] “I’ll see her when I get home. We’re rooming together. A run would be fun.” She grins at the woman. Then turns a raised brow on Patrick. “How can I be accused of being a lightweight when I’m only giving up by virtue of the fact that no one can tell me how many I’d have to drink to catch up. Seems hardly sporting.”
[Janis Ian] Janis chuckles at the Fianna’s crowing. Her head shaking, disrupting the auburn ponytail that slid along her back. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a rather fat wad of cash and peels off a bill or three to toss on the table.
“Add this to the other’s tab, next couple rounds on me.” She tucks the money away, extends her right hand out to point at the drunk Fianna. “I’ll catch ye in a rematch, Welshman.”
She turns on Izzy and Kristen’s farewells and departs the pub, leaving out the front door this time instead of the back.
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Six,” Patrick says accordingly, which may or may not be accurate. He signals the barkeeper, or a waitress, whomever he can action first and asks for another bottle of Penderyn to be brought over. There is reluctance, he’s already bright eyed with intoxication, yet strangely coherent for it. Still, money talks, when little else does and a fresh bottle is carried over as well as one of water.
Just in case.
There is much talk about what he intends to do or shall do to get Izzy home, though that doesn’t seem the real suggestion to the words and Patrick, leaning back, slouching really, is smiling with his eyes alone as he mumbles in an aside to Kristen. “I fear for my chastity, these women are plotting to do things to me when I pass out later.”
[Izzy Montoya] Six, he says. She squints an eye and takes stalk of her own level of drunkenness. “9.” she corrects. A beat. “Unless ya fuckin’ cheatin…” Oh, them’s fighting words. One must remember though – Izzy has a gun. She doesn’t fight fair. Ever.
He fears for his chastity. She snorts. “Like’e’as any…” she doesn’t deny plotting though, even if her ideas will have need them both to be awake.
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Posting this for Kittie, as she couldn’t and had to go home!]
Kristen:
“A Fiann admitting to chastity? You must be truly wasted to admit such shame. Give me a bit and I’ll return and catch up.” ((Time to drive home from work. Will take about a half hour.))
[Izzy Montoya] .
to Izzy Montoya
[Patrick Llewelyn] “Nine is what I meant to say,” Patrick insists with a genial wave of his hand through the air as if doing so made it so. Beneath his black hoodie, the young Fianna born is wearing a charcoal gray sweatshirt; nothing so refined or elegant as most of the [now departed] party had been wearing to a relatively upmarket establishment such as this.
There’s a new singer taking the stage in the background; playing to a more sedate crowd now; thinning as the hours wear on.
“So,” he says while opening the new bottle and topping up drinks, Patrick seems calmer for the alcohol but also for the dropping numbers. His focus improves. “How’re the mean streets treating you, Iz.”
[Izzy Montoya] She, too, is more at ease now that certain others have left. The Jarl, everyone else with rage and a tendency toward violence and unpredictable behavior. That sort of thing. That, and Patrick has seen her naked. That implies a bit of comfort, too.
“Back at m’own precinct finally. So…” she leans back and stretches, slowly, before nodding. “Better.”
[Izzy Montoya] .
to Izzy Montoya
[Patrick Llewelyn] It most definitely makes a difference.
These two have shared physical intimacy, more than once by anyone’s guess and there is a certain easiness that comes with the territory. They know, physically, at least, the extent of one another’s scars. There is little to be feared in many respects from someone who has seen you at your most vulnerable and come back for more.
“Oh yeah,” he comments and downs another shot; slamming the glass on the table. It’s probably a blessing that Patrick hasn’t yet felt the need to stand up since he began drinking. “S’good. I’m packed with Last Watch now, dunno if that’s news or not but, y’know.”
He smiles, a vague suggestion of mirth.
“Beats bein’ a lone wolf.”
[Izzy Montoya] He downs another shot, and for the first time, Izzy seems to waver, seems to consider not picking up another. If she stands, right now, she knows she won’t be steady. She hasn’t drank this much, this fast, for some time.
It doesn’t help that she busy considering throwing in the towel, just to ask him to take her home.
Her home, since he’s packed with The Jarl now. She snorts, amused, and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “S’what they say – though if she knew bout…” she waggles the shot glass between them, clearly suggesting they’ve a dirty little secret… “…she’d lecture me forfuckinever….”
Her hand isn’t steady, but she lifts the shot anyway, and tips it back, slamming the glass to the table afterwards, her eyes closed.
“…..whew.”
[Derek Anderson] He enters the bar, hands in his pockets. The tall, muscular, good looking man with short blond hair take a look around, kind blue eyes looknig around. He was dressed in boots, a nice pair of jeans, a dark grey sweater and a warm coat. He walked deeper inside and noticed a familiar face talking with a man.
