[Imogen M. Slaughter] It’s not a nice part of the city.
She walks in flat, nondescript shoes, wearing simple jeans, a simple shirt and a simple coat. The kind of thing that is a considerable step down for Imogen’s traditional attire, but is still not quite enough to blend her in with the denizens of Bronzeville. Her skin is too pale, her hair too vibrant and well-cared for. Her eyes are unmarked by life as a beaten underdog. She holds her head too high.
There is a bag of garbage on the street – or at least what appears to be so, until it moves as Imogen approaches, the homeless man lifting his bent head to look upward. Imogen stops at the curb, as far away as can be polite, sinking to a crouch in front of him, her fingers catching briefly on the edges of her jeans, pulling them up slightly at the knee as she bends down.
They speak briefly, her voice a sharp counterpoint to his low and mumbled rumble.
Eventually, she passes over a paper-bagged bottle, a cheap version of Wild Turkey, and straightens to her feet with a muttered word of gratitude.
“… the money?”
“S’in there.”
It’s the day after Hallowe’en, known as the day of the dead, for some. Imogen isn’t likely to celebrate any of these causes. It’s just a day like any other.
[Maija] Now there’s a sight one doesn’t see every day. Imogen, who doesn’t belong in this neighborhood any more than Maija fits in in Lake View, talking to the mumbling homeless man at the curb. It’s a little disconcerting, but well, nothing that she’d remark on. She’ been found in much odder circumstances herself.
She sees this from the outside patio of a coffee joint. There’s not much to the patio, just a table and a couple chairs, and no one in their right mind is sitting out there when it’s just 50 degrees outside. What that says to the state of mind of the young Gnawer Kin is left for others to decide.
She – unsurprisingly – has her journal on the table, and while the conversation was going on, as brief as it was, she’d been sketching the scene, quickly. The lines are sharp, clear, and defining in such a way she can slow down now and fill in details from memory. It’s simple pen and ink – but it’s good. Really good.
When Imogen gets close enough, she lifts her head, and her coffee too, taking a sip and returning the cup to the table before offering a soft, “Evenin, Imogen.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] “Bit cold t’be out enjoyin’ the weather, isn’t it?” Imogen enquires mildly, as she reaches into her jacket pocket and retrieves her cigarette packet, her zippo.
She lights a cigarette before offering Maija the paraphernalia of her addiction, an eyebrow offering.
A lift of her chin indicates the journal. “May I see it?” one imagines she’s gathered that she is the model in this particular art piece.
[Maija] There’s a brief expression, amusement, most likely, before she replies. “Been cooped up a few days, recoverin. Couldn’t sit inside any longer.” She doesn’t add any other details. From what she knows of Imogen, if she wishes more information, she’ll ask.
She reaches to take the objects of their shared addiction, taking a cigarette and lighting it with the zippo. She turns her head to exhale to the side, away from the flame-haired kin, as she passes the zippo back, and takes up her pen, turning the journal toward her.
“‘Course. Ain’t much, just a quick study.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] “Recovering?” Apparently, Imogen wants more information. A copper eyebrow arches in query.
She fits the cigarette between her lips, holding it there as she reaches out with a long fingered hand to touch the paper by its edges and draw the journal toward her.
“It’s very good.” There is no smile with the praise – and it is said in such a way it hardly sounds like praise at all. Words, genuine ones, but hardly meant to warm Maija’s heart or stoke her self-esteem as it is to say the truth.
[Maija] She nods, slightly. “Bit of a showdown a few blocks over. Someone grabbed Drew, Wendy n’me was there, as was Alex, an’ John showed up t’help put th’fuckers down. Drew was injuried – Wendy helped’er. They ain’t got me to the end when the bitch popped.” A deliberate use of the word, and arch of brow. Popped fur, she means.
“That girl, Moira, they found’er number on me, n’John call’ed her. Patched me up a bit, but still took a few days t’get movin again.” Which means it was pretty bad, for them. “John said ‘e got it filed – a drug bust gone wrong.” Which means it was taken care of, as best as he could cover it up.
She looks at the journal, and there’s no warmth in the praise, but the words are genuine. “Thanks. Jus’ something t’pass the time, really. There’s more if ya interested.” And there are – even a couple more of Imogen, a few of Kemp, of others that are easily recognizable. Even one toward the beginning of Decker – all among plenty of other character sketches and quick images of strangers so that they don’t stand out any more, but for those who know them.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Paper rustles as Imogen flips through some of the sheets in the journal, before pushing it back toward Maija lifting a hand to pluck the cigarette from her mouth, turning her head to exhale smoke.
