[Gabriel Ferreira] [Where the fuck are you guys, the church?]
[Fire Claws] His ears perk a little when the scent hits his nose. He needed to check this smell out before he went to join Linus on patrol tonight. And as the lupus stretches out his lean frame underneath the stairway to the bell tower, he takes in everything he can about the new smells in the church. And without pause the motley furred forseti jaunts from his little hide away within the church to the the gathered masses in the kitchen.
Soft falls of padded paws fall on tile as he moves, taking note of the two scents unfamiliar to him. His pack mate and the prospective one as well. Letting out a little yawn as he stands in the doorway, just looking people over.
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Yep! In the Church -> Kitchen.]
[Janis Ian] Janis stalks towards Jocelyn like a hungry lion, the curve of her lips twitching into a visceral snarl as the cub sets the beer down. She reaches a hand out to take it from the young girl, claiming it for her own. Her other hand rose up to plant atop of Jocelyn’s head, peering at her.
“Why are ye mud-covered?”
Brown eyes lift up to Maddox and actually laughs, “Rides like Cowboy is me deed name, remember it well, darling.” She winks at Maddox, a wry grin widening on her lips. The stolen beer is pressed to her mouth, tilted back and swallowed, “Why is she dirty, Patty?”
[Jocelyn Burkhart] “I was wrestling” Her expression under the mud is mournful as her beer is taken away, but she certainly has the sense to keep her mouth shut about it.
[Patrick Llewelyn] There’s some aspect of the true nature of the Garou at play here; the Cub stakes a claim on a beer; the elder Garou snarls and takes it from her. The chain of command, instinctual dominance and submission at work; the Fianna is watching this interplay silently, his mouth still faintly bemused by all going on around him.
When he senses his pack-mate rousing; his eyes rove to the doorway silently and he mentally nudges Fire Claws with his thoughts the way he might were he also wolf shaped presently.
“She’s a Cub, I think being covered in something grimy even if it’s not mud is part of the package deal.” His voice is throaty with smoking.
[Maddox Cartwright] “I know, luv,” he replies with a wink to Janis. And he sighs, looks down at the beer on the table like it’s one of those holy quests Patrick mentioned, something to be dreaded but gotten over with anyway, for the sake of the people. Lifting it, he guzzles it back and, for the first time tonight, shows a bit of a sense of manners. He picks up both of his empty cans, and looks to Patrick, brows lifted in an unspoken question of where to toss them. Maybe it’s all the new faces, or the warmth of alcohol slowly spreading out from his stomach that makes him conscious of the fact that he’s in someone else’s home. More than likely, it’s the fact that he’s a scrawny outsider surrounded by other wolves.
“Well, it was lovely meeting you all,” he says, once the cans are tossed an he bends to retrieve his guitar to sling the strap over his shoulder. “Patrick, there’s lots of money to be had in the performing bear arts. Think about it.” Whether he wants the Galliard to seriously think about it as an offer, or whether he just wants him to think about the very prospect of it being out there in the world is anyone’s guess.
A nod is given to the room at large, and a lift of fingers to temple in salute. Without much more ado, the Theurge makes his exit, back out into the thunderstorm.
[dude, lost track of the time! thanks for the scene, guys!]
[Fire Claws] The slender lupus just watches as the gathered sit around and drink the smelly, awful tasting liquid that he has learned is not exactly for him, well not at this moment. He offers his own pack mate a psychic nudge like one would do so while at play in the lupus form. His nose follows the departing Fianna for a moment before turning back on the mud soaked cub. And for a moment he is silent as he just watches her and takes her in.
But soon he is moving once more, his pace slow as he starts in on the cub with narrowed brow. His nose picking at the odor coming off of her. The smell of the mud could tell much about where she was, who she was wrestling with and so on. Not a word offered in that moment, just beginning to circle the Get in training.
[Jocelyn Burkhart] She flashes a brief scowl at Patrick, arms crossing as it begins to occur to her that maybe she should get cleaned up.
[Janis Ian] “Ye smell like shite, Jocelyn.”
The remark is not said endearingly, just an observation, “When’s the last time ye bathed? Ye best not be tracking that dirt elsewhere, the kin’ll not be pleased to clean up yer bloody mess.”
She flicks her gaze back to Patrick and Maddox, a spark of humor brimming in her eyes. The presence of the other Feral draws her attention to Fire Claws and Janis regards the Forseti with a nod of her head. The Fianna parts ways, and Janis drops her hand from Jocelyn to bring it back to her hip.
