Not so easy money…

The moon was high and bright in the sky and, for her part, Mrena still felt it on her shoulders. Pressing down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe, difficult to think. It made even the less-intense creature on the grass seemed brighter, more harsh than before.

Her eyes were on her sketchbook, and she was staring at a blank paper.

She had been sitting there for hours and, since whatever had happaned a few days ago, since hse woke up, since she walked out of a room and saw nothing but sand and water and grass and a road, Mrena didn’t know what to do with herself. She had lost time. she had thought through Weaver puzzles and it left her feeling a lack of creativity, a lack of inspiration. She had filled a page with nothing but webs and patterns.

She needed something different. She needed something organic and real.

But even the park was organized wild.

What’s real right now is that she’d been searching for a job all day, and run into roadblock after roadblock. Too many questions, too many forms to fill out, her lack of experience, her lack of schooling… it all combined to her finding exactly nothing. She doesn’t like to be considered a charity case, to be freeloading, despite the fact that he swears it’s not true and that he doesn’t mind. She has to find something, to contribute something, somehow.

Frustrated, the thin waif-ish streetrat prowls the paths of the park, her hands shoved deep into the ‘roo pocket of her hoodie, her pack sluing over one shoulder. Her hood is pulled low over her face, her head down, though that doesn’t mean she’s not paying attention, at all. She’s aware of her surroundings – which is evident by the way her steps hitch as she sees Mrena sitting on the bench ahead.

A momentary pause, that follows through to finish the step. Her walk slows, hesitant, though she does continue moving along the path. For now.

She looked up, and probably smelled Maija’s frustration. The recently-twenty year old woman looked at her, tilting her head to the side quickly. There was a hitch in Maija’s step, it made her look a little longer than she originally should have. She looked over details, over thin limbs hidden behind too-oppressive clothes.

“Maija,” she said. It was a greeting. Enough of a greeting, anyway, more of a statement than anything, with all its implications. Maija, she said. Come here she implied.

Her steps cease but not for long. Too long would be a mistake, not long enough and she risks having the hesitation count against her. She wills her feet into movement once more, and approaches the other woman, a deep breath taken to steal herself, to keep moving until she stops a foot or two away.

“Evenin’ Ma’am.” she says, automatically. She doesn’t correct herself, this time.

She looked at Maija for a moment, looking at her briefly and then seeming to weigh her pros and cons. The theurge pushed her hair back out of her face, and cherubic features look up to see Maija. She was a creature of delicate structure and seemingly innocent bearing. They both knew that it was a lie, they both knew damned good and well that Mrena could not have been half as innocent as she seemed.

Mrena paused, then looked at Maija again. Less appraisal, more like a businesswoman. “What are you doing for the next two hours?”

If asked, she likely couldn’t pinpoint why – unless it’s the unsettling way Mrena looks at her, or the sound of her voice, or the simple fact that she is female and bleeds rage… all she knows is that she wants to run, but stubborness, pride, and a sense of self preservation keeps her rooted to the spot.

Two hours – what is she doing for the next two hours? The muscle in her jaw flexes briefly, before she shakes her head. The movement is slight, and barely moves the fleece that hides her features. “Jus’ makin’ a late night dinner. Have a feelin’ ya have somethin’ else in mind…”

It takes an act of will it takes to simply keep her voice even and bland, yet somehow she manages it. For now.

But she had asked Maija what she was doing for the next two hours, and she gave her honest reply. on some level, Mrena should be disturbed by the way that Maija acts around her. She should be concerned about the way that she always seems tense, that she seems ready to run, and this young lady seems so wary of her… then again, she had observed this in another acquaintance as well. It did not stop Mrena from…

Well, it certainly was complicated.

“How would you like to make two hundred bucks?” she asked.

She takes a slow breath, and then lets it out. Honesty, in the reply.

“Depends on what ya want for it.”

Well huh. That surprises her, and she doesn’t surprise easily. She studies the woman – no. the garou – for a long silent moment, not quite sure she heard correctly. Then dark eyes shift to look out over the path, the park, and into the darkness beyond, before she glances at Mrena once more.

If she didn’t need the cash, if she didn’t feel it necessary to contribute something, to not be a fuckin’ charity case, she might keep walking. If it weren’t a garou that asked/offered/demanded, if it weren’t that she was suddenly curious to see what the other woman would draw.

The moment stretches into two, and then she nods, slight, the move so slight it is almost missed. “ain’t gotta be out here, does it?” underneath that is a desire not to have to bare herself – even just her head – in public.

Relatively, of course, being the operative word. She stood up to her full, diminuitive height. Maija would never see Mrena as small. She would never see her as something seemingly fragile, and she would not see these things because Maija was a smart woman. more importantly, Maija didn’t delude herself into thinking that things would be different than they actually were.

Garou made demands of kinfolk for a reason, and this was almost.. almost a request. She had come so close to it.

“Besides, I don’t carry that much cash on me.”

She takes a breath, then nods. “Yeah, alright. May as well be the ‘hood.” The brotherhood, presumably. At least there, if somethin’ ain’t go right, maybe someone would hear her scream. Doubtful they’d care, but maybe someone would hear.

