[Rory O’Bryne] There are a few alleyways in Bronzeville, just one or two, that snug up against the back of Chinatown, that bear new markings. Graffiti, most likely. Or territory markings. It’s hard to tell if you’re not in the know. But one alleyway in particular holds something more – Rory.
She’s sitting near the mouth of the alley, where the light from the lamppost shines in. It is still almost 60 degrees out, so her hood is down, and a mass of red curls shimmers in the light as she bends her head over something between her thighs. Theres little clanks and muttered curses, and once she pops her thumb into her mouth with a muffled yip of startled pain, that fades quickly. As does the wound.
Nearby? Cats. Dozens of them, meowing and fighting for the bowl of food and milk placed conveniently for them.
[Gabriel] Considering the night that Gabriel’d had yesterday, one would think that he’d be about done with wandering the streets alone after dark. But then, being what he was, unusual and/or dangerous events tended to pop up rather frequently, regardless of how safe he tried to play it. Most of the time, the Fury kin tried to just live his life, and took the bad things as they came. (It helped that he carried a gun with him pretty much everywhere he went, these days.)
So the night had moved along in much the same manner that it had since he’d moved to the Windy City a couple of months ago: he’d been at a bar, unwinding with a beer and a few games of pool. Now he was walking down the sidewalk towards Chinatown with his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather jacket and the brim of his worn brown cap pulled down to shadow his eyes. As he passed an alley, the sounds of mewing cats drew his attention, and he looked in to see what had drawn them all there.
Thus, he spied Rory. His eyebrows went up a little in surprise, and his steps slowed to a halt.
“That’s… a lot of cats you’ve got there.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She jumps, as he speaks, because she’s not paying attention to the street. It could be a bad thing, but she finds the rage that burns under her skin tends to have people walking away, making a path, ignoring her. Especially at this hour of the night.
He mentions the cats, but she doesn’t look back at them, not yet. She’s staring at him – the breeding pouring through his skin, blinding in it’s beauty that speaks of rich history built by women, for women – the amazons of old. She catches herself and drops her eyes fast, a flush creeping up along pale, freckled cheeks.
“They fome for the cood.” a beat. “want one?”
She says it exactly like that, and for all the world it seems like she doesn’t notice the mistake. She doesn’t – she hears what she intends to say, not what actually comes from her mouth. She reaches for the items she was working on, little bits of metal and bits and bobs and chain links, and who knows what else – all of which she’s fashioning into… something. It’s too early to tell. Nearby, a package of small tools, and her backpack.
[Gabriel] There was rage there. A great deal of it. Gabriel could feel the change in the air that signaled the presence of something… dangerous. But the very quality that made him so capable of dealing with garou simultaneously made it difficult for him to pick them out. Somewhere along the lines, he’d just gotten used to being around monsters. The gaze he settled upon the red-headed woman suggested that he suspected something was a bit… off. Other than that, he may as well have been talking to any other stranger. (Who fed cats in alleys and reversed the letters in her sentences.)
After a moment, he brought a hand up to readjust the cap on his head, pushing it back a little so that his face was more clearly visible. In this light, his hazel eyes seemed to turn dark, which gave them an almost brooding intensity. Rory could make out his breeding plain as day. She’d have been able to spot him across a crowded football stadium. But he had to go by more mundane cues, like the color of her hair and the freckles on her nose. That alone made her stand out, even were she human.
“Hmm,” he mused on her offer. “No thanks. No pets allowed in my building. I’m more of a dog person, anyway.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She lifts a hand and rubs against the side of her nose, idly, leaving a smudge of dirt there. She doesn’t seem to notice that, either, or at least she doesn’t mind. She picks up the project she’s working on, and studies it objectively. It looks like… wind chimes, maybe. Made of smaller parts of bigger things. Watch springs, faces and gears, music box innards, unidentifiable miscellaneous parts. It’s oddly beautiful for it’s mismatched oddity.
Sort of like Rory, herself.
He turns down the cat and she nods, slightly. “Most are scared. Some prave my bresence just because I feed them. Some might actually mike le.”
A skinny shoulder lifts in a shrug, and she glances up at him again. “Rory.” her name, of course.