[Jocelyn Burkhart] She is HORRIFIED. Garou or not, she’s still a teenaged girl and the implication is nothing short of mortifying for her. There’s a squeak, before she can even get out a response.
“Oh my GAWD. I totally showered today. I shower EVERY day. I was just wresting. Joey pulled me in the mud!”
[Janis Ian] Janis hides the smirk behind the beer bottle, tilting her head to regard Patrick with a wink. The bottle is drained of its contents as Jocelyn becomes horrified. It seem the Rotagar was in a playful mood tonight, her moon lurked overhead, burned to the very core of the redhead without her ever having to see it.
She could feel it.
“Ye should shower twice a day, and avoid the mud.” She gestures to the cub absently, pointing the tip of the bottle at her, “That type of dirt ain’t good fer yer complexion, it eats away at the good skin.”
[Jocelyn Burkhart] She squeaks. It’s all she can do, before she slinks off to clean herself up.
[Patrick Llewelyn] Prayers to Broken Stone nods as the Theurge departs, and continues to sit at the table; boot propped against one chair, his beer can lazily resting on a knee. The cigarette in his hand is smouldering away, and he looks quite the picture of leashed hostility, which was, that said, not his fault.
His Rage painted it for him.
Jocelyn squeaks, and slinks off, and he lets loose a gruff chuckle. “You’re mean,” he informs Janis with absolutely no malice.
[Fire Claws] He watches as the cub runs off from taunts of the rotagar, his eyes not leaving the little cub for a moment before she is out of the room. In a few moments his birth form gives way to the human skin that he held only for the moments that it became necessary. Motley fur or red, grey and brown given way to pasty white skin and a drawl that could not even be English.
“Stran’ed cub. ‘Fraid of sum mud.”
He moves plant himself in one of the chairs, looking at the wry smirk across the rotagar’s lips as she taunts the cub about dirty mud.
[Rory] Two days ago it was cold and snowing. Just two. Today, it’s thunder and lightening and rain and she’s been out in it all day. She still patrols like its her job (it is) and wanders like she has nothing else to do (she doesn’t, not really) and fixes random things in random areas for her dinner. The latter has been scarce today, and this is the trudge home.
Without dinner.
She’s soaked to the bone (but not covered in mud) damp ringlets clinging to her jaw, her arms crossed, hands tucked under her arms, her pack on her back. She looks like… well, a drowned fianna – and one without a drop to drink.
[Tragedy: a definition.]
She approaches the church, and has a mental debate with herself. The thought that maybe Imogen is inside with more whiskey is what tips the scales, and has her walking to the door and knocking.
[Janis Ian] “Aww, Patty, ye warm me black ‘eart wi’ such sweet nothings.”
Janis croons at the Fianna, waggling her eyebrows at Patrick. She sets the bottle down, tilting her gaze to cast it down at Fire Claws, watching him curiously. She moves finally, stalking to the coolers to drop to a crouch beside one, lifting it up with one hand, whilst she gathers up two bottles in the other, shaking the wet condensation off of them.
She tilts her head at the faint sound of knocking, “We got company.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] The waggling of brows gets a wink in response and, as his chair tips forward again and he launches himself to his feet a nudge of shoulder to shoulder — the bawdy jesting of wolves in a Den, no less. “That we do, I’ll see who it is.”
Patrick, prowling through the darker sections of the Church can be felt coming like a freight train; it at least gives knowledgeable guests waiting for the door to be opened the sign they aren’t being ignored, or about to wait in vain. It’s dragged open, the wood expanding and warping in the wet and held ajar by one of the Galliard’s hands.
He peers down at a very wet curly-haired Fianna.
“Must be the night for the Stags to go wandering, get in here, girl.” He stands aside to let her slip past, then leans out into the storm to check for any other stragglers.
[Rory] She can feel him coming, though it is not through any bond. Rather, it’s the press of rage that clashes with her own, a rage that boils under her skin, warms her despite the fact she’s wet and rather miserable about it. even so, Patrick is the proud recipient of one of Rory’s oh so rare, yet always genuine, smiles.
“Hi.”
Get in here, he orders, and she ducks past him instantly to obey. She gives herself a shake, much as she would if she were in a different skin, and then hugs her arms around herself with a shiver. Then, ever hopeful, green eyes look up at her tribal elder and all around bad influence…
“….Can I have something do trink?”
[Fire Claws] “Ya gunna break dat thing.”
Not that he minded the fact, the cub needed to be broken in. From what he has come to hear about the little cub, she would do well to be pushed around by a no moon for a couple of nights before she was handed back to her keeper for the time being. Then again it was a good sign that the Get had more than one cub, that the tribe was able to still find their own in the heart of the scab.