‘I suppose I should head back that direction anyway,” she said. The theurge then started to head towards the brotherhood. Mrena, for her part, didn’t go to a parking lot. Didn’t seem to even think about it.

Mrena had told her packmates, recently, that she was almost certain that she was the only person in the city of Chicago who was completely incapable of driving. It marked her, painted her as a creature that wasn’t like other people. Coupled with her intensity and faraway stare, Mrena might have seemed almost unstable from the outside.

From the inside, she was the epitome of control.

Mrena grabs her things, and heads off toward the brotherhood through the park. She doesn’t go to the parkinglot, and Maija isn’t surprised one way or the other. Though she can drive, she doesn’t have any wheel to get behind. Instead, she simply falls into step with the other woman, who may be smaller in physical appearance, yet fearsome and completely terrifying in actuality.

Maija is controlled, or doing her damned best to be. Inside, though, she’s counting all the ways that this is a bad idea. A very bad idea.

the two fell into step and didn’t say a word to each other. Mrena had no idea how much she and Maija may or may not have in common, but that was revealing a weakness that Mrena had no desire to reveal. Because she didn’t present herself as a creature wihtout flaw or fault.

Mrena’s gaze was distant.

She walked beside Maija and not in front of her or behind her.

This silence is not comfortable. At least not for Maija, but she is not going to break it, either. She keeps her hands tucked into her ‘roo pocket, her shoulders hunched slightly, and her eyes on the ground before them.

If she has questions, she doesn’t ask.
If she has opinions, she doesn’t voice them.

Call it self-preservation. Or simple wariness.

She imagines, briefly, that this is what Sam or Lukas must feel like at times. To be around others and to see them and feel them on-edge. Mrena spent a great deal of her time around people cursed by righteous fury. She wrote off people’s discomfort as them. Just as the young lady had no idea how lovely she was, she also had no idea how incredibly offsettling she was at times.

But, the girls continued on their way in silence. Mrena glanced at Maija briefly. She didn’t seem uncomfortable in the silence.

She takes a slow breath, and lets it out just as slowly. The tension in the air seems palpable to her, as if one could literally touch it, grasp it and hold it. She finally chances a glance to the other woman, just as she turns away. She doesn’t say anything, though.

Speak only when spoken too. It’s one of the first rules.

Speak when spoken to. She looked at Maija and seemed to slow her pace. The tension was clear, present, palpable. The theurge cocked her head to the side- thought he gesture was decidedly more avian than lupine- and seemed… curious.

He lets out a small snort, a sign of his frustration; his body was a lean rigid frame under a volume of clothes that were a size to large, hanging at his shoulders and off the hips just a bit. Pant legs bulging to cup over his work boots so the edge scuffed across the asphalt. He blended with the low-lighting of the street, the dark colors in his clothes and of his skin.

A tangled mess of small braids snakes around his face to his collarbone, masking some of his expression. The fingers of his left hand were curled around the canvas strap of a backpack slung over the left shoulder. It seems to sag with great weight, as if the man carried all his worldly possessions upon his back.

“…yeah, fine.” The short answer, and what she decided on after discarding multiple other possibilities. Last thing she plans to do is explain her anxiety to the Garou beside her. She’s been hiding so long, to be looked at so intently, even in curiosity, was unsettling. Suddenly, she isn’t sure how she’ll manage to sit for two hours – if not for the offered (and perceived desperate need) $200, she likely would never have agrees.

He was hard to see. His outline, his details. He blended in with the Shadows, and for her part the theurge tried to get a better look at whoever was in front of her. She wasn’t tense, just… curious.

She glanced at Maija for a moment. the answer came slowly, and she did not seem to realize the realize the underlying sources for Maija’s anxiety. She was an observant creature, but she was not, under any circumstance, an empathetic creature. “Should we reschedule?”

Maija isn’t exactly curious – though she must admit a to a little bit – but she is most certainly tense. When Mrena’s head snaps to the side, and she looks at the man blending into the shadows, Maija’s gaze follows a bare second or two later. Her dark eyes, hidden in the depths of a hoodie at least two sizes too small, take in the approaching man, even as she answers almost absently. “Nah. S’fine. Ain’t nowhere to be.”

Better to get it over with, right? And where she wants to be, she can (hopefully) be directly afterward, with cash on hand.

His nose twitches again, flaring out his nostrils to try and catch a scent on the air. Head tilting up in such a way that might seem odd to the perceptive eyes that watch him; the skin across his brow pucker up into little wrinkles of disdain, eyelids become hooded over his dark eyes as he casts them about one more time.

“Dull senses…” he murmurs to himself, “No good this way.” He has turned in the direction of the two females. The loud plod of his boots on the cracked and worn concrete slabs makes a light, rhythmic sound. What illumination the street lamps provide play across his features is a hidden dance of light and shadows, making it difficult to trace his face; the mane of dingy coils didn’t help either. His clothing: the baggy jeans and oversized sweat jacket have seen better days, borrowed items that were once worn by some larger individual. You might be able to make out some mixed ethnicity in his appearance, a thin line of hair clings to his jaw line in a scraggily beard and unconnected mustache on his upper lip. He was short, several inches over five feet, perhaps. And… he smelled of the street and a certain musk that spoke of not having bathed in a few days.