He headed for the bar, ordering a beer and leaned against the counter once he got it. He looked at Izzy but didn’t move closer to them. Maybe it was a date and both wanted to be left alone. It happens and he certainly wouldn’t want to intrude.
He drank from his bottle, looking around, eyes coming over Patrick and Izzy every once in a while.
[Kristen Burke] When she returns she stops by the bar and orders a bottle of whiskey. The other was low and there’s no way in hell she stands a chance of catching up on what’s left. She sees Derek and nods at him. “Hello Detective. Want to join the party?” She nods in the direction of Izzy and Patrick who were at a long table that clearly once held more with lots of empty bottles and glasses.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick seems curious about that; his head tilts. “Why? Because I’m a Fianna and you’re a Fenrir?” There’s wryness contained in Patrick’s voice, tempered by a certain — let’s call it respect — for the one whose opinion they speak of. The Cliath holds Kora in esteem.
He does not appear to want her wrath, but at the same time, he is a Galliard.
His curiosity is endless. Kristen and Derek both get a nod each.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly, and chuckles. “Yes. That, an’ cuz I’m mated to another one of ours – only he ain’t True, an’ he ain’t fuckin’ here right now, an she keeps tellin me I gotta have a fuckin fenrir kid. Like, yesterday. 15 of em if I can manage it, soonest, please.”
She scoffs, and slouches back in her chair. She never slouches. She also rarely says more than half a dozen words on any subject at one time, so it’s clear? The detective is drunk. Quite.
“Mostly cuz the I chose John thing, an’ we ain’t popped out kids, an’ I’m neglectin my fuckin duty cuz all I am is a Womb for the mighty motherfuckin vikings.” And there she’s reaching for the bottle again.
[Derek Anderson] He looked at the young woman talking to him “Good evening Kristen” He say with a smile “I’m not sure I want to intrude” He say, eying Izzy and Patrick. “And I’m certainly not getting drunk..sadly. Not with what happened two nights ago.”
He nodded to Patrick, a polite nod back. Izzy didn’t seem ot have noticed him. She looked pretty drunk, even from here. His eyes moved back to Kristen “How have you been?”
[Kristen Burke] “Well it is supposed to be the end of a drinking contest. I’m alright. I’ve found nothing in the last two nights to make what happened any clearer. It still seems strange to me that those…whatever ignored you and the other gentleman, Cipher, entirely and just chased after her. What does she have that you don’t? Except perhaps ovaries.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Sorry guys, I had to break and eat dinner. :)]
[Derek Anderson] He nodded to her “I don’t know yet either. I’ve been talking to that guy. My theory? I thin Cassie could identify it and it prefered ot take care of her. Also, I think it wanted us to know about it, so we’d be scared. Yes, we’ll try to rotect ourselves and all, but it mgiht be exactly what that thing want.”He shrughed “I’m totally speculating right now”
He drank form his beer, looking at Kristen
[Kristen Burke] “It’s possible,” she muses. “Or maybe because her fear was stronger? The blood on the knife…if it was their blood…then they can be killed if they can be located. There must be a way to make them visible.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick is a little too drunk to care as much as he should that the Kinswoman across from him just told him she has a mate who is not here right now and that she’s meant to be making babies as of yesterday. Now, Patrick was old enough to be having sex, and in his early twenties he would not make the youngest parent ever to have lived and died by the Wyrm but he’s clearly not ready to handle children.
“Babies are overrated,” he says dismissively, leaning forward and cuddling the bottle of whiskey into one arm like it was one. “All that crying and shitting and drooling,” he waves a hand, snorting. “Not worth it, ‘sides, you doing good work where you are, ain’t you? Protecting people.
That’s more helpful than getting pregnant and breeding more of us.”
He shakes his head. “Like we need any more. It’s — it’s just, you know what it is, it’s birth, couple of frenzies and then death.” He paces his hands across the table to signify the lifespan of a Garou. “Oh, wait. ‘nd somewhere in there it’s meeting other Garou you can stand and joining forces for a while until they die and you start the whole dance over again.”
He leans back, slouching; legs splayed.
“If our lives were the plot of a movie, nobody would go watch it.”
[Derek Anderson] He nodded “Maybe that’s what they’re after…fear. HEnce why we weren’t attacked, so we coudl spread fear amongst us, make it stronger even?”He rubbed the back of his head “I don’t know. Maybe Lukas or someone else will have a better idea abotu all this than me. I’m good at what I do, but usually it’s has more normal circumstances”
[Kristen Burke] She laughs softly. “The average criminal can’t turn invisible.” She nods. “I don’t know who Lukas is. I’m fairly new to the city though.”
[Izzy Montoya] She points a finger at one of the Patrick’s sprawled in the chair next to her and nods. “Zactly.”
She should likely care that she has a mate that she hasn’t heard from in months. She should. She does, too, when she allows herself to think of it. Unfortunately, Kora does not even recognize her mate as a possible permenant solution without a child to cement it. It’s fuckin’ maddening, is what it is.
