[Drew Roscoe] The day was gliding from afternoon to evening with flawless transition, and while the sky was still a relatively lighter shade of gray through all of the rainclouds that created a solid sheet overhead, this wouldn’t stay true for long. The feel of night was creeping, the weather was cooling rapidly. Earlier it had been in the mid-fifties, now the mercury sank to float in the forties. Rain pattered the landscape all day long, fluxing between a heavy downpour and a fine misting. The moisture was consistent, however.
Also consistent is the need to take a one-year-old pup out to burn off energy. So Drew was one of the few patrons in Grant Park today, aside from a few dedicated joggers and those without homes that sought shelter from the rain under the trees while they still had leaves to make a canopy. She’s out in the middle of an open clearing, making no effort to shield herself from the rain, tossing a tennis ball because the wind wouldn’t take it crazy places like it would do a frisbee, and the little brindle-coated hound was chasing after it with so much enthusiasm you’d think this was his first and best game of fetch.
Drew’s hair was twisted into a short braid that fell loose in many places, so why she bothered to put it back at all was something of a mystery. She wore a khaki-colored bucket hat, something more suited to fishing or safaris than anything else, along with a blue-and-yellow windbreaker with the hood down, a pair of simple jeans, and sneakers. No sense dressing up pretty when a muddy dog was going to be jumping all over you even if you yelled at him to stay down anyways.
“Basil! No, no, to the left! Dizzy damn mutt.”
[Maija] There’s any number of reasons she might be in the park in the rain – but the only one that comes close to the truth is that it’s her day off, and you can only pace her small living room floor in boredom so many times.
Go, said the big bellied Chef at the Family BBQ. Take the day off. You work all Fridays! You’re a pretty girl, go out! Have fun!
Like that was REALLY going to happen. Or that she was really a pretty girl. In her months working for Big Bob, though, she’s learned it’s sometimes easier not to argue. So she took the day off, and now she’s walking the park, in a sodden sweatshirt, the hood up, though not pulled as low as it usually is. No, today, it’s pushed back because she’s enjoying one of the final Park Hot Dogs from the lone brave little stand over there, the one deciding that soon, he’ll be closing up shop for the winter too.
Chicago Dogs. Nothin like ’em in the world – totally worth the rain.
[Imogen Slaughter] She carries an umbrella which protects her from the rain and when she approaches a puddle, she steps adroitly around it, avoiding the catastrophe that would be water on her black pumps.
What she cannot truly avoid is the dog’s enthusiasm. It’s not that Drew pitched the ball too far – but that the dog does, caught by enthusiasm and wet grass. Basil catches the tennis ball in his mouth and goes barrelling over the jogging path, straight through a puddle.
There is no dramatic leaping out of the way on the doctor’s part, no scream of outrage – when she sees the dog coming, she makes shift to step backward, hoping to avoid the spray, but Imogen, never an owner of dogs or a carer of small children misjudges the potential range. Water sprays over the cuffs of her pale beige slacks, leaving splatter marks as high as the knee. One sock is dampened to the point of discomfort on a cool day like today.
Imogen frowns, her mouth compressing into a line, as she watches the dog complete his circuit, over the jogging path to the opposing field then a wide arc on his return to his owner, tennis ball firmly gripped between his jaws.
She turns her head to see who owns the beast, while she half bends, absently wiping water from the fabric over her knee.
[Drew Roscoe] “Oh god damnit, Basil….”
Drew cursed, albeit affectionately, when the dog skitter-stepped through the wet grass, pumped brakes that wouldn’t work, and ended up sliding straight out of the field, onto a path, and through a puddle directly in front of the city-renowned Dr. Slaughter. Of course, Drew didn’t recognize the woman from such a distance, so she was hardly reluctant to approach. The dog came running back to her, wagging its tail so hard while it ran that the appendage was windmilling behind it like a propeller. Drew ran across the field at a comfortable gait to go apologize to the woman in the nice, now wet, slacks. When she passed Basil, the dog made a muffled yipping noise around the ball wet both with rainwater and saliva in its mouth, skidded around, and ran at its mistress’s heels.
“Hey! I’m so sorry about that, he gets ahead of himself and–…”
She stopped a short distance of Imogen, the same distance she would have for anyone, but the reason she paused in her speaking was because she recognized the pretty, if not somewhat sharp face, the brilliant red hair, and the dark eyes. She recognized her from the bonfire, which it seemed was a place to make rivals and enemies rather than friends. At least for her.
“–…just kinda gets the way.” Pause. Her tone was a little more hesitant now, cautious, unsure. “Could I… pay for the dry-cleaning maybe?”
[Maija] The joyous barking of the dog pulls her attention thataway, just in time to see Imogen misjudge the splatter zone and get, well, splattered. She takes another bite of her dog, and heads down the path to join her – watching as Drew tramples up with Basil in tow.
Eyes flick between the two of them, and part of her considers turning around, but a greater part has napkins to offer. (…and she wouldn’t miss this meeting for the world, truth be told…)
She takes another bite, chewing absently, as she closes the distance, and tucks her hand into the roo pocket of her hoodie. As she does so, she offers a soft “Hey” to Imogen, followed by the offer of napkins in hand once she’s in reach. “These help any?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen straightens as Drew approaches, her eyes narrowing slightly in recognition. Her fingers wipe absently at on her thigh, removing lingering moisture from them.