“Were they all killed,” she enquires, her attention returning to the Gnawer Kinfolk, “or did yeh escape?”
[Maija] “Killed.” There’s a brief pause, as she settles back into her chair, lifting a leg to hook her foot on the sweat, and wrapping an arm around her knee. “John said they got th’last right after he got me.”
She scratches idly at her side, where the scars still itch in their newness, and takes a drag off the cigarette, before flicking the ashes to the walk below.
“I missed th’clean up for obvious reasons, but ain’t no one been round t’question, so I figure the Detective did alright taken care of it.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] She scoffs slightly, her breath exhaling.
“You know,” she says mildly, “traditionally, I don’t believe tha’ kinfolk should organize themselves and tha’ it doesn’t offer much in th’way o’ help. But given how often the half-bloods are bein’ attacked o’ late, perhaps there’s some benefit to it.”
Another drag of her cigarette, her gaze flicking mildly away, down the street, hooding with thought, then lifting up again to touch on the Gnawer.
“Somethin’ t’ think about, anyway.”
[Maija] There’s a brief smirk, as she shakes her head, fingers reaching for her pen – something to keep them occupied, really, no more, no less – and pulls the journal toward her, adding lines here and there, almost absently.
“Ain’t never been one t’organize with anyone, myself. Does seem th’shit is happenin’ more often of late.” She shakes her head, slightly. “An someone aughta teach th’stupid chick Drew when t’walk away an’ ignore folk. Wouldn’t any a’it happened if she ain’t decide t’stop, talk, an’ then laugh at th’bitch what grabbed her.”
She snorts, and shakes her head, just a bare movement. Irritated. Possibly because she had to jump in and protect someone that she feels is pretty useless, but mostly because it was pure stupidity that got them all into the mess to begin with. Or both.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] “Well,” Imogen says mildly, “perhaps the injuries she sustained will be taken as a lesson.”
A slight shrug as she lifts her cigarette to her mouth, her speech pausing long enough for her to take a drag, fill her lungs and let it out, “There might be somethin’ t’ be said fer others t’know who was attacked where and by what.”
A smirk traces her mouth slightly, “After all, it would be embarrassin’ fer kinfolk t’be repeatedly attacked on the same block.”
[Moira Murray] It isn’t a safe part of town, not one that people would frequent stroll around if they didn’t have a purpose to be there. It took a bit of time to find the place, a bit of footwork to get there. Her presence is noted as Moira walks up the sidewalk towards the coffee joint. It was dipping into colder temperatures; the desire to get something warm in her system carried her to this place.
When her eyes drank in the familiar sight of Maija and Imogen together, she smirks. Two birds killed with one stone.
“Well, kismet is happy with me this evening. I didn’t think I would find the both of you here.”
[Maija] She lifts her hand, and tucks her hair behind her ear, narrowly missing leaving a smudge of ink across her cheek with the pen she still holds. “Maybe. Seems t’me her sort ain’t learn to fast. Maybe she’ll prove m’wrong though. That’d be nice.” She don’t care that it’d make her wrong, as long as the pampered daddy’s girl learned some damn survival skills.
She glances down the street, as if seeing what happened a block or two over, and then a few blocks farther than that. “John wanted me t’stay at his place for a while, but. Well, if I was all loungin in his pool, who’d be here t’protect the trustfund babies?”
She glances up as Moira nears, and studies her for a moment, briefly, her fingers almost automatic in the selection of a new page on the Journal as she greats her. “Hey.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen turns her head slightly to look at Maija, lowering her cigarette to tap ash toward the patio stones.
“Were yeh lookin’ for us both?”
[Moira Murray] “Not necessarily, Imogen, but you are pleasant company to be around.” She stops at their table, arms brought up to wrap around her stomach. She smirks a little, “I was hunting for Maija actually.”
[Maija] She doesn’t answer right off, taking the time to lift her cigarette to her lips – inhale, then exhale again, carefully to the side so as not to bother her companions, despite the fact that one of them is sharing in her vice. Or helping perpetuate her own by providing the means – either way.
“Checkin’ t’see if ya handiwork held?” It’s said with the barest flicker of amusement, the quirk at the side of her lips giving it away.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (go ahead and post around me!)
[Moira Murray] “Something like that.” Her head canting to the side as she watches Maija to see what the girl was doing. The corners of her eyes crinkling up with humor as she clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, “I would be a terrible healer if I didn’t inquire after those I patch up, and I was curious to see if it still worked. Hadn’t done it in quite awhile.”
[Maija] The pen continues to make quick work on the page, the strokes confident, sure – almost negligent. She’s good, very good, though she doesn’t seem to notice it, the sketch just keeping her hands busy, giving her something to concentrate on. Under her hand, Moira comes to life in a quick study that she can fill in with more detail later.