He has caught notice of the two that he is heading towards, his head lifting up just a bit. His eyes sliding up and down in quick glances to gain what information he can about their persons: body language and appearances.

Mrena Armstrong had no breeding to speak of, but she didn’t seem to notice. She had no shame, she had no great wrongs that she had committed against the world. The theurge carried herself with almost regal bearing and, for a moment, it was hard to tell if it was learned behavior or if her posture was simply something that was innately part of her character.

Another thing that he could notice, that everyone noticed. Her eyes were grey. They were grey, something so pale that they were practically white. Something she had been named for, and named for twice at that.

“I won’t do anything unprofessional, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said. Stated. As though it would help any.

She was dense, sometimes, but lord did she ever try.

She, in polar opposite to Mrena, does not present herself as someone beyond reproach. No, her shoulders are hunched, and she looks for all the world as if she would like to disappear on the spot.

Mrena is worried she would think her unprofessional.
What a garou would consider unprofessional is frightening indeed. As is the opposite.

“Ain’t think ya would.” is all she says though. She’s doing her best not to think at all.

Maija becomes the new focus of his study; he tries to interpret her reactions to the woman beside her, what the possible connection is between the two individuals. They didn’t resemble each other nor appeared intimate in a familial way. He hitches the backpack higher up onto his shoulder, the weight becoming uncomfortable. He nearly matches Maija in height, which made it easier to look upon her. His head tilting to the side, casting a glance back and forth between the two, he shifts his path a bit; moving more to the side as he starts to come abreast of the women, the jaw muscle flexing in his cheek as he tries to think of something to say to them.

He sought words, and for Mrena? They seemed to come easily. .Not as easily as some, but this was a form she was distinctly comfortable in. She had wandered through scabs like this. Truth be told, they were the only places she knew. Even then, it was a travesty to call them home. “Can I help you?”

Oddly enough, not as sharp-tongued as she could be. Something about it almost rang genuine, then again, who was to say Shadow Lords were genuine about much of anything.

Mrena shouldn’t look so angelic.

She is the first person to ask him that in awhile, it makes Wahya stop on the sidewalk, his body blocking their path. His free hand comes up, sliding from the long sleeve of his sweat jacket to gesture randomly. The skin on his isn’t as dark as the rest of him; it has a reddish cast to it, like a stain, perhaps from paint or worse: blood.

“Yes.” He says quickly, “Look for place. Place of item-taken men.” His English is broken; his voice is a low, gravelly rumble unaccustomed to this dialect. His brown furrows into a deep frown, “Know brothas, pale eyes?”

There was a beat that passed, and she regarded the other garou with quiet regard. It was now curiosity with purpose. Who was he? What did he do, what was he hoping for? The human-born theurge seemed to have a moment where she tried to decypher what he had…

Looking for place, he said. Place of item-taken men.

she paused.

“Brotherhood of Thieves?” as if asking if this was where he was looking for. Quiet confirmation, perhaps.

She’s uncomfortable, yet very, very stubborn. She will continue with mrena to do the job she’d agree to, no matter how off kilter it makes her.

The dingy mane of braids dance about his face, blinding his vision temporarily as he looks up at them, between the swinging strands. He straightens up then, waiting for Mrena to take the lead on this little band of strangers. His head tilting to the side to spy Maija watching him, he offers her a smaller more private smile and a quick wink.

On a more practical note, assume that Mrena is horribly occupied with her totemlinked conversation and either isn’t paying attention to them, or you guys can write her out as necessary. Sorry, again!)

She doesn’t seem any more inclined to speak then her companion, though for vastly different reasons.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is where we start our scene today. With the two females headed up the stairs to the common room and, inevitably, to their respective spaces and whatever space fell in between.

She sighed a sound that almost sounded pleased when she came upstairs.

“Well,” she said,” where do you want to do this?”

Like now.

She has yet to remove her hoodie, she’s yet to do anything other than watch the garou woman warily from the corner of her eye. WHen asked a specific where, though, a bony shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Ain’t matter. Wherever ya want.”

Part of her begs that it be the common room – being trapped in a bedroom with Mrena is not her idea of a. good. time.

“My room,” she said. “Shouldn’t take long, that way you have a little more privacy.”

She was not empathetic, but she was observant. And maybe she knew exactly what she was doing.

But she didn’t argue, she just nods, slightly, and followed Mrena toward her room. It was there that recently Mrena had slept the sleep of the dead, only to waken again in a way folks would scream unnatural. If only they knew… everything about the Nation was terribly, horrifically natural. A frightening thought, hm?

Shouldn’t take long, Mrena says, as if that were actually true. Two hours, she’d been hired for, and likely it will be the longest 2 hours she’s had to spend in some time. But she just nods, and part of her appreciates the offer of privacy, even if she worries of ulterior motives.

“yeah, ok.” is all she says, however, as they near Mrena’s room.

This, however, was not the case for Ms. Armstrong. If people knew that this? This was natural and not the act of twisted pacts, they would…

Well, now. What would they do?