“From the bonfire, weren’t you?” she says rather than answering the younger woman’s offer for dry cleaning. Maija closes distance as well, offering napkins from kindness. She takes one from the Gnawer Kin’s hand, and leans down to absently brush at the water-marks on her leg. She’s far from soaked, though small points of dampness have already seeped through the fabric to brush against her skin. “Damage’s done already, I think,” she says, straightening, “But thank-you.” She crumples the used napkin into her palm, her gaze moving back to Drew for the answer to her question.
[Drew Roscoe] “Yeah…,” the petite Kinswoman answered cautiously, and reached down to cusp Basil’s head against her thigh and rub at his ear to keep him placated. He was looking between the women, tail going a million miles an hour, squirming at the hindquarters, obviously antsy to jump up on them and greet them properly. But Drew was making some progress (finally) in training him, and he knew better. He was happier now that he was being touched and loved.
Drew’s eyes flicked to Maija and hardened a touch, her jaw clenched for a moment, but she refrained from saying or doing anything harsh or dumb. Instead, she switched her focus back to the doctor.
“Quite the reunion…”
[Maija] She didn’t miss that hardened look, the clench of the jaw. She doesn’t mention it either, Instead she nods to the estimate that the damage is already done, and works the last bite of the Chicago Dog into her mouth, chewing contentedly as she wipes her hands on another of the napkins she’d taken from the cart.
Quite the reunion, Drew says, and lips curve briefly into a smirk, but still? Not a word. Unsurprising, since Maija’s not known to be very talkative at best.
[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyebrow lifts slightly, “A reunion o’ what?” she enquires, glancing between Drew and Maija. “Half-bloods present at th’bonfire?”
[Drew Roscoe] Her brow furrowed, and Basil tugged to move toward Maija, because he saw that the last of the hot dog was on its way down. Drew caught him by the brown leather collar wrapped around his neck and pulled him over to her other side, the side not facing Maija, and held him there.
“Sit, Basil,” she ordered softly, and the dog whined, dropped his ball between his front paws, and complied.
Then, to Imogen. “Half-bloods?”
[Imogen Slaughter] “Kinfolk,” she clarifies, the word singular and precise.
[Maija] Maija bites back a comment. It takes effort, even as she finishes wiping her fingers free of the remains from her impromptu snack, and then shoves the crumbled napkin into the ‘roo pocket again.
She lifts a hand to tug her hood a little more firmly in place, sliding fingers along her cheek to tuck her hair behind her ear before that hand follows the other into the warmth of her ‘roo pocket.
[Drew Roscoe] Again, expression is displayed in the brow. Now rather than being furrowed wholey, one was lifted a little higher than the other. She felt an itching sensation of distrust beginning to grow. This woman felt jaded, cold, and she would venture to say a little on the side of empty. She didn’t like it. It didn’t sit right. It was like looking at a person, but not seeing eyes in their head, or anything else, just being able to see all the way in to the back of their skull, and down their empty throats.
Like something out of a Japanese horror movie.
“And so you call us ‘half’? Yourself ‘half’? Do you think you’re less, or something?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s eyebrow arches upward at Drew’s sudden, intense queries. In contrast to the other Kinfolk, Imogen is like a stone – like ice. Porcelain and cold water in her veins.
Her reaction is so subtle, so slight. Just the arch of an eyebrow.
“The word only has as much meaning as you give it.”
[Beth Clemensen] Each of the kinswomen present had to have been thinking that no one in their right mind would be out in this sort of weather, that she would be able to enjoy some semblance of solitude while she walked her dog, or grabbed a hot dog, or moved from one place to the other, and yet there the three of them are, come together because of an excitable mutt who doesn’t know the importance of clean slacks.
They are not alone, though. There always seems to be someone in this park, and it’s a wonder that some of them continue to come here after the carnage and the bloodshed that has occurred here just this summer, let alone over the last several years.
Beth reads the paper, watches the news. She’s heard about the mundane attacks that have transpired since this summer, has heard rumors that people whisper about the transactions and deals that go on in Grant Park, yet she’s here anyway, walking through the rain in gym shoes, jeans, and a black fleece vest over a blue turtleneck. A purple umbrella is keeping her dry but not warm, and she carries no purse or satchel or laptop case on her person.
5’5″ tall and auburn-haired, she’s pretty and seems completely harmless, but she’s also no one that any of these women have seen before, and she appears around a corner where there had been no one before.
[Drew Roscoe] “Every word has meaning, ma’am, most people just ignore the weight that’s there.”
Her free hand lifted to tuck a loose hair back up under her hat, as it had been hanging in front of her eye and bugging the hell out of her for the past ten seconds or so. Small fingers that would look delicate were it not for the small scars on knuckles and the backs of wrists and the very faint layer of callouses on palms and fingerpads shifted a little under the hat, scratched at her scalp, then dropped back down to cross her front to where Basil sat, patting him on the head. The other hand remained secure on his collar, and when she was done patting his head she reached into the over-large pocket of her windbreaker and extracted a short leather leash that matched the collar.
She crouched down without putting her knees on the wet ground and went about latching leash to collar as Beth rounded the corner. Bright brown eyes, as opposed to dark brown ones, lifted to view the woman in the vest and turtleneck with the purple umbrella that bobbed up and down faintly with each of her steps. She’d never seen her before, but she looked harmless. Like a primary school teacher.