She nods, and then, with a lopsided grin, and an oh so devilish twinkle in her eyes, she suggests. “‘sides – if ya wan’ perfect fuckin’ kids, gotta practice lots, right? Wonder who I’ma practice with tonight…”
She makes a show of looking around… though what she’s really thinking is clearly seen in her gaze when she looks back to Patrick again.
[Kristen Burke] Her eyes travel back over to Izzy and Patrick. A slight frown slips across her lips. The woman said she had a mate. “What’s your mate’s name, Izzy?” Perhaps it would be enough to make the other think about what she’s doing. As drunk as the pair were, she wasn’t certain.
[Patrick Llewelyn] There’s a very particular kind of expression a man gets when he realizes his potential to get laid just went up to almost certain — it’s somewhere shy of broad-faced grinning and not quite a frown — for Patrick it’s a throaty chuckle and a stretch; the shirt he’s wearing rides up, and pulls to accentuate at his lean strength as if he were quite deliberately giving the entire bar a preview of the services that one, at least, of their number is after.
Although knowing just how drunk he is right now — he probably just doesn’t give a damn.
Kristen is trying is dissuade the Fenrir by asking after her mate. Patrick, clambering to his feet, and staggering only a few steps one way or another — an impressive feat he can thank his bloodline for — answers Kristen with ridiculous cheer. “John! She said so before, but she wants to take me home.”
A beat, he frowns as if to remember where home was, per say. “To practice.”
[Derek Anderson] e nodded “No they can’t. And Lukas is the boss around here. Eventually, you’ll get to meet him. He seem like a very decent person.” He leaned againt the bar again, watching Patrick and Izzy “I wanted to go over and say hi to detective Montoya, but I have a feeling it would be best not to bother them.”
Kristen went ahead and interviened in the conversation the two were having. So he nodded to Izzy if her eyes met his “Evening detective” then to Patrick “And to you Sir”
[Kristen Burke] She nods at Derek’s comment about Lukas. “I was at the table with them earlier. I got the bottle to go back and join them.” She shrugs, then she hears Patrick and she sighs. She tried. She wasn’t their mother. Though…She eyes Patrick. “You sure you should be behind the wheel of a car?”
[Izzy Montoya] She laughs and does the patented shhhhhh! motion that is actually louder than the fact that he announced to the whole bar that she wants to take him home. Wherever home is. Though she’s pretty sure she remembers – and can direct a cab to the right place.
…she thinks.
Patrick clambers to his feet, and Izzy pushes upwards, and staggers once she is upright, her hands falling on the table as she waits for the room to stop spinning. “Whoooooo. what a rush. As for you, missy…” She waggles a finger in Kristen’s direction. “John. An’ he’s under cover. An’ probably fuckin’ a betallion o’whores t’do whatever he’s doin. Because we’re detectives, an’ it’s all about th’ closin of the case, right? Right…”
Speaking of Detectives.. “Detective anderson. Ya ain’t called me for that booty call… yet. Shame ya got here too late for tonight.” She rests her hand on his chest, briefly, nails curling lightly, before she reaches to grab her coat…
“Drive? fuck that – cab.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick turns a full circle trying to put his coat on before he realizes he’s doing it the wrong way. Honestly, to watch him you have to wonder who was the Garou in this scenario, but he eventually succeeds in putting the leather jacket on — inside out — and swipes up some of his money from the table; leaving enough to cover the drinks.
…he takes the bottle though, and hides it under his jacket.
“I’m not driving.” He’s still utterly cheery, it’s disturbing as all hell. “I’m taking an Izzy — Cab.” He says, and swaying, with a wave makes a beeline for the door with the assistance of the Fenrir Detective.
[Derek Anderson] He watched her amused “It’s good to see you detective. And I”m sorry, I wanted ot call, but…I thought you were the one filing my name under booty call and would calling, my bad”
He watched her put her hand on his chest with a big smile “I guess I’ll call you later this week…or call me next time you get drunk” He did give her a hug “BE careful gonig home tonight Detective, all right?’
There was concern in his voice. He didn’t know if she heard about the message he got to Lukas, or if Patrick did. He looked at the man “Try to sober up a little and watch over her all right?”He wasn’t an order, but a request. He didn’t feel liek killing their buzz if they didn’t know, nor did he wanted them to be careless
[Kristen Burke] She raises a brow at Izzy then shrugs. “Good night you two. Be safe.”
[Izzy Montoya] “mmmmm…” He says he’ll call, and she chuckles. “Do that.”
And then, she’s stumbling and weaving out with Patrick. And what happens then? Is another story entirely…
[thanks for the play! bedtime for tired Lessas…]
[Patrick Llewelyn] [ and that’s Patrick’s exit! *grins* thanks so much for the play, all! I’m off to write some challenge posts.]