She opened the door to her room and slipped in. The theurge pushed open the door and turned on the light. It was clean. Very, very clean. One bed slightly less well-made than the other. One bed was practically untouched; Maija was a smart girl, she might notice that Mrena’s gaze lingered on it a split second longer than it should have. There was a painting, four feet by six feet, proped up in a corner,.. It was incomplete, but… something about it was downright breathtaking. THere were colors and movement and impressions. Some red, some things pale blue, green, light blues and dark blues and scarlets like Rage and blood and creation. It was amazing how she could make a violent red look protective. How she could make a cool blue look cold. How she could make a distinct barrier between something real and not real and-

It was abstract, obviously.

She headed to her nightstand, opening the drawer and grabbing a second pencil.

“You can sit wherever you want… or stand. Either way, I don’t particularly care.”

But then she saw the painting. Dark eyes slide over the canvas, taking in each and every line, swirl, color and impressions. She doesn’t notice when she slips from her backpack to set it on the floor by the mostly untouched bed. She doesn’t really notice when slender, thin (…strong…) fingers lift to push back the hoodie, and run through the tangles in her hair. All these things are automatic. She has eyes for nothing but the painting.

Until Mrena speaks of not particularly caring. While Maija likely could stand for 2 hours without problem, she could better hide her nerves if she sits. It is almost painful to tear her eyes away from the painting, from the struggle to understand it’s breathtaking abstract beauty, but she succeeds in doing so by pulling the hoodie off over her head.

She turns as she does so, and settles to sit on that mostly untouched bed, tugging the edges of her t-shirt down a little bit to straighten it. She doesn’t say anything. She just watches Mrena with wary eyes.

Min – comp in 15. So I’ll be back!)

The Gnawer chose to sit, and the shadow lord sat opposite her subject, taking a moment to get herself comfortable. THe theurge tossed her messenger bag on the bed, dragging out the beat up sketchbook and looking at Maija quietly. She didn’t say a word.

She just looked at her. Looked at the details, at thin wrists and tangled blonde hair and her jawline. She looked for details, because she always did. Looked at her eyes, filled with that wariness, and smiled.

Then looked down and got to work.

There is a tension in her shoulders, her back, that will cause her to ache later – in a muscle deep desperate need for massage kind of way. She can’t relax though. She isn’t able too. Not under the pressure of those eyes, in the presence of the rage filled female.

But she remains still. She has had much practice in that, in trying to disappear. She remains still, and watches Mrena work.

Truth betold, Mrena had no markettable skills. Truth be told, she and Maija weren’t that different.

But who were Shadow Lords to speak the truth.

“How long have you been on the road?” she asked. It was a distracted question, but one none the less.

She has not removed her gaze from the other woman, wary and expecting the worst. She doesn’t answer right away, perhaps weighing the pros, the cons, trying to decide how to answer the question, if she wants to answer at all.

Finally, softly, she admits. “Year and a half, give or take.”

She wasn’t sure why she was asking, but her tone didn’t seem undertain. She just continued to work. Her world was tiny and uncomplicated, consisted of the umbra, Boston, and now Chicago. And it was a disconcerting thought for the theurge to think of the umbra as being more of a home than either city. She paused, looking at her page and starting to work on a little more of the details on Maija’s neckline. More form than the little pencil tics.

“You don’t look any older than me,” she said.

The other question, that question is difficult to answer. There’s several ways she can go, several directions she can work her answer into, and none of them seem more viable than another. She pulls her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, and lets it slide free. The muscle at her jaw jumps as teeth clench, then relax again. She doesn’t want to reveal too much, if anything at all. But to not answer the question…

“Hard. Stressful. Ya jus’ do whatcha gotta do.”

Safe enough, she hopes.

The road, yes. Something hard. Stressful, where you did what you had to do. The statement spoke of necessity, and she nodded. Confirmation. She didn’t say that she understood, because she had no idea…

“You seem to have survived, though, must’ve learned a lot,” she said. Again. Conversational.

And again, she slipped into silence. The theurge started to make her way across the page… though the pencil stopped. She smiled a little; the look shouldn’t have come so easily. She shouldn’t have been so damnably angelic. She had no right, she couldn’t be real…

“You’re tense.”

She grew up. Years before her time.

The second statment is something obvious, and the corner of her lips twitch into a smirk before it flitters off and away again. She’s careful to keep the mask up, in attempt to give nothing away. But it’s a comment that leaves open for a reply, too, and likely an easier one than the previous statement, too.

“Always am.”

Simple enough.
(but not simple at all.)

Because she would ask. Because you didn’t dangle a carrot in front of a horse and expect it not to try and take a bite. It was in her nature to ask questions. Danicka? Danicka was someone that Mrena could understand. She could undesrtand why that particular woman was wary of her, on a superficial level. She was wary because her first impression of Mrena was one where the theurge did not bite her tongue, where she spoke to her in the same tone that she spoke to banes and other undesirables. She made no threats.

At least, none that were open.

And she could understand that. Because it was force, and Mrena understood force, she understood manipulation and subtle acts. She understood them because she had either lived them or lived with them. And she learned that the simple answer, sometimes, was not as simple as it seemed. Maija wasn’t Fenrir; Mrena couldn’t take what she said at face value.

She still doesn’t know how to reply.

Her brow furrows briefly, then smooths once more into carefully practiced calm. Her fingers tighten around each other, then relax. Her spine, however, does not relax.Her posture does not ease at all, still in ratcheted tension and tightened, heightened preparation to fight, or flee.