At least she could trust that this lady wasn’t going to sprout fangs and try to tear her jugular out.
[Maija] She watches the women, then the dog, and then along the path. Such conversations are best held quietly, away from prying ears, and long habit has her keeping watch for something, anything that might be off. She sees Beth, and watches her a moment, before returning her attention to Drew and Imogen.
Drew wonders if they consider themselves less. Maija is positive that Drew does think that of them. Her face is the mask she’s perfected over the years.
“Sort of like ‘Flapping Vultures’.” It’s muttered under her breath, but carries easily enough.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen pushes hair back from her eyes, her gaze moving slightly to note Beth’s arrival around the bend in the path.
“You are welcome t’yer opinion. As I am welcome to mine. If yeh don’t like the term, do not use it. But spare me the lecture.” The kinwoman’s eyebrow lifts slightly. “I hardly need it.”
Maija’s mutter gets a glance. Imogen’s eyebrow arches.
[Drew Roscoe] Imogen hardly needed the lecture. Something small and angry flared in Drew’s chest, and she wiped some rain water from her nose and stood up, leash wrapped securely around her hand.
“I suppose you hardly need the company either.” A brief glance was cast toward the sky, out toward the field, then she down to her pet. “Getcher ball, Basil.” Her free hand lifted to doff the bucket hat in a manner that could, at best, be deemed sarcastic, and she cracked a grin that looked nice on the outside, but within context was hardly genuine at all. “Enjoy the day, ladies.”
And the Kinfolk turned, bad impression left, and made her leave.
[Beth Clemensen] The three women standing around talking are the first people she’s come across since she started out through the park, and though it doesn’t appear as though she’s overheard or made anything of their conversation, her eyes rest on the small congregation for several seconds as she appears to be inwardly debating something.
As she approaches the sodden teenager, the dog owner, and the redhead, the dog owner decides that she has had enough of whatever is going on and starts off away from the other two. The woman, who a quick glance and a subsequent guess would have placed in her early to mid-thirties, closes the distance between the corner and the group, and gives the blonde and the redhead a friendly yet somewhat muted smile as she joins them.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, her voice a girlish soprano bereft of regional dialect, “but I’m trying to get uptown and I can’t find the train station. Could you point me in the right direction?”
[Maija] She snorts – it’s almost a laugh, as she ducks her head, and lets her hood hide the crack in her carefully placed mask as Drew flounces away.
Only after Drew steps away, and out of earshot, does Maija explain her comment to Imogen. “She’s still pissed that the flapping vultures – what she calls the kinfolk that ran to her aid afterwards, and somehow I’m in that, though I was working and hardly flapping in any direction – didn’t come to her rescue, waiting until after the big bad Fenrir stomped off to fawn over her. She conveniently forgets you’re part in all of that.” She shakes her head, slightly. “I called her on it. She wasn’t pleased.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen does not respond either to the comment about company or the farewell. She merely watches the display, and then watches the girl and her dog as they depart.
“I imagine I’m payin’ fer my own dry-cleaning,” she remarks. “Charming.”
Her attention turns to Maija as she speaks, just as Beth closes the distance between them – from behind the Gnawer kin. There is no visible reaction to the words that Maija in advertantly uses in another’s presence. It’s too late to save it, anyway. A lingering regard to the younger woman before she focuses her attention on Beth.
“Yeh take tha’ pathway,” she gestures, “’till yeh reach th’edge o’ the park. Yeh’ll follow Adams Street past th’art institute ’till yeh reach Wabash. Th’El station’s on the corner.”
[Maija] She has enough sense to wince as she realizes she used two words in that, softly as they were, and that Beth approached faster than she realized. Fortunately she was talking softly. Maybe it isn’t noticed.
At any rate – NOW she’s quiet. Way to close the barn door after the cow’s gone, Maija.
[Temple Cayce] Templetons path crosses Drews as he approaches the small group of women she just broke away from. Dark eyes pass over the attractive young woman and her dog, her breeding catching his attention for just a moment before he returns his attention to Imogen. There was no arrangement to meet here; it was simply dumb luck. But as she is one of the few faces he recognizes in this city, he won’t pass up the opportunity for friendly conversation. Or at least an attempt at friendly conversation. His easy stride brings him closer to his medical mentor, his hand lifts in greeting.
“Dr Slaughter! How are you this evening? I mean besides the cold rain, obviously. And…you have a bit of mud…right there.” He gestures absently at her leg, his lips still turned upward in a warm, confident smile.
[Beth Clemensen] There’s a brief flicker of a frown on the woman’s face as she comes up behind the quietly-speaking teenager and either catches or thinks she catches a word with some mapping within her memory banks. If either of the women are paying the remotest of remote attention to the newcomer, they might be able to read recognition in her gaze as she comes to stand between the two of them, rain pattering down on the vinyl covering of her umbrella.
Yet she does not immediately comment on what the teenager said. Her gaze goes to the slight redhead, moving away only to follow her gesturing hand in the direction of the northern pathway before returning again.
“Adams to Wabash,” she repeats, as if committing it to memory. “Thanks, I asked Google before I left but I managed to get turned around somehow.”
That smile makes another appearance, and it seems as though she’s going to head off on her merry way when something makes her pause.