“Doin’ alright. Ain’t know how th’other girl is, but John kept me company past day or two, hoverin’ till I was only left with’ a bit a bruises.” A pause, brief. “An’ thanks. If I ain’t said it before, I mean.”
A beat. “Handy lil trick ya got there. Seems it works jus’ fine.”
[Moira Murray] A slender black eyebrow arcs up over her right eye as Moira watches herself come to life on a piece of paper. It fascinates her to watch the way Maija does it without a thought. She pressed her lips together, humming softly in the back of her throat as she stared.
“You are quite good at that.” One of her hands untucks from under her folded arms and gestures to the sketch. “Natural talent?”
She snorts softly, “It is a handy little trick. I have learned to use it for emergencies only. Too many people will ask questions, if I went around zapping mortals with my healing powers. And then it just escalates from there… next thing you know I’m on Oprah, or dead.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen’s attention sharpens slightly in Moira’s direction as she speaks. A smirk twists her mouth slightly, wry a little ironic.
“I imagine yer inaugural appearance on Oprah would be followed by yer death, if not preceded by it. S’a good lesson you’ve learnt.”
[Maija] She glances at the paper, and lifts a shoulder in a slight shrug. “I guess. S’jus somethin I do t’keep my hands busy.”
What she doesn’t say is that it helps her when she’s trying not to dive into her little shell, where she doesn’t speak at all. Likely it’s obvious enough.
“Oprah’s overrated anyway. S’all bout Dr. Phil or some shit now…”
[Moira Murray] “Then I would become the next miracle, Imogen… or!!” she makes a shocked facial expression, gasping, “I’ll become a saint.” She ponders this, “Saint Moira…”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, laughing a little. “No, Dr. Phil isn’t prime time anymore. I think it is about that Wendy black woman or TMZ.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen regards Moira’s drama with something akin to deadpan.
“I hate t’break it to you,” says the kinwoman with the same tone she likely reserves to telling small children that there is no Santa Claus, “But the Garou do not canonize their Kinfolk.”
[Maija] She blinks, and then there’s a short snort of laughter, brief and gone again quickly, but she’s certainly amused. She can picture Imogen telling small children there is no Santa Clause. Poor Moira, no sainthood for her.
She reaches for her coffee cup and takes a long swallow of the rapidly cooling liquid, before she sets it back down again. “Guess ya outa luck then, Moira.”
[Moira Murray] Imogen’s deadpan sets the younger woman into a fit of laughter at her reaction to Moira’s sarcasm. Moira sighs wistfully, pretending to look crestfallen, “How… tragic, but then I would have transpired beyond the nation now wouldn’t I? If I were to become a religious icon. I mean you can’t see me cast in porcelain or fashioned as a bobble head on your car’s dashboard?”
She turns to give Imogen her side profile, still grinning. Moira’s hopes do not seem dashed as Maija tells her she is out of luck. Her shoulders roll back in a slight shrug beneath her navy blue pea coat. “I guess I’ll have to resort to mothering and henpecking injured kinfolk, then.”
[Maija] “Lucky me.” If Maija were more expressive, once could imagine the teenager rolling her eyes along with the comment, but it seems all expression at the moment is flowing from pen to paper, as she captures Moira’s instead, adding quick views of her smile, her laughter, her pretense at being crestfallen, moments after they’re expressed, in a little array above the main sketch. She pays more attention then it ever seems, from the looks of it.
“Though, as ya can see, I’m not sure I can be classified as injured any more. Jus’ a few bruises still, fadin quick.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen’s eyes narrow slightly as Moira offers her the profile, “I cannot imagine ever having a bobble head on my car’s dashboard,” she informs Moira austerely, her humour only betrayed by the slightest muscle spasm at the edge of her mouth.
Moira says she’ll need to resort to mothering and henpecking. Imogen takes another drag of her cigarette before offering: “Better me than you.”
Probably better for the injured Kinfolk, too. Imogen is not known for her bedside manner.
[Moira Murray] “You are more likely to put pool cleaner into a bowl of chicken soup to end their misery.” She states with a wry grin at Imogen. Her arms dropping to her sides as she stuffs her hands into her coat pockets, retrieving a pair of short leather gloves and pulls them on.
Her eyes flutter back to Maija as the Gnawer continues to capture the Fenrir kinswoman on paper. “Hmm.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] “Hardly,” Imogen answers, a moment’s pause, meant for wit.
“I haven’t got a pool.”