Finally, her answer comes… “Experience.”

And explains nothing at all.

Realistically, they were neither. But actions dictated that they present themselves as such. Experience told them that being anything but was unwise.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

No, she asked. She looked at her and, for her part, the theurge seemed downright curious. Put her pencil down and looked at her with silvery eyes and realxed posture. At times, her mannerisms seemed more avian than lupine, and this was one of those times.

So far.

Mrena asks but Maija hears differently. Experience has taught her many things, one of which is that a question asked by a Trueborn is never just a question. It’s a demand, and answers had better satisfy. Unfortunately, the truth behind the answer to this question is tricky, and will sound very much like accusing, despite the fact Mrena has done nothing to her.

Yet.

The tension resides, and even notches a bit higher. How she can possibly sit with all muscles tensed and ready for action for so long is a mystery – right up with how she could get even more on edge. But she is, she does, and the will it takes to remain is monumental. It is a testament to her strength, though Maija would likely not see it that way. Stupidity, maybe. Many of the things Kinfolk do are monumentally stupid.

“Ain’t ever met a Trueborn but one what ain’t decide I’m a better unwillin’ fuck or punchin bag than conversationalist.”

Truth.

She said this as though it was a fact, but there was the distinct impression made that she wasn’t talking about Maija. She was talking about kinfolk in general. she did not envy them, not in the least. They did what was expected of them, and it was expected that they not complain about it. Because they were kinfolk, because they weren’t the ones going out and fighting and dying and-

Bullshit. It was a load of complete and utter nonsense and Mrena knew it. She knew tht kinfolk went through Hell and back, and they were not thanked for it. And they were stuck with the jobs that held no thanks and no glory but were absolutely vital.

“So, this being said, what category do I fall into?”

There was a pause.

“You don’t have to answer.”

Fortunately, Maija was strong enough. She’d a stubborn streak a mile wide, and that alone has saved her life and kept her going till now. Perhaps it will be the death of her someday – today, however, is not that day. Hopefully.

She doesn’t have to answer, but she does. Honestly. “Ain’t know yet.”

For her part, Mrena understood this. Learned this at a young age [Because, realistically, she had been doing this since a young age. Over one fourth of her life was spent fighting a war. She was living on borrowed time as it was. Next year, she would be twenty one. And changing before you were fourteen really puts life in perspective, doesn’t it?] and lived it.

“I appreciate your honesty,” she said.

And got back to drawing. “Any questions so far?”

When asked if she has any questions, her brow furrows slightly once more, and smooths away. Her expressions are quick and fleeting, there than gone before they even register completely. To see an actual smile is rare indeed. Laughter is practically unheard of. Maija is not one known for her mirth.

Finally. “No…” then… “actually.. how long ya worked on that?” She lifts her chin toward the painting, then watches Mrena from the corner of her eye, to see how she reacts to the question – to see if it was stupid to ask. It would not be the first stupid act Maija has done tonight…

As if he would need to tell them, they would have felt it before her body went cold.

But Maija asked how long it had taken to paint that painting. She looked at it for a moment, then put the pencil down and seemed to think, and think hard. She tried to remember how long she had taken, specifically. “I started on it in February, the owner askd me to paint a mural but… I didn’t feel right painting on her walls after she left. Haven’t picked up the brush this month,” she said.

The implication was clear- the work was incomplete.

“Once it’s finished I’m sending it to Spain.”

a pause, and then her response. “What do you think?”

About the painting, that is.

“Ain’t sure. Abstracts are… well, abstract. mean somethin’ different to everyone. Ain’t sayin it’s bad, it ain’t. Colors’r’bold, an’ provacative. S’like… blood an protection an’ comfort an tension all in one. Unsettlin. Might be meant t’be.”

A bony shoulder lifts into a shrug. It’s unfinished, yet that’s what she sees, right or wrong.

The colors were bold and provocative. There was texture. Something about it was unsettling, and it might have been meant to be. Something about the response made Mrena smile; it shouldn’t have looked genuine. There was, however, an intense pleasure that came with it. Mrena had painted something, and it was being reviewed.

Mrena Armstrong- White Eyes, theurge, a girl who had been named long before her rite of passage- was a child who had colored on walls and watched thunderstorms. Now, had she really changed that much? “Do you paint?”

The question comes, and it is a far safer subject. A slight shake of her head denies that she’s ever used paints. She does, however, sketch. “Jus’ doodle with pen n paper. Ain’t never do nothin’ like that, though.”

She hesitates, and then, as if to completely answer the question, reaches for her backpack to pull her journal from the front pocket. She holds it in her hands, and then offers the notebook to Mrena. “Ya kin look if ya want.”

If only Mrena knows how much it took for her to say those words…

The theurge had no idea what it took for her to hand over that notebook, just like Maija had no idea precisely how important that notebook was to Mrena. One didn’t bind objects to themselves frivilously.

Because, in her mind, she rationalized this as a sharing of ideas between artists instead of them showing things that were deathly important. She should have known better, because both of them seemed to hesitate.

She sets the notebook on her lap, and only after Mrena opens her own, does she start to page through the sketches slowly, exploring the artistic vision laid down by Mrena’s hand.