“Hey, I heard that The Brotherhood of Thieves is owned by family. Is that–”
Doctor Slaughter!
Out of nowhere comes a garrulous young Garou, and the woman–neither of the kinswomen are able to pick up on this, but Templeton can: there is purity to the umbrella-toting schoolteacher’s blood–turns away from the intercepted doctor to address the teenager.
“Is that true?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Sometimes, Imogen gets the impression of things occurring on all sides.
Maija, talking about flapping vultures, Fenrir. A(n apparently) human woman asking for directions to the nearest El station. And now Templeton, coming up with a wide grin, pointing out a splatter of mud on her leg.
Imogen stands beneath her umbrella, absently switching it from one hand to the other, glancing downward toward the cuff of her beigh slacks. Her mouth downturns slightly. “Thank you,” she says, dryly, flatly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
And Beth asking if Brotherhood is owned by family.
Imogen’s eyes fall briefly closed. It’s hardly a second of reaction, then they open again.
“It is.”
[Imogen Slaughter] (cancel the last bit of dialogue – I missed that Beth was talking to Maija)
[Drew Roscoe] Drew passed by Templeton while walking up the path, hat pulled down against the rain with a half-a-frown on her face. He checked her out, and truth be told in the clothing she was wearing right now there wasn’t a whole lot to behold. The jeans that hugged her legs were wet and clung, showed limbs firm with muscle, but hanging over her rear end and doing little to show off what curves may exist was a yellow-and-blue windbreaker jacket. Her face was cute, though, downright adorable even when frowning. It was shaped so a frown looked more like a pout.
She didn’t notice the eyes on her, but did manage a faint, but at least polite “Excuse me,” to the man as she pulled Basil’s leash to guide him out of Templeton’s path. The dog willingly went, ducking to Drew’s other side, eyeing Temple and growling and whining uncertainly. The man had passed, though, and they were moving on, so the canine recovered, but had dropped his ball, which started rolling downhill. With a yelp of excitement and worry, the dog tugged on the leash suddenly, catching Drew off-guard and hauling her off the path with him. Her feet slipped and skidded on grass, but at least she didn’t fall. She was, on an average day, stronger than the dog, but he had claws to sink into the dirt and she had nigh-tractionless sneakers. So she was all but skating on the rain-soaked grass behind the dog like she was on water skis.
“Basil!”
[Maija] Someone joyfully calls out for Imogen, and there’s a slight arched brow, before Maija lowers her head, hiding her face in the shadows of the hood. It’s ingrained in her, it’s habit, though she’s been assured that now, now she doesn’t have to hide. Somethings are far easier said than done.
Beth asks about the Brotherhood, about Family, and there’s a brief flicker of expression across her face as she turns to glance at the woman. The look is quick, though no less piercing.
“Yeah.” simple enough. It’s owned by someone’s family, after all.
[Temple Cayce] “That’s why I’m here, Dr Slaughter. To help. I…” He stops speaking as he takes note of Beth and her line of questioning, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. But Maija takes up the conversational slack with a two-word answer, and that’s enough to satisfy the teenaged Gaian. Now he focuses on the redheaded doctor. “I’ve been practicing the suture like you suggested, and I’m starting to feel quite comfortable with it. I think it’s time for me to attempt the PANCE. If nothing else I’ll be able to learn where I need improvement.”
[Arthur Morgan] A distant rumble of thunder sounded as the rain continued to fall in Grant Park, plinking against the stone fountain that governed much of the central area, depositing fresh water atop the constantly churning recycled liquid. The grass was fragrant with the moisture, and unfortunately for Drew Roscoe, made traction with her sneakers nigh but impossible. Mud slicked out on either side of her feet, around her dog’s paws as its excitable claws sluiced through the blades of grass after its tennis ball.
Further down the sloping pathway, where it hugged a curve and was partially concealed by tall, overhanging trees a hand reached down and halted the soggy ball’s progress away from its canine owner.
Basil!
The figure rose to its full height with an instinct born of supernatural causes, and stood waiting as the girl struggled into sight, her dog’s wheezing pants abruptly turning to a low snarling, the mutt’s ears flattening back against its head. Much as the boy standing downhill from them could sense their approach far before they knew of his presence — the dog called Basil sensed the close proximity of something it could only scent as danger and threat. Instinct seemed to govern a great deal in regards to their reactions.
Still, unlike the dog, Arthur Morgan did not snarl, or do other than stand, tennis ball in hand, soft rain dampening his t shirt against his chest, and dripping off the ends of his hair. The young Ahroun simply waited, his pale eyes dropping to the ball in his hand.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s awareness of Beth and Maija’s conversation is currently peripheral. Beth has asked a question and Maija has answered.
So, instead, the bulk of her focus remains on Templeton, an eyebrow arching slightly at his declaration. “Is that so?” she says, simply. “I’ve not got it on me, just the now,” it’s impossible to tell if she speaks with irony or simply an edge. “Bring it by the next time you’re at the clinic, shall I?”
[Beth Clemensen] Imogen briefly closes her eyes, Maija shoots a sharp look towards the woman, and Templeton… well, it would be a lie to say that the woman isn’t paying much attention to him, but she doesn’t seem fazed by the press of Rage behind her, and so she doesn’t see if he reacts at all to her question. What she got from the two women was reaction enough, it seems. Her lips fold into a chagrinned line, she nods, and she steps back from the small cluster of bodies.