[Maija] She glances at Imogen, and then her own mask cracks, enough to allow a brief smile, a soft chuckle through as she shakes her head. “John does. I could get ya some if ya have need.”
She pauses, and looks up at Moira “Hmm? What’s that mean….” She scratches idly at the newish scars, and tips her head. “Ya wantin t’check an’ be sure?”
[Moira Murray] Both of Moira’s eyebrows shoot straight up at Maija. “John? As in Detective John Thornton, hmm?” there is a light teasing to her voice as she speaks, “I didn’t know you knew the detective so intimately, Maija.”
She shakes her head a little, “No, I am certain you are healing up quite fine, or you wouldn’t be out here. Gnawers have a great resilience from what I can remember.” She points to the sketch pad, “I was interested more in your sketch is all.”
She snorts at Imogen, “Remind me to make you the Guardian of my spawn if I ever have any before I die.”
[Maija] ….she very carefully doesn’t answer that. Which is probably more answer than she would have given otherwise.
Instead, she nudges the journal toward Moira to take a look if she wants. “S’more. Ya can look if ya want.” And there are more, many faces that are recognizably of the nation, including one of Imogen earlier, and even some of Kemp, and of Decker toward the beginning, a variety of Kinfolk and Garou alike, with enough ‘normal’ folks to make sure no one exactly stands out.
As for herself, she busies herself taking a last drag off her cigarette, and carefully stomping out the but on the cement below her feet.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen’s response to Moira’s joke is not quite humour. It’s a slight chilling to her expression.
“I imagine by the time you ‘spawn’, as it were, you’ll ha’ the wisdom to rethink that decision.” Despite the shift in her humour, her reply is wry. There is no pause to indicate anything less than the usual banter.
Another drag from her cigarette, then like Maija she drops the cigarette to the cement, crushing the butt out with the toe of her shoe.
[Moira Murray] Moira steps closer to the table, stretching out a hand after she’s fitted a leather glove over it and carefully studies her profile on the paper. She falls quiet, flipping through some of the artwork, pausing to stare at a few faces that were familiar to her.
After some time, while Imogen and Maija were putting out their cigarettes she slides it back to the Gnawer, “It is very good.”
[Maija] She lifts a shoulder in a slight shrug, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Thanks.” She doesn’t accept compliments well – for a variety of reasons, though she knows her sketches aren’t bad. Just not much she can do with the ‘talent’. It’s just something to do.
She pulls her other foot up, rearranging until she’s settled indian style on the chair, her hands tucked into the pockets of a ratty zip up sweater – her beloved hoodie didn’t survive the attack the other night.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Her cigarette done, Imogen draws in a breath of air that tastes of exhaust fumes and fading cigarette smoke. Her eyes move to both younger women, touching each as she exhales.
“Either o’ you need a drive home?”
[Maija] She shakes her head, slightly. “Nah, ain’t far.”
And truth be told, it feels good to walk, and she’s not quite ready to be cooped up in the apartment again, just yet.
[Moira Murray] Moira clears her throat briefly, nodding to Imogen. “I can use a ride back to Hill House if you don’t mind.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] “C’mon then,” she says, stepping back, casting a flicker of her gaze toward Maija, “Your injuries are becoming rather routine,” she observes as if Maija actually had control over such things. “Do try not t’scar yourself before I see you again.”
[Maija] Her lips curve into a briefly amused smirk. “Yes ma’am. I’ll do my best. Have t’study for the GED next week, so that might keep me outa trouble – for a bit.”
She lifts her coffee and takes a swallow, before lifting it in a little salute. “G’night, Imogen. Moira.”
[Moira Murray] “Have a good night, Maija. I am glad you are feeling better.” She begins to follow after Imogen, her head turning as she paused, smiling a little. “Say hello to the detective for me the next time you see him.” and begins to walk with Imogen.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] The kinfolk doctor’s eyes settle on Maija for several seconds, consideration.
“Good luck,” she says, before turning away and stepping off the patio to the sidewalk, her flat-soled shoes almost silent on the concrete.
Without heels she is ever more petite than usual, coming up just past the dark-haired kin’s shoulder. Accustomed as Moira is to Imogen’s height augmented by heels, her slightness seems all the sharper, all the more stark. Slim bones, pale skin, she is considered delicate by most standards. Skin that bruises easily, bones that can break or shatter.
There’s not much to be considered weak about her, though. Even now, walking in a rather unpleasant section of the city, she carries a certain confidence that is hard to break.
[Maija] She watches them go, before she turns back to the journal, setting pen to paper once again.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (Checking site time)
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (Excellent.)
[Moira Murray] (wrap!?)
[Maija] (thanks for playin! :) )
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (thanks for the RP, guys!)