As for what is in her own book – there are the five pages missing, than about 3/4 of the journal is full; mostly quick portraits, though some are more detailed than others – the one of Ryan as he drove the big rig is one, the more recent portrait of Will is another. There are a few places, things that were noted on her travels, amusing situations, and the occasional boring doodles here and there.

That’s not to say she doesn’t have innate talent – as she does. Raw and undefined with a unique style that is her own, but with an innate sense of line and proportion.

That road leads nowhere.

So, to see him younger and without his intestines hanging out was a pleasant surprise. “You really got him,” she said.

The theurge’s notebook was battered and torn to bits and pieces. Some of the pages felt more like fabric than paper. Some burned, dirt stained, edges torn and battered. This was her notebook. This was something that was a part of her. She seemed to capture anything and everything that someone could put in front of her. Some pages were landscapes- places she had seen in Boston and others too surreal to be part of the real world. Other pages were filled, covered, coated in repeating complex patterns. Webs and numbers and sequenced crystalline perfect.

There was another page that was completely black with pencil lead. Something about it seemed forboding, forbidden. It seemed to go on forever. There was depth past the page, and it seemed to illicit something close to primal fear. [Because there was something there. You couldn’t see it, but the mind filled it in. Something was there] A turned page came too soon.

Other portraits seemed to be handled in more loving detail. One of some of the people who lied there- a blonde woman who seemed to regal. Her brother, whose hair was dark, who didn’t seem to sit still long enough for a portrait. One could tell who her packmates were, because she was almost loving with their details. She even had a couple of Lukas, though her interest was more on his shadows than him in one. More contrast than the subject matter.

Other pages were filled by notes, sketches of things she had seen that were both beautiful and terrifying. A theurge’s field journal.

“You should stick with this,” she started, “it’s good work.”

That got her attention, her eyes snapped up at she watches Mrena trace the lines on paper that captured the essence of Ryan. Mrena is the first person that recognized the cowboy driving his big rig, from her perspective at the other side of the cab.

“Ya know’im? Ain’t no one I seen in this place know’d him yet! He got me from Oregon t’Florida. Saw him before I got t’town, in a truck stop. He ain’t seen me, though. Was hopin t’say hi sometime…” There’s a slight hope there. Mrena just discovered who the only True Born that ain’t wanna fuck her raw or beat her bloody was.

She looks back down at the often disturbing images before her, scooting past that black page with a slight tremor in her fingers. She feels things, things were THERE. Mrena may not be empathetic, but Maija? Is.

A bony shoulder twitches into a slight shrug as Mrena compliments her work. “Always doodlin’, ain’t know how not to.” But somewhere, she’s the slightest bit pleased that the older woman likes her ‘doodles’.

“He was in town for awhile,” she said. “We met in passing. He’s a friend of Hatchet’s, hunting buddy. Ryan’s… well, I can’t say that I knew him. I haven’t seen him around, but if something had happened I’m sure I would have found out.”

She would have found out because Hatchet and the entirety of Weasel’s Gang, all two of them, would be on the warpath. That much Mrena could have been sure of. As though this would be some sort of assurance to her that nothing had happened to the Gnawer in question.

TRuth be told a good portion of Mrena’s journal was disturbing. At least half being just confusing or something complicated and unexplained, all rendered with painstaking detail. After that black page, though, nothing that the theurge could put out could be considered remotely offsettling in comparison. There was a slight tremor in Maija’s fingers when she turned the page; Mrena didn’t seem to judge her on this.

“It’ll get you somewhere, puts food on the table if nothing else,” she said, then turned a page. Namely so she could wipe the flush off of her cheeks.

She finally happens on the page that she is currently sitting as model for, and studies it for a long, silent moment. She doesn’t see herself in the sketch, it is like seeing someone else, someone who’s might be worthy as a subject. It’s awkward, a little, to see it, and to have been asked at all.

Of all the traits Maija has – self-esteem isn’t overly high on the list.

Being an artist? That was condusive to her current situation.

It was a little awkward to see herself on paper. If there was nothing else to be noted, it could be noted that Mrena Armstrong captured tension, and she captured it well. It was nothing but a rough draft and Maija could already tell where it built. In her shoulder, in her spine, all the way to eyes that were not yet finished.

“Where did the first five pages go?”

Fuck.

And ask the question.
Fuck.

It’s clear that she doesn’t want to answer it. It’s there in the way she shifts her position slightly, the way her hand tightens in on itself until a fist clenched tight, forced to relax bit by bit until she slides her palm over her jeans. If her hands weren’t always cold, it’s likely that they’d be suddenly sweaty.

She doesn’t look at Mrena when she answers. She doesn’t look at anything other than some speck of dust on the floor between them. “Left ’em. One was a goodbye – only kind I could risk. Th’others were a threat an’ left with my blade shoved through t’hold em to th’door.”

Honesty, still.

Two hundred dollars.
Was it worth it to Maija?

She said that leaving the pictures was the only goodbye she could risk. The others served as a warning, a paper and pencil version of a clear threat. She had left people behind, people that she had no desire to be near again. Why else would she make such a powerful statement.

“Liberating and terrifying all at once,” just thinking outloud and shading Maija’s collarbone.