“Alright, well, thank you!” she says, affecting cheerfulness for the two stone-faced women, and turns to head north towards the Art Institute.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Wait a tick,” as Beth starts to walk away, her head turning abruptly from the Garou toward the newcomer.
“What’s yer name?”
[Maija] It stands to reason Imogen is better at this than Maija is – she’s spent the past years hiding, running, doing her best to steer clear of the nation. In Chicago, it seems to follow her everywhere.
She opens her mouth, decided to ask.. and Imogen does it for her. Bless that woman. She takes a step back, effectively putting a little more distance between her and Temple as well, and retreats into the safety of her normal silence.
[Drew Roscoe] The dog skidded to an immediate halt, claws shoveling up clay-like dirt as they spade into the earth and the dog’s black lips curled back to show young, still-white, still-growing teeth. This sudden stop didn’t give Drew enough time to do the same, and she had to jump to avoid plowing over the dog’s back. The jump itself was graceful enough, well executed, done with the practice of someone who jumps hurdles, or up onto bars to do stunts that no person in their right mind would attempt to accomplish.
The landing left much to be desired. Sneakers slipped on the downhill slope like it was a waterslide, her feet flew out from under her, and her back hit the ground with a wet slap! that probably knocked the air out of her. Basil immediately clamored overtop of her, standing between her knees to half-snarl, half-whimper at Art. He wriggled anxiously. The monster had his ball! It was going to destroy his ball, and then come destroy his mistress, and then come destroy him!! But he couldn’t leave his ball or his mistress! What a dilemma!
“I swear to god, mutt, some days I think the Koreans have the right idea…,” Drew growled at the dog and grabbed onto the top of its back legs and steered it away from hovering overtop her. The dog whined loudly in response, scampered away only to circle back and stand at her head, flashing teeth uncertainly at Art still.
Drew, however, tipped her chin to look down at the figure at the bottom of the slope, and upon recognizing that devastating face, dropped her head back down, closed her eyes and groaned.
Fantastic.
[Temple Cayce] He waits a tick. He even waits two. There is no sense of urgency in his posture or demeanor. Templeton stands as if he had nothing but time on his hands, following Imogens gaze to Beth. He raises a gloved hand to push the moisture from his hair, absently wishing that he had the foresight to carry an umbrella on nights like this.
[Beth Clemensen] That halts her exit. She only gets a few steps away from the group before that accented voice is yanking her back, though the movements that return the woman to facing Imogen are neither skittish nor jerky. There is confidence in her posture and her gaze that betrays her age, though she hesitates a breath as the teenager steps back and seems to try to disappear into her sweatshirt.
“Beth,” she says. “I just moved from Indiana. Nobody really knows I’m here yet.”
The implication of who ‘nobody’ is ought to be readily gleaned, given her naming the city’s Kinfolk-owned boarding house and her use of the word ‘family’ in the same breath.
[Imogen Slaughter] Nobody knows I’m here yet.
“Suppose that’s not strictly true, anymore,” a twist of the kinwoman’s mouth, a smirk more than a smile. Though she is participating in acts of hospitality, or introduction, she is not strictly friendly. Polite, though.
“D’yeh want t’find members o’ yer tribe? Or just -” a slight movement of a pale hand. Imogen is graceful – but mostly in her eloquence, her preciseness. She would never be described as a dancer, but in the single movement of her hand, laterally crossing over five inches of air, her palm upward, she perfectly captures the vagueness, the haphazardness of her meaning. “Continue on?”
It’s worth noting that the flame-haired kinwoman, marked firmly with the blood of the Fianna, offers the other a choice.
[Arthur Morgan] At the sight of the dog abruptly halting, paws set against the ground in a clear pose of aggression and defiance, the boy’s expression clouds, bordering on turning as ominous as the storm-clouds overhead. It clears, however, as Drew tumbles over her dog, regains her footing for a brief moment that seems to hang before sliding down onto the muddy hill.
At this, the boy breaks into a slow, steady jog toward her, water sluicing off his face. He calls her name from a safe distance of several feet and then when the dog turns and bares its teeth at him, albeit with a questioning, plaintive whimper to accompany it as if pleading with the approaching monster to have pity on its owner — he holds up the sodden tennis ball with a questioning eyebrow raised and leans over to set it on the ground, nudging it across the remaining distance between them with his toe.
Then, Strikes with Valor’s attention shifts to Drew, and his somber regard breaks into a good-natured grin, however tempered by the persistent cloy of Rage it always seemed to be. “You alright?” Came the familiar, soft-toned drawl as the owner of the voice came nearer.
[Temple Cayce] Temple remains silent as the women speak, turning the collar of his coat up against the rain. His eyes move across the gathering to fall on Maija, conspicuous by her attempts to remain inconspicuous. He offers her what he hopes is a comforting nod of greeting and a warm grin.
[Drew Roscoe] Basil eyed Arthur wearily with dark, dark eyes that weren’t quite to the point of rolling yet, but could easily reach that if a sudden movement was made. You had to give the pup credit, he didn’t piss himself yet either. But he did dance too and fro and Drew’s head, stepping on the hat that fell off her head and trampling it into the mud.
And the media tried to say that Marley was the worst dog ever.