[Gabriel] There it was again. The letters being swapped around. Gabriel cocked his head to the side in a curious gesture, as if he simply hadn’t heard her correctly. Ultimately, though, he chose not to mention the odd speech pattern. Perhaps he thought she might be a bit sensitive about it, and therefor simply going with the flow might be the way to handle this one. Maybe Gabriel was just a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.
Finally, he walked forward to close the distance between himself and Rory, crouching down and holding out his hand. “Gabriel. Nice to meet you.”
A couple of the cats milled around his feet and rubbed their heads against his knees, mewing, and he glanced down to scratch one of them behind the ear after Rory finished shaking his hand (assuming she, in fact, did so.) Evidently, despite protestations to the contrary, he was at least a little bit of a cat person, as well. Animals usually liked people who gave off a relaxed aura.
His eyes flicked back up then, settling on the object that Rory seemed to be putting together. “That looks like it took a lot of work.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She did, in fact, shake his hand. Her fingers are slender, small, almost brittle looking in the lamplight, and his nearly swallows hers. If he didn’t know better, he might think her weaker than him for that fact alone. He knows better, judging by breeding – there is a strength hidden there that defies explanation. But she doesn’t show it. A smile greeting, that handshake, not a test of strength.
She gives a little smile, hidden by the duck of her head, as a couple of the younger kittens vie for his attention. She doesn’t seem bothered by his crouching within arms reach, and only makes sure her feet aren’t in his way. He mentions her latest project, and she gives it a little shake, so that it jingles and clatters with the movement. She nods, slightly. “Wind chime. Wind spirits like’em.”
She reaches for a kitten that’s a little more aggressive than the others, and distracts him with the bowl of food, and a wrestling match with his brother, easily shooing the begging felines off with a stern “G’on now.”
Back to her project, as she adjusts something that doesn’t seem right to her, until it is. “I like to stake muff. Tinker. Thix fings too.”
[Gabriel] Wind spirits like’em.
There was a long moment where Gabriel simply gazed at her, as if this statement was somehow a great deal more meaningful than her off-hand comment had made it out to be. There were garou (especially ahrouns) who wouldn’t have taken very kindly to having a strange kinfolk look them in the eyes for a prolonged period of time, however, so eventually his better judgment kicked in and he lowered his gaze back to the kittens.
Suppose it was inevitable that he would run into a garou here eventually. Assuming that was what Rory was. She didn’t behave the way that most of the werewolves he’d met in the past had, but then, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He ought to be counting his blessings. As far as initial encounters were concerned, this was a fairly pleasant one.
“I suppose you’ve figured me out, then… if you know about wind spirits, and all.” The barest hint of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth in amusement. His accent was a little off for this region. More Northern than Midwestern, but it was muted and difficult to place.
[Rory O’Bryne] He studies her, and she doesn’t strike out at him. The fact that she doesn’t flinch away can be explained because her attention is on the project in her hand, a gift for her alpha, for their new territory. He lowers his eyes to the kittens, and she chances a glance up at him, briefly searching his face before green eyes find the safety of the wind chime again.
“Your slood bings. Fury.”
She nods. Knowing she got it right.
[Gabriel] He nodded in response to her assertion, not surprised in the least that she was able to guess correctly. It wasn’t a guess at all, and he was well and truly used to being picked out by now. Male kin were in high demand in a tribe that was nearly entirely composed of women. Especially male kin with breeding like his. Frankly, it was mostly by sheer luck (and the low Fury population in Chicago) that someone hadn’t tried to scoop him up and claim him yet.
He’d count his blessings while they lasted.
“If I went by hair alone, I’d guess you were a Fianna. But then, the scenery implies a Gnawer. Not that I really know about these things, but my last girlfriend was a Gnawer, so…” he trailed off and shrugged, standing up to lean back against the brick wall as he gazed absently up at the moon. Barely a sliver tonight. That was in his favor.
[Rory O’Bryne] Fianna he says, and then continues on. Her smile is lopsided, amused. Especially when he tags on the bit about the Gnawer too.
“Fianna.” a beat and then she nods her satisfaction with the wind chime, and sets it aside. She then grabs her backpack, and pulls it toward her, to add to the pile of pieces on the ground between her thighs – apparently to make another chime.
“Alpha is Gnawer.” That explains the alley. Maybe. She wrinkles her nose, slightly. “Was at the Hother Brood, but too many pranks. Not nice.”