However a strange look came across Fire Claws face after the knocking hit the door, his eyes turned in the way of the church entrance, but he did not seem to think much of it. He heard the knocks, but something was… lacking to him. Something that would have made him move towards the sound. Without scent, the knocking might have well been a branch blowing on the large oak doors.
[Jocelyn Burkhart] Okay help me out here? Does this setup have showers and all of that?
to Rory
[Rory] I’m sure it does, somewhere. I think Liz has a map of the church in her gallery
to Jocelyn Burkhart
[Rory] others have mentioned showers, so my guess is yes. :)
to Jocelyn Burkhart
[Janis Ian] Janis had the extra beer in her hand, perhaps she was anticipating Rory. The Rotagar moves towards the other redhead, extending her arm out to hold out the extra bottle to Rory.
“‘ere, darling.”
She waits until the bottle is gone, her eyes moving back to Fire Claws as she watches him. “Ye aight, FC?”
[Jocelyn Burkhart] You’re the best. :) Thanks.
to Rory
[Fire Claws] When Rory enters the kitchen, his eyes fall on her intently. Just staring at her, as if she were an aberration. Not moving to greet the metis nor ignoring her outright. He just didn’t feel at ease while he watched the new redhead enter the Last Watch’s stone den. She was not only a strange face that he could barely place, even if she was at the Moot, but no scent to recall either.
He merely watched, curious and suspicious at the same time.
[Rory] .
to Rory
[Jocelyn Burkhart] It’s quick and dirty, so to speak, but the cub pads back into the kitchen after a quick shower scrubbed clean and dressed in a tank top and yoga pants. Her hair is wet, pulled back into a braid.
She still looks unsure.
Edging back into the kitchen, she sighs inwardly at the influx of people eyes flickering longingly toward the cooler of beer.
[Janis Ian] Janis seems to know instinctively when Jocelyn returns, the Rotagar turns her attentions to the cub, swinging her gaze up and down, nodding her head in approval.
“Water or soda, no alcohol.” She says in a stern tone of voice, free hand gestures to which ones that the cub was allowed to partake beverages from in which coolers.
[Patrick Llewelyn] [Sorry, phonecall! Typing now!]
[Fire Claws] His eyes don’t seem to come off of Rory for long when the cub returns from her shower. It was almost as if he was glued to the new face with pure wonder. But along the invisible string, his pack mate can feel the uneasiness that sits within him. How could Rory be here and yet not? The sides of his eyes just crease while he tries to play with this idea about the metis born fianna right there in front of them.
Then he is back to Jocelyn once more, quick, flat out question demanded of her. His voice, stern and direct, but his English was anything but clear and concise. It was like Mike Myers too a machete to each word that came out of his mouth and then drowned them in what could potentially be a southern drawl, if that was at all possible.
“Ya frienzee ‘gen?”
And without waiting for an answer, his eyes were back on Rory. He couldn’t look away from her.
[Jocelyn Burkhart] She settles on soda, digging for a Diet Coke. All motion stops when SOMETHING is asked of her by the strange, staring man. There is, really, only one answer that she can give at this point.
“Huh?”
[Rory] She is a curious beast, Rory, for many reasons. She holds far too much rage to be as shy as she is, she holds far too much renown to be simply a cliath, which makes one wonder why she has yet to challenge, and she holds no scent for someone so vibrantly there in every other sense of the word. And still, people tend to want to take care of her… despite the fact she terrifies them in some unnamed way.
a walking, talking, breathing contradiction, our Rory.
Janis offers her a beer, and Rory ducks her head, shyly, hiding her little grin behind wet curls as she takes it. She murmurs a thanks before taking a swallow, and peeking at Fire claws, who stares at her. This, too, she is used too. She shifts uncomfortably for a moment, then falls very. very. still. Waiting for him to make his decision – friend or foe.
She chews her lower lip, absently, uneasily, as Fire Claws keeps staring, and steps a little closer to Patrick, unease creeping up and down her spine…
[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick motions Rory ahead of him, where Janice is already waiting with a beer in hand. The Fiann jerks his chin toward the kitchen, then back at the shivering bundle of Rage. “I think she needs the strong stuff, J. There’s a bottle of –” and Patrick’s words taper off as he wanders back into the kitchen; returning a moment later in triumph with a bottle of Welsh Whisky and a couple of shot glasses cradling the lid.
“This will warm you right up.”