Arthur came jogging over, calling her name over the rain that hit the ground with increasing strength and volume. Drew fought the urge to roll over and bury her face in the mud and play dead, and instead pushed herself up into a sit, holding her arms out away from herself and shaking them, sending arcs of rain-and-dirt water outward from her body. Arthur paused, dropped the ball, and nudged it forward. Once near enough to him, Basil lurched out, grabbed the ball, and ducked behind Drew again with another half-growl, half-whimper. He thumped Gabbie with his tail. Please let’s go please please please he’s bad.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Dizzy dog just took me for a ride, is all. Not the first time.” The dog’s pleas were ignored, and the little Fenrir Kinfolk hauled herself up to her feet, slow enough to be sure of her footing, but not so slow that she looked like she needed a whole lot of help.
[Maija] Temple tries to offer her a warm grin, and she catches it out of the corner of her eye. She nods in return, though it’s slight. Even if Beth doesn’t notice it, Maija does. Imogen gives her a choice. That’s the other thing that’s odd about Chicago – more often than not, she’s had a choice. What is odder still, more often than not, she chooses still to at least remain on the edges of groups that once had made her run without looking back.
Some might call it growing up.
Maija calls it survival.
[Kyle Velener] Kyle was doing impersonations and today he was going for the drowned zombie look. His eyes were a little sunken from lack of sleep and stood out against his pale skin. Wandering aimlessly he let his feet guide him as he kept a wary eye on his surroundings just in case of trouble. Over his shoulder was his backpack, encased in a black rain cover. The dark gray shirt he had on was tattered and worn with the obvious holes concealed a little by the black tshirt underneath. His jeans were equally worn and threatened to tear around the knees with every step. The only new thing he wore was his black hiking boots. Brushing some of his hair from his face he absently adjusts the black leather collar that conceals his neck as he walks. Soaked to the bone and looks like he should be in a grave. Yep the look was working well.
[Beth Clemensen] The redhead supposes that Beth isn’t entirely unknown anymore, and the newcomer seems to smile out of reflex rather than in response to the genuineness of the other woman’s smirk. There’s a gravity to the woman as she stands discussing matters of tribe and the Nation rather than trying to collect directions to the train station, and she is not distracted by the gracefulness of the other woman’s gesture.
She doesn’t offer to help her find members of her tribe, but rather offers up a choice, as though there exists the possibility that Beth might not want to get involved. If she’s hiding from the Nation, or if she’s been purposefully keeping herself unidentified, it doesn’t show on her face. She just considers the two options, then adjusts her grip on the umbrella handle and pushes her free hand into the hip pocket of her jeans.
There are no rings on her fingers, no visible jewelry of any sort. She wears her hair in a ponytail. She doesn’t look like a woman who enjoys a lot of frills in her life.
“I am trying to find members of my tribe,” she admits.
[Arthur Morgan] Much to his consternation (as he actually quite liked dogs) Arthur had never been able to go terribly near to the creatures. They either curled into terrified balls of fur and urine or attempted to savage him if he ventured too near. He knew it was nothing personal though, it was just the way it was. Just another reminder that they as a people were not natural to this world.
They didn’t really belong here.
Drew flicks away mud and grime and Arthur’s lips fought against a smile at the expression on her face. He schooled his features with a great deal of effort and stood back a step to allow her room to clean herself off — and to reassure the animal at her legs that he was not going to assault its master. Or its tennis ball, now firmly back between its teeth, being coated in a fresh layer of saliva. Arthur was dressed much as he had been on the last occasion Drew had seen him in jeans and sneakers, though his hoodie was missing tonight and his white shirt was less a barrier to the weather and more a second skin, it clung to the boy’s chest, highlighting a lean, if well-formed upper musculature.
“Oh, here.”
Drew’s cap had been half-trampled into the mud by Basil. Art reached down and scooped it up, brushing off grass and dirt. He offered it out to her, smiling a little crookedly. “You look like you been wrestlin’ with alligators.” He scrubbed a hand back through his dark hair, it fell hopelessly right back over his cheeks.
[Imogen Slaughter] After that, the course is simple:
“Which tribe?”
[Temple Cayce] Now Templeton pays closer attention to the conversation between Beth and Imogen, though he continues to remain silent. His brief time in Chicago had already shown him that Kinfolk were a hot commodity here, even moreso than his home Sept. If Beth were a member of his Tribe, he would need to direct her to friendly waters quickly before she found herself the trophy in a bitter fight.
[Beth Clemensen] This woman looks like she could be one of the Children of Gaia, or even Fianna, with her soft features, her auburn hair and her green eyes, but neither of those answers are what leaves her lips. Her eyes tick sideways to Maija for a brief second, and then she says, “Get of Fenris.”
[Drew Roscoe] Arthur leaned down to scoop up the hat, and his hand came too close to Basil for the dog’s comfort. Rather than snapping his jaws (because he’d lose his ball again if he did that) or pissing himself and shaking, the dog took a leaf out of its owner’s book: when confronted with a situation you just can’t win, run like hell. The mutt of a hound twisted about and took off to the bottom of the hill, vanished into the trees, leash trailing along after him.
Drew made a move as though to dive for the leash, but thought better of it and straightened up instead, putting her palms on her hips and scowling into the treeline after her companion. There’s a small shake of her head– she’s not worried. He’ll come when called, once Arthur was out of the picture. Until then he’d stay put, staring, too young and scared to do anything about the Monster Man but too faithful to abandon Drew completely.