She takes her journal back, giving the theurge her’s in return, before sitting quietly, and letting the other woman work.

Eventually, she comments again. “Ain’t thought about it in any way. Was jus’ somethin’ I did last minute.”

She doesn’t add that she hoped it had pissed him off, that she hoped they searched and searched until they were bleeding frustration and fury, doesn’t say that she hopes he’s dead now, that all of them are. It can possibly be read in the flash of dark eyes though, the set of her jaw and the fear that still boils deep in the pit of her belly.

“Th’goodbye was for Mama Joyce. She done took cara me when… she deserved to know I weren’t comin back.”

Her voice is carefully controlled, almost bland, which speaks of the volumes of feeling behind it. “Th’others – My father, his trueborn whore, an m’uncle.”

Even when one expected it, it was like a kick in the gut. All questions answered, and every one of them came, and came rapid fire. Came quickly and without hesitation. Because she was TRue. she was no Philodox, but then again, the things Mrena asked questions of were… different. They did not require her to behave with honor torwards a bane. She did not ask much of spirits without proving that they needed to listen to her.

It might have explained her behavior towards kin.

“..theurge.”

a beat then additional info.

“Shadowlord.”

Explains a bit, don’t it?

“Then, you’re going to have to do more than run if you want to keep safe,” she said. “We are nothing if not persistent.”

Just a statement of fact. The theurge inhaled slowly, then looked down at her page again. She looked at Maija’s clenched jaw, and worked quickly as that something about it seemed to catch ehr attention, made her want to keep looking and record it.

The smirk fades carefully washed away back into her normal controlled expression, though that muscle in her jaw still jumps, a visible sign of the hatred she feels for that woman, that garou, that [b]whore]/b].

“Ain’t no where total safe. I ain’t stupid ’nuff to believe it is.”

“Feel like sitting through a story?”

She smooths her fingers carefully over her journal where it rests in her lap, feeling the corners, the edge of the pages, comfort found in the familiar. Thin fingers lift, and tuck her hair behind her ear, before falling again. She still feels exposed, even here, despite the fact all she took off was the hoodie. She has spent such time hidden, that likely someone who had seen her on the street would be hard pressed to recognize her unless she spoke. She plans to keep it that way, until she knows that they are dead. They’ll never give up – so they have to be dead.

As for the story… “g’head.”

“Tempts the Storm was ambitious. Let it be known and said that we are all nothing if not ambitious, and we understand this. And it a grandchild’s duty to do what is necessary. What is necessary is not always right, but it is Right. And necessity breathes and sings and seethes differently than what is right. And sometimes they are the same, but often they are not.

Tempts the Storm had a gift. Saw things, saw Things as only a crescent moon can. And as his pack’s beta and as a dutiful child of Thunder, he saw the need to act through Necessity, with all the good and ill it brought. He dreamed in color and sound and texture. Of dark hair and enticing figures and temptation and destruction. And he dreamed, and saw the death of his alpha at the hands of his would-have-been mate.

She was absolutely beautiful.

And he was a creature that was supposed to do what was necessary.”

She exhaled. Shading in one spot a little then moving back to Maija’s face. She glanced at her briefly, and then got back to her story. “So, he challenged his alpha. Told him that he should heed his warnings, that this female would be the end of her mate. And they fought over it, and a Challenge was set forth. And as that Tempts the Storm was a creature of Necessity, he did what he was born to do and won this challenge. And the female, Victoria, became his mate.

And let it be said that a good garou and a good man are two different things.”

That wasn’t the end, but Mrena had to have a chance to breathe, and to change pencils.

The figure’s shined dress shoes step from darkness to light, revealing the whispers of heroes past in the man’s blood as surely as his identity. The look of calm resolve, as though anything that happens is within the power of this man to address, even should that be Death in all its horrifying visage. Its’ whispers, a visual sussurus, speak Fenrir. Even as hazel eyes that see too much move as those of a predator about the common room.

The sound of voices drifts to the figure’s ears… Turning, the man makes his way toward Mrena Armstrong’s room…

As his trench drifts open upon one step or the next, the shimmer of a five pointed star is cast from a position on his belt near his hip… Even as the bulk of a firearm in a shoulder holster remains ever present at his ribcage.

A good garou and a good man are very different things. Unfortunately, Maija has known very little of either.

She doesn’t interrupt.

But this was a theurge telling the story, not kin. If kin had told the story the woman would have been the victim.

“Tempts the Storm, his tribe, her tribe, the Nation itself had taken her life long before she had been put into the ground. She was not her own. And so, she slipped… and slipped… and fell. But did not Fall. And was told, or may have been told, that if she removed this pariah from her life she could have hers back.

Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde.
Beware the anger of a patient man,” she said. Whatever language that was, it certainly wasn’t English. She continued.

“And so, she waited. She waited for a time, for an opportunity to present itself. And she planned. And she planned and planned well, for Tempts the Storm would keep no woman that was not intelligent. Let it be said that a Shadow Lord would keep nothing weak near them, and Victoria was not weak. She was not strong, but she was not weak. She knew that she could do nothing against a True Born adversary, one who knew her well and kept her close. She could not undo her mate by force.