Somehow, the simple words convey the fact that she’s quite used to people not being nice to her, at all – simply by virtue of her birth.
[Gabriel] He nodded in response to the information she offered, as if this explained a few things. “Girl I met the other day told me about that place. Never been there though.” He was careful to keep his voice and demeanor neutral, despite Rory’s apparent assessment that the place was not nice. If he had any opinion one way or the other, he didn’t voice it.
Instead he glanced down again, drumming his fingers lightly against the rough surface of the bricks at his back. Perhaps he found the process by which she created her chimes to be rather interesting, because he watched her tinker for awhile before offering up any other pieces of conversation.
“You know, I have to say… you’re probably the least overbearing garou I’ve ever met.” And from the tone of his voice, he meant that as a compliment.
[Rory O’Bryne] Her fingers are small, nimble, and quick, plucking out the piece she needs next with out any real semblance of order. It makes sense to her though, and she operates on instinct, finding what fits where judged by some inner measurement only she would understand. She works the small tools with ease, crimping here, cutting there, twisting and squeezing in other places, as it comes together in her hands. They’ll be a matching set, though completely different. Odd.
She glances up as he makes the comment, the fact that she’s not overbearing despite the rage that boils through her blood in a way that’s distinctly dangerous.
“Mule.”
Defective. Broken. Worthless. Beaten and forgotten. Lessor than even the bottom barrel kin. Pathetic. Waste. Somehow, that one word sounds of all of them – mingled with a simple acceptance as if it is the way it should be.
A beat, and then. “But weadly to the dyrm just the same.” that little grin appears and is quickly hidden behind a duck of her head, the slide of those curls.
[Gabriel] Mule.
It made sense, didn’t it? He probably should have been able to figure that out on his own. Still, he seemed to take it in stride, as he did most things. (After all, who was he to judge? He was just kin.) When Rory asserted the fact of her deadliness, Gabriel chuckled gently, the sound a deep murmur in his chest.
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
On impulse, he reached down and picked up one of the milling kittens, holding it to his chest and scratching beneath its chin and down along its neck and belly. The feline closed its eyes and almost instantly started purring.
“Funny, that,” he mused as he glanced between Rory and the cat. “Wolves and cats. next thing you know, pigs will sprout wings.”
[Rory O’Bryne] She looks up as he picks up the kitten, who purrs and settles in for a nice little nap. She seems content, that her charge is cared for, as she goes back to plucking pieces here and there and placing them correctly.
“Likes you.” she says, of the kitten. “And you a pog derson.”
In anyone else, it might be a tease, with the moon dark, and her fingers busy, and her alley protected. It is almost that, just shy of merely observation. He comments on the fact that they like her, too, and come for the feeding.
“Totem.” a glance up, to see if he understands…
[Gabriel] Gabriel nodded. He did, indeed, understand. The kitten in his arms stretched out its legs and gave a tiny, mewling yawn, complete with curling tongue, and somehow this display just caught at his heartstrings a little. For a man who didn’t smile that often, he certainly seemed pleased at the moment. Lips turned upwards, revealing a row of white as he grinned down at the little creature, expressive eyes warming a little.
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
He glanced back down at Rory, then pulled back the sleeve of his coat to check the time on his wristwatch. “Shit..” he gave a little sigh. “I really need to get going. Got class tomorrow. Then work.” Bending down, he made as if to deposit the kitten in his arms back on the ground, but then he simply stopped and looked at it for a long moment, as if torn.
“Oh, what the hell. Maybe I can keep the landlord from finding out.” The kinsman straightened up again, retaining his hold of the kitten. “Was nice meeting you, Rory. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.” And with that, he started to walk away, calling teasingly over his shoulder. “Maybe without the cats next time.”
(Otherwise, he might end up with an entire pride in his living room.)
[Rory O’Bryne] He understands, and it pleases her. It’s hard to explain when she doesn’t know which words she’s mixing up, how it’s coming across. And then he decides to keep the kitten, and she smiles up at him, fully, for the first time, without hiding it away behind her hair, her hand, her blush.
“Goodnight, Gabriel.”
She lifts a hand in a wave, and her soft chuckle follows the soft-hearted kin down the street.