The hat was handed back to her, and Drew took it, looked at it with a brushstroke of dismay across her face, then again shook her head and simply jammed the hat into one of the oversized pockets of her windbreaker jacket. Her eyes trailed upward, taking their time despite mental scolding on his chest before coming to land on his face. “Well,” she said with a crooked kind of grin, “wrestling Basils isn’t too different, I figure.”
There’s a brief pause before she continues. “What’re you doing out here without a coat?”
[Maija] Beth looks her before she admits her tribe, and Maija almost sighs in relief. Of all the words she COULD have used earlier, at least the one that slipped was to kin of the tribe. Not her tribe, mind you, but the tribe.
She does, however, give Beth another quick once over, comparing her to the other Fenrir kin they’d recently sent flouncing off. Older (..softer..) mature maybe. Time will tell.
[Imogen Slaughter] A pause. Imogen’s mouth draws fractionally tighter.
“Yeh want Decker Rohl, Joss Lehrer, Joe Holst, Kemp Oates or a bloke named Gutsong. They are all Fenrir. Yeh’ll likely find the first two in Cabrini Green, the remainder, yeh might find in Bronzeville.”
Her gaze moves briefly to Drew, still visible out of the corner of her eye, then back to Beth. “Not particularly th’best place t’wander ’bout blind.” A pause, “Yeh might get word through the Brotherhood, though I’m not familiar wi’ how often any o’ them pass through there.”
[Arthur Morgan] …and off goes Basil.
Art twists around briefly to watch the mutt go with a strangely bitter twist to his mouth before he turns back to face Drew as she shoves her hat back down unceremoniously atop her head. The young boy leans in, and without hesitation this time lifts a blade of stray grass from her cheek. He holds it up briefly, his eyes brighter than his expression as he flicks it aside and then raises his shoulders in a brief shrug, his hands delving far into the pockets of his jeans.
“It wasn’t rainin’ when I headed out,” he says plainly, as if it should have been obvious. “I was hopin’ I might find somethin’ to wrestle with myself.” It seemed doubtful he had been hoping for anything like Basil, judging by the gleam in his eyes as he spoke. “Seems I’m outta luck tonight though.”
He glances at Drew curiously now. “How come you were shootin’ off like that, anyhow?”
[Beth Clemensen] “Can’t hurt to try, right?”
If her options are heading north to a staffed establishment or heading south to try and blindly pluck out of unfamiliar territory faces belonging to the names she’s been given, it appears Beth is going to go with the route least likely to have her stabbed, mugged or shot.
“Who can I tell them gave me their names, if I find them?”
[Imogen Slaughter] “Imogen.” Her answer is precise.
“Let me know if yeh can’t find them,” a pause as she retrieves a card from her purse, passing it over. Imogen M. Slaughter, MD, it says, Cook County Medical Examiner’s office. Then an office number, mobile number and email address. “I can at least pass yer name on.”
[Drew Roscoe] Arthur leaned in, and her heart went all aflutter.
Stop that.
His hand lifted, fingertips touched her cheek, and the eye above his fingers squinted closed as he plucked the grass away. Her breath caught for half a second, then all systems returned to normal.
Seriously, don’t you dare start that up. Don’t you dare.
She lifted her hand to sweep it across her face, checking to see if there was any more grass or chunks of dirt floating around on her skin, but finding nothing but rain water had her shaking her hand, then dragging her fingers back through her hair (as the hat had returned to the pocket after a second of thought rather than remaining on her head), slicking it away from her face where it would stay in a style most Matrix. He said he was hunting for something to wrestle, and her mind went in the wrong direction for a second before picking the right one. He wanted something to kill, to take down in the name of his Earth Mother. Something felt flat inside hearing that, but she didn’t understand it so she didn’t think too hard about it. Instead, she answered his question by jerking her thumb over her shoulder.
“Oh, just less than pleasant company. You could bottle me and use me as Kinfolk Repellent, I’m pretty sure. They all seem to hate me. It’s like being the smelly kid in class.”
[Beth Clemensen] A card comes her way, and Beth wrests her free hand from her pocket to reach out and take it. Her eyes read over the information as if to line it up with the name she’s just been given, and then she nods, carefully sliding the card into the pocket of her vest. It’s getting colder, but the rain has become more of a drizzly mist than a sprinkling downpour.
“I’ll do that,” she says. “Thanks for your help, Imogen. Have a good night.”
Another of those reflexive yet nonetheless genuine-seeming closed-lipped smiles, a glance around to include the nameless Garou and the nameless teenager who have spoken one word to her between the two of them, and Beth is turning to go again, sneakers squelching on the wet walkway as she heads north to find the Adams/Wabash station.
[And I’m out! Can’t MT for crap tonight! Thanks for the scene, y’all!]
[Imogen Slaughter] “Goodnight,” Imogen answers, drawing a slow breath and turning back to the remaining Garou and Kinfolk.
A pause.
“PANCE.” To Templeton, then a glance to Maija, an eyebrow arching. “Flappin’ vultures?”
[Temple Cayce] He nods his farewell to Beth as the group returns to being a trio. At the mention of the PANCE, his attention returns to Imogen and the hooded kinfolk standing with her. Of course, he’s quickly sidelined again by…
“What’s a flapping vulture?”