An té nach mbíonn láidir ní folláir dó bheith glic.
He who is not strong must be cunning.

And so she waited ten years, for she was a patient woman, and one night removed his prophecy-giving head from his shoulders. Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde.”

A pause.

“So, one should be nice to their kin, because you have to sleep sometime.”

She pulls her eyes from Mrena to see who it is. As recognition filters through, the reaction is instant. She shifts her position to place her back more toward him, her head dips to let the hair fall across her face once more. It is not her hoodie – for that is on the bed behind her, and the little protection of hiding it affords her.

Her eyes close, briefly, as she counts to ten. He didn’t turn her in last time, in fact he gave her a warm place to stay. Things may be different this time. He wears his badge, he wears his gun. He may have done some digging for a face he had not clearly seen. The tension that had not fully abated at all (nor even close) in the presence of Mrena is tightened farther still.

“Been there long?” she asked. She shut her notebook and then looked at Maija briefly. It was a quick look at Maija and a nod.

“We’re done, small bills or large…” a pause. “Care to make a habit of this?”

A cheshire smile plays at the detective’s lips, as hazel eyes that see too much return her clinical stare with one of his own. The eyes truly are windows to the soul; John’s are no different. Despite this, the hazel orbs gaze unabashedly into Mrena’s, as though hiding himself matters less than seeing what was being hidden from him.

Perhaps it was the detective in him, the quest to see and know that which was hidden and unknowable, without fear of discovery by others.

Then the eyes move to Maija’s still form, the cheshire smile remaining upon his otherwise untelling facade.

“I trust your accomodations on the Mile were suitable?”

Its only then, once she’s more or less (exposed) hidden, does she clear her throat slightly, and answer, softly. “Small, if ya can.” Streetrats with big bills raise big questions, and ones she’s not willing to answer, despite the fact that she ‘earned’ the money. She follows that up with.. “If ya like. I ain’t got no phone, though.” Not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. That would be stupid – and she’s clearly far from an idiot, else she would be long dead.

Of course John recognized her, she did not doubt that he would. “Yessir. Thank ya, sir.” is the soft reply, hoping whatever sparks and happy to see you smiles between Mrena and him will keep her out of the hotseat.

She said, matter of fact, that she didn’t want John dead lest she become bored. She noded some and then went to her dresser. The theurge kept crash on hand. The theurge kept cash on hand, usually, and this was about to deplete her current withstanding cash-on-hand supply. Looks like tomorrow will be filled by trips to the ATM.

How painfully mundane.

She pulled out a few bills. Several twenties, some tens, a couple fives, some ones, and one fifty. The theurge organized the bills, then started to hand them over. “It’s okay, I can find you.”

She was unaware how disconcerting that thought was.

“Do you still have my business card?”

Replacing the wallet in his hind pocket, John places the small bunch of bills nearby, within easy reach of Maija, before his gaze again returns to Mrena. That cheshire smile remains, curious, untelling… Even as his hazel eyes move steadily between the pair.

“I’m rather more resilient than I appear. Indeed, boredom has yet to reveal itself in matters where garou are concerned.”

She finally takes the cash, and doesn’t count it, simply wads it up and shoves it into the pocket of her jeans, before she tucks her journal back into the front pocket of her backpack, and zips it up. She shoulders the pack – about the time that John sets down some bills too. Now she has to pause, and think about it. Mrena had hired her, though it was for nothing more then sitting, listening, and hardly worth the price tag that the Theurge offered for it. He gives out of some sense of duty, of helping the helpless, and she… Well, she proved once before that she was stubborn, not stupid.

Fingers snatch the other bills up and shove them in her pocket too, as she murmurs. “Yessir.” She still has his business card.

She wouldn’t be a good hostess if she left her guests standing outside.

“Good, glad ot hear that you’ve been cursed with interesting times,” she said. What doesn’t kill us makes us stranger.

The meaning was clear; the reason not so. The cheshire smile disappears slowly, as John makes his way into the room. Hazel eyes spy a convenient section of wall space; the trenchcoated form makes his way to the spot and leans against it calmly. Perhaps he merely wanted to avoid discomfitting the other kinfolk by his proximity. Perhaps he preferred to stand rather than sit.

Perhaps a cup of hot coffee required a more stable base than a chair.

The steaming coffee is brought to his lips, and he takes a solid drink, as though unfeeling of the heat emanating from the black liquid. The hazel eyes move to Mrena, his expression dubious…

“Such curses exist for those like me only in that we have too little time to properly explore them more fully. We tend to stand upon details, in that…”

If she isn’t, then it’s a very grateful (if thoroughly unnerved) streetrat that’s heading to the grocery store. She’s thinking corned beef and potatoes. Maybe a beef stew. Or even… ham. Yeah, an Easter dinner for two. A couple of hours of being on extreme edge in exchange for Will’s happy smile.

It almost seems worth it.

She watched Maija leaving, and for her part she waited until the younger woman left the room. Mrena seemed so much older, somtimes. There were times that she was downright acceptable and sweet and not-so offsettling. And then? Then there were times that her mere presence brought tension to someone’s shoulders. Made the air crackle, and made streetrats evacuate… quickly.

And two hundred dollars shy, she had a new project to work on.

And it almost seems worth it.