He promises; with the sincerity of — well, a Welshman. He uncorks it and pours out a few generous shots. Shoots a glance at Rory as she creeps closer to him, follows her eyes to Fire Claws. Back again. Waves a hand up and down in front of the wolf born one’s eyeline. “Polite staring, man. You gotta break the focus every now and then.”
A beat, Patrick offers a shot to Rory.
“She ain’t going to sprout another head, promise.”
[Rory] Ah, Whiskey! Rory’s eyes light up, proof she is, indeed, Fianna, for all that she’s only tried the stuff once, under the watchful eye of Dr. Slaughter. (bad influences, every one of them!) She carefully, so careful and hyper aware that she’s being watched intently, slips her pack off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor with a clattering clunk that suggests it’s heavier than she makes it look. Then, slender, fragile looking fingers reach out for the shot glass.
She offers that shy smile up at Patrick again – never quite meeting his eyes, yet somehow getting the point across anyway – and takes the shot…
and downs it. Like a pro. All cept for the coughing at the end as she holds the back of her hand to her lips, closes her eyes. Her breath regained quickly, she smiles with a happy little shiver.
“Better.” Of course it is. Except for the staring, of course. Which she’s oddly used too, but for the feeling she gets that Fire Claws may eat her. And not nicely.
[Fire Claws] His focus is almost without fail on Rory as she seems to hid behind fiery curls. Janis does not seem to sense it, nor does Patrick. But he continues to just stare at her, and stare and stare. Until Patrick finally breaks his direct line of vision, seemingly blinding him from her with it. And in is obvious in the way he sits, the way he fidgets while Rory is in the room, he is not all that comfortable.
And Patrick is offered an explanation, a mental nudge to the Fianna about what is bothering him. That Rory is…. without scent. He cannot tell anything about her, anything besides the red hair and rage that boils within her. To him she is an curious phenomena that should be avoided.
With a bit of his inner cheek, his attention is diverted to the cub once more. Her response not satisfactory at all, even if it was nearly impossible to understand him in this tongue.
“Ya stoopid? Dam cub. Ya rag’ gen? Like befor?”
His tone strict, even if his words were muddled and ruined.
[Fire Claws] (*bite)
[Jocelyn Burkhart] It’s slower, and if she concentrates REALLY hard, the guttural sounds start to almost form themselves into words in her head.
“No, I’m not stupid. It’s not as if you’re that easy to understand. Whoever you are. And it’s not my moon, no. I’m a full moon.”
[Patrick Llewelyn] Lightbulb.
“Oh, she’s Fianna, man.” Patrick hooks an arm around the slender girl’s shoulders, tugging her nearer in a rather brotherly manner. “What, you can’t see the family resemblance?” Patrick’s mouth suggests at humor as he washes back a fiery mouthful of whisky. It burns down his throat; singes his belly and brings color to his face.
[Jocelyn Burkhart] She wants the whiskey. Bad. It’s given a longing glance, before her eyes flicker to Janis.
[Rory] HE isn’t comfortable? SHE is about ready to jump right from her skin, if not for the comfort of those she knows and trusts here. Patrick hugs her close, and she is very, very still…
She is unused to casual affection, unused to touch that is not followed by pain but from a select few. It still unsettles her – but this time, for only that brief moment, before recognizing the hug for what it is.
comfort. stability. acceptance.
Then? She near melts into his side, taking the comfort he offers her with a soft sound of appreciation at the back of her throat.
(10 minute warning for me in this flyby scene crash. heh. work tomorrow.)
[Fire Claws] When Patrick wraps his arm around Rory, he cast a glance at the pair for a moment, before just shrugging the feeling off. Even if it was eating away at him, but Patrick vouched for Rory and that was enough. No matter how strange it felt to be around the living stream made flesh, it was fine now. The Fianna seemed to have their own little oddities among their tribe.
However he turns back on Jocelyn with a glare, tongue running over his canines as he just examines the poor girl once more. A huff in return.
“Fira~Claws.”
That was all he offered, that was all he thought she deserved at this moment.
[Jocelyn Burkhart] Her chin lifts at him, and she finally pops open her soda. “Jocelyn.”
[Rory] Rory is an oddity indeed. She takes the comfort of her Tribemate, and then reaches to scoop up her pack again, whispering… “have po tee…” with a blush heating her cheeks, warmed by the whiskey and brief interaction.
And with that, she edges her way back toward the door, and lifts her beer toward Janis with a silent thanks, then scurries out to find the bathroom.
A reasonable time later, there’s the soft click at the front door as she lets herself out too. It’s safe to assume Fire Claws freaked her out enough that she drank and dashed….
[thanks for letting me briefly crash your scene! :) ]