[Maija] “G’night.” It’s offered belatedly, and raises her word count to a total of two, maybe three. She straightens her arms, hands still in the ‘roo pocket of her hoodie, shoulders hunching in a stretch as she watches her go. This time she looks around, and then back to Imogen.
“Sorry. I ain’t think she got so close so quick.”
Then Imogen questions and she nods, with another snort of amusement. “Yeah. She’s still butthurt over th’bonfire. Thinks we all shoulda got up in his face before he carted her off or some bullshit like that. Accused all ya of being flappin vultures come in after th’kill, instead a puttin a stop to his being mean to th’poor lil thing. Said it was all well ‘n’ good t’call him an ass after insteada gettin in his face to protect her at th’time.” She shakes her head, snorting again. “I jus’ told her revisionist history is for the weak. She ain’t even met a real asshole yet.”
[Imogen Slaughter] A glance in the direction where Beth has just disappeared, “Don’t worry ’bout it,” she says simply. “No harm done.” This time.
As Maija clarifies the term flapping vultures, Imogen’s eyebrow arches again. “Charming.” She repeats.
A glance toward Templeton. “I presume th’two o’ yeh haven’t met,” she says. “Maija, Templeton.” A concise hand-gesture indicates each in turn.
[Temple Cayce] He steps towards Maija slowly, hand extended to shake. Once more he tries to flash that smile that has won him so many friends (and bedmates for that matter) in the past. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maija. May I inquire as to your tribal affiliation?”
[Arthur Morgan] Arthur’s eyebrows rose in response, and he peered over the girl’s head as if seeking out the visual source of her gesture. “I’m sure they don’t hate you, Drew.” He seemed to hesitate a moment, and then his expression darkened.
“Unless, did one of them say somethin’ to you?”
There was a flare of agitation that rolled off Arthur’s body like a blanket, enveloping them both for an instant before it passed.
[Maija] He flashes a smile that has won him friends, and bedmates. It has zero affect on Maija. She looks at his hand, briefly, and then pulls her’s from the pocket of her hoodie and slips it into his. Her hand is pale and cold – ice cold. He wouldn’t know that it’s not just because of the weather, but simply the way it is.
She looks over at Imogen, after he phrases the question in such a way with a look that says clearly ‘does he always talk like that?’ then back again. Finally, she manages a simple, “BeeGee.”
[Kyle Velener] Spotting the small group from a distance he casually makes his way towards them. Seeing Imogen he gives a casual wave in greeting as he approaches. Stopping near them and waits to see if anyone has any objections to his joining them.
[Temple Cayce] In fact, he does. “I went through my Passage with a Bone Gnawer in Louisville. She had an excellent sense of humor, and a brave heart.” The subject is dropped as quickly and inexplicably as it was raised, his smile becoming just a bit more wry. “What is it about this city that makes women so reticent? Wringing a genuine smile from the two of you is an epic battle.”
[Drew Roscoe] A sensation that Drew was growing used to sizzled the air, seemed to make raindrops evaporate before they could find a surface, even if this was only for a second. Drew’s back muscles tensed, her jaw locked, and she stood stock still until the searing feeling of the air being cooked went away. Chewing at the side of her tongue in something that sits between conflict and concern, the girl shook her head and wrapped her arms snugly around herself. A windbreaker wasn’t the same as a rainslick, and while it helped it wasn’t waterproof. And the air just kept getting colder the further the sun sank below the horizon.
“Nothing I didn’t say back to them in turn, I guess.” She shook her head, shivered a touch, and squinted out into the dark cover of the trees to try and spot Basil again. It kept her from staring at that chest, if she played Where’s Waldo with the canine. “It’s about that stupid bonfire that was held last month. Some shit went down, and I seem to disagree with the masses on what is or is not okay. So, because of this disagreement, I seem to be labeled unhinged or foolish or something along those lines and treated like a child or a leper.”
Her shoulders rolled in something of a dismissive shrug, even if the words did taste bitter and leave a cramping sensation in her chest. “Whatever. Their loss.”
[Temple Cayce] ((Sorry, baby woke up, had to settle her. Back in the swing again))
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s mouth twitches slightly – a smirk, though, not a smile. “I’ll take that as a rhetorical question.”
Drew’s conversation is far enough that neither Imogen nor Maija can hear it, though perhaps a word or two, bonfire, leper, or simply the tone of it catches Imogen’s attention. Her gaze strafes in that direction, then back.
Kyle approaches. Imogen glances at the Goth in full get-out an even more incomprehensible addition to their motley and disconnected group – the two teenagers, the doctor, and now the Goth.
“Kyle.” A verbal greeting to his non-verbal one.
[Maija] Her lips twist into a smirk, briefly, though it fades away as quickly as it arrives. She could answer any number of ways, but in the end, she chooses to do as she normally does – let it slide. She does, however, tuck away her reclaimed hand into the pocket of her hoodie.
“I gotta call t’make.” It’s unsaid that she’ll likely walk back along this way soon enough, and she offers a bit of a wave. She didn’t know Kyle’s name, though she met him at the Bonfire. He helped her clean up, when he didn’t have to, when she was the one being paid to do so. He gets a nod, as she steps past him, and heads toward the nearest pay phone.
((My son wants to take me to dinner. He’s paying. I’m not turning him down. *L* I’ll be back in a bit to rejoin if everyone’s still here.))